Chapter Text
-
— Room 314
The hallway of Dormitory C smells exactly the same as three years ago—cheap detergent, old wood, and the faint, lingering scent of someone’s instant ramen disaster. Martin pauses in front of the door marked 314, suitcase handle warm in his grip.
New year, new room, new roommate.
Please, universe, give him ANYONE except—
The door swings open from the inside.
Martin freezes.
Juhoon stands there, hair slightly damp from a shower, wearing an oversized black hoodie and that same expression Martin remembers too well—mildly annoyed, mildly bored, and somehow still stupidly handsome.
For a full, solid second, neither says anything.
Then Juhoon blinks.
Once. Slowly.
“You’re kidding,” he mutters.
Martin lets out a breathy laugh. “Trust me, if I had the power to joke about this, I would.”
Juhoon steps back, jaw tight. “The housing office really put you here?”
“Got the email this morning.” Martin lifts the key.
“314. That’s this room. Unless the numbers changed while I wasn’t looking.”
Juhoon mutters something that sounds very much like a curse in Korean and rubs his face.
This was supposed to be a clean year.
A peaceful year. A Juhoonless year.
Martin swallows hard.
“Look. I’m not thrilled either. But the dorm said there’s a shortage because of renovations. We’re stuck.”
Juhoon exhales, long and sharp, but steps aside anyway—silently, reluctantly, like he’s letting in a cold breeze.
“Fine,” he says. “Just … don’t touch my side.”
Martin rolls his eyes, dragging his suitcase in. “Relax. I don’t want anything from your side.”
Juhoon snorts. “Didn’t seem like that two years ago.”
The suitcase wheels stop. Martin goes still.
Juhoon instantly looks like he regrets the words—but not enough to take them back.
There it is, the first crack of old bitterness.
Martin forces a calm voice. “We’re not doing this. We said we’d move on.”
“We said a lot of things,” Juhoon replies quietly.
Silence.
The kind that hurts, but familiar.
Then a notification buzzes on both their phones at the same time.
Martin checks his screen.
Juhoon checks his at the same moment.
Their eyes meet.
FINAL YEAR RESEARCH GROUP ASSIGNMENT:
Group 7:
— Martin Edwards
— Juhoon Kim
— Keonho Ahn
— Seonhyeon Eom
— Zhao Yu-fan / James
Martin laughs again—this time, louder, slightly unhinged.
Juhoon just closes his phone. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
“Apparently the universe hates us,” Martin says dryly.
Juhoon crosses his arms, leaning against the desk. “Or it thinks we’ve got unfinished business.”
Martin’s heart kicks at his ribs—too fast, too stupid, “Don’t say things like that,” he mutters.
Juhoon shrugs, gaze flicking away. “Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you remember.”
Martin’s breath catches.
And for the first time, the space between them feels just a little too small again.
— Rules We Pretend Aren't Personal
The room feels smaller than Martin remembers.
Maybe because Juhoon has claimed an entire half with military precision: shelves, notebooks, neatly folded blankets, a tiny succulent that’s somehow still alive.
Martin clears his throat. “We should probably set up … rules. Since we’re stuck together.”
Juhoon raises an eyebrow, arms still crossed. “Rules? Like we didn’t fail that the first time?”
“That’s exactly why,” Martin mutters. “We’re older now. More mature.”
Juhoon snorts softly. “You say that, but you’re still dramatic.”
Martin glares. “I am not dramatic.”
“You narrated your pain out loud when your ramen spilled last year.”
“That ramen was limited edition, Juhoon.”
Juhoon’s mouth twitches, almost smiling—almost.
He looks away quickly.
“Fine. Rules,” he says, pulling out a notebook. “Let’s get it over with.”
Martin laughs. “You’re still using that thing?”
“It works,” Juhoon says, flipping to a new page.
“And it keeps you from losing stuff like you always do.”
“I do not always los—”
“You lost your shoes once.”
Martin’s jaw drops. “THEY WERE BLACK AND THE ROOM WAS DARK—”
Juhoon lifts a hand. “Rule number one: We don’t touch each other’s things. Ever.”
“Fine.” Martin crosses his arms too.
“Rule two: No passive-aggressive comments.”
Juhoon stares. “Martin. That’s literally your entire personality.”
“EXCUSE ME—”
“I’m writing it down,” Juhoon says,
and Martin watches the motion of his hand, fast, precise, annoyingly elegant.
Martin looks away fast. “Well, rule three: If you’re going to shower at night, don’t leave the bathroom floor wet. I almost died last time.”
“You ran into the door, not the water.”
“Because the floor was slippery!”
Juhoon’s laugh escapes before he can stop it—soft, breathy, surprised at himself.
Martin hears it and feels something stupid flutter in his stomach.
