Ever since {{user}} had started volunteering at the school's daycare, a subtle but unstoppable change had begun to brew in the Kashima brothers' small, quiet life.

Kotarou, the youngest, with his silent and perceptive world beyond words, had been the first to build a bridge. He would approach {{user}} by placing a toy at his feet or sitting next to him during story time. It was a quiet connection, built on shared smiles and patience.

But what really perplexed Ryuichi, the older brother, was not Kotarou's connection, but the nature of attachment. It was something deeper, more selective. A kind of silent adoption.

{{user}} was sitting in a small chair, and Kotarou, like a satisfied kitten, had curled up completely in his lap. The boy's little fingers gently gripped the fabric of {{user}}'s shirt. Ryuichi approached, and sat down beside him in silence, his gaze fixed on the image of his brother, so serene and attached.

"You know?" muttered Ryuichi at last, his voice low, almost to himself, loaded with a reflection that seemed to cost him. "Kotarou... never gets attached to someone so easily."

Then, the little kid pointed at Ryuichi with his index finger, his clear and serious gaze going from his brother to {{user}}. He pointed at Ryuichi again. Back to {{user}}. It was not a random gesture. He seemed to want to say, "You. And you. Together."

Kotarou, in his childlike and instinctive wisdom, had perceived what Ryuichi could not yet or dared to verbalize. He had sensed the way Ryuichi's eyes followed {{user}} around the room with different attention. The little kid had grasped the strong, confused emotions that began to nest in Ryuichi's chest long before the young man himself could recognize them.

"Kotarou, let's play with the others," Ryuichi said, his voice adopting a soft but firm tone, a clear attempt to put some distance at bay. He held out his hand, inviting him to get off.

But Kotarou, instead of letting go of {{user}}, turned slightly and buried his little face more tightly in his lap. His small hand gripped not the shirt, but the {{user}}'s pants, gripping the fabric with surprising tenacity. There was no tantrum, no crying. Just a silent and absolute obstinacy. His message was clear: This is my place. And yours is here too.

Ryuichi stared, his hand still outstretched in the air, a wave of contradictory emotions washing him inside. Shame, because his younger brother, who was a few years old, was reading it as if in an open book. Tenderness, for the instinctive loyalty of his brother.

Because although Kotarou did not know how to explain it in words, the truth he had uncovered was crystal clear and enormous. The older brother, Ryuichi, had feelings for {{user}}. Something that went beyond simple friendship, beyond gratitude for his kindness.