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The tick of the clock kept chewing on his nerves. It blended with the low, mosquito-hum buzz of whispers from the back row and the teacher’s voice droning on about latitude and trade winds, all of it smearing together into noise that didn’t mean anything anymore.
It felt like standing on the sidewalk while cars rushed past, headlights streaking, engines howling, everything loud but distant, like the world was happening to someone else.
Martin swore the second hand was moving slower on purpose, like it knew he was watching and decided to be petty about it.
He stared at that clock until the white face started to blur. For a second, it looked warped, like the numbers were melting and sliding off their places, drooping the way candles did when left burning too long.
Even the sunlight leaking through the jalousie windows seemed dusty, turning everything into a washed-out scene from an old music video he used to watch late at night on MTV, grainy shots and sad boys in striped shirts staring out of rainy windows.
Geography was supposed to be about the world, about places and maps and oceans that stretched farther than his brain could handle. But right now, it was just another cage.
All he wanted was to get out of here. To go home. To push open the creaky door of their garage and let the smell of dust, oil, and old wood wrap around him like a familiar hoodie. His dad had finally given in last year and let him claim the space as their “band room,” though it was really just a messy shrine to noise and teenage desperation.
Guitars leaned against the walls like tired soldiers. The drum set was missing a screw so the hi-hat wobbled if you kicked it too hard. There were tangled cables everywhere, a broken amp that hissed like it was possessed, and posters peeling off the walls. Nirvana with Kurt’s eyes looking right through you, The Cure all pale and tragic, Metallica mid-scream, even an old Guns N’ Roses poster he found in a thrift shop that smelled like someone else’s memories.
The clock kept ticking. 2:58. Two more minutes felt like two more lifetimes.
Martin rested his chin on his hand and let his mind drift to distorted guitar riffs, to basement shows he’d only seen in bootleg videos, to bands from before he was even born,
RINGGGGG!!
The bell sliced through the classroom like an alarm clock, loud enough to make a few people flinch. Chairs screeched backward all at once, the sound sharp and ugly, and the room erupted into movement.
Some students didn’t even wait for the teacher to finish her sentence. They grabbed their bags, muttered quick goodbyes, and disappeared into the hallway like smoke.
Martin was definitely not one of the polite ones. He shoved his notebook into his bag without even closing it properly, papers sticking out like they were trying to escape too. His chair nearly tipped when he stood up, and he caught it with his foot, glancing around to make sure no one noticed.
The corridor was packed, bodies brushing past each other, lockers slamming, laughter bursting out in sudden, ugly peals. Someone nearly ran into Martin’s shoulder, muttered a quick “sorry,” then vanished into the crowd.
“Hey,” Keonho said, leaning closer so Martin could hear him over the noise. He was walking backward for a second, hands shoved into his pockets, watching people dodge around him like he was on some kind of obstacle course. “I heard there’s a new store downtown.”
Martin squinted at him, trying to find any suspicion on Keonho’s words. “What kind of store?”
“If you’re about to say it’s a stationery store, I’m leaving this friend group.” James made a face like the word shop alone already offended him. He lifted a hand to touch the bandaid stuck on his cheek, pressing it down like it might fall off.
Martin knew damn well there was nothing under it. No cut, no bruise. Just James being James, committed to whatever sad-boy look he was going for this week.
Keonho laughed, the sound getting half-lost in the hallway noise. “Nah, nah. Music store, I think. I only heard it from the guy who sits in front of me.”
“That’s not exactly a reliable source.” Seonghyeon said, which everyone agreed immediately.
“Hey, desperate times,” Keonho shot back, bumping Seonghyeon’s shoulder. “Plus, if it’s a music store, it’s automatically cool. That’s just how the universe works.”
“Let’s go some other time,” Martin said, stretching his arms above his head as they finally reached the end of the hallway. He walked sideways for a bit, blocking James’ path on purpose until James shoved him away.
“My guitar is already mad at me. I left him alone all day. He’s probably sulking in the garage right now.”
“Nah, your guitar will understand,” Keonho said, flashing that grin he always used when he was trying to persuade someone up.
He bumped his shoulder against Martin’s, well, more like his upper arm, because Martin was stupidly tall in a way that made him look like he belonged on some old 80’s band tour poster, gangly and broody and annoyingly magnetic.
“I’m just saying, man… he’d probably be happy if you spot something cool in there and bring it home. Like, spiritual reunion shit.”
Martin didn’t even get a chance to roll his eyes before they were already standing in front of the store. Or temple, maybe.
The sign flickered in that lazy, buzzing way that looked like it had seen too many summers. A music and rental store. Something tugged in Martin’s chest, a quiet thud, like a soft bass line kicking in before a chorus. Maybe it was a good idea to come here after all.
When they pushed open the door, warm, almost unnaturally warm air spilled out, carrying the scent of dust and old paper and cheap incense. There were already people inside, drifting through aisles like they were sleepwalking or enchanted or both.
The walls were plastered with posters, Queens, Van Halen, and others. Some were sun-faded, some too crisp, as if recently printed even though the bands had long stopped breathing the same air.
And the shelves, God. CDs everywhere. Piles of them. TV sets stacked like mismatched bricks. A glowing corner with CD players and Walkmans, as if the year had paused somewhere in 1998 and refused to budge.
This place felt like heaven, but louder and messier, and smelling faintly of vinyl sleeves. He’d probably thank Keonho later. Or write it in some stupid gratitude journal if he ever became that kind of guy, though he doubted it.
