Archive of Our Own

The yearbook room always smelled faintly of dust and printer ink, no matter how often the windows were cracked open.

Martin liked that about it.

It was tucked into the far corner of the second floor, past the art wing and three perpetually empty classrooms, far enough from the main traffic of the school that the noise softened into something distant and tolerable. By the time the final bell rang each afternoon, most students flooded the hallways with the kind of loud, careless energy that made Martin feel like he was standing slightly out of phase with everyone else. In here, though, the chaos dulled to a low hum.

He sat cross-legged in one of the rolling chairs, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, laptop balanced precariously on his thighs as he scrolled through a folder of half-edited photos from the previous week’s football game. The screen cast a pale glow across his glasses, reflections catching in the lenses as he zoomed in and out, adjusting exposure, straightening horizons, cropping frames until they felt balanced.

Across the room, a handful of other yearbook kids were clustered around the long table, arguing quietly about font choices and whether the senior quote pages should be two columns or three. Martin listened without really listening, mentally filing away the conversation as background noise while his attention stayed on the image in front of him.

A running back frozen mid-stride. Grass torn up beneath cleats. Sweat caught in the stadium lights like scattered stars.

He adjusted the contrast, then saved. A small, satisfied feeling settled in his chest.

“‘Tin.”

Martin looked up as Juhoon slid into the chair beside him, dropping his backpack to the floor with a soft thud. Juhoon’s hair was still damp from showering after gym, dark strands sticking up in odd directions like he hadn’t bothered to tame it properly.

“You alive?” Juhoon asked.

“Unfortunately,” Martin said without looking away from his screen.

Juhoon snorted. “You’ve been in here since lunch. You’re gonna fuse with that chair one day.”

Martin shrugged, tugging one sleeve higher over his fingers. “Could be worse places to die.”

Juhoon leaned over to peek at the laptop. “Those are good.”

Martin felt warmth creep up his neck despite himself. “They’re fine.”

“They’re good,” Juhoon repeated, firmer this time. “You always do that thing where you pretend you’re not insanely talented.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

Martin hummed noncommittally, scrolling to the next image. Compliments from Juhoon landed easier than compliments from most people. Maybe because Juhoon had known him long enough to say things casually, without expectation. Maybe because Juhoon never made a big deal out of anything, even when Martin kind of wanted him to.

“Ms. Han looking for volunteers?” Juhoon asked.

Martin finally glanced away from his screen. “For what?”

“Winter sports coverage. Swim, basketball, wrestling. She says they need more photos this year.”

Martin hesitated.

He liked sports photography in theory. Fast shutter speeds. High contrast. Motion you could almost feel through the screen.

He disliked the environments that came with it though. Specifically, the crowds that brought along noise along with having to be visible.

Still, yearbook committee meant documenting the school. All of it. Even the parts Martin tended to orbit around without ever quite entering.

“I can do swim,” Martin said, surprising himself a little.

Juhoon raised an eyebrow. “You hate pools.”

“I hate getting in pools,” Martin corrected. “Taking pictures is different.”

Juhoon smiled slowly, like he knew exactly what this meant.

“Sure it is.”

Martin shot him a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird. You’re making it weird.”

Martin closed his laptop with more force than necessary. “I just think it’ll look… cool. You know, the swimmers are in their element and the lighting is always good in the natatorium.”

“Uh-huh.”

Juhoon leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained. “When’s their next practice?”

“Today. After school.”

Juhoon’s grin widened. “I’m walking you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I absolutely am.”

Martin sighed. He already knew he was going to lose this argument.

The natatorium was louder than Martin expected.

Not in a screaming, chaotic way like the gym during pep rallies, but in layers. Water slapping against tile. Echoed voices bouncing off high ceilings. Whistles cutting through the air. The steady, rhythmic churn of swimmers slicing through lanes.

The air was thick with humidity and chlorine, sharp enough to sting faintly at the back of Martin’s throat.

He hovered near the entrance, camera strap looped tightly around his wrist, fingers curled around the body of the camera like it might decide to escape if he loosened his grip.

“You’ve got this,” Juhoon murmured beside him.

Martin nodded, even though his heart was already beating too fast.

They stood out. Or at least, Martin felt like he stood out.

Most of the people on deck were in team warmups or swimsuits, moving with the easy familiarity of people who knew exactly where they belonged. Martin was still in his oversized hoodie, jeans, and beat-up sneakers, dark hair falling into his eyes because he’d forgotten to bring a hairband.

A boy with dark hair and broad shoulders was now standing near the edge of the pool, towel draped around his neck as he talked animatedly to two other swimmers after they finished their warmups.

One of them had lighter hair and an easy, amused expression. The other was relatively the same height, leaner, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he listened. They all laughed about something.

The dark-haired boy smiled though, and Martin forgot how to breathe.

There was nothing objectively outrageous about him. No dramatic features, well except his super thick eyebrows. Overall, he was just.. super nice to look at.

Nice in a way that made Martin’s brain short-circuit.

Soft eyes and long eyelashes. Straight nose. A mouth that curved upward at the corners even when he wasn’t fully smiling. Hair damp enough that a few strands clung to his forehead.

He looked comfortable and confident, like someone who belonged here.

“That’s Ahn Keonho,” Juhoon whispered.

Martin startled. “What?”

“Co-captain. Sophomore. Swim team’s golden boy.”

Martin’s stomach dipped. “Of course he is,” Martin muttered.

Juhoon smirked. “You’re staring.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Martin tore his gaze away, heat crawling up his neck. “I’m.. surveying the environment.”

“Mhm.”

Before Martin could formulate a better lie, the dark-haired boy glanced over.

Their eyes met.

Martin felt like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

The boy blinked once, then tilted his head slightly, curious.

