It looked more like a facility than a home—sterile walls, smooth metal floors, the faint hum of an air purifier hidden somewhere in the vents. Everything smelled too clean. Too controlled.

“Regulation housing,” Dr. Han had said. “To ensure proper synchronization.”

Taeo entered first, scanning the place with a soldier’s precision. “Functional,” he said flatly.

“It’s supposed to be livable, not just functional,” Seon muttered, dragging his bag inside.

The layout was simple—two bedrooms, one bath, and a shared kitchen that gleamed like it had never been used. Taeo’s eyes immediately landed on the left room.

“I’ll take the bigger one.”

Seon looked at him, incredulous. “They’re identical.”

“The left one has better air circulation.”

“It’s the same air, Taeo.”

He didn’t answer. Just disappeared into the room.

Seon sighed, whispering to himself, “Unbelievable.”

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

Seon poked at his food while Taeo ate like nothing was wrong. The faint light from Seon’s silver bracelet pulsed again—soft at first, then brighter, matching the rhythm of his heart.

Across the table, Taeo didn’t even look up.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” Seon finally asked.

“About what?” Taeo said, eyes still on his plate.

“My bracelet. It’s glowing.”

“I noticed.”

“And you’re just gonna ignore it?”

“You didn’t ask for help.”

Seon’s brows furrowed. “So you’re only gonna move if I beg you for it?”

“You’re my assigned Esper, not my responsibility.”

That stung more than it should have.

Seon swallowed hard, setting his fork down. “Right. Guess I should’ve known better.”

The light on his bracelet blinked faster—unstable, warning red. Taeo’s watch mirrored it. He still didn’t glance up.

Seon stood abruptly. “Forget it.”

“Your stability’s at twenty percent,” Taeo said flatly.

“Then you say that while actually looking at me.”

Taeo didn’t.

So Seon left.

It didn’t take long before Taeo’s watch blared a warning.

Critical instability.

He clicked his tongue, stood, and went straight to Seon’s room.

When he opened the door, the air felt wrong—heavy, buzzing with uncontrolled energy. Seon sat hunched on the floor, breathing unevenly, his hair glowing faintly under the light. Papers floated off the desk, the curtains fluttering though no wind came.

“Your readings are dropping fast,” Taeo said.

“Don’t,” Seon muttered, voice hoarse.

“I’ll guide you.”

“I said don’t.”

“You’re shaking the whole damn room, Seon.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Stop being stubborn.”

“I don’t need your pity!”

“This isn’t pity. It’s survival.”

Taeo moved closer, but before he could reach him, a telekinetic wave shoved him back—hard. The lamp shattered, flickering light dancing across the walls.

Taeo steadied himself, narrowed his eyes, and took a step forward again.

“Enough.”

“I said—don’t!”

He didn’t listen. In a sudden, firm motion, he dropped to one knee in front of Seon, grabbed his trembling wrists—and before Seon could push him away again, Taeo pulled him into his arms.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t even firm. Just… steady.

Grounding.

Seon stiffened, the glow of his bracelet flickering wildly. “What are you—”

“Guiding you,” Taeo said quietly. “Whether you like it or not.”

The warmth of his chest pressed against Seon’s shoulder. The chaotic pulse in the air began to slow, little by little, every beat syncing with Taeo’s breathing. His power, wild and trembling, began to calm under the rhythm.

“Taeo…” Seon’s voice cracked, weak. “You don’t even—”

“Look at you?” Taeo’s tone softened just slightly. “I don’t need to look to know you’re about to collapse.”

Seon’s breath hitched. The fight drained out of him completely, his power fading until only silence filled the room. His body relaxed against Taeo’s hold.

Within minutes, his breathing evened out—slow, tired. The glow on his bracelet dimmed to a gentle blue.

Taeo didn’t let go until Seon’s head dropped lightly against his shoulder, asleep.

He stared at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, quietly:

“Idiot.”

But his grip didn’t move until long after Seon had fallen fully asleep.