What Dylan Couldn’t Look Away From

Dylan had learned how to survive by paying attention.

It was a skill he’d picked up long before MARS — long before Jun — back when noticing things meant staying ahead of them. In the office, it made him efficient. On stage, precise. Around Jun, it made him dangerous to himself.

Jun sat three chairs away in the conference room, head bent over a tablet, lashes casting shadows against his cheeks. The fluorescent lights made everyone look harsher, flatter — everyone except Jun. Dylan hated that. Hated the way Jun always seemed untouched by the ugliness of places like this, as if the world hadn’t figured out how to bruise him properly yet.

Dylan forced his gaze back to the contract in front of him.

Words slid past without meaning.

All he could think about was the way Jun had flinched earlier in the rehearsal room — that split second when Po and Thame stood too close, when something private had happened in public. Dylan had seen it. He always did. Jun reacted before he hid it, and Dylan caught those moments like contraband.

Jun wasn’t in love with Po the way Dylan was in love with Jun. Dylan knew that. Jun’s love was quiet, hopeful, built on gentleness. Dylan’s was sharper, edged with frustration, with years of waiting that had nowhere to go.

Still, it hurt.

“Dylan.”

He looked up. The manager was watching him.

“Thoughts?” she asked.

Dylan nodded once, offered a smile he’d practiced too many times. “Looks fine.”

Jun glanced at him then. Just briefly. Their eyes met — Jun’s soft, questioning; Dylan’s too aware. Something passed between them, something unfinished. Jun looked away first.

Always Jun.

The meeting ended in a shuffle of chairs and half-finished sentences. People stood, talked, moved on. Dylan stayed seated a moment longer, watching Jun gather his things with careful hands. He noticed how Jun always folded his papers twice before putting them away. How he paused like he might forget something important — not an object, but a feeling.

In the hallway, Dylan caught up to him.

“Hey,” he said.

Jun slowed. “Yeah?”

Up close, Jun smelled faintly of soap and something sweeter Dylan couldn’t name. It made his chest ache. Dylan wanted to say a hundred things — Are you okay? Did I imagine that look? Why do you always look like you’re leaving even when you stay? Instead, he said the safest thing.

“You missed a step earlier.”

Jun’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. “I know.”

Silence stretched between them, thin and vibrating.

“You don’t usually miss,” Dylan added quietly.

Jun laughed — a soft, dismissive sound. “Guess I’m human.”

Dylan wanted to tell him he’d never been anything else. That being human was the most dangerous thing about him.