Archive of Our Own

James doesn’t know what to do.

It’s three in the morning. They’re in LA, staying in what seems to be the most expensive Airbnb he’s ever set foot in, and he has an entire guest house all to himself. There are enormous floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the hillside, a massive sixty-five-inch TV hanging above the fireplace, and a bedroom upstairs that he hasn’t bothered to enter beyond dropping his suitcase at the foot of the bed.

He hasn’t unpacked. He hasn’t even slept on the queen-sized bed.

The couch is comfortable enough.

The movie he isn’t watching drones on in the background, its dialogue dissolving into the low hum of the air conditioning. James scrolls through his phone, slouched against the cushions with his legs stretched out in front of him. He laughs at whatever stupid reel comes up on his feed, double-tapping here and there, occasionally reposting something particularly ridiculous for the other members to see when they wake up.

He sends Keonho a low-quality video of a cockroach dancing to one of their songs. He considers sending it to Seonghyeon, too, but decides against it when he remembers that Seonghyeon will probably just respond with two kieuks and somehow, inexplicably, that will ruin the rest of James’ night.

Somewhere along the way, he loses interest in the videos. He scrolls past three more before tossing his phone aside and grabbing a throw pillow to crush his face into.

James is hungry.

Very hungry.

He lifts his head, staring at the white ceiling.

Around this time in Korea, he’d be having dinner.

Dinner.

He could go for kimchi jjigae, maybe. A proper bowl of it, bubbling hot, with enough tofu to make up for the questionable nutritional value of everything they’ve eaten today. Or kimchi bokkeumbap, preferably with a fried egg on top and the edges just a little crispy. Maybe even kimchi soondubu, though he’d have to be particularly desperate to settle for something that wasn’t served with a generous bowl of rice.

His stomach growls.

Kimchi.

James shuts his eyes.

God, he misses Korea.

Or Asia, in general.

It’s a ridiculous thing to miss, considering he’s only been in LA for a little over four days. It’s not as if they’ve been stranded on another continent for months. They’re here for work, for a change of scenery, for the sort of trip that’s supposed to spark inspiration and reignite that little fire inside them to write more songs, create new ones that the fans will be gushing over when they finally release them. 

The house is beautiful, the weather is nice, and he has an entire guest house to himself—a luxury he rarely gets back in Korea.

He should be enjoying it.

Frolicking in his room, perhaps. Taking in all the peace and quiet that’s so hard to come by in their dorms. Making the most of having an entire house to himself without someone barging in to ask him if they can borrow his clothes or bother him while he’s trying to sleep.

Instead, he’s lying on an absurdly expensive couch at three in the morning, thinking about fermented cabbage.

There are worse things in life, he supposes.

James sits up with a sigh, retrieves his phone, and slips it into the pocket of his grey shorts. His large fridge is practically empty, save for a few bottles of water and the chocolate snacks he bought yesterday. All the actual food they picked up from the market is in the main house.

He could probably survive on chocolate until the morning.

He could also stop being dramatic and go upstairs to get the snacks in his suitcase.

Neither option sounds particularly appealing.

With a final, mournful glance at the abandoned movie, James pulls his hoodie over his head and steps outside.

The LA air is cooler than he expects. He shivers, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie as he makes his way up the steps, taking them two at a time. The hillside stretches out behind him, dark silhouettes of trees and distant lights scattered across the landscape. The basketball court sits abandoned in the dark, a few balls still scattered across the green surface from the short match the five of them had played earlier. 

He’s grateful for the pin lights lining the path to the main house. Otherwise, the fact that the property sits in a secluded part of the canyon, surrounded on all sides by trees and greenery, would have been enough to send James and his scared ass straight back to his guest house.

He slips through the big glass sliding doors into the main house, easing them shut behind him. The lights in the living area have been dimmed low; the kitchen lights are the only things keeping him from tripping over something. For a moment, he wonders if he’s the only idiot awake at this hour.

Then he hears something from the kitchen.

A clatter. The scrape of a utensil against a pan. The soft click of someone adjusting the stove.

James perks up.

Oh, thank God.

One of their managers, maybe?

He pads along the wooden floors, following the sounds until he reaches the kitchen.

Martin is standing by the stove, dressed in a plain white shirt and grey sweatpants, his back turned to James. His hair is a little messy, the ends sticking out in directions that suggest he’s run his hands through it more than once. There’s a pan on the stove, steam curling lazily into the air, and the entire kitchen smells so wonderfully, unmistakably Korean—toasted sesame oil, sharp garlic, and spice—that James nearly cries.

“Martin?”

Martin turns around. 

“Jamie-hyung?”

James smiles, already making his way towards him.

“I was hungry,” he explains, his eyes already wandering towards the pan. “What did you make?”

Martin tilts it slightly to show him. “Kimchi bokkeumbap.”

James stops. Then he looks at Martin.

“No way.”

Martin raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“I was just thinking about that!”

“Were you now?”

“Yeah!” James moves closer, peering into the pan. “I was literally thinking about kimchi bokkeumbap five minutes ago. And kimchi jjigae. And soondubu. Actually, I was thinking about kimchi in general, but—”

“Jamie-hyung.”

“What?”

Martin snorts.

“You’re drooling.” 

James immediately straightens.

“I am not.”

Martin’s mouth curves into a small smile.

It’s the sort of smile that makes James want to argue with him just on principle, mostly because Martin looks entirely too pleased with himself. James has seen that expression before. He’s seen it when Martin wins a particularly stupid argument, when he gets away with a terrible joke, and when he sends James a song that James ends up listening to three times in a row.

Lately, he’s been seeing it rather often.

Which is unfortunate.

Not the smile itself, though. The smile is fine. The smile is perfectly nice, actually.

There’s a strange sense of relief that blooms in James’ chest whenever he sees it.

Especially when it’s Martin smiling at him.

That’s the problem, really. James has become painfully aware of how often Martin smiles at him. How readily that smile appears whenever James enters a room, says something stupid, or does absolutely nothing worth acknowledging.

It’s not as though Martin has ever been particularly subtle about liking him. James has known about his feelings for a year now. There’s no grand mystery to solve, no hidden confession waiting to be uncovered. Martin has already put his heart on the table once, and James has already told him he can’t return it. 

Whatever happens between them now exists in the awkward, uncertain space that came after.