“Shit, this looks sick,” Seonghyeon whispered, eyes widening like a kid seeing snow for the first time. They leaned closer to a display rack. “Dude, look at these prices. Why is everything so cheap? Like, suspiciously cheap. You actually did something useful for once, K.” He flicked a lazy glance at Keonho.
“Hey, I listen! Sometimes,” Keonho defended, looking more proud than insulted.
The four of them naturally drifted apart, the way band members scatter during soundcheck. Martin’s feet, without asking for permission, led him toward the vinyl section tucked near the back, where the fluorescent lights hummed just a little too loudly and shadows gathered in weird angles.
There were so many vinyls. Rows and rows of them, some brand-new, some so old the corners curled like dried leaves.
His fingers hovered over the spines while his eyes started to sparkle in that embarrassing way he always tried to hide, like something inside him was being tuned back to the right pitch.
Martin kept digging through the vinyls like he was searching for a pulse under each sleeve. His wallet wasn’t bleeding yet, he’d saved enough money this month, skipped lunches, skipped impulse-buy band tees, even skipped that limited-edition guitar strap everyone kept hyping. If his self-control had a scoreboard, this trip felt like his trophy.
A couple of vinyls wouldn’t hurt. Actually, maybe a few more than a couple.
He stacked three records under his arm, each one feeling like a warm, heavy secret pressed against his ribs. They were going straight to his shelf the moment he got home, right next to the others. His little shrine of sound.
He felt like a kid again, the kind who used to rip open gifts too fast, paper flying everywhere. Only this time he was older, a little more hollow, a little less innocent.
Then he turned toward the CD aisle and froze. Because someone was standing at the end of the row. Not something. Someone.
The stranger looked like he had stepped out of a 90s music video. The soft grunge type, the kind filmed with low-quality cameras and too much lens flare.
His hair was long enough to brush the tops of his shoulders, curling a bit at the ends like it couldn’t decide whether to behave or be rebellious. Light shifted over the strands in a way that felt almost unreal, like the store lighting liked him more.
His face… God. It was soft, almost delicate, but still grounded with this quiet masculinity like he could break your heart and apologize with a smile.
His lips lingered in this natural pout, not the forced kind, but the type some people are just born with, like the universe accidentally made them a little prettier than necessary.
Martin stared. Hard. Longer than socially acceptable. He didn’t mean to. His eyes just refused to listen to him.
There was something off about the stranger, not wrong off, but glowing off, like he carried a tiny halo of static electricity. Maybe the fluorescent lights were glitching. Or maybe Martin’s brain was. Wouldn’t be the first time.
The boy, guy, angel, whatever was organizing CDs with this small, focused frown, his fingers moving delicately over each case as if they were fragile pieces of glass instead of cheap plastic. He’d pick one up, tilt his head, read the title, smile a little, too little, and then slide it back into place.
Martin stood there, stuck between two urges. Bold away like a coward or walk up to him and say something cool (which he absolutely did not have prepared, ever, in his life).
The problem was… the stranger looked stupidly, unfairly adorable doing something as boring as alphabetizing CDs. Like someone who didn’t belong in a dusty old shop but belonged in, Martin swallowed.
He looked too cute. Like, unfairly cute. The kind of cute that made Martin’s brain short-circuit and his chest tighten for reasons he would absolutely deny later if anyone asked.
Martin hated that word, cute. It felt too small for what was happening to him right now, standing frozen in the middle of the record store aisle like a scratched CD that refused to skip forward.
And then his feet betrayed him. They moved on their own, slow at first, dragging him forward like he was being reeled in by some invisible force, something old and humming under the floorboards.
Martin barely registered the distance closing until he stopped, close enough now to feel it. The warmth. The presence. Up close, the stranger didn’t just look angelic. He looked unreal, like he belonged in the margins of a dream or the flickering glow of a late-night MTV countdown.
Soft hair falling into his eyes, lashes too long to be legal, skin glowing under the buzzing fluorescent lights like it was holding onto a secret. Martin swallowed. This was bad. This was really, really bad.
He had no reason to be nervous. That was the stupid part. Martin had talked to strangers before, talked his way into bands, into friend groups, into backstage passes he definitely didn’t deserve.
He’d played guitar in front of half the school, fingers bleeding, amp buzzing, adrenaline roaring in his ears while kids screamed his name like it mattered. He knew how to exist in front of people. So why did this feel different? Why did his hands feel too big, his mouth too dry, his whole body tuned too tight like a guitar string that might snap?
“Hey.”
The word slipped out before he could think better of it, catching in his throat halfway through, rough and breathless. The sound of his own voice startled him. It startled the stranger too, who looked up immediately, eyes widening just a little.
And Jesus. Martin swore to Keonho and every burned CD he’d ever owned, those eyes were something else entirely.
Big and bright and way too alive, like they held entire galaxies, like if you stared long enough you’d hear echoes of old songs playing backward.
“Yes?” the stranger said, and his voice didn’t match what Martin expected at all. Not deep, not dramatic, just warm and steady, textured like an old vinyl record. “Do you need help?”
Martin nodded, even though his brain was screaming and his confidence felt borrowed, stolen from some cooler version of himself that existed only in his imagination. Somehow, though, it stayed. He grabbed onto it like a lifeline, hoped it wouldn’t let go halfway through the sentence.
“Actually, yeah. I do.” He glanced at the shelves, then back at the stranger, trying to look casual and failing a little. “I’m kinda looking for new bands. Or singers. Stuff that hits, you know? Do you have any recommendations?”
The stranger looked at him like he was trying to read him, not in a creepy way, more like curiosity pulled a chair up and sat between them.
