Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It started as something small when they were sixteen—a lingering look across a crowded hallway, a jacket handed over a little too quickly when the temperature dropped, a laugh reserved only for Juhoon's driest, driest comments. Back then, it was almost cute. Innocent, even.

By eighteen, it had mutated into something entirely different. It was heavy, thick, and suffocating, yet neither of them moved to break it.

Martin's obsession wasn't subtle. He didn't try to hide it, didn't try to play it cool. When Martin looked at Juhoon, his eyes held a dark, intense gravity, a relentless yearning that made everyone else in the room feel like an intruder. He wanted Juhoon with an urgency that bordered on desperate, but he cloaked it in a smooth, effortless charm that made the pursuit look like second nature.

Juhoon, on the other hand, was painfully, infuriatingly chill.

Deep down, if he was being entirely honest with himself, Juhoon loved the attention. What teenager wouldn't? Having someone as striking and unwavering as Martin hanging on your every breath was a silent ego stroke he'd never admit out loud. But more than that, Juhoon was simply too lazy to do anything about it. Actively pushing Martin away required energy. Setting up hard, unyielding boundaries meant having serious, awkward conversations. It was infinitely easier to just sit back, let Martin orbit him, take the flowers when they were offered, let Martin drive him home in the dead of night, and ride out the electric wave of tension that followed them everywhere.

He was comfortable being the prize Martin couldn't quite reach.

The party was held at a sprawling suburban house that belonged to someone's older brother, creating an awkward, chaotic mix of high school seniors and mid-twenties college kids. The air was heavy with heat, bass-heavy hip-hop vibrated through the floorboards, and the smell of cheap beer and fruit-flavored smoke hung thick in the living room. People were dancing like their lives depended on it, sweat glistening on their necks under flashing blue and red LED lights.

While everyone else was lost in the crowd, Juhoon sat completely isolated on the oversized velvet couch in the center of the living room. He was the only one sitting down, looking like a king lounging on a throne in the middle of a warzone.

Between his index and middle finger, he held a sleek black vape that Seonghyeon had abandoned on the coffee table twenty minutes ago before running off to play beer pong in the kitchen. Juhoon lifted it to his lips, taking a slow, idle drag. He held it for a beat, his expression entirely unbothered by the chaos around him, before exhaling a sweet-smelling plume of blueberry smoke into the air.

"Man, you really are not moving tonight, are you?"

Juhoon didn't even turn his head as James slumped over the back of the couch, holding a plastic cup filled with lukewarm soda. Keonho was right behind him, fanning himself with his hat, looking exhausted from half an hour of terrible dancing.

"Why would I move?" Juhoon said softly, his voice low and raspy from the smoke. "It's hot. Everyone's sweating. I'm comfortable."

"You look like a statue," Keonho laughed, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Seonghyeon is currently losing his mind in the kitchen, by the way. He lost three games in a row to some twenty-two-year-old college guy and now he's claiming the pong table is slanted."

"It probably is," Juhoon murmured, bringing the vape to his lips again.

"Hey," James leaned in closer, his eyes flicking toward the hallway near the front door. A knowing, shit-stirring smirk spread across his face. "Your shadow just walked in."

Juhoon didn't have to look to know who he meant.

Martin entered the room, instantly shifting the atmosphere around them. He looked ridiculously handsome—hair casually tossed, leather jacket draped over his shoulders, wearing a subtle scent of expensive woodsy cologne that somehow managed to cut right through the stale party smell. Martin's eyes scanned the crowded living room, ignoring the girls whispering on the adjacent sofa, ignoring the guys shouting near the speakers.

The moment Martin's dark eyes locked onto Juhoon, his entire posture changed. The easygoing smile vanished, replaced by a focused, intense gaze that cut straight through the crowd.

"Right on cue," Keonho muttered, chuckling. "We're leaving before the air gets too thick to breathe in here. Come on, James."

"Good luck, Juhoon," James patted Juhoon's shoulder with a theatrical nod. "Try not to let him eat you alive tonight."

Juhoon didn't reply. He just took another slow pull from the vape, watching through his long eyelashes as Martin cut effortlessly through the throngs of dancing bodies, heading straight for him. Every step Martin took was deliberate, filled with a smooth, unshakeable confidence, but beneath it lay that hungry, familiar yearning he'd been carrying for two whole years.

Martin stopped right in front of the couch, towering over Juhoon for a fleeting second before sinking down onto the cushion right beside him. He sat dangerously close—so close that the heat of Martin's thigh pressed firmly against Juhoon's denim-clad leg.

"You're sitting alone," Martin said, his voice a smooth, low rumble that vibrated beneath the heavy bass of the music.

Juhoon didn't flinch. He slowly turned his head to look at Martin. Two years of this. Two years of subtle glances turning into heavy, unspoken promises, of late-night drives where Martin's hand lingered a second too long on the gear shift near Juhoon's knee, of flowers dropped off at his front porch under the guise of 'I just saw them and thought of you.'

Juhoon didn't back away. He stared right into Martin's dark, searching eyes, holding his gaze with a lazy, effortless calm.

Slowly, deliberately, Juhoon lifted the vape to his lips, inhaled, and then leaned in slightly closer to Martin's face. He exhaled the thick, sweet mist directly toward Martin, watching the plume wrap around the sharp edge of Martin's jaw line.

Through the cloud of smoke, Juhoon leaned in until his lips were just inches from Martin's ear, his breath warm against his skin.

"Aren't you tired of trying?" Juhoon whispered, his voice dripping with nonchalant affection.

Martin didn't pull away from the smoke. In fact, he leaned into it, inhaling the faint blueberry scent that lingered on Juhoon's skin. He didn't blink, didn't falter, and certainly didn't back down. The tension between them snapped taut, so thick and heavy that it felt like the rest of the party had faded into a blurred background.

A slow, devastating smirk pulled at the corner of Martin's lips. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just a millimeter away from Juhoon's jaw before gently resting against his collarbone, feeling the steady rhythm of Juhoon's pulse.

"I'll get tired," Martin purred, his dark eyes fixated on Juhoon's mouth, "the day you actually tell me to leave."

Juhoon just stared at him, his heart giving a tiny, treacherous flutter deep in his chest—a feeling he'd die before admitting out loud. He didn't push Martin's hand away. He just took another puff of the vape, let out a soft, low hum, and rested his head against the back of the couch, letting Martin pull him deeper into the trap they had spent two years building.

The loud, bass-heavy thrum of the music seemed to recede into a dull, distant murmur, completely swallowed by the sheer density of the space between them.

Martin didn't draw back his hand. His fingers, warm and steady against the soft dip near Juhoon's collarbone, remained resting there like a quiet claim—not aggressive, not demanding, but possessing an undeniable weight born of two relentless years of longing. He didn't mock the subtle, rapid hitch in Juhoon's breath, nor did he offer a smug grin. Instead, Martin's expression held a raw, reverent softness, his dark eyes tracing the line of Juhoon's jaw with an intensity that felt almost painfully tender.

Juhoon tilted his head back slightly against the cushions, letting his eyelids droop until Martin was just a dark, beautiful silhouette against the flashing blue party lights. He took another slow drag from the vape, the sweet berry taste settling heavy on his tongue. He was fully aware of how close Martin was. He could feel the solid warmth of Martin's side pressed against his, the subtle rise and fall of Martin's chest, the unmistakable fragrance of cedar and crisp air that belonged entirely to him.

"You're very comfortable," Martin murmured, his voice dropping into a low, velvet hum that brushed directly against Juhoon's temple. His thumb stroked the smooth skin just above Juhoon's collar, a gesture so impossibly gentle it felt like a silent prayer.

Juhoon let out a soft, lazy exhale, sending a fine cloud of white smoke trailing up toward the ceiling. He turned his head slowly, looking at Martin through the fringe of dark hair falling into his eyes.

"I'm always comfortable, Martin," Juhoon replied, his tone dripping with an effortless, unbothered calm. "You're the one sitting on the very edge of your seat, looking like you're waiting for permission."

A faint, breathy chuckle escaped Martin's lips, but his gaze never wavered. "Maybe I am. I've been waiting two years for permission. What's another night?"

"You'll be waiting a lot longer than one night," Juhoon murmured, a slow, cunning glint flickering in his eyes. He lifted his hand—the one holding the black vape—and instead of putting it back to his own mouth, he lightly tapped the cool plastic tip against Martin's bottom lip.

Martin's breath hitched instantly. His eyes darkened as he looked down at the vape, then up into Juhoon's calm, testing eyes. Without a second of hesitation, Martin leaned forward, closing his lips over the mouthpiece while Juhoon held it steady for him. He took a slow inhale, never breaking eye contact with Juhoon for a single second. The devotion in Martin's eyes was absolute, unshielded, and entirely unashamed. He was a boy utterly consumed, willingly letting Juhoon hold every ounce of power over him.

When Martin released the mouthpiece, he didn't pull back. He stayed hovering barely an inch from Juhoon's face, exhaling the sweet smoke so slowly that it brushed over Juhoon's lips before dissipating between them.

"I don't mind the wait," Martin whispered, his deep voice carrying a quiet, heavy sincerity that made Juhoon's pulse quicken despite himself. "As long as it's you I'm waiting for."

Juhoon's chest tightened slightly, a sharp pang of warmth spreading through his veins. That was the thing about Martin—he was never cruel, never arrogant, never tried to trick Juhoon into a trap. He was just helplessly, hopelessly sincere. He laid his entire heart out on a silver platter, completely unbothered by how vulnerable it made him look, fully aware that Juhoon had the power to crush it whenever he wanted.

And Juhoon, lazy and fond, simply allowed the platter to stay right in front of him.

Across the room, the crowd parted for a moment, and Juhoon caught sight of James and Seonghyeon near the kitchen doorway. Seonghyeon was dramatically gesturing with a red plastic cup, clearly still complaining about his ping pong loss, while James laughed and pointed over toward the couch. Keonho joined them, shaking his head with a knowing grin as he caught Juhoon's eye from across the room.

Juhoon didn't blush or avert his gaze. He simply gave his friends a tiny, indolent flick of his wrist, waving them off with supreme indifference before turning his full attention back to the boy leaning over him.