And yet Martin keeps looking at him like that.

It irritates James.

Not because Martin is annoying—no. In fact, James finds it endearing. Admirable, even. That Martin can keep looking at him with so much fondness when he knows perfectly well that James has already rejected him once.

Martin hasn’t asked him to reconsider. He hasn’t made his feelings James’ responsibility or expected him to apologise for an answer he was entitled to give. He’s never once tried to make James feel guilty for the heartbreak that followed.

He’s just… Martin.

And Martin has never been particularly good at leaving things unsaid.

Not that he does it on purpose. He’s not that kind of person. He hasn’t confessed again, at least in not so many words. He’s been careful about that. But there’s the music, for one thing. The little recommendations that arrive without warning, at three in the morning or at four in the afternoon. Songs that James listens to because Martin sent them, then sometimes listens to again because he likes them.

It’s always been something Martin has done, even before he told James how he felt.

Back then, the recommendations were offhand. Random, even. A song he’d stumbled across, an artist he thought James might like, something he wanted to share with someone who appreciated music as much as he did.

They didn’t come with the messages they come with now.

This song reminds me of you.

I think you’ll like this one.

Hyung, listen to the lyrics of this one.

And James does.

That’s the worst part. 

He listens.

He listens to the songs, reads the lyrics, and occasionally finds himself staring at his phone long after the music has ended, wondering what exactly Martin expects him to do with the things he sends.

And then there are the smaller things. Martin remembering what he likes to eat. Martin saving him the first and last bite of something. Martin knowing when James needs a little space because he’s drained and overstimulated, and when he’d rather have someone sit beside him without asking questions. Martin looking at him with that soft, knowing smile even when James isn’t doing anything particularly worthy of being smiled at.

James knows what that smile means.

He just doesn’t always know what to do about it.

“Don’t look so smug, you little bastard,” James tells him.

“I’m not,” Martin says, still smiling.

“You are.”

Martin turns back to the stove. “Whatever you say, Jamie-hyung.”

James narrows his eyes at the back of his head.

He doesn’t really hate it when Martin calls him that.

That’s the thing.

It’s just that James has heard his name in too many of the songs Martin has sent him lately. He’s heard it in lyrics and melodies that have no business making him feel so strange, particularly when Martin is standing right in front of him, calling him Jamie-hyung as casually as he always has.

Jamie always seems to come after I love you.

James would quite like to stop thinking about that.

“Anyway,” he says, leaning against the counter. He rests his palms against the cool marble, grounding himself. “Why are you making food at three in the morning?”

“I was hungry.”

James gasps. “You too?”

Martin looks at him over his shoulder. “No, I just thought I’d cook a whole pan of fried rice for fun.”

“Wow. Sarcasm. At this hour?”

“I’m tired.”

“Clearly,” James huffs. “You’re being mean to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He says it so quickly that James bursts out laughing.

“I was joking, Tin.”

Martin nudges him with his elbow, laughing, too, as he switches off the stove. Their laughter fills the otherwise quiet kitchen without either of them having to try particularly hard. 

James has always liked making Martin laugh. 

He’s always liked making his other members laugh, too.

That isn’t new.

What is new, perhaps, is how often he finds himself wanting to make Martin laugh in particular. How he catches himself coming up with something stupid to say just to see that familiar smile, or how he sometimes saves a ridiculous video because he thinks Martin might find it funny.

It’s not as though he does these things on purpose.

Not usually.

Martin reaches into one of the drawers for another pair of cutlery, then gestures towards the stairs with his head.

“Come on. Let’s eat in my room.”

James blinks.

“Oh. Okay.”

He doesn’t ask why they can’t just eat here. They have an entire ten-seater dining table and a five-seater kitchen island all to themselves. There’s no shortage of places to sit.

He doesn’t wonder whether Martin is inviting him upstairs because he wants the company, either. 

He simply takes the cutlery Martin hands him and follows.

It’s easier that way.

Or perhaps it’s just that James has never been particularly good at refusing Martin the little things.

Not when Martin makes it so easy to say yes.

Martin carries the pan, and they head up the stairs, their footsteps shuffling quietly against the floor. James follows a step behind, careful not to get too close in case Martin trips, though he has no idea how he would help someone carrying a pan of hot rice without making the situation considerably worse.

“Are they all asleep?” he asks quietly.

“I doubt Keonho is.”

James snorts.

“Yeah, fair.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Keonho. And he’s probably staying up practising his English for Paris.”

Martin hums, conceding the point.

They reach the upper landing, and Martin leads him towards the end of the hall, nudging his bedroom door open with his elbow. James follows him inside.

The room is dim, illuminated by a bedside lamp and the light from the television hooked up to Martin’s MacBook. It’s a little messy in the way rooms tend to become when a six-foot-three giant decides that unpacking is a problem for tomorrow. A hoodie hangs off the back of a chair, empty bags of chips are scattered across the coffee table, and there’s a half-empty bottle of water perched precariously on the arm of the sofa.

James finds it reassuring.

At least someone else is living like a normal person in this ridiculous house.

Martin sets the pan down on the coffee table, then settles onto the long couch he seems to have permanently imprinted himself on.

James takes the single sofa across from him, tucking one leg beneath himself as he looks around the room.

“Have you been on FL Studio this whole time?”

The massive king-sized bed is half-made, the blanket thrown to one side and the pillows still crushed from where Martin must have rested his head earlier. His laptop sits open on the coffee table, connected to the television through an HDMI cable. The screen displays a project James recognises from their flight over from Incheon.

Martin shakes his head, stirring the rice with a serving spoon. A faint wisp of steam rises from the pan.

“I slept in the afternoon, woke up at six, watched a movie, and decided to work on the album a few hours ago.”

James glances at the laptop again.

“And you got hungry?”

“Eventually.”

“So you made enough food for, like, four people?”

Martin looks at the pan, then at James.

“I knew you were going to come looking for food.”

James stares at him.

Martin stares back, perfectly straight-faced.

Then his mouth twitches.

“I’m kidding, Jamie-hyung.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You laughed.”

“I did not.”

“You’re smiling.”

James immediately looks away, which only makes Martin laugh.

“Come on, let’s eat,” Martin says, settling onto the floor.

James joins him, scooting closer to the coffee table and grabbing his spoon. 

“Thank you for the meal.”

