soobean

Needless to say, he was hooked, hadn't been able to listen to anything else in weeks and only sound coming out of his AirPods was your music. Layered synths, a bass that hit just enough to make his shoulders move on their own, and that voice —god, that voice— cutting through the mix like it was whispering little secrets only he was meant to hear.

Maybe that was what mythological creatures were all about, he'd figured.

He'd replayed your latest EP until the waveforms were burned into his brain, every subtle reverb, every intentional breath between phrases, every tiny creative choice ? He'd memorized them all.

Your english was so precise and so devastating that Martin had to remind himself -sometimes- what you'd told an interviewer once.

That you'd learned the language just to write in it.

That you thought in mandarin, dreamed in mandarin, but chose english for your songs because- and this was the part that had replayed in his head more than any other- "it creates distance. distance is easier to be honest inside of."

You were so beautifully spoken he had a hard time believing you were his age, you sounded like you were 200 years old and had a lifetime of sorrow behind you. Martin secretly loved it, the way it bled into your music, the way he'd —shamelessly— shed a couple tears listening.

You were terribly deep in both languages.

He'd also watched the interview that quote came from three times— which was how he knew that when the host tried to follow up in english— ,you'd smiled politely and waited for your interpreter. He knew you'd nodded along with the translation and answered in your own language without self-consciousness, unhurried, like the language barrier was simply a feature of the landscape and not a high wall.

He was not okay with those facts. Embarrassingly so.

Probably captivated also.

Not with you, exactly- he kept making that distinction to himself, because it felt important.

It was the music.

He'd produced enough songs to know when someone was doing something only technically correct, and when someone was doing something true. And every single choice on that EP had been 'true' in a way that made his own recent work feel like a rough draft.

Martin needed to understand how your brain worked— he needed to be in a room with you.

Which was why— after two weeks of replaying your songs and one increasingly embarrassing pitch to his label about something like 'creative synergy' and 'sonic landscape expansion' (which had not been in his vocabulary prior to that)- Martin was now standing outside a studio door. He had his laptop bag on one shoulder, a track he'd rewritten six times since Tuesday, and —this was the part he was least proud of- a folded piece of paper with notes written in mandarin.

Rough mandarin- embarrassingly rough, typed into a translation app and then hand-copied because he'd read that you found it more sincere when people tried.

He wasn't sure where he'd read that and maybe  he'd made it up. Maybe he'd just wanted a reason to spend forty minutes practicing chinese characters at midnight.

The label had set this up as a "casual introduction," but Martin had spent the last three days rewriting his own beat just in case you asked to hear something.

He wanted- scratch that needed- to co-produce with you.

In his ideal world, the two of you would lock yourselves in this room for twelve straight hours, trading ideas until something magical happened.

But you weren't the type to be easily impressed.

He knew that much from the interviews he'd watched twice (okay, three times).

You were blunt, focused, and notoriously picky about collaborators. You didn't do fan-service. You didn't do ego-stroking. You just made music that stuck like chewing gum in people's heads.

And Martin was thirsty, hungry to finally figure out the person behind these songs, to know how a simple human brain could create lyrics so beautiful they made even the most intransigent men cry.

The door to the studio opened before he could knock.

You stood there in an oversized hoodie, headphones around your neck, one eyebrow already arched like you were sizing him up— in your hand was a book that he didn't recognize.

"Martin." your voice was exactly what it sounded like on the tracks- low, a little raspy, entirely unbothered. "Cortis."

That wasnt a question.

Your English landed cleanly, each word chosen like you kept an inventory of vocabulary, and it sounded like Martin was in a waiting room waiting for a job interview. If he was honest, you looked quite terrifying, intimidating but at the same time— you looked exactly like the melodies in your songs, scalding and forever impossible to reach.

"Come in. Thirty minutes. I have session after." you spoke.

Thirty minutes. In his ideal world- Martin would get thirty hours- a whiteboard and room service.

But he stepped inside, eternally grateful, trying not to grin like an idiot when your arm brushed his as you closed the door. The contact was brief, casual, but it sent a stupid little spark up his spine anyway. He imagined that was what fans felt whenever their idols would accidentally touch them- then he thought of himself as the biggest idiot in the world.

"I've been listening to your EP," he started, which was an understatement so severe it was nearly a lie. "The track- 红底鞋."

He tried the mandarin- and almost certainly fucked it up.

"Red Bottoms. The way you built the bridge- the vocal chops, and everything-" He shook his head like he was still in disbelief. "I've never heard anyone make these choices and have them sound so good."

You tilted your head, an avid listener.

"It's smart. Really smart. I brought some sketches I've been messing with. Thought we could try bouncing ideas."

You leaned back, arms loosely crossed, watching the screen

with mild disinterest. "Alright. Play then."

Martin queued up the first track and the room filled with his rough beat-, built around a sample he'd been obsessed with for days. You listened without nodding, without comment, fingers tapping once against your arm— and when it ended, you gave a small shrug.

"Clean," you nodded. "Structure is good." A pause. "What do you want from it?"

Martin had prepared several professional answers to this question. He said none of them.

"I- um... kept coming back to your music because it does something to me," he started, keeping his eyes on the waveform. "Not just the technique-though that's insane- but the way it hits emotionally. 'red bottoms' makes me feel this... sorry i'm gonna be corny but— ache, like nostalgia for a place I've never been. That's rare. That's why I pushed for this session. I think we could make something that does that even stronger."

You were quiet for long enough that Martin wondered if he'd said something wrong, or if the translation -the invisible constant translation running behind your eyes- was taking a moment.

Then you rolled your chair a little closer, your knee brushing his in the tight space. You didn't pull away, instead you reached over and dragged the trackpad yourself, restarting his demo from the beginning.

"Play again," you spoke, voice still cool but now carrying a thread of curiosity. "From the top. And tell me where you hear the ache."

   The thirty minutes became ninety— maybe Martin was in his ideal world. You'd pulled up your own project files somewhere around the forty-minute mark- swiveling your monitor slightly so he could see the arrangement without being asked and Martin had leaned forward without thinking, elbows on knees, studying your session like it was a text he needed to memorize before an exam (he'd given up on school long ago.)

Your layers were immaculate. That was the word that kept arriving, they weren't clean- clean was what he'd been going for in his own work, clean was achievable- yours were Nobel prize worthy.

Alright maybe that was exaggerated.

But fuck, it felt true in the moment. Martin was leaning so far forward his elbows were digging into his knees, eyes glued to your screen like it held the secrets of the universe.

Your layers weren't just stacked— they breathed. There was this one vocal stem buried so deep he almost missed it, a whispery mandarin phrase reversed and pitched down, sitting right under the main hook.

You pointed at it with two fingers. "You can't hear that one."

"I... yeah, no. But it's there," he said, half-laughing in disbelief. "Why bury it?"

You shrugged, the oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. "Because it should feel like memory. Not loud. Just... there."

Martin's brain short-circuited for a second. God, she's cool. Like actually, terrifyingly cool. He wanted to say something smart but all that came out was, "That's fucking genius."

You gave him a small look— half amused, half 'why is this guy like this' —and dragged the playhead back. "Play again. From the ache part."

He did. And this time when the bridge hit, he actually pointed out the exact moment his shoulders had lifted the first time he heard your EP. You listened without nodding, but your fingers tapped a different rhythm on your arm, not matching his beat but something of your own.

The thirty minutes bled into ninety, then two hours. Your manager knocked once but you waved her off with a quick mandarin phrase that sounded like 'five more minutes'. Martin didn't speak the language but he understood the tone: don't fuck with my flow.

At some point you pulled out a half-empty bag of spicy peanuts from your bag and offered him some without ceremony. He took a handful, immediately regretted it when the heat hit, and coughed like an idiot.

"Shit—warn a guy," he wheezed, eyes watering.

You actually smiled. "Weak."

"My spice tolerance is bad, sorry."

That got a soft huff out of you and Martin felt it like a hook sinking into his ribs. Don't get flattered, dumbass.

But it was hard not to when you started explaining your process. You talked about sound like it was weather— how certain frequencies felt like fog rolling off the Yangtze, how a good drop should hit like summer rain on hot pavement. He hung on every word, even the ones where your English tripped and you switched to typing on your phone for precision.

You were unconsciously poetic— the thing was, you didn’t even realise what you were saying was potent and moved something deep inside his chest.

Then you asked him something —a technical question, he thought, about sidechain compression and whatnot, but the sentence had restructured itself between your brain and your mouth.

Lost in translation.

And Martin was aware of something now that he hadn't let himself be aware of before.

There was a door in this room that neither of you had a key to.

He was fluent in your music. He could hear your creative language with accuracy —could predict, sometimes, where a track was going, could feel when a choice was wrong before he could articulate why.

In that language, he and you were almost eerily aligned.

You'd leaned back at some point arms loosely crossed, and for once your expression softened by a millimeter. "We're not so different in here," you said quietly, tapping the screen. "Outside... maybe. But here?" A small shrug. "Same language."

Around the 2 hours mark, your manager knocked twice and opened the door without waiting, she said something in your language, one hand on her hip.

You looked at him. "I have to-" You gestured at the door. "Session."

"Right." He started closing his laptop. "Yeah, of course."

You were looking at his screen- at the demo, still open, the waveform sitting there half-discussed. Then you walked him to the door, which wasn't a long walk in a studio that size- and when he stepped into the hallway you were already turning back toward the board.

No 'nice to meet you'. No 'I'll be in touch'

Just- back to work. Like he'd been a parenthesis.

Gosh- had he really been that awkward?

"I'll send you the updated file," he spoke to your back.

You raised one hand- not really a wave, more like an acknowledgment and the door closed. Martin stood in the hallway for approximately four seconds, then started walking.

Fuck my life, he thought.

He sent the file that evening. Clean mix, properly labeled, a short note underneath—  because he didn't know what the right amount to say was and defaulted to less.

He watched the delivered receipt appear, then he watched it stay delivered for three whole days.

MARTIN THOUGHT MAYBE it was because of the language barrier- maybe you preferred working with people who could actually understand you without having to use Google translate.

Maybe after he left you'd sat back down at the board and thought, 'never again', and that had been that.

He also wondered if maybe you hadn't liked his music- his way of working- or maybe it was his personality?

He'd talked too much about what your music did to him, which in retrospect- was possibly a lot to say to someone he'd met eleven minutes prior.

He could've come across as a lot.

He was potentially a lot.

Instead of spending hours trying to figure out what he could change about himself— Martin chose to do something much healthier with his time— listen for the umpteenth time to your EP.

The first time he'd ever encountered you- your name had not been immediately googleable. He'd heard the track on Juhoon's phone- he had it queued in a playlist, one of those late-night sessions where nobody was making anything, just listening, sprawled across studio furniture with takeout going cold.

And Martin had sat up halfway through the second verse and said 'who is this'.

Like he needed to know right know or he'd die.

Juhoon hadn't known the artist name offhand. Had to dig through the playlist- and the name that came up was your alias- two words.

When Martin searched it, the results were sparse.

A Soundcloud with six tracks, oldest upload three years ago, an Instagram with maybe forty posts, mostly studio photos -equipment, waveforms, the occasional selfie.

He'd found an interview eventually- a small music publication, with english subtitles- you were on screen in a plain chair in what looked like your own studio, answering questions.

Your English in the interview was functional but minimal- you chose words lik you were packing a bag for a short trip— nothing unnecessary.

But when you talked about the music you lit up in a different way.

Here is the thing Martin had not said to Juhoon, or Seonghyeon, or even James, because there wasn't a version of it that didn't sound insane:

You were extraordinarily beautiful and but it was almost completely irrelevant.

He'd seen your face for the first time in a video someone had posted from a small showcase- grainy phone footage really. You looked objectively nice- screw that- nicer than anything he'd ever seen.

Martin wasn't foreign to pretty girls trust me— but the knowledge that you made music so touching added even more to your already beautiful face.

So yes, you were beautiful, in the way that became a secondary fact.

Like learning that a book you loved also had a gorgeous cover.

Noted. Filed. Definitely not the point.

YOU ALMOST DIDNT GO.That was the thing anybody could've known from looking at you in that lobby -standing there, weight on one foot, like an idiot.

You'd listened to his file the night he sent it. That was the other thing. The delivered receipt wasn't indifference- er.. maybe it was.

You couldn't pin point it though- what had brought you there in that specific moment.

Here is what you knew about him before the session; Cortis.

The group, the name, the general thing, not much more.

You existed in the same industry without overlapping much —your world was smaller, quieter, more underground, and you'd kept it that way deliberately. But you'd heard his name in production circles.

'Good ear', some guy had said once. 'Real one'.

Then he'd walked in your studio and said your EP name in mandarin, badly, clearly practiced, and you'd found it secretly endearing.

Funny guy, you'd thought, awkward and weird.

People talked about your music in a particular way- in interviews and comments and the occasional review- random words that seemed way too complicated. You'd learned to receive those words with the same expression you received everything: mildly, without giving away whether they'd landed.

But Martin had said it much more simply, 'nostalgia for a place I've never been' and then had looked almost embarrassed about saying it, eyes on the waveform instead of you, and something in your chest had done a thing you hadn't anticipated and hadn't appreciated.

Because your music wasn't all that complicated- it wasn't "ethereal" or whatever stupid word critics used to seem smart; your music was simple, based on experiences and stuff you'd learned, there was no need to get pretentious.

And you'd never heard anyone say it back to you in those words. Humble. In mandarin or rnglish or anything in between.

Now— the receptionist at the Hybe building had been professional about it.

You'd asked for him by name in english, careful enough to be understood, explained in the most efficient possible sentence, and you waited.

You'd been fine while waiting.

And then the elevator had opened and Martin had walked out in dance practice clothes, slightly out of breath, water bottle in hand- hair unmanaged.

He wasn’t expecting to see you— understandable— so his eyebrows rose to his forehead, mouth opening and closing like a blob fish.

Funny, you thought as he scrambled for words.

"You said you'd show me," you raised your chin."The bridge. What you would put there." You made a pause that wasn't awkward because didn't seem to do awkward. "I have time now."

Martin stood there for approximately three seconds wondering what the fuck was going on.

Three weeks. Three weeks of delivered-and-nothing. Martin still wasn't even sure you remembered his name and now all of a sudden, you came looking for him.

"Erm- okay," he ended up saying.

He almost heard Keonho's voice in his ears, "what wouldn't you do for the huzz..."

And apparently he needed to add 'absolute pathetic douchebag' in his personality traits.

The elevator ride up was quiet. Martin was aware that he was in dance practice clothes. He was aware that his hair was doing something crazy on top of his head. He was also very aware that you were standing approximately two feet away from him in an elevator that felt, for no reason, very small.

He wanted to ask 'why now', but he didn't.

The elevator opened on his floor.

"It's not a proper studio," Martin announced, leading you down the hall, which was true -it was a production room, good equipment, acoustically treated, but smaller than what you were used to, he guessed, based on the setup he'd seen at your session. “We use it for demos mostly. Personal stuff."

You nodded, taking in the hallway with the same mild attention you seemed to give everything. He opened the door, the room was exactly as he'd left it that morning —his project file still open on the monitor, three empty water bottles on the desk that he immediately wanted to remove.

You walked in and went directly to the monitor. Not the couch, not the chair- the monitor. You leaned forward and read the open file without touching anything, just looking.

Martin watched you clock the timestamp, the track name, the arrangement and whatever else your brain extracted in those few seconds.

"You kept working on it," you stated, neutral.

"Ah- yeah..."

You straightened and looked at him. "Play it."

He set down the water bottle, moved to the chair, pulled up the current version -not the one he'd sent you, three iterations past that now- and pressed pay.

You listened with your arms loosely crossed, expressionless. And when it ended, the silence was a different kind than before.

You looked at him, he wasn’t sure what exactly what was going on— you’d came in, all business, and hadn’t even explained the past few weeks, acting like you were just two friends making music.

"What do you want to do," you asked him. "What are you expecting?"

Martin opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn't even know what to say.

"Well-" He exhaled. "Erm." He turned the water bottle in his hands once. "I don't know, I thought maybe you'd- I thought if you replied, we could maybe discuss a possible-" He paused. "Well. But you didn't really reply."

You looked at the monitor, trying to figure out what to say. "I was out of country,"

Lie. You'd been in this city for the entire three weeks.

"The-" You paused, reaching for the word. "Computer. Was not working." Also not true. "But I'm here now. Yes?"

"Yeah." Martin nodded. "Yeah, I can see that. I was- well. What I'm trying to say is- if maybe you'd consider giving me a chance. I really wanna work with you."

You rubbed the center of your chest once, almost absentmindedly, the way people do when heartburn hits. Then you leaned forward again as if nothing happened.

"Is this why you sent demo?" you asked flatly. "You want work with me. Really bad."

"Yes." it was immediate with no hesitation. "I'm sorry if I was being pushy- I just really like-" He stopped to correct himself. "Love your music."

You were quiet, assembling words in your mind to make a sentence.

"I don't know," you said finally. "I'm busy these days. I don't know."

"Well- I could give you time to think about it, if you—”

"No." you cut him, dry, but not unkind. "I'm busy these days, I said. Maybe one day."

Martin was quiet for a moment but then decided to stop being careful and to say it in his own stupid messy way.

"Look. Let me put it clearly. I've never felt this way about any other music. Not like this." He held your gaze. "Please consider this. Or- heck, I don't know."

A short, slightly helpless exhale came out of his mouth, "Free your schedule. Let's do something outside and I'll show you I'm really serious about this." He paused. "Please."

You considered him- maybe because the word 'please' in english always sounded more exposed than in mandarin, you'd always thought. Less formal architecture to hide inside- it just sat there, plain and asking.

"I can't," you concluded. "Have two meetings later. Can't."

"Tonight then?"

You looked at him.

"Please," Martin insisted.

"Tonight?" You repeated it back.

"Yes. Tonight."

The room was very quiet as you wondered if you should give him a chance. Maybe something- anything could come out of it. Maybe you'd gain some sort of competence- maybe even new english vocabulary.

"Not long then," you decided.

Martin's expression did something he didn't fully manage to contain- like a kid being allowed to eat sweets.

"Not long," he agreed, immediately like he was agreeing before you could change your mind.

You looked back at the monitor. At his arrangement, still open, the bridge sitting there, "Finish the session first," you said. “I meet you there later.”

THE RECORD SHOP was the kind that didn't have a sign you could read from the street. It was just a door and a window with a few sleeves propped against the glass and —when you pushed it open— the smell of old vinyl and central heating.

Martin was already inside.

He'd worn a mask and a cap pulled low, the standard-issue attempt at anonymity that you recognized because you'd put on your own mask for the same reason.

He was flipping through a section near the back when you came in, and he looked up with the expression of someone who —had been trying to look like they hadn't been watching the door.

"You found it," he observed.

"The pin was good," you said.

He smiled, slightly. The mask hid most of it but not the way his eyes changed. You put your hands in your pockets and looked around the shop- it was small and dense, organized neatly with color coded alleys.

"Do you come here a lot?" you asked him.

"When I can." He moved to make room beside him. "Which is not a lot. But- when I need to think about something differently. About music. I come here and I remember what made me want to do it."

"What made you?" you interrogated- like the answer would help you make a quicker decision.

"The feeling of hearing something for the first time that-" He paused for a beat "That takes the top of your head off. You know?"

You knew- for a fact— what he meant. You didn't say so but you moved to the nearest shelf and started looking, because that was easier than going into depth about the tragic reason why you started making music.

You moved through the sections without talking much, which suited you and Martin drifted nearby - doing the same thing. He'd pick something up occasionally- hold it out for you to see without commentary- you'd look, and either nod or make the small sound of approval.

"Okay," Martin began, after a while. "Favorite album. What do you go back to."

You considered the question seriously, the way it deserved. You had quite a few in mind, but only one sat at the top of that list, so you walked three shelves over, found the section you wanted, and flipped through it.

When you found it you pulled it out and held it toward him, he took it— looked at it and went very very still.

Jar of Flies- Alice in Chains.

The cover art faced up in his hands, worn at the corners, a used copy that someone had loved before it got here.

"You like Alice in Chains," he almost choked out.

It wasn't quite a question though- he had the living proof in his hands.

"Yes." You watched his face. "Why. You don't like?"

"I-" He looked up. "I love."

You recognized the thing people did in reaction to your broken english- they accommodated without even realizing- started to use the same manner of language unconsciously. It was funny.

Something in his expression had shifted entirely though— replaced by something unguarded and disbelieving.

"I love them. I just didn't-"He stopped. You watched him recalibrate. "Well. Now that I think about it." He looked at you. "You do seem like the type of person who listens to good music. Since you make good music and all-"

"Martin."

"Yeah?"

"What's yours," you cut him off. "Favorite album."

"Oh-" He paused. Looked down at the sleeve in his hands. "Um. Well." A short exhale, almost a laugh. "It's kind of in my hands, actually."

You looked at the record. Then at him. "What. Jar of Flies?"

"Yeah." Martin turned it over, looked at the tracklist like he'd memorized it a long time ago and was just confirming. "I always go back to that one. I listen to it when I need to breathe."

“You make it sound like medication.”

“It kind of is.” he shrugged.

Silence stretched between you as Martin ran his thumb along the edge of the cardboard sleeve.

“My dad used to play records when I was a kid.” He shrugged. “Not because he was one of those vinyl purists. He just couldn’t afford Spotify for a while.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“So we’d sit on the floor and he’d play albums from start to finish.” His eyes stayed on the record. “No skipping. No playlists. If track three sucked, well…” He lifted a shoulder. “Too fucking bad.”

“You had to earn track seven.” you added, speaking from experience.

“Exactly. But it fucked me up, though.”

“How?”you tilted your head, very mcuh aware that you were having a full blown conversation in the middle of the shop like it was a coffee table.

“I can’t listen to music casually anymore. I think like… if an album doesn’t feel like someone’s whole nervous system got printed onto plastic…” Martin grimaced. “I don’t know. It just feels empty.”

You stared at him for a second “Music is different for everyone.”

His eyes lifted but you looked away first.

“In China,” you said carefully, searching for words, “my father…He worked. So, no music allowed in the house. Only in the headphones. So it was private. When I was young everything was loud.”

You hated speaking English. Every sentence felt like dragging furniture through a doorway too small.

“But music…” You touched two fingers against your chest without thinking. “…made one room.”

Martin didn’t answer immediately, people would think he didnt understand what you meant because your english was messy— (and to be fair I don’t think you readers understood what y/n meant either). But that went behind the point, because he could see clearly through your thoughts, like he’d known you for years.

“Jesus.” he said. “I’ve never heard anyone explain headphones like that.”

You frowned. “Is it bad English?”

“No.” he smiled fondly, “It’s good truth. You’re doing great.”

It felt nice. You’d been around enough people to know that accents— especially a chinese one, were constantly mocked, made fun of and used for shits and giggles. Nobody saw through that— nobody saw the girl standing in a country far too big, head still in a place her feet don’t recognize anymore.

You folded your arms tighter. “I don’t think people hear songs. I think they hear themselves.”

“Hm.”

“They say they love an artist, but really…They love who they become for four minutes.” you gestured vaguely, “who do you become when you listen to Alice in Chains?”

Martin stared, as if the answer wasn’t just sitting on the surface waiting to be spoken.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “Smaller. Not in a bad way. Just… the parts of me that are always trying to explain themselves kind of shut up.”

You glanced around, the shop empty felt like you were both existing in a secluded space in time— one where conversations were truly meaningful and went beyond weather-talks. One in which you could be yourself and not be called ‘too emotional.’

“So?” you said.

“So?”

“You want to produce with me.”

“I do.” Martin let out an amused laugh, kind of nervous at the same time.

“Because I speak weird? Or because what?”

“I want to produce with you because your demos pissed me off.” he admitted

You blinked. “…huh?”

“They’re unfinished but they still made me feel like shit.”

You scoffed, cocking an eyebrow, “…Thank you?”

“I mean that as a compliment.” Martin clarified.

“You Americans are confusing.” you rolled your eyes, slightly amused.

He stood there from his 6ft-something tower, looking down at you like you were the craziest thing he’d ever met, the brilliant shell of a woman— and didn’t even get mad when you confused his nationality because at least you were acknowledging his presence.

“I’m Canadian.” he simply said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh.”

And God, you hated that you sounded like a bitch.

“…Sorry.”

“I’ll recover.” he gave an awkward laugh, hand on the back of his neck.

A tiny smile threatened the corner of your mouth before you killed it, but he noticed anyway.

“There it is.”

“What?” you brought back the poker-face.

Martin’s cheeks got red for an instant, “You smile.”

“I don’t.”

“You literally just did.”

“Oh, fuck you.” it slipped out faster than intended, and you clutched your mouth.

Cursing was bad— you’d learned it from a very young age. You never cursed, having always been taught to be put together and classy— but inside your mind? You did nothing but.

“There she is.” Martin chuckled when you rolled your eyes.

Martin smiled like he’d won something— not the argument— just the sound of your laugh. And it was very you, very beautiful. He committed it to memory, keeping it in a locked box inside his brain, one he planned to open every now and then just to remind himself of how sweet it sounded.

“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “I don’t actually care if we make a track… I mean—I do. But that’s not why I asked you to come here.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “I heard your music before I saw you. And I had this really stupid feeling that whoever made it might understand me.”

The shop was quiet around you until somebody somewhere decided to put a needle down and the soft opening of a familiar song filled the space.

'I want someone badly' by Jeff Buckley.

Here we go. You braced for impact.

You couldn’t tell him why the song had affected you. For one, trying to explain it in english would be impossible, and his mandarin was practically nonexistent. But mostly because there was nothing to explain that wouldn’t sound completely ridiculous.

You knew it was. You’d always known there was something a little wrong with you.

Music was the only thing that didn't need translation for you- social relationships did- but music didn't.

And now, standing there with heat creeping up your face, you wondered if it was really possible to start liking someone simply because they liked the same songs you did.

He was a stranger —with good music taste— but a stranger nonetheless.

You wanted to believe that music taste told a lot about who a person was- that maybe if you listened to 'Jar of flies' with him- you could figure him out in minutes.

And the Jeff Buckley song only accented that- because you believed if you stood there for a few minutes more— you'd actually start to appreciate his presence.

You ended up buying three records. Martin bought two, including a pressing you'd pointed at without comment- that he'd looked at for a long time before putting under his arm.

When you got out, the city had gotten colder— you and Martin walked in the direction of nothing in particular, which was the only direction either of you seemed to have— bags from the shop in hand, masks back up against the cold and the recognition.

"Not long," you reiterated, which was what you'd agreed to, and which had now been almost two hours.

"Right," Martin nodded, glancing sideways at you. "Are you hungry?"

You considered it. "A little."

"There's a noraebang near here." He said it carefully, watching your face. "Not a big one. Private rooms. We could-" He paused. "Or not. If you have to leave-"

"Noraebang," you repeated.

You thought about your empty apartment- your studio, which you'd been in for nine hours before coming here. The two meetings that had ended at six and left you with an evening that had no shape yet. Boring.

"Okay," you ended up saying, shrugging.

Martin looked straight ahead but you saw his shoulders do a weird something.

The place was small, the way he'd said— a narrow staircase down from street level, a front desk staffed by a woman who didn't look up from her phone, and corridor of numbered doors.

The room he booked was just large enough- a curved booth, a screen, two microphones on the table, and a tambourine absolutely nobody was going to touch.

The song catalog was on a tablet between you- a small speaker in the corner played an upbeat song while you ordered food from the laminated menu, communicating with the front desk through a buzzer system that required no language whatsoever. It suited you.

"You pick a song first," Martin said, sliding the tablet toward you.

"Me?"

Yeah you, idiot.

"You." He leaned back- arms crossed. "I wanna see what you pick."

You looked at him for a moment before you took the tablet. You found your song without much searching- you'd known before you sat down, if you were being honest, from the moment the song had come through the record shop speakers and made you feel conflicted.

You typed Jeff Buckley into the search bar, found the song almost immediately, and stared at it for a second before pressing queue.

The opening drifted through the room’s speakers—softer than it had been in the record shop, but it carried the same strange shift in temperature, the same subtle way of changing the air around you.

You reached for the microphone, your fingers wrapping around its base.

This was dangerous. For all you knew, you’d end up crying before the song was over. Loud music had always done something strange to you, overwhelming you with an inexplicable urge to cry, as though your body responded to volume before your mind ever could.

Still, you knew this song the way you knew your own name in both languages, so you sang it.

You didn’t look at Martin. Instead, your gaze settled somewhere in the middle distance—the place singers on television always seemed to look, as if fixing their eyes on something far away was the only way to stop their feelings from spilling out.

So you let the song do what it had always done.

It arrived fully, without asking permission, in that particular way Jeff Buckley had of slipping into your mind and wrapping himself around your brain tightly.

Your singing voice in English barely sounded like your speaking voice, it was steadier somehow, as though the language created just enough distance for honesty to slip through the cracks.

Now I want someone badly. Got a girl here tonight, want someone new. Someone new. A little cry, want someone badly I wanna know if this is a bad lease on me

(I want to know) I want to know. Am I sure that I heard you right. I want to know

If you're leaving, just do it tonight. Now I want someone badly. To burn in here with me, you better listen, baby 'Cause I, I cry all over madly

Don't do anything, do it for me Ooh-ooh, I wanna know (l wanna know. Am I sure that I have your love I wanna know (I wanna know). If you're leaving, just make sure it's right. Now I want someone badly.

Could it be true that someone is you?

You finished the last line and let the note go- the backing track faded and the room was quiet for a moment that lasted. You lowered the microphone and looked at Martin- who'd been silent the whole time.

He was facing the table- and when you looked more carefully—

"Martin."

He didn't look up immediately, but when he did, he was weird- you registered it in pieces. The brightness in his eyes- the way he was pressing his mouth together- the extremely controlled quality of his breathing.

He was crying.

Martin Edwards Park was crying.

The evidence was there, undeniable, in the corners of his eyes and the particular set of his jaw- and the wetness on his cheeks.

You stared at him and he made a sound that was almost a laugh.

"Don't-" He stopped. Pressed the back of his hand against one eye, quick, like he could undo it. "Sorry. I'm-" Another sound, closer to a laugh this time. "Shit. I'm so sorry this is ridiculous."

"You're crying," you remarked.

"I'm aware," he deadpanned. "Thank you."

"Why?"

"It's the-"

Martin exhaled, looked at the ceiling briefly and when he looked back at you his eyes were still bright, his expression had shifted into something that was equal parts embarrassed and helpless.

"This is- I feel stupid. I feel genuinely stupid right now."

You looked at him- something happening in your chest that moved up into your face before you could manage it, and you laughed.

Martin stared at you. "You're laughing at me," he spoke.

"No-" You pressed your hand over your mouth. "No, I'm not- I'm-" The laugh came again, quieter. "Sorry. Sorry, it's not-"

But the words wouldn't come- not in english.

There was so much you could've said to him if only he'd understood your language.

"It's a little bit at me." Martin tilted his head.

"It's a little bit at you," you admitted.

He looked at you for a second, then he laughed through the tears too.

"I can't help it," he explained, when he'd recovered enough. "I've been like this since I was a kid. My members make fun of me for it. Keonho once caught me tearing up in the studio and told the whole group chat. That was a difficult week."

"You cried in the studio," you repeated, trying not to laugh.

"I was mixing something really sad- well it wasn't really that sad. But i tend to- like... feel music way too deeply. Until it becomes overwhelming, i can't help it... i'm sorry."

You wanted to say a lot of things- but the language barrier wouldn't let you. To be honest it wasn’t the only reason, you were just scared of oversharing if you opened your mouth— because wMartin was so relatable in that moment it felt comical.

"What song." you shifted your attention elsewhere.

He told you- and you knew it. It was the kind of song that deserved that reaction, at least in your book. And when you told him so- Martin looked at you with an expression that suggested nobody had ever validated this particular aspect of his personality before.

Like maybe he wasn't all that ridiculous for feeling too much and too intensely.

"I thought it was-" He searched for the word. "Too much. That I was too much about it."

You considered this as a person who’d been endlessly told she was too much and took too much place.

"That’s not true. Music should feel like something... big. Or, what is it for?"

The room was quiet as Martin looked at you for a long moment.

"Yeah," he ended up saying quietly. "Yeah, exactly."

You could tell in that moment- the moment when two souls shared the same ugly sensation.

That same dramatic feeling when meeting someone and thinking- this is the person.

The brain says it's absurd but not the heart.

The feeling when living a whole life of never being fully understood and finally being seen for something. That naive and ridiculous thing that- rationally - shouldn't exist with someone you've been around only a few times.

But you didn't step back this time, you weren't sure why. Maybe it was the record shop. Maybe it was Jar of Flies worn at the corners in his hands.

Maybe it was the crying -the way he hadn't tried to hide it and hadn't tried to explain it away until you'd already seen it, and even what he'd said. 

That he felt music too deeply, like that was something to apologize for- rather than the only correct way to feel it.

So you didn't make a big deal out of it.

"Your turn," you told him, nodding at the tablet.

He took it without argument, scrolled for a moment and queued something without showing you the title, wiping his face.

The opening came through the room's speakers- just guitar at first, bare and unhurried- and you placed it immediately.

Alice in Chains. Down in a Hole. Unplugged version.

You looked at him and he'd already picked up the microphone. He was looking at the same place you'd looked during Buckley when he started to sing.

You had not been prepared for that. Not for his voice itself -you'd known, abstractly, that he was an amazing singer, that singing was the thing, professionally, that he did.

But there was a difference betwen knowing- and then sitting three feet away from Martin Edwards Park in a small room while he sang Down in a Hole with his eyes half-closed.

His voice did something low and unhurried and raspy in exactly the right places- those were different experiences entirely. It came from somewhere far inside his body- like it had to travel a long way to get out.

You went back and forth for a while after that-you'd pick something, he'd pick somethingz. Then the food arrived and got slowly eaten between songs- the tablet passing between you with less and less ceremony.

You sang 'Rotten Apple' at some point— he listened without moving and when you finished he smiled. Martin sang something of his own after- slower, something you didn't recognize, not a cover. You didn't ask, you just listened the same way he listened to you.

It was a good song, it grieved in exactly the right place but ou didn't tell him that yet.

Instead you said :

"I think- We could make good music together."

And Martin's head turned like he'd been waiting for this.

"I was being complicated," you continued, looking at the table. "I just didn't want to- involve myself. I have um-" You paused, reaching. "What is the word? Deadlines. And I don't know....I'm not good with working with others. Usually."

He was quiet for a moment- reflecting.

"That's okay," he finally said. "I respect that. I'm not asking for much- I just wanted you to consider it. I really like what you do. And I think we could do good things. Fuck that. Great things."

He held your gaze without flinching, which you noted, because most people didn't do that when they'd just said something that exposed them.

"Yeah," you answered slowly. "You're right- but I don't know how it's going to work. I don't speak very good english and you—well…”

You gestured at him, at the general fact of him—korean and obviously busy; operating in a world that ran on a language you'd taught yourself through song lyrics and netflix tv shows.

"I'm learning mandarin," Martin responded quickly, like it was already decided. "I can learn."

You looked at him for a moment before your lips curved into a laugh.

Silly boy.

"Mandarin." You shook your head. "You can't learn it in a week, Martin."

"Well-" He made a face. "Yeah, you're right. But we'll make it work. And plus I don't think there's much to be said anyway. When we're making music. I feel like— Okay this is gonna be corny."

"Say it," you encouraged.

"I just... I feel like you get me. A little bit. So you'd understand me. In there." He tilted his head toward an imaginary studio, an imaginary session, something that hadn't happened yet.

"I don't get you," you replied. "But i get your music, maybe."

"That's the same thing," he maintained. "My music is basically- Me. It's just me. Everything I can't say out loud or don't know how to explain- it goes in there. So if you get the music, you get me.”

"Okay," you concluded. Like it was a decision. Probably a bad one at that.

"We try. One session. Properly." You held up one finger. “One. And if it doesn't-"

If it doesn't work. If the door is still there. If the language is still a wall.

"One session," Martin agreed immediately before you could attach more conditions to it. "That's all I'm asking."

You nodded- looked at the tablet and woke the screen.

"One more song," you announced. "Then I go."

"One more," he agreed with a hint of a smile.

You handed him the tablet.

"You pick," you said. "Something that's you." You touched your chest. "From here. So I can- So I know what I'm working with."

He found it extremely endearing the way you couldn't name your body parts so you resolved to pointing at them. It was on top of a long list of things he couldn’t possibly keep track of.

The room, without the music, was just a room again. Like you, sort of.

You put your mask back on and so did Martin; the street was quiet- a  few people passing but nobody paying attention to anyone else.

Martin looked in the direction of the road while you held your bag strap with both hands.

This was the part, you were realizing, that the evening hadn't prepared you for- the inside of the record shop had been easy- the noraebang room had been easy.

But out here there was no music

"I'll-" Martin started.

"Yes," you said, at the same time- realizing you sounded like a complete idiot.

"I was about to say I'll get you a car," he continued. "It's late."

"I can get myself a car"

"I know you can." He answered "I just want to."

He was already on his phone, the app open- and you let him, because the english for "i dont like when people pay for my stuff" wasn't available and you weren't going to pull out google translate.

You stood beside him on the pavement while he sorted it- realizing you were both going to go back to being separate people in separate places, after sharing one of your most intimate forms of art.

"Three minutes," he updated you, showing you the phone with the little car moving on the map.

"Okay," you nodded. "Thanks, you didn't have to. And for the session, I'll have my manager reach out. For scheduling."

"Yeah," Martin agreed. "Yeah, that works."

Formal, correct.

The language of two professionals who hadnt just spent the last two hours singing 'Alice in chains’ to each other in a small warm room

A car turned onto the street, the one on the map, slowing toward you. You picked up your bag properly, adjuste your mask.

Martin stepped to the curb slightly, checking the plate and confirming it then he opened the door for you, standing there with his hand on it, close enough that the city noise seemed slightly further away.

"Thank you," you said "For the record shop. And the-" You gestured back in the direction of the noraebang.

"Thank you for coming to my company building," he looked down- cheeks flushing. "With your laptop bag. And your face."

Your lips curved into a smile, revealing your teeth.

"That came out wrong," he shook his head immediately.

"It's okay, I make sure to bring my face again next time, yeah?"

You got in the car— feeling the driver's impatience.

You gave him one last smile- because apparently you were smiling now- and Martin gave it back sheepishly, cheeks the same color as tomatoes.

THE SESSION WAS SCHEDULED for a Thursday. Two weeks after the noraebang- long enough for the ugly feelings to slowly fade- leaving the usual indifference you'd always had.

Your manager had coordinated with his people; scheduling it in a neutral studio, not yours, nor his- a place in the middle that belonged to neither of you, which you'd requested without explaining why.

Yours felt too much like yours- and his felt too much like walking into someone's space.

You'd told yourself it was one session.

You were still telling yourself that on Thursday morning when you packed your laptop bag and stood in your apartment for a moment before leaving- and thought, it's just music.

Martin was already there when you arrived -the studio already open, monitors on and a project file open on the screen that he closed as soon as you came in. He was in a plain sweatshirt and the same cap from the record shop, and he looked up when the door opened, hair doing a bouncy thing on his head.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hi," you responded simply.

You looked at each other for a moment- it felt strangely professional- like standing inside a corporate office and talking to a co-worker.

Two weeks of voice memos, file exchanges and a scheduling chain that had gone through four different people- had set you guys back to separate people in separate worlds.

"Coffee?" he cleared his throat.

"Please,"

The first five minutes were practical- coffee, bag down, laptop out, the equipment check that you did automatically in any new space- testing the monitors, looking around.

"Okay," he finally said, settling into the chair beside yours. "So I was thinking-"

"I have an idea," you said, at the same time.

You both stopped.

"You first," he let out a breathy laugh.

"No," you conceded. "You."

"Well- i've been building something. Since the noraebang actually. I wasn't going to show you yet but-" He reached for his laptop. "Can I just play it? And you tell me what you think."

"Play it," you nodded.

He queued it up and the room filled with it- a rough sketch, clearly, but the bone structure was good. Better than good.

You listened without moving- trying to figure out what part of the tune sounded the most like him.

When it ended you concluded, "The intro is too long."

"Yeah," he agreed immediately. "I know. I couldn't figure out where to cut it."

"Four bars," you indicated. "Cut first four bars, start where the bass comes in."

He nodded, already reaching for the mouse. "And what about the—"

"The mid section needs something. It's missing-" You reached for the word. "Weight. In the low end. It floats too much in the middle."

"I was thinking sub," he said. "But I didn't want to make it sound weid"

"Sub would work. Careful with the frequency. It can get muddy there."

"Yeah, I was going to sidechain it to the kick."

The first hour was good. Better than good -actually. Professional, filled with a bunch of overcomplicated words. You could point at a section of the waveform and he'd already know what you were about to say. There was no need for google translate.

You built on his sketch, adding layers, pulling things back, making decisions that you could feel both of you arriving at simultaneously from different directions.

He'd pick something up and you'd extend it- it worked surprisingly well.

This part of you- didn't need translation. You'd known that from the first session— from the way you could finish each other's musical thoughts mid-sentence.

Then you were working on the bridge- the section that had been the conversation piece since the very beginning- nd you had an idea for it that you'd been developing for three days.

Something specific.

You started to explain it in english- and you got through the first sentence fine- and then in the second sentence, which was where the actual reasoning lived, you flunked it.

"I want it to feel like-" You paused to reach for a word. "Like when you are in a place that used to be- Like the moment before you remember something that-"

You pressed your fingers against your temple briefly. "There's a word. There's specific- in mandarin there is a word for this exact thing and I can't-"

"Take your time," Martin said, gently.

"I don't want to take time," you shook your head. "I want to say the thing."

"Okay," he said, recalibrating. "Well explain it to me."

"It's like-" You tried again. "You know when you're in a city. And the city look like home but is not home. And your body thinks it's home and then- And then it isn't. And there's this -this feeling in the chest-"

"Like a false recognition?" Martin hypothesized.

You looked at him- expression indecipherable

"Is that-" He gestured with his hands "Like something that looks like home but isn't."

"Yes," you nodded. "That. That's what the bridge should feel like. That specific-" You put your hand to your chest briefly. "Here."

"Okay," Martin said, nodding, leaning forward. "Okay I get that- so you want it to feel like-"

"Like 乡愁," you said, and it came out in mandarin because that was where it lived- the ache of homesickness.

English had the word 'homesickness' but it was a flat translation that didn't carry the weight that '乡愁' carried.

Martin had his phone out- he typed it in. You watched him type the characters, getting them wrong the first time and correcting, the translation app loading.

"Homesickness," he read.

"Yes," you said. "But more than that- homesickness is- it's too simple. 乡愁 is the grief of it. Not just missing. Grieving. For a place that is still there but you are not in it, and you might not-"

You stopped again- the words were spinning in your head and you wanted to honestly cry- you could've been so much clearer, so intelligible in your own language. You could’ve sounded so smart.

"Might not go back," Martin finished quietly.

You looked at the screen instead of him- nodded, feeling like a complete idiot.

"So the bridge," he said, carefully navigating back to the music, which you appreciated. "You want it to carry that. The grief of a place that still exists without you."

"Yes. And to do that I need to strip it back. Because 乡愁 is- it's a quiet feeling. it's not loud. It lives here-" You touched your sternum. "Quietly. All the time. So the bridge needs to be quiet. Remove layers. Let it breathe."

He reached for the mouse and started pulling layers out of the bridge section, muting tracks, and when he'd done the obvious ones- there was still something wrong.

Something that'd been lost in translation.

"The piano," you pointed. "Move it. It's sitting in the wrong place-"

"Where do you want it?"

"Later. Two bars later. After the-"

"After the vocal comes in?"

"No, before. One bar before."

He moved it. Played it back.

"That's- no," you shook your head. "That's not-"

You knew you were being a pain- deep down- but you were so frustrated- so so frustrated, because in some ugly way- you wanted him to see how smart you could be in your own language.

"Too early?" Martin asked.

"No it's not about early or late it's about-"

You stopped because the word wasn't coming. The specific word for what was wrong with it- the word that would explain why the placement felt off, was sitting in mandarin and wouldn't translate into something useful.

"It needs to feel like it arrives after the feeling. Like- like someone who sees you crying and doesn't say anything but puts their hand— i don't know how to say."

"I understand," Martin said simply. "Let me try something,"

He moved the piano in a different position, slightly later, a rhythmic placement you wouldn't have chosen but that he seemed sure about.

It was close. Very close. But something was still sitting wrong.

"It's almost right," you said.

"Almost where?"

"Almost- The note. The first note of the piano. It's-"

"Too bright?"

"It's not a technincal thing- When you write in English, and you want to say something sad- you choose words that sound like the thing. The sound of the word matches the feeling. Yes?"

"Yeah," Martin said, following you. "Like sonic texture in language."

"Yes. The first note of the piano sounds like-" You searched. "Like question. And it should sound like statement. Like something that already been decided. Like grief... is not asking to be felt but is simply- felt. Present. 已经在了."

You said the last part in mandarin without meaning to- already there and Martin reached for his phone again.

And something about that- the translation app, the inevitable flattening of '已经在了' into something that would come back technically correct but emotionally miles from the thing you'd said— made you loose your patience completely.

"I could really-" You stopped to take a breath.

Martin looked up at you- curious.

"I could really be myself right now," you told him. "And say the things I want to say. If I were speaking mandarin."

"I know," Martin nodded quietly.

"You don't know," you said- not unkindly. "You hear what I say and you think you know what I mean. But I'm giving you—" You held up your hand, fingers close together. "This much. I'm giving you this much of what I actually mean. Because this much fits in the English i have." You looked at him. "The rest-" You opened your hand and motioned letting it go.

"The feeling I'm trying to describe," you continued, "In my language it takes one word. One word and you understand exactly and we move on and the music would be correct." You looked at the screen. "Instead we are here."

"Then teach me," Martin said very quickly.

"I can't teach you '乡愁' in an afternoon, Martin." You said it flatly. "I can't teach you what it feels like. You have to have felt it. You have to have been far from a place and felt it missing from your body. Like here" You touched your ribs.

"But, I have." Martin claimed.

"Then you know '乡愁," you said. "You just don't have the word for it."

"But you do," he continued. "And I don't. And that's the problem.” He stopped.

You looked at the screen. At the bridge section, the piano sitting in its almost-right position, the bridge almost carrying the thing you needed it to carry.

"I'm not-" You started. "I'm not frustrated with you. I want to be clear. I'm frustrated with-" You gestured at the space between you. "This."

"I know," Martin nodded. "I do- but it's gonna be okay- we'll end up understanding each other. If we try a little more."

"I came here today and I had things I wanted to make- I could hear them and I could feel them and I-" You exhaled. "I can't get them out in a language that isn't mine. I don't want music to feel dumb- just because i don't speak the language."

"It's not." he shook his head. "Hey, one day you said something in an interview. You said it in english- i remember it. You said that- 'music doesn't need translation the way relationships do.' And not to be weird or anything- but i think you sound smart in all the languages. You dont need a translation because you already have the feeling- that's enough."

The thing about being seen in a language that wasn't yours was that it arrived differently than being seen in your own.

In mandarin, someone understanding you was expected- the words did their job. But in english, when someone reached through the reduced version of you- through the compressed thought, it was a different kind of 'being seen'.

"I've been trying to learn mandarin,” Martin continued when he saw you were struggling to reply, "I know it's not enough. Iknow a few words and tones I'm mispronouncing and a phrase I looked up at midnight isn't- enough. I know that."

"It's not about learning Mandarin," you finally spoke, a small smile tickling the corners of your lips. "It's about- It's about the fact that I have been far from home for two years. And in those two years I have said- Maybe thirty percent of what I actually think. But today I wanted to say the full thing. So we could understand each other."

Outside, somewhere in the building, music was playing from another session. Another song. Another room. Someone else making something in whatever language they had.

"Do you miss it," Martin asked quietly.

"Every day," you smiled. "The food first, I know that sounds- fat"

He found it amusing, the way you'd used the word "fat".

"No it doesn't sound fat, i miss korean food too when i'm abroad." he chuckled.

"There is a- a specific noodle. From a specific place near where I grew up. I try to find it here. Something similar. I can't." You shook your head. "And my mother makes soup. In winter. And I can smell it sometimes. When I'm in the studio very late and I'm tired."

The boy listened, eyes bored on you, like listening to a very interesting TED talk.

"I miss speaking without thinking," you continued. "I miss saying exactly the thing I mean without building it first. Without losing half of it. My thoughts in mandarin are so interesting. In English they are dumb.”

"I'm sorry," Martin replied.

"Don't be," you shrugged. "I chose this. I chose to come here, to work here, you didn’t drag me out of china.”

And you realized maybe you'd said entirely too much until Martin spoke again.

"Earlier you said you missed noodles. Specific noodles. From a specific place. What kind ?"

You looked at him for a moment, one eyebrow raised.

"Why," you questioned.

"Because I wanna know," he said simply.

"重庆小面," you replied, "重庆, It's the city where I'm from." And 小面 means like- small noodles. But small is wrong. The translation is wrong. They're not small. They're humble, maybe. That's better. Humble noodles. Street noodles."

Martin listened, the track long forgotten.

"The woman who made them- she was there since before I was born. Very small, very fast. I watched her when I was a child."

"Is she still there," Martin asked, eyes bright now. Like he was smiling with his eyes.

"It's her daughter now," you said. "Same hands. Same speed."

So you told him about your country. Like you'd tell a good friend about things that didn't really matter in that moment- since you were both supposed to work. You told him about Chongqing, about the food, about your old house... a little about the rivers and the mountains. The fog that came in off the Yangtze in the mornin- the hotpot restraints open until four- the smell of charcoal. Many many things.

You talked- he listened, and then he told you about where he came from, the food he enjoyed, the things he did.

And you started to understand a little more why Martin was the way he was. He'd grown up full of love- a child with too many passions- and it showed now, in his adult form.

"Songpa-gu is where i grew up," he said. "Seoul. So technically I'm from here- but it didn't feel like this city when I was growing up. It felt like its own thing."

"Your family is here?," you asked.

"My mother is Korean," he said. "My father is Canadian. So- It was always a little bit of both. A little bit of neither, sometimes."

You looked at him. "You grew up between two languages."

"Yeah, we lived in Ottawa for a year and a half when I was a kid. So English came early. And then Korean at home with my mother."

"Did you like it, Ottawa?"

"I liked the snow," he said. "And I liked that nobody knew who anyone was. Like-" He paused. "I was just a kid there. Not a Korean kid or a half-Canadian kid or anything with a label. My sister hated it though. She was thirteen and very unhappy about the whole thing."

"You have a sister," you said.