"They're watching," Juhoon noted quietly, his voice a smooth, purring murmur.

"Let them watch," Martin replied instantly, not even bothering to turn his head. To Martin, the rest of the world was just background noise, entirely irrelevant compared to the boy sitting in front of him. "I don't care about them."

"You should," Juhoon teased softly, a faint, fox-like smile curling the corners of his mouth. "Seonghyeon wants his vape back."

"He can buy another one," Martin said, his fingers gently moving from Juhoon's collarbone up to the side of his neck, his thumb lightly brushing against the quiet, steady rhythm of Juhoon's jawline. His touch was feather-light, trembling just a fraction with the sheer restraint it took not to lean in those final few millimeters. "I'm not moving. And neither are you."

Juhoon let out a soft hum, resting his cheek slightly against the back of Martin's warm hand. It was a subtle, deliberate give-in—a tiny crumb of affection dropped into the lap of a starving man. He watched as Martin's eyes widened slightly, a sudden, sharp intake of breath revealing just how much that single, small movement meant to him.

"You play dangerous games, Juhoon," Martin murmured, his dark eyes dropping to Juhoon's mouth, fixed on the soft pink curve of his lips with a yearning so thick it felt tangible.

"It's not a game if I always win," Juhoon murmured back, his voice cool, smooth, and dangerously relaxed. He reached up, his long fingers lightly wrapping around Martin's wrist—not to push him away, but simply to anchor him there, holding him right at the precise distance Juhoon preferred. "You know where the line is, Martin."

"I do," Martin agreed softly, his thumb tracing the curve of Juhoon's cheekbone with agonizing slowness. His gaze rose back to meet Juhoon's, filled with an aching, unyielding devotion that had survived two long years of rejection. "I know the line. But one of these days, Juhoon... you're going to be the one to cross it."

Juhoon didn't answer. He just held Martin's gaze, letting the heavy, suffocating silence stretch between them while the bass of the music thundered around their quiet sanctuary. He didn't deny it, didn't push him away, and didn't break the hold Martin had on his neck.

He simply leaned back into the velvet cushion, taking another slow puff of the smoke, letting the unbearable tension simmer between them, knowing full well that neither of them was going anywhere tonight.

For a while, Martin let him have his silence. He settled deeper into the couch, though the effort of looking remotely casual was wasted on someone who had spent the better part of two years learning every small change in Juhoon's expression. He knew the difference between Juhoon being genuinely uninterested and Juhoon choosing not to react. He knew when a silence meant stop and when it meant Juhoon was perfectly content to let him make a fool of himself for as long as he pleased.

Tonight, judging by the fact that Juhoon's fingers were still loosely curled around his wrist, Martin suspected it was the latter.

His gaze wandered over Juhoon's face again, lingering on the small silver earring in his left ear, the dark hair falling over his forehead, the faint sheen of colour on his lips from whatever he had been drinking earlier. Martin had seen him dressed a hundred different ways, had watched him stumble out of bed with his hair sticking up in every direction, had sat across from him at restaurants while Juhoon complained about the food and then quietly finished Martin's portion. He had seen him tired, irritated, half-asleep in the passenger seat of his car, and so absorbed in a game that he had forgotten Martin was sitting beside him.

None of it had helped.

If anything, the ordinary things had made it worse. Martin could deal with finding Juhoon beautiful at a party, when the lights were low and the music was loud enough to make everyone seem a little unreal. It was finding him beautiful while he was arguing with a vending machine, or rubbing sleep from his eyes, or asking Martin to wait outside a shop because he wanted to look at something inside, that had thoroughly ruined him.

"You have a very serious problem," Juhoon remarked eventually, without taking his eyes off his phone.

Martin smiled. "I know. I've been meaning to do something about it."

"Have you?"

"Not really. I think it might be incurable."

Juhoon gave a quiet snort, his thumb continuing to move across the screen. Martin watched him for another moment before leaning closer, not quite enough to crowd him, just enough that he could speak without raising his voice over the music.

"Although, I have considered asking you to help me with it."

That made Juhoon pause. His thumb stopped halfway down the screen, and he slowly turned his head, looking at Martin with the sort of measured suspicion usually reserved for people who had just offered him something for free.

"Help you with what?"

"Getting over you."

Juhoon stared at him.

Martin's smile was gentle, almost apologetic, but there was no hiding the affection beneath it. "I've thought about it. Quite seriously, actually. I could stop showing up whenever you mention you're going somewhere. Stop remembering every little thing you tell me. Stop buying you things just because I happen to see them and immediately think you'd like them. I could even stop looking for you every time I walk into a room."

"That would be nice."

"Would it?" Martin asked, and the question came out softer than he intended. He searched Juhoon's face, trying to decide whether he was being teased or dismissed. "You wouldn't miss any of it?"

Juhoon looked back at his phone. "I didn't say that."

Martin went completely still.

It was ridiculous, really. Two years of trying to get somewhere with this boy, two years of being handed the occasional crumb and treating it like a five-course meal, and still a sentence as simple as that could leave him forgetting what he had been about to say.

Juhoon seemed to notice the sudden quiet beside him. He glanced up, caught Martin looking at him with an expression that was dangerously close to wonder, and narrowed his eyes.

"Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You're about to."

Martin pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. "I'm trying very hard to be respectful of the fact that you've just given me the most encouraging thing you've said to me in weeks."

"I said I didn't say that."

"Exactly. And I'm choosing to interpret it in the most hopeful way possible."

"That's your problem."

"It has been, yes."

Juhoon shook his head, but the corner of his mouth moved before he could stop it. Martin saw it, of course. He saw everything, and the look on his face softened so immediately that Juhoon seemed to regret giving him the satisfaction.

"God, you're easy," Juhoon muttered.

"With you? Embarrassingly so."

There was no cleverness in the way Martin said it. No smug little grin, no attempt to turn the confession into something that would let him escape the vulnerability of it. He simply looked at Juhoon as though being easy for him was hardly a thing worth being ashamed of.

That was what made Juhoon look away first.

He brought the vape to his lips, took a slow inhale, and settled back against the couch. Martin watched the movement, then deliberately dragged his attention back to Juhoon's eyes before he could get caught staring at his mouth again.

Juhoon noticed that, too.

"You can look, you know."

Martin's eyebrows lifted slightly. "At what?"

Juhoon lowered the vape. "Don't make me spell it out for you."

For once, Martin had absolutely nothing ready. His mouth opened, then closed again, and Juhoon's expression acquired the faintest trace of satisfaction as he watched the effect of his words settle in.

"You're enjoying this," Martin said finally.

"A little."

"You're aware that I'm a person with feelings."

"I've heard."

"And that you could probably destroy my entire evening with one sentence."

Juhoon considered that. "You seem to be having a pretty good evening."

Martin looked at him for a long second, then laughed quietly, shaking his head. "You're right. I am."

He shifted, resting his arm along the back of the couch again. His hand landed on the cushion behind Juhoon's shoulder, leaving a careful distance between his fingers and the dark fabric of Juhoon's shirt. He could have let his arm settle around him. He had done it before, in moments when the atmosphere was softer and Juhoon had been too tired to complain. But he knew better than to assume that a little teasing meant permission for everything else.

Besides, Martin was beginning to suspect that Juhoon knew exactly how much power he had over him.

"You know what the worst part is?" Martin asked.

Juhoon didn't look up. "There's more?"

"Much more. You haven't even tried to impress me."

That earned him a sideways glance. "Why would I need to impress you?"

"That's what I'm saying." Martin's smile returned, fond and helpless. "You just turn up. You wear whatever you feel like wearing, say whatever comes into your head, ignore half the things I tell you, and somehow I'm sitting here thinking that if you asked me to drive you three hours out of the city because you wanted to try some restaurant you'd seen online, I'd have the keys in my hand before you finished the sentence."

"You would."

"I would," Martin admitted. "I'd probably look up the menu on the way and spend the entire drive listening to you complain about the music. Then you'd fall asleep in the passenger seat, and I'd turn it down because I wouldn't want to wake you. We'd get there, you'd tell me you weren't hungry, and then you'd eat half my food."

Juhoon was watching him now, his phone forgotten in his hand.

Martin's expression softened further as he continued, speaking with the unselfconscious warmth of someone who had spent too long imagining ordinary things and had finally found an excuse to say them aloud.

"And I'd still be happy. That's the embarrassing part, Juhoon. I don't need you to do anything special. I don't need you to dress up for me or suddenly become some different person who says all the right things. I like the person you are when you're not trying at all. I like sitting next to you while you do nothing. I like hearing you talk about things you care about, even when I have no idea what you're talking about. I like when you send me something at two in the morning because you think it's funny and then disappear before I can reply."

He paused, his eyes meeting Juhoon's.

"I like you when you're not even thinking about me. Probably more than I should."

The words settled between them, quieter than the music and heavier than anything Martin had said all evening.

Juhoon looked at him for a moment, his expression difficult to read. He could have made a joke. He could have told Martin he was being dramatic, or reminded him that none of this had been promised. Instead, he lowered his phone and studied Martin's face as though he had found something there he hadn't expected to see.

Then he reached over and plucked a loose thread from the shoulder of Martin's jacket.

"You've got lint on you," he said.

Martin glanced down at the spot. "Is that your way of showing concern for my appearance?"

"No. It's lint."

"Of course." Martin looked back at him, smiling so warmly that Juhoon immediately regretted looking in his direction. "Still, I'll treasure the moment."

Juhoon flicked the tiny thread onto Martin's lap. "You're exhausting."

"And yet you keep finding new reasons to touch me."

The words slipped out before Martin could stop them. He hadn't meant to make them sound quite so intimate, and the instant they were between them, he felt the atmosphere change. Juhoon's hand paused near his shoulder. Martin's gaze dropped briefly to it, then returned to his face.

He didn't push the point. He didn't turn the moment into a demand for an explanation. He only smiled, a little more carefully this time.

"Sorry," he murmured. "That was unfair. You're allowed to pick lint off my jacket without me making it into a whole thing."

Juhoon's eyes narrowed, but there was no real irritation in them. "At least you know."

