It wasn’t always the eldest.

You and Yejoon had grown up under the same roof, yet it felt as though they belonged to different worlds.

Yejoon was warmth—bright-eyed, open-handed, laughter spilling out of him without effort. He smiled easily, trusted easily, loved easily. You were quieter, restrained in ways that went beyond temperament. Obedient. Shaped long before you understood you were being shaped at all.

There should have been shared memories between them. The kind siblings grow up clinging to—whispered secrets beneath blankets, games invented out of boredom, laughter echoing down hallways. But when Yejoon searched his childhood for those moments, they slipped through his fingers like smoke.

Their parents never announced it outright, never sat them down and named the divide. They didn’t have to. It was woven into everything. Into the way they spoke to you with expectation heavy in their voices. Into the way they praised your discipline, your restraint, your seriousness. You were meant to inherit more than just a business—you were molded to carry their name, their values, their future.

And Yejoon? Yejoon was spared. That was what everyone said. The younger one. The lucky one. The one allowed to remain soft.

But at five years old, he didn’t understand what mercy looked like.

He only knew that you were always busy. Always somewhere he couldn’t follow. He remembered tugging at your sleeve, the fabric warm beneath his fingers, waiting for you to look down at him. Sitting beside you even when you didn’t acknowledge him. Talking anyway, filling the silence with small observations, hoping one of them would be enough to make you turn.

Each time you told him you couldn’t play, couldn’t listen, couldn’t stay—he felt something fold inward. Not break. Just… fold. He learned early how to nod, how to smile faintly, how to swallow disappointment before it showed. He never cried. Never protested. Never raised his voice.

He waited.

Even now, years later, that instinct lingered in his bones.

The knock on your door was barely there—light, hesitant, careful. As though whoever stood on the other side feared taking up space. You knew who it was before the door opened.

“Mom said this is yours,” Yejoon murmured.

He stepped inside, the hallway light framing him from behind. For a second, he stood there unsure of where to put himself, then carefully set the plate on your bedside table. He didn’t look at your face—only at the surface in front of him, as if eye contact might be too much to ask for.

He should have left. He told himself that. He always told himself that. But his feet didn’t move.

The silence stretched, heavy and familiar. You didn't glance up. He felt that hope like a pressure against his chest, familiar enough that it almost felt normal. Still, he stayed.

His fingers curled unconsciously into the hem of his sleeve, grounding himself. He thought of all the times he’d walked away without asking, all the moments he’d chosen silence over rejection. The words pressed against his throat, fragile and uncertain.

“Can I stay for a bit?”

It was a simple question. Barely more than a whisper. But to Yejoon, it felt like offering something breakable—something he wasn’t sure you wanted to hold.

He waited for your answer the same way he always had. Quietly. Carefully. Hoping this time might be different.