"Older," he said. "By a few years. She's the reason I'm serious about anything- she was always more disciplined than me. More focused. I had way too many interests."

"Like what?” you asked- finding him more and more relatable.

So he told you about the passions, plural and overlapping. Music first and always, but also: drawing, which he'd done seriously until he was a teenager and then stopped without knowing why— photography, briefly, one summer. Cooking- specifically one dish he'd learned from a YouTube video at seventeen and had since made approximately two hundred times.

"And then there was the fish," he announced with a smile.

You looked at him, deadpanning. "The fish."

"I went through a phase of wanting to learn everything about deep sea fish. Specifically. For about eight months when I was sixteen."

"Why," you chuckled.

You thought maybe you'd heard it wrong- maybe your english was that bad, but turned out Martin was really talking about fish.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I genuinely don't know. I just became very interested in the fact that there were things living at the bottom of the ocean that had never seen. I thought that was— something."

Martin had grown up full of love- a child with too many passions and a father who cried at Nutshell on the third listen. A mother who fed everyone who came through the door.

It made sense that he'd been moved by Layne Staley's voice at twelve, everything made sense.

He'd grown up being listened to, and it had made him into someone who listened the same way.

LATER THAT DAY. . .

Martin thought about countless ways he could make you smile, for days. You looked like you weren’t necessarily doing good— and in all likelihood he would have to do something about it- that’s just the way he was. He spent the afternoon looking for places that had your specific noodles, one that wouldn’t be too far away but familiar enough.

He thought about getting you something, a gift maybe, then he opted out— that would make him look ridiculous. Come on, he didn’t even know you all that well. But he spent the next few days planning how to ask you regardless— drafted different messages in different tones, compared them withthe help of James, and decided to just send a quick, ‘hey, i wanna take you somewhere to eat, is that okay?’

He stared at the sent message for a solid ten minutes, heart doing that stupid flip thing again. ‘Fuck, what if she thinks I’m a creep? Or worse, what if she says no and I just ruined the whole music thing?’

Your reply came two hours later, which felt like two years.

You: Okay. When?

Martin almost dropped his phone. He typed back way too fast.

Martin: Tomorrow night? 7? There’s this place I found. Chongqing style. No pressure tho

You: Fine. Send location.

That was it. No emojis. No “sounds good.” Just Fine. Martin grinned at his screen like an idiot anyway.

‘She said yes. Holy shit she said yes.’

The restaurant was small, tucked between a closed karaoke bar and a convenience store. Red lanterns hung outside even though it wasn’t a holiday, and the smell of chili oil and garlic hit Martin the second he opened the door for you. You walked in first, mask down now that you were inside, scanning the place with that same careful look you gave everything.

The auntie behind the counter lit up when she saw you, like she could just tell you were a native. She said something fast in Mandarin and you answered back without hesitation, your voice suddenly smoother, faster, like English had been weighing it down the whole time.

Martin stood there awkwardly, smiling like he understood a single word.

You glanced at him. “She says the noodles are fresh today. Sit.”

He followed you to a corner table like a puppy.

The place was half-full, mostly locals, and the auntie brought water and a menu without asking. You ordered for both of you— Chongqing small noodles, mild for him, normal for you—then handed the menu back.

The noodles arrived fast, steaming bowls piled with green onions, peanuts, and that dark red sauce. You picked up your chopsticks and took the first bite. For a second— just a second—your whole face changed, your eyes softened, shoulders dropped, and you made this small satisfied sound in the back of your throat.

“Fuck… good,” you muttered, almost to yourself.

It seemed the curse words just couldn’t stop flowing around him, like you could finally speak your thoughts without being called ‘vulgar.’

Martin laughed, nearly choking on his first bite. “Holy shit this is spicy. My mouth is dying.”

You looked at him, chopsticks paused. “You picked mild. Still too much?”

“Yeah but I’m surviving. I’ll be aight.” He took another bite, eyes watering. “Tell me about the real place. The one near your house.”

You ate slowly, like you were savoring every strand. “重庆小面. The auntie there knew me since I was small. Always extra peanuts for me. She yelled at boys who tried to talk to me after school.” A tiny, rare smile tugged at your lips. “I sat there every day after class. Did homework. Ate. Listened to music on cheap earphones.”

Martin watched you, mesmerized. “Sounds nice. I wish I could’ve had that, I became a trainee when I was like… thirteen? Fourteen? Everything after that was schedules, practice rooms, sleeping in the dorm.”

You tilted your head. “Thirteen? That is very young. No normal childhood?”

“Nah. I mean, it was fun sometimes. But I missed a lot. First dates? Never really had normal ones. Just… sneaking around or group stuff where everyone was watching.” He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly. “My last ‘relationship’ was mostly texting between schedules. She got tired of me canceling plans. Can’t blame her.”

You nodded, understanding flickering across your face. “Idol life. I saw some. Very… strict. I stayed underground longer. More freedom. But lonely too.”

“Yeah?” Martin leaned in. “Any crazy ex stories? Or am I being nosy?”

You took another bite, chewing slowly. “One. Trainee too. Thought music was competition. Always compared our streams.” You made a small dismissive sound. “Annoying. I ended it. Better alone than pretending.”

“Damn. Brutal but fair.” Martin grinned. “I had one who said I was too emotional because i cried during sad movies. She called it cute at first, then said it was embarrassing in front of friends.”

You looked at him directly. “Crying is honest. Nothing wrong.”

Martin’s chest did that warm flip again. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that without laughing.”

The auntie came back, refilling waters and chatting with you again in. You spoke more freely this time— laughing quietly at something she said, gesturing with your chopsticks. Martin just watched, smiling softly.

You translated bits for him without him asking.

“She says you look like a good boy. But too skinny. Eat more.”

He laughed. “Tell her I’m trying. These noodles are trying to kill me though.”

You relayed it and the auntie clapped her hands, saying something that made you huff. “She says Korean boys cannot handle real spice. Come back when you are stronger.”

Martin clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. Tell her I’ll train every day.”

You did, and for a moment the three of you were laughing— you translating between languages, the auntie patting your shoulder like you were family. Martin caught the way your face lit up when you spoke your own language.

It was so rare. Beautiful. He wanted to see it more.

As the bowls emptied, conversation drifted deeper. You talked about your friends back home, asked him about his music, about Cortis. He told you about sneaking snacks into the dorm, swarmed airports, and how stressful it all was. Then he talked about how lonely it felt not to be able to live teenage life normally, how happy he was back when he could mess around with girls without consequences.

“I had zero game,” he admitted, poking at the last peanuts. “Still don’t, honestly. I get too excited about music and forget how to talk like a normal person.”

You were quiet for a second, pushing a stray hair behind your ear. “You talk fine. When it is about music. Real.”

Martin felt his face heat. “Thanks. Coming from you that means a lot.”

The flutter came back while you were talking— a familiar tightness under your sternum. You pressed two fingers there lightly under the table, breathing slow.

Not now. It must’ve been the spice.

You hid it well, sipping water like nothing happened. Martin didn’t notice. Or if he did, he thought it was the heat from the noodles.

After he paid (he insisted, waving off your protest), you stepped out into the cool evening air. The city was loud around you, neon mixing with the leftover chili warmth on your tongues.

“You liked it?” he asked, walking beside you.

You nodded. “Yes. Tasted like home.” Your voice was quieter now, the exhaustion was creeping in, hollowing out the small joy from the noodles. But you didn’t say it. Couldn’t.

You felt grateful, that he’d taken time out of his day to make you smile like that— it wasn’t his job— but he did it anyway.

Martin walked close but not too close. “I’m glad. I spent way too long googling places. James called me pathetic.”

You huffed, almost a laugh. “Not pathetic. Thoughtful.”

That sentence died the second you started coughing, you folded in half, hand over your mouth. Martin thought it was probably the cold night air— or the spice again.

He stopped under a streetlight, turning to you. “Hey.” His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to pull away.

When you didn’t, he brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear, his fingers lingered half a second longer than necessary. “Are you fine? Breathe.”

You straightened up, pressing the back of your hand on your mouth. “I’m okay. Just spice.” you cleared your throat, suddenly very aware of his hand.

Your breath caught. His eyes met yours—searching, soft, like he was trying to read every layer you kept buried. For a moment it felt like he could see straight through the careful english and the guarded expressions, right into the tired, aching parts you hid even from yourself.

“I’m glad you smiled today, looks good on you.” he said quietly. “Are you okay though?”

You looked away first, heart doing something complicated. “I am fine.”

The lie tasted heavier than the noodles. You felt seen— dangerously seen—and it made guilt twist in your chest right next to the flutter.

He is trying so hard. And you are hiding. Always hiding.

Martin pulled out one earbud from his pocket and offered it to you. “Here. Walk back with this, we don’t have to talk.”

You took it, surprised, and he started playing one of his unfinished demos on his phone— The shared sound connected you as you walked, shoulders occasionally brushing.

It felt intimate. Too intimate for two people who barely knew each other. But it also felt terribly right.

At the corner where your car would pick you up, you stopped. “Thank you, for the noodles. For trying.”

“Anytime,” he said, meaning it. “So… more sessions? Real ones this time?”

You hesitated, the guilt and exhaustion heavy, but the music pulled stronger. “Yes. More sessions. One more at least, we will see.”

Martin’s smile was bright enough to cut through the night. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You climbed into the car when it arrived, watching him wave through the window. Alone again, you pressed your palm flat against your chest and closed your eyes— thhe flutter had settled, but the hollowness remained.

Martin made you feel seen in a way no one had in this city. That was terrifying.

Because the more he saw, the harder it became to keep hiding how much everything— the distance, the language, your body— was wearing you down. You leaned your head against the seat, replaying the way his fingers had brushed your hair.

Just music, you told yourself. It has to stay just music.

But you already knew it wasn’t.

Music was deep. Martin was even deeper.

The next time— you arrived first, laptop already open, the rough demo from last time playing low on the monitors and Martin showed up ten minutes late, hair messy like he’d run here, two iced coffees in hand and a stupid grin that made him look twelve instead of his own age.

“Sorry, practice ran long,” he said, sliding into the chair right next to yours. The wheels squeaked as he scooted closer without asking. Your arms were already brushing when he set the coffee down. “One’s for you. No idea if you like it sweet or whatever, so I got it kinda in the middle.”

You took it, fingers grazing his. “Thanks.” You sipped. It was too sweet, but you didn’t say anything. The chair was close enough that your knee kept bumping his when you moved.

Martin leaned in, elbows on the desk, peering at your screen. “Okay so… we’re really doing this? Finishing it today?”

You nodded, mouse already moving. “Yes. Let’s finish.”

He bumped your arm on purpose this time. “Bossy. I like it.”

You gave him a sideways look but didn’t pull away; the work started easy, you tweaked a vocal chop while he messed with the low end— arms brushing every few seconds. Accidental at first, then erm… not so much.

“You’re so focused, stop biting your lip so hard” Martin said, laughing under his breath as he dragged a fader. “I know you were desperate to collab with me but damn…”

You huffed, a small amused sound. “Right. Funny guy.”

“Oh c’mon, we’re past that now.” He nudged your chair with his foot. “We’re practically best friends now.”

“I did not say that,” you said, adjusting a reverb tail. Your elbow brushed his again. “I never said it.”

Martin snorted. “Mmhh… right. Okay. Whatever you say bossy.”

You shook your head, fighting a smile. “You are dramatic. Crying in noraebang. What’s next, crying in this studio because we’re not friends ?”

“Probably,” he admitted cheerfully. “But also if this bridge comes out right I might actually sob. Fair warning.”

You both laughed at that—quiet at first, the chairs so close your shoulders touched when you leaned back. It felt easy. Stupidly easy.

Martin queued up a silly sample he’d added yesterday —a cartoonish boing sound. “What do you think? Genius or garbage?”

You listened, head tilted. “Garbage. Delete.”

“Jeez, tough crowd.” He clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “I worked so hard on that boing. Two whole minutes.”

“Two minutes wasted.” You reached over and deleted it yourself, your arm fully pressed against his now. “Better.”

He groaned dramatically but was grinning. “You’re so mean when you’re focused. I respect it though. My members just nod and say everything’s fire even when it’s ass.”

You took another sip of the too-sweet coffee. “They lie to protect your feelings. I don’t lie about music.”

“Brutal honesty. Noted.” He bumped your knee again. “Okay, real talk though— did you actually like the noodles or were you just being nice because I looked desperate?”

You paused the playback. “I liked them. Really. Tasted close enough to home. The auntie was funny too.” Your voice softened just a fraction. “You googled a lot for that, right?”

Martin rubbed the back of his neck, ears going pink. “Yeah… maybe too much. James said I was down bad. I told him to shut up.”

You let out a short laugh. “Down bad. What does that mean exactly?”

“Like… really into someone. Can’t stop thinking about them. Pathetic levels.” He glanced at you, then quickly back at the screen. “Not saying that’s me. Just… the phrase.”

“Uh huh.” You dragged the playhead, arms brushing again for the nth time, “You are a little pathetic. But nice pathetic.”

“Hey” He poked your arm lightly. “Rude. I bought you coffee and everything.”

You poked him back, surprising yourself. “Coffee is bribe. Not enough.”

He laughed, bright and loud, the kind that filled the entire room and made him look like a kid again. “Okay, fair. Next time I’ll bring a whole offering or something, deal?”

“Deal.” You restarted the section.

Martin started humming along off-key on purpose. “This part needs more… soul. Like this—” He did a ridiculous vibrato that cracked halfway.

“Shutup.” You couldn’t help laughing. “Or what do they say again? Shut you ass up??”

“Yeah don’t say that” But he was laughing too, leaning into you so your arms pressed fully together. “Dont say this okay? Thats not something you tell random people, you can say it to me but don’t go saying it to other people or you’ll get into trouble.”

“Okay, shut your ass up then.”

“Yes maa’m.”

The work continued like that— talking over the music, fixing tiny things while trading stories. Martin told you about the time he accidentally walked into the wrong practice room and danced to girl group choreography for ten minutes before realizing. You told him about sneaking into underground shows back home when you were sixteen, pretending you were older.

“Trainee life sounds exhausting,” you said, mouse clicking steadily.

Your pinky brushed his on the desk— mind you the room was big enough to avoid that— but your bodies kept finding each other’s.

“It was. Still is. But worth it most days.” He turned his hand slightly so your fingers touched more. “What about you? Ever get homesick so bad you wanted to quit everything?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But then I make something and it feels less heavy.”

Martin nodded, eyes soft. “Yeah. Same.”

The demo was coming together. You added a layer; he adjusted the bass, complementary.

At one point Martin tried to reach for the keyboard and nearly knocked his coffee over. You caught it just in time, both of you freezing with your hands overlapping on the cup.

“Nice reflexes,” he said, voice a little quieter.

“You are clumsy,” you replied, but there was no bite to it.

He didn’t move his hand right away and quite frankly neither did you.

Your manager had texted earlier saying she’d be late picking you up, so time stretched. The song kept playing on loop as you refined it.

The tension was thick, you knew it. Palpable even. Your heart was doing that annoying flutter again, but you ignored it, pressing your free hand lightly under the table against your sternum for a moment.

It was probably the coffee.

Martin noticed the small movement but misread it. “You okay?”

“Fine.” You straightened a little, but your knee stayed locked with his.

The demo was nearly done when Martin played the full thing from the top. You listened with your eyes half-closed, shoulder pressed solidly to his. When it ended, the laughter faded into comfortable quiet as you both focused on the final stretch.

The song was beautiful, it was as if you’d carved out both your souls and put them in a mixer together. A pretty mix of you both.

Neither of you had moved away in the last forty minutes and the forced proximity had become its own kind of conversation— every brush of fabric, every shared inhale, every accidental graze of fingers feeling heavier than the last.

Martin turned his head slowly, his face was only inches from yours now, you could smell everythung from the coffee on his breath to the scent of his hoodie.

His eyes searched yours, except he wasn’t playful anymore. His gaze dropped to your lips for a long second before flicking back up, like he was asking permission without words.

It was the song, you told yourself, the artistic euphoria of making something beautiful and wanting to let those feelings spill out- it was a human reflex.

But the tension had been building for hours—the physical was aligning with the emotional— everything you’d felt for him, everytime your soul had recognised his, it translated into body language now.

Want. Fear. The terrifying knowledge that this was crossing a line you didn’t know how to uncross.

Martin swallowed hard, his voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about this since… the record shop. Since… fuck, since the first session probably.” His hand lifted slowly, giving you every second to stop him, his fingers brushed your cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with aching gentleness. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong. Tell me to stop and I will, okay?”

You didn’t speak, instead, you leaned in just a fraction— barely anything, but enough. Your nose brushed his. The air between you holding all the things you couldn’t say properly in english or mandarin.

The body did not know language barrier.

Martin’s breath hitched, then he closed the last inch.

The kiss was soft at first— hesitant, almost careful, like both of you were afraid of breaking something fragile. His lips were warm, slightly chapped from biting them nervously during the session. You felt like you were holding something very dear in your hands, never squeezing tight in fears of breaking it.

You tasted the sweetness of coffee and the salt of his skin when your lips parted just enough and his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair, holding you there like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

Your own hand came up to grip the front of his hoodie, knuckles brushing the warm skin at the base of his throat where his pulse hammered wildly.

His other arm wrapped around your waist in the cramped space, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. Your knees pressed hard together, your chest against his. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric—fast, unsteady, matching the flutter in your own chest.

Could Martin feel yours? Could he feel how wrong it was beating, trying to catch up with his rythm?

The music was still playing softly in the background as he fell in deeper.

It felt like drinking straight out of the bottle when you had spent your whole life using glasses. Risky. Dangerous. Messy and overwhelming and everything in between.

But it was all you had ever wanted. You felt incredibly overwhelmingly seen.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads still pressed together, breaths mingling, neither of you spoke right away. Martin’s eyes stayed closed for a second longer, like he was trying to hold onto the feeling, is thumb brushed your bottom lip gently.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice wrecked. A small, disbelieving laugh escaped him. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long, is it… is that bad? Was that okay?”

But before you could say anything, his phone exploded with ringing on the desk.

He jumped, fumbling for it without thinking.

Juhoon’s name flashed and Martin answered fast. “Hey man, I’m kinda in the—”

Juhoon’s voice blasted on speaker because Martin had hit it accidentally. “Yo. So how’s it going with fine shit? You finally kiss her or what?”

Martin froze, face instantly tomato red. “Juhoon—what the fuck—”

You stared at the phone, then at him, amusement flickering across your face.

Juhoon kept going, oblivious. “Come on, did she friendzone you already? I told you not to be such a simp with the noodles—”

Martin looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him, he kept fumbling with the hang up button. “Dude. She’s right here. Shut the fuck up.”

There was a pause, then Juhoon: “Oh shit. My bad. Uh… hey. I’m gonna—”

Before he could hang up, you leaned in, grabbed Martin by the front of his hoodie, and kissed him again— firmer this time. A clear “not friendzoned” statement. Martin made a surprised sound against your lips but melted into it immediately.

From the speaker came a dramatic fake gag. “Oh god— ewww, I can hear that man. Gross. I’m hanging up now.”

The call ended with a click.

Martin pulled back, face burning, eyes wide. “I’m actually dead. Kill me. Please. He’s never letting me live this down.”

You were smirking, still holding his hoodie. “Fine shit? Friendzone?”

He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around you “I’m so sorry. He’s an idiot. I’m an idiot—”

You laughed quietly, the sound vibrating against him. “It is funny. And I am not friendzoning you.”

Debatable considering what you’d said earlier.

Martin lifted his head, still red but smiling now and bumped his forehead gently against yours. “So… more sessions? Or did that just scare you off forever?”

You stayed close, your hand still loosely on his hoodie, the flutter in your chest was back, but the warmth from him made it easier to ignore. “More sessions. We can try.”

His grin came back, silly and bright. “Yeah?”

“Yes. But no more speaker phone. Ever.”

“Deal.” He bumped your knee one last time, reluctant to create any distance. “And maybe more coffee bribes. And no more surprise calls from idiots.”

The next few weeks blurred into something that felt a liiiitle too close to routine. After that night in the studio— things shifted without either of you naming it. You kept telling yourself it was just music, just proximity. (you were that delusional.)

But Martin made it impossible to stay detached.

He started texting more, just stupid shit that made you huff a laugh in your empty apartment, memes he thought you’d like.

Voice notes of him trying (and failing bad) new mandarin phrases he’d learned from Duolingo at 2 am “Nǐ hǎo, wǒ shì Martin. Wǒ xǐhuān nǐ de yīnyuè… and also you. Wait, that last part wasn’t in the app.” His tones were still garbage, but you laughed anyway, the sound surprising you.

One night he picked you up after a long session.

“Late-night walk?” he asked, already knowing you’d say yes. You ended up on some empty road outside the city, Martin’s hand found yours fingers threading together like it was the most natural thing.

“Remember when I sounded like a mess trying to speak mandarin?” he said, grinning. “Well, you’ll be surprised I’ve been practicing. Listen—”

He proceeded to butcher a full sentence about liking spicy food and— tall mountains??

You corrected him between laughs, your head leaning against him. The flutter in your chest came again many times, but you breathed through it, squeezing his hand instead of pressing against your sternum.

Another time you dragged him to a second record shop, smaller and dustier than the first. You pulled out underground Chinese indie—artists he’d never heard— and played snippets on your phone while flipping through sleeves. “This one,” you said, pointing to a track with raw, lo-fi production. “You need to listen, it makes me think of you.”

Martin listened with his whole body, eyes closed, shoulder pressed to yours in the narrow aisle. “Damn, that means i’m kind of sad...” He tried pronouncing the artist’s name and mangled it so badly you actually laughed out loud, covering your mouth.

He looked proud as hell. “Worth it just for that sound.”

You showed him mandarin rap next, late one evening in his dorm when his members were out. Sitting on his bed with laptops open, you translated bits while the aggressive beats filled the small room— Martin attempted to rap along to a line and sounded so ridiculous you had to pause the track, shoulders shaking. “You are terrible,” you told him, but your voice was softer than usual.

“Yeah, but you’re laughing,” he shot back, pulling you closer until your back rested against his chest. “I’ll take the L.”

Those months had pockets of warmth like that. Deep conversations that started light and turned heavy. One night after another record shop visit, you sat in a rental car in the parking lot, engine off, the city humming around you. You tried to explain the growing numbness— the way everything felt further away lately, like you were watching your own life through frosted glass.

“It’s not just missing home,” you said slowly. “My words fail again. Stupid. But i’m happy here with you. I wish I could take you home.”

Martin pulled you into a hug right there in the front seat, arms wrapping tight around you. His chin rested on your head. “Hey. It’s okay. I get it—you miss home. You’ve been here alone for so long.” He kissed your forehead, soft then another on your temple. “I’m here though. For whatever you need.”

You let him hold you, guilt twisting harder because he thought it was simple homesickness.

You didn’t correct him. Couldn’t. The flutter had been worse that week, and you were tired down to your bones. “I am okay,” you murmured against his hoodie. “Just tired.”

He believed you. Of course he did. He terribly wanted to.

You recorded vocals for the song a few days later the studio was dim, just the two of you. Martin hugged you after the take, forehead kiss again, whispering how proud he was. You leaned into him, letting the warmth cover the hollowness for a little while.

The turning point came quietly, the way bad things often do, you started canceling sessions. First one was “manager changed my schedule.” Then another: “tired today, tomorrow?”

Martin noticed— you were quieter in texts, slower to reply—but he chalked it up to your busy schedule. You were an artist after all, underground didn’t mean easy.

In person it was harder to hide— you’d lost a little weight; your hoodie hung looser. You stared into space more at times,eyes distant while he talked about his day.

When he asked, you always said the same thing: “I’m okay. Just tired. Studio work is a lot.”

Martin believed you because he needed to. He’d pull you closer in those moments, arm around your shoulders, playing your shared playlist until you relaxed against him.

Your family started hearing about him around then— your mom called one evening while you were at his place, you answered in mandarin, voice lighter than it had been in weeks. Martin sat quietly on the couch, pretending not to listen but clearly curious and when you hung up, he raised an eyebrow.

“She asked who the boy who keeps stealing my time is,” you said dryly. “I told her ‘he is annoying but makes good music’.”

Martin grinned like an idiot.

Later that month you met his members—casual dinner at the dorm. Juhoon was there, of course, and immediately brought up the speakerphone incident. “So you’re the one who friendzoned him and then didn’t,” he teased.

Martin turned bright red and tried to smother him with a pillow while you watched, amused.

The others were nice—loud but welcoming. They teased Martin for being down bad and you for putting up with him. You didn’t talk much, but you stayed close to Martin’s side, his hand on your knee under the table.

He introduced you as “the genius behind the best song I’ve ever made.” The pride in his voice made your chest ache in many different ways.

It all piled up, messy, beautiful. You’d never felt so safe.

He kissed you often now— soft forehead kisses when you looked distant, longer ones in private when the music hit just right, hesitant and deep like he was still scared you’d disappear or walk away.

One evening after a shortened session you canceled the next day, Martin showed up at your building with flowers.

“Not a big gesture,” he said, sheepish. “Just… missed you. You’ve been quiet lately.”

You let him in, let him hug you for a long time. “I am fine,” you whispered into his shoulder.

The lie tasted worse every time, your body felt heavier,the numbness deeper. But his warmth made you want to believe it too, just for a little longer.

Your mom started asking more questions on calls. “This Martin boy— he treats you well? You sound tired, daughter. Come home soon.” You reassured her, but the guilt sat heavy.

Martin was trying so so hard— learning clumsy phrases, planning small dates, holding you like you were something precious— he met your guarded silences with patience and stupid jokes that made you laugh despite everything.

He thought the distance was just homesickness.

You let him. Because admitting more felt impossible, and the music— the song you’d made together— still felt like the only honest thing between you.

Those months were the brightest.

Martin e looked at you like you hung the stars, but underneath, the cracks were widening. You shortened more sessions, started off more. Lost more weight. Martin noticed the changes but always accepted “just tired” because the alternative scared him too much.

And you? You felt seen in a way that terrified you. Guilty for hiding, hollow in ways the music couldn’t always fix anymore. But you kept saying yes to one more drive, one more kiss, one more late night in his arms.

For now, that was enough.

He wanted to believe you were fine. Fuck, he needed to believe you— so he planned something stupid and big and hopeful.

A surprise trip to Chongqing, just a long weekend.

He’d cleared it with your manager through a million careful texts, booked tickets, found a small airbnb near the river, even researched noodle spots that matched the one you’d described.

He practiced the mandarin for “I want to see your home with you” until his tongue hurt.

This would fix it. Seeing home, even briefly, would bring you back.

Bring you back to him.

The insomnia was worse tonight, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, chest tight, breaths shallow. Every time you closed your eyes the flutter came — irregular, annoying, like your heart was arguing with itself.

You thought about telling him. Really telling him. But the words wouldn’t line up in english, and the idea of worrying him felt dreadful.

Just a little longer, you thought. One more good day please.

“Martin,” you started. “I need time.”

He froze from his side of the bed, phone in hand, “Time?”

You looked at the ceiling. “Time to go home. Really home. For a while. Things are… not good. I need space.”

The English came out wrong and clipped and distant. You meant ‘I need to return to China for my health, for rest, maybe a month or two’. But it landed like— I need time away from ‘this’. From us.

Martin’s face changed and the hopeful light drained fast. “Oh. Fuck. Okay… You need time from… us.”

You tried to correct it. “Not us. Home. My body—”

But he was already panicking, scooting closer, hands gentle on your arms. “Wait, please. I know I’ve been a lot— I can back off. I can give you space here. Don’t… don’t pull away completely. We can make this work. The song, us, everything. I’ll learn faster. I’ll be better.”

His voice cracked a little as he pulled you into a hug, tight and desperate, forehead pressed to yours. “I’m sorry if I made it worse. Just… don’t say you need time from us. Please.”

You let him hold you, pretending the flutter wasnt back, worse. You wanted to explain — the insomnia, the way food wouldn’t stay down, the way your heart kept skipping like it was tired of carrying everything alone. But the words stuck. “I am tired,” you said instead. “Very tired.”

Martin kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek —small, frantic kisses like he could hold you together through touch alone. “Then rest. Here. With me. I’ll take care of everything baby. We don’t have to go out. We can stay in. Just don’t leave yet.”

You nodded because arguing felt impossible, because part of you wanted the warmth— also because saying the full truth was too heavy in this language.

You were pulling away. He could feel it. The surprise trip was supposed to fix things, but now you were saying you needed time and he was spiraling. He became clingier without meaning to, texting more when you were apart. Showing up with food after shortened sessions. Planning more small dates. Anything to distract from the huge gap in between you.

Every time you said “I’m okay, just tired,” he hugged you tighter. Forehead kisses turned into long embraces where he rocked you gently.

“I got you,” he’d whisper. “Whatever it is, I got you.”

To Martin it was still homesickness. Stress. He’d fix it by loving harder.

Sessions got even shorter at som. point. You canceled two in a row so Martin showed up at your door with takeout and that worried, hopeful smile.

“I’m giving you space but also… not really,” he admitted, rubbing his neck. “Sorry. I’m bad at this. But I’m here.”

You let him in, let him hold you on the couch while music played, the flutter was constant now. The numbness even deeper. You pressed your face into his shoulder and said nothing.

He thought he was helping, and he was, on some level. You felt so stupid for not being able to tell him, not being able to pick up the damn google translate and say the things that needed to be said. Because it would mean all of this had an expiration date, and you weren’t ready for that.

You felt the walls closing in, one misunderstood sentence at a time. Martin sensed the wrongness but kept reaching holding you closer every time you seemed distant.

You spiraled quieter— you blamed the studio air, the long hours, everything except the truth your body was screaming in a language only you could hear.

And Martin, desperately in love, heard only what he could understand: that you needed time.

He just didn’t realize how little time might be left.

You canceled two sessions in a row but when you finally met, you were quieter, staring at the studio screen without really seeing it. Your hoodie hung looser and your breaths came shallower.

“I’m okay,” you kept saying. “Just tired.”

He didn’t believe it anymore, but he pretended he did.

Martin stayed by the desk, fists clenched at his sides. His voice was barely a whisper as you reached the door a couple hours later.

“When you feel like leaving… just come to me. I’ll always be there. Even if it’s only half.” he said.

That night you fought. You fought because of a lot of things that don’t need explaining. People fight, people in love fight.

You fought because admitting the truth felt like handing him the knife— better to push him away with half-truths than watch him break trying to carry something he couldn’t fix.

He fought because love had made him porous. Every time you pulled back, he felt it in his bones, a fear so deep it tasted like childhood abandonment dressed up as adult terror.

“I’m right here,” he kept saying, the sentence looping “Why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

Two days after the fight, Martin showed up at your apartment door with a bag full of snacks, a new hoodie that looked exactly like your favorite oversized one, and red eyes like he hadn’t slept.

You opened the door in silence— he looked at you for a long second, then stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, voice rough. “I was an asshole. I heard what I wanted to hear instead of what you were actually saying. I’m really fucking sorry.”

You stood there in the hallway, arms wrapped around yourself. “You were scared,” you said finally. “I was tired. We both said things.”

Martin set the bag down and crossed the distance slowly, like you might bolt. When you didn’t, he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to hold all your broken pieces together. “I don’t want half,” he whispered into your hair. “I want all of you. Even the parts I don’t understand yet. Even when you need space. I’ll wait. I’ll learn. Just… don’t disappear on me.”

You let yourself lean into him- for once, you didn’t pull away. “Okay,” you murmured against his hoodie. “Not disappear. But I still need… slower.”

He nodded fast, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Slower. Got it. I’ll be whatever you need. Just let me take care of you a little. Please.”

That night he stayed over. He ran you a shower without asking twice and when you came out in his oversized hoodie (the new one he’d bought), hair damp, he was waiting with warm tea and your favorite peanuts arranged in a silly heart shape on a plate.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

“Ridiculously in love with you, yeah.” He pulled you onto the couch, settling you between his legs so your back rested against his chest. His arms wrapped around your middle, holding you tight. “Is this okay?”

You nodded. For the first time in weeks, the hollowness felt a little smaller.

He kissed the side of your neck, soft and slow. “I brought stuff from that auntie’s stall near your old house. The one you told me about.”

And God, he wanted to tell you about the trip— felt like his heart was leaping out of his body at how excited he was to surprise you.

You turned your head to look at him, his eyes were so earnest it hurt. “You did all that?”

“Obviously.” Martin kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your eye like he could kiss away the tiredness. “I’m going to make you feel better. Even if it’s just a little bit every day. You don’t have to be strong all the time with me.”

That night he held you in bed like you were something precious, one arm under your head, the other wrapped around your waist, legs tangled. Every time you shifted, he pulled you closer, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he whispered when your breathing hitched. “Sleep. I’m right here.”

The next few days were devastatingly sweet.

Martin basically moved in, he canceled practices when he could, brought over his laptop so you could work from bed. When you were too tired to shower, he helped —gentle, careful, no pressure. He washed your hair with slow fingers, massaging your scalp until you almost fell asleep standing up, he wrapped you in warm towels after, carried you back to bed like you weighed nothing, then held you while your hair dried.

“You don’t have to do this,” you mumbled one evening, face buried in his neck.

“I want to,” he said simply. “Let me. Please. It makes me feel useful when I can’t fix the big stuff yet.”

He gave you pieces of himself in return.

One night he played you old voice memos from when he was a trainee —awkward, cracking voice singing covers, crying after a bad evaluation. “This is the me before I learned how to hide it,” he said, cheeks pink. “The overly emotional mess. I figured if you’re giving me the hard parts of you, I should give you mine too.”

You listened with your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. “I like this version,” you told him quietly. “The real one.”

He kissed you then —slow, deep, full of all the things he couldn’t say right. When he pulled back, forehead against yours, he smiled that silly, devoted smile. “Good. Because he’s all yours.”

Another night he cooked terrible Korean-Chinese fusion food and fed you bites when you had no appetite. He made you laugh with awful mandarin impressions, then held you tight when the laughter turned into quiet tears you couldn’t explain.

“I’ve got you,” Martin repeated like a promise, rocking you gently. “I’ve got you okay?”

He kissed every part of you only he could reach— your knuckles when your hands trembled, your closed eyelids when you were fighting sleep, the spot right over your sternum when you pressed your fingers there without thinking. “Whatever this is,” he whispered against your skin, “we’ll figure it out together. No more half. Okay?”

For those few days, it felt like enough. He was devoted in the most heartbreakingly pure way — cooking, carrying, kissing, listening even when you couldn’t explain. He thought it was homesickness and stress. He thought his love could carry the weight.

You let him believe it, like a stupid stupid mean mad-woman.

Martin woke up tangled in his sheets, smiling like an idiot before he even opened his eyes. The past week had been pure warmth. He’d held you every night, arms locked around your smaller frame like he could shield you from the world. He’d washed your hair in the shower, fingers gentle on your scalp while you leaned into him with a tired little sigh that made his chest ache in the best way.

He made breakfast that morning —terrible scrambled eggs and toast cut into hearts because he was a sap and proud of it.

He sent you a voice note in broken mandarin: “Good morning, sexy beautiful wonderful woman. Eat something today, okay? I’m coming over later with real food. Miss you.” His tones were still awful, but he knew it would make you huff that tiny laugh he was addicted to.

Martin felt hopeful. The fight was behind you, you were letting him in more, the trip to Chongqing was coming closer and closer.

But something felt off.

A low stomach ache had settled in his gut since he woke up, not bad enough to ruin the day, but persistent. Like his body knew something his brain didn’t.

He rubbed his abdomen absently while scrolling through social media— reading fan comments from cortis’ latest comeback.

It was probably just nerves, he thought despite the unease, or maybe he’d ate too much again.

The morning unfolded gently, the way good days were supposed to. He deep cleaned his laptop with music playing low —one of your unfinished demos.

Martin spent twenty minutes picking flowers from the small patch near his dorm building — pink and white ones, the kind you once said reminded you of spring in Chongqing even if they weren’t the same. He arranged them clumsily in a glass jar, feeling like the biggest sappiest idiot on earth. No reply yet, but that was okay. You were probably still sleeping. You’d been so tired lately.

By midday the stomach ache had sharpened, a dull twist that made him wince when he bent down to tie his shoes. He ignored it. Popped some medicine. Told himself it was anxiety about making the trip perfect. He wanted everything right for you. He practiced more mandarin on the way to your place, murmuring full sentences under his breath in the taxi. “Wǒ ài nǐ. Nǐ shì wǒ de yīqiè.” Martin’s accent was still terrible, but the intention felt real.

The driver asked if he was okay. Martin laughed it off. “Yeah, just excited. Taking my girl somewhere special.” The words felt good in his mouth. My girl. After all the half-steps and half-understandings, it finally felt like you two were moving forward.

His phone buzzed on his thigh and the screen lit up with your name. His heart did a full flip —that stupid, lovesick jump he never got tired of and he answered immediately, grin wide.

“Hey precious—”

“Martin?”

It wasn’t your voice.

The woman on the line sounded shaky, speaking careful english with a heavy accent. One of your friends —the one you’d mentioned a few times, that one producer you trusted. “This is Lin. I’m… I’m calling from the hospital. Y/n collapsed last night. They brought her in this morning.”

The world tilted on its axis.

Martin’s stomach dropped like a stone, the ache flared sharp and vicious. “What?— I’m coming… i’m coming right now—. where?”

“She’s stable for now,” Lin said, but her voice cracked. “Just… get here. She was asking for you before she lost consciousness again.”

He was already signaling to the driver, heart hammering so hard he felt dizzy. “Tell her I’m coming. Tell her I love her. Fuck— tell her I’m sorry I didn’t come over last night.“

“Martin. Just get here.”

He hung up and told the taxi driver the adress.

It was hell. Martin sat in the back, leg bouncing, stomach twisting into knots. Guilt ate him alive. Why didn’t he go over last night? you said you were tired, but he should’ve known.He should’ve pushed. He should’ve been there to hold you.

He thought it was just homesickness. Stress. He thought this love was enough.

The driver weaved through traffic while Martin stared out the window, phone clutched so tight his knuckles were white. “Faster, please,” he begged. Tears pricked his eyes.

He arrived at the hospital in record time, throwing cash at the driver and bolting toward the entrance. The parking lot was chaotic —cars honking, people rushing, ambulances pulling in. His stomach ached worse now, sharp and nauseating, he felt like throwing up, like the world was ending and he was the only one who hadn’t seen it coming.

His phone rang again. Same number. Lin.

Martin answered instantly, voice cracking. “I’m here! I’m in the parking lot, almost inside. How is she? Can I see her? Tell her I’m coming—”

“Martin.” Lin’s voice was different this time. And it made him sick to his stomach. “Are you somewhere safe? Where are you right now?”

“I’m in the fucking parking lot!” he snapped, panic rising. “Why? What’s going on? Is she awake? Can I talk to her?”

There was a long, horrible pause. Time was a fucking traitor.

“Martin… you need to come inside. But I need you to breathe, okay?”

His legs felt weak. “Why are you saying that? Why? What the fuck is going on???”

Lin’s voice broke completely. “She… she passed away while you were on the way. The doctors tried everything. Her heart… it just gave out. I’m so sorry.”

The words hit like a truck.

Martin stopped dead in the middle of the parking lot. Cars honked around him. Someone shouted. He didn’t hear any of it.

“What?” His voice was small. Childlike. “What did you say?”

“She’s gone, Martin. I’m so sorry.”

The phone slipped in his grip but he caught it, squeezing it like a lifeline, the world spun. His stomach ache exploded into pure agony, his body dizzy, vision blurring.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no— that’s not— Stop.”

His knees buckled.

And oh, Martin felt like a kid again.

He dropped to his knees, the hard concrete scraping the caps, bits of dirt engraving into his skin until it felt raw. He dropped to his knees except this time it wasn’t to love you.

The phone still squeezed in his grip, his other hand clasped over his mouth- fingers molding itself to the shape of his lips. Lips that once caressed yours with such duplicity, eating at you until you were nothing but scraps of flesh.

Martin wanted— in that moment— to call his mom. He wanted to crawl back in her womb, forget all that had your name, forget he even had existed for the tiniest moment.

Maybe he would finally, finally, learn. Learn how not to feel so deeply- so painfully- maybe he’d finally be less of a man.

But the only thing he could do in that moment, was sit there until his knees bled into the ground, until maybe the wind erased the smell of you from his clothes.

Cars kept honking, someone asked if he was okay. He couldn’t answer. The phone had gone silent in his hand. The world kept moving around him —people rushing to appointments, families laughing, life continuing like his hadn’t just ended in a hospital parking lot.

Martin wanted to bargain. That was until his stomach pushed out everything he’d eaten that day, and he heaved on the ground like a wounded animal. You’d never know he was on his way to see you. He threw up again, food and a bit of his heart.

Martin remembered the way you used to steal the last bite of everything. Not in a greedy way. Never that. You’d push your plate toward him at the end of every meal, fork hovering with that one perfect remaining piece —whether it was the crispy edge of a dumpling, the last strawberry in a bowl of fruit, or the final spoonful of rice. “You have it,” you’d say, voice quiet but certain, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I saved it for you.”

Martin had teased you about it once, early on. “You always do that. Why?”

You had shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. “Because you eat like the food might disappear if you don’t enjoy it. I like watching you enjoy things.”

It was such a small thing. Stupidly human. Just you — thoughtful in the quietest ways, saving the best for someone else even when you were the one who needed it more. He had fallen a little harder every single time you did it. You were his silly silly girl, his beautiful precious girl.

But now that small habit haunted every meal he tried to eat.

You left fingerprints on every version of his future.

They were everywhere, in the way he reached for two mugs out of habit and had to set one down with shaking hands. In the empty side of the bed that still smelled like your shampoo. In the way he caught himself practicing mandarin phrases out loud, only to realize there was no point cause he’d learned it for you, only you.

Learning you were gone was the closest he’d felt to dying.

And now the apartment still expected you. So did he.

The hoodie you’d worn last time hung on the back of the chair, a half-empty bag of peanuts sat on the counter where he’d left it for you. The playlist you’d made together still queued up automatically every time he opened his laptop. He kept thinking he’d hear the door open, that soft sound of your footsteps, your voice saying “Hi, baby— no! ‘Fuck face’, i learned that new word today!”

You were supposed to outlive his bad habits, you were supposed to be the one who stayed when he got too emotional, when he cried at songs, when he overthought everything. Instead he was the one left behind, staring at the ceiling at 4 a.m., stomach aching with guilt and grief so heavy it felt physical.

A few days blurred into nothing.

Martin didn’t cry, not even once. The numbness had settled in deep, like frostbite that reached all the way to his bones, he barely moved from the couch. His company had issued a hiatus notice — “personal reasons” —and the members checked in constantly, but their voices sounded far far away. He answered texts with single words. Ate when someone forced food into his hands. Slept in fits and starts, waking up reaching for you.

He learned afterward that you’d been sick for a long time— longer than anyone had let him believe— longer than he’d been holding your hand without realizing how carefully you had been rationing your strength, how many smiles had cost you something, how many times you’d said you were just tired when your body had already been quietly losing a war.

Everyone seemed to brace themselves for his anger when they told him, as though betrayal was the only thing love could become after death. But he never felt betrayed, not even for a second.

What would have been the point? Whatever reasons had made you carry that weight alone had died with you, and he refused to drag them back into the light just so he could resent someone who wasn’t there to defend herself.

He never wanted to ask why you hadn’t told him, the question had nowhere to go. There would never be an answer that could change anything, never be a version of the truth that ended with you alive again.

Maybe you had been scared.

Maybe you had wanted one part of your life to remain untouched by hospitals and pity, maybe you had convinced yourself you were protecting him, maybe you hadn’t known how to say the words out loud without making them real. None of it mattered anymore.

Martin loved you before he knew, and he loved you after he knew.

He didn’t need an explanation. He didn’t need someone to blame. He only wished, with a grief so quiet it never stopped hurting, that for just one evening, just one impossible hour, you had let him be afraid with you instead of letting you be brave all by yourself.

Your friends had texted him about the funeral, he read the message three times before it sank in. Closed casket. Private ceremony. They thought it would be easier that way.

He got ready on autopilot. Black shirt, black pants. He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, wondering if the person looking back was still the one you had kissed so gently in the studio.

The funeral was small.

He sat in the back, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. Thank god the casket was closed. The thought made him feel like shit immediately — how could he be relieved not to see you? — but the other part of him ached with it.

He wanted to see his sweet girl one last time, the one who scrunched her nose when she was thinking hard— not the one who was gone.

Your friends and family spoke. Beautiful, painful words in mandarin and english. Stories about your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you poured everything into your work. He listened like a ghost haunting the edges of someone else’s life.

Then your aunt turned to him, eyes red but kind. “Martin? Would you like to say a few words?”

The room went quiet.

The boy stood up without thinking, legs carrying him to the front like they belonged to someone else. The paper in his pocket —the speech he hadn’t written —stayed blank. He gripped the edge of the podium, staring at the closed casket draped in white flowers.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He stood at the podium, hands gripping the edges like it was the only thing keeping him upright, no notes, no plan, just his heart cracking open in front of everyone.

"My sweet girl." His voice almost disappeared "You hated when I looked sad. So... this is awkward. But I just need to talk to you. Even if you can’t hear me anymore.”

Martin didn’t dare look at your casket— in hopes he’d find you to be anywhere but there.

“You… you remember the first time we met? I stood outside in that studio like a complete idiot and told you I’d learn mandarin so we could work together properly. You looked at me with that one eyebrow raised and said I couldn’t learn it in a short period of time. You were right.”

His voice shook, and broke.

“But I did, baby. I learned it. And now we finally speak the same language.”

His voice broke hard, a sob catching in his throat as fresh tears fell. He didn’t wipe them. “I’m so sorry, baby. I've been trying to remember our last conversation but I can’t. I remember your laugh, and… I remember what you were wearing, but I don’t— sorry. I don’t remember what i told you. I hope it was ‘I loved you’. I wish I could’ve learned your language earlier— cause maybe if I spoke it… then maybe I could’ve understood you better, maybe i could’ve loved you better.”

Martin’s voice shattered completely on the last words, shoulders shaking with deep, broken sobs he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I found out afterward. I found out you’d been sick for so long, and… I didn’t even feel betrayed. Everyone keeps asking me if I’m angry that you never told me, and I’m not. I swear to God, I’m not”

“I just keep thinking about what it must’ve been like for you to wake up every morning already knowing something I didn’t. I’m wondering how many times you looked at me and decided, ‘Not today. I’ll let him be happy one more day.’”

His voice cracked again.

“You were protecting me.”

A tear slipped from his jaw.

“And that’s so unfair.”

Martin’s lips quivered. “Not because you lied to me. Because even while you were dying… you were still taking care of me.”

“You barely spoke my language when we met. Half our conversations were messy.” He gave a watery smile, “But somehow… you understood me better than people who’d known me for years.”

He looked down at his shaking hands.

“I used to think being understood was this like… huge miracle. Then I met you. And suddenly I wasn’t explaining myself anymore— I was just… existing. And you loved me there.”

His breathing faltered.

“I don’t know if you ever understood what that did to a person like me. To be loved by someone so precious— i’m sorry,” he choked on a sob, “By someone so smart and so creative. And I keep thinking about how you didn’t even realize it, like you thought you were just… existing, but you were doing so much more than that for everyone around you. Especially for me. And now I just don’t know how I’m supposed to unlearn what it felt like to be seen by you.”

His voice dissolved into tears. “So if theres a language that’s more appropriate for this… if you can hear me somewhere,”

He spoke the next words in Mandarin, slow, careful, with the same determination he’d had the first day he’d promised he’d learn.

“I love you. I loved you. I will keep loving you. Okay? You’re my girl.”

The room was silent, nobody spoke. He didn’t want to monopolise the funeral, so he retreated a bit.

"My sweet girl. I’m gonna leave now,” his voice shook, "I've never gone anywhere without making sure you were coming too. I don't really… know how to do this. So if you can...”

Martin closed his eyes, tears spilling out.

"wait for me a little, yeah?”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

By the time the group reached Alexandria, there wasn't a single member who wasn't wearing clothes that one could only describe as dusty, grey, and worn.

Everyone except for you.

Even when you had arrived at the gates for the first time with Rick's group, your overly pink outfit was, albeit covered in splatters of blood and dirt, a standout feature about you. Wearing a bright pink jacket, you certainly drew some attention to yourself.

To everyone else outside of your small circle, most would assume you were trying to be the center of attention. But to Daryl, it was just your way of expressing you.

Back in Atlanta, however.

To say you annoyed him would be an understatement.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

When everything went down in Atlanta, you had found the camp just outside of the city. That's where Daryl first met you.

Fresh acrylic nails pressed to your fingernails, and a mini skirt that looked like you had just stepped out of a shopping mall; Daryl felt almost pissed off by your presence.

And boy, was he not scared to let you know.

You had been discussing old things you enjoyed with the ladies down at the quarry as you helped them wash clothes. Andrea shared what she missed, making the group laugh loudly in shock.

"I miss my makeup." You expressed with a pout. "Next time we out, I'm definitely looking for a little something to spice up my look." Sure, it wasn't a necessity, but couldn't a girl feel good about herself once in a while?

Daryl overheard your voice, and scoffed as he skinned a deer he had caught just hours before. His eyes narrowed at you slightly, almost as if he was trying to fight back his words.

It was his annoyed scoff that made you turn around to face him. "Got somethin' you wanna say?" Your southern accent was poking through your girly exterior.

"Yeah, you got all these people here starvin', and you wanna go get some damn lipstick?" He ran his knife over the deer more aggressively, his eyes not meeting yours.

"How stuck-up could you be?" He mumbled to himself. Andrea rose from her seat to defend you, but you grabbed her arm to stop her.

"It's okay, honey. He just doesn't understand." You could have hurled insults his way, but ultimately decided to leave it alone. You weren't just a pretty face like he wanted to believe, but he'd have to figure that out himself.

Daryl shot you a confused look, expecting you to make a fuss and argue with him. Hell, he would've liked to see you spouting off in what would sound like a valley-girl accent. But instead you were…sweet.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

It wasn't until you had arrived at Hershel's farm with the group that he truly understood your value in the group. Up until then, he found himself wondering how you had lasted this long, given your seemingly incessant need to be high maintenance.

You were helping everyone around the farm. And eventually, Rick sent you and Daryl to go after Sophia together. His grumbles let you know that you weren't exactly desired on this hunt. You brought your own weapon, a glittery pink knife, and one of the guns you borrowed from Dale.

He looked at your knife as you pulled it out of your belt. "Seriously?" He scoffed at you incredulously.

"Don't knock it! It does the job." You smile at him and press on, straightening the bow you had in your hair.