"I do try to behave around you."

"Could've fooled me."

Martin leaned back, laughing under his breath. "You have no idea how much self-control this is taking."

"Maybe you should try having less."

Martin's laughter faded.

Juhoon said it casually, almost lazily, as though he hadn't just dropped the words directly into the space between them. He returned the vape to his lips, watching Martin over the top of it with an expression that gave nothing away.

Martin looked at him, searching for the familiar boundary beneath the invitation. He knew Juhoon well enough to understand that sometimes he teased simply because he liked watching Martin struggle. He also knew that wanting to believe something was not the same as being given permission to believe it.

So he let the silence stretch, his gaze steady and his hands where they were.

"Be careful," he said at last, his voice warm but quieter now. "I might start thinking you want me to stop being so well-behaved."

Juhoon exhaled a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "You think about that enough already."

"True." Martin's eyes flickered to his mouth and back, and he didn't bother pretending otherwise. "But you could make it very difficult for me to think about anything else."

Juhoon held his gaze, the faintest smile appearing at the corner of his lips. For one suspended moment, neither of them moved. Martin could see the blue light from the television reflecting in Juhoon's eyes, could hear someone laughing loudly near the kitchen, could feel the warmth of Juhoon's leg against his own. Everything else seemed to carry on at a distance, leaving the two of them in the small, precarious space they had made on the couch.

Then Juhoon leaned toward him.

Martin's breath caught before he could help it. It was a small movement, barely enough to close the distance between their shoulders, but Juhoon was close enough now that Martin could see the faint curve of his eyelashes and the tiny mark near his cheekbone. He didn't reach for him. He didn't dare ruin the moment by assuming he knew what it meant.

Juhoon glanced at Martin's lips, then lifted the vape between them.

"Want some?"

Martin stared at the device, then at him.

A disbelieving laugh escaped him. "You cannot be serious."

"Do you want some or not?"

"Juhoon." Martin's voice held a note of genuine appeal, and that only seemed to amuse the other boy more. "You cannot look at me like that and then offer me your vape."

"Like what?"

Martin looked at him helplessly. "You know exactly what you look like."

"Do I?"

"Yes." He shook his head, a smile tugging at his mouth despite his obvious frustration. "And it's incredibly inconsiderate of you to be so attractive when you have absolutely no intention of doing anything about it."

Juhoon laughed, low and brief, and withdrew the vape just as Martin leaned forward to take it.

"Too slow."

Martin sat back, looking at him as though he had personally betrayed him. "I'm going to remember that."

"You remember everything I do."

"Only the important things."

"That must be exhausting."

"You have no idea." Martin's voice softened again, the teasing giving way to something that sounded almost painfully sincere. "I remember the stupidest things about you. Things you probably forgot five minutes after they happened. The first time you fell asleep in my car, you were holding a receipt in your hand, and when I tried to take it away so you wouldn't crush it, you grabbed my sleeve instead. You didn't even wake up. You just held on to it until we got to your place."

Juhoon's smile faded slightly as he listened.

Martin looked down at his own hands, turning one over as if he could still feel the memory there. "I remember thinking I could sit in that car all night if it meant you got to sleep a little longer. Which is a ridiculous thing to think about a person who's not even your boyfriend."

He laughed softly at himself, but there was no attempt to disguise how much he meant it.

"I think about that kind of thing all the time. What it'd be like if I could call you when something good happens and know you'd be the first person I tell. If I could take you somewhere without having to pretend I just happened to be going that way. If I could hold your hand in public without wondering whether you'd pull yours back the second you noticed."

He looked up again, meeting Juhoon's eyes.

"And I think about what it'd be like to kiss you. More often than I'm going to admit, because I'd like to preserve at least a little of my dignity."

Juhoon said nothing. His gaze remained on Martin's face, and for once there was no teasing smile waiting to rescue either of them from the honesty of the moment.

Martin took a slow breath.

"I'm not telling you all that to make you feel bad," he continued. "I know where we stand. I know you haven't promised me anything, and I'm not going to pretend you have. I just—sometimes I wish you knew how much I like you without feeling like you have to do something about it."

Juhoon's fingers shifted around the vape. His eyes dropped to Martin's hand, resting palm-up on his own knee, open and still.

After a moment, he placed the vape on the table in front of them.

Then he set his hand over Martin's.

It wasn't a grand gesture. He didn't lace their fingers together or look at Martin as though he was about to change the course of their lives. He simply rested his palm against Martin's, warm and unhurried, as if he had decided that for the next few minutes, this was where his hand belonged.

Martin went quiet.

Juhoon glanced at him. "What happened to all that talking?"

Martin looked down at their hands, then back at him. His smile was almost unbearably soft.

"I'm trying to remember how to breathe."

"That's pathetic."

"I know." Martin turned his hand slowly, giving Juhoon every opportunity to move away before their fingers settled together. When Juhoon didn't withdraw, his expression changed in a way he couldn't quite conceal. "I'm having a very difficult time being normal about you."

"Clearly."

"You could be a little nicer to me."

Juhoon considered him, then leaned back against the couch without releasing his hand.

"No."

Martin laughed, lowering his head for a second. "Fine. I suppose I'll have to take what I can get."

He didn't ask whether the gesture meant anything. He didn't ask whether Juhoon would do it again tomorrow, or whether he could hold his hand when the room was brighter and there were more people around to notice. He knew better than to turn one quiet kindness into a contract.

Instead, he sat beside him, their fingers resting together between them, and tried to commit the feeling to memory without making it obvious.

Juhoon watched him from the corner of his eye. "You're smiling again."

Martin looked at him, unable to help himself. "Can you blame me?"

"I can blame you for a lot of things."

"Go ahead. I'll listen."

Juhoon tilted his head, studying him with a thoughtful little frown. "You're going to be unbearable about this, aren't you?"

Martin's smile widened, but his thumb only brushed once over the side of Juhoon's hand.

"Probably," he admitted. "But I'll try to be unbearable in a way you can live with."

Juhoon looked down at their joined hands, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he shifted closer, just enough for his shoulder to settle against Martin's.

Martin stopped breathing again.

Juhoon didn't look at him. "Don't make a big deal out of it."

Martin stared straight ahead, every trace of his composure hanging by a thread. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"You're doing it right now."

"I'm being very quiet."

"You're practically vibrating."

Martin pressed his lips together, fighting the smile threatening to give him away. He could feel Juhoon's shoulder against his, the easy weight of him, the warmth that came with being allowed to stay. It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't a confession. It wasn't even a promise that tomorrow would be any different.

But Juhoon was still holding his hand.

And for tonight, Martin was going to let himself be happy about it.

For a little while, Martin allowed himself to believe that this was what it would feel like if things between them were different.

Not dramatically different. Not the sort of different that required a confession in the middle of a crowded room or a sudden change in everything they had spent two years carefully avoiding. Just this. Juhoon beside him, their shoulders touching, their hands resting together between them as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. The music was loud enough to drown out the conversations around them, the lights moved lazily across the ceiling, and somewhere behind the couch, someone was laughing so hard that they had started coughing.

Martin barely heard any of it.

He was too busy trying not to look at their hands.

It was ridiculous, really. He had held Juhoon before. He had caught him by the waist when he slipped on a wet pavement, steadied him by the elbow when he stumbled down a staircase while looking at his phone, and once carried him halfway to his dorm after Juhoon had fallen asleep in the back seat of a car and refused to wake up properly. He had been close enough to count the freckles on his face, close enough to feel Juhoon's breath against his neck when they shared headphones, close enough to know exactly how Juhoon smelled after a shower when he stole one of Martin's hoodies and returned it three days later without washing it.

But holding his hand like this, without an excuse, without either of them pretending that it had happened by accident, was somehow worse.

Martin could feel every point where their fingers met. He was aware of the warmth of Juhoon's palm, the slight pressure of his thumb, the way Juhoon's little finger rested against his as though it had simply found a comfortable place to be. He kept his own hand relaxed, terrified that even the smallest movement might remind Juhoon that he was doing something unusual and cause him to reconsider.

He wanted to turn his hand over properly. He wanted to lace their fingers together. He wanted to look at Juhoon and ask if he could keep holding him, just for a little longer, because he had spent so much time wanting things he couldn't have that he had almost forgotten how to enjoy something he was actually being given.

Instead, he sat perfectly still.

He could be patient. He had been patient for two years. Surely he could manage another five minutes without ruining the only good thing that had happened to him all evening.

Juhoon shifted beside him.

It was such a small movement that Martin barely registered it at first. Juhoon's shoulder lifted away from his, and his hand slid out from beneath Martin's. Their fingers separated gradually, skin brushing against skin before the contact disappeared altogether. Juhoon reached for the vape on the table, picked it up, and leaned back into the couch, his attention drifting toward the crowd as though he had merely grown tired of sitting in one position.

Martin watched the empty space between their hands.

He didn't move his own hand immediately. It remained palm-up on his knee for a second longer than necessary, as if his body hadn't received the message yet. Then he curled his fingers inward, rubbed his thumb against his index finger, and let his arm settle at his side.

There was no reason to be disappointed. Juhoon hadn't promised him anything. He hadn't even said anything particularly meaningful. He had rested his hand over Martin's, allowed their fingers to touch, and then moved away when he felt like it. That was all.

Martin knew that.

He knew it so thoroughly that he could have recited the entire miserable arrangement from memory.

It didn't stop the little ache beneath his ribs.

He glanced sideways at Juhoon, hoping to catch some sign that the moment had meant something to him, too. A lingering look, perhaps. A brief smile. Even a little acknowledgement that they had been sitting there holding hands for several minutes and that neither of them had seemed particularly eager to stop.

Juhoon was looking at his phone.

Of course he was.

Martin's mouth curved into a faint smile anyway, because he was an idiot, and because he could still feel the warmth of Juhoon's palm against his own.

He leaned back, letting his head rest against the couch, and tried to enjoy the last of the quiet they had found together. He could hear Juhoon inhaling from the vape, the soft click of the device when he lowered it, the faint rustle of his jacket whenever he shifted. Every now and then, Martin glanced at him without meaning to, only to drag his gaze away when he realized how obvious he must be.

