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Sehun doesn’t realize it at first. It sneaks up on him, this habit of looking at Junmyeon, and by the time he notices, it’s already too late. It’s like breathing—so natural, so automatic that he doesn’t think to stop until it’s happening too often to ignore.
It begins innocently enough. A glance here, a look there. Junmyeon’s presence has always been a constant for him—leader, mentor, and older brother rolled into one. There’s a comfort in his steadiness, in the way Junmyeon takes everything in stride and keeps them all moving forward, no matter the weight of expectations pressing down on his shoulders.
But somewhere along the way, Sehun’s gaze lingers just a second too long. Like when they’re at the studio, and Junmyeon is running through dance moves, sweat beading on his forehead as he works through the same routine for the fifth time. Sehun finds himself watching the subtle shifts of muscle beneath his shirt, the determined set of his jaw, and the way his lips move as he counts under his breath. It’s then, standing at the back of the practice room, that Sehun realizes he’s not just looking at his hyung because he admires his work ethic. There’s something more there, a quiet fascination that tightens in his chest.
After that, it becomes harder to ignore. Sehun catches himself glancing at Junmyeon during rehearsals, interviews, even on stage. He tells himself it’s just to make sure everything’s okay, that it’s part of his duty as the youngest to look out for the leader, but it’s a flimsy excuse, and he knows it. Because there’s a difference between checking in and staring like he’s memorizing the curve of Junmyeon’s smile or the way his eyes light up when he laughs.
It’s not that Junmyeon is unaware of Sehun’s gaze. He catches it from time to time, raises an eyebrow as if to ask, What are you looking at? And each time, Sehun shrugs it off with a lazy grin, brushing the moment aside as if it doesn’t matter. But inside, he feels the quiet panic of someone who’s been caught in the act—caught wearing his heart in his eyes.
Sehun starts to wonder just how many times he’s been caught like this, with his gaze fixed on Junmyeon as though he can’t help himself. One time, two, three… more than he can count, really. And each time it happens, he tells himself that he needs to stop, that there’s nothing good that will come from this. But then there’s Junmyeon, with that kind smile and reassuring voice, and all of Sehun’s promises to look away seem to dissolve in an instant.
One evening, during a particularly grueling rehearsal, they take a break. The rest of the members scatter around the practice room, some slumping against the walls, others gulping down water. Junmyeon sits off to the side, leaning back on his hands and taking deep breaths, his hair sticking to his forehead from sweat. Sehun doesn’t know what compels him, but he wanders over and sits beside him, his shoulder brushing against Junmyeon’s.
Junmyeon doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head back and closes his eyes. The silence stretches between them, and Sehun can’t help but look again—really look. There’s a calmness in Junmyeon’s expression, a quiet resilience that always seems to keep him grounded. Sehun feels a strange ache in his chest, a longing he doesn’t know how to put into words.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice coming out softer than he intended.
Junmyeon opens his eyes and glances at him. There’s a flicker of surprise there, but then he smiles, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly. “I’m fine,” he replies. “Just tired.”
“Yeah,” Sehun murmurs, looking away quickly. “I get that.”
He should stand up, he knows. He should leave Junmyeon to rest and maybe even find a spot for himself across the room where he won’t be tempted to look again. But for some reason, his legs refuse to move. It’s as if being next to Junmyeon, even in silence, is enough to hold him in place.
As they sit there, the other members start to stir, signaling that it’s time to get back to practice. Junmyeon pushes himself up, his fingers brushing lightly against Sehun’s arm as he stands. It’s such a brief, casual touch that Sehun knows he shouldn’t think anything of it. And yet, he can still feel the warmth of it long after Junmyeon’s already walking away.
That night, as they’re packing up to leave, Sehun catches himself again—watching Junmyeon from across the room as he chats with one of the staff members. This time, Junmyeon doesn’t notice, and Sehun takes it as a small mercy. But there’s a bittersweetness to it, like the feeling of knowing that no one sees you even when you’re trying not to be seen.
How many times have I been caught staring? he wonders. He has lost count, and perhaps that’s the most telling part. Because no matter how many times he’s been caught, no matter how many silent promises he’s made to himself to stop, he knows that the next time Junmyeon smiles, or laughs, or even just exists within his line of sight, he’ll be looking again.
And maybe one day, Junmyeon will look back. But until then, Sehun will keep his secret, even if his eyes can’t help but give it away.
———
And Junmyeon does look back, though it happens almost accidentally. At first, he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it. It’s just that Sehun has always been there—at the edges of his vision, just within reach. It’s easy to look, easy to let his eyes drift over to Sehun whenever they’re together, as if by some unspoken agreement, they share the same space even when the world around them is chaotic.