He let you take the lead, watching as you stumbled through the woods. His focus was completely on you, and how you were so goddamn strange.

His eyes traveled along your frame, examining the way you pushed your hair out of your face like you cared about what it looked like.

That's why when you paused to listen for something, he just found it ridiculous.

"Gotta keep movin'. Christ-" Daryl wasn't able to finish his sentence before you grabbed his jacket and pulled him backwards.

A group of walkers was passing by, near inches from both of you. He'd been so lost in you that he didn't even hear them.

Without words, you kicked one of the walkers to the ground and stabbed it in the head. Moving to your feet quickly, you shoved another one into a tree before stabbing it. In the end, you killed about four walkers with ease.

"M'not just a pair of heels." You smirked at him and walked on.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Just as he had warmed up to the idea of you, all of you. You had approached him with a question.

"Can I go on a run with ya'?" You spent about 20 minutes working up the courage to ask him. With everything going on, you were sure he would say no. "Since you're going out anyway, thought I could join ya'." Somehow, the grump had a way of making you laugh by his sheer obliviousness.

"Why? What do ya' need?" He was lying in his tent, his arms folded above his head. Your presence began to be a normal occurrence. Most of time, he didn't mind it.

"Just need to get some lady things. Wanted to see what they have while we're out. Hope it's not a big deal." You ignored the cramps that were driving you absolutely crazy. Part of you was hoping that you could find some kind of period product while on the road, but now you were desperate.

Daryl, however, had a completely different idea of what 'lady things' were. He sat up and moved out of his tent without saying a word.

"Daryl, I'll go with you. I just wanted to see if we could find anything-"

"What, you think I'm gonna risk my life for some damn nail polish or something?" He exploded at you, making you furrow your brows.

"That's not what I-"

"Not what you meant, huh? You really are somethin'. None of this bullshit matters when you've got walkers coming right at you!" He was pacing now, pointing at your clothing as he spoke. You bit back your words, taking his insults in stride. That seemingly pissed him off more.

"Want me to grab ya' some perfume, yeah you'll smell damn good. Good enough to get bit, right? Let's go find out." He went to grab your hand to lead you towards his bike.

"Daryl, stop!" You yanked your arm away from him, your shouting alerting other camp members.

"I'm on my period. Need some tampons." You mumbled. It was clear how he felt now. The silence blared in your ears, your eyes not meeting his.

Daryl froze, guilt sinking into his stomach. Fuck, he wanted to drown himself in the creek right now.

"I would never ask you to risk yourself for me. That's how little you think of me?" Your heartbeat was pounding with adrenaline, and hurt.

"Stop thinking that you know anything about me. You don't know shit." Your words were laced with venom, an anger that he hadn't ever seen. Even when he had laughed at you in Atlanta.

"I'll go myself. Make life easier for ya'." You strode away from him, tears brimming in your eyes, betraying your attempt to look tough in front of him.

Daryl chased after you. "Wait-" He panted. "I'll take ya'."

Placing a hand on your hip, you looked at him with skepticism. Daryl took your pause as permission to continue. "M'sorry. Been judgin' you too hard." He sighed and ran his hands down his face.

"Thought you were stuck up. You're not. You're a good person." His apology was broken up between pauses while he thought of meaninful things to say. Because an "I'm sorry" would not suffice.

Not after all he'd said about you. All the trouble he'd put you through.

You finally turned around to face him, your arms still crossed. "Fine. But because you were mean, I get first dibs if we find any candy." Daryl took in a deep inhale of relief.

He knew he was still in the doghouse, but seeing your usual bubbly self start to blossom again made him feel warm inside. He had no idea why seeing your smile made him feel that way, but he pushed it down for now.

That feeling of confusion continued far beyond Georgia.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Now the group was living in Alexandria, a slice of domesticity that seemed strange given the situation outside the walls. Daryl had time to observe you, to talk to you in ways that weren't purely for survival.

And the two of you became friends.

Although you still got on his last nerve sometimes.

Daryl sat on his porch, cleaning off walker blood from his crossbow after a successful run. He heard a clack of heels coming toward him and he audibly sighed. "What'cha want now?" He asked, a tiny smile creeping its way onto his face.

"Don't act like you don't like our talks, Dixon!" You made your way up to his porch, sporting jewelry that made clinking sounds when you walked. "Wanted to ask you somethin' anyway." You plopped down onto the floor of his porch.

"Hm?" He grunted, swiping some sweat that had accumulated due to the summer heat. He found himself staring, noticing how put-together you were. Of course, there was no way to be clean out there, exposed. But in here, you looked like you stepped out of a damn magazine.

Your hair looked perfect, you had found some makeup, and you were wearing heels. It made him chuckle, thinking about how different you were.

Different in a good way.

"Can we go on a run together? We haven't been out just the two of us in so long!" Your hopes were as high as your heels, your lips jutting out in a pout that Daryl rolled his eyes at.

"Jus' got back from one with Rick. Tired." He grumbled, lighting a cigarette. You scoffed and jumped to your feet, approaching him with narrowed eyes.

"Please, you're not tired, it was a quick run like right down the street. Besides, could probably find more of these-" You snatched the cigarette from his hand and put it up to your own lips, taking a short puff before handing it back to him.

Daryl felt his face flush at your actions, looking down at the lipstick marks that were wrapped around his cigarette. Between the pouting and your boldness, Daryl wasn't sure how he could say no.

"What do ya' need out there?" He asked, considering it. If it was something stupid like shoes or dresses, he'd probably complain the whole way home.

"Well, guess I shouldn't say 'lady things' because you'll go crazy right?" You toss him a quick smirk. Daryl cringed at himself, remembering when he shouted at you for needing period products on the farm.

"You drive me crazy all the time." He stood up, ignoring your look of offense.

"C'monnn, there's a little boutique like 2 miles from here!" You followed him because of course you did.

Daryl approached his motorcycle, turning to face you with crossed arms, his grumpiness showing. "Yer gonna get me killed over a boutique?" You let out a giggle at his dramatic conclusion.

A giggle that made his stomach twist, for some reason he couldn't place.

"Not killed! Maybe a scratch or two." You winked at him. "Oh! Can I ride in the front this time?" Pushing past him, you hopped onto the bike before him.

Daryl shook his head. "Yeah, and crash my bike? Nah." He let out a quiet laugh. "Just give me one second to talk to Carol really quick."

You nodded and rested your head on the handles of his bike, playing with your jewelry absentmindedly.

Once you were out of his line of sight, he walked a little faster to Carol's place.

Carol was in her apartment, baking something that Daryl wouldn't try if it was the last thing to eat on Earth. He knocked and took it upon himself to walk inside once she had opened the door.

"No time for askin' if you can come in, huh?" She laughed at his frantic bodily language. "What'cha need?"

"Yer' a woman." He started, fumbling with his crossbow nervously. Carol just chuckled.

"I am. Why?" She narrowed her eyes at him. Daryl swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"Ya' know what women like. Right?" He couldn't even look Carol in the eye, the scenario was too awkward, too vulnerable.

"Daryl, will you just tell me why you're here?" Carol already had an idea of where this was going, she just wanted to hear him say it.

Unfortunately, Daryl was as stubborn as a mule, and he shut up promptly.

"This is about the girl." She smirked at him, leaning against a wall smugly.

"Ain't about nobody." Daryl shrugged, avoiding her gaze. He thought a gift, maybe some kind of gesture would help him catch your attention.

Well, romantic attention. Not the way you were hanging around him being all friendly.

"Fine. If we're talkin' about a random girl. Women like perfume, some nice jewelry maybe. Could even get her a dress if you know her size." Carol snickered at the way Daryl was so obviously mentally noting her words.

"I mean, if you're really serious about this random girl, you could go ring shopping-"

"Shut up." Daryl shoved her lightly. Carol knew exactly who he was talking about. The girl laid up on his bike staring up into the cloud right now.

"Look at you, such a loverboy." Was all Carol could say before Daryl scoffed at her and walked out.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

At the boutique, you were shopping as if the world was completely normal, picking items off of the rack and holding them up to yourself to see if they would fit. "What do you think, Daryl?" You turned around to see him fumbling with perfume bottles.

He jerked his hand away and met your eyes before looking at what you were holding up. "S'good." Was all he could say.

"You're such a man." You scoff and put the item back. "Don't think I could pull that off anyway." It was a pink sundress, one that had beautiful color streaks and butterflies on it.

As you walked away, Daryl approached it and stuffed it into his bag behind your back. He thought that you could absolutely pull it off. Hell, you could probably wear anything and look like an angel.

"Need any perfume?" He asked you, grateful that you were oblivious to his questioning.

"Eh, unless they have some kind of vanilla scent, I think I'll pass." Your response made Daryl look at the bottles closely, reading the labels. He settled on one that he thought you would like.

Vanilla Honey

Daryl stuffed that one into his bag as well before leaving the perfume aisle.

He snatched a few pieces of jewelry as well to be on the safe side before he left with you.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

A few weeks had passed since that visit to the boutique, and Daryl still hadn't given you those gifts.

Not because he didn't want to. But he was just so concerned.

What if you didn't like any of it? What if he was just reading your attention wrong, and you only saw him as a friend?

Daryl hadn't seen you all day, which begun to worry him. You were usually bounding over to him with that wide, gorgeous smile that made him feel like he was the only man in the world.

He realized he missed that. Maybe it was time to show you how he felt?

Daryl was in desperate need of advice, so he went to Carol again.

"Daryl, you haven't given her those gifts yet? Seriously?" Carol put her hands on her hips in a disappointed move. "What did you get anyway? I wanna see."

He emptied his bag and out came the dress all balled up and wrinkled, the perfume he got you, and the jewelry all tangled up from being shoved into the bag. Carol rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed.

"You're such a man." Carol sighed and unfolded the dress, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. "It's beautiful though, how did you know she'd like it?"

Daryl bit back a smile just thinking about it. "Always wearin' pretty stuff like that." He helped Carol untangle the jewelry. He got a beautiful necklace with a blue jewel hanging at the base, and a bracelet to match.

"Not exactly her color, but I think she'll like it." Carol teased him.

"Her color? I ain't told you her name yet." Daryl furrowed his brow. Carol snickered and gave him a look.

"Daryl. You're gifting this mystery girl a pink dress and jewelry. I don't know of any other girl in Alexandria who wears things like this." Carol spoke in between laughter.

"And perfume." Daryl interrupted her.

"What?" She smiled.

"Got her perfume too. Smelled like her." Daryl held it up to show Carol.

Carol broke out in loud laughter at that, doubling over to hold her stomach.

"Smells like her?" She smirked.

"What? She wears perfume all the damn time." He held his arms up in confusion.

"Do you even hear yourself? You've got her a dress, jewelry, and perfume. You remember things about her, remember the way she smells." She was desperately trying to lead him to the conclusion.

"You think she won't like them?" Daryl glanced down at the gifts. Maybe it was too much?

Carol snickered. "You're adorable when you're in love, Dixon." His face blushed a bright red shade.

So that's what it was. That feeling.

"To answer your question, she'd like anything you get her. She follows your grumpy ass around like a lost puppy. She feels the same way. Trust me." Carol saw the way you would hang on his words, how your eyes would rake over him in public like you couldn't wait to get him alone.

That was all Daryl needed before he took off back to his place. His heartbeat was pounding, filling his ears with loud thumps as he approached his porch.

Only to find you there, legs and arms crossed as you sat on his chair. "Where have you been? Been waitin' here to see what you wanted to do today." You pouted at him, adjusting the glittery pink knife in your belt.

You still had it, after all these years. It made him smile whenever he caught a glimpse of it.

"Was lookin' for you all morning, should'a been out here earlier." He cringed inwardly at how desperate his words sounded.

"Damn, can't a girl sleep in? Bed felt too comfy and warm to leave." You snuggled into the chair as if it were your bed.

Daryl pulled up a chair next to you. "I gotcha somethin'. From that boutique we went to." He spoke quietly, his nerves getting the best of him as usual.

"Really? Show me show me!" You were beyond excited, because this was not usual behavior from the grumpy man he had come to be through the years.

He pulled out the gifts and laid them in your lap. Your eyes immediately fell to the dress, expression softening into a happy smile.

"Daryl, is this the dress I showed you at the boutique? I thought I told you it wouldn't look good on me!" You held it up again, the beauty of it now hitting you.

Maybe it's because he picked it out for you.

"Ya' look good in everything." He shrugged. Your face flushed a little bit at his words, suddenly feeling a little shy.

"Thank you." You picked up the jewelry next, examining the color and design. "This is so beautiful, you have good taste!" And finally, you squealed when you looked closer at the perfume bottle.

"Daryl, you're a goddamn genius. This is the perfume I use, how did you know?" Your eyes were wide and bright now, completely surprised by his pick.

Daryl was just as surprised as you. "I didn't. Ya' said you like vanilla." He probably should have ran with it, should have said he knew exactly what you used.

But part of him felt like he had to be honest with you. Like you deserved it.

"Daryl, this is the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me. Like ever, I never knew you were so attentive." Your face was bright red at this point, and that he was most likely seeing it too.

Of course he was attentive. You consumed his every waking thought.

"I'm gonna go try it on." You walked into Daryl's apartment like you owned the place, to change in his bathroom. Daryl waited on the porch for you, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.

When you came back out with the dress on, he damn near had a heart attack. The dress complimented you, as if it was accentuating what was already there. It made you glow.

"What do you think now that it's on?" You struck a pose, your hands on you hips dramatically. Daryl barely had the words, his eyes looking up at you like you hung the moon.

"Beautiful." He managed to get the word out, much to his relief. You were practically bouncing up and down with joy.

"Thank you so much for everything. I loved it so much, everything looks so pretty!" You raced over to him, your thoughts swirling.

And you pulled him into a soft kiss.

Daryl froze in his spot. You were kissing him.

Him. Your entire opposite.

When you felt him go still, you pulled away. "Shit, I'm sorr-" You didn't have time to finish your sentence before he pulled you back into the kiss.

Now he had adjusted and come to the realization that this was real.

He wouldn't let you go this time. "Don't be sorry." He mumbled against your lips, kissing you with his hand cupping your cheek gently.

Daryl deepend the kiss, his hands moving to your waist to hold onto you. His large hands were keeping you pressed against him as if you would vanish if he let go.

After a few minutes of making out with him, Daryl broke away for some air. You snickered at him and bit your lip. "Does this make me your girlfriend?" You looked hopeful, excited for the possibility of finally being his.

Rick was walking by during this, and he noticed the situation right away. You were seated in his lap, freshly separated from a makeout session. Daryl hadn't even noticed the man walk up.

"Waited long enough." He called out to you.

Then Rick saw it. The lipstick stains all over Daryl's lips and stubble. Rick laughed aloud.

"Daryl, you got a little something here." He gestured to his mouth, snickering to himself.

Daryl quickly moved to wipe away the stains, much to your dismay. "Hey! I worked hard on those." You pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving more stains there.

Rick left the two of you alone, going off to tell everyone else.

"He's gonna tell the whole town, you know that right?" Daryl asks you.

"Let him. He's right. It's been a long time comin'." You smiled.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you knocked on his door, almost pounding on it, letting all your rage out in that single action. you thought he was predictable enough. you didn’t really know him, but his mind had never seemed all that complex. he might have had the best grades in all your classes for almost three consecutive years, but outside of academics, his thought process felt pretty easy to follow. or so you believed.

you kept trying to get him to open the door. it was a saturday morning, so it was obvious he was sleeping in after a long night of doing god knows what. you had only spoken to him briefly once, but everyone seemed to know his routine a little too well. he was extremely predictable, right?

“could you explain to me why the fuck-“ you cut yourself off after a few words came out of your mouth, realizing you weren’t talking to the person you were supposed to kill that morning.

“who are you?” the pitch black haired girl standing in front of you asked in a condescending tone, with all the confidence you had spent hours trying to build vanishing in a few seconds.

“y-yeah, uhm. sorry. i was looking for… jake?”

“he is sleeping.” you could tell she wasn’t going to give you much more information by her lack of justification. could she at least offer to pass the message down to him? while you were pondering about how to even ask her to do so, you couldn’t help but notice her smudged mascara and the faint red marks that were blooming on her neck. didn’t he have a girlfriend? you had heard some people called him ‘the campus slut’, but you didn’t know the title was so literal. you had no interest on speculating on people’s sex lives at that moment, but you prayed someone had told his supposed girlfriend about how this guy was spending the nights.

“anything else?” you thought people would stop being mean for no reason once you got to college, but that wasn’t the case at all. you learned pretty quickly in your first year that all the cliches still existed no matter how old you got, and that’s how you stayed invisible. you were comfortable with being irrelevant, unknown to most people, since that’s how it had been for your whole life. you didn’t speak to anyone unless it was mandatory and completely inevitable, which left you with, to be honest, zero friends. you tried in your first year, you really did, at least during the first month. but you quickly realized people weren’t so friendly there, even less to such an awkward person. interacting socially didn’t come as easy to you as it did to others, but you had no idea how to change it. even if you had tried to for your whole twenty years of life.

all you knew was that you had a single goal. a quiet goal that made you stay up every night, drowning in voluptuous psychology books that you took out of the library’s darkest corners and writing infinite notes that were carefully highlighted in all sort of colours. a goal that always had an obstacle. an obstacle named jake sim, to be exact. and at that exact moment, he was hindering your progress more than ever. “look, uhm… could you tell him i’m his project partner for his social development class and that i need to talk to him? if he doesn’t remember me, tell him he gave me his email, in class. i-i shared a google doc so he also has my email address and he can-“

“who the fuck is at my door at this hour, kyra?” before you could finish your sentence, you heard a deep voice approaching. the infuriating voice you were actually looking for.

“great, you woke him up.” kyra spoke in a fake nice tone, a mean smile pulling at her lips. before you could even process the passive-aggressive comment, a dyed blonde head peeked out from behind the door. your heart jumped. you had spent so long preparing for this confrontation, but now that it was actually happening, you suddenly felt weak. “oh, you.” well, at least it seemed like he remembered who you were. you could skip the embarrassing part in which you reminded him of the only interaction you had ever had, in front of another stranger too. “so… what do you need?” jake questioned in a confused tone, clearly not interested in what you had to say.

“i wanna talk to you. in private.” you said as your gaze turned to the girl who answered the door, trying to subtly get your message across.

“this is fucking stupid, i’ll wait for you in bed.” she rolled her eyes as she entered the apartment again, clearly not happy about your presence. you knew you were being an inconvenience, but he deserved it. it wasn’t your fault she was there to suffer the consequences of his actions.

“so?” you took a deep breath before speaking, as seeing the natural look of confidence he had was already making you furious.

“i did my part the day the project was assigned. tell me why i opened the document yesterday night to see if you had started and, to my surprise, the whole thing is gone. deleted.”

“do you not know how to look at the document history or what?” “d-do you think i haven’t done that?! that is also gone, you know?” you raised your voice a little, trying to hide how anxious you were about the whole interaction.

“and you weren’t smart enough to make a copy of your text?” “why do we use google docs for? it’s supposed to be safe because of the damn history.”

“did you come here just to blame me for your irresponsibility?” you had never met such an infuriating person, you were sure. but before you could even respond, he questioned you again. “how did you even get my address?” you knew that question would come up sooner or later, so you already had your answer prepared.

“i asked your friend who works at the campus cafe. i always see you with him.” you did ask heeseung because you knew he would be dumb enough to just tell you without much reasoning. although you actually didn’t need his help, you couldn’t let jake know you were actually very aware of his surroundings. you were a little too familiar with what his friend group posted on instagram, too. this guy’s information was way too easy to find, you thought. some people might have thought you were obsessed, but to you, it was simply being strategic. analyzing the objective, comprehending how a person so careless could always win. no matter what you did. maybe you were a little obsessed, but you had your academic reasons.

“so my guy heeseung is just giving out my information for free to random people, huh? i’ll talk to him later then.” he thought out loud, while completely ignoring your accusations still.

“don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” “you know, the need to sabotage only exists when there is real competition.” ouch. it wasn’t only the content of his message, it was also the way he delivered it. the calm tone, the cocky smirk and the lack of need of explanation. “look, you must have had a problem with your connection. but since i can physically sense your anxiety from here, i’ll do your part again. happy?” you were enraged. what did he know about your anxiety? he probably didn’t even remember your name. him being so sure about your mental state made you feel furious, and him being correct about it worsened even more.

"i don't need your pity. i just need you to not mess with my work. i don't have time for these kind of things, okay?"

"i'll send you a message when it's fully done. see ya." before you could even think of an answer, the door was shutted right in front of your face without further explanation. you just needed to get through this project and you wouldn't have to share a single word with jake ever again in your life. 

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

three days later, you finally reopened the document after you had only been working on it for a couple hours that same day you confronted jake. you needed to finish your part once again not because you wanted to, but because ignoring it any longer would’ve felt like admitting defeat. you sat down in the library with the same heaviness you had been carrying since that night, fingers hovering above the trackpad for a moment too long before you clicked in. the file loaded and nothing felt different at first. your section was still there, the parts you had rewritten after the frustration of seeing it had been erased. it still felt slightly uneven to you, unfinished in the way only your own work could feel when you knew you hadn’t had enough time to properly shape it again. you scrolled down, expecting the rest of it to still be blank. empty space, his problem. but there was no empty space. the document was... done. not half done, not rushed, not patched together just to meet the deadline. fully done. the methodology section had been expanded beyond what you had originally outlined, your notes reorganized into something clearer, more structured. the analysis had been rewritten in places, not replaced, but refined in a way that still made your ideas recognisable underneath it. even the conclusion was there, clean, direct and complete. you stared at it for a long time, not scrolling, not moving, just reading the same paragraph twice because your brain refused to accept that it hadn’t been there before.

and then you saw the comments. dozens of them. not long messages, not explanations, just quiet interruptions in your work: “this needs more grounding” “unclear reasoning here” “this part is actually strong, keep it” “you’re overexplaining this concept”. there was no tone in them, no praise or sarcasm, no attempt at softness. there was just precision, like he had treated your writing the way you treated data. you leaned back slightly in your chair, exhaling through your nose while trying to make sense of the irritation forming in your chest. not because he had ruined your work, but because he hadn’t. he had expanded it into something much more structured as he had finished his own precisely. maybe his stupid first place at the rankings seemed a little more fair now. you stared at his name for a second longer than you should have, your jaw tightening slightly as you scrolled back through the pages again, slower this time, as if you might find the trick hidden somewhere in the formatting. there wasn’t one. it was just good, annoyingly good. one last comment appeared at the end of the document, letting you know that he was done editing. you followed his suggestions and made the changes you saw necessary, as you didn't agree with all of his opinions. jake was sharp with his work — direct, structured, almost brutally efficient. you, on the other hand, preferred slower reasoning, longer explanations, space to sit with an idea instead of compressing it into something clean and immediate. you almost had opposite ways of writing, but it had worked somehow.

once you read it all again, you opened a new email and attached the file, professor jones’ address going in first. you didn’t overthink it, as it was just the usual submission format for a small assignment. after a second, you also added jake’s email in cc so that he would be notified you had already turned it in. you clicked send, finally allowing yourself to forget about that dumb project and your even dumber partner. although, somehow, he still lingered in the back of your mind anyway.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the following days slipped back into routine in a way that almost felt normal again: lectures, library sessions, half-finished readings you told yourself you would return to later. the project stayed somewhere in the back of your mind, present but quiet. until professor jones called you in after class. his office looked the same as always — slightly cluttered, papers stacked in uneven piles, his laptop half-open like he was constantly in the middle of something he hadn’t finished yet.

“come in.” he said warmly as you stepped inside. “i was just reviewing your submission.” you sat down, hands folded loosely in your lap, trying to read his expression before he said anything else. “it’s good.” he said after a moment. “really good. there’s a lot of clarity in your thinking, especially in how you structure social behavior patterns. that’s not easy to teach.” you blinked slightly at the praise, caught off guard. “but more than that,” he added, softening his tone a little, “it shows potential. real research potential.” as you heard his words, your posture straightened without meaning to. “i've been thinking.” he continued, leaning back in his chair. “your work doesn't need to only be small coursework assignments. it can become something more meaningful if you’re willing to push it.”

“more meaningful?” you repeated carefully.

he nodded. “a structured research project over the semester. you’ll expand on what you already always do: methods, data collection, proper analysis. but you’ll actually test your ideas instead of just discussing them.” you stayed quiet, absorbing it all. “and at the end of the term, there’s a student research conference. it’s internal, but it brings in students from different departments who are interested in research work. you would present your findings there.”

that made your stomach tighten slightly. “a conference?”

“yes.” he said simply, like it was the most natural next step in the world. “it’s a good opportunity, especially for someone in your position.” you looked up at him at that. he smiled slightly, not in a performative way, more like he was choosing his words carefully. “you’re doing very well, but you’re also at a point where the work you produce should be seen. it matters for your scholarship, and for what comes after this degree.” that landed differently, since it wasn't pressure, but direction. “you’re capable of more than just maintaining grades.” he added gently. “i don’t want you to only stay at the top, i want you to build something that stays with you after university.” he paused then to continue a few seconds later, more practically. “and i think jake challenges you in a productive way. he forces structure where you tend to stay more exploratory. that balance is exactly what makes strong research.”

you felt it before you even processed it properly. that small tightening in your chest, like your body had reacted faster than your thoughts. you looked down at your hands for a moment, adjusting your grip on the edge of your sleeve without meaning to. the room suddenly felt quieter, not because anything had changed, but because your attention had narrowed too much. jake. you didn’t say anything immediately, just letting the silence sit there, as if waiting long enough might make the idea rearrange itself into something more tolerable. but it didn’t. working with him wasn’t just a line in a document anymore, it was becoming something structured. planned, extended, something you couldn’t quietly ignore your way out of. your throat tightened slightly. “so we’re still working together?” you asked, but it came out more carefully than you intended. less like a question, more like something you were testing the weight of out loud.

professor jones didn’t answer right away, studying you for a second instead. not in a clinical way, but in the quiet, patient way someone does when they already know the answer you don’t want to hear. “i was expecting you to ask that.” he said gently, and that alone made your stomach sink a little further. he leaned forward slightly, resting his hands together. “i wouldn’t keep you as partners if i didn’t think it was beneficial for you.”

your fingers pressed a little tighter into your sleeve. “beneficial in what way?” you asked, though you already had a suspicion you weren’t going to like the answer.

“in every way that matters for where you’re trying to go.” he said simply. “academically, yes, but also in terms of development. your work becomes sharper when you’re challenged. you know that.” a pause. “and jake responds well to direction, you respond well to space. that combination works.”

you exhaled quietly through your nose, but it wasn’t really a laugh. “it’s not that simple.” you said, mostly under your breath.

“i know.” he replied immediately, not dismissing it. “it rarely feels simple when it involves someone you’re not comfortable with.” that made you look up slightly as he continued, tone steady. “but i'm not asking you to like the arrangement. i'm asking you to trust the outcome of it.” silence again. your mind went through it anyway, whether you wanted it to or not. the library. the comments. the way he rewrote your work without destroying it. the way you had hated that you noticed it was good.

you swallowed. “i just… don’t want it to interfere with my other work.” you said, slower now, searching for a more acceptable objection.

“it won’t.” professor jones said calmly. “if anything, it will stabilize it. you’re already thinking about it too much on your own.” that made something in your chest pull uncomfortably tight, because he wasn’t wrong. you weren’t agreeing, but you weren’t refusing anymore either.

"okay.” you said finally, quieter than before. not fully convinced, not fully resistant either, just caught somewhere in between. professor jones nodded once, like that was all he needed.

“good.” he said softly. “i think you’ll see what i mean sooner than you expect.”

you left his office with the word conference sitting in your head, heavier than expected, but not entirely unwelcome. and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you had been assigned something. it felt like someone had seen further ahead than you had.

as you walked across campus, you realized you had left professor jones' office with your chest feeling strangely heavy. you should have been happy, actually happy. this was the type of opportunity people waited years for. actual research as a third year student, actual experimental work, a proper conference. something that would look incredible on scholarship evaluations and future applications, something that could genuinely help build a future. your future. and professor jones had looked so excited while talking about it too. so why did it feel like your stomach was sinking? probably because of him. because for some obvious reason, out of everyone in your year, it had to be jake. you tried convincing yourself it wasn't that serious while walking through campus. you could do it, you could be professional. people worked with classmates they disliked all the time, and it wasn't like you had to become friends. it wasn't like you even spoke to each other outside of a single assignment. still, your mind kept replaying professor jones' words: "he challenges you in a productive way." productive, right. because accusing him of sabotage and showing up at his apartment at nine in the morning on a saturday definitely sounded productive. you let out a quiet breath through your nose as your thoughts kept spiraling without a stop.

whatever. you would deal with it later. except apparently later meant right in that moment, because as soon as you entered the campus cafe, you saw him. jake was standing near the pickup counter with one hand in his hoodie pocket while staring down at his phone. completely relaxed, completely normal and unaffected. you almost turned around, you almost did. but then he looked up and saw you as his eyes narrowed slightly — not in annoyance, more like in realization. you looked away first, because absolutely not. you walked toward the counter while pretending you hadn't seen him, hoping maybe he would do the same.

he obviously didn't. "professor jones talked to you too?"

you stopped. of course he would skip hello. slowly, you turned around. "yeah." a small silence. he looked at you as you tried looking at him back, just to immediately turn your head away. why did he cause so much anger inside you just by standing there?

"so we're doing that." your voice sounded much weaker than you wanted it to.

jake stared at you for a moment. "looks like it."

you hated how calm he sounded. you actually hated how calm he always sounded. because meanwhile your brain was practically running into walls trying to process things. you crossed your arms without realizing. "if you don't want to, you can tell him."

his eyebrows furrowed slightly. "what?"

"the project." you shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "if you don't think it'll work." silence. you risked looking up, noticing how jake was staring at you now.

"why would i do that?"

you frowned. "because we don't exactly get along." "do we not?"

you just stared at him in disbelief. "are you serious right now?"

jake blinked once as his mouth twitched slightly. not enough to call it a smile, but enough to make you want to punch him. "you don't sound very excited." he said in a playful tone.

"that’s probably because i'm not." "then you tell professor jones that."

"why me?" "because you're the one who looks like you're about to throw up."

you stared at him in horror. "i do not." "you do."

"i don't." "okay."

you hated how quickly he gave up. you hated it because somehow it felt worse, now sounding like he simply didn't care enough to argue. another few seconds passed. awkward, horribly awkward. "look," you finally sighed, crossing your arms, "i want to do this project."

jake looked at you. "obviously."

"i'm serious." "i know."

"i just don't think we'll work well together." there, you finally said it.

jake looked at you for a few moments and then shrugged. "probably not. but professor jones wants us to do it." he continued casually, "and i want him to keep liking me, because it means recommendations. opportunities." he looked at you like it was obvious. "and because he also looked way too happy explaining it." your irritation paused for a second, because that actually sounded reasonable — like you almost shared a motive. jake looked down at his drink before looking back at you. "so let's just not kill each other for a few months."

you stared at him and then frowned. "a few months?"

"yeah." he tilted his head slightly. "did you think research happened in two weeks?"

of course you knew research took months, you weren't stupid. you just hadn't thought that far as you had been too busy processing the jake part of it. "right." another silence. you suddenly became very aware of how awkward it was to just stand there looking at him. people kept walking around you both, entering and leaving the cafe while the conversation felt weirdly stuck.

then jake took a sip from his drink. "professor wants us to meet with him on friday."

your eyes snapped back to him. "what?"

"he told me before i left." he shrugged. "to discuss ideas."

"already?" "that's generally how projects work."

you lowered your head with a quiet sigh as a few seconds passed before jake spoke again. "don't make me do the whole thing alone."

"excuse me?"

he looked back at you with complete indifference. "you accused me of deleting your work like four days ago. i feel like i'm allowed to be cautious."

you stared at him in disbelief. actual disbelief. "right." that was it, right. because apparently getting the last word wasn't enough for him either.

"i'll see you friday then." you said flatly, crossing your arms a little tighter around yourself.

jake simply nodded before taking another sip of his drink. "see you." and then he walked away. you stared at his back for a few seconds longer than necessary before turning around toward the counter. you didn't know what annoyed you more — the fact that you were stuck with him for months or the fact that he somehow looked completely okay with it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you had expected professor jones' office to somehow feel different after what he had told you a few days ago. bigger, maybe. more serious. like the room itself would suddenly reflect the fact that this wasn't another regular class assignment anymore. it didn't, though. it looked exactly the same as always. the same crowded bookshelves covered nearly every wall, filled with books you doubted anyone had touched in years and stacks of papers that looked disorganized to anyone except probably him. the same small plant sat near the window, somehow surviving despite looking half dead every semester. the same coffee mug sat on the corner of his desk. everything felt normal, which was ridiculous, because you definitely didn't. you sat in the chair in front of his desk trying not to bounce your leg under it, your fingers loosely playing with the sleeve of your shirt while your thoughts continued moving much faster than they should have. actual research. a conference. recommendations. scholarships. your future. the words had been replaying in your head since he had first mentioned them, and somehow every time you thought about them they felt heavier.

meanwhile, beside you sat jake, who of course seemed to be relaxed. you hadn't expected anything else. he was leaning back slightly in his chair, one hand resting against his jaw while absentmindedly scrolling through something on his phone. he looked like someone waiting for a friend to finish buying coffee, not someone sitting in a meeting that could potentially affect the next few years of his academic life. you hated that. you hated it because you maybe knew it probably wasn't even confidence. confidence implied effort, confidence implied he had considered the possibility of failure and then decided not to care. jake simply looked like failing had never crossed his mind.

professor jones looked between both of you before smiling. "before i start overwhelming you with articles and deadlines, i want to hear what interests you."

the room went quiet. the problem wasn't that you didn't have ideas, the problem was that you suddenly had too many of them and none of them sounded intelligent enough to say out loud. you had spent the last few days imagining this whole thing becoming something important, and now your brain had apparently decided that speaking was impossible. professor jones continued waiting patiently while beside you, jake said nothing, which annoyed you too. because if he was supposedly so structured and organized and perfect, then why was you go first suddenly the strategy?

"...people?" you finally said. the word left your mouth and you immediately regretted existing as you physically felt yourself cringe. people. great, amazing contribution. you cleared your throat. "i mean..." you quickly continued, trying to recover from the disaster you had just created. "relationships, maybe? social development. interpersonal stuff." professor jones nodded thoughtfully, which made you feel relief for approximately one second.

"too broad." your head turned slowly. of course it had come from him. jake wasn't even looking at you, he was staring somewhere near the bookshelves behind professor jones with the most neutral expression imaginable, as if he had simply commented that it looked cloudy outside.

you stared at him. seriously? "okay," you said slowly, "sorry for not arriving with a fully developed research proposal."

that finally made him look over, his eyebrows pulled together slightly. "i wasn't criticizing you." and somehow that annoyed you even more, because criticism you could work with. criticism meant opposition. but this expression on his face, this genuine confusion, like he actually didn't understand why you sounded irritated, somehow felt worse. because then either he was pretending to be oblivious or he genuinely had no idea how he came across. and honestly, you weren't sure which possibility bothered you more.

professor jones looked suspiciously close to smiling, making your eyes slightly narrow. he was absolutely enjoying this. he finally cleared his throat, although the small smile at the corner of his mouth never really disappeared. "okay," he said, leaning back in his chair. "let's narrow it down a little."

you looked away from jake and back toward the desk, crossing one leg over the other while trying to ignore the lingering irritation sitting somewhere in your chest. it was stupid, honestly. you didn't even fully know why his comment had bothered you so much. actually, no. you did know. because he always sounded like that. never rude enough for anyone to call him rude, never arrogant enough for anyone to call him arrogant. he simply said things in this annoyingly neutral tone, like he was reading facts off a presentation slide. there was never enough emotion in his voice to prove he meant anything by it. which meant getting irritated always made you look dramatic. which maybe you were a little, but it was fine as long as you kept it inside your own head.

you stared down at your sleeve for a few seconds while absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread. social development, relationships, interpersonal stuff. none of it felt specific enough anymore. you had thrown the ideas out without really thinking, mostly because silence had somehow become unbearable. but now that the room had gone quiet again, you could feel your brain doing that thing it always did where it started running in ten directions at once. because relationships could mean friendships, family, social behavior, emotional regulation, childhood experiences, attachment. "what about attachment?" the words had simply left out of your mouth. for a second, the room stayed quiet, which made you slowly look up. great, now both of them were looking at you. you shrugged slightly, suddenly becoming very interested in a tiny scratch on professor jones' desk. "i don't know," you said quickly. "we talk about it a lot in class." you paused, then immediately felt the need to explain yourself more. because apparently your brain believed every thought required a full defense. "like... childhood relationships affecting later relationships and stuff." you frowned slightly. "people act weird because of it."

"people act weird?" you turned your head so fast you almost regretted it, as jake was looking at you now. and there it was again, that tiny thing near his mouth. not a smile, you were beginning to realize that jake apparently never smiled normally in front of you.

you narrowed your eyes. "you know what i mean."

he tilted his head slightly. "i actually don't."

you stared at him, because you knew he knew what you meant. there was no way someone who had the highest grades in almost every class suddenly forgot how basic human behavior worked. you crossed your arms. "yes, you do."

"i really don't." for a few seconds, you just looked at each other. and then, very suddenly, you realized something awful. professor jones wasn't interrupting. he was just sitting there, watching. watching like this was some kind of television show. you slowly turned your head toward him and finally, he looked back at the notes in front of him. "i think what she's trying to say," he said gently, "is that attachment patterns influence the way people perceive and interact with others."

you immediately pointed toward him. "yes." then toward jake. "that."

jake looked back at professor jones and nodded once. "that makes more sense."

you dropped your hand back into your lap, because somehow being understood by professor jones and not by jake felt weirdly personal. which was ridiculous, because it definitely wasn't personal. the guy barely knew who you were. still, something about it sat annoyingly in your chest.

professor jones glanced down at his notes again, pen hovering slightly above the page as if he was already organizing your scattered ideas into something more coherent. "attachment could be a good starting point." he said calmly. "but you’ll need to decide what exactly you want to examine within it."

you exhaled softly through your nose, leaning back a little in your chair. that was the problem. everything felt like it connected to everything else, which made narrowing it down feel almost arbitrary. your gaze drifted across the room while you tried to force your brain into something more structured. "emotions?" you said eventually, though it came out more like a question than an idea you fully owned. "like… emotional responses. how people react to others."

it wasn’t great, but it was something. jake shifted slightly beside you. he hadn’t looked at you when he spoke, which for some reason made it easier to listen without immediately wanting to argue. "empathy would fit better than emotions in general." he said after a moment, still looking down at the desk. his tone was even, like he was just adjusting a term rather than rejecting your idea. "emotions is too broad. empathy might be more specific to interpersonal response."

you glanced at him briefly. professor jones nodded slowly, as if that was exactly the direction he had been hoping the conversation would move toward. "that’s true." he agreed. you looked back down at your sleeve, tugging lightly at the fabric again. it wasn’t even that jake was saying anything particularly offensive. he wasn’t dismissive, he wasn’t rude, he wasn’t even trying to take over the conversation. that was probably the worst part, because he just… contributed. you exhaled quietly. "okay," you said, mostly to keep things moving. "attachment and empathy then."

professor jones’ pen paused for a second. "that could work very well." he said, more thoughtfully now. he leaned forward slightly, interest clearly sharpening. "attachment styles influence how people interpret social information, and empathy is one of the clearest ways that gets expressed." professor jones let the words settle for a moment, as if he was already rearranging them into something more formal in his head. the pen between his fingers stopped moving, and for the first time in the conversation, he looked fully focused rather than just mildly entertained. "attachment and empathy." he repeated quietly, testing it. you nodded once, a little slower this time. it still felt strange how quickly the idea had become something real, something that could actually exist beyond this room. a few minutes ago you had been throwing out vague concepts just to fill silence, and now there was a tiny direction forming out of it. you weren’t sure if that was exciting or stressful. probably both. professor jones leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. "there’s actually a lot of room there." he continued. "you could look at different attachment styles and how they relate to empathic responses, or even how that changes depending on individual differences."

you stayed quiet, absorbing it more than responding. the structure of it was starting to take shape in a way that made it feel less like an abstract idea and more like something you would actually have to do. collect, measure, analyze. real work. beside you, jake gave a small nod, like he was following the same thread without needing it explained further. it wasn’t showy, just… immediate. like the conclusion had already formed in his head and he was simply confirming it matched the room. you noticed it before you could stop yourself, then immediately forced your attention back to the professor. "so," professor jones said as he sat back again, tone lightening slightly. "if you both agree, this could be the start of your project." the sentence landed more simply than you expected. no ceremony, no dramatic framing, just that. your first instinct was to look at jake again, but you stopped yourself halfway through it. instead, you focused on the edge of the desk, letting the idea settle properly before reacting to it. your project. together. you exhaled slowly through your nose. it wasn’t that you disagreed with the topic, because you didn’t. actually, it was probably one of the better ideas you could’ve landed on in the time you’d been given. it just… came with a complication you hadn’t fully processed yet.

you glanced sideways anyway, just briefly. jake was already standing up slightly straighter, like the decision had simply moved the conversation forward in his head rather than changing anything significant. professor jones smiled, clearly satisfied with the direction everything had taken. "i’ll formalize the assignment and send you the guidelines." he added. "but for now, attachment and empathy. that’s your starting point. so now, go search all the papers and articles you can find about this topic and try to explore what new things you could bring to the table. i trust they will be a lot."

you gave a small nod, slower than before, as the reality of it finally settled properly. and for the first time since walking into the office, the thought that stuck wasn’t the topic itself. it was the fact that this was no longer just an idea you could step away from when the conversation ended.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

working with jake became an uncomfortable addition to your routine much faster than you wanted it to. not because he demanded constant meetings or sent endless messages about the project. honestly, if it had been up to him, you were starting to think he would've been perfectly fine speaking only through shared documents for the next few months. the problem was professor jones. because professor jones apparently loved words like collaboration and research process and active discussion, which translated into him repeatedly reminding both of you that good research wasn't built by two people independently doing half the work and stapling it together at the end. so now you had meetings. actual meetings. which was why you currently found yourself sitting across from jake in one of the library halls of the the study rooms on a thursday afternoon, surrounded by articles you had printed the night before.

jake had only brought his laptop, of course he had. you had shown up with highlighted articles, sticky notes sticking out of pages at uneven angles, and a notebook full of things you had written at two in the morning that had seemed organized at the time. he glanced down at the stack in front of you, then back at you. “you printed all of those?"

you looked down. "yes?"

he was silent for a few seconds, seemingly lost in thought. "why?"

you stared at him, the answer being too obvious to you. "to read them?"

"right." he nodded once, expression completely flat. "forgot people still did that."

you narrowed your eyes a little. "some people just remember information better when they see it physically."

"mhm." his face didn't change. you couldn't tell if that was agreement or if he had simply made a noise.

you pulled one of the articles toward yourself instead. "okay, so," you said as you flipped through a few pages. "we already know attachment and empathy have been studied a lot."

jake leaned back slightly in his chair. "yeah."

"secure attachment usually correlates positively with empathy." "mhm." "avoidant usually negatively." another nod. you glanced up, wondering if he was going to say anything beyond one syllable words at some point. you looked back down at your papers before you could accidentally look irritated. "the issue seems to be preoccupied attachment." you tapped the article lightly. "results aren't consistent."

jake finally shifted a little. "because it's contradictory." you looked up. he was looking at his laptop screen, eyes moving as he scrolled. "people with preoccupied attachment are hyper-aware of relationships, so you could argue they'd be more empathic." he paused. "but they're also more emotionally reactive." you frowned slightly. "so self-focused distress gets in the way."

"yeah." you blinked, because that was actually exactly what you had highlighted.

you looked down at your article again, then immediately said, "but that's already been suggested."

his eyes moved toward you. "i know."

"so we can't just say that." "i also know."

silence. you hated that somehow you felt awkward when he was the one sitting there acting like human conversation was an optional side quest. jake clicked something on his laptop. "the inconsistency has to be coming from somewhere."

you looked at him again. "well, that's obvious."

"not really." you frowned as he turned his screen slightly toward himself. "people keep treating preoccupied attachment like everyone with it responds the same way." he shrugged a little. "and they don't."

you crossed your arms. "that's too broad."

"why?" "because individual differences can explain literally anything." "doesn't make it wrong."

you opened your mouth to just immediately close it. you had your doubts on where to take this. "okay, but if we say individual differences, that's not specific enough for a study."

he looked at you for a few seconds, then nodded once. "fair." jake glanced back at his screen. "gender?"

you looked up. "how?" you said in a genuine way, being curious about his thought process.

"women generally score higher in empathy." he said it casually, like he was reading weather data. "if previous studies ignored gender, maybe that's part of the inconsistency."

you stared at him for a second, then slowly looked down at the article in front of you. "if we include gender," you said slowly, mostly thinking out loud now, "then we'd be arguing that the reason findings are inconsistent isn't necessarily because preoccupied attachment itself is inconsistent." jake looked up. you kept going, eyes still on your notes. "it could be because previous studies grouped everyone together." you flipped the page absentmindedly. "so if women with preoccupied attachment generally score higher in empathy than men with the same attachment style-"

"you get different results depending on who ends up in the sample."

you stopped and looked up. jake was leaning back in his chair, one arm resting against the table, eyes on his laptop screen even though he'd just finished your sentence like he'd known where you were going before you did. you stared at him for a second. "right."

he nodded once and that was it. no exactly. no yeah, that's what i meant. nothing, just that tiny nod like the conclusion had been obvious. and maybe that was what annoyed you. because if you had connected those dots, you would've at least looked a little pleased with yourself. not in an obnoxious way, just in a normal human way. there would've been some visible sign of satisfaction, but jake looked like he had remembered something so casual it wasn't worth a reaction. you looked back down at the article, except now you weren't reading anymore. you were staring at the highlighted lines while a much more irritating thought sat in your head. had he already thought about this? because if he had, then why was he sitting there acting like he'd just casually thrown out a possibility? you kind of hated people who did that. people who already had an answer but acted like they were arriving there naturally with everyone else. "wait." you couldn’t help but ask. "did you already think this?"

jake's eyes lifted from his screen. "think what."

you stared at him. "this." you gestured vaguely between the papers and his laptop. "the gender thing."

his expression barely shifted as he looked back at the screen. "a little."

a little. of course. because apparently every answer with him had to feel like you were trying to pull information out of someone being questioned by the police. "define a little."

he glanced at you, then back at the screen. "i mean, professor jones already said we needed a gap in the literature." click, scroll. "there's inconsistent findings around preoccupied attachment." click. "gender isn't really addressed." click, another shrug. "it wasn't that hard."

you stared at him. it wasn't that hard. something in your eye twitched, not physically, more like emotionally. because there was absolutely no chance he meant it in a condescending way, and that was the problem. if he'd smirked, if he'd looked smug, if he'd sounded even remotely pleased with himself, then you could've comfortably decided he was irritating and moved on. but he didn't. he said it with complete indifference, like he genuinely didn't think he had said anything worth noticing. you couldn't even be mad at him for being cocky — he wasn't being cocky. he was just casually smart in a way that made you feel stupid for needing more time, which was significantly more annoying. you crossed your arms. "okay, well, i think it's a little more complicated than that."

jake finally looked up properly. "how?"

you sat up slightly. "because if we immediately assume gender explains the inconsistency, then we're forcing the data to fit an explanation before we've even looked at it." his eyebrows moved a fraction, the tiniest amount. you felt strangely victorious. "there are other possibilities," you continued. "differences in measures, sampling issues, social desirability bias-"

"those aren't mutually exclusive. we’re looking at gender because we want to focus on a possible variable that is shown to have a differential impact on empathy in previous literature." he continued as you looked at him. "gender can matter and those things can matter too." he said it so simply, so annoyingly simply. like you'd somehow overcomplicated something that, in his mind, had never needed complicating.

you frowned. "i know they're not mutually exclusive." "okay."

you stared at him, because there was something uniquely irritating about the way he did that. the way he said okay like he had accepted what you said while simultaneously sounding like he thought you had taken the scenic route to arrive somewhere obvious. and maybe you were imagining it, you could be imagining it. you had personally known this guy for what, a few weeks? maybe less? if you didn’t count all your social media stalking and the horrible image you had already made up in your head about him, of course. there was a very real possibility that you were projecting an entire personality onto him because his face gave away approximately nothing and your brain apparently hated unanswered questions. except maybe, just maybe, you weren't completely imagining it. because there had been that tiny eyebrow raise earlier, that microscopic thing. that i'm waiting to see where you're going with this expression. and now there was this, this stupidly calm okay. you narrowed your eyes a little. "you know that's annoying, right?"

jake looked up from his laptop. "what is?"

"that." you pointed vaguely at him, which wasn't helpful at all, but you honestly didn't have a better explanation.

he looked down at himself for a second, then back at you. "me sitting?"

you stared at him as he stared back, and for a whole second you genuinely couldn't tell if he was serious. you let out a small breath through your nose. "you seem to do this thing where you act like you don't care about the conversation and then suddenly say something that completely changes the direction of it."

he blinked once. "i'm literally just discussing the project."

"that's not what i mean." "then what do you mean?"

you opened your mouth just to immediately close it. because annoyingly, you didn't know exactly what you meant. you just knew there was something frustrating about the whole thing. about sitting there with someone who looked detached enough to be mentally planning dinner while somehow keeping up with every point you made and responding with irritatingly concise answers that kept making sense. because if he had been openly pedant, if he'd corrected you every five minutes, you swore it would've been easier. but jake just sat there looking half-asleep while dropping comments that made you rethink your own arguments, and somehow that felt unfair. you looked down at your papers again. "nothing." you muttered.

silence. you started reorganizing the articles in front of you, even though they had already been organized, because your hands suddenly needed something to do. paper slid against paper. outside, footsteps passed down the hallway. someone laughed somewhere in the distance. the library air conditioning hummed softly overhead. and then — "you do it too." your hands stopped. slowly, you looked up, but jake wasn't looking at you. his eyes were still on his screen.

"do what?" "act like you don't care."

you let out a tiny laugh of disbelief. "what?"

he shrugged. "you keep pretending you're just thinking out loud."

your eyebrows pulled together. "i am thinking out loud."

"not really." his eyes lifted then. "you say something," he said evenly, "then you look at me for like three seconds waiting to see if i agree."

you stared at him. and for one horrible second, your brain replayed the last twenty minutes. you saying something, looking up, waiting. saying something else, looking up, waiting. oh my god. heat crept into your face, hopefully not enough to be noticeable. you looked down at your papers again. "i do not."