He had been doing this for so long that he sometimes wondered whether he knew how to sit next to Juhoon without watching him.

Apparently not.

A few minutes passed. Then a few more.

Juhoon checked his phone again, scrolled through something, and let out a quiet breath through his nose. Martin caught the sound and turned toward him instinctively.

"What is it?" he asked.

Juhoon shook his head. "Nothing."

Martin nodded, accepting the answer. He didn't press. If Juhoon wanted to tell him, he would. If he didn't, Martin wasn't going to force him to explain every little thing that crossed his mind.

He was just opening his mouth to ask whether Juhoon wanted another drink when something caught the latter's attention across the room.

Juhoon's gaze lifted from his phone.

At first, Martin didn't think much of it. Juhoon had a habit of scanning a room without appearing to pay attention to anything in particular, his expression remaining calm even when he was listening to three different conversations at once. But this time, his eyes stayed fixed on something near the far side of the living room. His brows drew together slightly, and he straightened from his relaxed position against the cushions.

Martin followed his gaze, but all he could see was a mass of people, moving shoulders, and the occasional raised arm.

Then Juhoon lifted his hand.

He made a small gesture toward someone across the room.

Martin looked back at him.

Something about the movement changed Juhoon's entire demeanor. He was no longer idly passing the time on the couch. He was watching, waiting for the person on the other side of the room to notice him. When he finally received a response, Juhoon's mouth tightened in a way Martin recognized.

It was the expression he wore whenever one of his friends had something to tell him.

And that could mean several things.

Keonho was the first possibility. If Keonho was involved, there was probably gossip. Juhoon might pretend to have no interest in other people's business, but he had never been above listening when the information was particularly good. Keonho, in turn, had a habit of collecting stories and delivering them as though he were announcing breaking news. If he had found something worth sharing, he would want Juhoon to hear it immediately.

The second possibility was Seonghyeon.

Martin didn't know why that particular thought crossed his mind, but it did, and for a moment he found himself wondering whether Seonghyeon had finally managed to do something about the obvious tension between himself and someone else. He had seen the way the two of them sometimes disappeared into conversations that made everyone around them suspicious. Perhaps Keonho had caught them kissing somewhere out of sight. Perhaps he had witnessed something even more interesting.

Whatever it was, Juhoon seemed sufficiently intrigued to consider leaving the couch.

Martin watched him, waiting to see what he would do.

Juhoon slipped his phone into his pocket and took one last drag from the vape before setting it on the table. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees as he prepared to stand.

Martin straightened at once.

It happened so quickly that he didn't even have time to think about it. One moment he was lounging against the cushions, trying to convince himself that the evening had been more than enough, and the next he was sitting upright with his shoulders squared and his attention entirely fixed on Juhoon.

The movement was embarrassingly automatic.

If Juhoon had been watching closely, he might have noticed how quickly Martin's entire expression changed. The quiet, self-assured boy who had been speaking so openly a few minutes earlier disappeared almost instantly. In his place was someone who looked as though he had just realized the person he cared about most in the world might be leaving him behind.

Martin hated how transparent he was.

He also couldn't help it.

"Where are you going?"

The question came out before he could make it sound casual. He tried to soften it with a small smile, leaning forward slightly as Juhoon rose from the couch.

Juhoon paused.

He looked down at Martin, who was now watching him with an attentiveness so immediate that it almost made him laugh. Martin's hands rested on his knees, his posture alert, his dark eyes following Juhoon's every movement. It was the same expression he wore whenever Juhoon mentioned wanting to go somewhere and Martin immediately offered to take him, the same expression he got when Juhoon called him late at night and asked whether he was awake.

Martin was always ready.

It didn't matter what he had been doing before. It didn't matter if he was halfway through a meal, on the verge of falling asleep, or sitting in a lecture he was supposed to be paying attention to. If Juhoon wanted something, Martin's first instinct was to find a way to give it to him.

He was, in every possible sense, a complete sucker.

And the worst part was that he knew it.

Juhoon looked at him for a second, then glanced toward the crowd again.

"Keonho's calling me over."

Martin nodded. "Oh."

He said it lightly enough, but something in his expression dimmed before he could stop it. His eyes flickered toward the far side of the room, searching for Keonho, then returned to Juhoon.

"Everything okay?"

"Probably."

"Probably?"

Juhoon shrugged. "I'll find out."

Martin nodded again, trying not to make the small exchange into something it wasn't. Of course Juhoon wanted to talk to his friends. They had all come here together, and Martin had no reason to expect Juhoon to spend the entire party sitting beside him. He wasn't entitled to that. He had never been entitled to that.

Still, the prospect of watching Juhoon disappear into the crowd after the last few minutes left him feeling strangely unsteady.

He had gotten used to the quiet space they had made on the couch. He had gotten used to the warmth of Juhoon's shoulder against his, to the weight of his hand resting over his own. He had let himself imagine that perhaps the night would continue like this, that Juhoon might remain beside him until the party began to thin out, that they might eventually leave together and spend the walk back to their dorms talking about nothing.

It had been a foolish thing to imagine.

He knew that now.

"Okay," Martin said, forcing his smile back into place. "Go. I'll be here."

Juhoon hummed.

He could have left then. He probably should have. Keonho was still gesturing impatiently from across the room, and Juhoon could already imagine the dramatic way he would complain if he were kept waiting another minute.

But Martin was looking up at him with that expression again.

It wasn't quite pleading. Martin would never deliberately make Juhoon feel guilty for wanting to spend time with someone else. He was too careful about that, too aware of the fragile balance between them. But there was a softness to his face that made it obvious he would rather Juhoon stayed. He wasn't hiding it particularly well, either. His smile was warm, his eyes attentive, and his entire body seemed to lean toward Juhoon without him realizing it.

Juhoon felt something uncomfortable tug at the back of his mind.

He could tell Martin he would be back in a few minutes. He could say he only wanted to hear what Keonho had to say, that he would come find Martin afterward, that they could continue sitting together once the conversation was over.

It would be easy.

It would also be a lie, though not entirely the kind Martin would expect.

Juhoon wasn't planning to come back.

Not because he wanted to punish Martin, and certainly not because he had suddenly grown tired of him. If anything, that was the problem. Martin had a way of making even the smallest gestures feel significant, of looking at Juhoon as though he had been given something precious whenever Juhoon allowed himself a little more closeness than usual.

The hand-holding had been a mistake in that sense. Not an unpleasant one. Juhoon hadn't disliked it, and that was precisely why he had stopped.

He knew what Martin wanted. He had known for a long time.

He knew that Martin could spend an entire evening interpreting a glance, a touch, or an offhand remark as a reason to keep hoping. He knew that a few minutes of closeness could stay with Martin for days. He knew that Martin would remember tonight long after the party was over, turning the evening over in his mind and wondering whether something had changed between them.

And the truth was that Juhoon didn't know what had changed, either.

He liked Martin. He liked him enough that the thought of hurting him had become an increasingly inconvenient part of his life. He liked having him nearby, liked the way Martin listened to him, liked the fact that he could say almost anything without worrying that Martin would take it as an insult. He liked the warmth of his attention, even when it became so overwhelming that Juhoon had to deliberately look away.

But liking Martin wasn't the same as being ready to give him what he wanted.

Juhoon wasn't sure he could.

He wasn't sure he wanted to find out what would happen if he did.

So he was going to leave the couch, spend the rest of the night with his friends, and let the tension between them settle before either of them did something they couldn't take back.

He would have preferred to do that without making Martin feel as though he had been abandoned.

Unfortunately, Juhoon had never been particularly good at explaining himself when he was trying to avoid an uncomfortable conversation.

He looked down at Martin again.

"I'll come back," he said.

The words came out easily.

Too easily.

Martin's face brightened before he could hide it.

It was a small change, no more than a softening around his eyes and the return of the smile that had been fading a moment earlier. But Juhoon saw it, and the sight left an unpleasant little knot in his stomach.

Martin believed him.

Of course he did.

"Yeah?" Martin asked, and there was an almost boyish hopefulness in the question that made Juhoon want to look away. "You're not going to disappear for the rest of the night?"

Juhoon gave him a lazy look. "Why? Will you miss me?"

Martin's smile widened, but he didn't try to pretend otherwise.

"Obviously."

There was no hesitation. No attempt to turn it into a joke or protect himself from how much he was giving away. He said it as though the answer were so obvious that he couldn't imagine why Juhoon had bothered asking.

Juhoon stared at him for a moment.

Then he reached down and patted the top of Martin's head.

It was a thoughtless gesture, something he did when Martin was being particularly affectionate or when he wanted to end a conversation without having to find the right words. His fingers slipped into Martin's hair, ruffling it lightly before he withdrew his hand.

Martin's eyes widened.

Juhoon almost smiled at the expression.

"Stay here," he said. "I'll be back."

Martin looked as though he had just been entrusted with something important.

"Okay."

"Don't look so tragic. I'm going across the room, not moving to another country."

Martin laughed, lowering his head as he ran a hand through the hair Juhoon had just messed up. "I wasn't looking tragic."

"You were."

"I was simply enjoying your company."

"Same thing."

Martin shook his head, still smiling. "Go before Keonho comes over here and drags you away himself."

Juhoon straightened, slipping his hands into his pockets. He gave Martin one last glance, then turned toward the crowd.

He didn't look back immediately.

He knew that if he did, he would see Martin watching him, and he wasn't sure he could stand the expression on his face for much longer.

So he walked away.

Behind him, Martin remained on the couch, still wearing the faint, foolish smile that Juhoon had left him with.

For a little while, he didn't even notice that the space beside him had become cold.

He was too busy replaying the last minute in his head.

I'll come back.

Martin could hear Juhoon's voice as clearly as if he were still standing in front of him. He could feel the brief pressure of Juhoon's fingers in his hair, the casual little pat that had been so familiar and yet somehow felt different tonight. He could still see the way Juhoon had looked down at him, the slight curve of his mouth, the way he had teased him about missing him.

It was ridiculous to be this happy over so little.

Martin knew that, too.

But he had never been particularly good at wanting Juhoon in reasonable amounts.