They eat straight from the pan. 

For a while, the only sounds in the room are the quiet clink of their spoons against the metal and the occasional clacking of keys as Martin types on his laptop between bites. Whatever he’s working on seems to require his attention every few minutes; he’ll pause to type something, listen to a few seconds of audio, then return to his food as though he hasn’t just abandoned a perfectly good mouthful of rice to attend to some musical emergency.

James, meanwhile, is too busy eating to care.

He practically devours the entire thing.

Every bite is hot enough to make him regret being impatient, but he barely minds. The kimchi is perfectly tangy, the rice soft with little crispy bits throughout, and the sesame oil, together with the small cubes of Spam, ties everything together in a way that makes him consider whether he should be asking Martin to cook for him more often.

He makes a pleased noise before he can stop himself.

Martin glances at him.

“Good?”

James nods with emphasis, his mouth full.

Martin laughs. “Swallow first, hyung.”

James does, then points his spoon at him.

“I’m serious. This is really good. I’m guessing you didn’t put too much MSG this time?”

Martin shakes his head.

“No. I’ve learned my lesson.”

James giggles. “Good.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Martin doesn’t make a fuss over the compliment or pretend to be particularly proud of himself. He simply goes back to eating, looking quietly content.

James returns to his rice.

It’s a little embarrassing, really, how much better this night has gotten over a pan of fried rice. Less than an hour ago, he’d been sprawled across a couch in an entirely different building, contemplating the tragic state of his diet and wondering whether he could justify eating chocolate for dinner. Now he’s sitting on Martin’s bedroom floor, sharing food straight from the pan, listening to the occasional tap of keys as Martin works on something or other.

It’s nice.

Comfortable.

Dangerously comfortable.

James decides not to think too hard about that.

They finish the rest in silence.

Once they’re done, Martin gathers the pan and their spoons, carrying everything downstairs to the kitchen. James offers to help, but Martin tells him to stay put, so he does. He returns to the single sofa and makes himself comfortable, drawing his knees towards his chest and pulling the hood of his jacket over his head. He retrieves his phone from his pocket and starts scrolling again, though he barely pays attention to what comes up.

His stomach is full, the room is warm, and the fan of Martin’s MacBook whirs quietly in the background. For the first time all night, he doesn’t feel particularly restless.

He might actually fall asleep here.

The thought has barely crossed his mind when Martin returns.

“Do you wanna hear what I’m working on?” 

James looks up from his phone.

Martin settles onto the long couch, leaning forward and tapping the touchpad of his laptop to bring the screen back to life.

“It’s still a rough draft,” he adds. “If I like it enough, I might bring it to Friday’s song camp.”

James switches his phone off and tosses it onto the carpet beside him.

“Let’s hear it.”

Martin smiles a little before pressing the spacebar.

The song starts with a slow, steady beat, the production smooth and almost hazy around the edges. There’s something distinctly nocturnal about it, something that makes James think of city lights bleeding into the windows of a car driving through the late hours of the evening. A few seconds later, an electric guitar slips into the arrangement, its melody catchy without being too insistent, anchoring the track as the bass settles underneath it.

Then Martin’s vocals come in. They’re soft, almost conversational, gliding along the bassline as he murmurs his way through what sounds like half-formed lyrics. Some of the words are recognisable; others dissolve into syllables and sounds that he’ll probably replace once he figures out what he actually wants to say.

James listens.

He watches Martin, too, at least at first. Martin’s eyes are fixed on the screen, his fingers resting near the trackpad, ready to pause the recording or skip to a particular section if he needs to explain something. There’s a quiet concentration in his expression that James recognises from the studio, from years of working together, from those moments when Martin gets so absorbed in an idea that the rest of the world seems to fall away.

James has always liked watching him work. 

Not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

The beat settles into a rhythm, the guitar looping back around, and James finds himself nodding along. He taps his fingers against his knee, following the bass, then tilts his head as the melody shifts.

There’s something about the song that feels almost contradictory. It’s laid-back, certainly, but there’s an undercurrent of energy that keeps it from becoming sleepy. The kind of music that makes you want to move without quite knowing what to do with your body. The kind that would sound just as good through a pair of headphones in the middle of the night as it would through a club’s speakers, the beat vibrating through the floor, surrounded by people and coloured lights.

When the track finally stops, James looks at Martin with a smile.

“It’s good.”

Martin turns towards him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It sounds like a song that would play in a club. Like in those K-dramas, you know? When the male lead sees the female lead dancing in the crowd, and everything just slows down.”

Martin’s eyebrows rise. 

James continues before he can interrupt.

“Like, everyone’s dancing around them, and the lights are flashing, and suddenly the whole room disappears except for those two people. And they’re just staring at each other like they’ve never seen another human being in their entire lives.”

Martin stares at him for a moment.

Then he laughs.

“Is that your way of saying it sounds like club music?”

“No!” James protests, sitting up straighter. “I mean, not that club music sucks or anything. But the whole vibe of the song is just screaming neon violet. Like you’re slow dancing in a club to some song you probably should be jumping to.”

Martin looks at him, his smile widening.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s really poetic, hyung. Sounds kinda romantic.”

James throws a cushion at him.

“Shut up.”

Martin catches it against his chest, laughing.

“I’m serious! Neon violet?”

“It sums up the entire vibe, okay?”

“Yeah, I know.” Martin wipes at the corner of his eye. “I really like your way with words, hyung. You’re the only non-Korean in the group, but your vocabulary is better than ours.”

“What are you on about?” James says, trying to hide the way his face is probably flushed red right now. “It’s just a colour. Neon violet.”

Martin sets the cushion aside and turns back towards his laptop.

“Yeah, it’s a good colour. Neon violet. I’ll keep that in mind.”

James watches the TV screen as Martin changes the project title from Untitled Project 84 to neonviolet.

“If this gets released, your name will be on the credits,” Martin says. “Start thinking of music video ideas, too.”

“Ha ha.”

“I’m serious, hyung.”

James gets up from his seat and crosses over to Martin’s.

“What are you doing?” Martin asks, glancing up at him.

“Looking at the song I apparently helped write.”

“You gave me a colour, hyung.”

“A colour you thought was good enough to use as the title.”

Martin snorts.