“Okay,” Juhoon says, recovering, “rule four: Lights out by midnight.”
Martin hesitates. “I stay up late to work sometimes.”
“I know,” Juhoon says quietly. “You’re a night owl.”
The room falls still.
Too familiar. Too warm.
Martin clears his throat, uneasy. “Well … I can use my desk lamp.”
Juhoon nods. “Sure.”
Another beat passes.
Juhoon taps his pen against the notebook, thinking.
“Rule five,” he says slowly. “We keep … personal things out of this room.”
Martin feels that line like a cold breeze against warm skin.
“Right,” he says. “Strictly roommates.”
“And project partners,” Juhoon adds.
“And nothing more,” Martin says.
They both pause.
It hangs there—awkward, heavy, too sharp around the edges.
Martin looks away first.
“Rule six,” he says, grasping for neutral ground. “If one of us brings food, we share.”
Juhoon glances up. “We never did that.”
“We should,” Martin says, softer than he intends. “It’s … practical.”
Juhoon stares at him for a long moment.
His voice lowers. “Okay. Share.”
Martin swallows.
Juhoon closes the notebook with a soft snap. “That’s enough rules.”
Martin nods. “Yeah.”
But neither of them moves.
The distance between their beds feels smaller than it did a minute ago.
— The First Night
Night settles over Dormitory C like a heavy blanket—quiet, slow, the kind of silence that makes every small sound feel louder.
Martin sits on his bed, legs crossed, pretending to scroll on his phone.
He’s not reading anything. He’s just … aware. Too aware.
Of Juhoon across the room.
Juhoon is packing away his textbooks, sleeves pushed up, hair messy from running his fingers through it too many times. He moves differently than he used to—older, calmer, but still carrying that sharp edge Martin remembers too well.
Martin keeps glancing up, then looking away before he gets caught.
Spoiler: he gets caught.
Juhoon pauses, side-eying him. “What.”
Martin’s voice squeaks. “Nothing.”
“You keep staring.”
“I’m not— I wasn’t — it’s just—”
Martin groans into his hands. “This is already a disaster.”
Juhoon huffs a laugh under his breath. Not mocking.
Just … tired. And amused. And something Martin can’t name.
Juhoon clicks off his desk lamp. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Good idea,” Martin mutters, turning off his own light.
The room falls into a dim, warm shadow—only the hallway light creeping in under the door.
They both lie down.
Two beds. Three meters. Way too close.
A minute passes … Then another.
The air feels strange—thick, like it’s holding its breath with them.
Martin turns onto his side, facing the wall.
He hears the faint rustle as Juhoon does the same.
Then—softly, reluctantly—
“Martin.”
Martin freezes. “What?”
Juhoon’s voice is low, almost cautious. “I’m not … trying to make this difficult.”
Martin swallows.
His own voice comes out smaller. “I know.”
“I just—” Juhoon exhales, long and shaky.
“Living together again is … weird.”
“Yeah,” Martin whispers. “It is.”
“… but not bad,” Juhoon adds quietly.
Martin’s heart does something stupid.
“Not bad,” he repeats.
More silence. But softer this time.
Warmer. Like the air shifted without either of them moving.
Martin hesitates, then asks, “Why’d you keep the left side of the room again? You never liked sleeping near the window.”
Juhoon goes quiet.
Too quiet.
“Because that’s how it was last time,” he finally says.
And Martin hears it—the unspoken part.
Because it feels familiar.
Because it used to be ours.
Martin’s breath stutters.
Juhoon shifts, blankets rustling. “Goodnight, Martin.”
Martin closes his eyes. “Goodnight, Juhoon.”
A beat.
Then Juhoon says, barely audible—
“… and stop staring at me when you think I’m not looking.”
Martin’s face heats instantly. “I WASN’T—”
Juhoon’s quiet laughter slips into the dark.
And Martin knows he’s screwed.
— Morning, Accidentally Soft
Martin wakes up to the smell of something … warm?
Coffee.
Someone’s making coffee.
He blinks, sits up, hair a complete tragedy, and squints around the room.
Juhoon is standing by the small counter near the window, wearing a white T-shirt and grey sweatpants, pouring hot water into a mug. Morning light hits him from the side, making him look way too soft for someone who once broke Martin’s heart.
Martin groans.
Loudly.
Juhoon glances back. “You look dead.”
Martin flops back onto the pillow. “Because I am dead.”
“Good. Stay like that,” Juhoon says, sipping from the mug.
“Is that coffee for me?” Martin asks, hopeful.
“No.”
Martin sits up again, offended. “We literally made rule six last night. Sharing food.”
Juhoon lifts an eyebrow. “Coffee isn’t food.”