He settled back against the couch, trying to look as though he had no intention of going anywhere. He picked up his phone, checked the time, and opened a message from one of his friends. He read it twice without absorbing a single word, then locked his screen and placed the phone facedown beside him.

He was going to wait.

That was fine.

He could wait.

He had spent two years waiting for Juhoon to look at him a certain way, to stay a little longer than he needed to, to let a conversation drift into something more intimate than either of them had intended. He had waited through unanswered messages and half-hearted excuses, through days when Juhoon barely acknowledged him and nights when he sat in Martin's car until the last possible moment before finally getting out.

Waiting for him to finish a conversation with Keonho was nothing.

Martin could do that.

He glanced toward the crowd, searching for the familiar dark head of hair.

He found Juhoon almost immediately.

Juhoon had made his way to the other side of the living room, where Keonho was standing near the kitchen entrance with James and Seonghyeon. Keonho was already talking with his hands, leaning close to Juhoon so he could be heard over the music. Whatever he was saying seemed to have captured his full attention. Juhoon tilted his head toward him, listening, then said something that made Seonghyeon throw his head back and laugh.

Martin smiled without meaning to.

There he was.

He looked comfortable among his friends, his shoulders relaxed, his expression easy in a way that Martin rarely got to see when Juhoon was aware of being watched. He leaned against the wall while Keonho spoke, occasionally glancing toward James when he interrupted with a comment of his own. At one point, he reached out to steal the drink from Seonghyeon's hand, took a sip, and handed it back without so much as a word.

Seonghyeon protested. Juhoon ignored him.

Martin laughed softly to himself.

He loved watching Juhoon when he wasn't trying to do anything in particular. He loved the careless way he moved, the little expressions that appeared and disappeared across his face, the way he seemed to exist entirely on his own terms. There was something about him that made Martin want to know every version of him, not just the one he showed when they were alone.

He wanted to know what made Juhoon laugh when he was genuinely happy. What he looked like when he was excited about something and forgot to pretend he wasn't. What kind of person he became when he was comfortable enough to stop measuring every word before he said it.

He wanted to know what it would be like to be the person Juhoon turned toward first.

For now, he was content to watch him from across the room.

He told himself that was enough.

A girl he recognized from one of their classes approached the couch a few minutes later, holding a plastic cup in one hand and moving to the rhythm of the music.

"Martin, right?"

He looked up. "Yeah."

"Why are you sitting here by yourself? Come dance with us."

He glanced toward the dance floor, then toward Juhoon.

"I might in a bit."

She followed his gaze, her eyes landing on Juhoon near the kitchen. A knowing smile spread across her face.

"Oh."

Martin turned back to her. "What?"

"Nothing." She drew the word out, clearly amused. "Is that why you're sitting here?"

"Is what why I'm sitting here?"

She gave him a look that suggested she wasn't interested in pretending she hadn't noticed anything. "You're waiting for him."

Martin felt his ears warm.

He could have denied it. He could have laughed, shrugged, or told her he was simply tired. Instead, he glanced toward Juhoon again, where Keonho was now speaking so animatedly that he nearly knocked into someone walking past.

"He's talking to his friends," Martin said.

The girl stared at him for a moment.

Then she laughed. "Oh, you're gone."

Martin smiled faintly. "I'm afraid so."

"How long has this been going on?"

He hesitated.

There were many possible answers to that question. Two years, if she meant the pursuit. Longer, if he counted the time before he had been willing to admit what he felt. He could remember the exact afternoon when he had first realized that he was in trouble, though the memory was so ordinary that it almost embarrassed him.

Juhoon had been sitting on the floor of a classroom after everyone else had left, leaning against a desk while he complained about a group assignment. Martin had sat down beside him, intending to stay for five minutes. They had ended up talking for nearly an hour. At some point, Juhoon had laughed at something Martin said, thrown his head back, and leaned against his shoulder without thinking.

Martin had spent the entire walk home trying to figure out why he couldn't stop smiling.

He looked back at the girl.

"A while."

She laughed again, shaking her head. "You're hopeless."

"I've been told."

"Well, if you're going to spend the entire night staring at him, at least come dance for a bit. He'll still be there when you get back."

Martin wanted to believe that.

He really did.

But Juhoon had told him he would come back, and Martin had decided to trust him. He didn't want to leave the couch only to return and find that Juhoon had come looking for him and missed him by a few minutes. It was a silly concern, the kind of thing that would sound pathetic if he said it aloud, but it was enough to keep him where he was.

"Maybe later," he told her.

She sighed dramatically, then leaned down and squeezed his shoulder.

"You're actually in love with him."

Martin looked at her.

The words landed with an odd sort of familiarity. He had heard variations of them before, usually accompanied by laughter or a teasing nudge, but something about hearing them tonight made him feel strangely exposed.

He looked toward Juhoon again.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."

The girl stopped smiling for a second, apparently surprised by how easily he admitted it. Then her expression softened.

"Oh, Martin."

He gave her a small, embarrassed laugh. "Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you feel sorry for me."

"I don't." She squeezed his shoulder once more. "I just think you deserve someone who looks at you the same way you look at him."

Martin's smile faltered.

For a moment, he didn't know what to say. He could have explained that Juhoon wasn't cruel, that he had never promised Martin anything, that the whole situation was more complicated than it looked from the outside. He could have told her about the hand on his cheek, the fingers around his wrist, the way Juhoon had let their hands rest together on the couch.

He could have told her that there were moments when he thought Juhoon might feel something for him, too.

But none of those things changed the fact that Juhoon had never chosen him.

So Martin only nodded.

"I know."

The girl studied him, as though she wanted to say something else, then seemed to decide against it. She straightened and pointed toward the dance floor.

"If you change your mind, we're over there."

"Thanks."

She disappeared into the crowd.

Martin watched her go, then looked back toward Juhoon.

He was still standing near the kitchen entrance.

Still talking to Keonho.

Still nowhere near the couch.

Martin took a slow breath and told himself not to be ridiculous.

It hadn't been that long.

He checked his phone.

Only eleven minutes had passed since Juhoon left.

Eleven minutes.

Martin almost laughed at himself. He had been counting without realizing it, measuring the time in the smallest possible units as though each passing minute were evidence of something. He locked his phone and put it away, determined not to check it again for at least a little while.

He lasted four minutes.

When he looked up, Juhoon had moved.

He was standing farther inside the living room now, near a group of people Martin recognized from school. One of them said something into his ear, and Juhoon leaned down to hear it. Another boy clapped him on the shoulder, drawing his attention away from the conversation.

Martin watched Juhoon smile.

It was a small smile, barely there, but it was real enough that Martin found himself smiling, too.

He liked seeing him happy.

That was the problem. Even when he was disappointed, even when Juhoon had left him sitting alone after promising to return, Martin could never quite bring himself to resent him for having a good time. He wanted Juhoon to enjoy himself. He wanted him to laugh with his friends and forget about the time and drink something cold and dance if he felt like it. He wanted him to have the sort of night he would remember fondly the next morning.

He just wished, selfishly and quietly, that Martin could have been part of it.

He watched for a little longer, then forced himself to look away.

He could wait.

There was no reason to make this into a tragedy. Juhoon was with his friends. He had probably found out whatever Keonho wanted to tell him and gotten caught up in another conversation. It happened all the time at parties. One person said something, another joined in, and before anyone realized it, half an hour had passed.

Martin understood that.

He wasn't going to be the person who hovered over Juhoon every time he spoke to someone else. He wasn't going to demand attention just because Juhoon had given him a little of it earlier. He wasn't going to make Juhoon feel as though spending time with him came with obligations.

He had promised himself that a long time ago.

So he sat quietly, took out his phone, and tried to find something to occupy his attention.

A message from one of his friends appeared at the top of the screen.

where are you?

Martin typed back that he was on the couch near the living room, then added that he would probably be there for a while. His friend replied with a question mark and a laughing emoji.

Martin ignored it.

He opened a video someone had sent him earlier, watched the first few seconds, and realized he had no idea what was happening. He closed it. He opened his messages, scrolled through a conversation with Juhoon, and immediately regretted it.

The chat was full of ordinary things.

Photographs of food. Complaints about assignments. A blurry picture of a cat Juhoon had seen outside a convenience store. Martin asking whether he had eaten, Juhoon replying with a photograph of an empty plate. A message from months ago in which Juhoon had told him to stop sending him songs at three in the morning, followed by another message the next day asking what the name of the second song had been.

Martin scrolled farther.

He found a photograph he had taken of Juhoon asleep in the passenger seat of his car. Juhoon had his head turned toward the window, his hair falling over his eyes, one hand tucked beneath his cheek. Martin had taken the picture because the light from the streetlamp had fallen across his face in a way that made him look impossibly peaceful.

He had never shown Juhoon the photograph.

He wasn't sure why he kept it. It wasn't particularly good, and the angle was awkward, and half of the picture was taken up by the dashboard. But Martin liked it because Juhoon looked completely unaware of being watched. There was no guarded expression, no teasing smile, no careful distance between them.

Just Juhoon, sleeping in his car, trusting Martin enough to close his eyes.

Martin stared at the photograph for a long moment before locking his phone.

He was going to make himself miserable if he kept doing this.

Across the room, someone shouted Juhoon's name.

Martin looked up automatically.

Juhoon turned toward the voice, raised his hand in acknowledgment, and walked over to the person who had called him. He was laughing at something Keonho had said, his head tilted slightly to one side, his shoulders loose. He looked as though he had forgotten entirely that he had left Martin sitting on the couch.

The realization wasn't immediate.

At first, Martin simply assumed Juhoon would come back when he was finished. Then he noticed that the group had moved toward the dance floor, and Juhoon had gone with them. He stood near the edge of the crowd, listening to someone talk, occasionally leaning down to hear over the music. When a familiar song came on, Seonghyeon grabbed his arm and tried to pull him into the middle of the room.

Juhoon resisted for a moment.

Then, to Martin's surprise, he let himself be dragged along.

Martin's expression softened despite himself.

Juhoon wasn't much of a dancer when he didn't feel like it. He had a tendency to stand with his drink in one hand and watch everyone else make fools of themselves, offering the occasional dry remark whenever someone stumbled. But when he was comfortable enough, he could be annoyingly good at it. He moved with an easy rhythm, his expression relaxed, his body following the music without any apparent effort.