James sits on the carpet beside him, close enough that his shoulder nearly touches Martin’s legs. He leans forward to look at the laptop, where neonviolet now sits at the top of the project window in big, unassuming letters.

“Title alone, this song is immediately a solid five out of five.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” 

James looks up, locking eyes with Martin. 

Maybe it’s the kimchi bokkeumbap or the fact that it’s ten minutes to four in the morning, but James feels so seen, so bare under Martin’s gaze.

The room goes quiet. Even the crickets outside seem to have shut up, too. James can hear his heartbeat in his throat, the faint strumming of an electric guitar from somewhere down the hall. Seonghyeon, maybe. Or Keonho.

The intensity in Martin’s eyes doesn’t relent. He holds James’ gaze, but it isn’t challenging. He isn’t trying to get an answer out of him, isn’t waiting for James to say something that might make this moment something more than it is.

He’s just looking at him. 

And somehow, that makes it worse.

James has spent the better part of a year learning how to live with Martin’s feelings for him. He’s learned to recognise the little things: the songs that arrive with suspiciously specific lyrics, the food that somehow always ends up on his plate, the way Martin gives him space when he needs it without making him feel like he’s being difficult. 

He’s learned how to accept these things without promising anything in return.

What he hasn’t learned is what to do when Martin looks at him like this.

Like James has said something worth listening to. Like a stupid little description of a song is enough to make Martin rename an entire project. Like James is someone whose thoughts he wants to keep, even the ones James himself doesn’t think much of—ones he isn’t even sure made any sense.

It’s a lot to be looked at like that.

Sure, it’s James’ job to be looked at. He’s a damn K-pop idol, for fuck’s sake. They have an entire makeup and hairstyling team ready to jump them if they so much as sweat or touch their freshly styled hair. They have dedicated fans following them around during schedules, cameras with long, expensive lenses trained on them, lights flashing almost blindingly as people try to get that perfect shot to post on social media. 

James is used to being looked at.

But this is different.

It’s just—

It’s a lot.

Especially coming from someone who has never made him feel like he owes him anything. 

James swallows.

Martin’s gaze flickers briefly to his mouth before returning to his eyes. James wonders if he’s hallucinating, wonders whether Martin would actually do that, as though they’re in some K-drama and the next logical step is for the two of them to kiss at four in the morning. 

It might be an accident. 

James tells him it’s an accident, anyway, because the alternative is considerably more difficult to deal with at three fifty in the morning.

Then Martin smiles.

Not the teasing grin from earlier, or the smug little thing he does whenever he catches James getting flustered. Just a small, warm smile, the kind that seems to come naturally to him when he’s looking at James.

“Five out of five, huh?” Martin asks.

James blinks.

The room comes back all at once. The crickets, the distant guitar, the soft whir of the laptop fan. His heart, which has apparently decided that this is an excellent time to audition for a percussion part, continues to beat far too quickly.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” he says.

Martin laughs softly. “Too late.”

“I’m taking it back. Four out of five.”

“You can’t. It’s already official.”

“Who made you the authority?”

“I’m the person who made the song.”

“That’s a conflict of interest.”

Martin gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “You’re taking back your review because the artist recognises his talent?”

“I’m taking back my review because the artist is annoying.”

“Wow. And here I thought we had something special.”

James freezes.

It’s barely a second. A tiny, almost imperceptible pause, the sort of thing Martin might not even notice if he weren’t sitting right there, staring straight into James’ fucking soul.

But Martin does notice.

His smile softens, and for one awful moment, James thinks he’s going to say something about it. Something that will force James to look at the space between them, at all the things they’ve never quite known how to talk about.

Instead, Martin clears his throat and turns back to the laptop.

“Okay,” he says, as casually as before. “Four out of five. I’ll work harder.”

James lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

“Good.”

“Harsh critic.”

“Someone has to keep you humble, Martin-ssi.”

He adds the -ssi just to tease him.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Martin clicks through the project, bringing up the track’s individual layers. The guitar melody plays again, softer this time, stripped of the other instruments. He adjusts something on the screen, listens, then nudges the volume up a little.

“Any suggestions, hyung?” he asks, glancing at James. “It feels a bit… lacking.”

James hums, leaning closer to the screen.

“Of course it’s lacking, you idiot. It’s only a rough draft. You need to flesh out the lyrics, add more layers to it.”

“How do you think the vocals should go, though? Reverb?”

“Lots of it. Using a wet plate to reverb them would sound nice. Westlake should have one. It could use some stereo widening, too.”

Martin nods as James talks, switching between FL Studio and the Notes app. He types down a few things, then clicks into the vocal track to see what he can do.

“What about the chorus? I think it needs more work.”

“Yeah, it does. A subtractive dynamic shift would be the perfect transition, I think. And since it’s already giving a bedroom-pop kind of vibe, use a low-pass filter sweep.”

Martin nods again, immediately getting to work.

James watches as he moves between tracks, adjusting levels and playing back tiny sections of the song. Martin has always been like this when he’s working on something he cares about: restless fingers, narrowed eyes, his whole attention absorbed by whatever he’s trying to bring to life. Once he gets an idea in his head, he has to try it. Right then, if possible.

James knows better than to interrupt him when he’s like this.

So he stays where he is.

He could return to the guest house. He probably should. It’s nearly four in the morning, and they’re supposed to be getting inspiration for their album, not sitting on a bedroom floor while James develops a brand-new collection of feelings he has absolutely no intention of dealing with.

But Martin hasn’t asked him to leave, and James doesn’t particularly want to.

So he rests his chin on his folded arms against the edge of the couch and watches Martin work.

The guitar loops again. Martin tweaks the reverb, plays the section back, then leads towards the screen to adjust something else. James follows along for a while, trying to make sense of the little changes he’s making, but the warmth of the room and the full stomach he’s acquired from Martin’s cooking are beginning to catch up to him.

His eyelids grow heavy.

He blinks them open.

Martin is still working.

Maybe Martin wants James’ company.

The thought comes out of nowhere, and James immediately wishes it hadn’t.

Of course Martin wants his company. They’re friends. They’re bandmates. Martin invited him to listen to a song, asked for his opinion, and is now incorporating his suggestions into the production. None of that has to mean anything more.

Still, James finds himself staying.

He tells himself he’s only going to close his eyes for a second.

Just a second.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable down there, hyung?”

James opens his eyes, jolting a little.