It made Martin painfully aware of his own body, the way he was standing, the way his hands didn’t know where to go. Martin Edwards did not get shy. He flirted for sport. He talked his way into trouble for fun.
So why did this boy, with his angel-face and calm eyes, make him feel like he was fourteen again and bad at breathing?
“It depends on what genre you’re looking for,” the stranger said, voice casual but eyes still locked on Martin’s, like he was waiting to see what would fall out next.
Martin laughed softly, more of a nervous exhale than anything. “Uh, yeah. That’s the thing.” He scratched the back of his neck, smiling despite himself, the kind of smile that happened when he didn’t know how else to hold himself together.
His heart was going wild, absolutely not minding its business. “I’m not really hunting for a genre, I guess. I just want something good. Something with soul. Or heartbreak. Or both.” He paused, then added, quieter, “I trust people with good taste.”
Smooth. Maybe. His ears were definitely burning now.
“ABBA’s good,” the stranger said, ticking bands off with his fingers. “Bee Gees. Queen.”
Martin nodded along like he hadn’t grown up on his parents’ vinyls, like he didn’t already know every word to Don’t Stop Me Now.
Truth was, he didn’t care what the recommendations were. He could’ve been told nursery rhymes and he still would’ve stood there listening. “Yeah,” he said, grinning anyway. “Classic heartbreak material.”
“Black Sabbath,” the stranger continued. “Aerosmith. Bon Jovi.”
Martin blinked, eyebrows shooting up before he could stop himself. That got him. That really got him. It wasn’t judgment, not exactly. Just a surprise.
“You know them?” Martin said, way too fast, excitement slipping through the cracks. He leaned in a little without realizing it. “I mean, obviously you know them, that was dumb. You just look like you’d be into something softer. No offense. I mean, not soft-soft. Just… less headbanging?” He stopped, winced. “Wow. I’m spiraling.”
The stranger stared at him, unreadable, and Martin panicked immediately. “Wait, do you work here?” he blurted out. “Because if you don’t, I just assumed, which is rude, and I’m sorry, I swear I’m not usually like this. I mean, I talk, but not like this. Not this much. God.”
A minute passed, then the stranger tilted his head slightly, lips twitching like he was holding back a smile. “Are you always this talkative?” He asked.
“Sorry,” Martin muttered, scratching the back of his head, a crooked, embarrassed smile pulling at his mouth like it always did when his brain checked out before his mouth did.
He suddenly felt too tall, too loud, too everywhere. Meanwhile, the stranger stood there calm as a still lake, like none of this had rattled him at all, like he wasn’t the center of Martin’s rapidly unraveling universe.
“I do work here,” the stranger said, and before Martin could open his mouth and trip over another sentence, he continued, voice even, almost amused. “And those bands I mentioned aren’t underground or anything. I listen to them all day.”
Something about the way he said it, casual but firm, like music was stitched into his routine, made Martin’s chest tighten.
He nodded, trying to play it cool, but failing spectacularly. He was smiling too much. He could feel it. And right then, standing under buzzing lights and between shelves that smelled like dust and nostalgia, Martin realized it with startling clarity.
He was crushing. Hard. Embarrassingly hard.
That night, the garage was empty except for Martin and the echo of everything he hadn’t said. His friends had bailed, real life pulling them away in different directions, leaving the space hollow and humming.
Martin sat on a crate, guitar resting against his thigh, fingers moving out of muscle memory more than intention. The amp crackled softly, like it knew it was supposed to keep a secret.
Every chord brought the same face back to him. That stranger from the shop. Pretty in a way that didn’t feel fair. Slow-spoken, soft-eyed, like he moved through the world just a half-second quieter than everyone else.
Martin shut his eyes, but it didn’t help. The image stayed, burned in behind his eyelids, glowing faintly like something supernatural, like a ghost that hummed along to his strings.
He hadn’t even gotten his name. That realization hit him harder than it should’ve. He groaned quietly, letting his head fall back against the wall.
Rookie mistake. Amateur hour. But then again, the guy worked there. Fixed location. Predictable hours. Martin could go back. Totally normal behavior. People went to record stores all the time. People definitely didn’t go just to steal glances at a pretty boy with cosmic eyes and suspiciously good taste in music.
Except maybe Martin would.
He strummed another chord, softer this time, letting it ring out and fade into the night. Tomorrow, he decided he'd go back. Just to browse. Just to look. And maybe the day after that too. Maybe every day, if fate didn’t get bored of him first.
The next day dragged Martin through school like his body showed up but his brain took a sick day. His hair was a mess, fingers combing through it every few minutes like that might somehow reset his thoughts, but nothing worked.
His friends noticed, of course. They always did. A couple of them nudged him during lunch, laughing, asking if he’d finally fallen in love or gotten abducted by aliens because Martin Edwards did not go quiet unless something big had happened.
He shrugged it off, laughed when he was supposed to, but the truth clung to him stubbornly. He kept spacing out. Kept staring into nothing. Like part of him was already somewhere else.
By the time the last bell rang, he had a plan. A perfectly reasonable, completely innocent plan. He’d go back to the shop that afternoon. Because he liked the shop. Loved it, even. Loved the way it smelled like dust and old stories, the way the music wrapped around you like a memory.
If he happened to see the pretty worker again, well, that was just fate doing its thing. Nothing weird about that.
Except the universe apparently didn’t feel like waiting. Because there he was.
Standing by the lockers like he’d always belonged there, leaning against the cold metal with one shoulder, a book resting loosely in his hand. The same soft hair, the same quiet posture, like noise bent around him instead of crashing into him.