“JUHOON—”
Juhoon sighs like Martin is the biggest inconvenience on earth, turns around, and puts a second mug on the counter.
Martin pauses. “… wait. That one’s mine?”
“… I made it before you woke up,” Juhoon mutters.
Martin’s brain short-circuits. “Oh.”
He gets up, hair messy, socks mismatched, mood confused.
He picks up the mug.
It’s warm. Too warm.
Like someone remembers exactly how he likes it—just a bit sweet, not too bitter.
Martin whispers, “You still know.”
Juhoon doesn’t look back.
“Habit,” he says simply. “It’ll fade.”
Martin’s chest tightens weirdly. “… yeah. Sure.”
They drink in silence.
But not uncomfortable silence.
More like … old-something-trying-to-breathe-again silence.
Martin sets his mug down. “We’re gonna be late for the project meeting.”
Juhoon finishes his coffee. “I’m waiting on you. You take forever to get ready.”
Martin gasps. “EXCUSE ME?? I’m efficient.”
Juhoon nods. “Yeah. Efficiently slow.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Martin chokes on air.
Juhoon grabs his bag like he didn’t just drop a bomb and heads for the door.
“Let’s go,” he says.
Martin follows, still flustered.
And maybe … maybe a little hopeful.
— Research Group 7
The meeting room is already buzzing with noise by the time they arrive.
Group 7 consists of five members:
• Martin
• Juhoon
• Seonhyeon (organized, loves spreadsheets)
• James (chaotically brilliant)
• Keonho (I just need this to be done quickly, do everything whatever others says to him)
Seonghyeon looks up first. “Ooh, the famous duo arrived.”
Martin blinks. “Famous??”
Keonho nods. “Yeah. The campus rumors? About you two avoiding each other for like two years?”
Martin nearly dies. “WE DIDN’T— IT’S—”
Juhoon pulls out a chair calmly. “Could we not.”
James stares between them. “Wow. The tension is insane. It’s like watching divorced parents try to co-parent a science project.”
Martin sputters. “WE ARE NOT—”
Juhoon says, deadpan, “James, shut up.”
Seonghyeon smiles sweetly. “Okay! Let’s get started before you two strangle each other.”
They begin assigning tasks.
James takes data visualization.
Seonhyeon and Keonho takes planning and documentation.
Juhoon takes theoretical modeling.
Martin takes experimental setup.
But halfway through the discussion, Seonghyeon frowns.
“You two,” he points at Martin and Juhoon, “need to coordinate your sections. They overlap.”
Martin and Juhoon look at each other.
At the exact same time, they both say:
“No.”
James bursts laughing. “YOU TWO ARE HOPELESS.”
Keonho sighs. “You have to work together. Period.”
Juhoon rubs his jaw. “Fine. We’ll … meet tonight.”
Martin nods stiffly. “Fine.”
James wiggles his eyebrows. “Study date??”
Juhoon: “James.”
Martin: “JAMES.”
James, Seonghyeon and Keonho exchange looks like they’re watching their favorite drama.
Seonghyeon whispers, “They’re definitely getting back together.”
Martin hears it.
Juhoon hears it.
And for a moment—they both look away at the same time, cheeks slightly warm.
— Study Session, or Whatever This Is
By the time they get back to room 314, the sun’s already set.
The room feels different at night—too quiet, too close, too familiar.
Juhoon tosses his bag onto his bed and grabs his laptop.
Martin sits at the desk, spreading out papers, pretending he’s not nervous.
Juhoon drags his chair over.
Puts it next to Martin’s.
Too next to.
Martin shifts immediately. “Do you have to sit that close?”
Juhoon doesn’t even look up. “We’re working on the same section.”
“Yeah but—”
“You can move if you want.”
“No.” Martin mutters. “It’s fine.”
Juhoon smirks. “Thought so.”
Martin glares, but his heartbeat is already acting stupid.
They start going through the theory—calculations, graphs, data.
For a while, it’s almost normal. Almost.
Then Martin leans over to point at a line on Juhoon’s screen—
and Juhoon leans in at the same time.
Their shoulders brush.
Just barely.
Martin jolts like he touched electricity.
Juhoon freezes too.
Just a half-second.
Just long enough for Martin to notice.
Martin pulls his hand back fast. “Sorry—”
“It’s fine,” Juhoon says, voice too soft for someone who’s usually made of annoyance.
They go back to work.
Sort of.
Juhoon keeps clicking his pen. Martin keeps tapping his foot.
They keep pretending they’re not both hyper-aware of each other’s every movement.
And then—
Juhoon leans back, sighing. “You still do that, huh?”
Martin looks up. “What?”
“Your foot,” Juhoon says, eyes flicking down. “You tap it when you’re thinking too fast.”