Martin has turned away from the laptop to look at him, one hand still resting on the touchpad. The music has stopped. James hadn’t even noticed.

“Hm?”

“Sitting on the floor.” Martin glances down at him. “Your neck’s gonna hurt.”

“It’s fine.”

“You’ve been curled up like that for ages.”

“I’m comfortable.”

Martin looks at the way James has practically folded himself in half beside that couch.

“Sure.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.” Martin pauses, then adds, “Just sleep on my bed, hyung.”

James lifts his head.

“What?”

“Sleep on my bed. You look like you’re about to pass out. Food coma got you bad, huh?”

James ignores the food coma comment.

“No, Tin. I can’t do that. I can’t sleep on your bed.”

“Why not?”

Because it’s your bed, James thinks. Because it’s nearly four in the morning, and I’m already having a hard enough time remembering how to act like a normal person around you. Because you look at me sometimes, and I forget that I was ever supposed to know what to do with that.

Instead, he says, “Because it’s your bed, you idiot.”

“And?”

“And you’re using it!”

Martin shrugs. “It’s big enough for the two of us.”

That shuts James up.

Martin seems to realise what he’s said a second too late. He clears his throat.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

James doesn’t know why a part of him secretly wishes Martin actually meant it.

Martin stands.

Before James can ask what he’s doing, Martin reaches down and takes him by the wrists.

“Come on.”

“Martin—”

“Hyung, please. Have some mercy on your back.”

James could probably pull away. Martin isn’t gripping him particularly tightly, and there’s nothing stopping him from planting his feet on the carpet and refusing to budge.

Unfortunately, he’s also exhausted, and Martin is looking at him with the sort of earnest concern that makes it difficult to argue without feeling like a complete idiot.

So James lets himself be pulled upright.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking, you know.”

“Sure, princess.”

James almost stumbles as Martin starts dragging him across the carpet.

“Princess?”

“Yeah. Princess.”

“Princess?”

Martin laughs, wrapping an arm around James’ torso and practically carrying him the rest of the way to the bed.

“Princess Jamie who needs to be carried to bed.”

“I told you I can do it myself.”

They reach the foot of the bed, and Martin looks at him with a shit-eating grin.

“And yet you’re still here.”

James playfully nudges him on the shoulder.

Unfortunately, he must have hit harder than he intended, because Martin staggers backwards with a startled yelp, his balance giving out beneath him.

“Oh, shit—”

James grabs him by the shirt.

And it does absolutely nothing.

Martin is too heavy, James is too tired, and neither of them has the coordination necessary to prevent the inevitable. Martin grabs for James in an attempt to steady himself, and the next thing James knows, they’re both tumbling onto the mattress.

Well.

One of them is tumbling.

The other is James, who lands flat on his back with Martin braced above him, one hand planted on either side of his head.

Neither of them moves.

The room is quiet. Somewhere outside, a cricket chirps. The quiet strumming of the electric guitar from Keonho’s room has stopped.

James stares up at Martin.

Martin stares down at James.

James prays Martin can’t hear how loudly his heart is beating in its cage.

He has been close to Martin before. Of course he has. They’ve shared couches in green rooms, squeezed together in the back of vans, leaned into each other for photographs. Martin has thrown an arm around his shoulders a hundred times, has nudged their knees together beneath tables, has rested his chin on James’ shoulder to peer at whatever he’s doing.

James has never had a problem with any of that.

Or, well. He has always had a problem with it, but a manageable one. The sort of problem he can hide beneath an eye roll or a shove or a face.

This is different.

Martin is close enough that James can see the tiny crease between his eyebrows. Close enough to notice the little green streaks among the hazel-brown of his eyes, the ones that are impossible to see unless the light catches them just right. Close enough that, if James were to lift his head even slightly—

He stops that thought before it can finish.

Martin’s gaze drops to James’ face, then flickers away.

Something changes in his expression.

The grin is gone. So is the easy amusement that has followed him around all night. In its place is a hesitation James has come to recognise, though he wishes he didn’t.

Martin looks frightened.

Not dramatically. He isn’t shaking, and he hasn’t scrambled away. But his shoulders have gone tense, and the hand beside James’ head is curled slightly against the sheets. His mouth opens as if he wants to say something, then closes again.

James’ stomach drops.

He knows that look.

He’s seen it before.

He remembers another time, more than a year ago, when Martin had stood in front of him and told him how he felt. James remembers the way Martin had tried to smile through the nerves, how he’d spoken carefully, how he’d left James room to answer honestly.

And James had answered honestly.

He hadn’t been cruel. He hadn’t led Martin on. He had told him that he didn’t feel the same way, that he was scared because Martin, to him, was like a little brother. The words had made sense when he said them. Martin was younger than him. He was someone James had grown protective of, someone he loved dearly, just not in the way Martin had hoped.

At least, that was what James had thought then.

Martin had accepted his answer with a quietness that James hadn’t fully understood until much later.

Then, somehow, Martin had stayed.

He stayed through the awkwardness, through the distance that usually came with rejections, through the slow return to something that felt like friendship. He stayed without demanding that James reconsider, without making his hurt James’ responsibility. He’d simply kept showing up.

It was always the little things. The ordinary things.

Things James had learned to recognise for what they were, even when he didn’t know what to do with them.

And now Martin is looking at him as if he might have made a mistake just by falling on top of him. 

“Hyung,” Martin whispers.

James blinks.

“Yeah?”

His voice comes out barely above a whisper.

Martin swallows. James hears it in the quiet room.

“I, uh.” Martin’s eyes search his face, almost frantically, as if there’s an answer written somewhere in James’ expression that he needs to find before he can continue. “Can I—?”

He stops.

The unfinished question hangs between them.

Martin’s face changes as the words die in his throat. His eyes widen a fraction, and he draws in a sharp breath. For a second, he looks genuinely horrified with himself.

Then he starts to pull away.

“Sorry. I didn’t—”

James’ chest aches.

He doesn’t know what Martin was going to ask. He can guess, perhaps, but guessing isn’t knowing. And he refuses to turn Martin’s unfinished sentence into something it might not have been.

What he does know is that Martin wants to ask for something and is already preparing to take it back.

That, more than anything, hurts.