Martin stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t know the guy studied here. Had never seen him around before, not that he could remember anyway. And Martin was good with faces. Too good. He remembered everyone. So either the boy had been invisible until now, or Martin had been blind, and neither option made his heart slow down.
If anything, it started pounding harder, frantic and unsteady, like it recognized something before his brain could catch up. He stared. Fully. Shamelessly.
Time slipped sideways. Hallway noise faded into static, lockers slamming somewhere far away, voices stretching and warping like they were underwater.
Martin had no idea how long he’d been standing there when suddenly pain sparked through his arm.
“You’re staring creepily.” The words cut into Martin’s little bubble, and he flinched like he’d been caught doing something illegal. James was standing there with Keonho and Seonghyeon, all three of them wearing the same stupid, knowing smirk.
“You’re staring at Juhoon,” James added, nodding casually in the direction of the lockers, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Ju—wait, what?” Martin blinked, his brain lagging behind his mouth. Then he snapped his gaze back to James, genuinely confused and a little annoyed. “How the hell do you know his name?”
“So he’s the reason you’ve been mentally checked out the whole day?” Seonghyeon cut in, leaning one shoulder against the shelf beside Martin. His face looked relaxed, but the teasing in his voice was obvious. “Dude, you looked like you were on another planet earlier.”
“No—what? No,” Martin said too fast, immediately regretting how guilty that made him sound. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, then pointed straight at James like he was accusing him of a crime. “You’re dodging the question. How do you even know his name? I’ve never seen that guy here before.”
James glanced back at Juhoon again, then at Martin, his mouth twitching like he was holding back another joke. “He was in the dance club last year. That’s why.”
“And he’s always in the library,” Keonho added, chiming in like he was just filling in missing trivia. “Probably why you’ve never noticed him before. You don’t exactly… go there.”
Martin didn’t know when it happened, only that at some point, without really meaning to, he had stopped walking. And When he looked up, he realized he was standing in front of the stranger again.
Or… not a stranger. Juhoon.
Right here, in this narrow stretch of hallway, the air felt heavier, charged with something Martin couldn’t quite name.
“Hey,” Martin said. It came out simple, almost careless, but the moment the word left his mouth, Juhoon’s attention snapped to him. Just like yesterday. Just like he’d been waiting for that voice alone.
Juhoon’s eyes widened for a brief second, surprise flickering across his face before it settled back into its usual, unreadable calm. “Uh… yeah?”
Martin wasn’t sure where the confidence came from. Maybe it was nerves turning into something braver, or maybe the hallway lights were messing with his head. Either way, the words came out smoother than he expected. “You’re the same person as yesterday, right?”
Juhoon paused. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with him. Then Juhoon spoke, his voice low, almost amused. “It depends on where you saw me.”
Martin could’ve sworn he saw the corner of Juhoon’s lips curl, not quite a smile, more like the idea of one.
“Yesterday at the store,” Martin said, smiling a little as his eyes lingered on Juhoon’s face.
There was something about the way Juhoon looked at him, no, not even at him, but through him, that made Martin feel small and infinite at the same time. “I didn’t know you go here.”
That was four weeks ago. And somehow, that small, almost-accidental moment had cracked something open in Martin’s life.
After that day, he started finding excuses to drift toward the shop after classes, even when he didn’t need anything, even when his pockets were empty and his head was already full.
Sometimes Juhoon would be there behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, eyes half-lidded like he lived in another timeline where everything moved slower.
Other times, when Juhoon wasn’t in the hallways and the day felt strangely hollow without that familiar quiet presence, Martin would wander into the library. He’d spot him there eventually, sitting alone on one of the wooden chairs, a book open in his hands, head slightly bowed like he was in prayer.
There was something in Juhoon that Martin couldn’t understand, and that was the worst part. Or maybe the best. It felt like standing too close to something cosmic, something massive and ancient.
Like Juhoon wasn’t just a person but a gravity well, a supermassive black hole quietly pulling everything toward him. Martin could feel himself drifting closer day by day, thought by thought, step by step, crossing into that invisible danger zone where escape becomes impossible.
The closer he got, the heavier everything felt, like the world itself was bending around Juhoon’s presence. And even knowing that, even feeling the slow collapse happening inside him, Martin didn’t want to turn back. If anything, he leaned into it, let himself fall.
James, Seonghyeon, and Keonho noticed it too. They weren’t blind. Martin was different. Louder. Brighter. Like someone had cranked the volume up on his existence.
It wasn’t the usual chaotic Martin energy they were used to, the lazy jokes and half-hearted smiles. This was something sharper, more alive, like he’d been lit up from the inside.
During their late sessions at the garage, the air thick with dust and sweat and the ghost of old cigarette smoke from whoever used to hang out there, Martin would sing until his throat burned. He’d grip his electric guitar like it was the only thing anchoring him to the ground, fingers rough against the strings, voice breaking and soaring at the same time.
And that’s when it clicked for them. That’s when the looks between them started to make sense, the quiet nods, the knowing smirks.
Martin was in love. In love with that quiet bookworm who worked at the shop. The one who barely spoke, who carried whole universes in his eyes, who sat in libraries like he belonged to some other world.
“What do you think about Exodus and Anthrax? Aren’t they also cool punk rock bands?” Martin said, trailing after Juhoon around the narrow aisles of the shop.
Martin had his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, trying to look casual, even though his eyes kept drifting back to Juhoon, the way he moved between the shelves like he belonged there.