A second later, he peeled away from his friends and started walking toward them, and Martin’s soul attempted to leave his body.

Juhoon, the traitor that he was, took one step back.

Keonho stopped a few feet away. Up close, he was worse. Taller than Martin expected. Not as tall as Martin, but close enough that their eye lines didn’t feel painfully mismatched. His skin was tan but lightly flushed, either from practice or the warm air, and water was still beading along his collarbone.

“Uh,” Keonho said. “You lost?”

His voice was softer than Martin anticipated.

“I—yearbook committee,” Martin managed. “I’m supposed to take photos of practice.”

Keonho’s expression shifted immediately. “Oh. Cool.”

He glanced at the camera like he was reassessing Martin entirely.

“I’m Keonho.”

Martin opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Juhoon elbowed him.

“Martin,” Martin said quickly. “I’m Martin.”

Keonho smiled. It was small and real and absolutely devastating.

“Nice to meet you.”

Martin nodded, because speaking felt impossible.

Keonho gestured vaguely toward the pool. “You can shoot from pretty much anywhere on deck. Just don’t stand behind the blocks when we’re doing starts.”

“Okay,” Martin said.

Then, because he had apparently lost all sense of self-preservation, he added, “You’re… really talented.”

Keonho blinked. Then laughed, surprised. “Thanks.”

James, who had been watching this entire exchange with poorly disguised interest, leaned over and stage-whispered to Seonghyeon, “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

Seonghyeon snorted. Martin pretended not to hear them.

Keonho rubbed the back of his neck, still smiling a little like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Uh. If you need anything, I’ll be around.”

“Okay,” Martin said again.

Keonho walked back to his friends.

Martin stood there, heart hammering, fingers trembling slightly around his camera.

Juhoon leaned in. “You’re doomed,” he said gently.

Martin didn’t disagree.

He lifted the camera, focused the lens. And through the viewfinder, framed Keonho mid-stretch, muscles pulling beneath damp tan skin, hair falling into his eyes, mouth curved into an easy grin as James said something stupid.

Martin pressed the shutter.

Click.

He had a horrible, sinking feeling that nothing about this was going to be simple ever again.

Martin started coming to swim practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays, at first because Ms. Han reminded him—politely but firmly—that winter sports coverage required consistency, and then because it became something he no longer had to justify to himself at all. By the middle of the second week, he found himself slipping his camera into his bag before final bell even rang, checking battery levels and memory space with the same absent-minded thoroughness he used for homework, as if this were simply another responsibility rather than something he was quietly looking forward to.

It didn’t stop at practice though.

When the first home meet of the season finally appeared on the school calendar, Ms. Han sent out a short email asking if anyone from the yearbook committee could also cover that too. Martin replied within five minutes.

After that point, he started going to meets without having to be notified. Sometimes they were at home, sometimes away, sometimes on random weekday evenings that left him doing homework later than usual. He stood along the edge of unfamiliar pools, squeezed between parents and teammates, camera hanging heavy around his neck as he tracked Keonho through warmups, through dives, through finishes. He told himself it was for coverage and consistency.

He did not examine the part of himself that felt disappointed when Keonho wasn’t entered in a particular event. Martin is internally ignoring that right now.

At some point, the shape of swim began revealing itself slowly, through repetition.

Martin has learned which lanes filled first and which swimmers always dragged their feet during warmups. He learned that James Zhao complained loudly about conditioning every single day and still pushed himself harder than most people in the room. He learned that Eom Seonghyeon stretched longer than anyone else and somehow never seemed even remotely out of breath afterward. He learned that Keonho always shook water out of his hair before grabbing his towel, droplets scattering across the tile as if he didn’t notice or care.

He pretended not to notice any of it.

Keonho, on the other hand, noticed Martin. Quite frequently. 

It started with small acknowledgments that were easy to dismiss. A glance when Martin walked in. A nod from across the pool deck. A casual, “Hey, Martin,” tossed in his direction before practice began. Over time, those glances turned into lingering looks, and the nods turned into Keonho drifting closer during breaks, leaning over Martin’s shoulder to peek at whatever photo was currently pulled up on his camera screen.

“You get any good ones today?” Keonho asked one afternoon, towel draped around his neck, skin still warm and faintly flushed from laps.

“I think so,” Martin said, angling the camera toward him.

Keonho scrolled carefully, pausing on a shot of himself coming off the wall, water spraying outward in a frozen arc.

“That one’s cool,” Keonho said. “I look fast.”

“You are fast,” Martin replied, the words leaving his mouth before he had time to overthink them.

Keonho blinked, then smiled in a way that felt small and unguarded, like Martin had said something that landed deeper than expected.

After that, checking Martin’s photos became part of Keonho’s routine, just as much as warmups or cooldown stretches. Martin stayed a little later than he technically needed to, and sometimes they talked, and sometimes they didn’t, but the silence stopped feeling like something that needed to be filled. It settled into a comfortable presence between them, the kind that suggested neither of them was in any particular hurry to go anywhere else.

Without realizing when it happened, Martin began collecting small pieces of Keonho’s life.

Keonho hated chemistry, tolerated math, and genuinely loved history. James had an alarming number of half-serious conspiracy theories about school lunch meat. Seonghyeon pretended not to care about their language arts class while secretly writing poetry in his notes app.

Keonho learned things too.

Martin liked caramel iced coffee even in winter. He was in both creative writing club and yearbook committee. His best friend Juhoon texted him constantly and apparently took great personal offense to Martin forgetting to eat lunch. None of these facts felt monumental. Together though, they felt important.

They then exchanged numbers on a Thursday without any sense of occasion.

Keonho jogged over during a break and asked, “Hey, can you send me that photo from a couple days ago? The one where I’m coming off the wall.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, then hesitated. “I just need your number.”