Martin’s entire brain stutters. “I— you still remember that?”
Juhoon shrugs, but his voice is quiet. “It’s not something you forget.”
Silence.
Thick, warm, awkward, dangerous.
Martin coughs. “Okay, uh— back to the data.”
They try. They really do.
But the room grows warmer, the distance smaller, the excuses thinner.
Juhoon leans over Martin’s notes and frowns. “Your handwriting is still terrible.”
“It’s artistic.”
“It’s illegible.”
“It has character, Juhoon.”
“Yeah. Chaos.”
Martin shoves his shoulder lightly.
Juhoon shoves back—lightly too.
Like muscle memory.
And suddenly Martin’s breath catches.
Because it feels exactly like before.
Before everything went wrong.
Before the breakup broke more than just a relationship.
Juhoon notices the shift immediately.
He straightens. Carefully. Slowly.
“Martin.”
Martin forces a laugh. “Don’t. Don’t get all serious.”
Juhoon looks down at the notes, lashes low. “I’m not trying to.”
“Good. Because we said we’re keeping personal things out of this room.”
“We did,” Juhoon agrees softly.
But then he looks at Martin.
Really looks.
“… but it’s not working.”
Martin’s pulse jumps. “Juhoon—”
Juhoon looks away first this time.
“If we’re going to finish this project, we need to … be normal. At least a little.”
Martin swallows. “Define normal.”
Juhoon gestures vaguely. “Like— not fighting over everything. Not … looking at me like that.”
Martin’s face burns. “Like WHAT?”
Juhoon whispers, “Like you’re remembering, too.”
Martin almost drops his pen.
The air goes still.
The tension is visible.
Painfully visible.
So Martin blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind—
“Let’s take a break.”
Juhoon nods too fast. “Yes. Good. Great.”
They sit back, both of them trying to breathe normally.
It does not work.
After a moment, Juhoon says quietly, “Tomorrow we should start the experiment calibration.”
“Yeah,” Martin answers, equally quiet.
“And maybe …” Juhoon hesitates.
“… get dinner? Like— for the project.”
Martin’s heart stumbles. “For the project.”
Juhoon nods. “Yeah.”
Martin whispers, “Okay.”
They don’t look at each other for the rest of the night.
Because if they do, they might not be able to look away.
— Dinner That Definitely Wasn’t a Date
They pick a place near campus—neutral ground, nothing romantic.
Or at least, that’s the idea.
But the small restaurant they end up in has warm lights, quiet music, wooden tables…
and for some stupid reason, it feels intimate.
Martin sits across from Juhoon, trying not to fidget.
Juhoon is focused on the menu like it personally offended him.
Martin breaks the silence first. “Do you … want to share something?”
Juhoon looks up slowly. “Share? Like … one dish?”
Martin shrugs. “Rule six.”
Juhoon snorts softly. “You really remembered that.”
“You wrote it down aggressively in your notebook.”
“Fair.”
A beat.
Then—
Juhoon pushes his menu forward. “Order whatever you want. I’ll eat half.”
Martin’s brain freezes.
Sharing food used to be their thing.
A small thing. A dangerous thing.
He tries to pretend his heart isn’t doing backflips.
They order. Food comes. They eat.
At first they focus on the project—graphs, timelines, instructions.
But slowly …
They drift.
Juhoon relaxes into his chair. Martin laughs too easily.
Their knees bump under the table—neither moves away.
Juhoon looks at Martin for a moment too long.
Martin looks back. The air shifts.
“This feels weird,” Martin whispers.
Juhoon nods. “Yeah.”
“But not bad weird.”
Juhoon meets his eyes. “Not bad at all.”
Martin looks down immediately, biting his lip.
His heart is gone, left unchecked, running around like it owns the place.
They finish eating.
Juhoon pays before Martin can argue.
“I can—”
“No,” Juhoon says firmly. “It was for the project.”
Martin rolls his eyes but his chest feels warm, “Fine. But next time I’m paying.”
Juhoon unconsciously smiles, “Next time?”
Martin freezes.
Juhoon freezes.
“For the project,” Martin adds quickly.
“Right,” Juhoon says. “For the project.”
Neither of them believe it.
— Calibration, or Why Are You Being Soft
The next morning, the lab is cold and bright.
They stand side by side at the workstation, trying to pretend dinner didn’t happen.
Juhoon steps on a stool to reach the upper shelf of components—
and nearly slips.
Martin catches him by the waist.
Quick. Instinctive. Too familiar.
Juhoon freezes.
So does Martin.
“You okay?” Martin asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” Juhoon whispers, heart sprinting. “Thanks.”
They separate quickly.
Not quickly enough.
While setting the sensors, Martin leans over Juhoon’s shoulder, pointing at the screen.