Martin had seen it before.

He had watched Juhoon dance at school events, at birthdays, in the middle of someone's living room when the rest of their friends were too tired to do anything else. He had watched him in the reflection of a dark window while they waited for a car to arrive. He had watched him in the kitchen of a friend's apartment, dancing absently while waiting for water to boil.

Every time, Martin had felt the same ridiculous urge to walk over and stand beside him.

Tonight, he stayed where he was.

He watched Juhoon dance with Seonghyeon, watched Keonho attempt to copy their movements and nearly knock into James, watched the four of them dissolve into laughter when the song changed unexpectedly. For a moment, the sight was so familiar and so ordinary that Martin could almost pretend everything was fine.

Juhoon was happy.

That should have been enough.

Martin looked down at his hands and rubbed his palms together, trying to settle the restless feeling that had begun to gather beneath his skin.

He wondered how long he was supposed to wait.

Not in the sense of how many minutes would be reasonable before he gave up on Juhoon returning. He could wait another hour if he had to. He could sit on the couch until the music stopped and the lights came on and everyone began searching for their shoes.

The question was how long he was supposed to keep doing this in general.

How many more nights could he spend being the person who stayed behind? How many more times could he let himself believe that a small gesture meant something, only to be reminded that Juhoon could give him the same attention he gave everyone else and then walk away without a second thought?

Martin didn't like thinking about it.

He liked Juhoon. He liked him enough that even the thought of stepping back felt like losing something he had never truly possessed. And he wasn't ready to stop trying. He wasn't even sure he wanted to stop trying.

But sometimes, in moments like this, he wondered whether Juhoon understood how difficult it was to be around him.

Not because Juhoon was doing anything wrong. Martin would never blame him for not returning feelings he hadn't asked for. He would never demand that Juhoon be more affectionate, more available, or more certain about what he wanted. Those things weren't obligations, and Martin had always known that.

It was the little things that made it hard.

The way Juhoon would lean against him when he was tired, then act as though nothing had happened the next morning. The way he remembered details Martin had mentioned months earlier, only to pretend he hadn't been listening. The way he would look at Martin sometimes, quiet and searching, as if he were about to say something important, then turn away before the words came.

The way he had held Martin's hand tonight.

Martin pressed his lips together.

He wasn't going to let himself think about that again.

He had already decided what it meant. It meant that Juhoon had wanted to hold his hand for a little while. It meant that he had felt comfortable enough to do so. It meant that, for a few minutes, they had shared something that Martin had wanted for a very long time.

It didn't have to mean anything else.

He repeated that to himself until he almost believed it.

Then his phone vibrated.

Martin looked down, hoping, against all reason, that it might be Juhoon.

It wasn't.

Another friend was asking whether he wanted to join them outside. Martin replied that he was fine, then placed the phone on the couch beside him.

He glanced toward the dance floor again.

Juhoon was no longer dancing.

He stood near the kitchen with Keonho, his head bowed slightly as Keonho spoke close to his ear. James had disappeared somewhere, and Seonghyeon was talking to someone Martin didn't recognize. Juhoon looked up suddenly, scanning the room.

For one absurd second, Martin thought he was looking for him.

He straightened.

Their eyes met across the crowd.

Martin didn't wave. He didn't call Juhoon's name or gesture toward the couch. He simply looked at him, a small, hopeful smile appearing on his face before he could stop it.

There.

He was still here.

Juhoon knew where to find him.

For a moment, neither of them looked away.

Then Keonho said something, and Juhoon's attention shifted back to him. The moment passed so quietly that Martin almost wondered whether he had imagined it.

He stayed upright for another few seconds, waiting to see whether Juhoon would glance over again.

He didn't.

Martin slowly settled back against the couch.

He wasn't angry. He couldn't be angry. Juhoon had every right to spend his night however he wanted, and Martin had no intention of making him feel guilty for it. But the brief eye contact had done something unpleasant to him. It had reminded him that Juhoon knew exactly where he was, that he could have come back at any point, and that he had chosen not to.

Martin stared at the floor between his shoes.

He wondered if Juhoon had forgotten his promise.

That was the easiest explanation. Juhoon had gotten caught up in the party, the conversation had gone on longer than expected, and the idea of returning to the couch had simply slipped his mind. It would have been a perfectly ordinary mistake, the kind that happened when people were distracted and having fun.

Martin wanted to believe that.

He held on to it for another twenty minutes.

Then another ten.

By the time someone turned the music up loud enough to make the glasses on the nearby table rattle, Martin had checked his phone so many times that he had started to feel embarrassed about it, even though no one was watching.

He hadn't received a message from Juhoon.

He hadn't received a glance that lasted more than a second.

He hadn't received anything that suggested Juhoon intended to return.

Still, Martin remained on the couch.

He told himself that perhaps Juhoon was waiting for the conversation to end naturally. Perhaps he didn't want to interrupt his friends. Perhaps he had seen Martin looking and felt awkward about approaching him in front of everyone. Perhaps the party had become too crowded, and Juhoon had simply decided to stay where he was until things settled down.

There were endless possibilities, and Martin was determined to find the one that hurt the least.

He didn't want to become the kind of person who assumed the worst of Juhoon. He knew how easy it was to turn disappointment into resentment, to start keeping score of every unanswered message and every moment spent waiting. He had seen it happen to other people. He had watched friends convince themselves that affection was a debt someone owed them, and he had promised himself he would never treat Juhoon that way.

So he waited.

When another group approached the couch and asked whether they could sit down, Martin moved to the far end to give them room. One of them recognized him and began talking about an upcoming class presentation. Martin listened, answered questions, and even laughed at a joke he would ordinarily have found funny.

But every few minutes, his attention drifted back to Juhoon.

He couldn't help it.

It was like having a song stuck in his head, except the song was a person, and the person was standing on the other side of the room laughing with everyone except him.

At one point, Martin got up to buy a drink.

He stood in the kitchen for several minutes, waiting for the people ahead of him to move away from the counter. Juhoon was close enough that Martin could hear his voice, though the music made the words indistinct. He was talking to Seonghyeon now, one hand tucked into his pocket, his expression calm and faintly amused.

Martin considered walking over.

He could do it. He could approach the group, greet everyone, ask Juhoon what Keonho had wanted to tell him. He could make a joke, offer to get him another drink, or simply stand beside him until Juhoon remembered that he had left someone waiting on the couch.

But the thought made his stomach twist.

What if Juhoon had deliberately chosen not to return? What if he was enjoying himself and didn't want Martin interrupting? What if Martin approached him and Juhoon gave him that familiar, indifferent look that made it painfully clear he had mistaken an invitation for something it wasn't?

Martin couldn't bear the thought of making himself unwanted.

So he took his drink and returned to the couch.

He sat down carefully, keeping his eyes on the cup in his hands until the condensation began to dampen his fingers. The drink was cold, sweet, and entirely tasteless to him.

He took another sip anyway.

The night stretched on.

The party was still thriving, the living room packed with people, the music pulsing through the floor. Someone had opened a window, letting in a little of the cool night air, but the room remained warm with bodies and spilled drinks and the lingering sweetness of perfume. The lights had shifted from blue to purple, casting the crowd in a haze that made everything seem softer around the edges.

Martin had lost track of how many songs had played.

He had also lost track of how many times he had looked for Juhoon.

It was becoming an embarrassing habit. Every time someone moved near the kitchen, Martin glanced up. Every time he heard a laugh that sounded vaguely familiar, he turned his head. When the crowd shifted and a gap opened between two groups of people, his eyes immediately searched for dark hair and the familiar line of Juhoon's shoulders.

Sometimes he found him.

Sometimes he didn't.

And every time he did, the same thing happened.

Martin's face softened. His attention fixed on Juhoon with a quiet, almost involuntary longing. He watched him for a few seconds, allowing himself to take in the sight of him, before forcing himself to look away.

He never approached him.

He never called his name.

He never tried to make Juhoon remember that he was there.

He had been told he would come back, and Martin was going to trust him until he couldn't anymore.

At half past eleven, Martin sent Juhoon a message.

He stared at the empty text field for a long time before typing anything. He didn't want to sound needy. He didn't want to make it seem as though he were checking up on him or asking for an explanation. He only wanted to give Juhoon an easy way to remember that he had left him waiting.

In the end, he wrote:

you alive over there?

He looked at the message for another few seconds, then added a small laughing emoji to make it seem less serious.

He sent it.

The message appeared in the chat, followed by the familiar delivery indicator.

Martin watched the screen.

One minute passed.

Then two.

He locked his phone and placed it beside him, telling himself that Juhoon probably hadn't heard the notification over the music. He might have had his phone in his pocket. He might have been talking to someone. He might not have felt the vibration.

Martin tried to focus on the conversation happening nearby.

He managed for about three minutes before checking his phone again.

There was no reply.

He opened the chat, stared at the message, and then closed it without typing anything else.

He wasn't going to send another.

He wasn't going to be that person.

Across the room, Juhoon's phone vibrated in his pocket.

He felt it, but he was in the middle of listening to Seonghyeon explain something that had apparently happened near the stairs, and he couldn't be bothered to interrupt him. He shifted his phone slightly through the fabric of his trousers, acknowledging the notification without taking it out.

He knew it might be Martin.

He had known it might be Martin the moment he felt the vibration.

The thought lingered for a second, uncomfortable and persistent, before Seonghyeon said something that made Keonho burst out laughing. Juhoon turned toward them, the moment slipping away before he could decide what to do with it.

He told himself he would check his phone later.

There was no reason to rush.

Martin would be fine.

He was always fine.

That was what Juhoon had come to believe, partly because Martin had made it so easy for him to believe it. Martin smiled through rejection. He accepted the boundaries Juhoon set, even when they were inconvenient. He didn't sulk when Juhoon turned away from him, didn't make demands when he was ignored, and didn't punish him for being uncertain.

If Juhoon gave him a little affection, Martin was happy.

If Juhoon took it back, Martin found a way to be understanding.

It was one of the things Juhoon liked about him.