It starts one evening after a particularly long practice. The members are sprawled out across the practice room floor, drained and exhausted. Junmyeon catches himself watching as Sehun stretches out his long legs, leaning back against the mirror with a tired sigh. His hair is tousled and damp with sweat, and his eyes are half-lidded, his usual sharpness softened by fatigue. There’s something so vulnerable in that moment, something almost tender about the way Sehun’s breathing evens out, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath.
Junmyeon quickly looks away, surprised by the sudden twist in his chest. What am I doing? he thinks, shaking his head as if to clear it. But the feeling lingers, leaving a quiet disquiet behind.
The next time it happens, Junmyeon tells himself it’s just curiosity. They’re at an event, surrounded by flashing lights and the buzz of conversations. Junmyeon catches a glimpse of Sehun through the crowd, and his gaze locks onto him, watching as Sehun leans in to speak to another member, his smile easy and effortless. Junmyeon is struck by the thought of how natural Sehun looks, how there’s an understated grace to the way he carries himself.
He doesn’t realize that he’s staring until Sehun glances up, and their eyes meet. It’s a fleeting moment, a quick exchange of glances that ends as soon as it begins. But it’s enough to make Junmyeon’s heart skip, just once, before he manages to tear his eyes away.
From then on, it’s like the quiet game they never agreed to play has shifted. Junmyeon becomes more aware of Sehun’s gaze—how often he finds those familiar eyes on him, and how Sehun never seems surprised to be caught looking. If anything, Sehun’s expression holds a quiet expectation, as if he’s been waiting for Junmyeon to notice all along.
It happens again one late night, when they’re the last two left in the practice room. The others have already gone home, but Junmyeon stayed behind to run through the choreography one more time, just to make sure it’s perfect. Sehun had been getting ready to leave, but somehow ended up staying, too, claiming he’d “forgotten” something.
Junmyeon doesn’t question it. Instead, he goes through the routine again, his movements slow and methodical, more out of habit than necessity at this point. When he finishes, he turns to find Sehun sitting on the floor, watching him with a look that’s somewhere between admiration and something else—something deeper, something that makes Junmyeon’s pulse jump.
“You’re still here?” Junmyeon asks, his voice sounding a bit too casual.
Sehun smiles, that familiar, easy smile that Junmyeon has seen countless times before. “Just making sure you don’t overwork yourself, hyung,” he says. There’s a teasing note in his voice, but his eyes hold a quiet sincerity that catches Junmyeon off guard.
Junmyeon’s gaze softens. “I’m fine,” he replies, though his voice wavers slightly. He should look away, he thinks. He should turn and gather his things and let this moment pass like all the others. But for some reason, he doesn’t. Instead, he steps closer, just enough that he can see the little details on Sehun’s face—the way the light catches in his eyes, the curve of his mouth as his smile fades into something more serious.
It’s then that Junmyeon realizes: he’s been looking back, really looking, for a while now. It’s as if all those times he caught Sehun’s gaze had slowly built into this quiet understanding, this shared space between them that didn’t need words to exist.
“Hyung,” Sehun says quietly, his voice low and unsure, as if he’s not quite certain where the moment will lead. “Are you…?”
But before Sehun can finish, Junmyeon reaches out, his hand brushing against Sehun’s shoulder. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet it feels like a confession. Sehun’s breath hitches, and for a second, neither of them moves. It’s as if time has folded in on itself, leaving just the two of them, standing on the precipice of something unspoken.
“Yeah,” Junmyeon says softly, his gaze steady as it meets Sehun’s. “I am.”
He’s not entirely sure what he’s admitting to—maybe it’s the fact that he’s noticed the way Sehun’s eyes always seem to find him first, or that he’s finally stopped pretending it doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s the acknowledgment that somewhere along the line, those quiet glances had turned into something more.
Sehun’s eyes widen just slightly, the corner of his mouth curving into the hint of a smile. There’s a lightness in his expression, as if he’s been holding his breath for a long time and has finally exhaled. “Took you long enough, hyung,” he says, his tone half-teasing, half-relieved.
Junmyeon huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as if to brush off the nervous energy prickling under his skin. “You should’ve said something,” he murmurs, but the look in his eyes tells a different story—one that says, I’m glad you didn’t.
Sehun just shrugs, his hand coming up to cover Junmyeon’s where it rests on his shoulder. “I didn’t have to,” he says softly. “You were always going to look back eventually.”
And maybe that’s the truth of it. Maybe there had always been this inevitability between them, waiting to be noticed. As they stand there, with the quiet hum of the practice room settling around them, Junmyeon lets himself meet Sehun’s gaze head-on. He’s not afraid of being caught anymore, because now, when he looks, Sehun is right there, looking back just as much.