"mmh." there it was again. you looked down at your papers once more as you tried to sound normal, which unfortunately for you often meant sounding more defensive than intended. you closed your eyes for a fraction of a second and opened them again, because there it was, that same infuriating calm. the same complete lack of effort in sounding like he was trying to win the argument, which somehow made him more annoying than if he had actually been trying. "and for the record," he spoke again as you spiraled inside your mind, making you look cautiously. "you were right before."

you blinked. "about what?"

"social desirability bias." he clicked something on his laptop. "if we're discussing explanations for inconsistent findings, we should include it in the literature section." a pause. "it's relevant."

you looked down at your notes again before he could catch you staring for too long, suddenly becoming very aware of yourself in the way you sometimes did around people. where all at once your hands felt oddly placed and your face felt too visible and you became convinced that if you spoke then, you would sound strange somehow. which was stupid, because you were just discussing research methods. you had spent years doing presentations and group projects and class discussions. you knew how to talk, technically, although you never became fully comfortable to do it in a natural way. you were just forced to do it to keep up, to maintain your grades, your scholarship and, subsequently, your ranking. your ranking, which was casually right behind jake’s. the top two students who had never interacted before up until now, up until they were basically forced to. you wondered if he had ever noticed you were second, or if he had heard your name before. you wondered if he even cared about the rankings or just couldn’t help but get first every single time without trying. you always wondered about his position there, about how he seemed to be untouchable.

there was also a difference between knowing how to talk and actually talking. and for reasons you did not fully understand, talking to jake felt like walking into an exam you had forgotten to study for. the silence had now reached that stage where you had become aware of it, and once you became aware of silence, it became impossible not to think about it. and then you started wondering if the other person was aware of it too, and then you started acting weird because you were thinking about acting weird. "so..." you said.

jake looked up and your brain immediately emptied. absolutely nothing. why had you spoken before knowing what you were going to say? you had an idea in your head literally two seconds ago. where had it gone? jake waited. one second, two seconds. "...so?" he said.

you blinked. "right." you looked down at your papers quickly, pretending to search for something. "i was gonna say something."

"i figured." you grabbed a random article and looked at it despite not reading a single word. "take your time."

you looked up and jake was already looking back at his laptop. his expression hadn't changed at all, completely neutral. which somehow made it impossible to tell if he was making fun of you or not. you narrowed your eyes slightly. "was that sarcastic?"

he looked up slowly. "no." a pause. "should it have been?"

"you're doing that on purpose." you muttered.

"doing what again?” you looked up despite yourself. he was still looking at his screen, still typing. still acting like this whole conversation was happening in the background of something more important. that should have made you feel less nervous, but somehow it didn't, because the fact that he could say something that pointedly and then go right back to his work without changing expression made it feel worse, not better.

"saying that." you said, a little more quietly this time, because saying it out loud had made it feel more ridiculous than it already was. jake finally looked up then, just briefly, as if he was checking whether you were serious or just reacting out of habit.

his face didn't change. "you're the one who keeps looking for a reaction." you opened your mouth, then shut it again, because you had a perfectly good response in your head and it had somehow become impossible to access the second he actually looked at you. which was deeply unfair, because you had spent the entire meeting trying very hard not to look at him too much, and now he was acting like he had some kind of quiet evidence against you.

you crossed your arms and leaned back slightly in your chair, trying to look less thrown off than you felt. "maybe because you keep talking like you're not even in the room."

jake looked back down at his laptop. "i am in the room."

"you know what i mean." "not really."

you stared at him again, and this time you were fairly sure you were doing it because you were annoyed, not because you were waiting for approval, even if the distinction felt a little blurry right then and you did not appreciate that one bit. the thing was, he wasn't exactly wrong, and that was the irritating part. you were trying to see if he agreed, because the whole point of sitting there together was to figure out what actually fit and what didn't, and if he made a face or paused or looked like you were completely off base, you could usually tell before you said something worse. except he never really looked like that, he just listened. and then, when he bothered to answer, he said things like they had always been obvious. which made you feel like you were the one making a big deal out of everything. you hated that feeling. you also hated that you were starting to understand the shape of his attention a little better, because it wasn't warm, and it wasn't especially generous with you, but it was there in a way that made him harder to ignore than if he had been openly hostile.

jake glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the screen. "we're done for today."

you looked up automatically. "already?"

he nodded once. "we've got enough for a first outline. this is actually the first meeting where we got somewhere useful, to be honest.”

you stared at the page in front of you, at the notes you had actually managed to organize without fully realizing the time had gone by. "fine." you said, a little too fast, because you suddenly needed the meeting to end before you could think too much about how much of it you had spent watching him instead of the article in front of you.

jake already started closing his laptop, no wasted movement, no hesitation. you gathered your own papers more slowly, still trying not to think about the fact that you had just spent an entire afternoon disagreeing with him, only to realize that the disagreement itself had finally got you "somewhere useful". "send me the list of studies you want for the literature section." he said, slipping his laptop into his bag.

you looked up. "i was going to do that."

he glanced at you once, expression still unreadable. "i know."

so you didn't respond at all. you just nodded and looked back down at your notes, pretending to be very busy with the papers in your hands, because if you looked at him too long you were pretty sure you would either say something stupid or stand there doing nothing like an idiot, and neither option felt acceptable. when you finally looked up again, he had already slung his bag over one shoulder and was heading toward the door. he paused only once, hand on the door handle, and looked back at you for a brief second. "friday."

you nodded before you could overthink it. "friday." then he was gone. you sat there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the empty chair across from you, trying very hard to convince yourself that the only reason your chest felt oddly tight was because the room had been stuffy and you had spent too long inside it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

friday happened. and then the next tuesday happened. and then another thursday. and somewhere between opening shared documents and arguing over article inclusion criteria and listening to professor jones remind both of you for the fourth time that research is collaborative by nature, something deeply irritating started happening. you and jake developed a rhythm. not a friendly rhythm, but a rhythm built entirely on disagreeing with each other. because apparently neither of you could say yes, that works without first trying to dismantle the other person's point from at least three different angles.

which was why, on a tuesday afternoon two weeks later, you were sitting across from him again, staring at your laptop screen with growing irritation. "i still don't think we should only use overall empathy scores."

jake didn't even look up immediately. he kept typing for another few seconds before saying, "why." not why? like a question. just why, flat. like he had dropped the word onto the table and was waiting for you to do something with it.

you frowned immediately. "because empathy isn't one thing." he finally glanced up as you shifted in your chair slightly. "i mean..." you gestured vaguely toward your screen. "the test separates cognitive and affective empathy for a reason. perspective-taking isn't exactly the same thing as emotional response."

jake leaned back a little. "okay."

you narrowed your eyes, already suspicious. "okay what." "okay, keep going."

"why do i feel like you're about to disagree with me?" "because i'm about to disagree with you."

you stared at him. of course he couldn't just let you have three seconds of peace. "why?"

"because if our main question is whether gender moderates the relationship between preoccupied attachment and empathy, adding separate dimensions complicates the interpretation." he rotated his laptop a little toward himself. "if one dimension changes and another doesn't, then suddenly we're discussing three different questions instead of one."

you crossed your arms. "that's literally how research works." "not always."

"yes, always." silence. you stared at him and he stared back. and there was something genuinely horrible about arguing with jake because he never looked irritated. you, meanwhile, could physically feel your face making expressions. your eyebrows pulling together, your eyes narrowing, your mouth doing that thing where it pressed into a line. meanwhile jake looked exactly the same as always, which you hated. you hated it because you couldn't tell if he wasn't affected or if he was just better at hiding it. and somehow the second possibility irritated you even more. "you're oversimplifying it."

he tilted his head slightly. "how."

"because if we separate dimensions and one changes while another doesn't, that's still useful. that tells us something." "about what."

you blinked. "what do you mean about what?"

"i mean exactly what i said." his eyes moved back to the screen briefly. "what does it tell us."

you stared at him. because you had an answer, you absolutely had an answer. you did. you — you had one like two seconds ago. why did your brain keep doing this? why did it keep functioning perfectly until someone actually looked at you? you hated this so much. your eyes dropped to your notes immediately, pretending to search for something. you could feel him waiting, not impatiently, which almost made it worse. because impatient people interrupted, impatient people looked on edge. but jake just sat there, waiting, completely comfortable with silence. and silence had always felt like some kind of social punishment to you, as it happened way too often because you never could actually find the proper words. your brain started doing that thing where it became aware of itself. okay say something. why aren't you saying something. he's waiting. oh my god you've been quiet too long. say literally anything. "because..." you started. great, excellent opening. very strong. "...if affective empathy changes more than cognitive empathy then maybe-" you stopped and jake's eyes lifted. you looked away immediately. "maybe... preoccupied attachment influences emotional responsiveness differently than perspective-taking." silence. you looked down at your laptop, then up. then immediately wished you hadn't, because jake was still looking at you. and for some reason you suddenly became weirdly aware that he was actually listening. he wasn't typing, wasn't scrolling.

then he nodded once. "that's actually good."

you stared. you had spent the last fifteen minutes preparing for disagreement. you had mentally arranged counterarguments that you probably wouldn't be able to fully explain out loud. you had been half ready. and now suddenly — that's actually good? just like that? you narrowed your eyes slightly. "you're agreeing with me?"

jake looked confused. "a little."

you stared harder. "a little?"

he looked at you for a second. then one corner of his mouth moved, barely. honestly it could've been your imagination. "don't look so surprised."

you blinked, because the thing was that you were surprised. somewhere over the last few meetings, without realizing it, you had apparently started expecting disagreement. expecting him to immediately pick apart whatever you said. expecting another why, another not really, anotherokay. and now your brain had already built the response before it even happened, which was ridiculous. completely ridiculous. because you weren't paying attention to him like that, obviously not. except — except lately you had started noticing things accidentally, things you weren't trying to notice. like how he tapped his fingers twice against the table whenever he was reading something carefully. or how he leaned back when he disagreed with something and leaned forward when he actually found it interesting. or how he somehow greeted every single person outside the library. because you knew jake was social, but you didn't fully know he talked to everyone. every single time you walked a few meters out of the library with him after meetings, somebody knew him. "jake!" "hey, man." "are you coming friday?" and every time he would answer easily, naturally, like conversations required absolutely no effort at all. which had honestly felt vaguely offensive to witness, because around you he acted like human interaction had been assigned as coursework. you had seen it now enough times that it wasn’t accidental anymore. he would leave these meetings with you, walk out into the corridor, and immediately become… lighter. someone would call his name and he would look up instantly, respond without delay, like he had been expecting interruption rather than treating it as one. a girl from your seminar group once stopped him mid-walk to ask about an assignment and he had answered while still moving, already halfway into another conversation with someone else behind her, like his attention didn’t have to be gathered first before being distributed. and every time it happened, you found yourself with the same thought you didn’t particularly like having, which was that you didn’t know where that version of him went when he sat across from you. like everyone else got the full version by default and you were just interacting with the edited one. which was ridiculous to think about, objectively.

you looked down at your screen again. you kept your gaze on there a moment too long, not because there was anything left to read, but because looking back up felt like admitting you had been thinking about him at all. which you absolutely had not been doing in any meaningful or concerning way. but you did feel like a creep sometimes, somehow. you had always been aware of jake because he was quite the definition of perfection, almost turning him into a figure you looked up to. you had known he was great at communicating when the situation could obviously bring him something valuable, and he was precise and unreachable in all sort of ways. you already also knew he had no idea of who you were before this, you knew it all. but now, your observations were becoming much more elaborated, detailed and what you felt was more accurate. you couldn’t stop observing because he was everything you wanted to be and somehow found perfect balance within it.

outside the glass wall of the study room, someone laughed too loudly in the corridor and the sound slipped through the silence like it belonged there more than you did. you suddenly became aware of how still the room was when neither of you were speaking, how jarring it was compared to the constant low-level motion of everything else on campus, and how jake didn’t seem to experience that shift at all. he went back to typing — no reaction, no follow-up, no “expand on that” or “explain it better” or even a minimal acknowledgement beyond what he had already given you. which was, annoyingly, enough. you shifted slightly in your chair and tried to refocus on the article in front of you, but your eyes kept snagging on lines without processing them properly, which was frustrating in a very specific way. you knew you understood the material, you knew you were capable of following this conversation, and yet somehow your attention kept slipping sideways like it had decided there were more important variables in the room than the paper. you exhaled softly through your nose and dragged your cursor down the page again, forcing yourself back into the text with more intention this time, as if you could physically outpace your own attention if you tried hard enough.

“okay.” jake said suddenly without looking up. you straightened a fraction too quickly, because your brain still hadn’t fully adjusted to the fact that he didn’t announce transitions the way other people did. he paused his scrolling. “we should probably decide if we’re treating empathy as a moderator or a mediating variable before the next outline, otherwise we’re going to keep looping on the same interpretation problem.” he spoke like he had already done the internal version of the argument and was now reporting the result.

you stared at him for a second longer than necessary, then looked back down at your screen as if the answer to your own competence was printed somewhere in the margins. “i think it depends on what we’re prioritising.” you said, and you hated how careful your voice sounded when you said it, like you were checking every word before letting it exist outside your head. jake finally looked up properly this time, not immediately responding, just watching you in that brief, neutral way of his that didn’t give anything away and somehow made you more aware of your own phrasing.

“go on.” he said.

you leaned forward slightly, because if you were going to say this, you were going to say it properly. "if we treat empathy as a moderator,” you continued, slower now but more controlled, “then we’re basically saying it changes the strength or direction of the attachment relationship depending on its level, which makes sense if our goal is to explain variability in findings across samples. but if we treat it as a mediator, then we’re implying attachment influences empathy, which then influences whatever outcome we’re implicitly assuming is downstream, and that shifts the entire theoretical framing of preoccupied attachment in a way i don’t think we’ve actually justified yet.”

silence again. jake didn’t respond immediately. “moderator makes more sense for the scope.” he said finally, like it had been reduced down to something that simple. “we don’t have longitudinal data anyway, so mediation would be speculative at best". that was it. not wrong, not corrected. not reframed in a way that made you feel like you had missed something obvious. just… aligned. that again felt more disorienting than when he disagreed with you.

you nodded anyway, because you didn’t know what else your face was supposed to do in response to agreement that didn’t come with any emotional signal attached to it. “right.” you said, a beat late. “yes. that makes sense.”

jake had already turned back to his laptop. “cool.” he said as he resumed typing like the conversation had simply been another step in a process he was moving through, not something that had required negotiation at all. you sat there for a moment longer than you should have, staring at the same line in your document, realizing with a slow, uncomfortable clarity that you were starting to adjust your thinking in real time just to keep up with the pace at which he seemed to arrive at conclusions.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the thing about working with jake was that it never actually felt like it started. there was no clear beginning, no moment where you agreed to become whatever you were now. it just… kept happening. friday turned into tuesday turned into another thursday, and suddenly your shared document had folders inside folders, and your notes had actual structure, and professor jones had stopped reminding you what “collaboration” meant because he assumed you had figured it out. you hadn’t, you were just surviving it better. sampling hadn’t even been finalized yet, which was the worst part of it. every time you thought you were close, jake would ask one question that made you realize you were still missing something fundamental. “why are we excluding first-year students again?”

you didn’t look up from your notes. “because attachment measures are unstable in early adaptation phases.”

“that’s not a source.” he said immediately.

you sighed through your nose. “it’s implied in the methodology section of-”

“no,” he cut in, calm as ever. “it’s not.”

you stopped typing. not because you didn’t have an answer, because you did. you just hated when he was right in a way that required you to actually go back and verify your own confidence. you clicked your pen once against the table. “fine,” you said. “then we include them and control for year variance.”

jake nodded once like that was the obvious outcome the whole time. “fine.” he said and went back to typing. that was the rhythm now. not agreement, just adjustment. you said something, he poked at it until it either collapsed or stabilized. you did the same to him. neither of you ever called it teamwork, you just called it necessary.

except it wasn’t just that anymore. because somewhere in between building sampling criteria and arguing over scale reliability, you had started noticing even more things that had nothing to do with the project. like how you both had begun asking things that weren’t strictly necessary, even when neither of you fully ever answered. “you usually stay up late before deadlines?”

you looked up from your laptop, suspicious immediately. “why?”

he didn’t even look phased. “just asking.”

you narrowed your eyes. “that’s not a research question.”

“it is if it affects output consistency.”

you stared at him. “you’re insane.” you said finally.

he nodded once. “dramatic.” and then went back to the document like he hadn’t just casually asked about your sleep schedule. you didn’t answer him, but you started noticing that he stayed online later too. not in a way that felt performative. if you were still editing at midnight, his cursor would still be there in the shared doc, quietly adjusting formatting or fixing citations without saying anything.

the ranking came up sometimes. not between you directly, never directly. but it always affected how you saw him, no matter how much time you spent together. someone in your lecture would gasp when they saw the board. “jake’s even more insane this semester.” “he’s literally top one again.” and then — “is that girl still second tier?” "who?". you would pretend not to hear it, you were very good at pretending not to hear things. you didn't know if jake ever heard them too.

“did you finalize the variables list?” “are we locking the likert scaling or adjusting for cultural bias?” “did you check the cronbach alpha ranges for similar studies?”. jake interrupted your train of thought with a million questions every time you got lost inside your own head thinking about it. still, you would answer. and then there were the moments that made your brain feel like it was misfiring entirely. like when you realized he had started noticing some of your patterns too, in a way that made you uncomfortable in a very specific direction. at least you weren’t the only one going insane because of how many evenings you were spending on doing that damn project, you thought.

you had stayed late alone in the library one night, rereading the same paragraph for so long you stopped processing it. he casually arrived, not saying hello immediately. he just sat down across from you and looked at your screen for a second. “you’re not reading that anymore.” he said.

you didn’t look up. “i am.” “you’ve been on the same line for how much time?”

silence. you clicked your pen harder than necessary. “i’m fine.”

he didn’t respond immediately. “you always seem to do that when you’re overwhelmed.”

your fingers paused as you looked up. “what?”

he shrugged slightly. “you repeat sections. like it resets something.”

you felt something uncomfortable move in your chest. not because he was wrong, but because he was accurate in a way you hadn’t authorized him to be. “it’s just focus.” you said.

“no,” he replied, simple again. “it’s more like avoidance.”

you shut your laptop slightly, not enough to close it. “you’re reading too much into it, i fear.” you said.

jake leaned back. “maybe.” but he didn’t sound like he believed that, and that was worse. he spoke like he had noted something and decided not to touch it further as if it wasn’t his place. which was new, because he seemed to have a place in everything. your thoughts started doing that thing again, where they tried to categorize him. you started packing your things too quickly, suddenly deciding it was time to go home.

“we should split spss variables next week.” you said.

he nodded. “already started it.”

you froze slightly. “you did?”

“just coding structure.” he said. “didn’t run anything.”

of course he had, of course he had already started without telling you. “send it to me.” you said as you stood up.

he nodded. then, he spoke again after a pause. “did you sleep last night?”

you stopped your movements to look at him. “what?”

he didn’t look up from his laptop screen. “you didn’t sleep last night, right?”

it wasn’t a question. denial felt pointless when he said it like that. like it was already observed, already logged. “it’s fine.” you said instead.

he nodded once. “okay.” but he said it like he didn’t believe that either.

you looked at him for a second too long after that, which was becoming one of your more irritating habits around him. because the problem with jake was that he could say something that sounded like nothing and somehow make it feel like he had seen more than he should have. not in a sentimental way, not in a dramatic way. just in the quiet, inconvenient way people did when they noticed details you would have preferred to keep unregistered. you looked back down before he could catch you still thinking about it. the library was almost empty by then, the kind of late that made the air feel flatter and the lights feel too bright for how little of the room anyone was actually using. jake was still packing up and unpacking nothing in that casual, efficient way of his, one hand resting against the edge of the table while he kept half a eye on the document as if he could will the dataset into finishing itself. you should have gone back to picking up your things, but you didn’t. “you always say that.” you muttered before you had fully decided to speak.

he paused. “say what.”

“okay,” you said, mimicking him badly on purpose, which was the closest you ever got to being openly petty around him. “like that.”

jake glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable in the exact way that made you immediately suspect he had understood more of your tone than you wanted him to. “it was a fine answer.”

“fine as in?” you made a small sound of frustration through your nose, then shut your laptop a little harder than necessary. not enough to make a scene, just enough to feel like you had done something with your hands.

the thing was, you had started to recognize the structure of this, too. the way neither of you ever really let the conversation stop at whatever it was initially about. it would begin with variables or scales or sample criteria, and then somehow, without either of you fully meaning to, it would drift into something else, something less concrete. which was how you ended up saying, “you’re one to talk, anyway. do you ever actually sleep? i always see you here, or around, or logged into the doc.” like it was a research question and not, very clearly, not that.

jake looked up. “yes.” “that was too fast.” “you asked like you wanted a fight.”

you stared at him. “i always sound like i want a fight to you.” “because you do.”

“i’m asking because you’re always here.” you said after a beat, more carefully now, like you were trying to step around the shape of your own curiosity before it became obvious. “which is not the same thing as sleeping.”

jake leaned back slightly in his chair. “you’re always here too.”

you looked up immediately. “that is not the same.”

“why not?” “because i have reasons.” “i also have my reasons.”

that made you pause. you hated that he had said it so easily, so neutrally, because now it sounded like you were the only one who had turned this into a personal pattern when, apparently, he had one too. you looked away first, which was getting embarrassing in its own way, because it happened almost automatically now. “sure.” you muttered. “your reason is probably just being annoyingly productive.”

he didn’t react right away, and for a second you thought maybe that was too close to a compliment and he had decided not to dignify it. then he said, “and your reason is probably panic.”

you turned your head so fast you almost regretted it. “excuse me?”

he looked at you now, completely calm, one eyebrow moving just a fraction like he was genuinely amused by the reaction and not the content. “you look more alive when you’re stressed.” he said.

you blinked. that should have sounded insulting. maybe it was insulting, maybe that was the point. but the way he said it made it land in a different place, somewhere too specific to dismiss and too strange to take seriously. “that’s a weird thing to say.” you said carefully.

“it’s true.” “no, it’s weird.” “both can be true.”

you stared at him for a second, then looked back down at the floor because if you stayed looking at him, you were pretty sure your brain would start doing something stupid like trying to decide whether he meant that in a clinical way or an observant way. there was a stretch of silence after that that didn’t feel hostile, which was somehow worse. so you decided to change the topic of discussion. “we still need to finish the sampling justification before friday.” you said, a little too quickly, because you had the uncomfortable feeling the conversation was moving somewhere you didn’t know how to stay in.

he nodded. “i know.”

“and the staffing numbers.” “mmh.” “and you need to send me the spss stuff.” “yeah.”

you looked up at him. “do you always answer like that when you’re tired?”

he paused, then glanced at you. “like what?”

“like you’re doing me a favor by remaining conscious.”

for one second, nothing happened. and then, to your absolute horror, he laughed. not a lot, not enough to make a big deal out of it. just one short, unexpected sound that slipped out before he could stop it, and it was so unlike the usual tone he used with you that it made your stomach drop in a completely different way than the argument did. you froze. he froze too, if only for a second. then his face settled back into that familiar neutral expression like the sound had never happened. but you had heard it, you definitely had. you stared at him as he looked down at his laptop. “what?”

you opened your mouth, then shut it again. because for one awful, amazing, deeply inconvenient second, you had laughed too. it came out sharp and surprised, barely there, the kind of laugh that felt like it had escaped from somewhere you didn’t mean to open. you pressed your lips together immediately after, as if you could pretend it had not happened if you became physically still enough. jake looked up at you again, but this time his expression had changed by the smallest amount. not a smile, exactly. just that tiny shift at the mouth that made you think he was aware of what had just happened and not sure whether to acknowledge it. “that was not funny.” he said.

you huffed, still trying not to look too pleased with yourself. “you laughed first.”

“barely.” “you still laughed.” “you did too.”

you stared at him and he stared back. and then it happened again, worse than before because now you were both trying not to do it and failing in the exact same moment. your shoulders shook once, his mouth twitched. you both looked away almost immediately, like eye contact had become a liability. “this is stupid. this thing has officially made us lose our minds.” you said, voice too tight to sound convincing.

“agreed.” he said. you stood there for a second, trying to rearrange your face into something more normal, while your brain replayed the sound of it over and over like it was trying to memorize a mistake.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you opened your laptop again because that was what you were supposed to do. because the project still existed. because spss still existed. because the sampling still needed cleaning and your regression outputs were still an unholy mess and no amount of accidental laughter was going to change that. and because you were suddenly, painfully aware of how little sleep you had been getting. you had been aware of it before, obviously. but it had been sitting in your body more loudly these days. the weekend shifts on top of the project work, the reading, the note-making. the constant checking of the ranking board when you passed it in the corridor, pretending not to look while your stomach still tightened every time you saw your own name underneath his. the scholarship renewal form waiting in your email draft folder like a quiet threat. you were tired all the time. not enough to stop, just enough to feel yourself fraying in increments. and somehow the worst part was that jake noticed before you said anything. not dramatically, not as some great emotional insight. he just seemed to clock when your answers got shorter, when your attention slipped, when you started rereading the same sentence too many times. and every time he noticed, he said something like it was normal. “you missed the same word twice.” “you haven’t moved from that tab in ten minutes.” “you look like you haven’t eaten.” you hated that those things were true more than you hated that he said them.

he still talked to everyone outside the library, still moved through the campus like he belonged to it in a way you never fully did, but now you also noticed that he always, always pretended not to be tired until the last possible second. he asked you once, very casually, “do you still work on saturdays?”

you looked up from the screen. “why?”

“just asking.” “but you don’t just ask. so why?”

he looked up, briefly, as if surprised you had said that. “because if you’re working every saturday and then coming here afterward, it explains why you keep looking half-dead.”

you hated that your first instinct was not to deny it. you hated that your second instinct was to ask how obvious it was. instead you said, “i don’t look half-dead.”

“you do sometimes.” “sometimes.”

“fine,” he said, almost mildly. “most times.”

you made a face at the screen. “you’re being rude.” “i’m just being accurate.”

and because you were tired and your defenses were thinner when you were tired, you heard yourself say, “well, sorry i can’t afford to look fresh and academically superior all the time.” the sentence was meant to be sarcastic, but it landed and went quiet for a second. jake looked at you then, really looked at you, and there was something in the expression that made your throat tighten before you could stop it. not pity. thank god, not pity. just recognition. you immediately regretted the whole sentence. “i didn’t mean-” you started.

“i know.” he said, very quickly and very flatly, like he was cutting off the part where you would start overexplaining and making it worse.

you blinked. he had said it like a clarification, not a reassurance, which somehow made it easier to accept. you looked down at your laptop. “okay.” you said, quieter.

and because he apparently couldn’t leave anything completely alone, he added, “you should probably eat something before you start another round of edits.”

you stared at the screen. “are you my mom now?”

that got him again, that tiny almost-laugh, the one that wasn’t quite one. “no,” he said. “my mom would tell you to sleep.”

you stared at him for half a second too long, and the thing was you could have left it there. you should have left it there. “good to know you think i’m below sleep deprivation standards.” you said.

“you are.” “wow.”

he shrugged lightly. “it’s not an insult.”

“it kind of is.” “only if you’re proud of this.”

you stared at him. and then, despite yourself, despite the exhaustion and the rankings and the scholarship and the fact that your life had been measuring itself against a list you couldn’t stop looking at, you laughed again. quieter this time, because the way he said it was so absurdly dry that your body didn’t even have time to resist. jake looked at you for a second, then went back to the screen like nothing had happened. but his mouth had that tiny thing again, that almost-not-smile he wore like it cost him nothing. and you hated how your body didn’t seem capable of stopping your wait for the next one.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the thing about finally reaching the results stage was that both of you had spent so much time preparing for it that it almost felt anticlimactic when it actually happened. because there had been weeks of articles and coding structures and sample discussions and methodological decisions that had somehow managed to generate fifty arguments over things that normal people would probably not even recognize as real issues. and now suddenly there were actual numbers in front of you. actual output tables, actual things to interpret instead of endlessly preparing to interpret things. it should have been satisfying, except jake had apparently decided to become unbearable. “okay,” he said, scrolling through the output with the kind of confidence that immediately made you suspicious. “so the effect sizes aren't that strong, but they're still meaningful enough to support the direction.”

you looked up slowly. “what?”

he glanced at you. “what what.”

you stared at him. “you cannot just say that.”

he blinked once. “why not?”

“because that's not-” you physically leaned closer to look at his screen. “jake.”

he looked back at it, then at you, then back at it. “what?”

“you're literally making conclusions before we even finish checking assumptions.”

he looked unconcerned, almost amused. “i'm not making conclusions.”

“you just said "support the direction".” “because it does.”

“no,” you said immediately, “it suggests a direction.”

“same thing.” “absolutely not the same thing.”

he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as if he was waiting for you to keep talking. you narrowed your eyes immediately, because there it was. that stupid thing he did, that look that said explain. that challenge that somehow always sounded like he was handing you a microphone in front of an audience you hadn't prepared for. you hated it and you hated him for it. you leaned forward toward your laptop. “because you're already writing like we proved something definitive.” you pointed at the screen aggressively. “results sections don't interpret outcomes like that.”

“they literally interpret outcomes.” “not like that.”

he raised an eyebrow. “okay.”

you looked at him suspiciously. “don't okay me.”

“i'm listening.” “no, because you're doing that thing.” “what thing?” “the thing where you sit there and pretend you're not disagreeing while very clearly disagreeing.” “i'm not disagreeing.” “jake.” “y/n.”

you stared at him, realizing how much you hated how calm he always looked. you could feel your mouth pulling and your eyes narrowing like they always did, probably making you look ridiculous. meanwhile, he looked so pretty it made you feel envious of a man. you could see his eyelashes from the proper distance your chair was at, casually fluttering at you in a mesmerizing manner. his lips looked glossy, almost as if he had applied something to them, although you knew it was all just natural for him. his bangs were down in a perfectly messy way, like gravity was his hair’s biggest ally every morning. gosh, you hated him so much. you quickly shook your head as you tried to physically snap yourself out of your trance, trying not to look like the weirdo who was just analyzing every detail of his appearance. “results sections are descriptive,” you continued while trying to act nonchalant, pointing at his screen again. “you're good at synthesizing information and making broader arguments, but that's discussion section stuff. you're skipping steps.”

he looked at you for a second, then glanced back down. “i'm not skipping steps.”

“you are.” “i'm being efficient.”

you let out a dry laugh. “that's a really interesting way to say overconfident.”

he looked offended for approximately half a second. “overconfident.”

“yes.” “that's harsh.” “just like you said, that's just accurate.”

silence. you watched him with crossed arms, trying very hard not to look smug because you already knew that stupid face. the hold on face. the i might actually be checking if you're right face. he stared at the screen another second. "...okay maybe."

you stared. "...maybe?"

he glanced at you. “don't make that face.”

you almost laughed. “what face?”

“that i was right face.” “i don't have a face.” “you absolutely have a face.”

you physically felt your mouth trying to move, but you stopped it immediately. you were not smiling over winning an argument about statistical reporting. that was embarrassing, deeply embarrassing. still — “so i was right.”

jake sighed dramatically, which almost never happened. “fine.”

“jake admitted i was right...”

he looked up. “once.”

“i need to write this down.” “okay now you're annoying.”

you smiled a little before you could stop it, small enough that maybe it didn't count. “you know,” you said, leaning back slightly now, “you do this all the time.”

he narrowed his eyes. “do what.”

“you jump ahead.” he looked confused. “in general.”

“what does that mean.”

you gestured vaguely toward his laptop. “you get excited about an idea and then immediately start connecting everything before it's even there yet.” he stared at you and you stared back. then added, “you're good at putting things together. too good.”

he looked down at the table for a second, tapping his fingers lightly against it. “and you're annoying.”

you narrowed your eyes. “excuse me?”

“you slow things down.” you stared as he absentmindedly kept speaking. “every time i think something makes sense, you start questioning it until i have to actually justify it.”

you blinked. "that's literally criticism."

“mmh.” “was that an insult anyway?”

“not really.” you stared harder, because his tone hadn't changed at all. he was still typing, still looking at the screen. still acting like he hadn't just said something weird enough to throw your brain slightly off balance. “you're basically quality control.”

you looked at him. "now it sounds like a compliment.” “don't make it weird.”

“you did.” you stared at him for another second to immediately look back down at your laptop, because suddenly your brain had decided to become strange about something that objectively wasn't strange. because it wasn't, obviously.

jake had an ego, a massive one. and over the last few months you had confirmed he knew he was good at things. he knew he was smart, he knew he could walk into a room and make people listen. and yet, he had looked at you after realizing he was wrong and hadn't fought it, hadn't defended himself into the ground. he had just adjusted, which felt weirdly significant. you were still thinking about that when he suddenly looked down at his phone. and then there it was, that tiny shift you always saw. that tiny thing you'd started noticing more lately. he looked at the time, locked the screen again and then looked back at his laptop. then at the time again. and for some reason you already knew what he was about to say before he opened his mouth. he was definitely leaving earlier. not dramatically, not enough to be called out. just enough that you noticed because the first few times he had stayed until nearly closing, the library doors glassing over with the dark outside while he still had his sleeves pushed up and his notes scattered in front of him like he had nowhere else to be. now he would start closing his laptop before you did, check his phone once, and give you a vague time estimate that sounded almost too casual to matter. “i’ve got to go in twenty.”

“mmh.” you only murmured.

he looked at you for half a second, then back down at the document. “plans.”

that should have been the end of it. you nodded without looking up, because of course he had plans. it would be deeply strange if he didn’t, he was not you. he had actual social skills and wouldn’t only spend the entire week trying to outrun a scholarship deadline, a project deadline, a weekend shift, and the constant low-grade panic of knowing the rankings board would be updated again soon and that your name would likely still be sitting under his like a fact you could not afford to ignore. he had friends, he had people who wanted him elsewhere. and if he could leave the library earlier because he had somewhere to be, then that was just him being a functioning person with a life outside the project. there was nothing to get hung up on. nothing. still, when he stood up ten minutes later and reached for his bag, your eyes did that stupid thing where they tracked him before you could stop them. “you’re leaving?” you asked, and you hated how flat it sounded, because it was not really a question and it was not really casual either, which made it the worst possible version of both.

he glanced at you, one hand still on the chair. “yeah. i told you.”

“you said twenty minutes.” the words came out of your mouth without much thought put into them, which you quickly regretted.

“it’s been twenty.”

you looked at the screen, looked back at him and looked down again, because you could not, under any circumstances, let the irritation in your chest become visible on your face for something that objectively did not concern you. “right,” you said. “yeah.”

he paused. not long, just enough to make you aware that he had noticed the tone shift, though he did not seem interested enough to comment on it. then, after a beat, “do you need anything else before i go?”

you looked up at that. not because the question was surprising, because it was not. he asked practical things like that all the time. the surprise was that it landed in a way that made you suddenly more aware of how little of the project he actually left unfinished when he did this. he always asked, always checked, always made sure there was no immediate loose end. and because of that, it would have been ridiculous to say yes just to keep him there, which was not something you would ever do because you were a rational person who did not need to manufacture reasons for anyone to stay in a room with you. so instead you said, “no.” and then, because silence suddenly felt too pointed, you added, “you can go.”

his eyes moved over you for a second. you hated that. you hated being looked at long enough to start wondering what expression you were making. but then he nodded once, unsurprised. “okay.” he said.

and that was it, he left just like that. which, objectively, was fine. you told yourself it was fine while staring at the empty chair across from you and pretending to reread the same paragraph for the fourth time. he had plans, you did not own his time. you did not want his time. you just needed his timing to be more consistent because it made the work easier, which was all this was, all it had ever been. the fact that his leaving earlier now felt like the shape of something missing was just your brain being inconvenient and tired and, frankly, a little overdramatic. you worked for another hour after that, but the page kept blurring at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the text. somewhere down the hall, someone spoke out loud. somewhere else, chairs scraped across the floor. the library was still full of people who had somewhere to be, and that should have made you feel better, or at least normal. except all it really did was remind you that jake had simply gone somewhere else, and you were there, which was also normal, and therefore should not have felt so pointed. you hated that he got to be nonchalant about it. you hated, more than that, that he had every right to be. and because you were not going to let yourself think too hard about that, you did what you always did when something pressed too closely against a thought you did not want: you changed the subject in your own head. there was still work to do, there was always work to do. and if you stayed long enough in the quiet of it, maybe the feeling would wear itself thin before you had to name it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the realization happened completely by accident. which was annoying, because if there was one thing you had learned over the years, it was that the discoveries that managed to get under your skin were never the dramatic ones. they weren't the revelations, they were the offhand comments, the things people said when they weren't paying attention. it happened three weeks later. the project had reached the stage where every task somehow generated three additional tasks behind it. every answer created a new problem, every cleaned variable revealed something else that needed fixing. you had spent most of the afternoon correcting participant coding because someone had apparently decided that following instructions was optional. you were tired, more tired than usual, actually. the kind of tired that sat behind your eyes and made every conversation feel half a second slower than it should have been. you genuinely didn’t want to be there or anywhere that wasn’t your room, which was an emotion you were feeling a little too often lately. but instead, you and jake had been sitting in the library for almost two hours, arguing. again.

"i'm telling you, that's not an outlier." "it literally is." "it doesn't meet the threshold." "because you're using the wrong threshold." jake leaned back in his chair as you leaned forward. somewhere in the distance, a printer made a horrible mechanical noise.

"you're impossible." "you're dramatic." "i'm correct."

"again, those aren't mutually exclusive." you glared at him and he ignored you completely, which somehow made it worse. you opened your mouth to continue the argument when somebody appeared beside the table.

"jake." both of you looked up. it was one of the guys you knew you both shared a class with, but you couldn’t fully remember which one. you vaguely recognized him.

"hey." "did professor wilson move the deadline?" jake immediately switched into that version of himself, as if a switch had been turned on. easier, lighter, like social interaction operated on a completely different set of rules for him.

"yeah, yeah." "to monday?" "pretty sure."

the guy groaned. "thank god." jake laughed. you looked back at your laptop, because this wasn't your conversation. because there was no reason to pay attention. "honestly," the guy continued, dropping his backpack onto a nearby chair, "i thought i was cooked. especially with rankings updating this week." your fingers paused, just for a second. rankings. you kept staring at your screen. didn't react, didn't move. "you're still first anyway."

jake made a face. "don't remind me."

the guy laughed. "what? scared somebody's finally coming for you? you've literally been first for more than two years."

"yeah." "so?" you clicked your mouse. kept looking at the same paragraph, the same sentence, the same word. because suddenly you were listening, which you knew was stupid.

"so eventually people get weird about it."

the guy snorted. "people are already weird about it."

"exactly." you heard papers shifting, chairs moving, conversation continuing somewhere above your head. and then —

"besides." jake's voice, speaking casually. "i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year." everything inside your head stopped. just enough that the next few words arrived strangely, like your brain needed an extra second to process them.

"yeah, but she's not catching you."

you stared at your screen, your cursor blinked. jake shrugged. "you don't know that." something tightened unpleasantly in your chest.

the guy laughed. "come on."

"what?" "she's been second forever." "and?" "and you're still first."

you heard jake exhale through his nose. not annoyed, not defensive, just certain. "that's not really how that works."

silence, a short one, the kind that only lasts a second. but it was enough. enough for the guy to look confused, enough for you to stop reading entirely and enough for your stomach to do something uncomfortable. because suddenly you weren't hearing the conversation anymore, you were hearing one specific thing. i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year. you had always assumed the rankings mattered differently. you checked because you had to. because your scholarship depended on it, because staying second was survival and becoming third was a problem and dropping lower than that was unthinkable. you checked because every semester felt like standing on the edge of something. but jake? jake didn't need to check, jake was first. he had been first forever. you had always assumed he occupied that position carelessly, without thinking about it. without noticing it, without needing to. and yet — i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year. which meant he knew. not just now, not just recently, he had known. the thought landed strangely. because the truth was you had spent an embarrassing amount of time assuming that you barely existed in his academic universe before your first little social development project encounter. you had never imagined he paid attention to it from the other side.

you became aware of the conversation ending. the other guy leaving, the chair scraping against the floor, the room returning to normal. jake sat back down, opened his laptop and looked at the document, completely unaware that your brain had become stuck on something deeply stupid. or maybe aware, as it had been getting harder to tell these days. you stared at the same line for another ten seconds. then twenty. "what?" you looked up. jake was watching you, so you immediately looked back down.

"nothing." "you've been staring at the same sentence."

you hated that he noticed that. "it's called reading."

"it's called not reading, actually."

you clicked your pen, trying very hard not to ask a question that would immediately reveal how much attention you had been paying. because that would be deeply embarrassing and objectively unnecessary. "you check the rankings?" the words escaped before you could stop them.

jake blinked, like the question itself was strange. "yeah."

you stared. that was it, yeah. like you had asked whether he checked his email. "why?"

he looked genuinely confused now. "why wouldn't i?"

and somehow that answer was worse, because there was no arrogance in it. no competitive edge, just simple confusion. you looked away first again, which was becoming a problem. "i don't know."

"mmh." he returned to the document. conversation over, just like that. you sat there staring at your screen while your brain performed increasingly unnecessary calculations around a piece of information that should not have mattered.

"it's useful." jake suddenly spoke, explaining himself.

"useful." "yeah." "for what?" "seeing where people are."

you stared. "that's incredibly vague."

"it's rankings." he looked back at the screen. "they're literally designed to show where people are."

you looked away before he could see the involuntary twitch at the corner of your mouth. he was annoying. the conversation again should have ended there. instead you heard yourself ask, "so you actually pay attention to them?"

his fingers paused briefly over the keyboard. "depends."

"on what?" "who."

your stomach did something unpleasant. you immediately focused very hard on the document in front of you, which unfortunately did not stop you from hearing your own voice ask, "who?"

silence, not a long one. just enough to make you aware you had probably sounded more interested than intended. "people near me." there it was again, simple, easy. like the answer should have been obvious.

you nodded slowly, pretending that explained absolutely everything. "and apparently you've had somebody right behind you since first year."

jake glanced up, and for the first time since the conversation started, something shifted slightly in his expression. not surprise, more like realization, like he had finally figured out what you were actually asking. "yeah." you looked down at your laptop.

"i thought you didn't pay attention to that stuff." "why?" "because you're first."

he leaned back slightly, thinking. "those two things don't seem related."

you hated how quickly he said that, like it had never occurred to him they might be. "i just assumed you wouldn't care."

"you assume a lot when it comes to me. and i didn't say i cared."

you blinked. that answer threw you off immediately. "then why look?"

he shrugged. "same reason everybody does."

you almost laughed. "that is absolutely not true." "okay." "most people aren't first."

"and?" you stared and he stared back. calm, patient, infuriating. eventually he looked away first. "you're making rankings sound way more dramatic than they are."

you nearly choked. because if there was one thing in the entire world that had never been casual for you, it was rankings. rankings determined scholarships, rankings determined funding. rankings determined whether next semester would be manageable or impossible. rankings determined whether all the hours were worth something. rankings had never once been casual. meanwhile jake was sitting there talking about them like it was nothing. you looked down before your face could betray anything. "easy for you to say." the words slipped out before you could stop them.

silence. when you looked up again, he was watching you. and suddenly you wished you had said literally anything else. "i guess." you couldn't tell whether he understood what you meant or whether he had decided not to ask. after a minute, he said, "i knew who you were before this whole thing, you know?"

your eyes immediately lifted, but jake didn't. he was still looking at the spreadsheet, still typing, like he hadn't just casually inserted himself into the worst thought process you'd had all week. "what?"

"you seemed surprised. and since you assume a lot, you had probably assumed i didn’t."

you stared. "we had basically never talked until all of this. so yeah, i don’t think it was such a crazy guess."

he shrugged. "i still knew who you were. you sometimes answer questions in class. not often, but when you do." your brain immediately supplied every lecture hall from the last three years. every time a professor had waited too long for somebody to answer, every time silence became unbearable. every time you'd reluctantly spoken because of participation marks, because there was no other option.

"you always sit near the aisle. you leave immediately after class." your stomach tightened, slightly. "and." he paused, then added, "you never talk to anybody before lectures start. see?" you looked away immediately. because that one landed too accurately, too directly. the silence stretched and jake looked back at his laptop, apparently finished. meanwhile your brain was still stuck three sentences ago, because none of those observations sounded important, they sounded ordinary. the kind of details people noticed accidentally, which somehow made them harder to dismiss. and for the first time, you found yourself wondering something you had never really considered before. had he been watching you just how you had been watching him?

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you were tired. and the thing about burnout was that nobody ever told you how boring it was. people talked about breakdowns like they happened all at once. like one day you were functioning and the next day you were crying in a parking lot or failing all your classes or staring dramatically into the distance while your life collapsed around you. but mostly it was just repetition. it was waking up tired, then waking up tired again, then waking up tired enough that you stopped being surprised by it. it was reading the same paragraph four times and only realizing afterward that you hadn't processed a single word. it was opening your laptop with a headache that never fully left. it was drinking coffee because you were tired and then being too anxious to sleep because you had consumed enough caffeine to chemically alter your blood type.

and the worst part was that none of it looked serious from the outside — you were still getting things done, your grades were still high, the scholarship was still intact, you still showed up. which meant nobody out of the two people you talked to really had a reason to worry. including you, especially you. because every time the exhaustion started feeling noticeable, there was always something more urgent waiting behind it. an assignment, a shift at work, the project. the rankings, always the rankings. the ranking board had become something you checked constantly, feeling like it was the only thing you had some control over. every other day your eyes went to the same two names. jake. you. sometimes the gap changed, sometimes it didn't. sometimes you gained points, sometimes he gained more. but he always stayed first, and you always stayed second, and every single week you told yourself it didn't matter. every single week your stomach tightened anyway. because second place sounded impressive until you realized first place existed. and first place had a name.

and unfortunately for you, first place also kept asking if you had eaten lunch, which somehow made the whole thing worse. the semester kept moving and you kept moving with it, mostly. until one afternoon your phone buzzed while you were halfway through finishing coding participant responses. you ignored it, but it buzzed again. then again. finally you looked down. jess. for a second you just stared at the screen, because you hadn't spoken to jess in almost four months. not properly, not beyond the occasional reaction emoji or one-word response she dropped into conversations before disappearing again. the funny thing was that the sight of her name didn't even surprise you anymore. there was a pattern to these things, there always had been. jess vanished, jess travelled somewhere, jess forgot everyone existed. jess reappeared, repeat. you opened the message.

jess: oh my god jess: are you busy jess: i need to tell you something

you stared at it, then at the typing bubble that appeared immediately afterward.

jess: it's an emergency

you already knew it wasn't. or rather, you knew exactly what kind of emergency it was. three dots appeared, then disappeared, just to appear again.

jess: i think ethan is actually the worst person alive

there it was. you leaned back in your chair. somewhere in the distance a professor was explaining something to a student. somebody dropped a pen, somebody laughed. you just stared at your screen. and suddenly a memory surfaced so clearly it felt recent. first year, late-night study sessions, sharing notes, getting coffee between lectures. jess talking for hours while you listened, back when friendship had felt reciprocal. or maybe when you had simply been too optimistic to notice it wasn't. after all, she had been the only friend you had made during your college years. 

your thumb hovered over the keyboard, because the thing was you already knew how this conversation would go, you could practically predict it. you would listen, jess would vent and you would help. she would feel better, then she would disappear again. and in a month or two there would be another emergency: another boyfriend, another friendship drama, another crisis. and somehow there would always be room in her life for your attention, just never actual room for you. the realization arrived so quietly that it almost didn't feel like a realization at all, more like finally reading a sentence you had been skimming for years.

your phone buzzed again.

jess: hello??? jess: are you alive

you stared at the messages, and for the first time in a very long time, you didn't immediately answer. instead you looked at the clock, looked at the spreadsheet, looked at the participant responses, looked at the list of assignments due next week. looked at the exhaustion sitting permanently somewhere behind your eyes. you felt something unpleasant twist in your chest, like disappointment that had finally gotten tired of disguising itself as understanding. because suddenly you couldn't stop thinking about all the messages you had sent over the years. all the conversations that had ended with no reply, all the updates she had forgotten, all the times she had said sorry i've been busy before immediately disappearing again. and the worst part was that you had accepted it, every single time.

because having part of a friendship had seemed better than having none. and when it was good, it was really good. jess was one of those people that made everyone comfortable no matter what. one of those people that saw much more from you than your initial single word answers said in an anxious manner. she was someone who gave you an opportunity when no one else did, and the thought of that was sometimes, or most times, enough. 

your phone buzzed once more.

jess: seriously i need help

the messages started becoming ridiculous. at first, you ignored them because you were angry, then you ignored them because you didn't know what to say. which was how you ended up with twenty three unread messages from jess spread across almost two weeks. some were memes, some were photos. some were random observations she apparently felt compelled to share despite receiving absolutely nothing back. another was a screenshot of some guy's text messages followed by:

jess: am i insane or is he insane

you had stared at it for nearly five minutes before locking your phone and putting it face down. the next day there had been another message.

jess: wow thanks for the support

you hadn't answered that either. then there had been silence for almost four days, and for some reason those four days had felt worse than the messages. because it made you realize you had spent the entire time expecting another one, which was humiliating.

then friday night, after finishing a shift that had lasted too long and dealing with a customer who had somehow managed to ask for four different managers despite being wrong every single time, you unlocked your phone while waiting for the bus and saw:

jess: okay jess: i know where this is coming from

your stomach immediately tightened.

jess: and i know you're mad jess: and honestly fair enough

you stared. jess almost never admitted fault immediately, and that alone made you suspicious.

jess: but i think we're both being stubborn now jess: and i think if we actually talked we'd fix it in like ten minutes jess: so jess: surprise jess: i'm back next week jess: and before you ignore this too jess: yes i'm serious jess: yes i'm coming to campus jess: yes i'm finding you jess: and no you're not allowed to disappear

another message appeared.

jess: we're fixing this jess: even if you hate me right now

you locked your phone just to unlock it again. read the messages a second time, then a third. you still didn't answer, but you also didn't delete them, which felt like its own kind of weakness. because the truth was that a very small, very pathetic part of you had immediately felt relieved, and you hated that. you hated that after everything, after months of being forgotten whenever she found something better to do, after every unanswered message and every time you had watched her life continue without you, some stupid part of your brain still reacted to her name like a starving dog being handed scraps. you hated it, and you hated yourself for it. somehow that made the exhaustion sitting in your chest feel even heavier.

she found you four days later, which you should have expected. you were leaving a lecture hall when someone suddenly wrapped both arms around you from behind. you nearly had a heart attack. "oh my god."