Because James remembers how badly he’d hurt Martin the first time. The younger boy nodded, looked down for a moment, then lifted his head with a smile that was a little too careful. James had wanted to make the hurt disappear, and eventually realised there was nothing he could say or do to make it disappear without lying.

He couldn’t give Martin the answer he wanted then.

He still doesn’t know if he can give him that answer now. If the answer he’s willing to give is even the answer Martin wants.

But what he does know is that there’s a part of him that does.

Not because he thinks he at least owes it to Martin. Not because Martin has spent a year being patient, or because James feels guilty for the way things turned out. Martin’s feelings have never been a debt James needs to repay, and a kiss given out of obligation would be a cruel thing to offer to someone who has already been brave enough to confess once.

But because Martin makes it so damn hard not to fall.

And, surely, James can give him this.

“Martin.”

The younger stops moving.

His eyes lift to James’.

“It’s okay,” James whispers.

Martin goes very still.

For a moment, James thinks he might have misunderstood. That he might have scared Martin away even more.

So James takes a breath.

“You can ask me.”

The words come out softer than he expects.

Martin stares at him.

James can practically see the thought moving behind his eyes, the hope that rises instinctively and the fear that follows close behind it. He watches Martin try to decide what James means, whether he’s allowed to believe him, whether this is kindness or something else.

James wishes he knew how to make it easier.

He wishes he could tell Martin that he doesn’t have to be afraid of him. That he doesn’t need to swallow every want before it reaches his mouth. That James can handle knowing what Martin wants, even if he can’t always give it to him.

Martin’s gaze flickers down to James’ mouth.

It’s brief, but James catches it.

Then his eyes return to James’, and the fear in them is somehow even more apparent.

James feels a pang beneath his ribs.

He wants to reach up and cup Martin’s face and tell him that it’s all right. He doesn’t have to look at James as if he’s one wrong move away from losing everything.

Martin has spent the past year respecting a boundary James himself drew. Whatever has changed between them, whatever James has begun to feel when Martin smiles at him or remembers the smallest details about him, Martin hasn’t been given any guarantee that the boundary has moved.

James can’t blame him for being careful. Can’t blame him for being scared, either.

But James also wants to give him that guarantee. 

“James-hyung,” Martin whispers again.

This time, there’s something almost pleading in it.

James’ heart twists.

“I’m listening,” he says.

Martin’s breath catches.

For several seconds, he doesn’t speak. His gaze searches James’ face, and James lets him look. He stays still beneath him, letting Martin take the time he needs.

Finally, Martin closes his eyes for a brief moment.

When he opens them again, the fear hasn’t disappeared. But he seems to have found enough courage to stop running from it.

“Can I kiss you?”

James almost thinks he’s imagined it.

The question is so quiet that, for one suspended second, the entire world seems to narrow to the space between them.

James forgets how to breathe. 

It’s one thing to imagine something. Hearing the words actually spoken aloud is another.

Martin watches him, and James sees the instant he begins to regret asking. His expression tightens, his shoulders drawing inward despite the position he’s in, as if he could somehow make himself smaller without moving an inch.

“You don’t have to,” Martin adds quickly. “I just—sorry. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. I can move.”

He starts to push himself up.

James panics and grabs Martin’s shirt.

“Martin.”

Martin freezes.

James looks at him.

“I—” His voice comes out hoarse. “I don’t want to say yes out of guilt. But I also don’t want to say no out of fear, either.” 

He swallows.

“But I want to know what it would feel like. Not because I’m curious or whatever the fuck else. But because it’s you, Martin. Because, lately, I’ve been thinking about you and looking for you before anyone else. Because suddenly every song is about you, and I can’t stop replaying the song you sent me that said I love you, Jamie. Because tonight, when you said this bed was big enough for the two of us, I wished you meant it.”

Martin’s expression softens.

James’ fingers tighten around his shirt.

“And I know what I said to you. I remember it. I was scared, and I told you that you were like a little brother to me because that was what I thought I felt. I can’t take that back, and I can’t pretend I didn’t hurt you.”

Martin’s lips part, but James shakes his head, needing to get this out before he loses his nerve.

“I don’t want you to think that I’m doing this because I feel bad about what happened. You don’t have to earn anything from me. You never did.”

His throat feels tight.

“I just—I’ve been looking at you differently. And I don’t know when it happened, or how, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it. But I know that when you look at me, I want you to keep looking. And when you send me songs, I listen to them over and over. And when you’re not around, I catch myself wondering where you are.”

He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh, dragging a hand down his face. 

“God, this is so humiliating.”

Martin breathes out something that sounds almost like a laugh, too, but his eyes are shining with something James can’t quite name.

“Hyung—”

“Wait, let me finish.”

James takes another breath.

“So, yes, I want to kiss you, Martin. I want you to kiss me. And I don’t know if that’s supposed to be the answer to all of this, or what will happen tomorrow morning if we do, or what it would make us. I can’t promise you that I have everything figured out.”

He pauses, searching Martin’s face.

God, he looks so handsome in the dim light. It’s almost offensive.

“But I know that I want to give this a chance. I want to give you a chance. Not because you waited for me, or because you were good to me, or because I think I owe you something. But because I want to, okay?” 

James holds his gaze, hoping Martin understands. Hoping he can see that James isn’t making a promise he can’t keep, only telling him the truth as best as he can.

Using every possible word in the Korean language to get his message across.

“I can’t keep pretending there’s nothing there, because there is, and—”

Martin closes the distance between them. 

For one brief, bewildered moment, James forgets the rest of his sentence.

His attention zeroes in on Martin’s lips against his.

They’re soft, his brain supplies immediately. So incredibly soft that he wonders, absurdly, what chapstick he uses. 

It’s a ridiculous thing to think about at a time like this. He’s just spent the past several minutes trying to explain the complicated, terrifying shift in his feelings, and now that Martin is actually kissing him, his brain has decided that the most important detail is the texture of his lips.

Then the reality of what’s happening catches up with him.

Martin is kissing me.

Martin, who confessed to him more than a year ago.

Martin, whose heart James had held in his hands and given back because he didn’t know what else to do with it.

Martin, who had stayed. Who had weathered the awkwardness, the distance, and the uncertainty that followed James’ rejection without ever asking him to take it back. Who had continued to love him in all the little ways that made Martin who he was, never once making that love James’ responsibility.