Keonho pulled his phone out immediately, holding it toward him without comment.

Their phones bumped together as they typed, and when Martin saved the contact—Keonho 🏊‍♂️—he felt strangely aware of the weight of something so simple.

Texting started with photos. Then homework questions despite not being in the same classes. Then random observations. It all became normal in a way that felt dangerous.

The first time Martin saw Keonho outside of the natatorium happened by accident.

Martin was leaving the library with Juhoon when someone called his name from down the hallway. He turned to find Keonho standing near the water fountains, hair dry, no goggles, no swim cap, no towel, dressed in a black hoodie and loose gray sweatpants that hung off his frame in a way that felt unfairly charming.

For a moment, Martin genuinely struggled to reconcile this version of Keonho with the one that existed almost exclusively in tight swim briefs and damp skin. Keonho in regular clothes looked softer, quieter, and somehow even more handsome, which felt deeply rude considering Martin had not prepared for this possibility.

“Oh,” Martin said.

Keonho smiled. “Hey.”

They exchanged a few words about how school has been going today so far, about seeing each other at practice later, about nothing important at all, but Martin walked away feeling strangely off-balance, as though something inside him had subtly shifted.

After that, things edged closer in a series of small, almost invisible adjustments.

Keonho started sitting beside Martin on the bleachers instead of a few steps away. He nudged Martin’s knee lightly with his own when he wanted his attention. He leaned in closer when he talked.

The moment Keonho learned Martin was older happened on a day when they were sitting like usual, Keonho damp and wrapped in a towel, Martin perched slightly above him with his camera resting against his knee.

Keonho complained about a math quiz, listing off the teacher’s name with visible disdain.

“I had him last year,” Martin said. “He curves at the end of the semester.”

Keonho stared at him.

“Wait. Last year?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re a junior?”

Martin nodded.

Keonho looked him up and down slowly, then squinted. “I thought you were a freshman.”

There was a pause from Martin staring at him with a blank reaction. “I’m a hundred and ninety centimeters.”

Keonho laughed so hard he nearly slid off the bench. “I just thought you were a very tall freshman!”

Martin covered his face with both hands.

Keonho wiped at his eyes. “Sorry…hyung.”

“Don’t call me that,” Martin muttered.

Keonho smiled like he absolutely was not going to stop.

From that day on, Keonho used it sparingly, like a carefully selected weapon.

“Hyung, did you get any good shots today?”

“Hyung, scoot over.”

Every single time, Martin blushed, hid his face, and failed completely to defend himself.

Keonho noticed, and he liked it.

Their first official hangout happened on a Friday.

Practice had ended, and James and Seonghyeon were loudly debating whether to go home or to the café a block from school. Keonho listened for a minute, then glanced at Martin.

“I kinda don’t feel like dealing with them,” Keonho said. “You wanna grab bubble tea with me instead?”

Martin’s brain stopped functioning.

“Okay,” Martin said anyway.

They walked side by side down the sidewalk, close enough that their shoulders brushed once, accidentally, and then didn’t move apart.

Inside the bubble tea place, Martin panicked quietly over toppings. Keonho teased him for taking too long. Martin covered his face and mumbled about wanting to make the right choice. Keonho smiled like this was the best part of his day.

They sat at a small table by the window, knees bumping under the surface once, twice. Neither apologized or moved.

They talked about classes, about clubs, about random childhood memories that didn’t mean anything and somehow meant everything. There were stretches of silence that felt soft instead of awkward, filled with nothing but the quiet sound of straws and distant chatter.

At some point, Keonho watched Martin over the rim of his cup and thought, very clearly, that he didn’t want this feeling to go away.

Martin thought, equally clearly, that he was in trouble.

When they walked back toward school, the air had turned colder.

Keonho offered his hoodie instantly after seeing Martin shiver a little bit. Martin tried to refuse for the sake of his own heart, but Keonho insisted. In the end, Martin accepted with his cheeks very much pink.

They separated in the parking lot with nothing more than a quiet, “Text me when you get home,” and Martin replayed the entire evening in his head until he fell asleep.

Weeks continued to pass. The patterns held and the closeness remained.

Martin realized he genuinely liked Keonho on a day that felt painfully ordinary, when Keonho jogged over, hair still damp, and asked if Martin was staying for a bit after practice.

Martin said yes without thinking.

That night, he laid on his bed staring at the ceiling, fully aware that he had crossed a line he did not know how to uncross.

Because the next Tuesday, Keonho saved him a specific spot on the bleachers. Of course, Martin sat in it. 

The first time Martin heard the joke, he did not immediately understand that it was going to change anything.

It happened on a Tuesday, a day that looked exactly like most of his Tuesdays had started to look: final bell ringing, students flooding into the hallways with loud, careless energy, Martin sliding his camera into his bag while mentally running through a quiet checklist of batteries and memory space. He met Juhoon by the lockers outside the English wing like usual, already halfway into complaining about a pop quiz when Juhoon cut in with an offhand, “Hey, are you kinda close now with people on the swim team?”

Martin glanced at him. “Um.. some of them.”

Juhoon shrugged, clearly not sensing the potential danger in what he was about to say. “I overheard a couple guys in the stairwell talking to Keonho. Like.. about you and him.”

That made Martin pause, his fingers tightening slightly around the strap of his camera even though he didn’t consciously register the movement.

“What about us?” he asked.

“One of them joked, ‘Isn’t that yearbook kid basically his boyfriend?’”

The word boyfriend landed in Martin’s chest and stayed there, heavy and disorienting. He found himself waiting without fully understanding what he was waiting for, some instinctive expectation that Juhoon would immediately follow it up with a laugh or a dismissal or something that would tell him this was harmless teasing rather than something that actually mattered.