"there she is." you immediately knew it was her. same perfume, same voice, same face no one, not even you, could ever say no to. same irritating ability to behave like she had never been gone at all.

there she was, smiling like nothing had happened, like months had not passed. like you hadn't spent entire semesters watching your messages sit unanswered. for one awful second your chest actually hurt, because you had missed her and that was the worst part. "hi." she said softly.

you stared. "hi."

her smile faltered slightly. "wow."

"what?" "you really are mad."

you looked away immediately, because somehow hearing it out loud made it feel childish. "i'm just busy. can’t stay much time here."

"you always say that." "because i am."

jess rolled her eyes. "see, this is exactly what i'm talking about."

you frowned. "what are you talking about?"

"this." she gestured vaguely. "whatever this is."

you laughed once, a short humorless sound. "you disappeared for months."

"i didn't disappear." "okay." "i didn't!"  "mmh."

"stop doing that." "doing what?!" "that!"

you stared at her. "jess, you literally stopped answering me."

"i was in another country."

"phones exist internationally and for a reason, you know?" that finally made her go quiet. and for a second you thought maybe she actually understood. maybe she got it.

"i thought you knew it wasn't personal." and there it was, the reason this conversation had always been impossible. because for jess it wasn't personal. for jess, friendships were elastic — they stretched, they shrank, they disappeared and then they came right back. and somehow they always remained exactly the same. but for you they didn't. for you every absence left marks, every ignored message sat in your chest for weeks. every unanswered attempt became evidence.

"that's kind of the problem." jess blinked and you immediately regretted speaking. because now the words were moving, and once they started moving they rarely stopped. "i know it wasn't personal for you." your voice sounded calmer than you felt. "i know you weren't sitting there trying to hurt me."

"then-"

"but i was still there." silence. "i was still your friend while you weren't answering."

jess's expression changed slightly. "y/n-"

"and every single time something went wrong, you came back." your throat tightened. "every time."

"that's not fair." "it is fair." "no."

"yes." you looked away, because suddenly you couldn't look at her anymore. "you only miss me when something happens." the words landed harder than you expected. and for the first time since she arrived, jess looked genuinely hurt. and for some reason that didn't make you feel better, it just made you tired.

"that's not true." "okay." "stop saying okay like you've already decided i'm guilty!" 

you laughed again, smaller this time. "haven't i?"

jess looked down, then back up. and for the first time all afternoon she seemed unsure. "i missed you." your chest twisted immediately, because she sounded sincere, and that somehow made everything worse. "i did." you didn't answer. "i know i'm bad at this, but i did miss you." the problem was that you believed her, and the problem was that believing her changed absolutely nothing. because people could miss you and still leave, people could care and still disappear and people could love you and still make you feel lonely. you had learned that years ago, but jess just happened to be the latest example. eventually she sighed. "you're impossible."

"i've heard that." "are you just… going to stay mad forever?"

you shrugged. "depends." "on what?"

you looked at her and suddenly realized she genuinely thought this was fixable with one conversation. like all she had to do was show up, smile, say sorry and everything would reset. the way it always had before. except this time you were too tired to pretend. "i don't know." and all of a sudden, neither of you had anything else to say. which was probably answer enough.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

your life had somewhat become structured around jake’s, often ending up in the same spaces. same library, same project, same professor. same increasingly concerning amount of time spent staring at statistical outputs. you arrived already tired, even more tired than usual, which was saying something. the scholarship paperwork still wasn't finished, you had missed breakfast again and you had slept four hours. jess had texted you three times before nine in the morning, and you had spent most of the walk to campus pretending not to see the notifications sitting on your lockscreen. by the time you dropped into the chair across from jake, you felt like your body was running entirely on momentum. he looked up once and paused, then looked back at his laptop. "you look awful."

you dropped your bag onto the table. "good morning to you too." "i'm serious."

"thank you." you said in a sarcastic tone, not being able to deal with his shit at that point. still, there was a silence, and the comfortable kind. or whatever the closest version of comfortable was between the two of you. until eventually, after some time typing, you noticed he hadn't moved for almost a minute. which was unusual, because jake was always doing something. you looked up and he was staring at the screen. not reading it, just staring. "what?"

his eyes shifted. "nothing." “mmh.” you immediately went back to your laptop.

he frowned. "that's it?" "what?" "you're not going to ask?"

you looked up. "you literally said nothing."

"yeah." "so?" "usually people ask again."

you stared. "usually people should answer properly the first time."

that got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. then he sighed, longer this time. and he suddenly looked older, not physically, just tired. the kind of tired you only noticed when someone stopped performing for a second. "my independent project is a mess."

you blinked, because that was not what you expected. "the lab one?"

he nodded. "i've been working on it for almost a year."

you knew the project because everyone did, you were sure. it was one of those ambitious research proposals professors liked bringing up when they wanted to motivate students. jake's project, jake's future publication, jake's possible master's application. jake's future everything. "so… what happened?"

he leaned back as he rubbed a hand over his face. "nothing happened." which sounded suspiciously similar to disaster.

"jake."

he laughed once, without humor. "i spent eleven months collecting data. and now i'm not sure the question was even worth asking." you froze, because that wasn't frustration, that was something close to fear. the kind that sat underneath months of work and suddenly asked whether any of it mattered. he looked away. "i keep trying to force something interesting out of it." another pause. "and every time i look at it i hate it more."

you watched him carefully, because this wasn't the version of jake most people saw. the version everybody else saw walked around campus looking annoyingly competent, like things simply worked for him. like success arrived naturally and confidence was his default setting. but this version looked frustrated and uncertain, which somehow felt more vulnerable than if he had outright admitted he was struggling. "i’m just going to be honest."

he snorted. "that sounds dangerous."

"might be. but i think… your problem could be that you keep trying to make it impressive." he looked up, immediately. but you continued before he could interrupt. "every time you talk about a project, you talk about what it could become." 

his eyebrows pulled together. “because that's the point."

you sat forward slightly. "you're doing the same thing you did with the results section."

he groaned immediately. "don't bring that up." "i'm bringing it up, jake." "of course you are."

"because you're doing it again." he leaned back, watching you as you continued. "you keep jumping ahead. you're trying to write the conclusion before you've looked at what's actually there."

his eyes narrowed slightly. not defensive, just thinking, which was different. "maybe the data isn't exciting."

you shrugged. "most data isn't."

"great." "but maybe it's useful, and maybe that's enough."

silence stretched, long. he tapped his fingers against the table. "you’re really annoying and that's a really annoying answer."

your mouth twitched slightly. "i know. feelings are mutual."

"and i also hate that you're probably right."

"i also know." you finally smiled, not being able to control your facial expressions anymore.

"stop enjoying this."

you looked back down at your laptop. "i'm not." but you absolutely were.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

after a few days, you met up again. it was one of those days where everything felt wrong before it even started. jess had called, which already felt aggressive, and somehow the conversation had made everything worse. because she sounded normal, excited, exactly like somebody who had not disappeared from your life for months at a time. and by the time you arrived at the library, you could feel the anger sitting underneath your skin. jake noticed immediately, which was becoming irritating. "okay."

you didn't look up. "what?" "you look like you want to commit murder today."

"yeah, and you’re about to be my next victim.” jake just looked at you in shock, making you think he might have believed it. “i looked like that last week too, anyway." you said while avoiding eye contact.

"this is definitely different." you ignored him, but he ignored your attempt to ignore him. "who is it?"

you sighed. "what? nobody." "that's a lie and we both know it."

"why ask if you've already decided then?" you said in a passive aggressive tone, more aggressive than passive.

he shrugged. "fair." after a minute of silence, you heard his voice again. "is it a guy?"

you immediately stared in shock. "what?" "i'm asking." "why?"

"because people usually look like this because of a guy. and i would know, because i am a guy… a guy a lot of girls get mad at, actually."

you rolled you eyes as you heard him admit to that so easily. "your reasoning is stupid. and your reasoning should maybe make you a little more self aware for the sake of others too." "mmh, okay."

you looked back down, annoyed. then heard yourself speak, feeling the need to clarify it. "it's not a guy, for the record." "good."

you frowned, confused at his comment. "why?" "because i wouldn’t have been helpful. i’m on the receiving end when it comes to that stuff, so i don’t understand those situations.”

you stared. "and you understand this one?" "try me."

you rubbed your eyes, already regretting speaking. "it's an old friend. jess."

his expression shifted slightly. recognition. "jess?"

"yeah." you hesitated. "you might know her."

"how exactly?" "well, apart from the fact that you talk to basically everybody on campus including the trees, she used to… visit one of your friends?"

he immediately looked confused, raising one eyebrow. “visit?”

“as in, intimately.” you awkwardly said, making it all even more awkward, which was one of your not-so-hidden talents.

"that doesn't narrow it down at all." 

despite yourself, you laughed. "fair."

after a second, you heard him speak again. "oh."

"you know her." "i remember we talked a few times, yeah. she used to hook up with jay, i think. it’s hard to keep up." 

you blushed at his words like a stupid girl, as if you weren’t a full grown twenty year old woman. you felt the need to move on with the conversation, which somehow meant oversharing a little. "she just disappears. for months." you stared at the table. "sometimes longer. then comes back." your throat tightened. "and every single time she acts like nothing happened." you laughed, short and sharp. "like i'm supposed to be waiting exactly where she left me." jake didn't interrupt, so you kept talking, which was probably a big mistake. "she goes traveling, does exchange. somehow the exchange ends and she still doesn’t come back? she meets new people and simply forgets i exist." your voice sounded flatter now. "then something goes wrong and suddenly she remembers my phone number." silence. you looked down. "and the worst part is i always answer." there it was, the embarrassing part, the part that actually hurt. because the problem wasn't only jess, it was you. always accepting less than what you needed because some version of friendship felt better than none.

jake was quiet for a moment. but when he finally spoke, you immediately wished he hadn’t. "i kind of understand her."

you looked up, instantly regretting opening your mouth. why had you even told him about that? why would you ever talk about something so personal with jake? you genuinely wondered what had gotten into you, what stupid spell you were under to suddenly speak about something so important to you with this person. "forget it."

he didn't seem bothered by your reaction, which somehow made it worse. "listen. i’m just saying i understand why she might disappear."

you laughed, actually laughed in disbelief. "seriously? that's your response."

he frowned. "what?"

"i tell you all that and your first instinct is to defend her." "i'm not defending her." "you literally are." "no?" "jake."

he leaned back, annoyingly calm. "i'm saying i understand it."

"those are not different things." "they are."

"not right now they're not." you raised your voice a little, not being able to keep up with his nonchalance.

"people get overwhelmed." his voice remained steady. "people avoid things."

"for more than a year?" "sometimes." "well, that's ridiculous." "it just happens, y/n."

you laughed again, angrier this time. "easy for you to say."

he frowned. "why are you so sure about that?"

because you have people. because people stay and because nobody forgets you. because you don't spend months wondering whether someone cared about you in the first place. you thought all of that but said none of it. "because you're not the one waiting." that landed and you saw it. 

jake's expression shifted slightly. "fair."

you quickly looked away, because suddenly your eyes were burning. because suddenly you remembered why you didn’t like talking to jake. "i'm just tired of being understanding." the words slipped out before you could stop them.

he just sat there for a second, looking at you with that frustratingly neutral expression he always wore whenever he was actually thinking about something. "i know."

you almost laughed. not because it was funny, because it was irritating. "i don’t think you do." you wished you hadn't said that, because now the conversation was no longer about jess. it was about you. silence stretched between you, making you look down at the table. 

jake looked at you and said, carefully this time, "i'm just saying i've done that before. not answered people." your eyes lifted. he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking somewhere over your shoulder, somewhere vague. like he was talking to the room instead of directly to you.  "you get busy." he shrugged slightly. "or stressed. or something happens and you keep thinking you'll answer tomorrow." you didn't say anything as he continued. "then a week passes, then two." another pause. "then it starts feeling weird. and then the longer you leave it, the more embarrassing it gets." something uncomfortable twisted in your chest, because he didn't sound defensive, he sounded familiar. like he wasn't really talking about jess anymore, like he was talking about himself. "and eventually," he said, quieter now, "you know you've waited too long." your throat tightened unexpectedly, because there was something strange about hearing that from him. jake, who always seemed so put together, so socially effortless. so capable of moving through every room without friction. you had never really considered that he might be the kind of person who avoided things. or people, or conversations. he leaned back slightly. "but i'm not saying it doesn't hurt."

you immediately looked away, because that wasn't what you wanted, it wasn't what you needed. you didn't need understanding, you needed someone to tell you that you were right. that jess was selfish, that disappearing for months was selfish. that coming back whenever she felt lonely was selfish and that you had every right to be angry. instead he was sitting there calmly constructing reasons that almost sounded like excuses. "okay." your voice came out flat. "so what?"

he frowned slightly. "what do you mean?"

"i mean so what." you looked at him again. "so she was embarrassed." he immediately knew where this was going and you could tell, but that didn't stop you. "so she got busy. so now i have to be there every time just in case she felt that way, because of course she didn’t give any solid explanation either. great." you laughed once, sharp.

"that's not what i'm saying." "it kind of is." "no, y/n."

"then what are you saying, jake." you called his name back as if trying to prove a point, unconsciously arguing at this point.

he rubbed his jaw, already looking mildly annoyed. which somehow made you even more annoyed. "i'm just saying life gets messy." you stared at him and he stared back, completely calm, completely composed. and suddenly you wanted to shake him, just a little. just enough to make him react properly.

"you don't get it." "maybe not." "no, you definitely don't."

he frowned. "then explain it. explain whatever you want me to get."

and there it was. you could tell exhaustion had been eating holes through your self-control for weeks now as you spoke without a filter. "because it's always me." you looked down, immediately regretting it, immediately wanting to take it back. but now it was already out. "i'm always the person who understands and the person who's supposed to wait until everybody figures their shit out." your chest felt tight, too tight. "and somehow nobody ever seems worried about whether i have things going on too." the words sounded pathetic the second they left your mouth. you hated yourself for saying them, because this was jake. jake wasn’t even your friend, but there you were trauma dumping on him for some strange reason.

he was quiet for a moment, long enough that you wished he would just let it go. "have you told her that?"

you blinked. "what?" "any of that."

you stared. "that's your takeaway?"

"it's a question." "obviously not." "then how would she know?"

you actually laughed in disbelief. "jake, seriously?" "yeah."

your irritation flared immediately. "because she should know."

he sighed. "people don't magically know things." "she should."

"why?" you stared at him, because the answer felt obvious. because if somebody mattered to you then you noticed, and if somebody mattered to you then you checked. you would remember they existed even when your life got busy. but suddenly explaining that felt impossible because it sounded childish and needy, it sounded exactly like the thing you spent years trying not to be. you looked away but, unfortunately, jake kept talking. "look." his voice softened slightly, which somehow made it worse. "i'm not saying she's right. i'm saying people aren't always good at being what other people need. and honestly," he hesitated for a moment, just enough for you to notice. "i don't know. if she's basically the only friend you've got." your stomach dropped, violently. he didn't mean it cruelly and that was the problem. he said it like an observation, like a fact, something practical and logical. "maybe expecting perfection from her isn't realistic."

that was the exact moment everything inside you snapped, quietly. somehow he had managed to take the ugliest fear you carried around and say it out loud like it was reasonable. if she's basically the only friend you've got. you stared at him, and suddenly all you could hear was that sentence. you wondered if he realized what he had just said, if he realized how true it was. your chair scraped against the floor, which made jake immediately looked up. "you’re right." your voice sounded strange, even to yourself. you started shoving your laptop into your bag too fast, too aggressively.

"y/n." "no, you're right."

his eyebrows pulled together. "that's not-"

"no." you stood up as the library suddenly felt too bright, too loud and too exposed. "i should probably lower my standards."

"i didn't say that." "you kind of did." "that's not what i meant." "it's fine." "y/n."

you slung your bag over your shoulder, avoiding his eyes. because you knew if you looked at him right now something humiliating would happen — either you'd cry or you'd say something cruel, and you didn't want either.

"i've got work." "we're literally working right now." "not this."

"that's not what i meant." he said quieter this time, more serious.

you nodded once, short and mechanical. "just leave it, okay? i don’t give a fuck at this point." you turned around and left before he could say anything else. before he could explain or clarify, before he could make it reasonable. because the worst part was that maybe it was reasonable and maybe that was why it hurt so much. because somewhere underneath all the anger and embarrassment and exhaustion, there was a small ugly part of you that had heard his words and immediately thought: he's right. and you hated that part enough that you spent the entire walk home trying not to listen to it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you didn’t want to see jess, and you wanted to see jake even less. the conversation with him had left you feeling like a whiny, annoying person, which somehow felt like it was both of their perception when it came to you. you still didn’t understand why you had let him know all that personal stuff, why you hadn’t second guessed saying it like you did with everything else. why had you all of a sudden let something real slip out so carelessly when you had spent most of your life making sure nothing slipped out at all? although once you reflected on it, you realized jake was the closest thing to a friend you had at that moment. you kept telling yourself he wasn’t one because you knew he didn’t consider you as such, but that didn’t mean it was as easy for your brain to interpret it all in the same nonchalant way as his did. and maybe that was the reason why you had been so careless, because at some point of spending countless hours with jake as a project partner, you had begun to spend time with him as a person too, even if it was a one sided experience. you had to stop that, though. he had clearly shown you he thought it was stupid to even bring up the thing with jess as a problem. he wasn’t your friend in reality, and although he had told you about some of his worries as well, you obviously didn’t have that kind of connection.

the project document sat untouched for longer than it should have. you told yourself you would get back to it tomorrow, but then tomorrow became the next day, and then the next. same thing happened with texts that went unanswered, cancelled meetings and skipped classes. eventually you emailed your professors about a “debilitating cold” that technically existed but probably wasn't severe enough to justify missing class or being absent from life in general. you had never missed class, not voluntarily, not unless you physically couldn't move. but exhaustion had started settling somewhere deeper than tiredness. it wasn't sleep, because sleep didn't fix it. sleep just delayed it until the morning. the strange thing was that once you stopped going, you discovered how easy it would be to keep stopping, which terrified you. because rankings, scholarships, deadlines, projects and all the things that normally sat in your chest screaming for attention suddenly felt distant, muted. like somebody had wrapped your life in several layers of fabric. and you knew enough about yourself to understand how dangerous that feeling could become if you let it stay.

so on wednesday morning you got out of bed, because whatever else you were, you were not a quitter. you got dressed, packed your bag and ignored the fact that everything felt heavier than usual. you promised yourself you wouldn’t allow yourself to have those kind of thoughts anymore because they would only bring you down. emotional repression was your favorite kind of unhealthy coping mechanism, you thought. once you were back on campus, all you could think about was how you couldn’t handle seeing neither of those two people you couldn’t get out of your head at that moment. which was genuinely stupid, because one of them was a former friend who had apparently decided to reappear in your life after treating it like a waiting room, and the other was your project partner to put it simply. those were the facts — simple, reasonable, adult facts. the fact that both situations somehow occupied an unreasonable amount of your brain space lately was a separate issue entirely. you shook in fear just by imagining it, already feeling awkward because of conversations that had not happened yet, expressions you had not seen yet, and possibilities your brain had already managed to rehearse a dozen different ways.

so when you casually looked up on your way to class just to see both of those two people, your entire body froze. you stood still like a rodent in fear, trying to process the scene you were watching. jake. jess. together. you were standing far enough away that neither of them saw you. thank god, because you suddenly felt like an intruder. jess was leaning against one of the walls near the notice boards, talking about something with her hands moving the way they always did when she got animated. her hair was down and she looked effortless in that way she always did. jake was standing across from her. he was smiling, genuinely. that small version of it that showed up when he was actually entertained by something. you hated that you recognized the difference now. your stomach tightened, probably because you were annoyed. that was the explanation, the obvious explanation.

you kept walking a little slower without meaning to. jess said something and jake looked down for a second before looking back up. she touched his arm, briefly, the way extroverted people touched everybody. which meant absolutely nothing. except your brain immediately decided to remember every single time jake had ever touched you, which took approximately half a second because the answer was basically never. you looked away, then looked back. and you knew you were acting ridiculous. you should just have gone to class, but instead you found yourself lingering beside a column further down the corridor. not hiding, just... standing there for a second. a completely normal amount of time. jess laughed as jake said something that made her shove his shoulder lightly. and there it was, that impossible-to-define thing. you couldn't hear a word they were saying, but somehow the conversation felt familiar anyway. easy, comfortable. like they already knew where the other person's jokes were going before they arrived there. you noticed jess occupied space easily, exactly like you never had. jess laughed loudly, but you usually laughed like you were apologizing for it. jess flirted with people the way other people breathed. and even from across the hallway you could see the familiar rhythm of it. the slight lean forward, the eye contact held a second too long, the teasing smile, the confidence. she had always been good at that.

you weren't even friends with one of them anymore, and the other had never been your friend to begin with. so why did it feel like watching something you weren't supposed to be seeing? why did it feel like standing outside a room with the door cracked open? why did it feel like everybody else had somehow received instructions for a social world that you were still trying to decipher years later? jess laughed again. jake looked down and shook his head. and there it was, that tiny almost-smile, the one you had spent months accidentally memorizing. your stomach dropped, hard. you wished you had the strength in you to go tell him how much you hated him, but you knew they would just look at you like you were crazy. because maybe you were a little, but you believed you had your reasons. it felt like he was doing it on purpose — you had explicitly told him that she had hurt you, he had dismissed it and now he was luring her in. he couldn’t be doing it on purpose, right? he couldn’t dislike you that much. he didn’t even seem to care, for god’s sake. so why would he go out of his way to do something so mean to you? you were taking it personal when deep down you knew it had nothing to do with you, which probably was what hurt the most. you weren’t in neither of their minds and you had to accept it.

you hated how bitter every thought you had sounded. you hated it enough that you immediately started walking again, faster this time, before they could notice you. before your brain could turn the whole thing into something even uglier. because whatever this feeling was, you didn't want to examine it. you had enough problems already, you really didn't need another one. especially not one you couldn't even name.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

jess: can we just hang out like old times? pls girl lets fix thisss

you stared at the message, your desperation for friendship coming through. just two weeks ago, you were sure you couldn’t forgive her. you didn’t think acting as if nothing happened was too respectful to yourself. but you wanted a girl friend, you needed someone who would keep you distracted for a little while. someone you could share a tiny part of your 20s with, even. loneliness was getting the best of you and although it felt pitiful, you couldn’t help but miss human connection. and maybe, just maybe, jake’s words had also had an effect on your thoughts about the situation too. and maybe, it was also about seeing them talk in such a friendly manner and not being able to get what kind of interaction it was from where you were standing. maybe it was about getting mad at him because of it, because it felt like you accidentally shared way too much with him and he didn’t take it as a serious matter. as something that had hurt you deeply, as something you almost considered betrayal. he indirectly told you so, and then turned around to use his charm on her just like he did with every other girl, choosing to ignore your vulnerability. maybe it was a way of showing him that you also didn’t give a fuck. that you had realized you were being dramatic, just as he implied. was it better to spitefully prove him right by talking to jess or to feel stupid as a salty girl who cannot just forgive and forget? you thought that you at least would gain a friend back with the first option. you were being extremely irrational. the thought of jake even noticing who you talked to or not was simply dumb in the first place.

you: okay. when and where?

done decision. this could either go extremely wrong or make you a little less depressed for an evening.

jess: ik youre not going to like this, but there is this party… jess: it will be really fun and you can meet new ppl !! ill help you out plssssss

you: jess you know im too awkward for ts

jess: take it as a challenge bby jess: well leave as soon as youre uncomfortable promised jess: pick you up at 10 🥳

at least she had a car that she could pick you up with. it was hard to take anything else as positive out of this stupid situation you had chosen to get yourself into. you were extremely anxious to talk to her. still remembering how to act like a regular person, still knowing how to actually let your personality out. the fact that the only social interactions you had had for the last few months had been about your shared project with jake didn’t help at all. you knew the best you could do was not to overthink it. do not overthink it, you repeated to yourself. do. not. over —

“girl, snap out of it please. you need to get a little hyper, we’re going to a party, remember?” “sadly.”

“you’ve changed so much. i miss brighter you, you know?” your heart ached a little when you heard jess’s words being said in such an endearing tone. you missed her too.

“swear i won’t ruin it. don’t worry, you’ll have fun.” you smiled at her while she drove her mini car. it looked so chic. she looked so chic. the wind that came out of the rolled-down window somehow blew her hair perfectly without it sticking to her lipgloss, and you felt stupid for noticing those details. you always admired her, always prayed you could exude even a quarter of her elegance.

“it’s not only about me having fun. it’s about us having fun. you and me, both. understood?” she said as she pulled her car over, parking in a seemingly unknown street to you. but as you walked closer to the location, jess leading the way, it started to get a little more familiar.

“jess?” “mmh?” “is this a house party?”

“well… maybe. i thought if i told you before you wouldn’t even think about coming.”

“you know i hate this vibe. this is stupid, jess. you’re going to be socializing and i’m just going to be weirdly standing in a corner!”

“hey! i’m not going to leave you alone, okay?” “no. i don’t want you to babysit me. i told you, i want you to have a great time.”

“i’ll have a great time as long as you stop anticipating. come on, we’re already here anyway.” you knew at some point during the night she would leave you. you knew you wouldn’t go home “as soon as you get uncomfortable”. you wouldn’t even ask to leave because she deserved to have a great time without you being in her ass about it. gosh, you wished you could be normal about everything for just one night.

as soon as you entered the house, you knew who was throwing the party. you didn’t ask before, afraid of the answer jess would give you. it was the same apartment complex you once visited to bang on a boy’s door about some deleted google doc. it was jay’s home. jake’s friend. jess entered first, her beaming smile making her look even more magical. you wished you were a ghost in that moment as you genuinely couldn’t take being looked at. but there you were, too deep in the lion's den to get out now. “jay!” jess ran up to the familiar face you always saw jake with. you walked a little faster, trying to keep up with jess’ excited run. you awkwardly stood next to her, waiting for the perfect moment to include yourself in their conversation. you swore no matter what the interaction was, there was never a right time for your stupid brain.

“aaaand this is y/n! we’ve been friends for almost… how many years now?”

“three and half.” you finally added something to the conversation, trying to politely smile to jay without showing too much of your nerves.

“oh my god, it’s been so fucking long, girl. anyway, she’s such a sweet girl, right babe?” jess looked at you with her deer eyes and a light smile, almost pleading you to speak with just a look.

“never as sweet as her. i hope you’ve had a great chance to get to know her properly, jay. it’s extremely worth it.” jay smiled genuinely, nodding yes with his head.

“oh babe! i missed my girl so much!”

“girls are too fucking sweet to each other, god. i feel pre-diabetic already.”

“oh, shut up! it’s not our fault you guys don’t have a single ounce of emotional intelligence!” jess punched jay’s arm in a friendly way, making him laugh while dramatically exclaiming how painful it felt.

“anyway, make yourself at home. there is plenty of alcohol, so get drunk and have fun. those are the house rules.” jay winked while he left to walk to a bigger group of people, which seemed like his friend group. his friend group. jake.

“jake!” your biggest fear came true. having to awkwardly stand at a house party while your friend talked to another person. and that person was the guy you had a project to finish with. and the guy you had been avoiding for about three weeks for various reasons. the guy who looked extremely confident while walking towards your friend, probably knowing he already had her wrapped around his finger. the guy who didn’t even spare you a glance, as if you hadn’t shared information that you considered very personal with him. as if he hadn’t opened up too. for a moment, your brain had even tricked you into thinking he was your friend. loneliness makes you a little too delusional, you thought.

jess hugged him tightly, almost doubtful of letting him go. you hadn’t addressed it since you were pretty sure she didn’t even know you were aware of them knowing each other, or even jake and you knowing each other. but you had your suspicions about the sexual tension you could feel between them. you kind of knew both jake and jess, and you were aware they both didn’t do serious. and although you weren’t judging, it kind of hurt knowing that your old friend no longer trusted you enough to update you about her intimate life like she used to. it wasn’t about the intimate life part, it was more about the fact that you two didn’t talk anymore, didn’t know about each other’s general life anymore. you weren’t close enough for her to tell you and that interaction had made you more conscious of it.

you glanced at jake for a moment, trying not to make it too obvious. was this how it was going to be? pretending not to know each other because you were in a social setting instead of that damn library? he looked so alive while talking to jess, you didn’t think you had ever seen him interact with you that way. it wasn’t a new feeling, noticing how people’s behavior changed when they were actually comfortable talking to others. although you wanted to lie to yourself and act like it didn’t matter, your emotions were hard to miss.

“and this is y/n! my old time beautiful friend. y/n, this is jake! he’s my friend too, i met him around your dorm actually!” jess could be so innocent at times, it made you feel maternal. you awkwardly smiled, not being able to bring yourself to say something. jake finally addressed you with his eyes, confirming your earlier wish of becoming a ghost hadn’t come true. sadly.

“yeah. we actually know each other, we’re partners for a shit project our teacher assigned us because of our grades.” ouch, shit project. you actually had had your fun while doing all the research and creating your own little experiment. it turned out it wasn’t the same for everyone involved.

“what?! you hadn’t told me, y/n! this is so cool! you must have become friends during this, right? you two are too nice to not be friends. and so fucking smart, god!” you knew she had the best intentions, you really knew. but that didn’t stop you from wanting to choke her with your bare hands in that exact moment.

“not really. your friend here has been a little… distant. and we didn’t even have much time to talk, anyway.” you couldn’t stop yourself from directly looking at him. did he really have to say that? you already were well aware of the fact that you two weren’t friends, but he didn’t have to be so mean about it. you needed a drink. or a whole bottle.

“y/n! jake is soooooo sweet. you need to start opening up more! he’d be a great friend when i’m not around.” your eyes were already burning, as it all felt like a humiliation ritual. everything that could go wrong in your head went even worse in reality. you just laughed it off, focusing on not looking like you were about to have a meltdown.

“jess, i need a drink.” “sure, babes! jake, show us the drinks.”

jake opened the fridge, not looking at you still. he had some great talent to avoid eye contact, you had to give him that. “i’ll prepare you whatever you desire.” jake said as he dramatically reverenced, making jess giggle cutely. you were pissed and you genuinely couldn’t pinpoint what was actually making you feel that way. you just felt it, which meant nothing he said or did was fucking funny no matter how hard you tried. you hadn’t been this irrational since you were a teen, and it was all jake sim’s fault.

“i’ll take a rum and coke, sir. and you, y/n?” “a rum and coke is fine too.”

jake giggled at jess addressing him as sir, and you could tell he was already a little tipsy. his cheeks were flushed, his lips were even plumper than usual and his movements weren’t as controlled. as they casually spoke, you couldn’t help but look around anxiously, already zoning out. you quickly took the drink into your hands as soon as jake finished making it. even your basic manners were being tempered by your irritation, since you weren’t even able to bring yourself to thank him. you were sure neither of them would notice your lack of appreciation for the below average drink he had just made you, so you didn’t need to feel guilty about it.

you basically chugged your drink, finishing it whole in one swallow. you needed some strength to somehow flee from the extremely awkward situation you were in. a good escape would be using the opportunity to socialize with new people, you thought. but that would definitely require at least one more drink. the bathroom was the right option until then.

“i’m going to the bathroom, jess.” “okay, pretty. we’ll be here.” jess answered casually.

“upstairs. first door to the left.” “thanks.” first and probably last interaction of the night with jake. how friendly the two of you were.

as you fled from the scene, you finally let your body relax a little. you were so tense your muscles were actually hurting, and it all felt like a fever dream. as you were walking upstairs, you suddenly felt a body crushing into yours, while a wet stain formed in your shirt.

“oh, fuck! i am so sorry!” you looked up, seeing one of the prettiest boys you had ever met holding a now half emptied cup. he looked familiar, but you weren’t too good at recognizing faces since you didn’t look around that much.

“don’t worry. i have an excuse to leave now.” you said calmly, not wanting him to feel guilty about a drunk accident. your drink was already kicking in as you were a bit of a lightweight for alcohol, so you didn’t feel like reacting at all. he giggled lightly, still murmuring sorry repeatedly.

“i think i know you.” “you also look familiar.”

“i’m sunoo. does that ring a bell?” of course it did. even if someone knew nobody like you did, you would still know sunoo. he was always mentioned somehow, and you now recalled seeing him being part of jake’s friend group. he reminded you a little to jess, as he was one of those people that could light up a room as soon as they entered it.

“mmh, it does. i think we have statistics ii together.” “oh, right! give me your contact and i’ll pay for the laundry service, i swear!” “there’s really no need. the top isn’t good quality anyway.”

“still! we’re in the same class, we should have each other’s contact. let’s be friends, yeah? i should know your name first, though.” you admired nice extroverts, people who could make everyone comfortable even if it was somebody as awkward as you.

“y/n. and i would really like to be your friend. i’ve heard nice things about you.” you smiled politely, trying to reciprocate his kindness back as he passed you his phone with his contact list opened. you added yourself as a contact, saving it as “y/n stats ii”.

“it was so nice to meet you, y/n. and i will pay for that dry cleaning, i don’t care what you have to say about it.” you laughed at his half-threat, saying bye to sunoo as you entered the bathroom. you took a deep breath as you stared at the mirror, seeing how much of a mess you looked like in your reflection. your eyes were bloodshot, your cheeks were flushed and your hair looked a bit frizzy, and now you had a big stain right in the middle of your white shirt. you tried to clean it up with some water, which made it a little less noticeable, but your top was almost drenched now. you needed to leave. you breathed slowly, building up the courage to tell jess you wanted to go and to convince her of not coming with you. she was having a good time, a marvelous time even, and you didn’t want to be the one ruining that. although you felt a little selfish for wanting to leave so early, you just couldn’t push your feelings away. you grabbed the doorknob, taking one more deep breath as you twisted it open.

someone was waiting, though. jake was waiting. “oh, sorry i took so long. all yours.” you walked around him with your head down, not making it too far before you heard his voice.

“we need to talk.” you fully stopped in your tracks, praying you were just hearing voices.

“really? about?” you turned around with a confused expression, because you genuinely didn’t know what he had to say to you after he had been so clearly ignoring you for the whole night. he walked a few steps forward, opening a door that you guessed led to a bedroom. you felt your heart beating in your throat as he just stared at you while waiting at the door, threatening you to go in with a single look. it seemed like you didn’t have many more options, so you walked through the door after him, entering what you thought was jay’s bedroom. he had two guitars hanging on the walls, a bunch of band posters and some workout equipment on the floor. the place smelled like expensive cologne and just boy scent in general. you were so out of place, feeling like you were entering such a private space where you didn’t have the right to be. “i really shouldn’t be here.”

“yeah, you shouldn’t. so why are you here?” your stomach dropped. this was such a different jake from the person you saw talking to jess just twenty minutes ago.

“look… jess didn’t tell me it was jay’s party. she didn’t even tell me it was a house party, okay? if i had just known that, i wouldn’t even have accepted the plan just in case. i know i’m not invited, but you already know her, right?” jake stared at you in silence. did your presence really upset him so much? you hadn’t even spoken to him, but you guessed they only wanted certain people to come to their parties and that may have been his problem. the awkward silence forced you to keep talking, feeling like you had to explain yourself because of his judging look. “the last thing i want is to be an inconvenience, okay? i don’t want anyone to be upset. i was going to leave right now, but if i tell her that i’m going now she will try to come with me because she’s not drunk enough to ditch me yet. so, i’ll go and you’ll tell her my stomach felt upset when she asks about me, okay?” you had a hopeful look in your eyes, wanting the situation to be over as soon as possible. instead, jake kept staring, an unreadable expression on his face. you were becoming even angrier by the minute. he was the one who dragged you to that damn bedroom and made you explain yourself in the most embarrassing way possible just to say nothing back. “so what else do you want me to say?”

“so you’re friends with her now?”

“really? and what about you? can i ask about what you two are?” you would regret saying that later. you shouldn’t have had that drink, as it made your brain-mouth connection malfunction a little, but it was too late already.

“i wasn’t the one who said you didn’t know if you could forgive her. or the one who got upset for some stupid fucking reason.”

“i’m not upset!”

“then why have you been avoiding me for weeks now, huh? do you think i enjoy wasting my time on this project, y/n? i want to forget it just as much as you do, but we have a compromise with professor jones and i can’t let him down!”

“i have been doing my parts, though! it’s not like i’m not working on it.”

“you know it’s not the same thing! it’s a fucking mess right now because we haven’t sat down to actually do it together in so long. look… i don’t care about whatever shit you have going on with jess, i just want this to be over.” you had been in your own head for so long now that you had completely forgotten about what this project could mean to you. about how important it was for jake to have your professor’s trust and stay top of the class. about how it wasn’t fair for him to go to meetings with mr. jones by himself and take it upon himself to explain your work all alone when you were supposed to be a pair. all of a sudden, you were realizing how horrible you were being as a working partner and the consequences it could have for jake. although all that didn’t erase how unmotivated you felt. how it had been so extremely hard to get out of bed every morning, how you were giving up on that too. still, you would make an effort for him.

“you’re right. i am now seeing it’s not fair to you, and i am sorry. i’m available this whole week though, so we can meet whenever you can and as much as you want. we’ll finish it soon, promised.” you successfully held your tears in as you smiled politely, knowing you had to leave right in that moment if you didn’t want to have a meltdown in front of him. “i’ll text you tomorrow so we can schedule, okay?”

“why did you get so mad at me just to forgive her and act like nothing happened?” “jake, i-i need to go.”

“no! i deserve an explanation. why are you not even coming to class? rankings are coming out soon, you know?”

“i know.” “is this all about jess? about the conversation we had?”

you knew that was just the tip of the iceberg. you were sinking for the first time in years and the whole jess thing and seeing them together was the last drop you needed to let yourself go. “things happen, jake. it’s not only that, but it doesn’t matter. what matters now is that we’re finishing that project together, i promise.”

“leave the fucking project now! are you not taking uni seriously anymore?”

“stop.” “have you even thought about your scholarship?”

“stop it!” tears came out uncontrollably, not being able to hold it together anymore. jake’s expression changed to a surprised one for a few seconds, quickly turning it back to his cold demeanor. “you know nothing, so stop it.”

“you won’t let me know anything.” “the moment i fucking told you something about someone, you went right to that someone and charmed her like a fucking…” you cut yourself off before the words slipped out of your tongue, although the damage was already way more than done.

“so it is about that.” “no! for fuck’s sake i’m just saying!”

“why are you so mad if you two are back to being friends? did you really forgive her?” you looked at him, an incredulous expression in your face. you wondered why he was so mean to you but so kind to everyone else. you knew you had fucked up, but you were actually trying to clean up your mess.

“i have nothing else to say to you, jake.”

“did she tell you she came to my apartment?” so they were that close and she hadn’t told you a single thing. she had the right to, but it confirmed you two weren’t friends like you used to be. knowing that made your heart sting a little, not being able to stop the tears anymore.

“guess you two aren’t such close friends after all.”

“you just told me you don’t care about what jess and i got going on.”

“just giving you updates.” jake shrugged his shoulders as if he had said nothing too important. you tried to compose yourself, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of him anymore.

“she’s going to leave anyway. you two are adults so enjoy it while you can. i have nothing to do with this and like i said before, i’ll text you tomorrow to talk about the damn project.” you turned around, not being able to listen to his voice for a second longer.

“for fuck’s sake, y/n! i just want to-“ as jake stopped talking, you heard a loud thud and a groan right behind you, making you quickly turn around. before you could even react, jake was already on the floor, his nose bleeding nonstop.

“what happened, oh my god!”

“t-the dumbbell! fuck…” you looked around, noticing one of the dumbbells you saw earlier scattered on the floor. you rapidly guessed he had tripped and fallen face-first on one of the bed corners. he was holding his nose with both of his hands while whining in pain, making you immediately run up to him, forced to ignore the mess of a conversation you had just had.

“here, let’s get you to the bed.” you offered him your arm for support, trying to forget about the way your heart was thumping in your chest once he held onto you. jake wasn’t heavy, but you still struggled to carry him as he wasn’t making much effort to help. “did you hit your head? tell me you don’t have a concussion, please.” only groans came out of his mouth, so you sat him in the bed and held his face tightly, staining your whole hand with blood in the process. “jake.” he finally looked at you in the eyes, making you feel nauseous. “do you know where you are?”

“party. jay’s room.” “okay, good. does your head hurt?”

“mmh.” “yes or no?” “yeah.”

“okay, lay down. stay here and don’t get up, i’m going to get you some stuff, okay?” you got no answer, but you needed to make sure he was listening to you. “jake, okay?”

“come back.” he finally replied with a trembling voice that made your heartbeat spike even more, given not only the way he spoke, but the content of what he said.

“what?”

“after. don’t leave me here alone.” you were really confused at his sudden need to be with someone, let alone you.

“jake, i’m not going to let you be alone. i’m pretty sure you have a small concussion.”

“but you. you’ll come back.”

“you definitely have a concussion. but yeah, don’t worry.” as your legs were trembling, you ran down the stairs trying to find sunoo. he looked not too intoxicated before, and he would probably know where things were in that stupidly big apartment. he also seemed really sweet, and although your whole body was shaking from anxiety, he was probably the best option of a person to talk to. once you found him, you saw him talking to two girls, which made you even more scared to go up to him. still, you remembered the bloody mess a certain boy was making in his friend’s room, so you gathered all the courage you had inside you to go and talk to sunoo.

“sunoo!” “oh, hey y/n. how is it going so far? i see the stain got a little better.”

“yeah, and i told you not to worry about it! anyway, this is going to sound a bit weird… but do you know where there could be some painkillers and towels?”

“i do know, but first i need to know why you could possibly need all that for? because it sounds a bit suspicious.”

“your dear friend jake hit his head while we were arguing.” what were you supposed to do? lie on the spot? you were pretty dumb to assume he would just not question your request at all, but you weren’t too conscious either at that point.

“did you have anything to do with that injury or…?” sunoo asked while laughing, finding the situation quite entertaining.

“no! i mean, he was just tipsy and tripped. i shouldn’t have added the arguing part, it makes me look guilty now that i think of it.”

“okay, okay. i’ll believe you, i guess. come on, i’ll get you everything.” sunoo hugged the two girls he was having the conversation you interrupted with, following him into the kitchen right after. “didn’t know jake and you talked. even less, argued.”

“we were assigned a project together because of our grades. that’s why.”

“oh, so you are the project partner.” sunoo simply said while looking around the cabinets, leaving you even more confused than you already were with this whole situation.

“what?” “here.” sunoo ignored your inquire as he extended his arm out while giving you a small box of pills, which you quickly took. “towels are in the bathroom, top cabinet, you’ll see them. and please tell jake to stop being so damn inconvenient all the time.” you smiled at his comment, not being able to hold back your reaction to his annoyance.

“i will. it would also really benefit me too, you know.” sunoo laughed as he said bye once again, leaving you to face jake all alone. you walked upstairs, knowing you did not have too much time before he would get dizzy from his nosebleed. as you took the towels from the bathroom, you could hear some light voices coming from the bedroom next to it, which was also the room you had left jake in. you approached the half-closed door once you had everything you thought jake might have needed, hearing the voices more clearly then.

a familiar silhouette was on the floor, right in front of a smiley jake that sat down on the same bed you told him to lay down on ten minutes earlier. jess was assisting him with a small piece of cloth, which looked like more than enough to make him have a better appearance. that was all you needed. your sign to go now that the two people you had to give explanations to were entertained with each other. you left that suffocating place, the walk to your dorm being around 30 minutes long. it was definitely peaceful, but you couldn’t help shedding a few tears on your way back, not knowing the exact reason why, but also not being able to make the strange feeling in your stomach stop. you sent a text to jess once you were halfway there, telling her not to worry and to have fun, and that your stomach was feeling a bit upset because of your period. she didn’t respond until 45 minutes passed, so you were already in the safety of your room by then. you guessed they must have had some sort of pretty interesting conversation for her not to see the messages before.

jess: you shouldng have lefy alone jess: well tslk jess: jakes mad too jess: youre too irrespinsible

although it hurt to admit, she wasn’t that wrong. responsibility had been your strength once, but it all felt like it wasn’t worth it anymore. you didn’t respond to the messages, just telling her you had made it safe. you went to bed while being aware of all the important things you would have to face once the week started, making you wish you could just stop time and go to sleep for a few weeks straight. a few months would have been great too.

you texted jake on sunday night, feeling obligated to. only a day had passed since that awful conversation you two had had, but you had sadly promised him you would actually show up for the project.

you: hey. i told you i am free all week to finish the project, so i am checking in to see if maybe you were available tomorrow after class?

three hours went by before your phone vibrated at one am.

jake: ok

you already knew this was about to be the most awkward experience you'd had in a long time.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

you arrived at the library on monday right after your classes ended, entering the usual spot you had been frequenting before the whole thing had gone down. you waited around forty five minutes before jake decided to show up, walking towards you in an extremely calm manner. it was infuriating.

“hey.” you forced yourself to say, as he only nodded with his head without saying a word back. the day you actually finished that punishment of a project would be the same day you would feel free for the first time in a while. you wasted no time in order to leave as early as possible, not even making a remark on his late arrival. you reread all the parts you had made at home on your own, trying to get his opinion on how you could connect it all together. but you didn’t get a word back. jake kept looking at his phone while mindlessly scrolling on his laptop, not even sparing you a glance. you had had enough, though. you wanted to lay in bed and dissociate for hours as you had been doing for the past few weeks. but instead, you had consciously dragged yourself to that damn library knowing what you had talked about in that nightmare of a conversation the night before. you had done it for him just to stupidly show up to not even speak to you. “why are we here if you’re not even going to listen? i have better things to do, you know.”

“really? what could those better things possibly be?” you stiffened. was he still mad about what you had talked about at the party? what were you supposed to do about it anymore? you were trying your best to show up as a project partner, but he wasn’t even allowing you to do it.

“what is your problem?” jake stayed silent, still scrolling through his phone as if you didn’t even exist, ignoring your presence. “you know what? i’m leaving. we’ll try again tomorrow if you’re in the mood by then.” you started packing your things hurriedly, needing to flee from the awkwardness.

“do you ever stop running away?” “what?” you stopped all your movements, shocked at his words.

“you heard me.”

“i don’t know what this is about, but i don’t care either, so.”

“have you ever cared about anything i’ve said, anyway?”

“what is this sudden victim complex you’ve got going on, jake? i already told you i realized i’ve been a shit project partner but i’m trying to fix it! what else can i do? i can’t turn back time, you know?”

jake humorlessly laughed at your words, making you have that weird stomach feeling again. “the fucking project…”

“what?! i’ll fucking tell mr. jones to just assign someone else to work with you if i need to. i don’t care about our progress anymore at this point. i’m not even going to be second on rankings anymore, anyway. so it doesn’t even make sense for us to do this shit together, right?”

“you’re giving up, just like that?”

“i can’t keep up, so. you win.”

“i win?!”

“it’s been three long years of trying to get to you up there. you probably already did, but now i know it won’t ever happen for sure. so you win, yeah.”

“then i hope you’re proud of the fact that you can’t keep promises. neither to yourself nor to others.”

“what are you even saying, jake?”

“you told me you would come back.” you stared at him as your throat went dry and your palms became sweaty. you couldn’t understand why he was bringing up that moment all of a sudden.

“t-the other night? i asked sunoo for painkillers and towels but once i got back you were already assisted. you didn’t need my help anymore. do you think i didn’t make sure you weren’t bleeding out before i left? is that why you’re so mad?”

“you promised you would come back. and you just fucking left without saying a word to anyone, god knows at what fucking hour and all alone?”

“for fuck’s sake! was i supposed to knock while jess was practically on her knees for you and give you the fucking painkillers? do you know how awkward that is for someone else, jake?”

“she wasn’t.” you held your tears back once again as a dry laugh escaped your throat. you couldn’t comprehend what he could possibly want to gain from that argument, making it feel pointless to explain yourself.

“she was on the floor, jake. you were practically drooling all over her. i saw you guys and that’s fine, but don’t expect me to just interrupt… that! to fucking say bye? like?”

“i was waiting for you.” his voice sounded softer when he said that, confusing you even more.

“why does it matter when someone helped you anyway? not even someone, jess! i knew she would take good care of you. way better than i ever could.”

“why do you keep bringing her up?”

“because she’s… she used to be my best friend. and because you’re… something with her now. it makes sense.”

“we’re nothing.”

“i don’t need to know that. just make sure she knows that.”

“you do need to know.”

“what?” jake suddenly stood up, his figure looming over you while he breathed rapidly. you could tell he was furious, although you still didn’t exactly get why.

“if i did something, you would need to know.” “can you just… talk normally?” you tried to step back, still not looking at him directly as it felt like he could murder you with a look. you suddenly felt his hand pulling your wrist, not allowing you to take that step while tugging you forward.

“tell me you don’t feel it.” “w-what are you even saying, jake?”

“you fucking mess me up.” you looked up at him then, not knowing if you were understanding him right. you were so scared, but maybe it was all you needed to finally stop thinking about him. maybe your instincts were finally working for someone and this was your sign to let go. although you couldn’t understand why he would want that too, and you still weren’t sure if he was hinting at it, you still allowed yourself to look at his lips. they were plumper than usual, reminding you of two nights ago when he was fighting you while tipsy. you were starting to wonder if he was drunk at that moment too.

“what do you want from me?” you were almost whispering, not being able to find your voice anymore. you felt him so close you were going insane by the minute, hating him for having so much power over you.

“tell me to stop.” “jake-“

“just say no and i’ll fucking let go.” but you didn’t. you didn’t say anything, letting him drag you to an empty secluded classroom as if it wasn’t jake. jake, who you couldn’t even look in the eye. jake, whom you had had a one sided competition with for years now. jake, who had fucked your old best friend after you had told him how deeply she had hurt you. jake, who was now cornering you between a table and his body, making you feel helpless.

“we’re going to regret this.” you whispered again, afraid of hearing your own words.

“i can’t fucking stop thinking about it though.” after a beat of silence, you finally spoke.

“then do it.” he wasted no time after you said that, taking your words as a forward sign. he suddenly kissed you, letting all his hunger out in a single motion. he was harsh, grabbing you steadily by your neck while crushing his mouth onto yours. you couldn’t help but moan at the sudden intrusion, not being too confident in your kissing skills either. still, it felt like he was too out of it to question your form.

“wait-“ you tried to pull back, but he suddenly spun you around, his heavy breath on your neck as his crotch pressed onto your back.

“you feel it, huh? i’m so fucking mad at you, i think it makes it worse.”

“jake, fuck-“

“i hate you so much.” he kept desperately grabbing your whole body, moans coming out of both of your mouths as he ground himself against your ass without a stop. he kept your head forward, turning your neck with his hand whenever you unconsciously tried looking behind you.

