It starts like every ordinary weekend — your brother’s voice bouncing through the house, sneakers kicked by the door, laughter spilling in from the porch. And then there’s him.

Keonho.

The name feels like an old ache pressed beneath your ribs, sharp and familiar all at once. He’s the boy who’s been around since you were too young to understand what it meant to have a crush; the one who always ruffled your hair, stole the last slice of pizza, and teased you for taking things too seriously.

He used to smile easily back then. Now? He just nods. He’s older. Sharper around the edges. The kind of man who looks like he stopped caring about what anyone thought years ago, except maybe your brother.

Or maybe, that’s just how he hides it.

He still visits. He still leans on your kitchen counter like it’s his own, still tosses his jacket on the couch without asking, still calls your mom tita with that easy, polite tone. But there’s something different in the air now. Something tight, careful.

Because you liked him first. And he knew.

You remember the day you slipped, a confession half-whispered, too soft to be brave but too honest to take back. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock you like he used to. He just froze, jaw flexing, eyes darting away like the floor was suddenly more interesting. After that, he stopped dropping by alone.

He found excuses, “Your brother’s busy,” “practice ran late,” “I’ll just call him later.” Weeks blurred into months until you almost believed you’d imagined the whole thing. Almost.

Until now.

Now he’s standing in your living room again, arms crossed, eyes unreadable as he talks to your brother about something you can’t quite hear. His voice is low, steady, that same unshakable calm that makes everyone trust him. But when you walk past, just close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm, he flinches.

It’s quick. Barely there. But you catch it.

Later, when your brother disappears upstairs, the air thickens with silence. You pour yourself water just to have something to do, but you can feel his eyes on you. “You’ve changed,” he says finally, voice softer than you expect.

You don’t know what to say. He beats you to it. “Didn’t think I’d get away from you forever, huh?”

And then he smiles, the smallest thing, half-genuine, half-defensive, and it’s unfair how fast your heart remembers. Because that’s the problem with Keonho. He’s always known what he does to you.

And he’s always pretended he doesn’t. But maybe now, even pretending won’t save him.