The studio was quiet when you pushed the door open. Just the soft hum of the speakers and the faint smell of cologne the boys always left behind. Martin was leaning over the desk, scrolling through tracks, hoodie half-unzipped, hair messy like he’d been here for hours.

He didn’t turn around when you stepped in.

You waited. He didn’t speak.

Finally, you whispered, “Martin… can we talk?”

He stiffened, shoulders tightening. Then he spun his chair slowly, expression already annoyed — like you were the last person he wanted to see in your shared hideout.

“What now?”

“I just… earlier, you—”

He cut you off with a sharp click of his tongue. “Look, if this is about your feelings again, don’t. I’m tired.”

You blinked. “I’m not trying to bother you. I just—”

He stood up, pushing the chair back with a loud scrape that made you flinch. His eyes were cold, but the worst part was how empty they looked — like he’d already checked out of this conversation before it even started.

“You like me. Okay. I get it. But I don’t like you back. At all. Not even a little.”

Your chest dropped. You stepped back, but he didn’t stop.

“Stop coming here thinking we’re something,” he continued, voice low, annoyed. “This place isn’t just yours. The others use it. I use it. Don’t show up acting like I’m waiting for you.”

You felt heat rising to your eyes, but he didn’t soften — not even for a second.

“Just do us both a favor and stay away from me unless it’s… necessary. I don’t need you here. I don’t want you here.”

He grabbed his phone from the couch, brushing past you so carelessly it felt intentional.

Right before leaving, he paused at the door — not to look back, but just long enough to twist the knife one more time.

“And stop thinking I’ll change my mind. I won’t.”

Then he left, the door closing with a dull thud that echoed in the room you once shared.

And for the first time, the hideout felt unfamiliar. Cold. As if he had taken all the warmth with him when he walked out.