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Martin didn’t know what triggered it.
It wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t a bad day. It wasn’t even something Seonghyeon said or didn’t say. It was—stupidly—nothing. Or maybe it was everything all at once. One random afternoon where his brain decided, hey, remember every time you got hurt? Let’s replay that in HD.
He was in his studio, lights dimmed, laptop glowing, the steady hum of speakers filling the room. He’d been locked in for hours—beats stacking on beats, melody loops repeating until they stopped sounding like sound and more like muscle memory. The kind of focus where time slips sideways and your body forgets basic human needs like water or blinking.
It was only when his phone vibrated again—faint, almost apologetic—that Martin snapped out of it.
He checked the time.
His stomach dropped.
Unread messages.
Hyeonie: good morning :)
Hyeonie: have you eaten lunch yet?
Hyeonie: Martin?
The last one had been sent almost an hour ago.
Martin felt that familiar, cold slide of panic crawl straight down his spine.
Oh no.
Not because Seonghyeon was mad—he had no proof of that—but because someone else had been mad once. Because this exact situation had turned into raised voices, accusations, words like disrespectful and do you even care tossed at him like weapons.
His fingers hovered over the screen. Call? Text? Apologize immediately? Over-explain? Promise to do better?
Before he could decide, there was the soft click of the studio door unlocking.
Martin looked up just in time to see Seonghyeon step inside, balancing two paper bags of Chinese takeout in one hand, phone in the other. He wore that hoodie Martin loved—the stupid oversized one that made him look impossibly soft for someone who could bench press Martin’s emotional stability.
Seonghyeon smiled.
Not tight. Not annoyed. Just… warm.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Knew you’d be here. Have you eaten yet?”
Martin stared at him.
Actually stared.
His brain short-circuited so hard he forgot how to form words.
“…You’re not mad?” he finally blurted.
Seonghyeon blinked. “Mad?”
“You texted. And I didn’t reply. And it’s been—” Martin glanced at the time again, wincing. “—a while.”
“Oh.” Seonghyeon shrugged, already setting the food down. “I figured you were working.”
That was it.
No accusation. No passive-aggressive tone. No you always do this.
Just… understanding.
Martin laughed, but it came out shaky, like his chest hadn’t quite caught up yet. “You just… showed up?”
“You didn’t answer,” Seonghyeon said simply. “So I brought food.”
Martin’s heart did something deeply unprofessional.
That should’ve been the end of it. A cute moment. A green flag. Something to laugh about later.
Except Martin’s brain, traitor that it was, went but what if it changes?
They’d only been dating six months.
Six months wasn’t forever.
Six months didn’t guarantee that someday Seonghyeon wouldn’t wake up and decide Martin was too much. Too busy. Too loud. Too tall. Too childish. Too everything.
The thought lodged itself in his chest and refused to leave.
So Martin started noticing things.
Or rather—fixating on them.
Exhibit A: The texting thing. again.
Martin tried to be better. Hyper-aware, actually. He set reminders. Checked his phone obsessively. Answered messages mid-session even when it broke his flow.
Seonghyeon noticed.
“You don’t have to reply immediately,” he said one night, casually scrolling through something on his phone while Martin sat cross-legged on the couch, typing furiously.
“I want to,” Martin said too quickly.
Seonghyeon glanced at him. “You look stressed.”
“I’m not,” Martin lied.
Seonghyeon hummed, unconvinced, and reached over to tug Martin’s phone out of his hands. “Finish what you’re saying out loud instead.”
Martin froze. “What?”
“You were mid-rant about a synth preset,” Seonghyeon said. “Continue.”
And Martin did. Because he always did. Because with Seonghyeon, words spilled easier.
Exhibit B: The height thing
Martin told himself he didn’t care. He liked being tall. Loved how clothes cling and fit with his proportions.
He didn’t care.
You’re…a little too tall
I feel too small beside you..kinda weird lowkey
Except, well, he does care a little.
So when he thrifted the boots—black, shiny, and pointed with a subtle heel—he hesitated for three whole days before wearing them out.
The club was loud. Sweaty. Neon lights bouncing off bodies and mirrors. Martin felt hyper-aware of his height, of the way he stood out, of the extra inches the boots gave him.
He kept sneaking glances at Seonghyeon.