Instead, Juhoon continued, “Apparently Keonho laughed and said, ‘No, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s just someone from the yearbook committee.’”

For a moment, Martin genuinely thought he might have misheard. Not because the words were unclear, but because his brain did not want to accept that they were real.

“Oh,” Martin said.

It came out flat. Too calm. More like a placeholder sound than an actual response.

Juhoon frowned slightly. “You okay?”

Martin forced a shrug, the motion stiff and rehearsed. “Yeah. I mean. That’s… normal. Obviously.”

Obviously.

Of course Keonho would say no. Of course Keonho wouldn’t think of him that way. Of course Martin had somehow managed to misinterpret everything.

Juhoon studied him for another second, clearly sensing that something was off, but Martin had already smoothed his expression back into something neutral and passable. They started walking toward the natatorium, and Juhoon filled the space with complaints about English class, about group projects, about nothing in particular. Martin nodded in the right places, responded when spoken to, laughed once when he was supposed to.

Inside, though, his thoughts kept circling the same sentence.

He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just someone from the yearbook committee. 

It was such a small and casual thing, and that almost made it worse.

By the time Martin reached the pool, the initial shock had faded into something heavier and more complicated. Embarrassment came first, a hot, uncomfortable awareness of himself, of every lingering look, every moment he had sat beside Keonho on the bleachers, every time he had replayed their café hangout in his head like it meant something special. He had built a version of their relationship in his mind that had apparently only existed there.

Then came sadness. Not dramatic, sobbing sadness, but a dull, aching weight in his chest that made everything feel slower, dimmer, harder to move through.

And underneath that, faint but sharp, was anger. Not at Keonho exactly, but at himself. For being stupid. For letting himself hope. For not knowing how to stop.

Keonho greeted him like always as Martin walked into the natatorium.

“Hey,” Keonho said, jogging over with his towel slung around his neck. “You staying for a bit?”

Martin hesitated before answering. It wasn’t intentional. His body simply stalled.

“..Yeah,” Martin said finally. “Probably.”

Keonho smiled at him, the same easy, familiar smile that had been quietly ruining Martin’s life for weeks.

Martin looked away.

He still took photos. He still did what he was supposed to do, but he stopped lingering. He packed up as soon as he had enough usable shots, positioned himself farther down the bleachers instead of in the spot next to where Keonho usually sat, and answered questions politely and briefly. If Keonho joked, Martin smiled. If Keonho teased him, Martin ducked his head and laughed quietly.

Nothing about his behavior was outwardly rude. Nothing about it was confrontational. It was, however, deliberate.

Martin told himself he was doing the mature thing. He told himself he was giving Keonho space. He told himself that this was better than standing there every day feeling quietly humiliated by his own expectations.

None of it made him feel better. What it did make him feel was tired. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

Keonho noticed the shift slowly, in the way most people notice something wrong only after it has already been wrong for a while. At first, it registered as mild confusion: Martin leaving earlier than usual, Martin sitting farther away, Martin no longer staying behind to scroll through photos together.

Keonho told himself Martin was probably busy. He told himself it didn’t matter.

But the empty space next to him on the bleachers started to feel louder than it should have.

James noticed before Keonho wanted to admit it.

“Did you scare off your photographer?” James asked one afternoon, watching Martin pack up from across the pool deck.

Keonho frowned. “What?”

“He used to be glued to you,” James said. “Now he barely sticks around.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Keonho said automatically.

Seonghyeon glanced over mid-stretch. “You sure?”

Keonho was sure.

But later that night, Keonho lay in bed scrolling through his texts with Martin, noticing details he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge before. Martin used to send memes. Martin used to double-text. Martin used to start conversations. Now most of their exchanges were shorter, more functional, uneven in a way that made Keonho’s chest feel tight.

He stared at his phone long after the screen dimmed.

The thought that surfaced felt unpleasant and impossible to ignore.

Did I hurt him?

Another thought followed it, heavier and more frightening.

Why does it bother me this much?

The answer did not arrive all at once. It crept in through memories of Martin at the café, nervously overthinking boba toppings. Through the way Martin hid his face whenever teased. Through the way Martin wore Keonho’s hoodie that one time like it belonged to him. Through the way Keonho looked for Martin first whenever he walked into practice nowadays.

Keonho sat up in bed, heart pounding.

Oh. 

Oh, shit.

He liked Martin. He liked Martin in a way that made his chest feel tight, his thoughts messy, and his stomach twist with regret.

Then the memory hit him—what he had said in the stairwell, tossed out too quickly, too carelessly. Keonho pressed his palms into his eyes and groaned, wishing he could rewind the moment and swallow the words before they ever left his mouth.

He hadn’t meant it like that. He had been trying to say that he didn’t understand what this was yet, that he wasn’t ready to name it out loud or define it in front of anyone else. But what it must have sounded like, stripped of intention and context, was something much uglier. Like Martin didn’t matter. Like he was nothing more than a convenient presence.

The realization settled heavy in his chest, and it made him feel sick.

Keonho then went looking for Martin the next day on purpose.

Not in the vague, half-hopeful way he usually drifted through difficult conversations, but with a knot in his stomach and a single, unavoidable awareness pressing against his ribs. He skipped showering after practice, barely registered James calling his name from across the pool deck, and followed the familiar shape of Martin’s retreating figure down the hallway that led toward the side exit, his heart beating too fast for how quietly everything around them seemed to move.

“Martin hyung.”

Martin slowed, but he did not turn right away.

That pause felt heavier than any outright rejection could have.

When Martin finally looked back, his expression was carefully neutral, smoothed into something polite and distant in a way that made Keonho’s chest tighten.

“Yeah?”

