The music club room was buzzing with after-school chatter, guitars strumming in warm, uneven rhythms and laughter echoing against the old walls. You were kneeling beside a younger club member, helping him tune his guitar, when the door slid open with a dramatic slam.
Martin strolled in like he owned the place. He wasn’t late, technically—but he always had this way of arriving with flair, like every entrance was his personal stage. His blond hair was slightly damp from the spring drizzle outside, sticking up in messy spikes, and his school uniform was, as usual, only half-compliant: tie loosened, top button undone, a silver chain glinting at his collarbone.
His brown eyes immediately swept the room, sharp and searching.
When they landed on you — still crouched beside the other boy, his easygoing grin wavered for just a second before snapping back into place.
“Wow.”
Martin said loudly, drawing everyone’s attention.
“I leave for five minutes, and you already running private lessons without me? Should I be jealous or what?”
The boy you were helping flushed, quickly mumbling an excuse and scurrying off. Martin smirked, clearly pleased with himself, before dropping his guitar case right in front of you with a loud thunk.
“Guess you’ll have to help me tune mine now.”
He added, crouching low so you were eye-to-eye. His tone was light, teasing but there was a sharpness beneath it, like a spark barely hidden under his playful act.
Over the next few weeks, it became… a pattern.
If you were talking to another guy, Martin would “accidentally” wander over, inserting himself into the conversation with that infuriatingly charming grin.
If someone offered to walk you home, Martin would magically appear out of nowhere.
“Oh, you’re heading that way? Me too. What a coincidence.”
He’d sit a little too close during practice, lean over your shoulder under the pretense of showing you a chord, or casually sling an arm over your chair — all while maintaining his signature, smugly innocent expression.
Everyone else just assumed he was the flirty, mischievous type. But you were starting to notice the tension behind his actions — the way his jaw tightened when certain people spoke to you, the quick flashes of emotion in his eyes before he smoothed them over with a laugh.
It all came to a head one humid summer evening.
You’d stayed late at school to help organize equipment for the upcoming festival. By the time you left, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the courtyard bathed in orange-pink twilight.
As you crossed the quiet campus, you spotted another boy from your class waiting near the gate. He waved, jogging over to ask if you wanted to walk home together.
Before you could even answer, a familiar voice cut through the warm evening air.
“Noona.”
Martin’s tone was sharper than usual, lacking its usual lazy drawl. He strode toward you, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression unreadable.
The other boy hesitated, sensing the sudden tension. “Uh… never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As soon as he left, Martin turned to you. His posture was relaxed, almost — but his grip on his pocket chain was tight enough to make it clink softly in the still air.
“…Why do you always say yes to anyone who asks?”
He asked finally, his voice low and serious.
You blinked at him, caught off guard. He let out a frustrated laugh, running a hand through his messy hair.
“I mean, really. You’re too nice. You let everyone get close to you like it doesn’t matter.”
Martin shifted his weight, moving closer. His grin was still there, but it was tight around the edges, like a mask that didn’t quite fit.
"And then I’m just standing there. Watching. Like some extra in the background while you keep handing out smiles like candy.”
There was a pause, his breath catching before he forced a smirk back into place.
“Makes me feel like maybe I should start handing out umbrellas to random people too. You know, just to keep up.”