Juhoon stopped in front of one of the racks and turned around. In the dim shop lights, Martin noticed the height difference more clearly this time, how Juhoon was smaller than him, how Martin had to look down just a bit to meet his eyes.
“Really?” Juhoon said, his brows knitting together slightly, not annoyed, just genuinely confused. “Exodus and Anthrax? Punk rock bands? Are you playing with me?” There was a brief pause, like he was deciding whether to let it slide. “They’re thrash metal bands.”
Before Martin could say anything, Juhoon added, almost casually, “Punk rock is more like the Sex Pistols.” Then he turned back to the shelves, fingers already moving, sorting through vinyls and CDs with quiet focus.
Martin smiled to himself, wide and a little dumb. He leaned against one of the racks, pretending to examine an album cover he didn’t care about.
It still messed with his head that Juhoon was a music nerd too, not just this quiet, unreadable guy with that soft, distant look in his eyes.
It was only the two of them in the shop. The clock on the wall ticked too loud in the quiet, each second stretching thin.
It was still early on a Sunday anyway; most people were probably still at home, sitting around kitchen tables with their families, or already out at the malls, laughing too loud with their friends, killing time under bright lights.
Here, though, the shop felt sealed off from all of that. Like a small pocket of the world that had slipped out of sync.
“I can change the song, right?” Martin asked. When Juhoon nodded, Martin didn’t even pretend to act normal. He practically sprinted toward the counter, flipping through a messy stack of CDs until he found what he wanted.
The plastic case clicked open, the disc catching the light for a second before he slid it into the player like he was performing some small, personal ritual.
Wonderwall by Oasis started to play. The first few chords filled the shop, warm and familiar, and the whole place seemed to shift.
Today is gonna be the day
That They’re gonna throw it back to you
The air felt different, heavier but in a good way, like the room itself had leaned closer to listen. It was stupid how one song could do that, turn a quiet Sunday morning into something that felt like a scene from an old movie, something soft-edged and aching.
By now, you should’ve somehow
Realized what you gotta do
From where he stood, Martin could see the way Juhoon was focused on his work, the slight pout to his lips when he concentrated, the tiny crease between his brows. The light from the window brushed against his face, making him look unreal, like he belonged more to the music playing than to the shop itself.
I don’t believe that anybody
Feels the way I do about you now
Martin felt the thought hit him out of nowhere, sharp and embarrassing. He wanted to kiss the–No. Not that. Not yet.
“Hey, by the way,” Martin said, breaking the silence before his thoughts could betray him any further. Juhoon let out a soft hum in response, not looking up, but it was enough. It felt like permission.
“Me and my friends are gonna play later at my house,” Martin continued, his voice quieter now, almost careful. “Do you mind coming with us?”
Backbeat, the word is on the street
That the fire in your heart is out
Juhoon paused, fingers resting against the edge of a CD case. “I don’t play any instruments,” he said honestly. “And I bet I wouldn’t do much of anything there.”
“It’s fine,” Martin said, stepping a little closer, closing the small distance between them. The music wrapped around his words, soft and aching, like it was backing him up. “Just watch me. Just watch us. Or… I can teach you how to play guitar, too.”
I’m sure you’ve heard it all before
But you never really had a doubt
Juhoon finally looked at him, really looked at him, and Martin’s breath hitched in his throat like it had forgotten what it was supposed to do.
He hoped, stupidly, that Juhoon couldn’t hear it. That the sound of his chest threatening to give him away would somehow dissolve into the chords of the song instead of echoing between them.
“You will teach me, huh?” Juhoon asked. The words came out light, almost playful, like he was teasing him on purpose. But his face stayed mostly neutral, hard to read as ever, and that somehow made it worse.
Martin’s ears burned. The confidence he’d been borrowing from the music started to slip, leaving him suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how obvious this probably looked from the outside.
“Yeah,” Martin said, a little too quickly. He swallowed and tried again, softer this time. “I can teach you to play your favorite song on the guitar. Or… we can just play your favorite song later.” He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, even though his heart was practically trying to punch its way out of his ribs.
Juhoon’s lips curved, just barely, into a small smile. “That sounded so romantic, Edwards,” he said.
Martin caught the faint color rising on Juhoon’s cheeks, a soft pink blooming there like it had been coaxed out by the music itself.
I don’t believe that anybody
Feels the way I do about you now.
The garage was already blasting noise by the time Martin and Juhoon arrived.
Of course, Martin had waited for Juhoon until his shift at the shop ended. He hadn’t even tried to hide it, just leaned against the counter, pretending not to count the minutes.
Luckily, his parents weren’t home, which meant James, Keonho, and Seonghyeon had already claimed the garage as their own, filling it with sound and scattered energy before Martin even got there.
“Hey, guys,” Martin said as he pushed the door open, Juhoon trailing a step behind him. The three of them looked up almost in sync, sweat on their brows, sticks and cables and noise everywhere.
“Yo,” Seonghyeon greeted, and Keonho lifted a hand in a lazy wave.
“Why are you lat–” James started, but the words died halfway when his eyes landed on the figure behind Martin. His expression shifted instantly. “Oh? Juhoon! Nice to see you again!”
Martin watched as James walked up to Juhoon and pulled him into a quick dap, all casual and familiar. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It really shouldn’t have. And yet, something in Martin tightened, subtle but sharp, the kind of feeling you don’t notice until it’s already there.
He caught himself frowning before he could stop it, especially when Juhoon smiled so wide in response, bright and open in a way Martin didn’t see often.