Keonho swallowed. “Is this because of what I said?”

Martin let out a small, humorless huff.

“You tell me,” he said, reaching up to adjust his glasses even though they didn’t need fixing.

Keonho took a small step closer without really meaning to, lowering his voice even though no one else was nearby. “You’ve been avoiding me. You don’t sit with me anymore. You leave early. You barely talk to me. I know I messed up. I just… I need to hear it from you.”

Martin looked past him toward the natatorium doors, then down at the floor, then finally back at Keonho with an expression that looked tired in a way that went deeper than simple exhaustion.

“I heard what you said,” Martin said quietly, confirming what Keonho feared.

Keonho’s stomach dropped. “What I said in the stairwell,” he murmured.

Martin nodded once.

“When someone joked about me being your boyfriend,” Martin said. “You laughed and said I’m not. You said I’m just someone in the yearbook committee.”

Keonho shook his head immediately. “That’s not what I meant.”

Martin let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Everyone says that.”

“I swear to you, I didn’t mean it like that,” Keonho said. “I panicked. I didn’t know what I was feeling, and someone put a word on it before I was ready to even think about it. So I said something stupid.”

Martin held his gaze.

“That made it sound like I imagined everything,” Martin said. “Like I made up this whole version of us in my head because I wanted it to be there.”

Keonho felt something twist painfully in his chest. “I never thought you imagined anything.”

“That’s not how it felt,” Martin said, a little sharper now. “It felt like you were embarrassed by me.”

Keonho’s breath caught. “That’s not true.”

“But that’s what it sounded like,” Martin stressed, his voice trembling despite his obvious effort to keep it steady. “Do you know how humiliating it is to realize you’ve been sitting next to someone for weeks, letting yourself care about them, and they’re out there telling people you’re basically nothing to them?”

“You’re not nothing to me,” Keonho said immediately. “You never have been.”

Martin swallowed hard. “Then why did you make me feel like I was?” he asked.

The question landed harder than any accusation could have.

Keonho opened his mouth, then closed it again, a quiet, frustrated breath slipping out as he searched for something that didn’t sound like an excuse. After a moment, he stepped closer, stopping just short of crowding him.

“I look for you when I walk into practice,” he said quietly. “Every single day. It’s the first thing I do. I scan the bleachers before I even grab my towel.”

Martin’s breath caught despite himself.

“When you stopped sitting next to me, I noticed immediately,” Keonho continued. “When you started leaving early, I felt it. I kept telling myself you were just busy or tired, but it didn’t feel like that. It felt like I lost something.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself.

“At first I thought I just liked having you around. Then I thought maybe I liked the attention. But I don’t feel like that with anyone else. I don’t get nervous around anyone else. I don’t think about what I said after I go home and replay it in my head. I don’t check the stands at meets hoping someone’s there.”

Martin’s eyes flickered at that.

Keonho swallowed. “I like you,” he said, more firmly now. “Not in a ‘maybe someday’ way. I like you in a way that makes me stupid and scared and protective all at once. I just didn’t realize how serious it was until I thought I ruined it.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy but fragile.

“I’ve liked you for so long,” Martin said quietly. “Like, stupidly. I tried to pretend it was just a crush that would go away, and it didn’t. And then we went to the café, and you gave me your hoodie, and you kept sitting next to me, and I started thinking maybe I wasn’t completely delusional for once.”

Keonho winced. “You weren’t.”

“I didn’t pull away to punish you,” Martin continued, voice softer now but still shaking. “I pulled away because I didn’t know how to stand next to you anymore without feeling like an idiot.”

That one landed.

Keonho hesitated, then reached out slowly, stopping halfway and letting his hand hover between them.

“Can I try to fix it?” he asked.

Martin looked at his hand, then back at his face.

“How?”

“Let me take you out,” Keonho said. “On an actual date. Let me show you that you matter to me.”

Martin’s throat worked as he swallowed. Fear and want warred openly across his face.

“I don’t want to be something you’re confused about,” he said.

Keonho shook his head, steady now.

“I’m not confused anymore.”

Another quiet stretch passed.

Then Martin nodded. “Okay.”

Keonho exhaled shakily, relief breaking across his face in a way that made Martin’s chest ache.

There was no dramatic kiss yet as some sort of apology, but when they started walking toward the school exit together, their shoulders brushed and neither of them moved away.

For the first time in so long, the space between them finally felt gentle instead of broken.

They settled on Saturday without making a big deal out of it, which somehow made it feel bigger.

Keonho walked Martin to the edge of the parking lot after their conversation, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, rocking faintly on his heels like he was trying not to overthink every word coming out of his mouth.

“Saturday okay?” Keonho asked.

Martin nodded. “Yeah. Saturday’s good.”

Keonho smiled like he hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

Saturday meant Martin had two full days to spiral.

By the time Saturday evening arrived, Martin had changed outfits three times and stood in front of his mirror long enough that Juhoon eventually appeared at his house and in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed.

“You look fine,” Juhoon said.

“I look.. basic,” Martin muttered.

Juhoon squinted at him. “You look like you tried.”

Martin turned back to the mirror, pretending not to let that sink in as he carefully swiped a thin layer of lip gloss across his mouth. It was just enough to make his lips look softer. He leaned closer, smoothing his hair and pushing it away from his face instead of letting it fall wherever it wanted, adjusting the front until it framed him in a way that felt more intentional. 

He paused, staring at his reflection.

“My cheeks are already red,” he complained quietly. “They’re always red. I haven’t even left the house yet.” 

Juhoon walked closer, studying him with exaggerated seriousness. “They’re not that red.”

“They are,” Martin insisted, touching his face self-consciously. “I look like I’m overheating 24/7. It’s embarrassing.”