When Martin loves, it’s bright and consuming. It spills into everything. It’s the kind of love that makes the world feel a little less lonely just by being in it.

And now, somehow, it’s here. Between them. In the quiet of a room at four in the morning, with a half-finished song forgotten on the laptop and the two of them tangled up on a bed neither of them had intended to share.

James lifts one hand from the mattress, hesitating for just a second before resting it against Martin’s cheek.

Martin goes still at the touch.

For a heartbeat, the kiss pauses. James can feel Martin holding himself back, giving him the space to change his mind even now, even after everything he’s just said. After everything they’ve just done.

The realisation makes something break in James’ chest

Even now, Martin is being careful.

James brushes his thumb along Martin’s cheekbone, then tips his chin up just enough to brush his nose against Martin’s.

It’s a small gesture. Barely anything.

Martin understands anyway.

He kisses James again, slowly this time, and James meets him halfway.

The second kiss is less tentative, though no less gentle. Martin’s tongue brushes along James’ lower lip, and James parts his mouth just enough to let him in.

Martin’s hand shifts against the mattress, his long fingers finding their way into James’ hair. James curls his own fingers into the fabric of Martin’s shirt, holding him close enough to feel the warmth of his chest beneath his palm and the soft brush of his hair against his forehead.

Martin is careful with his weight, bracing himself so he doesn’t press too heavily into James. Even in this, he seems to be thinking about how to make James comfortable.

It only makes James want to pull him closer.

So he does.

He tugs lightly at Martin’s shirt, and Martin makes a tiny, surprised sound against his mouth before leaning in again.

James had imagined this before. 

He’d imagined it in the abstract, in the way one might imagine something impossible just to prove a point, only to immediately scold himself for being ridiculous. He’d wondered what Martin’s mouth would feel like against his, what it would be like to have all that affection directed at him without the buffer of teasing or a joke.

He’d never let himself imagine it in any detail.

The moment the thought got too far into that territory, James made sure to crush it.

Because it was Martin, damn it.

Because James had been so certain that the two of them belonged in a particular shape, and he hadn’t known how to imagine anything outside of it.

Now, with Martin kissing him like he’s something precious, James can’t quite understand why he was ever so afraid of finding out.

Martin draws back first, but only by a fraction.

His hair tickles James’ forehead. His eyes remain closed for another second, and James watches him breathe, watches the uncertainty return as the reality of what they’ve just done begins to settle between them.

“Hey,” James whispers.

Martin opens his eyes.

James smiles, awkward and helpless and probably looking like an idiot.

“You can breathe, you know.”

Martin lets out a laugh so sudden that it almost sounds like a hiccup. Then he drops his face into the crook of James’ neck, hiding there as he catches his breath.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

James brings his arms around Martin’s shoulders.

“There he is.”

“I’m serious, hyung.”

“So am I.”

Martin shakes his head, lifting his face to look at James. He’s smiling now, and James feels something inside his chest loosen at the sight.

Then the smile falters.

“Are you sure?” Martin asks quietly.

James’ heart gives a painful squeeze.

Of course he’s asking.

Of course Martin needs to know that James hasn’t simply been swept up in the moment. That this isn’t a kindness James will regret in the morning. That James won’t wake up, realise what he’s done, and decide he wants things to go back to the way they were.

Martin has already put himself out there once.

James isn’t going to blame him for being afraid to do it again.

He lifts a hand and gently runs his fingers through Martin’s hair.

“I’m sure I wanted to kiss you.”

Martin searches his face.

“And tomorrow?”

James exhales.

“I don’t know what tomorrow looks like yet.”

He watches Martin’s expression shift, just slightly, and rushes to clarify.

“But I know I don’t want to pretend this didn’t happen. I’m not gonna run away, Tin. I want to talk to you about it when we’re both awake enough to form complete sentences.” 

He pauses.

“It’s four a.m., by the way.”

That earns him a small, disbelieving smile.

“Generous of you, considering you were monologuing like a Shakespearean lead just a few minutes ago.”

James’ jaw drops.

“Excuse me?”

“Very moving speech, by the way. Five stars. A little long.”

James shoves at his shoulder.

Martin, apparently still incapable of maintaining his balance when James is involved, topples sideways off the mattress with an undignified oof.

He lands on the carpet.

And laughs.

James stares down at him, scandalised.

“I’m taking it back,” he declares.

Martin sits up. “Taking what back?”

“The kiss, the speech, everything.” James crawls farther onto the mattress and buries himself beneath the thick blanket. “It’s not a four out of five anymore. It’s a three.”

Martin pushes himself to his feet.

“But surely I’m a ten, right?”

“Yeah. Ten per cent away from a ten. You’re a nine.”

Martin lets out a wounded whine. 

“Hyung!”

James pulls the blanket over his head.

“Good night, Martin.”

“You can’t take back a kiss!”

The bed dips beneath Martin’s weight. James barely has time to brace himself before Martin is crawling after him, both hands reaching for his face.

“Wait, wait—”

Martin catches his cheeks between his palms and squishes them together.

James yelps.

“Martin!”

“You said I’m a nine!”

“Which is still a good score!”

“But you baited me with a ten!”

Martin laughs, mercilessly pinching his cheeks before moving on to tickling his sides. James shrieks and tries to shove him away, which accomplishes absolutely nothing except giving Martin better access to the spots he knows will get a reaction.

“You’re impossible,” James gasps between laughs.

“And you love me.”

The words come out light and teasing, tossed between them as casually as any other joke.

Still, James goes quiet for half a second.

Martin notices. His hands stop.

For a moment, they simply look at each other,

Then James reaches up, grabs Martin by the back of his shirt, and pulls him down until their foreheads bump together.

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, smiling.

Martin’s entire face lights up.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Don’t.”

“You love me.”

“Martin.”

“You just said—”

“I will demote you to an eight out of ten.”

“You can’t do that! There’s a conflict of interest.”

“A what?”

“You were literally the one who brought that up earlier. But, anyways, don’t change the subject—you said it!”

“I did not say anything.”

“You said,” Martin throws up a pair of finger quotes, “unfortunately.”

James groans.

Martin collapses against him, laughing so hard his shoulders shake. James rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, too, and when Martin settles beside him a few seconds later, James makes no attempt to move away.

The room gradually grows quiet again.