“You set the frequency too high.”
“No, that’s the baseline for—”
“Juhoonn.” Martin’s voice drops. “Trust me.”
Juhoon looks up. Martin is too close.
Way too close.
“Okay,” Juhoon murmurs.
Martin adjusts the dial. Their fingers brush.
Juhoon’s throat goes tight.
After a while, Juhoon sighs dramatically. “Ugh. You’re still annoyingly good at this.”
Martin smirks. “You’re welcome.”
“And full of yourself.”
“Someone has to be. You doubt everything.”
“I do NOT doubt—”
Martin gives him that look.
“Okay maybe a little,” Juhoon mutters.
They work together seamlessly despite the tension, moving like they’ve done it a hundred times before.
Juhoon wipes sweat from his forehead.
Martin hands him a tissue without thinking.
Juhoon blinks. “You still do that?”
Martin shrugs shyly. “You still forget to bring one.”
Juhoon stares for a second too long.
Then very quietly, “Some habits don’t fade.”
Martin looks away before his heart explodes.
When they finally finish, Juhoon straightens and says:
“Dinner again tonight?”
Martin’s brain: ???
Martin’s heart: YES PLS??
Martin’s mouth: “For the project?”
Juhoon shrugs. “If that helps.”
Martin swallows. “Then … yeah. For the project.”
They both know it’s a lie.
— Night Study Season
The dorm is quiet at night in that way only university buildings can be—soft humming from the heater, distant footsteps in the hallway, someone’s music leaking faintly from upstairs. Their shared desk lamp throws a warm circle of light over the textbooks, laptops, and half-finished notes.
Juhoon is already there when Martin comes out of the shower, hair damp, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. He’s hunched over his laptop, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, tapping a highlighter against the margin like he’s fighting sleep.
Martin stops in the doorway.
He hates that the sight makes him … pause.
“You start without me?” Martin says, tone light but edged.
Juhoon lifts his eyes—slow, unimpressed. “You took forever in the shower. I thought you drowned.”
“Funny,” Martin mutters, dropping into his chair beside him.
The chairs are close. Too close. Knees almost touching—because the room is small, because the table is small, because the universe thinks it’s hilarious.
For a while, there’s only the sound of pages flipping, keys tapping.
Until Martin reaches for a pen.
And Juhoon reaches for the same one.
Their hands brush—barely, just skin to skin—but it’s enough.
Both freeze. For one second too long.
Juhoon’s voice goes a little tight. “… take it.”
Martin doesn’t. He just … holds it between both their hands.
“You sure?” he asks, quiet, low.
Juhoon swallows.
Then he pulls his hand back abruptly, knocking over his own pencil in the process.
Smooth.
Martin bites a smile.
Juhoon pretends he didn’t see that.
They go back to studying, but it’s different now—every movement feels louder. Every shift of weight makes the couch dip, pulling them an inch closer. Every breath feels synced, like the room is getting smaller by the minute.
Juhoon leans forward to jot something down, and Martin catches the faint scent of his shampoo—something warm, something clean. Too distracting.
“You’re close,” Martin murmurs without thinking.
Juhoon freezes again. “… it’s a small desk.”
“Mm-hm.” Martin doesn’t move away.
Juhoon doesn’t either.
The lamp flickers softly, and in that dim, golden glow, the air between them feels loaded—not romantic, not yet … just heavy, warm, charged in a way that makes Martin’s chest feel too tight.
Juhoon breaks first.
“We should—uh—start planning the project tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Martin says. “Tomorrow.”
Neither of them moves away.
They try to go back to their books, but the stillness between them isn’t still anymore.
It’s alive. Buzzing. Warm in the way that makes breathing suddenly feel like effort.
Martin pretends to read, eyes sliding over the same paragraph three times.
Juhoon keeps pushing his glasses up like they’re the problem, not the fact that he can feel Martin watching him from the corner of his eye.
A few minutes pass like that—quiet, strained, electric.
Then Juhoon shifts, pulling his leg up onto the chair.
His knee bumps Martin’s thigh.
Not soft. Not hard.
Just … an honest, accidental touch.
But neither of them moves away this time.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” Martin says, voice low, almost amused, like he’s testing the water.
Juhoon looks up, eyes narrowing behind his lenses. “What? Existing?”
“Mm. Something like that.”
Juhoon exhales sharply—almost a laugh, almost annoyed, almost flustered.
He tucks his leg down, but the desk is too small, so now his knee is pressed directly against Martin’s.
A steady, warm line of contact.
Neither of them acknowledges it.
Juhoon focuses on his notes with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb.
Writes one line. Another.
His handwriting is usually neat, but now it’s shaky at the edges.
Martin notices. Of course he does.
