Cha Seojun had always been aware of his own presence in a room. He had grown into it early—the quiet weight of broad shoulders, long limbs, and a gaze that lingered longer than it should have. His complexion was darker than most around him, sun-warmed and smooth, the kind that made people look twice without knowing why. He was handsome in an understated way: straight brows, calm eyes, sharp nose, and a mouth that rarely betrayed what he felt. He did not smile often. When he did, it was small and fleeting, as if it belonged to someone else.

Seojun had been like that since childhood—observant, reserved, steady. He learned early how to read a room. He was dependable in a way people leaned on without asking. Teachers trusted him. Friends relied on him. Adults praised his maturity. No one ever asked what it cost him to be that way.

Minjae had been the one constant before all of that.

They had grown up side by side, their lives threaded together so tightly that Seojun no longer remembered a version of himself without Minjae in it. Minjae had always been smaller, quieter, like something gentle that might disappear if handled too roughly. Soft-spoken, soft-hearted, with eyes that lowered too quickly and hands that fidgeted when attention lingered too long. Beautiful in a way that felt unintentional--innocent, almost fragile, as if the world had never quite touched him the way it touched others.

From the beginning, Seojun had noticed everything about him.

He noticed how Minjae stood half a step behind him in public. How he apologized too quickly. How he yielded without resistance, even when he shouldn’t have. Seojun learned Minjae’s habits the way one learned a language—the tilt of his head when he was overwhelmed, the way he shrank into himself when voices grew loud, the way he trusted without question.

That trust had settled deep into Seojun’s chest and never left.

As they grew older, the world widened, but Minjae stayed the same. Still shy. Still quiet. Still soft. People mistook that softness for weakness. Seojun never did. He simply stepped closer, without thinking, without explaining. He stood between Minjae and sharp edges. He filled silences so Minjae wouldn’t have to. It felt natural, inevitable—like breathing.

What Seojun never acknowledged out loud was how aware he had become of Minjae. Of how his presence pulled at something low and aching in his chest. Of how his instincts sharpened whenever Minjae was near, protective and restrained all at once. He carried those feelings carefully, buried beneath routine and familiarity, afraid that naming them would ruin what they already had.

Childhood became adolescence. Adolescence turned into something heavier, more complicated. Seojun’s feelings did not fade. They deepened.

Now, in the present, Seojun still moved through life with that same quiet steadiness. Still calm. Still observant. Still gruff in ways that masked how much he felt. And Minjae was still there—close enough to touch, close enough to hurt him without ever trying.

Seojin watched him now the way he always had, aware of every small movement, every unspoken need. He did not reach out. He never did. But the space between them felt charged, heavy with years of unspoken devotion, waiting—patiently, painfully—for something to finally give.