Trying to read him.
Seonghyeon, meanwhile, looked like he was seconds away from committing a crime.
James leaned over at some point, smirking. “Martin, you’re seriously going to drive Seonghyeon crazy one of these days.”
Martin frowned. “What?”
James jerked his head subtly. “He’s been glaring at anyone who looks at you for more than two seconds. Thought he was gonna jump someone.”
Martin looked.
Really looked.
And—oh.
Seonghyeon caught his eye across the room. His expression softened instantly. He smiled. Not smug. Not possessive.
Just… fond.
Later that night, when Martin finally worked up the courage to ask, Seonghyeon blinked at him.
“The boots?” he said. “They’re hot.”
Martin choked on his drink.
“And you being taller?” Seonghyeon continued, completely serious. “Has literally never bothered me. If anything, I like it. I love it.”
“Oh,” Martin said weakly.
“Also,” Seonghyeon added, leaning closer, voice dropping, “you looked really confident tonight.”
That one stayed with him.
Exhibit C: The pettiness
Martin knew he could be childish. Blame the fact that he was the youngest sibling in his family. He was a little too babied and spoiled by his mom. So it kind of just stick to him when there's time where he couldn't help but just sulked. He pouted. He got dramatic over dumb things.
He braced for annoyance that never came.
When Martin crossed his arms and refused to talk because Seonghyeon ate the last fry, Seonghyeon just sighed fondly and ordered more.
When Martin complained endlessly about losing at Mario Kart, Seonghyeon let him win the next round without making it obvious.
“You’re spoiled,” Seonghyeon teased once, brushing Martin’s hair back.
“And you indulge me,” Martin shot back.
Seonghyeon smiled. “Yeah.”
Like it wasn’t a burden.
Like it was a choice.
Exhibit D: The yapping
Martin talked.
A lot.
Sometimes he caught himself mid-ramble and flinched, instinctively bracing for the familiar signs—glazed eyes, distracted nods, the subtle impatience that meant “okay, that’s enough now.”
But Seonghyeon never did that.
He listened.
Really listened. Asked questions that proved he’d been paying attention. Reacted in real time. Laughed at the right moments, even when Martin was spiraling into tangents that barely made sense anymore. Looked at Martin like he was something precious, something worth the extra seconds, the extra patience.
That look alone unsettled him.
It was easier when people eventually pulled away. Easier when affection had an expiration date. Easier when he could predict the moment he’d become too much.
But Seonghyeon stayed.
Night after night, conversation after conversation, he stayed.
And one night, when the apartment was quiet and the city hummed faintly through the windows, Martin finally cracked.
They were lying in bed, lights off, bodies angled toward each other but not touching. Martin stared at the ceiling, chest tight in that familiar, old way—like something fragile inside him was bracing for impact.
“What if,” he started quietly, voice barely above a whisper, “you get tired of me?”
Seonghyeon turned immediately. No hesitation. No confusion. Just attention.
“Where did that come from?”
Martin swallowed. “I’ve been… here before. Things start good. And then suddenly everything I do is wrong.”
Seonghyeon reached for his hand, fingers threading together like it was instinct. Like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“Martin.”
“I know it’s stupid,” Martin rushed. “You’ve never—”
“Hey,” Seonghyeon interrupted gently. “It’s not stupid.”
He squeezed Martin’s hand, grounding. Solid.
“I don’t love you despite those things.”
Martin turned to look at him, breath caught halfway in his chest.
“I love those things,” Seonghyeon said. “Your focus. Your height. Your dramatics. Your yapping. All of it.”
Something inside Martin finally cracked open.
“You don’t have to shrink yourself for me,” Seonghyeon added softly. “I chose you. I keep choosing you.”
Martin blinked rapidly, throat tight. “You’re unfairly good at this.”
Seonghyeon smiled, brushing his thumb over Martin’s knuckles. “Yeah. I know.”
Martin laughed, quiet and shaky, and for the first time in a long while—really laughed. He let himself lean in. Let himself believe it.
Because for the first time, the past stayed where it belonged.
And the present—warm, steady, safe—was enough.
Martin didn’t realize how tense he’d been until the tension was gone.
It didn’t happen all at once. There was no dramatic breakthrough, no cinematic moment where everything suddenly clicked into place.