Juhoon tilted his head. “Can I be honest?”

Martin narrowed his eyes. “That’s usually dangerous.”

“They make you look even prettier,” Juhoon said simply.

Martin froze. “What?”

“Your cheeks,” Juhoon clarified. “When they get all pink or red. It’s cute. Genuinely.” 

Martin groaned and buried his face in his hands. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m right,” Juhoon said, entirely unbothered.

Martin lowered his hands slowly, staring at himself again in the mirror. The red hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened more. He didn’t try wiping it away though.

His gaze drifted to the pair of glasses sitting on his desk.

Martin picked them up, set them down, picked them up again.

He liked his glasses. They were comfortable and they helped him see, after all. But sometimes at school, when he caught his reflection under fluorescent lights with his camera hanging off his shoulder, he felt like they made him look smaller somehow. More like the quiet yearbook kid in the corner than a person someone would choose.

After a long second, he reached for his contact case. The choice made his stomach flip.

He slid the contacts in carefully, blinking a few times until his vision cleared, then looked back at himself.

Wow, I look different.

Before he could overthink it again, Martin grabbed the small bottle of cologne he barely ever used. He hesitated, then sprayed once at his wrist and once at his neck, the scent light and clean, something warm underneath.

He inhaled.

Okay.

Juhoon watched the entire process with a small, satisfied smile. “You’re going to be fine.”

Martin grabbed his keys, gave himself one last look in the mirror, and this time he didn’t see the nerdy kid with the camera. He saw someone who deserved to be looked at.

“Text me when you get there,” Juhoon said.

Martin nodded and headed for the door before he could lose his nerve.

Keonho was already outside the restaurant when Martin arrived.

It was a small, cozy place tucked between a bookstore and a nail salon, warm light glowing through the windows, the kind of place families went to for dinner and couples sat in booths sharing fries. 

When Keonho looked up and saw Martin, his brain went pleasantly, uselessly blank.

For a second, he couldn’t quite place what was different, only that Martin looked… softer somehow. Familiar, but sharpened at the edges in a way that made Keonho’s chest tighten.

Then he realized. No glasses.

Martin’s eyes were unobstructed, warm hazel catching the glow from the restaurant windows, and Keonho found himself staring before he could stop himself.

Martin was wearing dark jeans and a soft cream-colored sweater that hung a little loose on his frame. His hair was styled differently, pushed back just enough to show more of his face. His lips caught the light in a way Keonho absolutely noticed and did not know how to cope with.

“Oh,” Keonho said, then immediately winced. “I mean— hey.”

Martin’s ears went pink almost instantly. “Hey.”

They stood there for a beat too long, both suddenly aware that this felt different from every other time they’d seen each other.

“You… uh,” Keonho tried, then cleared his throat. “You look really good.”

Martin ducked his head. “Thanks.”

Keonho hesitated, then added more quietly, “Your eyes are… really pretty.”

Martin froze.

“They are?” he asked, a little too softly.

Keonho nodded, completely sincere. “Yeah.”

Martin’s face turned even redder.

Inside, they were seated in a small booth near the wall. Their knees brushed almost immediately as they were sitting across from each other, but neither of them attempted to fix their positions.

The first few minutes were awkward in the very specific way only teenage first dates could be. They studied their menus too hard, pretended not to notice how close their legs were to being entangled, and both took slightly too long to decide what to order.

Keonho broke first, exhaling a small laugh. “I almost suggested takeout instead.”

Martin blinked. “Why?”

Keonho shrugged. “This feels… way more real and it kind of stressed me out.”

Martin’s ears went pink. “Yeah.”

That somehow cracked the tension.

They ordered. The waiter left. Silence hovered, but it wasn’t uncomfortable anymore.

“I’ve never been on a real date before,” Martin admitted, fingers wrapped around his water glass.

Keonho stared at him. “Me neither.”

Martin smiled a little.

Conversation began cautiously, circling around classes and the teachers they both always complained about, laughing over unfair assignments and dramatic grading styles. From there it loosened naturally, drifting into stories about their families and the small habits that somehow felt more personal than either of them expected. They ended up talking about music and were mildly horrified by how similar their taste was, bonding over shared favorite artists and songs they both played on repeat. 

Somewhere in the middle of that, they started complimenting each other’s fashion and even tossed around the idea of going thrifting together, which made Martin’s stomach flip in a quiet, hopeful way. By the time they realized how far the conversation had stretched, they were talking about favorite childhood foods, terrible movies, and the quiet things they were proud of alongside the things they wished they were better at.

At one point, Keonho pulled his phone out. “Wait,” he said. “I have to show you something.”

Martin leaned closer against the table without thinking.

Keonho scrolled for a second, then turned the screen toward him.

“That’s Cookie,” Keonho said, sounding ridiculously fond. “He’s basically the love of my life.”

On the screen was a tiny brown dog with soft, fluffy fur, big round eyes, and a face that somehow looked permanently gentle and slightly concerned at the same time.

Martin stared.

“He’s… really cute,” Martin said honestly.

“I know,” Keonho said immediately. “He sleeps in my bed, steals my socks, and follows me around like I’m the most important person on the planet.”

Martin glanced from the photo to Keonho.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you kind of look like him.”

Keonho blinked. “What.”

Martin shrugged, trying very hard to look innocent. “Same eyes. Same vibe. Very sweet. Slightly dramatic.”

Keonho stared at him like he had just been emotionally attacked.

“I don’t know how to feel about that,” Keonho said.

Martin laughed, bright and unguarded. Keonho found himself smiling back before he realized he was doing it.

By the time their food arrived, they were leaning toward each other even more, hands nearly touching, voices lower without meaning to be. Somewhere along the way, both of them had started noticing things they probably shouldn’t have been cataloging so carefully.