“just take off my fucking pants.” you said between whines, feeling much needier than ever before in your whole twenty years of life. he suddenly undid your jeans and dragged them down, as his long fingers entered your wet cunt. it all felt so rushed and rough, not a single care being taken by either of you. you could practically feel the shame you both were experiencing, wanting it to be over but unable to make yourselves stop simultaneously.

“can you ever stop giving orders, huh?” jake kept rubbing circles around your clit, making you feel so good but so overwhelmed by his presence. you couldn’t believe he was actually inside you. the sim jake was finger fucking you, and it all seemed so surreal that you already felt like you couldn’t hold your orgasm in for much longer. “have we finally discovered the only way to shut you up, mmh?” you suddenly felt him whispering in your ear, making it all feel even more intimate. his words were more than enough to make your whole body tremble in pleasure, completely drenching his fingers in the process as you bit your lower lip to not moan at full volume. you had experimented with your own fingers before, but it was nothing like what jake had made you feel in a few minutes. he kept his rhythm steady as you heard him panting in your ear, being able to feel the desperation through his breathing only. your legs were shaking, so you mentally thanked him for holding your body still without dropping you to the ground. he kept using his fingers inside you, the overstimulation making you whine into your own palm as an attempt to muffle your sounds. your cheeks were burning, ashamed at how quickly you had come while only using his fingers.

“how about you go on your knees for me?” jake kept talking in your ear as your body still trembled from the overwhelming stimulation. you were now panicking about your absolute lack of experience, but you still complied, feeling too out of it to put coherent thoughts together. you slowly went down so that your knees didn’t give out, watching him put the same hand he had just had in you inside his mouth, dragging his tongue around his slender fingers. you still weren’t looking at each other for some reason, so you quickly took your eyes off him while waiting for instructions.

as he pulled his pants down, you felt the need to say something before fucking it up completely. “i have never…”

“i know. i’ll help.” jake spoke between pants, his throbbing tip leaking pre cum in front of you. you didn’t confront him about how on earth he would know that so surely, although you obviously had the urge to. if you ever talked to him again after all that, you might ask. “open wide.” you obeyed, genuinely feeling like you were under a spell that didn’t allow you to control your own actions. he introduced himself into your mouth, making you quickly taste the salty liquid on your lips. as he tangled his fingers between your hair strands, he began to push your head deeper and deeper, obliging your throat to adapt to the shape of his cock. you couldn’t help but make a gag sound, looking up at him to be faced with closed eyes and an unrecognizable expression.

“f-feels so fucking good… fuck…” he wasn’t letting you go, the lack of oxygen quickly catching up to you. you tapped on the back of his thigh as a signal for your much needed release, but he seemed to be in trance. after a few more seconds, tears started to spill down your cheeks, making you panic while whines came out of the same mouth that was full of his cock. "you look so dumb like this. you're always such a smart girl, but look at you now..."

he finally let you go, quickly stealing a glance of your fucked-out state. "d-don't call me dumb." you said after catching your breath, not being so sure about who you were trying to convince anymore. he smirked at your words, which only confirmed that he also knew you didn't really dislike it. jake kept stroking his cock at a rhythmic pace right in front of your face, making you mentally prepare yourself for what you thought was about to come. he whined, sounding so needy it made you weak. sweet sounds kept coming out of his mouth, which made you understand a tiny bit better why everybody wanted to have a special moment with him so badly. he suddenly looked at you in the eyes, making you freeze instantly as he spoke. “stupid slut can only not argue when she has a dick right in front of her face, huh?” your breath hitched, somehow finding pleasure in the degrading words he had decided to use.

you kept looking up at him as you reached out to switch his hands for yours, causing him to let out a high pitched moan that only made you even needier. “is that good?”

“please… don’t fucking stop.” jake groaned as he breathed even faster, making you realize he was probably close. although he had his eyes closed again, you kept looking at his face, being fully captivated by his facial expressions. it was pure lust and pleasure, the kind of face you would have never thought could be caused by you. but there you were, jerking the sim jake off right after he had made you come on his fingers only. “oh my god… you fucking… i’m gonna…”

“do it, jake.” jake suddenly moaned so loudly you were sure people on another floor could hear. you shushed him in the process, the anxiety of being caught together not leaving even when you seemed to have bigger problems. like most of your upper body being covered by his cum, for example. your hair felt sticky and your mouth was full of spit, while your shirt was stained and your mascara was runny. what had just happened looked so physically obvious, it made you feel so ashamed you couldn’t even look up. both of you were silent as your breathing slowed down, the tension being so palpable it made you want to vomit. it was the textbook definition of awkward.

you tried to get up from the floor while balancing yourself on a nearby table. jake didn’t look at you neither, pulling up his pants as he tucked himself in in pure silence. it had almost been like a dissociative experience for you both, only becoming conscious of what had just happened once it was over. once you were up on your two feet, you reached for your bag to look for tissues, wanting to at least get out of that classroom without jake’s cum dripping down your chin. you quickly wiped what you felt was more visible, letting the rest to be fixed in the bathroom with a mirror available. “i’ll go first. j-just… stay here for a moment, just in case.”

“you’ve got… a little bit of… right there.” jake pointed at your cleavage, some drops of his release still on there.

“y-yeah. i’ll go to the bathroom now to clean up.” “good.”

“okay.” he looked down while fixing his shirt, an unreadable expression on his face as if nothing had happened. it seemed like the two of you wanted to pretend nothing had happened, actually. “then bye.” you found your most polite smile to show him, making the situation even more awkward for both of you. you fled from the scene as you shut the door right behind you, quickly running off to the bathroom. once again, tears started to run down your cheeks as soon as you entered the stall, feeling too overwhelmed to just ignore it. you felt guilty and stupid and ashamed all at once, having the need to never see his face ever again. how were you supposed to just finish the project? to meet up with him all alone and not address it? to act as if it didn’t affect you at all? you knew he was experienced when it came to hook ups, so it would obviously be too ordinary for him to even give it a second thought. but for you, it was your first sexual experience, and you had decided to give that moment to jake. you knew virginity was a stupid concept and it all didn’t matter once you looked at the bigger picture, but it still felt like such a waste to share such an intimate moment with someone who could not give two fucks about you. to someone who actually told you he hated you in the act. and although your feelings were mutual and you hated him too, it still hurt.

there was also the fact that he was fucking the girl who used to be your best friend. and although you knew they weren’t anything serious, it still didn’t feel fair to let yourself be touched by the same man without telling her. but you couldn’t tell her, you couldn’t tell anyone. no one could ever know about that encounter and you knew jake would feel the same about it. you wished you didn’t even know about it yourself, so acting as if nothing had happened was the only option left. blocking it out of your memory was all you needed to do, right?

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

days passed and neither of you talked about it. neither of you talked about anything, really. the project was left untouched, as if you hadn’t been fighting about how important it was for both of your futures a week ago. you hadn’t gone back to class either, but you knew you were at your limit with the number of classes you could miss. you basically were about to fail because of how absent you were, which kind of was a reality check for how much you wanted to give up on life. still, you had a bit of rationality left, which made you actually get up that morning and attend your classes. you would send emails later as a sad attempt to get your professors’ trust back.

you didn’t want to see him. you successfully blocked everything out of your mind for those few days you didn’t go to uni, but being in that building again gave you so much whiplash it was impossible to ignore. you wandered through the halls with your head down, since you needed to avoid everyone now more than ever. the fact that that place was becoming hell by the minute made you extremely upset, knowing you once were so excited to even be accepted into it. as you were walking out of your first class while having a whole breakdown inside your mind, you started hearing a commotion in the hall, instinctively catching your attention while obliging you to put your head up. you then saw a big group of people looking at the wood panel on the wall all together, quickly making you realize what it was. the rankings.

“how the fuck am i up there?! yo!” “dude, you’re right under jake. that’s crazy.” “you’re actually second, sunghoon?!”

although it was obviously bound to happen, it still didn’t feel real until you actually saw it. seventh. you had slacked so much you had moved five ranks down. and the difference between first and second place was now bigger than ever before. you stayed still behind everyone else as you stared at the printed out numbered list. all the voices became muffled while you quietly dissociated, almost having an out of body experience. you were probably going to get kicked out, you couldn’t afford it. you would have to use all your savings to only be able to pay for half a year. jake had moved up a decimal. he had got even better, while you miserably failed to keep up. still, you couldn’t find the energy to despise him. you didn’t have the energy to shed tears, to even be upset. you just wanted to go home and lay in bed, no matter if you were second, sixth or last. you were drained.

“y/n. i haven’t seen you around at all lately.” a familiar voice interrupted your pathetic train of thought, making you turn to the side to face a slightly worried looking mr. jones. you were acting so stupidly you hadn’t actually planned how this encounter would go. and now, it was happening right in front of you.

“y-yeah. i am so sorry about that, professor. it has been a rough… month. i’m trying to be more present now, though.” your professor lightly nodded with his head in an understanding manner, making you pray that that was the end of your conversation. you quickly realized it was not, as he kept calmly speaking.

“i haven’t seen jake this week neither, which is strange considering he’s the only one who comes to our reunions. is the project going well? it’s supposed to be tutored by me, do not forget that. you need to come and see me so that we can discuss it, y/n.” being nagged by your university professor was definitely a humbling experience. still, you couldn’t deny he was right. “jake! we were actually just talking about you. come here.” no, it couldn’t be. you closed your eyes and took a deep breath as your whole body completely froze in fear. a tired looking jake appeared in frame, politely smiling back at your excited professor. he didn’t look at you, which you were extremely grateful for, as you couldn’t stand maintaining eye contact with the guy you had had your first sexual experience with while supposedly being your academic rival right in that moment.

“i need to see a report on basically the whole project now by the end of next week. we need to keep this going, okay? i trust you a lot, you guys are my top students for a reason.” not anymore, you wanted to say. could sunghoon do this with jake now that they were top one and two together? you wanted to ask. instead, you quietly nodded your head yes, too afraid to say it out loud. you would maybe send an email later. “congratulations, jake. your progress is just outstanding and you always have the strength to overcome yourself somehow. it’s beautiful to see you grow. and y/n, a setback is not a reason to give up. you’ll be up there again soon if you keep working like you’ve always done. do not think this is going to make me regret my decision on choosing you for this project, i know your potential.” you felt even worse now. how could you have ignored this sweet man who was actually the only person in this world rooting for you? you smiled at him with teary eyes as you repeatedly murmured thank you, getting too emotional to fight it back. “you two can always email me if you need anything, project related or not. i’ll see you at the end of the week, try to have fun.” you didn’t miss how he only maintained eye contact with you while he said that, confirming he knew that something was definitely not right.

you saw him walk away, leaving you standing right next to jake all alone. you didn’t have the strength to say anything, to anyone really. “so… i’ll go now.” you were ready to immediately run off, but jake’s voice unexpectedly stopped you.

“are you going to talk to professor jones?” “about?”

“giving up on the project.” you knew he was wording it like that on purpose. you also knew he was right, but his words still made your chest tighten.

“i-i thought about sending an email later, yeah. to consider it all, see what he thinks.”

“and what about what i think?”

“since sunghoon is now second, he could take on the rest of it with you. it’ll be the most comfortable option for you too, surely.”

“could you please stop assuming shit? it’s getting really annoying at this point.” you saw his jaw tighten as his tone got harsher, already too used to his mean stare to care. maybe you were assuming, but you also knew you were right. you had been fighting since the beginning of all of it and only really got along for a few lucky weeks, in which you still bickered with each other every single day. and now you were so depressed and unmotivated you couldn’t find the strength to simply care, which you knew he would not understand and would only make him more pissed. there was also the fact that you had half fucked and had not touched the topic at all, which only made it even more awkward. so yeah, you were pretty confident to assume he would be more comfortable working with someone who was his childhood friend. you didn’t understand why he was presenting it as such a wild guess.

“i’ll probably have to go anyway, so.”

“what do you mean go?”

“like, leave uni.” “what are you saying? have you officially lost your mind?”

“no. but there’s a big possibility i’ve officially lost my scholarship. and you know, being a part time server on the weekends does not make you a millionaire.”

“mr. jones said it. a setback is not a reason to give up.”

“mr. jones and you live in a different world from mine, it seems.”

“in my world, you’ve always been able to be up there. so what changed now?” the halls were pretty empty by then, making jake’s slightly raised voice sound louder.

“a lot, actually.“ “yeah, i’ve noticed.”

you both fell quiet, a heavy silence coming between you two as you didn’t know how to end the conversation. you were so desperate to leave that building and most importantly, to leave his side. “why did it change, though?” jake suddenly spoke, half whispering his words as if they were slipping from his mouth without his permission.

“jake… it’s just hard to explain.”

“but why won’t you try? try to explain it. what is it? do i have anything to do with it? does jess? please, y/n.” you were shocked at the desperation in his voice, making your chest tighten as you tried to build an answer for him. the truth was that everything had exploded right in your face and you had finally realized that maybe, just maybe, you couldn’t keep up. you weren’t strong or smart enough, and you were trying to make amends with the fact that it had been haunting you for years without end. you had simply reached your limit.

“i-it’s… i mean… jess coming back obviously made me be a little too emotional. irrational, even. but that’s obviously not all of it.”

“and me?” “you what?”

“did you change because of me?” you slightly opened your mouth just to close it again. you were trying to choose your words carefully, because yeah, jake had changed something inside you that you were too scared to confront. something irrational that felt stupid to even contemplate for a second, so him not being in your life anymore had definitely helped you not think about it. although you obviously couldn’t tell him that.

“i-i don’t know. i just know i can’t keep up. i can’t keep going like this.” “like how?”

“killing myself to reach you. i don’t see why i should keep doing this shit. life doesn’t make sense right now, to be honest.”

“so is it uni? or is it life?” “i just know i need time, jake.”

“well, we don’t have much of that.” jake went back to sounding cold and direct, making you wonder why he was inquiring so much if he would just get mad at your sad attempt to give him honest answers.

“that’s why i’m going to ask mr. jones to assign it to sunghoon if they both want to. if i had known i would get like this, i wouldn’t have accepted it from the beginning. and i am sorry. you deserve a good, responsible partner, and right now i’m everything but that.”

“do you think i would ever want that?” “i think you should.”

“you always think for me. and somehow you always get it wrong.” you wondered when you could have possibly thought so much on his behalf. even if it was a sensitive moment, you couldn’t help but always get a little annoyed at jake’s words. “so you’re just going to drop out?”

“i don’t know if i have many more options, jake.”

“you could always work as hard as you’ve always done and come back to your rank.”

“i just told you! i’m killing myself living like this, jake. i am not like you. it doesn’t fucking come naturally to me, at all. nothing. neither studies nor being a fucking functional human being, it seems.”

“do you think it is that easy? that it’s all instinctive?”

“i think you’re a smart person. truly intelligent, and a lovely guy. and me having to compete against that just to be able to study here means having to constantly fight a losing battle. and i’m just so tired i wish i could stay in bed forever right now. so yeah, i am giving up. and if you want to judge me about it, go ahead. to be honest, i don’t have the strength to care about anything anymore, so you are free to do so.” you quietly spoke as you tried to be honest with your feelings while putting it all into words, which was not an easy task.

“this is not me judging, y/n. this is me trying to… make you stay.”

“i don’t have a real reason to.”

“we’re all here for a reason. we’re all needed here.”

“that’s easy for you to say.”

“what do you mean by that?”

“nothing. let’s just… leave it.”

“no! say it! you’re not running away like you always do.”

you sighed at his insistence, giving up on your attempt to not voice your thoughts. “you are for sure needed here, jake. meanwhile, there are other people who have no one. not everyone’s life experience is the same, you know.” you shrugged your shoulders up in annoyance, knowing he would never understand where you were coming from.

“you are needed too!” jake kept raising his voice in an angry tone, obliging you to take a deep breath in order to supress the primal instinct you were having to beat the shit out of him.

“whatever, jake. this goes nowhere.” you tried to speak in a fake calm tone, knowing it did not make any sense to keep the conversation going.

“i need you.” jake suddenly spoke more quietly, making you doubt of what you had just heard coming out of his mouth. you stayed silent, trying to make sense of his confusing words. “i need you to be up there just a decimal away, trying to beat me to keep me grounded. i need you to argue and fight back and i need you to humble me and give me a different perspective because we’re so similar but so different all at once.” you couldn't stop looking at him, feeling as if you were under a spell that didn't allow you take your attention off him. it felt like he was under a spell too, one that forced him to only be able to speak nonsense. “i need your presence. in class, in the library, even at a stupid party that you didn’t want to go to, even if i ignore you there. and i need you to finish this project with me because it won’t ever be the same without you.”

“you don’t mean that.” you quickly said, not comprehending why he was so eagerly trying to make you write the project with him all of a sudden. you didn't understand why the sim jake would be so insecure about presenting the project with someone else that he would give you that fake sappy speech you definitely didn't need to hear.

“then why am i saying it? do i look like the kind of person to just go around saying that kind of shit to everyone?”

“you told me you hate me.” you couldn't hold back at this point, having to get it out of your chest to prove your point.

“because i do. you make me hate you because you make me feel so unsure of everything i was so confident about. you make me question myself and i fucking hate the uncertainty of it.” as you heard his words, you couldn't help letting out a dry laugh, making his expression turn even sharper.

“the thing is you’ll always be better than me. you’ll always win. you’ll always have the power of talking to people and being likable and being truly intelligent, and i won’t ever have that. this was never a true competition because i was the only one fighting to change the end results. so what are you so uncertain of?” you pointed at him in an accusatory manner, knowing you wouldn't let him win this one. “don’t worry though, because it is mutual. i’ve hated you for years now because you are everything i’ve ever wanted to be. everything i’ve fought for and haven’t fully got, you effortlessly have it. everything i know i can’t be, you just are. and being your partner only made me realize that the lines between admiration and hatred are a little too blurred.” the bitter tone in your speech was so noticeable it was kind of pityful, but you couldn't contain your emotions anymore. “so i think i have my reasons to hate you because i see you as a threat. but you? how could i ever cause you trouble when i can’t even reach you?”

“do you genuinely think that’s what you make me so uncertain of? academics?”

“then what is it?! why is it that you dislike me so?”

“because i fucked your friend to feel something and still, all i could ever think of was when our next library hangout would be.” jake whispered with a heavy voice, now being the one who was pointing his finger at you. he took a deep breath as you stayed silent, trying to process everything he was implying in such a rushed way. you weren’t prepared for this at all, since you would have never guessed you would be even be sharing a single word with him at that point. “all i could think of was why you were pulling away, and then making excuses, and then not coming to class. all i can think of is you because you won’t give me answers.”

“answers to what?!” “is you not wanting to accept it part of why you disappeared?” 

“accept what exactly?” you raised your eyebrows in a challenging way, not wanting to accept that maybe you knew what he was talking about, and maybe he already had your answer.

“that you feel the same. that you can’t stop thinking about me.” jake kept trying to keep his volume steady, since you were still in the middle of the hallway where you bumped into your professor. no one was around, but both of you were too afraid of someone hearing your little discussion, given the content of it. “you have to feel something, come on.”

“how could i not?! we… we did that. and i know it’s not the same for you, but to me it’s a big deal.” you automatically put your hands in your head as you remembered your encounter with jake. every time a brief flashback came to your mind, you felt the need to shake it off physically, as if trying to get the memory out of your body. “i can’t believe i actually did that with you, fuck.”

“do you regret it?” jake was now staring into your eyes, making you look around while trying to avoid his gaze at all cost. you just couldn’t do it, couldn’t look in the eyes of the man who was confronting you about your possible regret for having your first sexual experience with him.

“let’s just not. please.” as you pleaded to let the topic go, you saw his expression change instantly. his brows frowned and his jaw clenched, making you comprehend he hadn’t liked that answer at all.

“so are we ever going to actually address anything?! you’re fucking impossible, i swear.”

“where does that take us, jake? i address how i feel and then what? i have to keep seeing you and act as if nothing is going on?”

“if we address it, then maybe we can do something about it!” jake suddenly spoke out loud, making you jump in fear of what anybody could hear, even if nobody seemed to be around.

“do not raise your voice, fuck! and what exactly are we going to do, huh? go ahead, enlighten me.” jake stayed silent as your voice trembled, knowing he had no idea what to answer. “exactly. so stop acting like anything you are saying actually makes sense.” as he heard your words, you noticed a slight change in his demeanor for a second, making your chest automatically tighten.

“fine! this is fucking stupid anyway.”

“yeah, fine. the report will be done by the end of the week, so don’t worry about it. and you don’t need to come to mr. jones’ meeting, i’ll cover up for you since you’ve been going alone these past weeks.”

“yeah, whatever.” jake turned around and left the building, parting ways while mad at each other once again. some things may never change, you thought.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

as you opened your laptop to miserably continue writing what felt like your death statement, you received a notification that made your phone vibrate, which wasn’t that usual for you on a friday evening.

unknown number: hey this is sunoo !!! unknown number: from the party and stats ii unknown number: im calling u okay ??

you didn’t have much time to react before your phone rang repeatedly, making your heart jump inside your chest from the near fatal levels of anxiety you were suddenly experiencing. you could have just let it ring, act as if your phone was silenced and send a text back later. but maybe, this was your opportunity to show someone you could be nice, that having embarrassing amounts of social anxiety didn’t mean you were unapproachable. fuck it.

“hey, sunoo?” “hi, y/n. sorry for the sudden call.” sunoo giggled lightly, as if he knew he had startled you and was genuinely sorry for it.

“that’s okay! no worries.” you tried to play it off, knowing you were actually feeling so anxious you could crawl up the wall.

“so… since you probably won’t let me take the top i accidentally destroyed to the cleaner…” “sunoo! first do not say you “destroyed” it. could that be any more dramatic? and second, yeah, you’re right. i won’t let you.”

“well... then i thought i should make it up to you somehow. so how about we hang out? i know it's not a big deal, but since i don't see you around much, i thought i could help distract you from uni a bit." your mind started spinning as you tried to make sense of what he was saying. that was the last thing you thought sunoo would call you for, so you weren’t ready for it in the slightest. “you can say no, you know. i know you are a really busy student.” sunoo giggled again in an attempt to make things less awkward given your previous silence, which you really appreciated. you did want to hang out with someone though, even more with someone as cool as him. even if you were on the brink of a panic attack, you wanted to.

“n-no! i mean, i do want to hang out. i’m actually like, super grateful right now. i was just… surprised.” “surprised? i told you we should be friends, y/n! how can we be friends if we don’t ever see each other?” you laughed at his sweetness, becoming mesmerized at how good he was at socializing. he definitely needed to teach you his ways.

“anyway, so the plan is... a small get-together at my apartment. i invited a few people over and i thought you could come too?" "when you say "small get-together"... how small are we actually talking?" you said in a doubtful tone, not trusting you and sunoo shared the same concept for small when it came to being social.

"mmh... i would maybe say fifteen people? if nothing gets too out of control, yeah. i would say about that many." "is that what you consider small, sunoo?"

"is that what you consider big, y/n? we need to find you new guys, then." sunoo said as he giggled in a mischievous way, making you chuckle too.

"sunoo!" "sorry, sorry. now seriously, it's going to be fun. you know i'm good with people and i'll literally force you to have fun. so...?"

there was a pause after that, but it didn’t feel empty like the ones you were used to. it felt full, actually, like someone had filled the silence with intention instead of expectation. you found yourself sitting a little straighter without really noticing, staring at your screen like the answer might already be written there if you looked hard enough. something in the way sunoo said it, the casual certainty, the assumption that you could just exist somewhere else for a night and it would be fine, it made your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant “i don’t really… do parties, sunoo. last time it went soooo horribly, i don't even want to remember it.” you said finally, quieter than you meant it to be, immediately hating how predictable it sounded, like you were repeating a line you had rehearsed for years instead of answering a simple invitation.

“i know.” sunoo replied, and there was no judgment in it, just acknowledgement. “but that’s kind of why i’m inviting you, y/n, not because you already do it well.” that made you stop, fingers hovering over your keyboard, because it should have been simple, just a yes or no, just another thing to decline and forget about and return to your increasingly collapsing routine. but your life had started feeling so small lately that even the idea of refusing something that wasn’t required felt like reinforcing the walls around you. “it’s not going to be overwhelming.” he added quickly, as if sensing the exact direction your thoughts were spiraling. “and if it is, you can literally just come to me and i’ll get you out, no questions, no drama, i promise.”

you almost laughed at that, because you didn’t really believe in exits that clean, not anymore. not with jess, not with jake, not even with yourself. but still — “okay.” you said before you could overthink it out of existence, the word slipping out too quickly, too final, like your brain had briefly disconnected from its usual committee of warnings

“okay?” sunoo repeated, like he wanted to make sure he had heard correctly.

“yeah.” you swallowed, already feeling the familiar panic of commitment creeping in but forcing yourself to continue anyway. “i’ll come.”

there was a beat of silence on the other end, and then sunoo laughed, bright and immediate, like you had just agreed to something normal instead of something that felt like stepping off a ledge you had been standing on for months “you’re actually coming.” he said, almost disbelieving. “okay wait, this is big, this is actually big, y/n. i’m proud of you right now.”

“now, don’t make it weird.” you muttered automatically, but your voice had softened without permission.

“i’m not making it weird, i’m making it true.” he said, and then, lighter again, “i’ll send you my address, okay? and i’ll make sure you don’t end up standing in a corner the entire time like a tragic main character.”

“i am not a tragic main character.” you said, even though your entire life recently had been arguing otherwise.

"i know! so that's why we're proving it tonight. see you later, y/n!" and then he was gone, the call ending as quickly as it had started, leaving you staring at your phone like it had just made a decision on your behalf that you weren’t entirely sure you were qualified to make. you turned back to your laptop, cursor blinking at you like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t just accepted an invitation into a space full of people you didn't know, all alone. for a second you considered undoing it, sending a follow-up message, pulling back into the safety of your own excuses. but your fingers didn’t move. instead, you just sat there, feeling something unfamiliar settle in your chest, not quite hope, not quite relief, more like the brief illusion that you might still be allowed to exist somewhere outside of exhaustion and expectations and the quiet weight of always being second to everything you wanted.

by the time you arrived, you almost turned around twice. once while standing outside the building, once while waiting for the elevator. neither attempt was particularly convincing, though. they felt less like genuine decisions and more like ritual, the predictable final stage of any plan that involved leaving your comfort zone. your brain offered excuses automatically now, producing them with the efficiency of a machine that had been trained on years of avoidance. you could still go home and nobody would be angry, you thought. sunoo would probably understand. you could return to the familiar rhythm of proving your worth through productivity until you were too exhausted to think about anything else. or you could just lay in bed for hours just how you had been doing lately. the thought should have been comforting, but instead, it just made you tired. when the elevator doors opened, you stepped out before you could change your mind again. music drifted faintly through the hallway, voices too. you stared at the apartment number for a moment, then knocked. almost immediately, the door flew open.

"holy shit." sunoo looked genuinely stunned. "you actually came."

"shut up."  "no, because this is history."  "it's not history!"

"for you?" he pointed dramatically. "this is absolutely history." despite yourself, your mouth twitched, making sunoo gasp. "oh my god, and she's smiling too."

"i'm leaving."  "no you're not."

before you could protest, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you inside. the apartment was warm, that was the first thing you noticed. warm and loud and alive. not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it immediately felt different from the quiet apartment you had left behind. people occupied every available space, so you quickly realized there were a bit more than fifteen people inside. it didn't even surprise you, to be honest. some sat cross-legged on the floor, others crowded around the kitchen island. music played from somewhere deeper inside the apartment, blending with conversation and laughter until everything became one continuous sound. you froze for a second as your brain immediately began scanning for danger. where do i stand. where am i supposed to look. i don't know anyone. what if everyone can tell i don't belong here. what if —

"hey." you blinked. sunoo was watching you. "breathe."

you frowned. "i am breathing."

"debatable." you rolled your eyes, which seemed to satisfy him.

"good."  "good?" 

"you rolled your eyes."  "and?" 

"that's normal behavior. we're aiming for normal behavior tonight."

"you're more annoying than i thought. you lied to me, sunoo." you said in a sarcastic tone, a light smile appearing without permission.

"that's even better." you couldn't help laughing. just a little, but enough. sunoo grinned like he had personally solved depression, which was deeply annoying but strangely comforting. the next hour passed differently than you expected. within ten minutes, you had been introduced to more people than you usually spoke to in an entire month. and somehow, none of them seemed particularly interested in judging you. a girl complimented your earrings, someone asked about your major. another person immediately started complaining about one of their professors, someone spent ten full minutes passionately arguing about the correct way to eat instant ramen. you found yourself listening more than speaking, but nobody seemed bothered by that. for once, silence wasn't treated like a problem that needed fixing. halfway through a conversation, you caught yourself laughing at something and immediately felt a strange ache in your chest. the realization hit unexpectedly, because you couldn't remember the last time you had done that. the thought lingered longer than it should have, because it wasn't happiness exactly. happiness felt too large a word, too permanent. this was smaller, more fragile, like finding a patch of sunlight in a room you had forgotten contained windows. for a moment, you stood near the kitchen holding a drink you hadn't touched much, watching people move around the apartment. laughing, talking, living. and suddenly an uncomfortable thought appeared — what if this is what everyone else had been doing? what if life wasn't supposed to feel like an endless attempt to stay afloat? what if there were entire versions of adulthood that didn't revolve around endurance? the thought should have been hopeful, but instead, it made your throat tighten. because if that was true, then somewhere along the way you had missed it. you had become so focused on surviving each week that you had stopped asking whether survival was supposed to be the goal. for a second, you felt strangely disconnected from yourself, like you were looking at your own life from a distance. the pressure, the loneliness, the way every achievement seemed to dissolve the moment you reached it. all of it suddenly appeared not tragic but absurd. you had spent so long waiting for life to begin after the next deadline that you hadn't noticed it was already happening. around you, without you. you took a longer sip from your drink, just enough to make you decide that, for tonight, you didn't want to think about it anymore. for tonight, you didn't want to measure your worth, you didn't want to compare yourself to anyone, you didn't want to think about the conference. or the scholarship, or the future, or jess, or jake. for one night, you wanted to be a person before you were a project. maybe tomorrow morning everything would return exactly as it had been, but standing there in the middle of a crowded apartment, surrounded by people who expected absolutely nothing from you, it felt like enough. for now, enough was more than you had been allowing yourself lately.

the small pocket of sunlight sunoo had cleared inside your chest actually stayed for hours, expanding into something that felt dangerously close to real happiness as you leaned against the kitchen counter. you took heavy gulps from a plastic cup filled with cheap vodka, chasing it with laughter you didn't have to force. you were drunk, the good kind of drunk where the sharp edges of the room start to blur and the music becomes a warm weight pressing against your shoulders, keeping you grounded in a way you hadn't felt in months. you were actually having fun, tasting a tiny sliver of what a regular twenty year old life was supposed to feel like, right until the heavy front door swung open and the cold air from the hallway cut straight through the warmth. it was that same involuntary, miserable instinct that made your eyes snap up, immediately tracking the shift in the room's energy as jake walked in. of course you had thought about the slight possibility of him being there, but you hadn't let it stop you from coming, which you were now regretting a little. he looked different, his hair falling into his eyes and wearing a oversized black hoodie that made him look smaller than usual. but you didn't run this time as the liquor in your veins gave you a stupid, stubborn sort of bravery. you just stayed in your corner, deliberately turning your back to him and pouring another heavy splash of alcohol into your cup, determined to ignore him. for two long hours, it became a silent, agonizing war of avoidance, both of you staying on opposite sides of the crowded apartment. you heavily drank down cup after cup just to find the nerve to exist in the same breathing space without completely losing your mind. you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he threw back shots at the kitchen island, his eyes dark and completely fixed on you whenever you laughed at something sunoo said, until the air in the room became so thick with unspoken venom and burning liquor that you couldn't breathe. you desperately needed to escape the suffocating heat, your head spinning violently as you stumbled your way through the back corridor, pushing open the heavy metal door to the fire escape just to let the freezing night air shock your system.

the click of the door behind you was almost immediate, and you didn't even have to turn around to know it was him because the sharp scent of his cologne was mixed with the heavy smell of alcohol breathing off his skin. "not now, jake." you whispered into the wind, your hands gripping the freezing metal railing to keep yourself steady as the world tilted slightly from the sheer amount of alcohol you had consumed. "i was having a good time for once. i was actually fine until you walked through that door."

jake didn't answer with his usual sharp arrogance. he just stumbled slightly as he stepped up next to you, his face flushed and his eyes wild with a messy, drunken desperation that matched the chaos in your own chest. "you were pretending i wasn't there." he rasped, his voice rough and completely stripped of his neat academic precision. his fingers suddenly caught your wrist with a loose, heavy grip that you didn't even have the strength to pull away from. "can't believe you've been doing it for weeks now, y/n. you've vanished from class, you've left me alone with all the data. and now you show up here smiling at everyone like i didn't touch you like that in that room."

your heart thumped in your chest at the mention of that, allowing you to see how drunk he was at that moment too. you let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the vodka burning the back of your throat as you finally looked at him. "because it meant nothing, jake. we are nothing. why are you even here? sunoo didn't say you were coming."

jake's grip tightened, his eyes narrowing as they became teary, completely unprompted. your body froze entirely at the sight of it. "because i told him to invite you. i told him everything, y/n. i told him because i was going fucking insane trying to figure out why you left."

the humiliation that washed over you in that second was heavier than any academic failure you had ever experienced. your stomach dropped so hard you felt physically sick, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped animal as you stared at his beautiful, desperate face through a blur of fresh tears. that classroom had been your rock bottom, the secret place where you had completely dismantled your own dignity and given your first time to a boy who claimed he hated you. and now that same boy was telling you he had taken that fragile, private moment and handed it over to his friend like it was just some casual gossip. "you told him?" your voice came out as a pathetic squeak, your hands coming up to your head as a sob tore through your chest. "you fucking told someone, jake? i trusted you to at least keep that between us, to let me pretend it was just a nightmare. and you went and exposed me to your friend? your friend who also happens to be the only person that i can call a friend right now too?!"

"no, y/n, it wasn't like that, i swear to god it wasn't." he panicked, his hands flying up to grip your upper arms, his fingers digging into your skin through your thin top as if he could force you to understand the chaos inside his head. "i didn't laugh about it, i didn't treat it like a joke. i was drowning. i've never felt like this about anyone in my entire life, and you locked me out so completely that i thought i was losing my mind. i needed help. i asked sunoo to bring you here so i could just look at you, so i could know you were still real and not just something i ruined."

"but you did ruin me!" you screamed, your voice cracking completely as you pushed against his chest with all your might. he barely moved though, his grip only tightening as his own tears finally spilled over his eyelashes, tracking down his flushed cheeks. "you ruined my head, you ruined my focus, and now i can't even look at sunoo without knowing he's picturing me on that classroom with you! you take everything from me, jake. you always take everything until there's absolutely nothing left for myself."

"then take something from me!" he yelled back, his voice breaking into a ragged, desperate sob that shook his entire frame. his forehead came down to press against yours until you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "hate me, hit me, scream at me, do whatever the fuck you want, but stop acting like i'm the only one pulling the strings here. you think you're the only one drowning? look at me, y/n. look at my fucking hands."

you looked down involuntarily, seeing the way his fingers were trembling against your arms, his knuckles white. the untouchable number one, the golden boy of the behavioral sciences department, was completely falling apart on a freezing fire escape, stripped of his ego, his composure, and everything that made him superior to you. "i don't care about you or your stupid fucking hands, jake." you whispered, the alcohol making your head spin as the cold wind whipped your hair across your face. "i don't have the energy to care anymore. look at the wood panel on the wall inside. go look at the printed list. i moved five ranks down. i'm seventh."

"it's just one semester." he pleaded, his mouth moving against your skin as he spoke, desperately trying to catch your gaze. "mr. jones said it himself, it's just a setback. we can finish the report this weekend, we can present, and next term you'll be right back up there. you're too smart to let a stupid ranking define you."

"i don't have a next term, jake." you said, your voice dropping into a flat stillness that completely cut through his frantic energy. you stopped fighting his grip, letting your arms hang uselessly at your sides as you looked at him with empty, exhausted eyes. "my scholarship is gone. the criteria says you have to maintain a position in the top three to keep the funding. i checked the portal before i came here tonight. next month, my tuition doubles, and i have exactly seven hundred dollars in my savings account from my weekend shifts. i'm dropping out. i have to pack my bags and go home."

the silence that followed was suffocating, the muffled bass from the party inside the apartment suddenly feeling like it belonged to a different universe entirely. jake just stared at you, his mouth slightly open, his hands slowly loosening on your arms as the harsh reality of your words finally cracked through his sheltered world. hard work wasn't going to fix the variables and a low grade didn't just mean studying harder, it meant packing up your entire life because your bank account was empty.

"i can pay for it." he said suddenly, his voice rising in a frantic, terrifying pitch as he grabbed your wrists, his grip turning clumsy and desperate. "y/n, listen to me, i can help. i can call my family right now and we can talk about it. it's nothing to them, it's just a phone call. you can stay in the dorms, you don't have to leave, we can just fix it-"

"stop it!" you shrieked, pulling your hands back with such violent force that you scraped your knuckles against the metal railing. the sheer humiliation of his offer felt like a physical blow to your chest, exposing the unbridgeable gulf between the two of you. "do you have any idea how pathetic you're making me feel right now? you think you can just buy my survival? you think my entire life's tragedy can just be solved by a wire transfer from your parents?"

"i'm just trying to keep you here!" he shouted back, his face twisting in absolute agony as the tears poured down his face, his chest heaving under his hoodie. "because i don't know how to exist in this place if you're not here! i don't want sunghoon to challenge my data, i don't want anyone else sitting across from me in the library bickering about methodologies. i need you, y/n. i need the only person who actually looks at me and sees someone worth fighting instead of someone to admire."

"but it was never a fight for you, jake, i told you." you whispered, a final, heavy tear falling down your chin as the alcohol gave way to a cold clarity. "it was effortless for you, you wake up and you're brilliant. and i've spent three long years completely destroying my mental health just to stay some decimal points away from a guy who i thought didn't even know my name until some months ago. i am completely empty. i have no more money, i have no more friends, and i have absolutely nothing left inside of me to give to this university, or to mr. jones, or to you."

jake's shoulders completely collapsed inward, making him look so small under the flickering orange light of the fire escape. "did you really hate me that much?" he whispered into the dark. "the whole time? even in that classroom?"

"i hated how much i admired you." you murmured, stepping closer to him one last time, your hand moving automatically to touch the soft fabric of his hoodie before dropping back down. "and i hated that when you touched me, for a split second, i forgot that i was drowning. but we can't keep doing this, jake. we're just two broken people using each other to feel something stable, and it's making us toxic. it's making us mean."

he didn't argue. he just reached out, his trembling fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear with a tenderness you had never seen in him. when his lips met yours this time, there was no hunger, no harshness, and no anger like there had been the first time. it was a slow, mourning kiss, a silent acknowledgment of everything you could have been if the world had been a little more fair, tasting of cheap alcohol and the salty weight of a shared grief. you let yourself sink into it for one last, agonizing second, breathing in the sharp scent of his cologne and the warmth of his skin, memorizing the exact weight of his body against yours before you firmly pulled away.

"the report is finished." you said softly, backing toward the balcony door, your hand reaching behind you to grip the cold metal handle. "i formatted the final citations before i came here tonight. i'll send the file to your email when i get back to my room. submit it under your name, jake. you deserve the top spot."

"i don't give a fuck about the spot." he whispered, his eyes wide and completely vacant as he stood in the freezing wind, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. "don't go. please. just... let me walk you back."

"i want to." you whispered, the admission slipping out before you could stop it, tasting like the bitter vodka and the salt of your own tears as you looked at him. you suddenly saw the raw loneliness that he had been carrying at the top of that pedestal for years, a weight that was just as heavy as your own even if it looked different from the outside. "god, jake, you don't understand, i want to stay more than anything, i want to go back to the library and argue about variables. i want to stay here and keep fighting you for the top spot until we both lose our minds, but i can't." your hand trembled against the cold metal handle, the friction of the iron biting into your skin. his posture looked completely ruined in a way that made him look so human, so terribly fragile, that it made your chest ache. "i don't have a choice. i never had one. i'm just... out of time, jake. i'm so sorry." you didn't give him the chance to find more words or offer more pieces of a world you couldn't afford to live in, turning around with a quiet sob and pushing the heavy door open. you stepped back into the warm, blurred chaos of the apartment before your resolve could completely fail you and make you stay.

as the heavy metal door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the freezing wind and leaving jake standing entirely undone under the flickering orange bulb, you started walking through the crowded hallway. the bass from the speakers vibrated deep inside your hollow chest while people laughed and spilled drinks around you, entirely oblivious to the fact that your time there had just officially ended on a fire escape. you felt a terrifying wave of clarity wash over you, the alcohol finally settling into a cold finality that made the past three years of sleepless nights, skipped meals, and agonizing anxiety feel like a tragic joke of a sacrifice made for a numbered list that didn't even matter anymore. you thought about sunoo standing somewhere in that crowd, about the crushing humiliation of knowing jake had exposed that to him. but even that anger felt exhausted now, swallowed up by the heartbreaking realization that jake hadn't done it to hurt you — he had done it because he was drowning in his own isolated, perfect tower. it filled you with a heavy ache to realize that the one intimate piece of yourself you had kept protected through all the loneliness of your academic life now belonged to a boy who you were going to love and miss in the dark for the rest of your life. a boy whose effortless privilege allowed him to offer your entire tuition like a casual favor while you were left to pack your life into cardboard boxes with seven hundred dollars to your name.

but as you grabbed your coat and stepped out of the building into the quiet, dark street, the cool air hitting your face felt less like a punishment and more like a slow expiration. it was like a quiet release from a beautiful trap you had been building for yourself since the day you arrived. and though your chest felt entirely empty and your future was a terrifying black void of uncertainty, you took a deep breath of the night air and finally let yourself weep for the library nights that were gone, for the competition you had lost, and for the boy on the fire escape who you were leaving entirely alone at the top.

Summary:

You woke up in the world of TWD, and you fought so hard to not change the plot of the show, to not get too close— afraid that you'll end up with more losses than not. However, the more time you spend with them, interact with them, laugh and smile with them.. You realize that you're slowly getting attached to every single one of them.

Still, you try not to socialize much, because you don't want to get hurt when a character dies. But.. People is real stubborn.

00, 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 010.

011, 012, 013, 014, 015, 016, 017, 018, 019, 020.

021, 022, 023, 024, 025, 026, 027, 028, 029, 030.

031, 032, 033, 034, 035, 036, 037, 038, 039, 040.

The story will be updated every other day, but a new chapter may come twice a day depending on how the day goes so far. Just keep an eye out. :D

Featuring. Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins Word Count. 20k (please, I promise it's worth it) Trigger Warning(s). SMUT (18+) ♦ fucking in the woods ♦ slightly horror-adjacent? but extremely tame, dw Notes. I have tried to incorporate accurate Russian culture into this work, but keep in mind that I'm not Russian, so beware of any inaccuracies, esp in terminology! Feminine terms/pronouns used for reader throughout the work.

By the time you were ten, you had buried your mother in the ground so hard the priest cracked two shovels trying to dig her a grave deep enough for God to find her.

You remember thinking, even then, that this was the trouble with Nod-Krai. The dead were always closer to the surface than they ought to be. Frost kept them honest. It pushed coffins up through the soil come the spring thaw, the way a sin pushes its way up through a confession, and the men would go out with their hooks and their crosses and put the bodies back where they belonged, muttering prayers with the particular tiredness of men who did not quite believe them anymore.

You think of this now, several winters later, because you are walking through a storm that wants very badly to make you one of the dead it puts back.

The wind does not blow so much as it arrives, all at once, from every direction, as if the forest itself has exhaled. It finds the seam where your shawl meets your collar and works its fingers in. Snow has filled the road past your knees, and the birches on either side have become something else entirely in this light, white bones standing sentry, their black eyes watching you pass with the patient indifference your Babulya always warned you trees like that could feel. They remember who walks past them in the dark, she used to say, crossing herself, then crossing you, two fingers pressed hard to your collarbone like she could pin the blessing into your skin so it would not slip off. And they tell.

You are walking to her now. Babulya Marfa, who has not left her izba on the far side of the wood in nine years, who sends word twice a season to whoever is fool enough to make the crossing. Who is, as of three days ago, very possibly dying. Your uncle wrote it in a hand so unsteady you had to read the letter twice to be certain the words were asking for you and not something crueler. You left before the ink on your reply had dried. You did not think, until you were already an hour into the trees, to ask why a storm like this had chosen tonight, of all nights, to come down off the mountains and bury the only road that led to her door.

Your father would call this foolishness. He would say a woman with sense waits out the weather in town, drinks her tea, says her prayers to the Tsaritsa by the stove, where the only thing she has to fear is whether the samovar needs more coals. But your father is three days behind you, and you are not, despite what people say about you, entirely without sense. You are simply the kind of fool who has always believed that love is owed in person, paid in full, while there is still time to pay it.

So you walk. Your valenki are soaked through to felt that no longer remembers what dry feels like. The lantern you carried from town gave up its flame an hour ago, smothered by wind that seemed almost deliberate in the way it found the glass, and you have not had the courage to stop and relight it, certain that if you stood still even a moment, the cold would decide you had made its decision easier and simply keep you.

.

It is in this dark, this particular shade of black that swallows the difference between shut eyes and open ones, that you see it.

A flame. 

Blue, and so small you mistake it at first for the storm playing tricks on your sight.. It hangs low among the birches, perhaps thirty paces off the road, no taller than a candle's flame and twice as faint, guttering as though some unseen hand keeps pinching it nearly to death and then, at the last possible moment, relenting.

Your whole body goes still with the particular stillness of a hare that has just understood the shape in the grass is not grass.

Bolotnik fires, Babulya's voice says, clear as if she stood beside you, clearer than she has sounded in any letter these nine years. You were seven the first time she told you, the two of you wrapped under the same wool blanket while the stove ticked and settled, her hands smelling of tallow and dried dill as she traced the story into your palm like she was teaching you to read by touch alone. 

The wisps. The Fae's own lanterns, lit from a coal they stole out of the first fire that ever burned, before God made the sun to make fires honest. They do not burn for warmth, devushka. They burn for hunger. You see one in the marsh, in the wood, anywhere the dark pools like water, and you do not go to it. You let it call you sweetheart in your mother's voice if it likes. You let it weep. You keep walking, and you do not look back, because the moment you go to comfort it, it has already won.

You know this. You have known it since before you knew the shape of your own name in your own handwriting.

And still, fool you are, your feet have already turned off the road.

You tell yourself it is only that the flame is so weak, so clearly wretched in the way it strains and dims and strains again like something genuinely about to gutter out, that some animal part of you, the same part that once spent a whole spring nursing a crow with a broken wing back into the sky, simply cannot leave it to die. You tell yourself a great many things, in fact, in the time it takes you to cross those thirty paces, snow past your knees, breath turned to frost-lace at your lips, and every one of those things is a lie you are telling so that the truer, stupider reason, it looked so alone out there, the way you feel most nights, and you have never once in your life been able to leave a lonely thing alone, does not have to be looked at directly.

You should know better. Babulya spent half your childhood making certain that you did.

But you have never been able to walk past a thing that is suffering, not a crow, not a dog, not the old beggar woman outside the church whom the other girls crossed the street to avoid, and some buried, stubborn part of you has already decided, before your mind has caught up to agree, that whatever this flame is, it is hurting, and that this, more than any warning whispered over a childhood blanket, is the only fact that matters.

The snow grows strange beneath your feet as you near it, packed too smooth, untouched by wind in a perfect ring no wider than a grave, and the flame does not flicker the way fire flickers when it is fed by wind. It flickers the way breath does when it is being held back on purpose.

You stop within arm's reach and understand, all at once, two things.

The first is that there is no marsh-light hovering free in the air the way Babulya's stories always told it. It is caught, contained, burning low and blue and dying inside the soot-fogged glass of a small iron lantern, the kind a traveler might once have carried. Its handle hangs from nothing, from no hand, from no branch, suspended at the exact height a person would hold it if a person were standing there. It turns, very slightly, on its nothing-chain, as if it has only just noticed you, too.

The second is that you have already reached out your hand.

You have seen weirder things than a dying lantern with no one to hold it. You were twelve the night the Wild Hunt cornered you to a cliff, and whatever you carry from that night you have never spoken of to anyone, not even Babulya, who you suspect already knows because she never once asked. Set against that, a flame guttering in its little iron cage seems almost a kindness of a haunting, the sort a girl could reasonably survive.

Still, fear comes, and it settles less on the lantern itself than on the air pressing close around it, the way the cold here seems to bend slightly inward, the way the silence holds itself with a kind of attention. A shiver moves through you that has nothing to do with the wind. You know its name. You have felt it before, kneeling too close to the iconostasis with its rows of painted eyes, in the breath before a held secret decides whether it wants to stay held. It is the body's oldest language for something here is watching you back.

You ought to turn around now. Babulya told you this part too, the part that comes after the warning has already failed, where you are meant to drop your hand, walk back to the road, and let the wind keep whatever pity you were about to spend on a thing built to spend you in return.

But the flame dips low again, nearly to nothing, a wick about to surrender its last claim on burning, and something in your chest answers it before your senses can intervene. You think of the crow. You think, absurdly, that nothing this weak could possibly still be dangerous, the same lie every soft-hearted fool has told herself walking up to every wounded thing that ever bit her for the trouble.

You pull it from the air. It is lighter than it has any right to be, the iron cold enough to ache through your mitten, and you tuck it inside your coat against your ribs the way you'd carry a half-frozen kitten, your other hand coming up to shield the little glass door from the worst of the wind.

The clasp is iron too, plain and old, sized for fingers larger than your own, and it takes three tries with numb hands before it finally gives. The moment the door swings open, the flame leaps, rising thin and furious, bending away from your fingers like something startled out of sleep that wants nothing to do with being seen this close, this raw. You nearly snap the door shut again on instinct, certain you have woken something better left to die in peace.

But it does not strike you. It cannot, you understand a breath later. It has not the strength left to do anything but flinch, and the flinch costs it; it dips lower than before, and something in your own chest twists with a tenderness that makes no earthly sense, pointed as it is at a marsh-light, a Fae's stolen coal, a thing your own grandmother spent half your childhood teaching you to fear.

You cup your hands around it anyway. You bring your face close, the way you would to coax a coal back to life in a dying stove, and you breathe.