“Hey, that’s enough. Let’s start,” Martin cut in, a little too quick, already turning away as he walked over to where his guitar rested against an amp. The wood felt cool and familiar under his fingers, grounding him.
Juhoon dropped onto an empty beanbag in the corner, the worn fabric sagging under his weight. His eyes wandered around the garage, taking everything in, the tangle of wires like veins on the floor, the drums with scuffed skins, the half-empty cans of soda sweating onto the concrete, the open bags of chips no one ever seemed to finish.
The walls were cluttered with old posters, some peeling at the corners, others held up by tape that had long since lost its stickiness. Bands from decades ago stared back at him, names he actually recognized, echoes of music that felt older than the room itself.
Somehow, the space felt like Martin. Messy, loud, a little chaotic, but alive in a way that made your chest feel warm if you stayed long enough.
Juhoon didn’t know why that realization made him smile, just a little, to himself.
“What do you want us to play, Jju?” Martin asked, glancing back at him. Immediately, the others erupted into exaggerated groans and weird noises, dragging out the nickname just to be annoying.
“Ooooh, Jju,” Keonho mocked, earning laughter from James and Seonghyeon.
Martin rolled his eyes, pretending not to care, but the heat still crawled up his neck, his cheeks betraying him. “Shut up,” he muttered, fingers tightening around the neck of his guitar.
“I didn’t know you could be this romantic,” Keonho teased, nudging James, who was already nodding along like he’d just been proven right about something.
Juhoon just shrugged, leaning back into the beanbag. “Anything is fine. I’ll just listen and watch.” And just like that, Martin smiled.
The four of them decided to play First Date by Blink-182 first. The moment the opening chords rang out, the garage seemed to wake up even more, like the walls themselves remembered the song.
The amps hummed, the drums came in a little too loud, and suddenly the space felt smaller, warmer, alive. Juhoon sat back on the beanbag and watched, his eyes moving from one of them to the other.
He couldn’t help but admire how natural they all looked with their instruments, like this was something they’d been doing forever. Martin and Seonghyeon drew his attention the most, their movements messy but confident, while James and Keonho sang along, voices colliding, laughing whenever one of them messed up a line.
But what made Juhoon’s heart jump in that weird, uncomfortable way was Martin. Because Martin kept looking at him.
Not just glancing, not just checking if he was still there, but really looking, like the rest of the room had faded into the background.
He sang the lyrics while his eyes stayed on Juhoon, and it felt wrong in a way that was too intimate for a garage filled with noise and friends and half-empty soda cans.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. It was probably just Martin being Martin, dramatic and intense like he always was with music. But every look, every word spilling from his mouth, made it impossible not to read into it, impossible not to feel like something was being said without being said at all.
The song ended in a messy crash of sound and laughter, strings buzzing, drums echoing off the walls. And still, Martin’s gaze didn’t leave him.
Juhoon tried to look away. He really did. But his eyes stayed, caught in whatever gravity was pulling him in. It felt strange, almost unreal, like stepping too close to a flame and not pulling back even when you know you should.
There was something in the way Martin looked at him, something that made the air feel heavier between them, thicker, like the space was bending just a little.
Their session went on, song after song, noise piling on noise, and Juhoon found himself actually enjoying it. Not just the music, but being there. He liked how they never made him feel like he was just some outsider sitting in the corner.
They’d glance at him when they argued over what to play next, ask what he thought, joke around with him like he’d always been part of the group. It was easy in a way he wasn’t used to. Too easy. Like he’d slipped into a life that wasn’t originally his, and somehow it fit.
When they took a break, James ordered pizza, and they all crowded around the greasy box like it was some kind of sacred offering. The garage smelled like cheese and oil and sweat and old concrete. They passed slices around, bumped shoulders, laughed with their mouths full.
Juhoon realized, a little too late, that he felt comfortable. Like he’d been doing this with them for years instead of just one afternoon.
“Are you enjoying it?” Martin asked, dropping down beside him on the beanbag. The others were too busy messing around with random chords and off-beat drumming, laughing at their own noise. “Sorry they’re loud and annoying.”
Juhoon took a sip of his soda, the fizz biting at his tongue. “It’s fine. I’m enjoying it,” he said, then glanced at Martin, eyes soft but honest. “And don’t worry. I still think you’re louder and more annoying than them.”
Martin laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, and for a second, the garage felt warmer than it should’ve been.
Juhoon didn’t even realize how late it had gotten. Time slipped past him while he was busy laughing, half-singing along to songs he only knew the chorus of, letting himself get dragged into their noise and energy.
At some point, he’d even stood up from the beanbag and moved with the music, awkward at first, then less so when no one made fun of
It smelled like teen spirit in that room, like youth and noise and something reckless and alive that you only really notice when it’s already around you.
When the clock hit eleven, James, Seonghyeon, and Keonho finally started packing up, all tired laughter and lazy goodbyes. They slung their bags over their shoulders, promised to meet up again soon, complained about being exhausted.
Martin and Juhoon walked them out to the front, the night air cool against their skin. The house stayed quiet behind them. Martin’s parents still weren’t home.
Juhoon lingered by the door. He didn’t really know why he stayed back. He should’ve left with the others. That would’ve been the normal thing to do. The sensible thing.
But something about the way Martin had looked at him earlier, when James, Seonghyeon, and Keonho were saying their goodbyes, had rooted him in place.
There was something in Martin’s eyes then, soft and searching, like he was asking a question without using words. And Juhoon, without fully understanding it, had answered by staying.
Now it was just the two of them in the garage. The noise had settled into a quiet hum, the amps cooling down, the air still thick with the ghost of music.