Keonho noticed the way Martin’s hands moved when he talked, the small, expressive flicks of his fingers, the way he ducked his head whenever he got shy, lashes dropping like he was trying to hide himself. He noticed the faint shine of gloss on Martin’s lips and the way it kept catching the light.

Martin noticed things too. The way Keonho’s laugh sounded softer in a quiet space, less performative than it was around his friends. The way he actually listened, eyes focused, like Martin’s words mattered. The way he kept looking at Martin like he was trying to memorize him.

At some point, Martin took a breath.

“I know we already talked about it on Thursday,” he said quietly, eyes dropping to the table, “but my heart still feels a little hesitant.”

Keonho didn’t interrupt him. He didn’t look away either.

“I think I just… need to hear it again,” Martin continued, fingers tightening around his fork. “Not the apology part. I know you’re sorry. I just need the extra clarification if I’m not something… or someone you’re unsure about.”

For a second, Keonho just stared at him, and it wasn’t because he didn’t know what to say. It was because he knew exactly what he wanted to say and was suddenly terrified of saying it wrong.

He reached across the table slowly, like he was afraid of startling Martin, and rested his hand over Martin’s.

“I’m— I’m not unsure,” Keonho said, the words coming out a little uneven. “I just… I didn’t realize how much I cared until I thought I’d messed everything up, and that sounds really stupid, but it’s true.”

Martin looked up.

Keonho swallowed.

“I don’t want to guess anymore,” he continued, voice quieter now. “I don’t want to pretend I’m chill about this or act like it doesn’t matter. You matter. A lot. And I know what I want now.”

His thumb brushed nervously over Martin’s knuckles.

“I want to be with you,” Keonho said. “I want to keep choosing you. I’m serious. I’m not saying this just because we’re sitting here and it feels nice. I’m saying it because I don’t want anyone else. There’s literally nobody else in my mind that brings me the same feeling I get when I’m with you.”

Martin’s throat felt tight. “Okay,” he said, heart racing dramatically.

Keonho let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like relief. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly.

They finished eating slowly after that, lingering over bites, neither of them in a hurry, the space between them feeling quieter and safer than it had all evening.

When they stepped outside, the air was cool and smelled faintly like rain, streetlights casting everything in a soft yellow glow that blurred the edges of the world around them.

They walked side by side at first, close but not touching, both painfully aware of the small space between their arms.

Keonho cleared his throat once, like he was about to say something, then seemed to think better of it. A few steps later, his hand drifted closer, slow and careful, until his pinky brushed Martin’s. He hesitated there, fingers barely grazing, before hooking it gently around Martin’s.

Martin’s breath caught.

Keonho glanced over immediately, eyes wide in that familiar way they got when he wasn’t pretending to be cool. “Is this— I mean, is this okay?”

Martin nodded, heart pounding.

Keonho let out a quiet breath of relief and laced their fingers together properly, his grip warm and slightly unsure, like he was still half-expecting Martin to pull away even though he hadn’t.

They walked like that for a while without a real destination, the sidewalk stretching ahead in a quiet, unhurried line. Their hands stayed linked, fingers fitting together more naturally than Martin felt prepared to handle, and every few steps Keonho’s thumb brushed lightly over Martin’s knuckles, as if he needed to reassure himself that Martin was still there.

Martin found himself noticing everything again, the same way he had inside the restaurant. The warmth of Keonho’s palm. The occasional brush of their shoulders. The way Keonho kept glancing at him and then looking away, only to sneak another look a few seconds later.

Eventually, they drifted past the bubble tea shop, its neon sign glowing softly against the darkening sky.

Martin let out a quiet, nervous laugh. “Of all places.”

Keonho smiled, a little shy. “Yeah. I guess… I guess it fits.”

They slowed naturally, their steps losing momentum until they came to a stop beside the building.

Keonho didn’t let go of Martin’s hand. Instead, he turned toward him, and Martin turned too.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the noise of the street fading into something distant and unimportant. Keonho’s eyes flicked from Martin’s eyes to his mouth and back again, and this time he didn’t try to hide it.

He swallowed.

“I meant what I said,” Keonho murmured, voice soft. “About choosing you. I wasn’t just saying that because it sounded good or charming or whatever.”

Martin nodded, unable to trust his voice.

Keonho took a small step closer, then another, until there was barely any space left between them. He released Martin’s hand slowly, almost reluctantly, and lifted his own as if unsure where to place it. His fingers hovered near Martin’s jaw before finally brushing there, tentative and careful.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, the words slightly breathless.

Martin nodded again.

Keonho leaned in gradually, giving Martin plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to. Martin didn’t move. Instead, he bent down instinctively, drawn in by the closeness and by the way Keonho was looking at him like this mattered.

Their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss.

Keonho hesitated, startled by the reality of it, and Martin felt that hesitation like a quiet pulse between them. When Martin leaned in just a little more, Keonho followed, pressing closer, his hand sliding from Martin’s jaw to his waist in a touch that was warm and slightly unsure.

The kiss deepened in small increments, still gentle and unhurried, but steadier now. Martin’s fingers curled into the front of Keonho’s jacket, gripping lightly, and he felt the faint tremor in Keonho’s exhale.

When they pulled apart, it was only by inches. Martin had to dip his head slightly to keep their foreheads nearly touching, both of them breathing a little unevenly.

“That was my first kiss,” Martin blurted, cheeks burning.

Keonho blinked. “Wait— really?”

Martin nodded, mortified.

Something in Keonho’s expression softened into something almost awed.

“I… I’m really glad it was with me then,” he said quietly.

Before Martin could overthink it, Keonho leaned in again.