“You’re tired,” Martin murmurs.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re writing like you’re drunk.”
Juhoon shoots him a glare. “I’m not drunk.”
“Then stop shaking.”
Juhoon doesn’t even realize he is shaking until Martin reaches out—slowly, carefully—and steadies his hand.
Just for a second.
Just long enough for both of them to feel it.
Juhoon’s breath catches. Barely.
But Martin hears it.
He pulls back immediately, jaw clenched, pretending like he didn’t feel the spark or the heat or that embarrassing tug in his chest.
Juhoon stares at his own hand, stilling it against the paper.
“Don’t do that,” he says, voice softer than before.
“Do what?”
“That.”
Martin leans back in his chair, trying to sound careless even though his pulse is anything but. “You looked like you needed help.”
Juhoon swallows hard. “I didn’t.”
“Sure.”
Juhoon finally meets his eyes—really meets them—and the air thickens again, warm and electric.
For a moment, it feels like the whole room tilts toward that one point between them.
Then Juhoon looks away abruptly, ears turning pink.
“We should go to sleep,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” Martin says, not moving.
Neither stands up.
The lamp hums. Their knees stay touching.
And the night stretches, holding them in this small, fragile, breathless space where they’re not enemies, not yet lovers—just two boys too close and too aware.
— Next Morning
The alarm goes off at 7:00 AM.
It’s obnoxious, too loud for a shared dorm room, vibrating against the wooden nightstand like it wants to throw itself off.
Martin groans first.
Juhoon doesn’t even move—just buries half his face into the pillow and makes a noise that sounds like a dying creature.
“You set that,” Martin mutters.
“You agreed to it,” Juhoon mumbles back, voice rough with sleep.
The room is pale with early morning light, cold at the edges where the sun hasn’t fully woken yet.
It’s quiet in a completely different way than last night—less tense, more … soft.
Muted. Vulnerable.
Martin sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes. He looks over—
Juhoon is a mess.
Hair everywhere. Blanket half off.
Glasses on the nightstand but somehow his notebook is tucked against his stomach like he fell asleep guarding it.
Martin shouldn’t smile.
He does anyway, tiny and involuntary.
Juhoon cracks one eye open, squinting. “What.”
“You look like you got hit by a textbook truck.”
Juhoon grabs a pillow and throws it weakly.
Misses by a whole meter.
They both know he never misses.
Martin’s eyebrow lifts. “You really that tired?”
Juhoon doesn’t answer. He sits up slowly, blinking around the room, and winces when his shoulder cracks.
Then—
He freezes.
There’s a faint, faint bruise on his knee.
Right where their knees pressed together for almost an hour last night.
He sees Martin looking.
Martin sees him noticing.
Both instantly look away.
The world doesn’t need to explode for tension to exist.
Sometimes it just shifts. Softens. Deepens.
Juhoon swings his legs off the bed, reaching for his hoodie. “Bathroom’s mine first.”
“Nope.” Martin’s already on his feet, moving faster than he ever does in the morning.
“You’re slow. I’m going.”
“You took forty minutes last night.”
“You timing me now?” Martin asks, smirking.
Juhoon’s ears turn pink. “I’m just stating facts.”
Martin gives him a look—half challenge, half something warmer—and slips into the bathroom before Juhoon can protest.
The door clicks shut.
Juhoon sighs into the quiet room.
He touches his knee.
Softly. Quietly.
Like he hates that it means something.
But it does.
On the other side of the door, Martin leans against the counter, staring at his reflection like yeah, okay, things are definitely different now.
Neither says it out loud.
Not yet.
But the morning feels new in more ways than one.
The campus cafeteria is half-awake—smell of toast, clinking trays, sleepy chatter from students who look like they barely survived the morning.
Martin and Juhoon enter side by side.
Not walking together—just … near.
Close enough their sleeves brush once or twice.
Martin grabs a tray first.
Juhoon follows, pretending he’s not doing the same thing.
“I’m getting coffee,” Juhoon mutters.
“You always get coffee.”
“You always comment on it.”
“It’s my hobby.”
Juhoon rolls his eyes but his mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost impossible to catch unless someone was looking directly at him.
Which Martin is.
They move down the line: toast, eggs, fruit cups.
Juhoon reaches for the last yogurt.
Martin reaches at the same time.
Their fingers brush.
Again.
Again.
Juhoon snatches his hand back like he touched fire. “Stop doing that.”
“You reached first,” Martin says, tilting his head. “I was being polite.”
“You? Polite?”
Martin grins. “New morning, new me.”
Juhoon gives him a look that says he absolutely does not believe that.
They sit at a small two-person table near the window—because the cafeteria is packed, obviously, and because there’s no other spot, obviously, and definitely not because either of them wants to sit together.