Juhoon watched Martin gather up the empty pizza box and crushed soda cans, tossing them into the bin one by one. The place looked different without the others, bigger, emptier, like the room itself had exhaled and was finally still.
“Do you want me to teach you how to play guitar, Jju?” Martin asked softly as he dropped back onto the beanbag beside him, the guitar resting across his lap.
The nickname felt warmer in the quiet. Juhoon nodded. He felt Martin shift closer, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, close enough that the space between them felt thinner than before. “What do you want to play?” Martin asked, holding the guitar out to him.
“Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls,” Juhoon said.
Martin smiled at that, slow and fond, like he’d expected the answer. He nodded, then, without any warning, reached out to adjust Juhoon’s posture, gently moving the guitar into a better position against his body.
His hands were careful, but firm enough that Juhoon felt the weight of the moment settle into his bones. Juhoon’s eyes stayed on Martin’s hands.
They looked bigger than his. For some reason, that small detail made his chest feel tight, like something fragile had been brushed awake inside him.
Martin started by teaching him the first verse, guiding Juhoon’s fingers to the right notes, one by one. His touch was gentle but sure, like he knew exactly where each string was supposed to ring.
Sometimes Juhoon would press down on the wrong fret, the sound coming out wrong and thin, and both of them would end up laughing at it. Martin would lean in a little, adjusting his fingers again, murmuring quiet corrections.
It helped that Juhoon was a fast learner. His fingers were clumsy at first, but they caught on quicker than he expected. After a few tries, he managed to play the entire first verse, even if one note still came out wrong when his finger slipped without him noticing.
The sound wobbled for a second, breaking the spell, and Juhoon winced instinctively. But Martin didn’t get annoyed. He just smiled, patient in a way that made Juhoon’s chest feel strangely warm, like being given permission to mess up without being made to feel stupid for it.
“Try to play the first verse and I’ll sing,” Martin suggested. Juhoon nodded, eyes dropping back to the guitar in his hands, suddenly very aware of how heavy it felt, how real this moment was.
Martin shifted closer, his knee brushing against Juhoon’s, the contact light but impossible to ignore. “Ready,” Martin said softly. “Go.”
Juhoon started with the intro, and to his own surprise, it came out clean, the notes lining up the way they were supposed to.
Then Martin’s voice slipped in behind the sound of the strings, low and soft, like he was afraid to wake the night. “And I’d give up forever to touch you, ’cause I know that you feel me somehow…”
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than they had any right to be. Juhoon could feel Martin looking at him as he sang those lines, could almost feel the weight of that gaze on the side of his face.
His heart started to beat faster, too fast, like it was trying to run ahead of the moment. He kept his eyes on the guitar, on the strings vibrating under his fingers, afraid that if he looked up, something would happen that he wasn’t ready to name.
“You’re the closest to Heaven that I’ll ever be, and I don’t want to go home right now…”
The lyric landed harder than it should have. The words felt like they were meant for him, like the night itself was leaning in, listening.
Juhoon kept playing, fingers moving over the strings while Martin kept singing beside him. At some point, the space between them had disappeared. Their shoulders brushed, their knees almost touched, and Juhoon became painfully aware of how close Martin was.
He could feel the warmth of Martin’s presence, the quiet heat of another body so near, and it made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the song.
“And sooner or later it’s over; I just don’t want to miss you tonight,” Martin sang softly, his voice steady but his eyes still fixed on Juhoon.
The lyric lingered between them, heavy with something unspoken. Juhoon tried to keep his gaze on the guitar, on the familiar shapes of his fingers against the strings, but the pull was too strong.
He glanced up, just for a second, and their eyes met. The moment stretched, fragile and dangerous, like stepping onto thin ice and realizing it hasn’t cracked yet.
They kept going after that.
Martin taught him the rest of the song, guiding him through each part until Juhoon could play it almost on his own. The notes came easier now, the melody settling into his hands like it had always belonged there.
They laughed when he messed up a transition, laughed when Martin sang a line too dramatically, laughed in that loose, quiet way that only happens when it’s late and your guard is already slipping.
Martin kept singing for him, even when Juhoon didn’t ask, his voice softening the edges of the night.
It was already past one in the morning when Juhoon finally decided he should go home. Martin, stubborn as ever, insisted on walking him back, and Juhoon didn’t fight it as hard as he probably should have.
The neighborhood was quiet, wrapped in the low hum of distant traffic and the soft glow of streetlights. The moon hung above them, pale and distant, watching like it knew something they didn’t. The cold crept into Juhoon’s bones, the night air sharp against his skin, and without thinking, he hugged his arms around himself.
He didn’t notice when Martin slipped out of his hoodie. Only when something warm was suddenly pressed into his hands did he look up.
“Wear it,” Martin said, holding the hoodie out to him, his arms still extended. “I don’t take no as an answer, so you better wear it now, Jju.”
Juhoon frowned, ready to argue out of habit, but the words never made it past his lips. He took the hoodie and pulled it over his head. It swallowed him immediately, sleeves too long, fabric heavy with Martin’s warmth.
The scent of laundry soap and something unmistakably Martin clung to it, and Juhoon felt oddly small inside it, wrapped up in something that wasn’t his.
“I’m glad you hung out with us tonight, Jju,” Martin said, smiling at him under the moonlight. The light caught on his face in a way that made him look gentler than usual, like the night had softened all his edges.
“It’s fun,” Juhoon said, unable to stop himself from smiling back as memories of the garage flashed through his mind, the noise, the laughter, the warmth. “Your friends are fun, too. You guys are… fun to be with.”