This second kiss carried more certainty. Keonho pressed closer this time, his thumb brushing lightly at Martin’s waist as if grounding himself. Martin let out a small, shaky sound without meaning to, something between a breath and a whimper, and Keonho felt it immediately.

He made a quiet noise of his own, barely there, before kissing Martin deeper, still gentle but fuller now, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into the space between their mouths.

Martin melted into it. His grip tightened in Keonho’s jacket once again. Keonho’s hand curled more securely at his waist. It wasn’t perfect or practiced. It was two boys trying their best and getting it right anyway. 

When they pulled back again, both of them were breathing harder. Keonho rested his forehead briefly against Martin’s chest, laughing softly under his breath like he couldn’t believe this was real, before tipping his head up again.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

Martin blinked. “You’re not done asking things?”

Keonho huffed another small laugh. “Just one more. I promise.”

Martin nodded. Keonho’s hand stayed warm and firm at Martin’s slim waist. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

The question came out calm and steady, without hesitation, like he had already made up his mind and wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

Martin stared at him, stunned in the best possible way.

“You’re asking now?” he said softly.

Keonho nodded. “Yeah. I honestly should’ve been brave enough to say it earlier.”

Something warm and solid settled in Martin’s chest. “Okay,” he said.

Keonho smiled. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Martin said, unable to stop smiling. “I’ll be your boyfriend.”

Keonho’s grin softened into something almost disbelieving, like he was still catching up to the reality of it. He leaned in and kissed him again, shorter this time, and when they pulled apart, he didn’t step back right away.

“Wait,” Keonho said suddenly.

Martin blinked. “What?”

Keonho reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small and familiar. A compact digital camera.

Martin stared at it. “You brought a camera?” he asked, half-laughing.

Keonho shrugged, suddenly looking a little sheepish. “I’ve had it in my bag for a while. I just… thought maybe I’d want to remember tonight if.. everything went well.”

Martin’s heart did something ridiculous. “You’re stealing my thing,” he said.

“Maybe,” Keonho replied. “But I also don’t want to forget how you look right now.”

Martin froze. “Right now?” he echoed.

“Yeah,” Keonho said, lifting the camera but not pressing the button yet. “You look happy. And your cheeks are red and pretty.”

Martin groaned. “They’re always red.”

Keonho smiled. “I know. I like it.”

He took a small step back, adjusting the angle instinctively the way he’d seen Martin do dozens of times on the pool deck.

“Can I?” he asked gently.

Martin hesitated for half a second, unused to being on this side of the lens. Then he nodded.

Keonho lifted the camera.

Martin didn’t pose because he didn’t exactly know how. He just stood there, slightly breathless, hair a little messy from the kisses, lips still soft and pink, eyes bigger and brighter than usual.

Keonho lowered the camera slowly after the shutter clicked. “I’m keeping this forever,” he said quietly.

Martin felt heat creep back into his face. “Only if you send me a copy,” he replied.

Keonho smiled. “Deal.”

He slipped the camera back into his pocket, then reached for Martin’s hand again.

And this time, when they stepped back onto the sidewalk, fingers intertwined, it didn’t feel fragile anymore.

It felt official.

Monday mornings were usually something Martin endured rather than enjoyed. The hallways were always too loud, too crowded, filled with too many bodies moving in too many directions before he felt remotely awake. Today, though, everything felt strangely muted, like the world had been turned down a notch.

Maybe because Keonho’s hand was warm in his.

Their fingers were fully laced together as they walked side by side down the hallway. Even their shoulders brushed occasionally, their steps falling into an unconscious rhythm, and Martin was painfully aware of every second of it. Every few moments his brain supplied the same stunned observation: I’m holding his hand. Keonho glanced over, caught the look on Martin’s face, and smiled in a way that made Martin immediately look away, heat creeping up his neck.

They hadn’t gone far before someone from the swim team passed by. A random upperclassman Martin vaguely recognized slowed down, did a double take, and then let out an exaggerated whistle that cut cleanly through the hallway noise.

“Well damn,” the guy said. “Ahn Keonho finally got himself a boyfriend.”

The word hit Martin like a physical force.

Heat flooded his face so fast it felt unreal, spreading from his cheeks all the way to his ears as he made a small, mortified sound and lifted his free hand to hide his face. He suddenly became acutely aware of how many people were around them, how visible they probably looked, how little prepared he was to be perceived like this.

Keonho, however, did not let go. If anything, his fingers tightened slightly around Martin’s.

“Yeah,” Keonho said easily. “I do.”

The guy grinned. “About time.”

He kept walking like he hadn’t just permanently altered Martin’s brain chemistry.

Martin was still standing there in a mild state of internal collapse when a sharp voice cut in from behind them.

“Hey. No PDA in the hallways!”

Both of them flinched. They turned to find one of the teachers standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unimpressed.

“Hands to yourselves,” she added.

“Yes, ma’am,” Keonho said immediately, far too polite.

They let go, which caused the teacher to nod once and continue down the hall.

The second she was out of sight, Keonho leaned slightly toward Martin and stuck his tongue out in the general direction she’d gone.

Martin stared at him. Then, despite himself, he snorted. Keonho grinned.

Martin’s face was still warm, his heart still doing strange, floaty things, but the embarrassment softened into something lighter, something almost giddy.

Keonho leaned in just enough that only Martin could hear him. “You okay?”

Martin nodded, not quite trusting his voice. “I think I’m going to combust, actually.”

Keonho laughed softly, warm and fond in a way that made Martin finally lower his hand away from his own face.

Keonho was smiling so happily, and somehow, that joy made Martin’s panic ease, just a little.

Keonho bumped his shoulder gently with Martin’s. “C’mon, boyfriend. We’re gonna be late.”

Martin’s face went red all over again, but he followed him anyway.