Not hard. Not the way you'd feed a fire that wanted feeding. Soft, the way you'd breathe warm air over fingers gone white, willing the blood back into them before it could be lost for good. The wind itself seems, for one strange suspended moment, to hold off from you, as though even it is waiting to see what you'll do.

The flame catches your breath the way a starving thing catches the smell of bread.

It does not simply grow. It answers. The blue of it deepens to something nearer violet at the root, then climbs to gold at the crown, and the little glass casing fills with light so sudden and so warm against your numbed face that you gasp and nearly drop the whole lantern into the snow. Heat rolls off it, real heat, more than a flame that size has any business giving off, and for one heartbeat you feel something unmistakably like relief, though whether it belongs to you or to the flame you could not say.

Then the air around the lantern draws tight, the way air draws tight before lightning finds its mark, and a crackle of something that is neither quite fire nor quite frost races up the iron in a bright thread, snapping hard against your fingertips. You cry out and let go.

The lantern does not fall.

It is simply gone. No smoke trails where it hung, no sound marks where it might have struck the snow, only the smell of scorched air left behind and the ghost-shape of the flame still printed on the inside of your eyes, the way a candle leaves its light behind even after you've shut them.

You stand there with your scorched hand cradled to your chest, the wind rushing back into the silence all at once as though it, too, had been holding its breath, and for a long moment your mind refuses to agree with what your eyes have just told it.

It is only when you finally look down, half expecting to find iron and broken glass scattered somewhere in the drifts, that you see them.

Two prints, pressed deep into the snow before you, where a moment ago there had been no prints, no one standing at all. Not a hare's tracks. Not a wolf's. Boot prints, large, larger than any foot you have ever stood across from, sunk into the snow with the full weight of someone who had been standing there, close enough to have reached out and touched you himself, for who knows how long before you ever noticed him at all.

The wind is already filling them in, patient, the way it fills in everything in Nod-Krai eventually. By the time you find the nerve to step back toward the road, there is almost nothing left to prove they were ever there.

Almost.

. . .

The izba is a smear of gold across a field gone the colour of spilled milk, and the sight of its one lit window does something to your knees that the whole night of walking had not managed. Smoke threads up from the chimney in a thin grey rope, bent sideways by the wind, and the gate hangs in its drift with a crust of ice fused so thick along the latch that you have to work your fingers under it to lift the bar at all, your scorched hand screaming where the cold metal finds the rawest part of it.

You do not let yourself think about why that part is raw. Not yet. There will be time for that later, in the dark, when no one is asking you to be brave in front of them.

Babulya does not wait for the knock. The door opens before your knuckles ever reach it, spilling stove-light and the smell of tallow candles and dried dill out into the storm, and there she is, smaller than you remembered, wrapped in three shawls against a cold that lives in her bones now more than it ever lived in the air, one hand braced on the frame as though the doorway itself might decide to abandon her if she let go.

"Devochka moya." Her voice cracks on the second word, half scold and half prayer. "What kind of fool walks Nod-Krai in a storm like this one?"

"The kind whose grandmother is dying," you say, and step into her arms, and you hear her sardonic chuckle at your humor, the particularly dark kind you have only been comfortable enough to use with your grandmother.

She is thinner than the letter let on. You feel it through the shawls, through your own numbed hands, the way her shoulder blades sit too close beneath the wool, like a bird's, like something built for leaving. She smells the same as ever, woodsmoke and beeswax and the particular bitterness of the herbs she keeps strung along the rafters, and for one long moment neither of you says anything at all, because some reunions are better held in silence than spoiled with words.

It is she who pulls back first. It is she who takes your face in both her hands the way she always has, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones, eyes narrowed in the candlelight like she is reading something written beneath your skin.

Then her gaze drops to your hand, and whatever she finds there stops her cold.

"Show me."

"It's nothing, Babulya."

"Show me, or I will know you for a liar before you've even taken off your coat."

You hold it out. In the stove-light the burn looks worse than it felt, an angry welt curled across two fingers and into your palm, the skin gone tight and shining where the crackle caught you. Babulya's mouth presses into a line you know from a hundred childhood scrapes, the line that means she is deciding how much of her fear to let you see.

"A frozen latch," you say, before she can ask. "On the gate, two farms back. I grabbed it without my mitten, stupid of me, and it stuck like a tongue to iron in January. I had to pull it free."

It is not, strictly, a lie. There was iron. There was cold enough to take skin. You have simply rearranged the order of things, set the lantern's clasp where a gate latch ought to be, and you tell yourself this is mercy and not cowardice, that a woman with a chest like a creaking floorboard does not need to hear about lights that should not exist hovering in Nod-Krai at midnight.

Babulya studies you the way she studies bread to know if it has risen properly, with the whole of her attention and none of her trust.

"Mm," she says, which from her has always meant I do not believe you and I am choosing, for now, to let it be.

She makes you sit by the stove anyway. She fetches the little clay pot of goose fat and honey from the shelf where it has lived since before you were born, the same salve she has smeared on every burn and chilblain and skinned knee of your whole life, and her hands, though they shake now in a way they did not used to, are still steady enough for this. She works in silence, mostly, her lips moving now and then in something too quiet to be speech and too rhythmic to be anything else, a prayer worn smooth from decades of use, the kind that does not need the saint's name spoken aloud anymore to still reach him.

"You were always like this," she says at last, winding clean cloth around your fingers with a practiced, gentle pressure. "Even as a small thing. Found a wounded sparrow once, hid it under your bed in a shoebox, fed it bread soaked in milk for a week before your mother found the smell." She ties off the bandage and holds your hand a moment longer than the task requires. "Soft hearts make for hard living, in a place like this one, devochka. The wood does not reward you for your kindness."

"Then it is fortunate," you say, "that I did not do this out of kindness. I did it out of carelessness."

She looks at you the way she has looked at you your entire life, the look that has always meant I see straight through to the lie and I love you regardless, and says nothing further on the matter. She only crosses herself once, quickly, before she rises to bank the stove for the night, the gesture so old and so automatic it might be aimed at God or at you, and you are not certain, even now, that there is much difference between the two as far as Babulya is concerned.

That night you lie awake on the bench by the stove long after her breathing in the next room has gone slow and even, listening to the wind worry at the shutters, your bandaged hand cradled against your chest. The pain has dulled to something distant, banked the way Babulya banked the coals, and you are nearly asleep, the line between waking and not gone thin and porous, when the warmth finds you.

It comes first as a hum beneath the bandage, faint, almost ticklish, the way a struck glass keeps singing long after the spoon has stopped touching it. Then heat blooms beneath the cloth, gentle and total, spreading up through your wrist and into your arm like sunlight remembered rather than felt, and for one disoriented moment you think you must be dreaming of summer, of the river before it freezes, of your mother's kitchen with bread in the oven.

You do not open your eyes. Some animal instinct keeps them shut, the same instinct that once told you not to look directly at the flame in the wood, and you lie there in the dark and let whatever this is finish what it has come to do, half terror and half something perilously close to gratitude, until sleep takes you before you can decide which one ought to win.

In the morning your hand does not hurt.

You notice it before you are even fully awake, the absence of pain so total it takes you a moment to understand what is missing, the way a sudden silence can wake a person faster than any sound. You unwind the bandage by the grey light coming through the shutters and find skin beneath it unmarked, no welt, no shine of new scar tissue, nothing at all to say that iron and lightning had ever touched you there.

Babulya finds you staring at your own palm like it belongs to someone else.

She takes your hand without asking, the way she always has, turning it toward the window, running her thumb once across the place where the burn should be. Her face does something complicated, disbelief and suspicion and something older than either, something that might once have had a saint's name attached to it before the church got hold of the old fears and dressed them up as sin.

"This was not nothing two days ago," she says.

"It must not have been as bad as it looked, Babulya. The cold makes everything look worse than it is."

"Mm," she says again, and this time the sound carries more weight than before, a whole unspoken sermon folded into one syllable, but she lets your hand go and does not press further, the way a woman learns not to press a wound that has decided to close on its own.

You spend the rest of the day telling yourself the same thing in a dozen different ways, peeling potatoes at her table, feeding the stove, listening to her cough in the next room with a sound like wind through a cracked window. You tell yourself the cold does strange things to the body, that burns from frozen metal heal faster than burns from fire, that you imagined the hum beneath the bandage the way exhausted travelers imagine all manner of things in the dark.

But some quieter, more honest part of you keeps circling back to the lantern.

You think of the way it had answered your breath like a starving thing answers bread, the violet at its root, the gold at its crown. You think, before you can stop yourself, that perhaps this is its doing somehow, some strange debt repaid across whatever distance separates you now, a kindness returned for a kindness given.

Silly, you tell yourself, almost fiercely, the way you might scold a child caught believing too easily in things that want to be believed. Why would a Fae's stolen flame trouble itself over the burned hand of a girl who'd only meant to save it? You are not even certain it was Fae at all, not truly, only that it matched every word of every warning Babulya ever gave you. And warnings, you have learned, are not always honest about what they are warning against.

It is only later, scrubbing the supper pot in water gone cold, that the other thought finds you, the one you had managed, until now, not to look at directly.

The footprints.

Someone had been standing in that ring of undisturbed snow. Someone large enough to leave a mark like that, close enough to have watched you take the lantern from the air, to have watched you breathe life back into a thing that should not have had breath left to take. A lantern does not simply float along a forest road for no reason at all. A lantern belongs to a hand, even one that does not show itself.

You wonder, scrubbing harder than the pot requires, whose hand that might once have been.

The dead, perhaps, lost and wandering as the dead in this country are said to do when the ground freezes too hard to properly hold them.

Or something else. Something that does not die in any way the priests would recognise, that only loses its light for a while and waits, patient as the wind filling in footprints, for someone soft-hearted enough to give it back.

. . .

The days that follow settle into a rhythm so ordinary it almost convinces you to forget the forest entirely. You boil oats and feed them to Babulya by the spoonful when her hands shake too badly to manage the bowl herself. You mend the hole in the second shutter where the wind has been getting through and complaining about it all winter. You sit by her bed in the evenings while she tells you, again, the story of how she met your grandfather at a spring fair, embellishing some new and entirely impossible detail each time she tells it. And you let her, because a story told a hundred times is still a gift the hundred-and-first time it is given. The cough in her chest does not improve, but it does not worsen either, and you decide to count that as something close enough to mercy.

It is on the fourth morning that you notice the woodpile under the eaves has shrunk to almost nothing, and you rise before the sky has so much as considered turning grey to do something about it.

The hour before dawn in Nod-Krai has always had a particular quality of dark to it, a dark that seems to have weight, that presses against the lantern glass and the backs of your eyes both, and you have walked it before with your heart in your throat and your axe held tighter than was strictly useful against a forest that does not, as a rule, care how tightly you hold anything. You bundle yourself into your tulup, wrap the strap of the hand-sled twice around your palm, and step out into a cold so total it feels less like weather and more like a held breath, the stars still hard and bright overhead, Orion's belt hanging just where Babulya taught you to find it as a child, a line of three lights she always called, with no apparent irony, God's own measuring rope.

The walk to the deadfall stand should take the better part of an hour in this dark, picking your way around drifts and roots buried under the snow with nothing but memory and starlight to guide you. Tonight it does not.

You notice it first as an absence rather than a presence, the way you notice a missing tooth with your tongue before you understand what is gone. The drifts that usually swallow you to the knee along this stretch of path have firmed beneath your feet into something almost like a road, packed and even, as though some patient hand swept it clear before you arrived. You tell yourself it is only the wind, that drifts shift and settle on their own logic, and you keep walking, and the feeling does not leave you even as the explanation does its best to.

Then there is the light. Not moonlight, which has none to spare behind tonight's thin cloud, and not starlight either, which has never in your life been bright enough to throw a shadow. This is something low and blue, hanging at the edges of your sight the way a held thought hangs just behind the eyes, never quite where you look but always present in the place you've just stopped looking. Each time you turn your head to find its source it slides away into the black between the birches, patient, unbothered, content to let you doubt it rather than be caught.

The sled grows lighter as you fill it. This, more than anything else, is the detail you cannot make peace with later, turning it over in your mind the way you'd turn over a coin to check it wasn't counterfeit. By the time you have stacked it with as much deadfall as you can reasonably drag, the weight across your shoulder where the rope bites should be considerable, should ache the way it has ached every winter of your life doing this same chore. Instead the sled seems to glide, its runners finding the smoothest line through the snow as though the ground itself has tilted very slightly in your favour, as though some unseen hand has taken up the back end of it and is bearing the worst of the weight without once asking to be thanked.

A raven watches you from a low branch the entire time you work, untroubled by your nearness in a way no wild bird ought to be, its head tilting with what you could swear, if you allowed yourself to swear to such things, looked very much like curiosity. When you straighten and meet its eye directly it does not startle into the dark the way it should. It simply watches you a moment longer, as if deciding something, and then lifts off without a sound, not so much as a single wingbeat disturbing the snow it leaves behind.

There are other small wrongnesses too, the kind you would not think twice about alone but that begin, stacked one atop the other, to take on the shape of something deliberate. Frost ferns bloom across a fallen log in a pattern too symmetrical to be weather's careless hand, fanned out like fingers pressed flat against the bark. 

The cold that should be biting at your scorched fingers, the ones that healed too fast and too clean to ever properly explain, seems instead to skirt around them, leaving every other part of you numb while that one hand stays strangely, impossibly warm. 

Once, you are certain you hear footsteps falling in time with your own, just beyond the treeline, matching your pace exactly, and when you stop dead to listen, they stop too, a half-beat too late to be only an echo of your own boots.

You do not run. You tell yourself this later as though it were a point of pride rather than the simple fact that your legs, full of wood and cold and four days of grief held carefully at bay, would not have carried you far even if you'd asked them to.

It is on the walk back, the sled heavier with cargo and somehow no harder to pull, that the ice on the little creek crossing gives way beneath you.

You have crossed it a hundred times in your life, this narrow vein of water that cuts the path near the old stone marker, frozen solid every winter you can remember, safe enough that Babulya never once warned you off it the way she warned you off the deeper water further south. You do not know, would not know, until much later from a neighbour's offhand mention of overflow ice swelling beneath the surface this year, that the crossing has turned treacherous, the visible ice no more than a skin stretched thin over a slow black current still moving underneath, waiting for exactly this kind of trust to be placed in it.

The crack beneath your boot sounds almost gentle, a small dry note like a knuckle popping, and then the world tilts and the cold reaches up through the broken ice to close around your shin before your mind has finished understanding what your body already knows.

You do not fall further than that. An arm comes around you from behind, solid and sudden, an entire wall of warmth pressed flush against your back where a moment before there had been only forest and falling, and you are hauled bodily off the cracking ice and onto solid ground with a strength that does not strain, that lifts you the way you might lift something you were never in any danger of dropping.

For a long moment you do not move at all, and could not if you tried. The cold has not finished delivering its verdict on your soaked boot, the creek still hissing behind you where the ice gave way, and your whole body seems to be arguing with itself over which sensation deserves your attention first, the water working its slow way through wool toward bare skin, or the warmth at your back, vast and improbable, radiating clean through your coat the way the stone bench beside Babulya's stove holds its heat on the rare nights the fire has been fed too generously. Your heart has not slowed since the ice cracked. If anything it climbs higher now, hammering against your ribs with a fear that has only just caught up to the danger that provoked it, several breaths too late to be of any use to you.

He has not let go. One arm remains banded firm across your middle, his hand spread wide against your stomach through the layers of your coat, and you understand, distantly, almost academically, that you ought to fear that more than you fear the water. You are not a fool. Babulya did not raise you to mistake a stranger's hand for safety only because it happens to be warm. And yet some unguarded, traitorous part of you leans back into that warmth before you can stop it, the way a half-frozen thing will press itself gratefully into the very palm that may, in the end, decide to do it harm.

You try, on instinct, to turn and see him properly, and find you cannot. Not because his hold has tightened, though it has, slightly, but because some older instinct, the one Babulya spent your whole childhood sharpening in you, insists that turning would be the worse mistake of the two. Still you catch fragments at the edge of your sight: a sleeve of something dark and heavier than wool, rimed white at the cuff the way iron rimes over in a hard freeze; a hand broader than your own and entirely bare despite air that numbed your own fingers through two layers of mitten; breath fogging out over your shoulder in a plume gone faintly, impossibly blue at its edges, like woodsmoke caught the instant before it remembers how to be flame.

Fear and something far less sensible move through you in the very same current, indistinguishable by the time either reaches your throat.

"Who's there?" It comes out smaller than you intend it to, edged with a tremor you cannot quite master, though you make yourself say it regardless, because Babulya also did not raise a girl who goes quiet simply for being afraid.

"Forgive me." His voice meets you low and unhurried, courteous in a way you were entirely unprepared for, the voice of a man who might once have bowed over a lady's hand at some fair now long since swallowed by frost, strange and out of place against the cold breathing out of the dark beyond the treeline. "I startled you. That was never my intention, only to keep you from going under." A pause, faintly rueful. "Though I confess you make it remarkably difficult to be merely a passing rescuer and nothing more."

Some inkling of bravery seeps into you, "Let me see you, then, if your intentions are so honest."

"Not yet." Said so gently it costs the refusal nothing of its firmness. "Forgive me the discourtesy of denying you twice in one night. You have done enough looking at things you oughtn't for one winter, brave as you are foolish."

The hand at your stomach shifts, just slightly, fingers spreading wider as though to better hold you upright, and you feel it then, through the wool, the unmistakable ridge of scarred skin across his palm, a burn healed over rough and old in a shape the too-observant part of your mind recognises at once, because it is the very shape your own hand wore for one single night before it healed too clean to be natural.

You do not have the chance to ask him about it. "Mind the ice on your way home," he says, close enough now that you feel the words against your hair before you hear them, something almost like a smile threaded through the courtesy of it. "I find I would rather not make a habit of fishing you out of it." 

Then the warmth at your back withdraws all at once, the cold rushing in to fill the space he leaves so completely that you sway on your feet from the shock of it alone, and when you finally turn, breath fogging hard in front of you, there is nothing left but a scatter of frost already creeping back across the broken ice and a low blue light receding fast between the birches, swallowed by the dark before you can take a single step after it.

You stand there a long while with your soaked boot going numb and your heart going the opposite of numb entirely. It is only the thought of Babulya waiting on you, of smoke needed for the stove and oats needed for the pot, that finally turns you back toward the road at all.

The rest of the day passes you by the way a current passes a stone too heavy to be carried along with it.

You are aware of moving through it, of sweeping the floor and feeding the chickens and changing your soaked boot for a dry one before Babulya can ask why your stocking is wet halfway up your shin. But none of it quite reaches the part of you that is still standing at the edge of a cracked creek with a stranger's hand spread warm against your stomach.

By evening you have not managed to put it down. You feel it still as you set the pot to simmer, the cabbage and the last of the autumn carrots going soft in water, gone the colour of weak tea, a phantom warmth pressed flat against your middle that no amount of cold air or honest work seems able to chase off. Twice you catch yourself with the ladle hovering forgotten over the pot, your mind thirty paces into Nod-Krai instead of in the kitchen where it belongs, and twice you have to scold yourself back into your own body before the soup scorches.

"You'll put a hole clean through that pot, staring at it so hard," Babulya says from her chair by the stove, not unkindly, her knitting needles clicking along at their own steady rhythm. "Or did the soup insult you somehow, that you mean to murder it twice?"

"I’m only tired, Babulya. I was up before the birds."

"Mm. The birds in this house keep later hours than they used to, then, because you've been somewhere else since you walked in that door, and it was not in the henhouse." She does not look up from her needles. "I am old, devochka, not blind."

You busy yourself with the bread instead of answering, and she lets you, for now, the same way she let the lie about the gate latch stand for now, and you understand, even as you're grateful for it, that her patience has never once in your life been the same thing as her forgetting.

The samovar takes longer than usual to come to a boil, or perhaps it only feels that way with your thoughts circling where they keep circling, back to the shape of a scar pressed into your stomach through two layers of wool, the precise, impossible warmth of a hand that should have been as cold as the air around it and was not. You wonder, not for the first time today, whether a thing like that leaves a mark a person cannot see. Whether you are walking around now carrying some invisible brand the way livestock carry the burn of their owner's iron, claimed by something that never once gave you its name, only the warmth of its hand and the courtesy of refusing to let you see its face.

You do not know if you should be afraid of that thought. You find, uncomfortably, that you are not nearly as afraid of it as you ought to be.

Outside the window, far off toward the mountains, light flickers once through the clouds, a soundless, violet-white flash that has no business existing in a sky this cold. Lightning in a Snezhnayan winter is rare enough that the old wives count it an omen, one way or another depending on which old wife you ask, and you stand very still at the window with the kettle forgotten in your hand and watch the dark for a second flash that does not come, and think, with a certainty that has no reasonable foundation at all, that it was watching you back.

Dinner is quiet in the comfortable way, the bread torn instead of cut, the soup eaten straight from the same pot it was cooked in because Babulya has never once seen the sense in dirtying a second dish for two people who already know each other's faces too well to bother with manners. She tells you, between spoonfuls, that the priest's wife caught her husband talking to the goat again, and that she is fairly certain it is the goat doing most of the talking these days, and you laugh harder than the joke perhaps deserves, grateful for anything loud enough to crowd out the violet flash still printed behind your eyes.

After, you kneel at her feet with the little jar of warmed juniper oil and unwrap the wool from her legs, and she hisses through her teeth at the first touch the way she always does, more out of habit now than real pain.

"Careful, devochka, I am not yet so far gone that you may simply knead me like dough."

"You complain every winter, and every winter you ask me to do it again the very next evening."

"A woman is allowed her contradictions. It is one of the few luxuries left to me." She watches you work for a while in silence, her swollen ankles giving slightly under your thumbs, and then, in the same mild tone she might use to remark on the weather, she says, "You have the look of a girl who has met something in the wood."

Your hands do not still, though it costs you something to keep them moving.

"I met a cracked creek and a wet boot, Babulya. Nothing more interesting than that."

"Mm." The sound carries the whole weight of a sermon again, the way it always does. "I have lived a long time in this house, devochka, longer than is strictly polite for a woman to admit to. I know the smell that clings to a person after the strange has had its hands on them. Ozone and woodsmoke and something underneath both that has no right name in any tongue I was ever taught." Her eyes, when you finally look up, are not angry. They are only tired, and old, and afraid in a way she is trying very hard not to let show. "You have carried that smell into my house twice now."

You say nothing, which is, between the two of you, its own kind of confession.

She sighs, long and rattling, and reaches down to touch your face the way she has since before you could properly remember being touched at all. "Even as a babe you reached for the spider before the flower," she says, almost fond despite herself. "Strange things have always known a soft heart when they find one, dear. They collect hearts like that the way magpies collect anything that shines, not always out of cruelty. Sometimes only because shine is rare, and they are hungry for it in a way you and I will never properly understand."

"Is that a warning?"

"It is an observation. The warning is older and you have heard it from me a hundred times already and ignored it on the hundred-and-first." She lets her hand drop back into her lap. "So I will give you something more useful instead. If it comes to you again, and I think we both know it will, do not give it your name. Not your true one, not even in jest, not even to be polite. A name is a door, devochka, and you do not hand a stranger the key to your own house no matter how warm his hand felt on the threshold."

You think of the creek, of a voice low and unhurried against your hair, of how easily a name might have slipped free of you in that moment if he had only thought to ask for it.

"And if I lose my way," you say, half a question, "out there. In the dark."

"Turn your coat inside out and put it back on," Babulya says, as plainly as if she were telling you how much salt the soup wanted. "It will not save you from everything. But it confuses the kind of thing that leads by tricking the eye, and confusion, in my experience, has saved more fools than courage ever has."

You finish the oil in silence after that, and she lets you, watching the fire instead of you for once, and when you finally rise to bank the stove for the night her hand catches your wrist, briefly, only long enough to say, without words, that whatever else she is, she is not finished being afraid for you yet.

Sleep does not come easily. You lie on the bench with the blanket pulled to your chin and your thoughts will not stop circling the same low orbit, danger and warmth tangled so closely together you cannot any longer find the seam between them, the way you never could as a child either, always the first to climb toward the high branch instead of away from it, always the one who followed the strange sound into the trees instead of running from it. You have always been like this. Babulya is right to fear it in you. You are not entirely certain you would change it even if she asked.

You rise once, near midnight, drawn by nothing you could properly name, and go to the window.

The yard is empty. The snow lies smooth and undisturbed all the way to the treeline, lit faintly violet by clouds that have not yet decided whether to give up their lightning again, and you stand there with your palm pressed flat to the cold glass and your heart doing something unsteady in your chest, half hope and half dread, both feelings so similar in your body that you cannot say with any honesty which one you are hoping will win.

For one heartbeat, just at the treeline, a shape resolves out of the dark. Tall, still, edged faintly in the same violet-white as the lightning, the suggestion of a man standing exactly where the birches grow thickest, watching the house, watching, you understand with a certainty that settles into your bones like cold water, you.

You blink, and the shape is gone, swallowed back into the trees as completely as if it had never stood there at all.

You stay at the window a long while after, your breath fogging the glass in slow, even clouds, waiting for it to come back.

It does not. But you find, lying back down in the dark with your pulse still unsettled and your skin still remembering the precise shape of a hand it will not soon forget, that some part of you is already certain this is not the last you will see of him. . . .

You are not, at first, certain anything has changed at all. The morning after the lightning, you wake expecting the world to have settled back into its ordinary shape, the way a held breath settles once the danger that provoked it has passed, and for the length of breakfast it seems to have done exactly that. It is only later, hauling water from the well, that you notice the rope has come up without its usual stiff fight against the ice, sliding through your palms smooth as something freshly oiled though you know for a fact no one has touched it since autumn. You stand there a moment with the bucket dripping at your feet and tell yourself it is only a milder morning than most.

The bread proves you wrong by midday, rising fuller and faster than the same dough has any right to in a kitchen this cold, the crust coming out of the oven a deep, even gold instead of the patchy brown you have made your peace with every winter of your life. The hens, who by this point in the season usually offer you one egg between the four of them if you are fortunate, give you four whole eggs that morning and four again the next, and you carry them inside cradled against your chest like something stolen, glancing back over your shoulder at the coop as though it might explain itself if you looked at it hard enough.

You do not mention any of it to Babulya at first. You tell yourself this is only because none of it seems worth mentioning on its own, a softer rope, a better loaf, a generous hen, the small unremarkable mercies that any winter might occasionally offer a person without there needing to be a reason behind them at all. You know, even as you tell yourself this, that you do not entirely believe it.

By the third night you have stopped pretending not to notice.

The wind that has been needling its way through every gap in the shutters since the first snow falls strangely quiet around you on your way back from the woodpile, the bite gone out of it so completely that for a few startled paces you could swear something has wrapped itself bodily around you, warm and close as a held breath, before retreating back into ordinary cold the moment you cross the threshold. 

Your lantern, when you light it that same evening to check on the chickens one last time before bed, catches on the first strike of flint instead of the usual three or four, and burns brighter than the wick should allow, its flame threaded through at the very root with the faintest, most fleeting hint of blue, gone again before you can be entirely certain you saw it at all.

You stand in the yard with that lantern held up before your face for far longer than the chickens require, watching the flame for some sign of itself, your breath fogging white and even in the cold, and you do not know, even now, whether what you feel watching it is fear or something far less easy to name honestly.

Babulya notices before you find the courage to bring any of it to her.

"The wood from that last cord is lasting longer than it ought," she says one evening, not looking up from the sock she is darning, her needles moving with the same steady rhythm they have kept your whole life. "I split that cord myself, in better years, and I know its measure. We should have burned through half of it by now."

"Perhaps you split it more generously than you remember."

"Perhaps." She does not sound convinced, and does not pretend to be. "Or perhaps God has finally taken an interest in this house after forty years of looking elsewhere, which I confess would surprise me less than the alternative, which is that you have struck some manner of bargain with someone considerably less patient than He is, and considerably less inclined to wait for a proper prayer before deciding to help." She glances up at you then, sharp despite the candlelight softening every other line of her face. "Tell me, at least, that it was a charming devil, devochka, if you've gone and doomed the both of us. I should like to know I died for good company."

"I haven't doomed anyone, Babulya."

"Mm." The sound again, that whole unspoken sermon folded into one syllable, and she goes back to her darning without pressing further, though you can feel her attention on you for a long while after, the way you can feel the cold radiating off a window even with your back turned to it.

It is Babulya herself, in the end, who gives you the clearest proof that something has indeed turned in your favour, however little you understand the shape of it.

Her cough, which has rattled through this house every night since the letter that first called you home, begins, gradually and then all at once, to ease. The colour comes back into her face in a way you had stopped letting yourself hope for, a faint warmth returning to cheeks that have been the colour of tallow for weeks, and one morning you wake to find her already up and dressed and humming something tuneless over the porridge pot, her hands steadier on the spoon than they have been since before the snow came. You stand in the doorway and watch her for a long moment, your chest aching with a gratitude too large and too frightened to hold comfortably, because you cannot account for it, cannot point to any medicine or prayer or change in the weather that would explain a recovery this swift, and the not knowing sits in you alongside the relief like two animals forced to share the same small cage.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself," Babulya says, catching you staring, a wicked little glint surfacing in her eyes for the first time in longer than you can remember. "A woman my age improving this fast smells less of mercy than of mischief. Though I'll say this much, devochka. I'd rather die of mischief, in the end, than of that cough. At least mischief has the decency to be interesting."

You laugh, because the alternative is to weep, and she lets you, watching you with an expression that holds both her old wit and a  far more careful underneath it, the look of a woman who has lived long enough to know that gifts given without a clear giver are rarely given for free.

The hearth proves the strangest mercy of all. Some nights now you wake near dawn to find the stove still glowing warm and low though you banked it hours before with barely enough wood to last until midnight, the coals at its heart burning that same faint, impossible blue you have started to recognise the way you'd recognise a voice in a crowded room, low and constant and entirely too familiar for something you have only properly heard once in your life. You lie there in the dark on those mornings with your blanket warm around you and your heart going much too fast for sleep, and think, with a certainty that frightens you more than any cold ever has, that the very fire keeping you alive through this winter has decided, for reasons of its own, to keep you.

You should be more afraid of this than you are. You know this the way you know the catechism, by rote, without it changing anything about how your chest tightens each evening as the light fails and you find yourself listening for footsteps that do not come, watching the treeline from the window with an attention that has nothing to do with wolves.

It is the nights, more than anything, that betray you.

You tell yourself, the first few times, that it is only natural to think of him. He saved your life. He has, perhaps, gone on saving it in a hundred small ways you cannot prove and cannot quite bring yourself to refuse. It would be strange, you reason, not to think of a man like that, however briefly you knew him, however little of him you actually saw.

But the thinking does not stay brief, and it does not stay innocent for long.

You lie awake long after Babulya's breathing has gone slow and even in the next room, and you feel again, with a clarity that should by rights have faded by now, the exact warmth of his hand spread wide across your stomach through two layers of wool, the way it had not felt like a stranger's hand at all but like something that had always meant to rest there, patient, certain of its welcome. You feel it settle low in your belly each time you let yourself remember it, a warmth that does not stay politely where it started, that creeps, slow and unhurried as melt water finding the path of least resistance, further down than any decent thought has business travelling, and you lie very still in the dark and let it, because some traitorous part of you has stopped pretending it wants to stop.

You imagine his voice some nights, low and unhurried, frost caught somewhere in its register the way it had been at the creek, murmuring things you cannot quite construct into full sentences even in the privacy of your own skull, only the shape of his breath against your ear, warm where everything else in this house is cold, his chest a solid wall at your back the way it had been for that one suspended moment before he let you go. You wonder, in the dark, what those hands might feel like elsewhere, hands broad enough to span your whole stomach, scarred in a shape that matches your own, gentle in a way that does not feel remotely safe.

You try, more than once, to quiet the wanting with your own hands, alone beneath the blanket with your jaw set against the sound of your own breath. You chase the memory of him down through your own skin in the dark, palm pressed flat where his had been before letting it wander lower, into the ache that has pooled there for days now, slick and insistent and entirely unmoved by reason. For a moment, sometimes, it is almost enough. Your back arches off the bench, your breath catches high and helpless in your throat, your thighs tense around the hand that is trying so hard to be his and so plainly failing to be anyone but your own.

It is never enough. You come back to yourself each time a little emptier than before, your fingers slack and your chest still tight with a frustration that has very little to do with your body and everything to do with the fact that the only hand you actually want is one that does not belong to you, has perhaps never belonged to anyone, and chose, for reasons you cannot fathom, to belong for one single moment to you instead. You lie there afterward in the dark, spent and unsatisfied in the same breath, and feel, underneath the shame of it, something far more dangerous: the dawning, helpless certainty that no hand but his will do.

There is a darkness coiled inside the wanting that you do not examine too closely, not at first. You know what he is, or near enough. You know what Babulya's stories say about things that wear kindness the way a wolf wears sheep's wool, patient, generous, building a debt in small mercies until the debt comes due all at once. You know you ought to fear a creature that mends your grandmother's lungs and warms your hearth and never once asks what it wants in return, because nothing in this world, mortal or otherwise, gives so freely without eventually wanting something back.

And still you find, lying awake with your blood still unsettled and your own hand gone still and useless atop the blanket, that you do not only fear it.

Some small, dark, unguarded part of you wants to be wanted that badly. Wants to be worth the trouble of a wood that lasts longer, a cough that eases, a fire that burns blue through the coldest hours of the night. There is something in being chosen, even by something monstrous, even by something that may yet prove to want you only the way a magpie wants anything that shines, that you cannot make yourself entirely wish away.

You go to confession in your own head most nights, the old habit too deep to fully shed even now, and find you cannot make yourself properly sorry for any of it.

It builds like this for the better part of two weeks, favour and longing rising together in the same slow tide, until one night you simply cannot lie still in it any longer.

You do not plan it, not really, not in any way you could explain afterward to Babulya or to yourself. You wait until her breathing has gone deep and even, until the stove has burned down to its low blue coals and the house has settled into the particular silence that only comes once every living thing in it has finally stopped fighting sleep, and then you rise, and dress, and take down your cloak and your lantern from beside the door, and nothing else.

You do not know, stepping out into a cold gone strangely gentle around you, what exactly you mean to do if you find him. Demand to know why he has been so generous with a stranger's house. Ask him what the lantern was to him, what it cost him, what it meant that you were the one foolish enough to breathe life back into it. Or something else entirely, something you do not let yourself name even now, something carnal and reckless that lives lower in your body than any decent question ever has.

You walk without any clear destination, only the pull of something you cannot properly describe, the same instinct that once sent you reaching for a wounded sparrow before anyone could tell you it was foolish to. Your thoughts wander as your feet do, back to the creek, to the crack of ice and the arm that caught you before you'd finished falling, and a new and uncomfortable thought surfaces in you, unbidden, sharp enough to stop you mid-step in the snow.

What if the ice had never been an accident at all.

What if a creature patient enough to warm a hearth for weeks without once showing his face was also patient enough to know, long before you ever set foot on it, exactly which crossing had gone treacherous this year, and exactly when you would cross it.

A strange new heat moves through you at the thought, equal parts fury and something far darker and more thrilling than fury has any right to be tangled alongside it, a feeling you do not have a clean name for and would not say aloud even if you did. You do not know whether you want to scream at him for it or thank him, and the not knowing frightens you more than either answer would on its own.

It is full dark by the time you notice you are no longer alone.

The wind parts strangely around a stand of birch ahead of you, the falling snow bending visibly to either side of some shape you cannot quite see, the way mist parts for a body moving through it even when the body itself stays hidden. A pale light flickers at the very edge of your vision, the same low impossible blue as your lantern's flame, gone the instant you turn to look at it directly. Somewhere behind you, soft and unhurried, footsteps fall in a rhythm too deliberate to be the wind, matching your own pace exactly, the way they had once before, only this time you do not stop to test them. This time you keep walking, your heart loud in your own throat, something fierce and unwise blooming behind your ribs.

Fool I may be, you think, but who is being imprudent now, following a fool like me out into his own woods at midnight.

You catch yourself smiling at the thought, alone in the dark, and the smile frightens you more than the cold does.

It is only then, with the trees pressing close on either side and that light still flickering at the very edge of what you can see, that Babulya's voice surfaces in you, clear and sharp as it had been by the fire. Do not give it your name. Not your true one, not even in jest. You hold that one close, easy enough to keep, a door you have no intention of handing anyone the key to, however warm his hand had felt on its threshold.

Turn your cloak inside out, if you lose your way. It will not save you from everything. But confusion has saved more fools than courage ever has.

Your hands rise to the clasp at your throat almost on their own, the old obedience deep enough in you to move.

And then you stop.

You stand very still in the snow with your fingers resting against the cold metal of the clasp, your breath fogging slow in front of you, the light still flickering somewhere just out of reach, patient, waiting, and you think of warm hearths and healed lungs and a hand spread wide and certain against your stomach, and some small, dark, long-buried part of you, the same part that has always reached for the spider before the flower, decides, quite calmly, that it does not want to be found its way out of this at all.

You let your hands fall back to your sides, the cloak left exactly as it is.

If you are going to be led astray tonight, then astray is precisely where you mean to go.

You walk a while longer with that decision settled warm in your chest, the light still flickering somewhere ahead of you through the birches, patient as a held breath, and you let yourself believe, for a few more minutes, that the prickling at the back of your neck is only anticipation. It would be like him, you tell yourself, to make you work for it. To let you walk a little further into his woods before he finally let himself be found.

It takes you longer than it should to notice that the feeling crawling up your spine has stopped resembling anticipation at all.

The wind is the first thing to turn honest with you. It has been strangely gentle since you stepped outside, the bite gone soft around you the way it has been most nights this fortnight, and you do not register the moment it changes back, only the moment you realise it already has, cold enough now to needle straight through your cloak the way winter always has, the way it always should have, and something in your stomach goes very still and very cold in a manner that has nothing to do with the temperature.

It is, you tell yourself, only the ordinary cold reasserting itself. Even kindness must have its limits. Even a fire banked all winter eventually burns down to ash.

You do not entirely believe yourself, and the forest, in its own way, seems determined to prove you right not to.

The quiet comes next, and it is the wrong kind of quiet. The Chernyles at night is never truly silent, not even in the deepest cold, always some small business of owls or settling snow or wind worrying at branches to fill the dark with ordinary sound. Tonight that ordinary sound simply stops, all at once, the way a held breath stops, and you become aware of your own heartbeat with an intimacy that feels almost obscene in a silence this complete.

Then the smell reaches you. Not woodsmoke, not the clean mineral bite of frost you have grown almost fond of these past two weeks, but something underneath both of those, faint at first and then suddenly, sickeningly present, the smell of meat left too long past its honest use, of earth turned over somewhere it was never meant to be disturbed.

You stop walking.

The light ahead of you flickers once, low and frantic, and for the first time since you left your own door you understand, with a certainty that drops through you like a stone through black water, that it is trying to warn you rather than lead you.

The dark that comes pulses before it arrives, the way thunder sometimes announces itself in your chest before the sound of it ever reaches your ears, a pressure against your sternum that has no business being felt rather than heard. When it finally breaks across the treeline it does not come as light at all, but as its absence, a bruised, hungry black that swallows the snow's pale glow wherever it touches, and within that black, shapes.

You know the shapes from a hundred half-remembered stories before your mind even finishes assembling them into something whole, riders sat too straight in saddles built for bodies with proper weight to them, horses whose legs bend in places no living horse's legs were ever meant to bend, the whole procession dragging that swallowing dark along behind it like a hem too heavy to lift clear of the ground. The riders themselves are worse for being almost familiar, the shape of men and women both, faces collapsed in on themselves around hollows where eyes should be, mouths hung open on hinges too loose to be holding anything resembling breath. You understand, distantly, sickly, that these were people once. That something has worn them the way a hand wears a glove long after the glove has stopped fitting properly, and gone on wearing them regardless.

You were twelve the last time you stood this close to something wearing the dead. You have spent nine years building a wall around that night thick enough that you rarely have to look at it directly, and the wall comes down now in pieces too fast for you to stop it, the cold of a hollow tree trunk pressed against your back, the smell of rot passing close enough to taste, the particular, specific silence of a child too frightened even to weep. You remember thinking, at twelve, that you would surely die there. You remember surviving anyway, and never once feeling, since, that survival and luck were properly different things.

You do not have a hollow tree to press yourself into tonight. You have only open snow, and a lantern with no flame, and a cloak you deliberately, foolishly, left exactly as it was.

The Hunt sees you the way a storm sees a single standing tree, not with malice exactly, only with the simple, terrible inevitability of a thing that has never once had to ask permission to take what stands in its path. The lead rider turns its ruined face toward you, and whatever sound comes out of that hinge-loose mouth is not a word, has perhaps not been a word in longer than you have been alive, but you understand its meaning regardless, the way you understand a wolf's bared teeth, the way your whole body understands, all at once, that it is about to run out of road.

You do not get the chance to run. The lead rider's hand closes around your wrist before your single backward step has even finished, more claw now than hand, cold enough that it burns, and the wound it leaves does not wait politely for the rest of the world to catch up. Something rakes hard across your cheekbone in the same instant, parting skin, the pain arriving a full breath behind the shock of it, hot where everything else has gone numb, and you are being dragged forward into the reek of old earth before you've even managed to scream.

The world breaks open before the scream finishes leaving you.

There is no warning to it, none of the patient, gathering dread that announced itself before. One heartbeat the claw is closing tighter around your wrist, dragging you into the dark whole, and the next the night simply splits down its middle with a crack of violet light so total it scours every shadow from the clearing at once, the sound of it less heard than felt, a blow against your chest that drives the breath from your lungs before the cold ever could. The claw is gone from your wrist in the same instant, torn away by something too fast for your eyes to properly follow, and you go down hard into churned, blackened snow with your ears ringing and your cheek still bleeding and no clear memory of the half second between captivity and freedom.

He is already among them by the time your knees find the ground, as though he had never once been anywhere else, as though the Hunt itself had simply made the grave error of existing in the same dark he already occupied. There is no warming up to the violence in him, no measured beginning. Chains uncoil from somewhere beneath his coat and find their marks before you can track the movement that threw them, and where they strike, riders that should not still be moving simply stop, the bruised black light bleeding out of them into the snow like ink swallowed by water. The lantern at his hip flares violet with each turn he makes, throwing his shadow huge and shifting across the trampled ground, and within a handful of heartbeats far too few to properly count, the clearing belongs to no one but the two of you and the wreckage left behind.

He crosses to you before the last of it has finished settling, kneeling in the bloodied snow with a quickness that has nothing courtly left in it at all, and his hand finds your jaw before you can flinch away from it, tilting your face toward what little light remains.

"Hold still," he says, low, and you do, though whether from obedience or simple shock you could not honestly say.

His thumb finds the cut along your cheekbone and the pain there does not so much fade as forget itself entirely, warmth blooming beneath his touch and spreading outward in slow, deliberate waves, the same impossible heat you have spent two weeks chasing through your own hands in the dark and never once managing to properly recall. You feel the skin knit itself closed beneath his thumb, feel it with a clarity that makes your breath catch high in your throat, and he does not hurry the work, his palm cupping the whole curve of your jaw afterward as though reluctant to relinquish a thing he has only just finished claiming back from harm. His other hand finds your wrist next, the bruise already purpling there fading to nothing under the same slow, deliberate warmth, his thumb tracing once, lightly, over skin that remembers, beneath the new healing, exactly how his hand had felt the first time it held you.

"There," he says finally, and does not move away as quickly as the word suggests he might. His face is close enough now that you can feel the cold coming off him in waves even through the lingering warmth of his touch, close enough that you understand, with a lurch low in your stomach that has nothing to do with fear, that he is in no particular hurry to put any distance back between you. "The debt's settled, then. Though I doubt that will stop you coming to find me again regardless."

"You sound very certain of that."

"I am." Something almost fond moves behind the exhaustion in his eyes. "You have a particular look about you, little fool. The one that has never once in its life known how to leave a wounded thing well alone, even when the wounded thing in question is considerably more dangerous than it looks."

You hold his gaze, breath unsteady, and find some reckless scrap of courage still left in you despite everything the night has already spent. "Then tell me your name, and I'll know exactly how dangerous to be afraid of."

He laughs at that, properly, the sound of it melodic and surprised and entirely too warm for something that came out of a face built like winter, and the laugh does something complicated and unwise low in your chest.

"Bold," he says, "for someone who was warned, I expect, never to give away her own. Did your grandmother not also tell you what a name is worth, before you go demanding mine so plainly?" His thumb moves once more along your jaw, absent, proprietary. "Names are not handed over for the asking. Not by anything like me."

"Then how am I meant to find you again?"

"There is a stone marker by the creek that already owes you a debt of its own," he says, the amusement settling into something quieter, more deliberate. "Leave something there that was truly yours, given freely and not by accident, on a night the moon hides her face completely. Choose carefully what you part with. I am not always so generous with what I take in return as I have been tonight."

His gaze sharpens then, holding yours with an attention that feels almost like being read rather than looked at. "But you already know that, don't you? You knew it walking out here tonight with your cloak left exactly as it was." A pause, soft and certain. "You know precisely what you're doing."

He leans closer before you can answer him, close enough that his breath, when it comes, is warm against your skin in a way nothing about him should by rights be, his fingers ghosting once down the line of your throat with a touch too light to be anything but deliberate.

"Perhaps," he murmurs, "you will come to find out in time."

One final step closes the last of the distance between you, his breath heating the air at your temple, and then he is smoke before he is anything else, the whole solid weight of him unraveling into a low coil of violet-blue flame that gathers, impossibly, back into the small lantern at what had been his hip, and the lantern disappears with a single soft crackle, leaving nothing behind but scorched air and your own ragged breathing in the dark.

You kneel there a long while in the ruined snow, your skin still humming everywhere he touched it, heat pooling low in your belly with a persistence that has nothing left to do with fear at all. Some small, dark, unguarded part of you, the part you will not yet admit to even lying alone in the dark tonight, has already begun turning over what you might leave at that stone marker, what among your few poor possessions could possibly be valuable enough to be called truly yours.

You are, you understand with a thrill you cannot entirely call unwelcome, already looking forward to the choosing.

. . .

Whatever guides your feet back through Nod-Krai that night does so with a generosity that borders on tenderness, the drifts parting ahead of you the way a crowd might part for someone it had decided, for reasons of its own, to let pass unharmed. You reach the izba in half the time the walk out had cost you, your wound healed clean beneath cold-stiffened skin, and you let yourself entertain, somewhere between the gate and the door, a thought too dangerous to examine closely in daylight. Perhaps he is not the only one waiting on this. Perhaps, wherever he goes when he is not chains and violet flame and a voice low enough to live somewhere beneath your ribs, some part of him is also turning over what you might bring him, the way you cannot stop turning over what there is in your whole poor life worth giving.

It takes you the better part of two days to understand exactly how poor that life is.

You go through what little you own with the methodical, increasingly desperate attention of a woman searching for something she is no longer certain exists. Your mother's handkerchief, edged in thread gone soft and grey with age, feels too easily lost to trust to a roadside stone. The single coin you've kept since the spring fair, pressed flat and smooth from years in your pocket, has value only to a moneylender, and you doubt very much that a creature who heals wounds with a thought and unmakes the dead with a glance has any particular use for coins. A wooden comb, a chipped clay bead from a necklace long since scattered, a ribbon worn thin from braiding and rebraiding the same hair through a dozen winters, each in its turn seems too small, too cheap, too easily mistaken for an accident rather than an offering, and each in its turn you set back down with the same hollow, mounting frustration.

You are not, you are forced to admit somewhere in the long second afternoon of searching, a woman who has ever owned very much. You have only ever had people, and people, you suspect, are not the sort of thing a stone marker is built to hold.

Babulya notices long before you find the nerve to tell her anything at all.

"You smell of him again," she says on the second evening, not looking up from the stocking she is mending, her voice gone careful in a way that frightens you more than any sharpness might have. "Worse than before. Like something has gotten its hands properly on you this time, rather than only its kindness."

You set down the basket you've been pretending to sort and find you cannot, this time, manage another easy lie. "He saved my life, Babulya. The Hunt found me in the wood."

The needle stills entirely in her hands. When she finally looks up, the fear in her face is not the gentle, half-affectionate worry she has worn through every other strange thing this winter has brought you. It is older than that, and far less willing to be teased into something softer.

"The Hunt," she repeats, and crosses herself, quick and instinctive, the gesture of a woman who has spent a lifetime not quite believing and never once daring to stop hedging her bets regardless. "Bozhe moy. And you went looking for him anyway, after that. I can see it on you, devochka, you needn't lie to spare me the trouble of guessing."

You kneel at her feet then, the way you have a hundred times before for the oil and the wool, only this time it is your own hands that are unsteady. "I have to tell you something, and I think you already suspect most of it." You tell her about the lantern, finally, the whole of it, the blue flame guttering in the snow that first night, the warmth of it answering your breath, the crackle that took it from your hands and left only frost and footprints behind. You tell her about the burn that healed itself in a single night, about the wood that lasts and the hens that lay and the hearth that burns blue and unaided through the coldest hours, every small mercy you have spent weeks quietly refusing to question aloud.

She listens to all of it in a silence that does not soften, her hands folded too tightly in her lap, and when you finally finish she does not scold you, which somehow frightens you more than scolding would have.

"You did not save a lantern," she says at last, quiet. "Whatever you saved that night, devochka, it was never only a lantern. You understand that now. I think you understood it before you ever told me."

"I think I have, for some time."

"And still you went looking for him in the dark, with your cloak left exactly as it was." It is not quite a question. She studies you for a long moment, something complicated moving behind her tired eyes, equal parts grief and a reluctant, painful tenderness. "Do you remember what I told you, the spider and the flower, when you were small enough to still believe me about everything?"

"I remember." You hold her gaze, surprising yourself with how steady your own voice comes out. "You said strange things have always known a soft heart when they find one. That they collect hearts the way magpies collect anything that shines." You pause, something turning over in your chest that has been waiting, you realise now, a very long time to be said aloud. 

"But you never finished the thought, Babulya. A flower only ever gives sweetness back to the hand that reaches for it, and nothing more, no matter how long you hold it. A spider, if you let it close enough, might actually look at you while it decides what to do with you. I think some part of me has always wanted that more than I wanted to be safe. To be looked at. Properly. Even by something that might, in the end, choose to ruin me for it."

Babulya says nothing for a long moment, her hand coming to rest, light and trembling, against the side of your face. "Then God help you, devochka," she says finally, "because I do not think I can anymore. I can only hope whatever you've gone and let yourself love has at least the decency to be careful with you."

She does not forbid you from going back. You understand, watching her turn back to her mending with hands that have not quite stopped shaking, that this is its own kind of permission, the only kind she has left to give a girl who was never, by either of your own admissions, built to be talked out of a thing once her heart had already decided it.