They lie side by side beneath the blanket, their shoulders touching. Martin reaches for James’ hand, tentative even now, and laces their fingers together when James turns his palm to meet his.

James watches the faint light from the window catch in Martin’s eyes. Outside, the sky is beginning to pale, the darkness thinning into that strange purple-blue that comes just before sunrise.

It makes Martin look almost ethereal.

James has always thought he was handsome. It’s difficult not to notice someone like Martin, with his stupidly pretty face and his stupidly charming smile and his stupid ability to make even the most ordinary things seem worth remembering.

But this is different.

Now James knows what it feels like to have Martin kiss him.

Now he knows what it feels like to reach for him and have Martin reach back.

He turns their joined hands over, tracing his thumb across Martin’s knuckles.

He doesn’t know what tomorrow will look like.

He doesn’t know whether they’ll wake up embarrassed, whether they’ll laugh about this, whether they’ll spend the next several days trying to work out what has changed and what hasn’t. He doesn’t know how long it will take to understand his own feelings, or whether he’ll be able to explain them without another humiliating speech.

But Martin is here.

Martin asked.

And James said yes.

That should be enough, right?

Yeah.

For now, that should be enough.

Martin lifts their joined hands and presses a soft kiss to the back of James’. 

“Jamie-hyung?”

James looks at him.

“Mm?”

Martin hesitates, and James catches the tiny shift in his expression. The way the teasing has fallen away, leaving something quieter in its place.

“I love you.”

It catches James so completely off guard that he lets out a startled laugh.

He immediately buries his face in Martin’s chest, mortified by the sudden warmth spreading across his cheeks.

“You can’t just say that—”

“Sorry.” Martin’s voice changes at once. “Did I make you uncomfortable? I just felt like I needed to get it out there.”

“No, no.” James shakes his head quickly, lifting his face to look at him. “No, I just—wow. It caught me by surprise.”

Martin studies him.

James swallows. “Gave me butterflies.”

Martin raises an eyebrow.

“Did it now?”

“Yeah,” James admits, breathless.

A smile begins to creep across Martin’s face, and James has to look away before it does irreparable damage to what remains of his composure.

Then, after a moment, he looks back.

“Can you say it again?” 

Martin blinks.

“Say what again?”

James stares at him. “You know what.”

“I really don’t.”

“Martin.”

“James-hyung.”

James groans and hides his face against Martin’s shoulder.

“Say it again. With, uhm.” He clears his throat. “With my name this time.”

“James?”

“No.” James presses closer to him, mortification reaching new and previously unexplored heights. “Not that one. The other one.”

“Jamie?”

James sucks in a sharp breath.

“Yeah.”

Martin chuckles, low and warm. James can feel the sound against his cheek, where he’s resting against Martin’s chest.

Then Martin shifts, gently nudging James’ chin up until their eyes meet.

The teasing has left his face. He looks at James as though he’s been handed something fragile and wonderful, something he wants to hold carefully even if he doesn’t quite know what to do with it yet.

He leans forward and presses a kiss onto James’ forehead.

“I love you, Jamie.”

Oh.

Oh.

James thinks he might actually die.

There are probably several physiological explanations for what’s happening to him right now. His heart is beating much too fast, his face feels like it’s on fire, and he has apparently forgotten every language he’s ever learned.

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Martin’s smile turns tentative. “Too much?”

James shakes his head so quickly he nearly knocks his forehead against Martin’s chin.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, you idiot.” James laughs, helpless and a little breathless. He lifts a hand to Martin’s cheek, still not quite believing he gets to do that now. “It’s just—”

He looks at Martin’s mouth.

Then back at his eyes.

“That song is just so sad, Tin. And here you are saying those four words as if you’ve never once thought about giving up.”

Martin smiles softly.

“How could I, hyung? It’s you. James Chao. Chao Yufan. Jo Woobeom. James Jinjantarawong.” His thumb brushes across James’ cheek. “My James. My Jamie.”

 James buries his face in his hands.

Martin chuckles, delighted, and reaches over to pull them away.

“Jamie.”

“No.”

“Jamie-hyung.”

“Absolutely not.

“I love you, Jamie.”

James makes a strangled noise and drops his face straight into Martin’s chest again.

Martin laughs so hard that James can feel the bed shaking slightly beneath them.

“This is the best day of my life,” he announces.

“It’s four in the morning.”

“And twelve a.m. marks a new day.”

“I hate you.”

Martin presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“No, you don’t.”

James closes his eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of Martin’s heart against his ear. His fingers curl into the fabric of Martin’s shirt, and after a moment, he lets himself smile.

No, he doesn’t.

And maybe that’s the frightening part.

Maybe it’s the wonderful part, too.

After all, beautiful things can be frightening when you’ve spent too long believing they aren’t meant for you.

James lifts his head just enough to press a quick, shy kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth.

Martin goes completely still.

James pulls back, suddenly very interested in the blanket.

“There,” he mutters. “Now we’re even.”

For once in his life, Martin Edwards Park has absolutely nothing to say.

James peeks at him.

Martin is staring at him with wide eyes, his lips parted, his entire face turning the same shade of red as a tomato.

James’ grin slowly returns.

“Oh. My. God.”

He mimics the way Martin had said it earlier.

Martin blinks.

“Shut up.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Hyung.”

James laughs, bright and unrestrained, and Martin finally breaks, too, ducking his head with a helpless smile.

Then he leans in again, stopping just short of James’ lips.

“Can I kiss you again?”

James looks at him.

At the boy who has loved him for longer than James knew how to understand. At the boy who asked, who waited for an answer, who still asks even after James has already given him one.

James cups his cheek.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “You can.”

Martin smiles and presses their lips together.

This time, James doesn’t need a second to remember how to breathe. 

He already knows what it feels like. 

He thinks he could get used to it.

“Are you gonna work on neonviolet a little bit more?” James asks when they part.

Martin shakes his head.

“No. It can wait. I wanna sleep now. With you in my arms, preferably.”

James laughs.

“Okay.”

Martin draws him closer, settling his chin on the crown of James’ head. James noses against Martin’s chest, wrapping his arms around him just as tightly.

“Good night, Jamie.”

James tilts his head back to look at him.

“It’s four a.m.”

“Fine. Good morning, Jamie.”

James laughs, and Martin presses one last kiss to the top of his head.

Yeah.

James could get used to this.