It was also one of the things he had started to take for granted.

He knew Martin was waiting on the couch. He knew he had promised to return. And he knew, somewhere beneath the excuses he was making for himself, that he was choosing not to keep that promise.

But every time he considered going back, he imagined the way Martin would look at him.

The hopeful smile. The immediate shift in his posture. The way his eyes would brighten before he could hide it, as though Juhoon had given him something extraordinary simply by remembering he existed.

Juhoon wasn't sure he could handle that tonight.

He wasn't sure he wanted to be responsible for what would happen if he sat beside Martin again, if their shoulders touched, if Martin looked at him with that same unbearable sincerity and made it clear that he was willing to wait as long as necessary.

The hand-holding had already left him feeling strange. He had liked it more than he wanted to admit, and the knowledge sat uneasily beneath his ribs. It had been so easy to rest his hand over Martin's. So easy to let their fingers settle together. So easy to forget, for a few minutes, that Martin wanted something from him that he wasn't ready to give.

He couldn't keep doing that.

Not tonight.

So Juhoon stayed with his friends.

He laughed when Keonho told a story. He listened when Seonghyeon complained about someone who had been bothering him all evening. He accepted a drink from James, took a few sips, and let the conversation carry him from one corner of the room to another.

Whenever he noticed Martin watching him, he looked away.

The first time, it was almost accidental. Their eyes met across the room, and Juhoon turned back to the person speaking beside him before the moment could become anything more.

The second time, he knew Martin was looking.

He could feel it, somehow, even before he turned his head. He glanced toward the couch and found Martin sitting there with his phone in one hand, his gaze fixed on him over the top of the screen.

Martin looked away first.

Juhoon's stomach tightened.

He told himself it was better this way.

The third time, Juhoon was standing near the doorway to the kitchen when Martin's eyes found him through the crowd. Martin had been laughing at something someone said, his head tilted back slightly, his expression open and warm. Then he saw Juhoon, and the laughter softened into that familiar smile.

It was such a small change.

Juhoon saw it anyway.

For a second, he almost lifted his hand.

He almost gave Martin some small sign that he had noticed him, that he hadn't forgotten where he was, that he hadn't deliberately left him waiting for nearly an hour.

But the movement never happened.

Juhoon turned back toward Seonghyeon, who was asking him a question, and made himself listen.

He didn't look toward the couch again for a while.

When he finally did, Martin was still there.

The sight made something twist in Juhoon's chest.

He had expected Martin to give up eventually. Not because Martin didn't care, but because even Martin had limits. He had friends here. People who wanted to dance with him, talk to him, spend time with him. There was no reason for him to sit alone all night when the party was full of people.

And yet there he was.

Martin had moved to the other end of the couch, where he was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands loosely clasped. His phone lay beside him, its screen dark. He was looking toward the floor, his expression quiet in a way Juhoon rarely saw.

He didn't look angry.

That was almost worse.

Anger would have been easier to understand. Martin could have been annoyed, frustrated, even hurt, and Juhoon would have known what to do with those feelings. He could have apologized, explained himself, or simply given Martin the space he needed.

But Martin wasn't doing any of that.

He was just sitting there, waiting.

Juhoon looked away.

He told himself that Martin had chosen to wait. He had never asked him to stay on the couch all night. He had never told him not to dance, not to talk to other people, or not to go home whenever he wanted.

Martin was free to leave.

If he chose not to, that wasn't Juhoon's responsibility.

The reasoning was sound.

It was also cowardly.

Juhoon knew that, too.

He pushed the thought aside and returned to the conversation.

By midnight, Martin had stopped pretending he was enjoying himself.

He had tried. He really had. He had spoken to people who came over, answered messages, and even stood up once when someone offered to introduce him to a friend. He had laughed at jokes, finished his drink, and spent several minutes listening to a group of classmates argue about which song should play next.

But no matter what he did, his attention kept returning to the same place.

Juhoon.

He couldn't stop looking for him.

He couldn't stop wondering whether Juhoon had checked his phone, whether he had seen the message, whether he remembered what he had said before leaving. He couldn't stop replaying the moment Juhoon had patted his head, the casual warmth of his fingers, the way he had told Martin he would be back as though there were no possibility that he might not be.

Martin felt foolish.

He felt even more foolish for knowing that he would probably do the same thing again if Juhoon walked over to him right now.

If Juhoon returned to the couch, Martin would smile. He would make room for him. He would ask what Keonho had wanted to tell him, and he would listen to the story even if he had already heard it from someone else. He would probably tease Juhoon about taking so long, but only lightly, careful not to make him feel guilty.

And if Juhoon sat close enough for their shoulders to touch, Martin would have to fight the urge to lean into him.

He knew exactly how it would go.

That was what made it so difficult.

He wasn't waiting because he didn't have anything else to do. He was waiting because Juhoon had asked him to, and Martin had taken that small promise seriously.

He had believed him.

He had believed him because he wanted to, because he always wanted to, because even after two years of learning not to expect too much, some foolish part of him still believed that when Juhoon said something directly to him, it might mean what it sounded like.

Martin rubbed a hand over his face.

He needed to stop thinking about it.

He glanced at the time.

12:17 a.m.

He stared at the numbers for a moment, then let his head fall back against the couch.

It had been nearly two hours.

He had no idea when Juhoon had last looked in his direction. He had no idea whether he had even noticed the message Martin sent. He had no idea whether Juhoon planned to return at all.

And suddenly, the thought of sitting there for another hour felt unbearable.

Not because he was angry with Juhoon.

Because he was tired.

Tired of hoping. Tired of interpreting. Tired of making himself small enough to fit into whatever space Juhoon was willing to give him and then feeling grateful whenever that space widened, even briefly.

He was tired of being the person who always stayed.

Martin looked toward the crowd one more time.

Juhoon was standing near the far wall with Keonho and James. Keonho had one arm slung around Juhoon's shoulders, talking animatedly into his ear. Juhoon was laughing, his head tipped forward, his hand resting on Keonho's forearm to keep him from nearly losing his balance.

He looked happy.

Martin's chest tightened, but he smiled anyway.

Of course he was happy. He was with his friends, surrounded by people who knew him well, in a room full of music and laughter. He had no reason to be miserable just because Martin was sitting alone on a couch.

Martin didn't want him to be miserable.

He didn't want Juhoon to feel obligated to come back because he had made a promise he no longer wanted to keep. He didn't want him to return out of guilt, to sit beside him while silently wishing he were somewhere else.

That would hurt more than being left alone.

So Martin made himself look away.

He took a deep breath, straightened his jacket, and picked up his phone.

He didn't send another message.

He didn't go looking for Juhoon.

He simply sat there for another few minutes, trying to decide whether he was ready to leave.

At 12:43 a.m., he checked his phone again.

Still nothing.

The message he had sent earlier sat in the chat, small and almost embarrassingly cheerful.

you alive over there?

Martin stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Then he locked his phone and slipped it into his pocket.

He was done waiting for tonight.

The decision didn't arrive with any great sense of finality. There was no sudden anger, no dramatic realization that he deserved better, no promise to himself that he would stop pursuing Juhoon forever. Martin knew himself too well to make that kind of declaration. He had tried before, in quieter moments when Juhoon had ignored him for days or casually mentioned someone else he found attractive.

Those resolutions had never lasted.

All it took was Juhoon looking at him a certain way, or saying his name in that low, unhurried voice, or leaning close enough that Martin could smell the familiar scent of his cologne, and every carefully constructed plan would fall apart.

He wasn't going to pretend that tonight would change everything.

He was just going to leave.

Martin pushed himself to his feet, brushing his palms over his trousers and adjusting the hem of his jacket. His legs felt stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. He rolled his shoulders, picked up the empty cup beside him, and carried it to the nearest table.

He could have gone straight to the door.

Instead, he looked toward Juhoon one last time.

He found him almost immediately.

Juhoon was standing near the center of the room now, listening to Seonghyeon with his head tilted slightly to one side. The lights caught the side of his face, illuminating the curve of his cheek and the silver glint of his earring. He looked relaxed, entirely at ease, as though the night had unfolded exactly as he wanted it to.

Martin stood there for a moment, watching him.

He thought about walking over.

He thought about telling Juhoon he was leaving, giving him a chance to say something, anything. He imagined the conversation in his head. Juhoon would probably ask where he was going, and Martin would tell him he was tired. Juhoon might glance toward the door and say he would see him later. He might even offer to walk out with him.

And Martin knew that if Juhoon did, he would stay.

He would forget the hours he had spent waiting. He would forget the unanswered message, the way Juhoon had looked through him from across the room, the promise that had never been kept. He would be grateful for the smallest scrap of attention, and Juhoon would never know how close Martin had come to leaving without looking back.

Martin couldn't do that to himself tonight.

Not because Juhoon deserved to be punished.

Because Martin needed, for once, to be the one who decided when he had waited long enough.

He looked away.

Then he turned toward the front door and began making his way through the crowd.

It took longer than he expected. People kept stepping into his path, stopping him to ask where he was going or inviting him to join them for another drink. Someone called his name from near the kitchen. A classmate he barely knew clapped him on the shoulder and asked whether he was leaving already.

Martin answered everyone politely.

He said he was tired. He said he had an early morning. He said he would see them later.

He smiled when he needed to, laughed when someone made a joke, and kept moving.

By the time he reached the hallway, the music had become muffled, the bass fading into a dull vibration beneath the floor. The air was cooler there, and the sudden change made him realize how warm the living room had been. He paused near the entrance to retrieve his shoes, bending down to tie the laces he had loosened earlier.

For a moment, he simply sat on the low bench beside the door, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor.

He felt stupid.

Not because he had waited. He would probably always wait for Juhoon a little longer than he should. It was part of the problem, part of the way his feelings seemed to override every sensible thing he knew about himself.

He felt stupid because he had allowed himself to hope so much over so little.

A hand resting over his. A few minutes of closeness. A promise to return.

He had spent the entire night treating those things as though they were something precious, as though they had changed the shape of his evening, and perhaps they had. But Juhoon had moved on without a second thought, and Martin was left trying to convince himself that he had no right to be hurt.