You go on searching after that with no greater success, the third day bleeding into a fourth without anything in your possession rising to meet whatever standard he meant by truly yours, until you find yourself, on a still, solemn afternoon with the light already failing early the way it does this deep into winter, sitting before the small cracked mirror in your room with no particular purpose beyond simply being tired of looking everywhere except at yourself.

You have not looked properly in some time. The face that meets you in the silvered glass is not unfamiliar, only tired in a way you had not let yourself notice until this exact moment, the eyes a little hollowed by weeks of broken sleep, though something else lives in them too now, something restless and faintly bright that was not there before the night a lantern first answered your breath, a spark that survives, stubbornly, beneath all that weariness. Your chest rises and falls in the glass with each unsteady breath, the simple, ordinary motion of any living body keeping itself alive, and it is that motion, that small private rhythm of your own breathing, that finally drags the memory up whole and entire, the way it has been waiting, patient as frost, to be properly let in.

You tucked him there. Against your ribs, beneath your coat, pressed close to the very same body breathing in the mirror now, on the first night you ever saw him, when he was nothing more to you than a dying blue flame too pitiful to leave to the cold. You carried him against your own skin like something small and helpless, warmed him with nothing but the heat your own body had left to spare, and you understand now, sitting here with your own reflection watching you understand it, that he had been that close to you from the very beginning. Closer, perhaps, than he has been at any single moment since, closer than the creek, closer than tonight's ruined snow, his whole guttering self held against the place where your heart keeps its most honest rhythm, and you had not even known enough to be afraid of how intimate a thing that was.

Heat floods through you at the thought, slow and total, and you let it, alone in your room with the light failing and no one left to see your face but the mirror.

You wonder, for the first time, whether an ancient thing's patience is built the same way a mortal one's is, with a thread that frays a little more each time it is asked to hold, until eventually, inevitably, it simply does not. He has watched you for weeks now, mended your hearth and your grandmother's lungs and the small soft wounds the world keeps handing you, has come to your aid twice now with a violence that cost him nothing visible and a tenderness afterward that cost him, you suspect, considerably more. You think of his hand at the creek, of his thumb against your jaw healing skin that had only just finished tearing, of the particular unhurried way he had let his palm linger at your wrist long after the bruise beneath it had already gone. You do not think a creature moves that slowly, that deliberately, over a debt it considers fully settled.

You let yourself imagine it properly for the first time, sitting alone in the dying light, what it might mean if the patience fraying in him is not so different from the ache that has been fraying in you. What it might look like, the moment that thread finally gives. Whether he has lain awake, in whatever cold and ancient place things like him go to rest, turning over the memory of your breath against his dying flame the same restless way you turn over the memory of his hand against your stomach. Whether wanting, for something built of frost and old violet fire, feels anything at all like the slow, low-bellied ache that has kept you from sleeping properly more nights than you have admitted even to yourself, or whether it is something colder, hungrier, a wanting with teeth in it, patient only because patience has always been the surest way for a predator to make certain of its meal.

You think you would let him have you either way. The thought arrives calm and entire and frightens you with how little fight you have left in you to argue against it.

You imagine, because you cannot any longer stop yourself from imagining, what it might be to be wanted by something that old, that careful, that has spent weeks proving itself willing to set a wood untouched and a grandmother's lungs whole simply to keep a single mortal girl comfortable through her own ordinary winter. You imagine his hands again, broad and scarred and entirely too gentle for what you know they are capable of doing to anything that crosses him, moving the way they moved at your jaw, only slower, only further, learning every cold and ordinary inch of you the unhurried way a man learns a prayer he intends to keep saying for a very long time. You imagine his mouth finding the same places his thumb has already mapped, his breath the only warm thing left in a world gone entirely to frost around the two of you, and the ache low in your belly answers the thought so immediately, so thoroughly, that you have to press your own hand flat against your stomach simply to feel something solid beneath all that wanting.

Your hand does not stay at your stomach. It rises, slow and unthinking, to the soft underside of your breast, to the exact place a small iron lantern once rested against your own racing heart on a night you still cannot properly account for, and you hold it there a long moment, feeling your own pulse beat hard and unhidden beneath your palm, and understand, with a clarity that settles through you like the first true thaw of spring, exactly what it is you have been searching your whole poor life for these past two days without ever once finding.

It was never going to be a thing. Not a coin, not a ribbon, not anything you could set down on cold stone and walk away from with both hands still empty.

You have already decided, you realise, sitting there with your hand still pressed warm against your own chest and the last of the daylight finally giving out around you. You decided it, perhaps, the very moment you chose not to turn your cloak.

You know exactly what you mean to give him.

You dress, on the appointed night, the way a much younger version of yourself might have dressed for a spring fair she had no business attending, and you catch yourself at it halfway through lacing the bodice of the one good dress folded at the bottom of your chest, sky-blue thread worked into the collar by your mother's own hand, kept for Easter liturgy and your own nameday and almost nothing else in between.

What are you thinking, you ask yourself, hands stilling over the laces, he will not even see it under the cloak.

You finish lacing it anyway.

The goodbye you give Babulya is shorter than either of you pretends not to notice. She does not ask where you are going, though you suspect she has guessed well enough by now, and only takes your face in both her hands the way she has since before you could properly remember being touched at all, her thumb tracing once over your cheekbone as though memorising the shape of it against the possibility that this might be the last time she is given the chance to.

"Come home," she says, which is not quite the blessing it sounds like, and not quite a prayer either, though it carries the weight of both.

"I mean to."

"Mm." She crosses you, quick and certain, two fingers pressed to your collarbone the way she has done since you were small enough to need carrying. She does not say be careful. You think, perhaps, she has finally understood that careful was never going to be a road open to you.

The night holds no moon at all, the sky scoured down to bare, hard stars, and heat crawls over you the entire walk to the creek despite the cold, a current that will not lie still no matter how the frost outside tries to claim it, settling low in you the way water settles beneath ice and goes on moving long after the surface above it has stopped looking like anything alive.

You wait at the stone marker a long while once you arrive, your pulse keeping time the way the rosary beads by Babulya's icon keep time, fast and overworked, counted out one bead at a time against a silence that gives nothing back. You do not know what to call him, have never once been given anything to call him by, and so when you finally find your voice it comes out smaller and stranger than you intend.

"I've come," you say, to the dark, to the birches, to whoever or whatever might be listening. "As you asked."

For a moment nothing answers you at all, the night holding its breath the way it had before the Hunt found you, and your heart climbs into your throat with a fear that has, this time, almost nothing to do with danger.

Then he is simply there, the way a held breath becomes, all at once, the air you finally let go.

You have seen pieces of him before, his back in violence, his hand at your jaw, his eyes catching low firelight, but nothing has prepared you for the whole of him standing before you now beneath bare winter stars, and the sight of him knocks the breath clean out of your lungs the way the ice once had, sharper, colder, and far more dangerous to your continued survival. He is beautiful in the particular, merciless way a blizzard is beautiful, all sharp pale elegance and midnight-blue hair bleeding to ice at its tips, his mouth made for something caught exactly between a smile and a threat, his gold eyes holding yours with an attention so total you feel it land somewhere beneath your sternum.

He smiles, slow, and it does something unforgivable to your knees.

"What have you brought?"

The question is not unkind. It is, somehow, worse for being asked so gently, and you feel the heat climb your throat and settle high in your cheeks under the particular focus of his gaze, the same gaze that watched you mend yourself back together from a dying flame, now turned wholly and unbearably toward whatever answer you are about to give him.

He steps closer when you do not immediately speak, tilting his head, one dark brow lifting with the patient, knowing amusement of someone who has already guessed and is only waiting, with some private cruelty, to hear you say it aloud yourself.

"Myself," you say first, and then, quieter, your voice nearly lost beneath your own racing pulse, "my body."

He goes very still.

Whatever courteous mask he has worn for you until now slips, for one bare, unguarded instant, and beneath it you catch something far sharper, hunger and amusement tangled together so closely you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins, his mouth curving into something that is not quite a smile anymore, something closer to a sneer, cruel and delighted both at once.

"How generous." His voice has dropped, gone low and edged in a way that raises the hair along your arms. "Mortal flesh, freely offered, as though I have not had my fill of soft, foolish bodies a hundred times over before your grandmother's grandmother was so much as a thought in her own mother's womb." He circles you slowly, unhurried, the way a wolf circles something it has already decided is not, in fact, any real danger to itself. "You think yourself a gift, little dove. I wonder if you understand yet that you are closer to a sacrifice."

You should feel smaller for it. Some part of you does, heat rising shameful and furious in your chest at the easy, contemptuous certainty in his voice, and yet beneath the shame something else coils tighter still, something that does not want him to stop looking at you like that, like a thing worth picking apart slowly simply to see what it is made of.

He stops in front of you, too close now, close enough that the cold coming off him raises gooseflesh along every inch of skin the cloak fails to cover, and leans down until his face is level with your throat, breathing you in slow and deliberate, the way a man might breathe in bread fresh from the oven, helpless to it despite himself.

"Are you sure, little dove?" His mouth brushes the shell of your ear, and you feel the words more than hear them, frost and heat both at once. His hand finds your waist and draws you the last small distance forward, until there is no cold left between you at all. "I will unmake you."

You do not have the chance to answer him with words. His mouth finds yours instead, slow at first, almost reverent, as though he means to memorise the shape of your hesitation before he takes it from you entirely, and then it is not slow at all, not reverent, only deep and certain and utterly unhurried in its thoroughness, his hand sliding from your waist to cradle the back of your skull as though he means to keep you exactly where he has decided you belong.

You lose the night somewhere in the middle of it. You lose the cold, the stars, the stone marker digging into your hip where he has walked you back against it, lose every coherent thought beyond the slow, devastating drag of his mouth against yours, his other hand finding your jaw, your throat, the fevered pulse beating there, tracing it like something he intends to learn by heart. Your own hands fist in the heavy fabric of his coat, in the cold chains looped beneath it, anchoring yourself to him the only way you have left, and the kiss only deepens for it, lengthens, builds the way a held note builds before it finally breaks, until your knees have gone entirely unreliable beneath you and the only thing keeping you upright at all is the solid, immovable wall of him.

When he finally draws back, just far enough to let you breathe, you are dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the cold air rushing back between you, your lips swollen, your pulse a wild, unsteady thing beneath his still-resting palm, and the satisfaction low in your belly has not eased so much as sharpened, gone taut and aching and entirely unwilling to be soothed by anything less than more of him.

He watches you come back to yourself with an expression that has finally, fully abandoned anything resembling courtesy, hunger sitting plain and unhidden in those hollow gold eyes now, and his thumb drags once, slow, along your bottom lip, as though tasting the effect of himself on you for his own private satisfaction.

"Well," he says, low, rough at the edges in a way his voice has never once been before tonight. "It seems I have only just begun unmaking you at all."

He has you pressed against the stone marker, but the rigidness of the rock is nothing compared to the absolute pleasure he delivers through you. In seconds, as though it took no thought at all, he hikes the skirt of your frock, and pulls down your underwear. He grins in absolute, dark glee at the shining slick of your core. You gasp as the cold winter air hits your skin. 

“How long have you been dreaming of this, dove?” He asks, slow and deep. He pulls your thighs apart, holding you by the waist as he pins you to the stone. “Those nights spent trying to satisfy yourself, imagining it was I?” 

His tone is mocking and you whine. He is so slow, so unhurried, he has not even touched you yet, and yet the breath of his mouth against your clit, his fingers pressing hard against the plush of your inner thigh has you squirming. You can’t help but move closer to him, like a desperate dying moth fluttering towards the blue lamp, knowing for certain a lick of its tongue would lead to your unfettered death right there. You want that death. You want his fingers in you. His mouth over you. Him. 

And then he inserts his finger into you. You cry out, sharp and furious, the same cry you had let out when the lantern had burned you, left your skin charred. It’s unfair, really, how long his fingers are. They curl just so perfectly against your gummy, wet walls. Your eyes fill with tears, damp little drops decorating your lashes. You swear you see stars dancing over you, little flames. He smiles, and it’s a mocking smile, one that is so egotistical, to be the only one that could undo you like this. 

He leans over you and presses hot, open mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips press against your cheek, your throat, your collarbone. It travels down and down, and soon enough he has your carefully tied bodice undone. The dress gathers at your waist. It leaves you bare underneath, your breasts perfect round mounds of soft flesh. Sweat gathers in the valley between them. And the Fae reaches up and gathers one of your breasts in his hot mouth. You moan out loud, the sound echoing across the forests, the sounds are so lewd you think, for one dizzying second, that it could ward off even the fiercest of creatures. His finger works magic inside of you, curling and pinching, it has you writhing beneath him. The carefully tied knot low in your belly unspooling with each curl of his finger. It’s all so much. His mouth on your chest, his finger bullying its way inside, hitting that sore, aching spot you’ve never been able to reach on your own. 

“P-Please! Ah… mhm, I—” You cry out. You feel, at your entrance, the skin of another long finger, it dancing over your entrance. You shiver in its ghostly hold. And then, for one shocking second, for one nauseous clarifying moment, you think to ask a question that out of all moments, this moment precisely, you ought to ask. You heave in his hold, before you stutter out desperately, “Y-You, haahn…. Your—name?” 

The Fae laughs, the vibrations travelling over your stomach, and then plunges a second of his fingers inside you. He relishes in the lewd moan you let out, the way your legs come up around him, bucking at his digits. And then, all too cruelly, before you can finally come undone, finally have the knot inside you untangled, he pulls out his fingers; they come away glistening and sticky, a thin strand of your arousal liquid connecting his digits to yourself. The sudden cold, the sudden absence of his flesh has you gasping. Tears spill from your face, and you look down dumbly, at his face twisted into a courteous yet mocking expression. 

“You never stop asking, do you, golubka?” He sneers at you. He watches as your hole clenches around nothing. And then almost taking pity on you at the sudden punishment, he breathes against your clit. His voice comes low, “Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.” And then his tongue darts out, pressing itself flat and hot against your flesh. Your back arches. 

The name, Kyryll, Kyrll, Kyrll, floats around your mind. “Satisfied, are you?” He asks. You don’t get to respond to that as his tongue darks out like a spike into your entrance. Almost subconsciously, you give him your name, too. And it seems to be at that moment that he seems to truly gain a different glean in his eye. He hauls you by your waist, his large hands keeping you elevated against the giant stone, your legs thrown over his shoulder, as he fucks into you relentlessly. You swear you see stars as you feel your folds open and licked clean with his tongue, long and flexible. 

Kyryll presses his mouth between your thighs, and feels the way your body convulses before you even realise it. “Yes, ah…” He murmurs low, keeping the pace. “Come undone for me, dove.” Your body relinquishes in an instant, your body nearly lifts from the stone as your weeks-awaited release washes over you in waves. “Hnah…. Kyryll, ah!” You writhe. 

For one second, as your orgasm comes over you, it’s all euphoria. You pant, your breath laboured and heavy, and you dare to glance at the man, no, Fae, that kneels at your feet. His mouth is covered in your slick and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks when you see his tongue come out to lick at his lips, as though the minutes he spent between your thighs, feasting on your bud and its liquids have not yet quenched his thirst. His eyes, you take note, have turned into slits, snake-like as he pierces into you. He takes a hold of the fabric of your frock and discards it to the side. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” He murmurs. “Bare, your eyes wide, your body squirming, given to me like an offering.”

“Kyryll…” You whisper. His eyes get blown wide. Your mouth is heavy with his name, your tongue tasting the consonant of its writing. You realise, belatedly, that you hold some power over him. He had given you his name, his most sacred possession, and you could dangle it in front of him like you would dangle a wad of feathers in front of a cat. You try again, “Kyryll.” And this time, he pants. His grip on your thigh tightens, so tight in fact that you don’t doubt that red marks have been plastered all over your skin, like you have been branded to be his for eternity.

Kyryll moves before you can properly register it. It is as though the utterance of his name has him completely, absolutely, totally ensnared by you. He has your back pressed against the stone in an instant. His hands come up below your thighs and circles your plush legs around his waist. 

You don’t know if it is simply your imagination or not, but the woods around you blur at the edges of your vision, and it seems for one dizzying moment that you are not in the wild at all, and rather that you are in a synagogue of sorts with your back pressed against a large marble pillar. Certainly, this is the most sacrilegious thing you have done so far. But your surroundings do not matter. It does not matter where you are or what local sacrilege you are committing. All that matters is that Kyryll is looking at you with a stare so penetrating it could cut through you. His clothes have come undone, discarded who knows where, and you dare to glance downward. 

His cock is hard and erect. A long pink thing with precum leaking from its head. It has your mouth salivating. You realise that you need it, that all the magic his hands and mouth could do would pale in comparison to how full he could make you feel. He could press it in you to its hilt, have you see the world in a way you never could before. You can hear the snarl in Kyryll’s voice when he says, “Say it again, baby.” You realise, belatedly, thoughts clouded with lust, that his speech is far less controlled now, far less pompous, it rather takes on a base and vulgar tone. “Say my name.”

And you do. Or, rather, you moan it loud and harsh.

Kyryll whines, bites you hard enough on the throat you whine, hips bucking against him. You shiver when he lets his tip catch your clit a few times until you manage to tilt your pelvis enough for him to slide in. Just a bit, but enough for his breath to catch and a hurried curse in a language you do not recognise, to fall from his lips as your walls eagerly flutter around the intrusion.

“Oh, ah, I—,” you whine softly as he finally presses closer to you. Your hands scrabble for purchase on his back as his body surrounds you. chest brushing against yours and sending pleasure from the pressure against your breasts. You are reminded of his lantern heat, and you nuzzle into him. One hand grips your thigh and holds your legs open as he sinks to the base. He places kisses and marks along your collar. His teeth, sharper than most, graze against your skin. It leaves stinging marks on your supple flesh, marks that you are sure will leave deep purple bruises come daylight. “...Feels good!”

“Ha–Hah… I, dear… God,” Kyryll mutters, but at the utterance of the word ‘God’ his entire body convulses. His length stutters inside your walls breaking the pace he had set. You moan louder. It was almost as though any utterance of ‘God’ sent shocks of pain and repulsion through him. Kyryll snarls and sinks his teeth into your collarbone. You cry out, clawing into his back with marks that are sure to leave half-moon scars on his pale, smooth skin. You like that thought. You like having carved yourself into him, the same as he is doing to you now. 

And then he moans out your name, over and over and over again, a substitute for God. Each brutal thrust is punctuated with a cry of your name. Your vision turns white at the edges. You feel as his cock hits your cervix. Pleasure and pain entangle themselves together, your legs press tighter and tighter. You can feel and see and hear only him. His thrust speeding up, his breath against your ear, you take it all as the creature inside you comes undone. 

All it takes is one final moan, “Kyryll!” And he comes undone. 

Your orgasm floods you yet again, stronger and more potent this time, overtaking all your senses. And you swear that Kyryll loses it. He fucks you through it, hard and fast, and you feel it in the way he chases his own release, rutting into your soaked entrance like he had not had an offering this good before. You could bet, if you were braver, that he truly had not had someone like you at his whim before. Thick white ribbons of cum release and it coats your insides, dripping down your thighs onto the ground below. He stays there for a minute longer, ensuring all of his seed would nest deep inside you.

You pant, sweat gathering at your temples, but he does not seem to mind. Kyryll cups your jaw in hand and smiles, slow. 

.

.

.

.

When you finally surface back into your own body properly, you find the snow beneath you has melted in a wide, perfect circle, bare earth steaming faintly where frost has no business yielding at all. He has kept you warm the entire time, you understand, distantly, the same patient heat that has lived banked in your hearth all winter now spent freely on nothing but you, and the realisation settles through you with a tenderness that aches almost as much as anything else tonight has.

He does not move away from you after. This, more than anything else, is what undoes you completely, the way he stays close, unhurried, his mouth finding your shoulder and pressing there, soft, before moving on to the curve of your collarbone, to the inside of your wrist where your pulse still has not properly settled, to each of your knuckles in turn as though every part of you deserves its own separate, private reverence. You lie still beneath the slow, deliberate attention of it and feel something in your chest crack open even further than your body already has, because this, the gentleness of it, the patience, frightens you in a way his hunger never quite managed to.

You ache everywhere, a soreness that has settled deep and low and entirely pleasurable, the particular satisfied heaviness of muscles finally, properly spent, and you think, with a breathless half-laugh you cannot quite suppress, of every restless night you spent these past weeks chasing this same release with nothing but your own poor, insufficient hands. Nothing in all those long, frustrated hours came anywhere close. You are sated now in a way that reaches all the way to the bone, and some small, smug, satisfied part of you decides, lying there in the steaming snow, that the weeks of wanting were worth it simply for the contrast.

He helps you dress afterward with the same unhurried care, and it is this, more than the kissing, that you will remember longest. He laces your bodice the way you imagine a much gentler world might have taught him to, slow and careful, his fingers brushing your skin with each pull of the cord, pressing a kiss to the join of your shoulder once it is closed, to your collarbone above the sky-blue embroidery your mother once worked there. He kneels to tie your boots himself, an act so absurdly domestic for something built of chains and old violet fire that you have to look away from him for a moment simply to keep your composure, and even that small task he performs as though it were a rite rather than a chore, his thumb tracing once over your ankle before he lets the laces fall closed.

He settles your cloak back over your shoulders last of all, drawing the clasp closed at your throat himself, his knuckles grazing your jaw as he does, and presses one final kiss, soft and lingering, to your temple, as though sealing something shut that he has no intention of letting come undone again so easily.

"Kyryll," you say, quiet, savoring the shape of it now that the urgency that first dragged it out of him has burned down to embers. It sounds different in this voice than it had in the other, softer, almost shy of itself, and you watch something in him answer that softness in kind, his composure slipping for just a moment at hearing his own name spoken so gently after spending however many centuries hearing it, you suspect, mostly in fear or in screaming.

"Do not waste it," he says, though there is no real warning left in the words now, only a kind of fond, weary resignation, his thumb tracing slow over your knuckles. "I am told I am rather difficult to get rid of, once properly summoned."

You laugh, and the sound surprises you both, bright and unguarded in the cold dark.

He walks you to the edge of the treeline and no further, some old instinct in him apparently still unwilling to be seen too near Babulya's gate, and there he stops, drawing you in by the waist one last time, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your mouth.

"This was never going to be a single night's bargain, golubka." His smile, when it comes, is dark and slow and entirely too pleased with itself, and yet underneath the danger of it lives something that looks, unmistakably, almost embarrassingly, like tenderness. "I have spent weeks now learning the shape of you, one small mercy at a time. I find I have no intention whatsoever of stopping simply because the debt's been paid twice over."

He brushes one last kiss against your mouth, lighter than all the others, almost careless, almost a promise.

"You will see me again," he says, already drawing back into the dark between the birches, his eyes holding yours until the very last possible moment. "Sooner, I expect, than either of us has the sense to properly prepare for."

And then he is gone, the way he always is, all at once and without sound, and you stand alone at the edge with your lips still warm and your whole body humming with a satisfaction that finally, finally, feels complete, and find that you are already, helplessly, counting the days until he keeps his word.

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

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

But K-pop had been different.

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

And you were doing the exact same things.

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

Then there was the music.

There had always been music.

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

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

You hated that.

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

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

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

And yet, despite everything, Martin remained.

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

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

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

You simply hoped he was happy.

That he slept enough despite his schedules.

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

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

And eventually, life happened.

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

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

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

Or cried.

Maybe both.

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

Seoul never really stopped moving.

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

And then your eyes landed on him.

At first, your brain refused to cooperate.

because, no.

It couldn't be.

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

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

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

Not with earbuds hanging loosely around his neck.

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

Twenty-seven looked different on him.

Less boyish. Sharper.

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

But somehow, he still looked like Martin.

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

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

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

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

God.

You knew that smile.

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

And now it was there.

Existing under the same sky as you.

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

The thought alone made your stomach twist.

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

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

But this— this was dangerous.

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

Crazy, right?

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

You had never wanted to be one of those fans.

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

Even standing too close to him felt wrong.

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

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

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

Did he still talk endlessly about songs he liked?

Did he get embarrassed after saying something awkward?

Was he the type to text first?

Did he prefer quiet cafés over crowded restaurants?

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

Would he complain about work over drinks?

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

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

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

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

Shocking, right?

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

You barely noticed.

Because Martin was moving.

Of course he was.

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

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

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

You didn't know.

And strangely enough, you liked that.

You liked not knowing.

You liked that Martin Park still belonged to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And apparently, the answer was devastatingly normal.

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

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

And he smelled nice.

Which was deeply unfortunate.

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

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

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

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

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.

The worst part?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In his hand was your badge.

He held it out politely, offering a small smile.

"I think this is yours."

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

Brilliant.

A decade of preparation.

Reduced to a single vowel.

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

"No problem."

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

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

"You still smile the same way."

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

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

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

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

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

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

"Oh, I doubt it."

"No?"

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

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

To your surprise, his smile widened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, you were today's victim.

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

"You think I'm attractive?"

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

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

"Uh?” — "'Uh?'"

"Yeah, uh."

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

"It absolutely is,” you bark back.

Martin laughed again.

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

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

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

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

"You weaponized a compliment!"

"I acknowledged a compliment."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...Right."

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

"Oh."

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

"I still think you called me attractive."

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

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

"Noted."

"I mean it."

"And yet here we are."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Unfortunately?"

You sighed dramatically.

"Unfortunately, you seem suspiciously easy to like."

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

He simply looked at you.

And somehow—

…

Martin really was only paying half attention to the show. The introduction was pretty engaging, but otherwise he'd only glance up at the screen occasionally. The flashes of coloured costumes in his peripheral vision grabbed his attention pretty well.

Not that he cares.

They introduced a lot of the hopefuls and veterans early on. He wonders how they select them for TV, they're supposed to be cheerleaders—right? Did they choose girls who already had camera experience or maybe they chose girls who weren't shy.

Regardless, one of the girls caught his eye.

She was sitting on her bed during confessionals, legs crossed with an unsure smile on her face. As all the other girls, she was talking about her dreams of making the team and how stressed she is. She's not from the Dallas area—it's adding to her nerves.

He thinks she's pretty.

He might as well root for her—he didn't catch your name but they'll show it again, they have to.

The episode moves pretty quickly towards the auditions stage, which seemed pretty hardcore. None of the guys realized how desirable a spot on the team was. Apparently people quit their jobs and fly to the other side of the country just for a chance.

Sounds familiar.

"Oh wow, that girl's a really good dancer," Keonho remarks.

"Her technique is so precise. I wonder how long she's been dancing for," James adds.

It's the same girl from earlier. She's more than a good dancer. Beautiful extensions, lively expressions, unreal musicality. Her pink flowy skirt moves as if it's a part of her. Even all the judges are impressed, having good things to say about her in their notes. He doesn't think it's a stretch to say she was made to perform.

He's made a good draft pick.

Eventually the typing of his keys slows, he didn't think anyone would notice. He himself didn't even notice until he felt a nudge on his shoulder. Seonghyeon’s making an expression at him that he can't quite make out. Is he teasing him for paying attention to the show more?

By the time the second episode starts, his computer is closed and has been abandoned on the coffee table in front of him.

"Who are you rooting for so far guys?" Seonghyeon asks.

"I like the goth girl," Keonho says, "She seems cool."

"True, I'm cheering for the Australian girl now," Juhoon says.

"Is it because we shot some of our music videos in New Zealand?"

"Oh she was born there right? Sure why not."

"Martin," Seonghyeon pauses, looking directly at him. "You've been quiet."

"Yeah, Juhoon has been talking more than you," Keonho adds, his tone is uncomfortably mischievous.

It doesn't take much to give in—actually he's glad for the opportunity to say something about you. He says your first name and last name, out of respect, which was maybe a mistake since the boys began to pester him about it.

"Woah fanboy alert."

"She doesn't even know you exist."

"Guys stop," he drags. "I'm just paying attention. Anyway let's keep watching—who has the remote? Guys where's the remote?"

"Somebody's eager," Seonghyeon says, which is met with hushed laughter. Martin thinks the red on his face will show if he tries to retaliate.

Every time the camera is on you he's giving you his full attention. They could make a whole episode dedicated to you and he wouldn't blink the entire time. The guys have taken note of Martin's newfound focus. Now they're making sure he knows that.

"Martin, should I rewind that part so you could listen to her talk more?"

"Guys we have to be quiet when she's on the screen so Martin can listen."

"Woah I think that wink she just did was for Martin."

Unfortunately they are feeding into his recent delusions. What would you think of him? Would you find him attractive? Would you notice him at a game? He'd never admit that though, it'd give his bandmates more ammunition.

While cliché, as the season progresses he finds you more beautiful. Not solely because of your outward appearance but because of your openness and kind heart. The way you comfort girls who got eliminated or talk about the stresses of being a professional dancer. You really do seem fit to be one of America's Sweethearts.

That's why he feels an excitement of his own when it was announced you made the team. The house had gone completely quiet besides the music of TV when the credits began to roll. When he looked down at his phone, 03:00 stared at him. The other guys decided to go to bed before finishing the show—didn't they have an important schedule in the morning?

His smile reflects your own. He wishes he could have congratulated you in person or sent you flowers at the time, despite the season being filmed the year prior.

Holy shit what's going on.

 "The managers asking why you're so tired," Juhoon approaches Martin. He's slouched over on a chair, a stylist is touching up his hair. His iced americano is still half full.

"I was doing some work last night—didn't sleep enough," Martin replies absentmindedly.

It wasn't totally a lie. He just decided to leave out the part where he followed you on all your social media platforms and scrolled through your posts, maybe a little too far. That secret finsta account of his did come in handy.

You're still on the team, which makes sense, you expressed a deep desire to be a DCC. You looked just as pretty as you did happy in all your game day photos. That made him happy.

You've gained a lot of followers from the show and you deserve it all, the praise, the likes, the brand deals. But he couldn't help but feel a slight tinge of something when he saw football players shooting their shot in your instagram comments.

"Work consists of watching cheerleader fancams now?"

"What?" His eyebrows furrow as if he has no idea what Juhoon is talking about.

"I saw you on the couch."

Martin doesn't say anything, partially because he doesn't know how to respond to Juhoon calling out his obvious lie, but mainly because he's so fucking tired. There aren't enough RedBulls in the world to wake him up at the moment.

"I've never seen you with a crush before."

"It's not a crush—let me sleep a little longer please," he hums.

"Okay, we're getting called for a mic check soon though."

Juhoon's last words playback in his head. Maybe he did have a tiny crush on you, but it was casual and the feeling would disappear in a couple days. Most crushes did.

This one, unfortunately, had other plans.

What shows have you guys been into lately?

He's spending the late evening in the studio with Keonho, whose idea it was to start a livestream. The comments are filled with the likes of 'go to sleep' and 'you guys look so tired' They've learned to tolerate the comments because while slightly annoying, they're true.

"Actually, the other day we started watching the cheerleading show," Keonho says.

"Yeah, with the DCC—the football cheerleaders," Martin adds.

"I thought it was pretty cool—they're great athletes."

"Yes they are." Martin purses his lips together, trying to hide the smile forming on his face.

Now Keonho is looking at him, knowing damn well what his following looks like right now. Blue and white profile pictures seem to go on forever. He now follows an account that posts your game videos, one that keeps up with your fashion, and one that makes edits.

Keonho places his hands on Martin's shoulder, taking a deep breath like he has something devastating to say.

"Our very own 'tin…is a fanboy."

"Stop!" Martin says, covering his mouth with his hand. "Guys I'm not a fanboy."

"Okay so then tell me why earlier today you were able to list all those facts about—"

"No, no it's not like that." He waves his hand in front of the camera, encouraging the audience to dismiss whatever (true) nonsense was just said. Is Keonho trying to end their careers?

"I'm just like…I'm really impressed with all the work they do and it's cool to have a glimpse into their lifestyle. It was very interesting and like…I kind of like—obviously I don't fully understand it but I get what they're going through."

He stops for a moment, thinking whether or not he should mention you.

"Actually, if you've seen the show you probably know her, she's really popular right now—she was wearing the pink flowy costume during auditions. Anyway, she said something that really stuck with me. It was about how your dreams could become a reality. I don't know, it just stuck with me."

martin dcc fanboy he knows the exact outfit as well omfg your digital footprints too crazy for her 😭 "its not like that" sure buddy

Keonho's smile grows wider when he looks at the chat.

"Yeah I think she said that during episode four—it was right before training camp ended. Anyway—

"Episode four?!"

"Yeah."

"Dude, you're just digging yourself in deeper."

Hopefully nobody hears the oh shit he said under his breath, even though it's going to get clipped on a twitter account in like two minutes.

"Hm? What was that Keonho?"

"Oh nothing. It just, you kind of sound like a fan—

"Oh look at this comment, Martin's so handsome—thank you so much."

"Oh my gosh girl you've gotten so many new followers!"

"It's probably just from the show," you say, folding your uniform in your suitcase. You've been chosen for group events more lately, the other girls were impressed with you being a rookie and all. That's how you earned the nickname "Firecracker." Well that and partially because Kelli, the director called you that during auditions.

Who knew the job came with so much traveling.

The sudden attention was hard to deal with at first, especially during your first few months on the team. Nosy netizens, pressure to be perfect, constant criticism. It's gotten easier to adapt to it though. It's your dream job after all.

"I'm so happy for you—you deserve it all and more." Reece says, hugging you from the side. It's her last season this year to your dismay. She's been such a supportive role model inside and outside the team.

"Oh! It could also be from that K-pop thing."

"Hm?" You take some things out of your suitcase—you've been meaning to get a bigger one. There's not enough space for your white boots and your favourite hoodie.

"You haven't seen it? It's going viral." Kleine adds.

Chronically online Kleine. She's taught you much of the basics of social media, being a DCC wasn't the only job you had to manage. She's always the first person to hear about current news and participate in the latest trends.

She scrolls on her phone for a minute, trying to find the video you're guessing she's trying to show you. "Here it is!"

"Oh, even I've seen that video," Reece adds. "I'm like a grandma when it comes to social media too."

"I think maybe people have sent it to me before, but you know how bad I am at checking my DM's."

You've never seen him before, yet he looks like someone who could be familiar, kind. He rambles on for most of the video stumbling over his ideas but stays coherent. You can tell he's being sincere.

"Cute," you say. "That's so sweet of him."

"They're pretty famous in Korea—they sing and dance at the same time!" Kleine adds.

"Wow they have a one up on us," you say.

 "Pretty darn cool, right?" Reece adds.

"Also firecracker—I think you should scroll through your tags sometime." Kleine says, trying to hide her very obvious giggles.

"Oh really? Why?"

You're met with giggles as if that's her new way of communicating.

"Kleine you have to tell me more—or Reece, wait tell me what's going on, please."

She just giggles along.

"Hey do you want to try this dance challenge—we could do it with poms and make it really cute!"

Curiosity really did kill the cat but satisfaction brought it back. It's so funny how you didn't notice the abundance of ship edits that were being made between you and the boy from the video—Martin was it? You couldn't even avoid it if you want to, you always seem to be tagged in CORTIS related posts. You even consulted with your pseudo social media manager when seeing some of the things people were making.

kleine why are they making wedding edits? dont ask me 🤭 its so somber tho wait martin come back~ 😭😭😭

You made sure to do your research thoroughly. Checking out their popular songs and music videos. The choreography for their song REDRED really caught your eye. Martin seems pretty fun too, based on the clips you've seen.

"It looks kind of hard, don'tcha think?" Reece says.

"We danced in heeled boots for 3 hours in boiling weather. We can do anything," Kleine adds.

"Says the literal human barbie!"

"I think once we break it down it'll be easier." you say.

Reece was right, it did look really hard. It wasn't too bad though, you've danced in a style similar to it during the Thanksgiving performance. You made sure to add some signature DCC flair: bright smiles, hair flips, clean lines. Especially since you're wearing branded gear.

"Okay I think that went well," you say, brushing your hair out of your face and playing back the video. "Do you think we should tag them in the post?"

"I meant that one guy shouted you out pretty heavily."

"So, yes?" you say, taking off your boots which has got to be one of the best feelings in the world.

"Yup. Also, I've been meaning to ask—what'dya think of him?" Reece says.

"I mean he's cute and a good performer, yeah he seems nice."

"Everyone thinks that about you too!" Kleine giggles, nudging you. "You're around the same age too."

"Guys, it's not like we even live in the same country—i'll probably never meet him!"

"We travel a lot with this job you know," she adds.

"Holy Shit!" Martin exclaims.

It's one of those stances where they're all waiting on set, scrolling on their phones and eating snacks while waiting to start filming or whatever was on the schedule for the day.

He's dreamt of it before, yes, but a tiny part of him knew it wasn't likely. You, noticing him? It seems like your worlds are too different for that to ever happen.

You gotta love some social media.

"Jeez Martin, some of us are trying to sleep." Seonghyeon says, rubbing his eyes.

"No no wait guys look at this." He moves over to the leather couch where a couple of members are lounging.

If this could happen, what else could?

"No way," Keonho and Seonghyeon say at the same time.

"They did it with the pom poms and everything—very nice." James says, hand on chin, impressed.

He's seen you participate in dance challenges before—he even thought of attempting Thunderstruck but that jumpsplit may have split him in half. Never in a million years did he expect you to do one of his own dances. You may have done it better than him.

"Someone needs to get our management to comment on the post, like now." Martin says.

"They're probably already working on it." Seonghyeon says. "Can I see the video again?"

"You have your own phone and since when were you into the DCC too?"

"Everyones into the DCC," Keonho says.

"Yeah we're just not as obsessed as you." Seonghyeon adds.

"Hey, I'm not obsessed—I just admire their work ethic and—"

"Is that why you follow all of that one girl's accounts?" Juhoon says

"He probably has made a fanpage for her at this point." Keonho laughs.

"Oh wait guys look at the caption," James says, looking at the post from his home. "dc to our darlings @/cortis 💕 They put a heart emoji at the end."

You would've thought they'd just scored Taylor Swift tickets with the way they gasped.

Martin stares for a moment, almost forgetting how to breathe. He thinks to himself that it's probably just the way they type, it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean anything.

"Guys guys it's just a dance video it's not that serious," he says, which earns him unimpressed looks from his bandmates.

"Says the guy who's been smiling at his phone while the video loops for the eighteenth time."

"I need some water," Martin gets up quickly, leaving the room without looking back. Why did he have to blush so easily?

"Oh look girls—they commented on our post!"

"Who—oh those K-pop boys right? Reece says. "What'd they say?"

"Oh looks like PR already answered for us but they said:"

do we have to do your kickline now?👀

and we responded

We'd love to see you try!!💙🤍

"I would really like to see that kickline," you giggle.

"They even reposted it," Kleine says.

"Aw, that's nice," you say.

"Firecracker."

"Hm?"

"Do you know the effect you have on that man?"

"What?"

"I don't think she does," Reece laughs, and Kleine joins in.

"Wait guys explain," you drag. "Please, I want to laugh along too!"

"Just keep checking your tags," Reece says through laughter.

"I am!"

"Okay team, you'll be attending the RedBull dance your style finals in L.A. next week. You've been at this event a few times before I'm sure you know what to expect. There is going to be lots of different talent this year so I expect you all to be on your best behaviour."

The manager is briefing the members, as well as their staff for their next trip. Everything that is said is so repetitive, they're just restating the contract they signed 10 months ago.

Martin wonders why, in particular, the manager glanced directly at him when he mentioned the part about 'best behaviour'—what did he ever do?

"Any questions?"

"Yeah," James says. "What type of talent will be there?"

"The ones you'll be familiar with are the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders—

"Which," Martin accidently interrupts. He tries faking a cough to cover it up. "Sorry, continue, excuse me."

"Yeah," The manager gives him the same glance as before. "The cheerleaders as well as Kirsten Dodgen and Bada Lee."

The entire room nods, they're familiar with those dancers—hell most the dance world is.

Keonho glances over at Martin, spinning his swivel chair around, hiding his smile in his fist. Martin shakes his head at Keonho, do not even think about it.

"Martin, do you have something you'd like to ask? Sir, I think Martin has a question." Keonho says.

"Go ahead."

The whole room's attention is on him, the walls may as well be watching. He sighs, now he has to ask.

"Yeah uhm, so you mentioned the DCC—the cheerleaders, do you know which ones are going to be there?" He spins the pen he's holding between his fingers.

Seonghyeon fails to hide his laugh.

The manager looks at Seonghyeon then back at Martin. "I don't know exactly who but probably the ones who are popular. Does that help?"

"Yes it does, thank you."

"Interesing," Keonho mutters under his breath.

…

"Seems like someone's excited for our L.A. trip now." Seonghyeon wraps his arm around Martin's shoulder.

They're back at the dorm now, some members are eating, some are already packing up for the trip. Others, like Martin, pace around the halls.

He's had to convince himself about twelve times that everything is real. Your appearance at the event was only confirmed by the post you made on your instagram story. It was a picture of you holding up a can of redbull, wearing that smile that he loves so much. The caption read 'see ya'll in la! 💞' He genuinely thought he was losing his mind the first time he saw that.

"What do you mean? I've always been excited to go."

"What will you say if you meet her? Will you tell her she's pretty and has a good work ethic? Or will you tell her you follow all those fanpages of her."

"No, no—what?" he says, shrugging Seonghyeon's arm off of his shoulder. "And don't say anything."

"No promises," he smiles.

"Yes, promises."

"Let me borrow your Rick Owens sweater for the trip."

"No and stop asking."

"Hey, I'm the one with the leverage here."

He weighs the pros and cons in his head. Seonhyeon wouldn't actually think of doing that to him right? Right? No way he can risk it, not in front of you of all people.

"Okay fine but you have to give it back the second we land back home."

Seonghyeon sticks his tongue out at him.

"Be careful Seonghyeon, he might diss you on the next album," Juhoon says, passing by.

He's done everything he could've done to prepare for the moment.

But now that he's here, possibly in the same vicinity as you, he doesn't know how to act.

He's gone through the routine and all the different possible outcomes in his head. He's planned it out meticulously. He'd start off by introducing himself, then he'd talk about how much he loved the show and how great of a dancer you are—especially in the REDRED dance challenge video. And eventually it would get to the point where he asks for your number or some sort of contact info.

Simple right.

"What should we do now?" Keonho asks.

They just finished up the mic check for their performance in the evening. The stage is even bigger than it was last time, more people will be attending, more eyes to watch any potential slip ups.

"There are a few things," James starts. "We could hang out by the pool, go shopping nearby, go to the skate park.

He pauses, hiding his smile before he states the last option.

"Martin stay calm—actually all of you stay calm but we could go watch the DCC do their showcase in the park across the street."

The smiles are immediate.

"Why would you even give us the other options?" Seonghyeon says.

"Let me just put some better shoes on quickly," Juhoon adds

"I think I need my hair touched up before we go," Keonho says, running his fingers through his hair.

Martin tries to find the words but ironically, his lack of words speak for themselves.

Watching you perform would be just as good as getting to meet you.

Dreams can become a reality.

"Sure and while we're at it Martin needs a higher coverage foundation." Seonghyeon remarks

"It's fine—he'll just be promoting our new song." Juhoon smiles.

It's so bright outside, he's glad he brought his pair of sunglasses.

There's already a huge crowd at the park even though they arrived a few minutes early. He knew the show was big but the impact was insane. Lots of people showed up wearing Cowboys merch and even had posters up for some of the girls. He's seen your name the most on the signs.

He recognized the tour bus that the DCC travelled in from the show. It must be a replica though, there's no way they did a road trip all the way from Texas.

"Hey Martin," Keonho nudges. "Lots of people seem to be here for your girl."

"Yeah." He's not really paying attention, glancing off into the distance at the silver and blue coloured bus close by.

Keonho laughs. "Your girl? I knew you were going a bit crazy but seriously."

"That was a trap, you know I don't think that," he dismisses. "But yeah, a lot of people are here for her."

"She's a fan favourite, sorry dude."

"No, no that's good—I'm glad she deserves it." He thinks whether or not he should ask—he'll get made fun of for sure but, he couldn't care less at this point. "Hey Keonho."

"Yeah."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm going to make fun of you."

"Please be serious."

"Okay, okay"

"Do you… do you think I still have a chance at talking to her?"

He almost laughs, he looks like he's trying to suppress one more than anything but he changes his approach halfway.

"Pfft, dream on." …

The door of the bus opens and a line of cheerleaders comes rushing out, ruffling their poms in their hands and wearing huge smiles. The crowd goes absolutely crazy, signs wave around frantically, cheers get louder, you get even closer.

The camera certainly doesn't do you justice. Maybe it couldn't capture the energy of actually being here, the way your smile reached the back of the crowd. From your perfect hair to your sparkling white boots, he can't look away. Everyone else seems so focused too, none of the boys are trying to tease him.

For the entire duration of your Thunderstruck performance, he can't take his eyes off of you. Watching your hair flips and high kicks as if it's the only thing left to look at in the world. He couldn't even bring himself to clap after the performance, still processing what he just watched.

"What're you, crazy? Clap." One of his bandmates says, he can't make out who though.

"Yeah, sorry," he starts, his hands moving on their own.

…

After the performance, a meet and greet was announced. The girls sit down at a long table, signing cards and taking pictures with the people in front of them. He thought long and hard about joining the line but the queue was too long. He has to start heading back to the arena soon, plus he has important business to attend too.

"I'm going to the bathroom real quick."

"Okay, we'll wait for you and then we'll head back," Juhoon says.

There's a rectangular grey building in the distance, there's two actually but he chooses the closer one. They both have 'washroom' spelt out vertically on the sides.

The distance isn't that far but he feels every grassy step it takes to get there. The sun seems to have gotten higher, thank god he'll be indoors shortly. How did the cheerleaders not melt?

The white lighting of the building is dim. He takes his sunglasses off and rests them on his hairline. The bathrooms seem clean though, smelling pleasantly of flowery perfume, which is unusual.

"Kleine is that you?"

He thinks the voice sounds familiar, it's coming from one of the stalls. On the other hand that name sounds familiar too but maybe he's thinking about underwear. "No?" he answers.

"Who the fuck are you?"

The voice is as scathing as it is scared. Did he accidentally walk into the women's restroom?

"Oh uhm, I'm just…using the restroom? Sorry am I in the wrong—"

"Did you follow me here? Don't try anything, security is right outside."

He's definitely in the wrong restroom.

"No, but uh I'm sorry I'll get out right—"

The door slams open and he thinks he might go into shock, maybe he's already in shock. This can't be real.

There you are, hair out of your face, frown on your glossed lips. Still very beautiful, but he brushes off that thought. You're uncomfortable.

"What are you doing? Get out!"

"Oh shit, shit, shit," he mutters under his breath. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, sorry I didn't mean."

"Wait, wait—Martin?"

No way, you know his name. It was possible of course, but a reality? He can't help but stop in his footsteps. His brain feels like a static TV screen at this point.

You take a couple steps towards him, hesitating. Once you confirm who he is, you stop.

"Did I shock you? You aren't some creep right?" Your hands crossed over your chest, keeping enough distance between the two of you.

"No, not at all! Uh, I was just trying to use the bathroom, but I think I went to the wrong building." He rubs the back of his neck as his face begins to flush.

You sigh, a sigh of relief. "I'm sorry then, like really sorry about that, embarrassed actually. A lot of pervs come with the job." You pause, shaking your head. "Yeah, It's easy to get the buildings confused—they should probably do something about that."

"Oh no, don't apologize at all, your reaction is totally expected I—I really should try and read signs more carefully. Here I'll go now."

"Wait, Martin, just one thing before you go."

"…"

"Martin?"

"Huh, what sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me today," he smiles nervously.

He thinks his heart might fall out of his chest.

"It's fine!" you smile. "You know, what you said in your live was really sweet—it made me really happy to hear that!"

"Oh really? Oh, I'm glad to hear that."

You smile nodding as he heads for the exit. "You're pretty tall too! Not even my boots give me a decent lift."

"Oh me? I mean yeah, guess so." He bites his lip.

"So maybe I'll see you at the after party tonight?"

"Oh yeah maybe, bye."

Oh yeah maybe, bye. Could he have chosen the worst response? He even had imagined this situation, well almost, and he had much better things to say than whatever that was.

Just as Martin leaves, Kleine enters. She stares up and down at him at the door, then back at you. Her jaw is wide open, not even bothering to give a poker face.

"Firecracker!"

permanent taglist // open!

@yeppiz @faseanz @sapphireserpens @lovhyeon @aftermoontea @ramenoil @yatta-exe @jjuhyeon @camdenlou @mykaneptune @coconhovr @lcvehyeon @taelvvrzz @sofisbelle

Despite everything people assumed about Daryl Dixon, despite the cigarettes and the silence and the rough edges that made strangers dismiss him before he even spoke, his first instinct had always been loyalty. “Ain’t runnin’ from it.” And you knew him well enough to know he meant it.

The months that followed were ugly in ways neither of you had expected. Not because of the baby, but because the world around you made it painfully clear how little faith it had in the possibility of people like you surviving together.

Your parents looked at Daryl the way people looked at storms rolling over the horizon when they'd just planned to go out: dangerous, inconvenient. Your mother cried quietly over dinner while your father spoke in measured, humiliating sentences about ruined opportunities and "so much wasted potential", about all the money spent on private schools, ballet classes, and piano lessons just to watch you throw your future away for some mechanic from the “wrong side” of town who barely spoke in complete sentences.

Daryl sat through every word with his jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack from the pressure. He never defended himself, raised his voice or begged. He simply endured it because you were pregnant, exhausted, and scared, and somewhere in that silence he had decided your comfort mattered more than his pride.

Your son was born during a thunderstorm after nine painful hours of labor. It felt like the weather itself mimicked your screams with thunder shaking the hospital windows. And against your parents’ wishes, Daryl stayed beside you the entire time.

The gentle nurse who spoke to you afterward admitted she had never seen a man more terrified in her life than when he heard you screaming in pain.

Once the baby was finally placed against your chest, Daryl felt his entire world change. He muttered something under his breath while staring down at the tiny screaming infant wrapped in blue blankets, looking stunned in the purest sense of the word. The baby had his eyes.

For a while, the two of you tried. God, you tried harder than most people ever knew. Daryl picked up extra work wherever he could find it, often coming home with grease on his hands and exhaustion dragging beneath his eyes so heavily it aged him years overnight, while you balanced college classes with motherhood and constant battles against your parents’ disappointment.

You were exhausted all the time, surviving on burnt coffee, interrupted sleep, and a stubborn love that refused to die even when life gave it every reason to.

But eventually the pressure became unbearable.

Your parents escalated from disapproval to ultimatums, threatening to cut you off completely — tuition, housing, every safety net you and your son had left.