Martin only smiled, trying to ignore the way his heart ached. But the longer they walked, the worse it got. The ache spread, slow and sharp at the same time, pressing against his ribs like it was trying to break out.
The night felt too quiet, the space between them too loud. He knew, with that sick, certain feeling in his gut, that if he didn’t say something now, he might never say it at all.
And whatever this thing between them was, whatever fragile, glowing thread had been forming, might slip right through his fingers.
“Hey, uh, Jju, w-wait up,” Martin said. They stopped at the same time, like they were pulled by the same invisible string.
Juhoon turned to face him, and once again, Martin’s breath caught stupidly in his throat. The words piled up behind his teeth, heavy and tangled. “I–I, um… I need to say something. Like. Right now. Before I… before I chicken out.”
Juhoon didn’t speak. He just looked at him, and somehow, that was enough. The silence felt like permission.
Martin took a step closer. The moonlight washed over Juhoon’s face, softening his features, tracing pale lines along his cheeks and nose. It made Martin’s chest tighten in the most unbearable way.
“I d-don’t know how to say this, but, fuck– I mean– sorry–” Martin looked away, his face heating up, sweat prickling at his temples even in the cold night air.
“Uh… okay, so, um… the moment I first saw you in the shop last month, I–I swear I thought my brain was broken or something. Like, no way you’re real. I literally thought I was seeing things.”
The words sounded ridiculous the second they were out of his mouth. He cringed inwardly, wishing he could grab them out of the air and shove them back where they came from.
Too cheesy. Too much. But it was the truth, and it had been sitting in his chest ever since.
“Y-you just– you looked too beautiful,” he went on, voice quieter now, tripping over itself. “Too beautiful in a way that made me, like… forget how to act normal. I couldn’t not stare. I tried. I failed. Badly.”
Juhoon could feel his own heart start to pound, loud and unsteady. He watched Martin as he spoke, the way his messy blond hair caught the light, the way his face flushed red, the way his eyes kept darting away and then back again, like he was afraid of what he might see if he held Juhoon’s gaze for too long.
“And then when I found out you’re into music like me, God, I just– I mean– that just made everything worse,” Martin rushed, words tumbling over each other.
“’Cause now you weren’t just pretty, you were cool and quiet and into the same stuff as me, and I was like, wow, cool, great, awesome, I’m doomed. I even– I mean, I thought about kissing you, which– okay, that sounds so bad when I say it out loud, I’m not trying to be weird, I swear, I just– I’m sorry, I’m really bad at this–”
He cut himself off, scrubbing a hand over his face, clearly wanting the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he muttered, then looked back at Juhoon, eyes too honest for his own good. “I know it’s too damn fast. I know this is probably stupid. And you don’t owe me anything, and you can totally pretend I never said any of this, but–” his voice wavered, just a little, “I really like you, Juhoon. Like… a lot. Way more than I probably should this early.”
Juhoon’s silence stretched on, and the longer it did, the more Martin’s nerves unraveled. The quiet pressed against his ears, loud and unbearable. He started to feel stupid, exposed, like he’d just ripped his chest open and was standing there waiting to see if someone would laugh at the mess inside.
His fingers twitched at his sides, and before he could open his mouth to say something else, anything to fill the space, Juhoon finally spoke.
“Are you done?” Juhoon asked. The words were simple, almost careless, and Martin swore he felt something in his chest ache at how nonchalant Juhoon sounded.
“Uh… yeah?” he said, confused, the word slipping out before he could think. He didn’t understand why Juhoon would ask that, didn’t understand why his face was still so unreadable after everything Martin had just poured out.
“Good.”
And before Martin could even ask what that meant, Juhoon grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him down.
There was no warning. No time to overthink. Juhoon’s lips crashed into his, sudden and sure.
Martin’s eyes widened in shock. For a split second, his brain completely shut off. All he could register was the warmth of Juhoon’s mouth, the softness he’d somehow imagined a hundred times but still wasn’t prepared for. Juhoon was kissing him.
Juhoon was actually kissing him. The kiss wasn’t rushed or rough. It was slow, almost careful, like Juhoon was testing something fragile between them.
Martin let out a shaky breath through his nose and smiled into the kiss before his arm slid around Juhoon’s waist, pulling him closer.
The night air wrapped around them, cold against Martin’s skin, warm where Juhoon fit against him. Juhoon’s arms lifted, circling around Martin’s neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as the kiss deepened just a little, still soft, still unsure in the best way.
It felt like something burst open inside Martin’s chest. His heart was racing, his stomach doing that stupid, fluttery thing, like he was on the edge of falling and flying at the same time. The world narrowed down to this, moonlight, quiet street, the weight of another person in his arms.
Juhoon was the one who pulled away first.
They stayed close, foreheads almost touching, arms still wrapped around each other. Juhoon looked up at him, cheeks flushed pink, eyes reflecting the pale glow of the moon. The sight of it made Martin’s chest feel too full, like he might actually cry right there if he didn’t laugh first.
“I like you too,” Juhoon whispered, voice softer than Martin had ever heard it. “I like you too, Martin.”
The words hit him harder than the kiss did. Relief, disbelief, something warm and overwhelming rushed through him all at once.
“Fuck,” Martin breathed out, half-laughing, half-on-the-verge-of-tears. “Jju, you’re– you’re so pretty. I–I like you. I like you so much.”
And then he leaned in again, kissing Juhoon once more, softer this time, both of them smiling into it under the quiet glow of the moon.