He swallowed, ran a hand through his hair, and stood.

He wasn't going to cry over this. He wasn't even particularly close to crying. He was simply tired, and the disappointment had settled somewhere deep enough that he couldn't shake it off with a joke.

He opened the front door.

The night air hit him immediately, cool against his face, carrying the faint smell of rain from somewhere nearby. The street outside was quieter than he expected. A few cars passed in the distance, their headlights sliding across the pavement, and the windows of the neighboring buildings glowed softly against the dark.

Martin stepped outside and let the door close behind him.

For a moment, he stood on the pavement with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking back at the house.

He could still hear the party inside. The music, the laughter, the occasional shout from someone who had become too excited about something. He imagined Juhoon somewhere in the middle of it, surrounded by his friends, his expression relaxed and his shoulders loose.

Martin wondered whether Juhoon would notice he was gone.

He hated that the question mattered to him.

He hated even more that he already knew the answer might be no.

He pulled out his phone and checked the screen one last time.

No messages.

He stared at it for a few seconds, then slipped it back into his pocket.

There was no point waiting for a reply now.

He had come to the party on foot, and the walk back to the dorms would take a while. He could have called a car, but he didn't feel like sitting in the back seat with nothing to do except stare out of the window and think about Juhoon. Walking would give him something else to focus on. The cold air might clear his head, and the steady rhythm of his steps would hopefully keep him from replaying the evening over and over again.

He started down the street.

The first few minutes passed quietly. Martin kept his head lowered against the breeze, his hands buried in his jacket pockets, the sounds of the party gradually fading behind him. The pavement was uneven in places, and he had to step around a patch of water near the curb. Somewhere down the road, a motorbike passed with a low, rattling growl.

He took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket.

He had been trying to cut down, though he had never been particularly consistent about it. Most days, he could go hours without thinking about smoking. Tonight, he wanted something to do with his hands. Something that would occupy his mouth and give him a reason to stop thinking for a few seconds at a time.

He lit it beneath the shelter of a building awning, shielding the flame with one hand. The first inhale scratched the back of his throat, and he let the smoke out slowly, watching it disappear into the cool night air.

He kept walking.

The cigarette burned between his fingers as he passed closed shops and darkened windows. Every now and then, a car swept by, its headlights briefly illuminating the sidewalk. Martin watched the smoke curl away from his face and tried to concentrate on the small details around him: the sound of his shoes against the pavement, the distant barking of a dog, the faint rustle of leaves overhead.

Anything but Juhoon.

But Juhoon had a way of appearing in his thoughts without being invited.

Martin remembered the way he had looked up from the couch when Juhoon stood, the immediate shift in his posture, the question that had come out of him before he could make it sound casual.

Where are you going?

He remembered Juhoon looking down at him, considering whether to tell him the truth.

He remembered the pat on his head.

I'll come back.

Martin exhaled a slow stream of smoke and looked up at the dark sky.

"Idiot," he muttered to himself.

He wasn't sure which of them he meant.

Maybe both.

He took another drag, then flicked the ash away from his fingers. His throat felt tight, but he swallowed it down and kept walking. He wasn't going to turn around. He wasn't going to go back to the party just because some part of him still hoped Juhoon might be looking for him.

If Juhoon wanted to see him, he knew where Martin would be.

That thought hurt more than he expected.

Because Juhoon did know. He knew Martin's dorm, his schedule, the route he usually took back from parties. He knew which nights Martin stayed up late, which coffee he ordered when he was tired, which side of the bed he preferred when he slept over at a friend's place. He knew more about Martin than most people did.

And still, tonight, he had let him leave without a word.

Martin took the final drag from his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe before tossing it into a nearby bin. He stood there for a moment, watching the last trace of smoke vanish from the air.

Then he put his hands back in his pockets and continued toward the dorms.

He didn't look back.

Juhoon noticed Martin was gone a little after one in the morning.

It wasn't a sudden realization. There was no dramatic moment when he turned toward the couch and found it empty, no immediate sense of alarm that made him push through the crowd and search the house. It happened gradually, through a series of small observations that he initially dismissed as unimportant.

He had been standing with Seonghyeon near the kitchen when he glanced toward the living room, expecting to see Martin in his usual spot.

The couch was occupied by two people he didn't recognize.

Juhoon looked away.

A few minutes later, he found himself checking the same place again.

Martin still wasn't there.

He frowned slightly, his attention drifting across the room. Perhaps Martin had gone to the bathroom. Perhaps he had finally accepted someone's invitation to dance. Perhaps he had moved to another couch where he could sit with a group of friends instead of waiting alone.

That last possibility should have reassured him.

It didn't.

Juhoon took out his phone, intending to check the time, and noticed the notification he had ignored earlier.

A message from Martin.

He opened it.

you alive over there?

Juhoon stared at the screen.

The message had been sent more than an hour ago.

He could almost hear Martin saying it, the words softened by a joke, the little laughing emoji added to make sure Juhoon wouldn't mistake the message for a complaint. Martin had always been careful like that. Even when he was hurt, he tried to make it easy for Juhoon to ignore him.

Juhoon felt something unpleasant settle in his stomach.

He opened the chat, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.

He could reply now. He could ask where Martin was, tell him he had been caught up with his friends, say he was sorry for taking so long. He could send something casual and let Martin decide whether to respond.

But he knew what would happen if he did.

Martin would answer almost immediately. He would probably say he was fine, that he had just been wondering where Juhoon had disappeared to. He would make a joke, ask what Keonho had wanted to tell him, and pretend that he hadn't spent the better part of the night waiting.

And Juhoon would have to look at that message and know that Martin was still trying to make things easy for him.

He locked his phone without replying.

Then he looked toward the couch again.

Martin was still gone.

A small, irrational part of Juhoon felt annoyed.

He had told Martin to stay. He had promised he would come back. He hadn't expected Martin to leave without saying anything, and the fact that he had done so left Juhoon with an unfamiliar feeling of having missed something.

He frowned, slipping his phone into his pocket.

Then he remembered that Martin had every right to leave.

He wasn't required to sit on a couch all night simply because Juhoon had asked him to wait. He had friends here. He had a life outside of Juhoon. He could go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, without asking permission.

Juhoon knew all of that.

It didn't stop him from looking toward the door.

He told himself he was only curious.

Perhaps Martin had gone outside for some air. Perhaps he was in the hallway talking to someone. Perhaps he had found another place to sit and was waiting for the crowd to thin out.

Juhoon glanced toward the front entrance again.

Nothing.

He took a breath and turned back to Seonghyeon, who was in the middle of telling him something about a conversation he had overheard near the stairs.

Juhoon listened. He even responded when Seonghyeon asked him a question. But the conversation no longer held his attention the way it had earlier. He found himself checking his phone every few minutes, looking at the chat with Martin, then closing it again without replying.

He didn't know what he was waiting for.

A message, perhaps.

An explanation.

Some indication that Martin had left because he was tired rather than because Juhoon had hurt him.

The last possibility bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

He hadn't intended to hurt Martin.

He had simply wanted a little space. The evening had become too intimate, too easy. Martin had looked at him with that soft, hopeful expression, and Juhoon had found himself wanting to give him more than he knew how to handle.

So he had walked away.

He had told himself that he was doing the sensible thing, that it was better to let the tension settle before either of them crossed a line they couldn't uncross.

He hadn't considered that Martin might interpret his promise to return as something worth waiting for.

Or perhaps he had considered it and simply hadn't wanted to think about what it meant.

Juhoon looked down at his phone again.

The message remained unanswered.

He could still reply.

He could still do something.

Instead, he locked the screen and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He wasn't going after Martin.

Not tonight.

He had made the decision before Martin ever left the couch, and he wasn't going to change it simply because the sight of an empty seat had made him feel guilty.

If he went after Martin now, it would only complicate things. Martin would think Juhoon had changed his mind, that the hand-holding and the teasing and the promise to return had meant more than they did. He would take Juhoon's concern as encouragement, and Juhoon wasn't ready to give him that.

He wasn't ready to tell Martin what he wanted.

He wasn't even sure he knew.

So he stayed where he was.

He let Seonghyeon pull him back toward the living room when another song came on. He listened to Keonho's stories, laughed when James made a joke, and accepted another drink from someone he recognized. He let the party carry on around him as though nothing had changed.

But every now and then, his eyes drifted toward the couch.

He could still picture Martin sitting there, looking up at him with that ridiculous, open expression. He could still remember the way Martin had smiled when he promised to come back, the way his whole face had brightened when Juhoon patted his head.

Juhoon had known what he was doing.

He had seen the hope in Martin's eyes and had given him something to hold on to anyway.

The realization sat heavily in his chest.

He hadn't done it to be cruel. He hadn't wanted to lead Martin on, at least not deliberately. He had simply wanted to avoid the discomfort of telling him the truth, and in doing so, he had told him something else instead.

He had given Martin a promise he never intended to keep.

Juhoon rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, staring down at the floor.

For the first time that night, he wished he had been honest.

Not because he wanted Martin to stop liking him. The thought of that was strangely unpleasant. He had grown accustomed to Martin's attention, to the way he looked for him in a room, to the messages that arrived at odd hours, to the quiet certainty that if Juhoon needed something, Martin would be there.

He liked being wanted by him.

He liked it more than he should.

But he didn't want Martin to keep waiting for things that might never happen.

He didn't want to become the kind of person who took someone's feelings for granted simply because they were offered so freely.

Juhoon looked toward the door again.

He could still go after him.

He could leave the party, walk down the street, and catch up with Martin before he reached the dorms. He could call him, send a message, or simply ask one of their friends whether they had seen him leave. It wouldn't be difficult.

He knew exactly where Martin would be going.

He could even imagine the conversation that would follow. Martin would probably look surprised to see him, then try to hide it behind a smile. He would ask what Juhoon was doing there, and Juhoon would tell him he had forgotten something. Martin would know it was a lie, but he would let him get away with it.

He always did.

Juhoon stared at the door for another few seconds.

Then he looked away.

He didn't go after him.

He told himself that it was better this way.

And for the rest of the night, whenever he caught himself searching the crowd for Martin, he pretended he was looking for someone else.