Juhoon stirs his coffee too aggressively.
Martin stabs his eggs like they owe him money.
For a minute, it’s quiet.
A soft, tense, familiar quiet.
Then Martin speaks without looking up. “You sleep okay?”
Juhoon pauses mid-sip. “Why are you asking?”
“Because you looked like someone threw you down the stairs this morning.”
Juhoon chokes on his coffee.
Martin smirks. “I’m just saying.”
“I slept fine,” Juhoon mutters, wiping his mouth. “We both stayed up too late.”
Martin hums. “Whose fault?”
Juhoon looks up sharply. Too fast.
Their eyes meet.
And all at once the memory of last night hits both of them—knees pressed together, warm hands, quiet breaths, the too-close air between them.
Juhoon looks away immediately, stabbing his fruit cup like it offended him.
Martin softens. Just a little.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m not blaming you.”
Juhoon freezes.
Then shrugs, eyes stuck on his tray.
“I know.”
But something in his voice is … softer.
Or maybe tired. Or maybe trying not to feel something he definitely felt.
Martin nudges Juhoon’s foot under the table.
Light. Barely there.
Juhoon looks up, startled.
“Relax,” Martin says, stealing a piece of Juhoon’s toast.
“It’s a small table.”
“That doesn’t mean you can—hey!”
Martin eats it unapologetically.
Juhoon sighs like he’s endured a great tragedy.
But his shoulders loosen.
The air eases. Just a little.
A group of students walks by, chatting loudly about the upcoming midterm.
Juhoon slumps. “Oh right. The assignment.”
“Mm.” Martin stands, picking up both their trays.
“C’mon. Let’s head to the study room before someone else hogs it.”
“You don’t have to take my tray—”
“I know.”
Juhoon blinks.
Slowly.
Then follows him out into the hallway, hands in his pockets, steps matching Martin’s without either of them planning it.
The morning is quiet.
A little awkward. A little warm.
And something—something small but undeniable—is starting to shift between them.
— Study Room
The study rooms on campus are usually buzzing with noise, but it’s still early enough that most students haven’t dragged themselves out of bed yet. Which means Martin and Juhoon manage to snag a small glass-walled room near the back—whiteboard, round table, two chairs. Cozy. Too cozy.
Martin sets his backpack down.
Juhoon shuts the door behind them and immediately pulls out his laptop, trying way too hard to look professional and not like he spent the entire walk here avoiding eye contact.
“So,” Juhoon starts, opening a new document, “we should divide the work.”
“Sure,” Martin says, dropping into a chair, leaning back like he owns the place. “But—”
“But what,” Juhoon deadpans.
Martin kicks lightly at the other chair. “Sit.”
Juhoon sits with a long-suffering sigh.
They’re close again. The room is small enough that Juhoon’s elbow bumps Martin’s when he reaches for the whiteboard marker. He freezes. Moves an inch away.
Martin notices. Of course he does.
“You always tense up around me,” Martin says lightly, tapping his pen on the table.
Juhoon doesn’t look at him. “No I don’t.”
“You’re doing it right now.”
Juhoon’s shoulders stiffen even more.
“I’m not tense,” he insists, which would be convincing if his voice wasn’t borderline strangled.
Martin smiles to himself.
Dangerously soft. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite.”
Juhoon mutters, “Not the issue,” under his breath—but too quiet for Martin to pretend he didn’t hear.
Martin’s smile falters.
Just a second.
Barely noticeable.
But it’s there.
Before he can poke at that, Juhoon stands up abruptly and goes to the whiteboard.
“Okay,” Juhoon says, uncapping the marker. “The assignment is about comparative media analysis, so we should pick two case studies and—”
His marker squeaks against the board in the ugliest, most tortured sound possible.
They both wince.
“That sound should be illegal,” Martin mutters.
“You distracted me,” Juhoon snaps back.
Martin raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t even do anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
Martin’s breath catches—just a beat, just enough to make the air shift again.
Juhoon doesn’t realize what he’s said until the silence stretches.
He freezes. Ears going pink.
Still holding the marker like it might save him.
Martin straightens slowly in his chair. “Want to run that back?”
“No.”
“Juhoon.”
“I said no.”
“Juhoon,” Martin repeats, voice lower, softer. “What’s the problem?”
Juhoon doesn’t answer.
He keeps staring at the whiteboard like the words will magically appear if he just refuses to move.
Martin stands. Walks over.
Stops beside him—close, but not touching.
His voice gentles without his permission.
“You don’t have to act like nothing’s happening.”
Juhoon’s throat works as he swallows.
“There’s nothing happening,” he whispers.
But his voice betrays him.
Too thin. Too soft.
