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Seongje doesn’t notice it at first.
Or maybe he does.
He just doesn’t say anything.
Baekjin starts keeping track of the small things. Not deliberately, not in a way that would look like effort.
It’s quieter than that. Subtle. The way Seongje favors his left side when he’s tired. The way his voice
drops when he’s lying, not deeper, just flatter. The way he lingers in doorways like he’s deciding whether
to stay or leave.
He always stays.
Baekjin makes sure of it.
“You’re late,” he says one night, not looking up from his desk.
Seongje shrugs off his jacket, tossing it aside without care. “You say that every time.”
“And you keep being late.”
“Still here, though.”
Baekjin hums softly, like that’s the only part that matters.
Because it is.
He doesn’t need to look to know Seongje’s watching him. He can feel it, the weight of it, restless,
searching for something it won’t name. It’s always like that after Seongje’s been out too long. Too many
hours spent somewhere Baekjin didn’t send him.
Too many variables.
“Come here,” Baekjin says.
There’s a pause.
Not long.
Just enough.
Then footsteps.
Slow at first, then closer, until they stop right in front of his desk.
Baekjin sets his pen down carefully before he looks up.
Seongje looks fine.
That’s the problem.
No obvious injuries, nothing fresh, nothing easy to point at and fix. Just that same crooked expression, a
a little too sharp, a little too loose, like something’s off-balance under the surface.
Baekjin leans back slightly in his chair, studying him.
“You find something to do?” he asks.
Seongje smirks. “Something like that.”
“With who.”
It’s immediate.
Seongje’s grin flickers, just barely. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Blunt. Uncomplicated.
Seongje exhales a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “You don’t usually ask.”
“I usually don’t need to.”
That lands.
Not hard.
But it settles.
Baekjin watches the shift, the way Seongje’s shoulders tighten just slightly, like he’s bracing for something
that hasn’t been said yet.
Good.
“Hand,” Baekjin says.
Seongje scoffs. “I’m not bleeding.”
“Hand.”
A beat.
Then Seongje steps closer, resting his palm against the desk instead of offering it properly, like he’s
making a point of it.
Baekjin ignores that.
He reaches out, takes his wrist instead, turns it slightly under the light. His grip is steady, practiced,
familiar. He’s done this too many times to hesitate.
There’s a faint scrape along Seongje’s knuckles. Nothing serious.
Still.
Baekjin’s thumb presses against it anyway.
Seongje watches his face.
“You check everyone like this?” he asks, voice quieter now.
Baekjin doesn’t look up. “No.”
“Just me.”
“Yes.”
Seongje huffs, something softer than amusement slipping through. “Lucky me.”
Baekjin finally lifts his gaze.
There’s something there.
Not soft.
But certain.
“Don’t mistake it for that,” he says.
Seongje’s smile lingers anyway. “Then what should I call it?”
Baekjin doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers shift slightly, sliding from Seongje’s wrist to his hand,
holding it there without urgency, without reason that needs to be explained.
“I don’t like things that belong to me getting damaged,” he says.
It’s quiet.
Matter-of-fact.
Like it’s obvious.
Seongje goes still.
Not dramatic.
Not suddenly.
Just still.
“Belong to you,” he repeats.
Baekjin tilts his head slightly. “Is that unclear?”
Seongje lets out a breath, something uneven threading through it, but he covers it with a grin that comes
back just a little too fast. “You’ve got a funny way of saying you care.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah,” Seongje mutters. “I know.”
But he doesn’t pull his hand away.
Doesn’t even try.
Baekjin notices that too.
Of course he does.
The room quiets around them, the kind of quiet that settles into the space between breaths. Seongje
shifts closer without thinking about it, just enough that Baekjin can feel the warmth of him, the lingering
tension that hasn’t worked itself out yet.
“You’ve been watching me,” Seongje says after a moment.
Baekjin doesn’t deny it.
“You’ve been harder to keep lately.”
There’s no accusation in it.
Just observation.
Seongje’s mouth curves. “Maybe I don’t want to be kept.”
Baekjin’s grip tightens.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to remind him.
“You wouldn’t be here if that were true.”
That lands deeper than it should.
Seongje’s eyes flicker, something raw passing through them before it gets buried under something easier,
something sharper.
“Maybe I just don’t have anywhere better to go.”
Baekjin studies him.
Really studies him.
The cracks are there if you know where to look. The way his posture never fully relaxes. The way his
gaze lingers a second too long, like he’s waiting to be told something he won’t ask for.
Baekjin’s thumb shifts, brushing lightly over his knuckles again, slower this time.
Deliberate.
“Then don’t,” he says.
Seongje blinks. “Don’t what.”
“Go anywhere else.”
Simple.
Final.
Seongje lets out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t hold. “You don’t get to decide that.”
Baekjin’s gaze sharpens slightly. “I already have.”
That.
that does something.
Seongje inhales, shallow, like the air shifted without warning.
“You’re serious,” he says.
“I don’t repeat myself.”
Silence settles again, heavier now, but not uncomfortable. Not exactly.
Seongje leans in just slightly, closing the space without making it obvious.
“Are you always this controlling,” he murmurs, “or am I special?”
Baekjin doesn’t move away.
“If you weren’t,” he says, “I wouldn’t bother.”
That’s the closest thing to honesty he offers.
Seongje goes quiet.
Not restless.
Not mocking.
Just quiet.
Baekjin finally lets go of his hand, but the absence lingers, like something’s still there, something not quite released.
“Sit,” he says.
Seongje doesn’t argue this time.
He drags the chair closer, drops into it, posture loose but not careless, not like before.
Baekjin picks his pen back up.
The room settles.
Paper. Breathing. Presence.
After a while, Seongje speaks again, softer now.
“You ever get tired of me?”
Baekjin doesn’t look up.
“No.”
“Even like this?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Why.”
Baekjin’s pen stills for just a second.
Then moves again.
“Because you stay.”
That’s it.
Nothing more.
Seongje exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair, eyes half-lidded but fixed on Baekjin like he’s trying to
understand something he doesn’t have the words for.
“Yeah,” he mutters.
Quiet.
Almost careful.
“Guess I do.”
Baekjin doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t need to.
He already knows.
Seongje always comes back.
And Baekjin
never lets him go.