It happened quietly.
On a Sunday.
A slow one.
Sunlight slipped through the curtains in thin, lazy stripes, dust motes floating in the air like the world had decided to move at half speed. The city outside felt muted, distant, like it was still half-asleep.
Martin woke up sprawled across the bed, limbs everywhere, one leg hooked over Seonghyeon’s thigh like an anchor. His cheek was pressed against warm skin, the steady rise and fall of another person’s breathing grounding him in a way that felt… unfamiliar.
For once, his mind was quiet.
No checklist of things he needed to fix about himself.
No running inventory of potential deal-breakers.
No voice in the back of his head whispering, don’t get too comfortable.
Just warmth. Soft sheets. The solid, reassuring presence of Seonghyeon beside him.
Seonghyeon was already awake, propped up slightly, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other rested on Martin’s back. His fingers traced lazy, absent patterns—circles, lines, nothing intentional.
Martin stirred.
“Mmm,” he mumbled, burrowing closer, face pressing into Seonghyeon’s chest.
“Morning,” Seonghyeon said softly.
Martin hummed in response, half-asleep, grip tightening instinctively like he was afraid Seonghyeon might disappear if he didn’t hold on.
Seonghyeon didn’t move away.
That alone made something deep in Martin’s chest loosen.
They stayed like that for a while. No rush. No agenda.
When they finally got out of bed, it was clumsy and domestic in the best way—Martin stealing Seonghyeon’s hoodie, Seonghyeon stealing Martin’s socks, both of them pretending it wasn’t absolutely on purpose.
The kitchen smelled like coffee within minutes.
Martin leaned against the counter, watching Seonghyeon move around the space like he belonged there. Like this wasn’t fragile or temporary. Like it was allowed to exist.
“Stop staring,” Seonghyeon said without looking.
“I’m not staring,” Martin lied.
Seonghyeon turned, eyebrows raised. “You are.”
“So?” Martin shrugged. “I like you.”
Seonghyeon snorted. “Weird.”
Martin grinned.
They ate breakfast on the floor, backs against the couch, because neither of them felt like pretending to be functional adults. Martin talked—about nothing, about everything. About a dumb melody idea. About Keonho’s criminal fashion choices. About how Juhoon once microwaved a fork.
Seonghyeon listened.
Reacted.
Laughed at the right parts.
And somewhere along the way, Martin stopped monitoring himself. Stopped counting sentences. Stopped waiting for the moment he’d go too far.
The words flowed easier when he wasn’t bracing for rejection.
He only noticed later—much later—when he realized he hadn’t felt that familiar pang of too much even once.
In the afternoon, Martin retreated to his studio.
Old habit. Old comfort.
He hesitated at the door, glancing back at Seonghyeon as a flicker of anxiety surfaced—what if he thinks you’re ignoring him again?
Before it could take root, Seonghyeon spoke.
“Text me if you forget to eat,” he said casually. “I’ll bring food.”
Martin blinked. “You won’t…?”
“Get mad?” Seonghyeon finished. “No.”
Just like that.
Martin nodded slowly. “Okay.”
And for the first time, he meant it.
Hours passed. Music came easier than it had in weeks. He didn’t check his phone obsessively. Didn’t rush replies. He trusted—trusted—that Seonghyeon would still be there.
When the door opened later, Martin didn’t jump.
He smiled.
Seonghyeon appeared with takeout and that same soft expression. “Hey,” he said. “You looked happy in there.”
Martin realized he was.
That night, they lay tangled on the couch, some low-stakes movie playing in the background that neither of them was really watching. Martin’s head rested on Seonghyeon’s shoulder. Seonghyeon’s arm around him felt solid, sure.
“I think,” Martin said quietly, “I’m starting to believe you.”
Seonghyeon glanced down. “About what?”
“That you actually like me,” Martin said. “All of me.”
Seonghyeon smiled, pressing a kiss into Martin’s hair. “Took you long enough.”
Martin laughed—soft, unguarded—and curled closer.
For the first time, his body believed what his heart had been trying to learn all along.
That love wasn’t something he had to earn by being less. That safety could look like Sundays and shared hoodies and someone who stayed.
And that this time, he didn’t have to brace for the fall.
He could just… rest.