The private training room felt too big for how silent it was.

Seon stood near the center, hands loose at his sides, watching the metal cube hover unsteadily in front of him. His expression was blank—tired, guarded. He hadn’t said more than two words since waking up.

Taeo didn’t comment on it.

He didn’t even look at him.

He was on the other side of the room, lifting a barbell with slow, controlled movements. Not a single glance. Not a single acknowledgement of the night before.

Seon tried not to care.

“Warm-up first,” Taeo said, voice flat.

“I know,” Seon replied quietly.

The cube wobbled. A soft warning tone beeped from the monitor. Seon inhaled through his nose, steadying his fingers.

“You’re uneven,” Taeo said without turning around.

“I’m trying.”

“Try properly.”

Seon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond. Didn’t want to fight. Didn’t want to talk.

The cube slipped. Hit the wall.

Taeo set the barbell down, still not looking at him. “Again.”

Seon lifted the cube again, silent, expression unreadable. He wasn’t shaking from power—he was shaking from restraint.

Last night had been humiliating.

Vulnerable.

Too close.

And now Taeo acted like it hadn’t happened at all.

Seon preferred that.

Or he told himself he did.

Taeo walked over, stopping just behind him, eyes fixed on the cube—still refusing to meet Seon’s gaze.

“Your pulse is high,” Taeo said.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” Calm. Impersonal. A diagnosis.

Seon exhaled sharply. “Then say what you want to say.”

“I just did.”

“No, you—”

He cut himself off. He didn’t want this conversation.

Seon stepped slightly away from him, distancing himself. The cube immediately destabilized again.

Taeo’s brow twitched. Not annoyance—calculation.

“You can’t focus,” he said simply.

“I’m working on it.”

“You’re resisting guiding.”

Still calm. Still clinical.

Seon’s fingers curled. He didn’t deny it

Taeo moved around him, checking the monitor, never letting his gaze land on Seon’s face.

“Last night helped your pathways,” he said. “You should be more stable today.”

Seon’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Don’t talk about last night.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t.”

A beat of silence.

Taeo didn’t push further. He simply nodded once and returned to his equipment, wiping sweat from his brow. His movements were controlled, detached—as if training with Seon was just another task on a checklist.

Seon hated how much that steadiness grounded him.

He hated how much it also hurt.

The cube rose steadily this time. The warning tone faded. The room hummed with low energy.

Taeo finally glanced at the monitor. Still—not at Seon.

“Better,” he said. “That’s the output you should aim for.”

Seon only nodded. Words felt useless today.

After a moment, Taeo spoke again, voice quieter but no softer.

“You don’t have to like me,” he said. “Or the guiding.”

Seon’s chest tightened.

“I know,” he answered.

“You just have to stay alive.”

Seon didn’t reply.

There was nothing to say to that.

Taeo picked up his water bottle, turning away again, always away.

And under his breath—so faintly Seon almost missed it—Taeo muttered,

“…Keep your eyes forward.”

Seon swallowed.

He didn’t know if that was an order.

A reminder.

Or a confession that Taeo couldn’t face him yet.