Too full of last night, this morning, every brush of skin they keep pretending doesn’t exist.
Martin turns slightly toward him.
Not forcing. Just … close.
And Juhoon—stubborn, tense, pretending—keeps staring forward, but his ears burn.
Martin reaches up. Slowly.
And adjusts Juhoon’s grip on the marker, fingers brushing his.
“Your hand’s shaking again,” he murmurs.
Juhoon’s breath stutters.
He doesn’t pull away this time.
“We should work,” Juhoon whispers.
“We are working.”
“That’s not—” His voice breaks. Just a little. “—that’s not what I mean.”
“I know,” Martin says.
Their hands stay touching around the marker.
The room feels too warm.
The whiteboard fogs slightly from how close they’re breathing.
Then—
Juhoon finally pulls away.
Too fast. Too sharp.
“I’ll, um, sit. You write.”
He practically flees back to the chair.
Martin watches him go, jaw tight, heart thudding in a way he’s not ready to admit.
“Okay,” Martin murmurs, picking up another marker. “I’ll write.”
Juhoon stares at his laptop, pretending to type, pretending not to look at Martin’s reflection in the glass.
Pretending not to feel anything.
Pretending badly.
Martin starts writing on the whiteboard—clean, neat handwriting, confident strokes.
Juhoon tries to focus on his laptop, but every time Martin moves, the reflection on the glass wall catches his eye.
Worse: Martin isn’t doing anything special.
He’s just … existing.
Breathing. Thinking.
And somehow that’s suddenly too much.
After a few minutes, Martin pauses. “You’re not typing.”
“I am,” Juhoon lies, fingers resting awkwardly on the unmoving keyboard.
Martin turns around slowly. “I can literally see your screen.”
Juhoon snaps his laptop shut. “Well—now you can’t.”
Martin laughs under his breath.
Not mocking—just warm, surprised, a little breathless.
It makes Juhoon freeze.
Because he likes that sound.
More than he should.
More than he wants to.
“Come here,” Martin says gently, patting the seat beside him at the table. “Let’s actually plan this before we fall behind.”
Juhoon hesitates.
Martin adds, softer, “I won’t touch you.”
Juhoon swallows. That … shouldn’t have felt like anything.
And yet—
He gets up and sits next to him.
Close, but careful. Not touching this time.
Both of them pretending that’s progress.
Martin leans slightly over the table, opening a new document, explaining how they should structure their introduction. And Juhoon tries—really tries—to follow.
But the problem is Martin gets focused when he explains things.
His voice drops lower.
His brows pull together in concentration.
He talks with his hands, tracing shapes in the air.
And Juhoon is watching all of it.
Too closely.
“Are you even listening?” Martin asks eventually.
“Yes,” Juhoon answers too fast.
Martin hums. “Okay. Then what did I just say?”
Juhoon opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Martin bites back a smile. “You’re distracted.”
“No, you’re distracting,” Juhoon blurts—then immediately squeezes his eyes shut like he wants to rewind time.
Martin stares.
The room goes still.
Juhoon presses a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean— I mean I did but not—ugh, forget I said anything.”
Martin doesn’t forget.
Not even close.
He reaches out. Slowly.
And nudges Juhoon’s elbow with his knuckles—soft, almost nothing, but enough to jolt a breath out of Juhoon.
“You can’t keep doing that,” Martin says quietly.
“Doing what,” Juhoon mutters behind his hand.
“Saying things you don’t want me to hear.”
Juhoon lowers his hand, eyes locked on the table. “I didn’t say anything.”
Martin leans in just a bit—close enough Juhoon can feel his breath stir the hair near his temple.
“You said enough.”
Juhoon goes still.
So still.
Martin watches the way his fingers curl against the edge of the table, knuckles going pink.
He softens.
Really softens.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be scared of this.”
Juhoon’s voice is barely audible. “I’m not scared.”
“Then look at me.”
Juhoon freezes again.
Martin waits. Patient. Gentle.
Slowly—too slowly—Juhoon turns his head.
Their eyes meet.
And the room feels like it collapses into that single point of contact.
Juhoon’s voice shakes. “Martin.”
“Yeah?”
The tension is thick, warm, fragile.
Not ready for a kiss. Not yet.
But definitely ready for something.
Then—
A group of students passes by the glass wall, talking loudly.
Both of them jolt, pulling apart like the moment burned them.
Juhoon scoots half a meter away.
Martin clears his throat and pretends to re-organize his markers.
Silence. Awkward. Heavy.
But undeniably changed.
Juhoon whispers, barely steady. “Let’s … continue working.”
Martin nods. “Yeah. Working.”
They both pretend to start typing again.
Neither of them is actually working.
They just can’t stop thinking.
About what almost happened.
About what will happen.
-