Chapter 8
Dusk settled in. The heavy autumn downpour over the suburban site finally subsided, leaving behind a damp atmosphere and streaks of mist clinging to the tall glass windows of the workshop.
James sat at his private desk. His button-down shirt, rolled up past his elbows, was mostly dry, though the long tear along his right forearm still exposed a smudge of dried, darkened blood. Leaning back in his chair, his left hand moved deftly across the keyboard to finalize the operational cost projection for Director Dai.
The frayed fabric rubbing against raw skin produced a stinging ache with every movement, yet his expression remained perfectly blank. He suppressed the discomfort behind a composure that was entirely unreadable. His innate self-reliance and quiet resilience made it impossible for James to display vulnerability in front of anyone-especially refusing to make the younger student feel burdened or guilty.
Juhoon leaned against a model display shelf, arms crossed over his chest, his cold gray eyes locked onto every movement of the senior.
He saw it with crystalline clarity: James was deliberately shifting all operational effort to his left hand. His right hand-the very hand that had reached out to shield him from the collapsing scaffolding hours earlier-was awkwardly tucked below the wooden edge of the desk.
James's unyielding nature and habit of carrying every burden alone sent a wave of sharp, protective irritation straight into Juhoon's chest. He smirked slightly, but his eyes held no trace of triumph-only a stern, suffocating concern.
Juhoon pushed himself off the wooden shelf. Without a word, he walked straight over to the corner of the studio, picked up the personal first-aid kit, and turned back.
SCRAPE.
The wooden stool scraped harshly against the floorboards. Juhoon dragged the stool down directly beside James, cutting off his line of sight to the computer screen.
James stopped typing. Frowning subtly, his tranquil eyes met the younger man's gaze: "What are you doing?"
Juhoon offered no answer. He casually reached out, grabbed James's right wrist, and pulled it toward himself.
Out of sheer independence and a reluctance to bother anyone, James pulled back, gripping the edge of the desk tightly: "Let go. I can handle it myself. Go back to your work."
Juhoon tightened his grip around James's wrist. The younger man's hold was so firm that James couldn't break free without causing a ridiculous tug-of-war. Juhoon looked up, his voice terse and laced with suppressed annoyance:
"You're quick at structural calculations, but you plan on letting a bleeding arm heal on its own? Sit still."
James froze. He looked at Juhoon's hand clamping his wrist, then at the open first-aid kit on the desk. His sense of self-reliance ran headfirst into the younger man's unyielding resolve. Knowing he couldn't simply brush it off, James slowly relaxed his arm muscle and leaned back into his chair.
However, the composed senior didn't miss the chance to throw back a quiet remark in a flat, effortless tone:
"A young master like you actually knows how to perform first aid? I thought you only knew how to dismiss other people's drawings."
Juhoon, who was pulling out a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic alcohol, paused mid-motion upon hearing the remark. He raised his head, staring directly into James's stoic face. The corner of Juhoon's lips tugged into a cool, sharp smile:
"Watch your tongue, Senior. If my hand slips and I press this alcohol cotton too hard into your wound, don't blame me."
With that, Juhoon lowered his head.
The usual arrogance and sharp angles on the younger man's face seemed to soften completely beneath the warm yellow light. Juhoon held James's forearm, gently using the alcohol cotton to wipe away the dried blood surrounding the tear.
His movements were astonishingly careful. Every time the cotton touched the edge of raw skin, Juhoon paused slightly, his breath dropping low as if terrified of causing James pain.
The cool sensation of alcohol mingled with the warmth of Juhoon's fingers supporting his arm made the skin on James's forearm twitch faintly. James turned his head away, staring fixedly at the empty space outside the window to hide the subtle flush spreading across his composure.
A senior who had always stood independent and protected others was now sitting completely still while a younger student meticulously cleaned his wound-this reversal of dynamic cracked James's impenetrable armor wide open.
Juhoon peeled the backing off a medical bandage, carefully placing it over the tear on James's arm. He smoothed down the edges so it adhered firmly to the skin, but his hand remained anchored to James's wrist, refusing to let go.
A heavy silence settled over the workshop, broken only by the faint patter of residual rain outside and the steady breathing of the two men.
Juhoon raised his head. Free of provocation or triumphant smirks, his dark eyes were now filled with raw, unhidden worry and genuine heartache. He lightly traced his thumb over the edge of the bandage, his voice dropping into a low register:
"Don't throw yourself out like that next time. Would it kill you to let someone else worry about you for once?"
The sincere words struck straight at the void James so desperately tried to cover up with his self-reliance.
James's breath hitched for a single second. The senior's tranquil eyes flickered before Juhoon's raw concern. He didn't pull back, nor did he bow his head. James slowly turned his face, his gaze regaining its habitual composure and firmness, locking directly onto Juhoon's eyes.
He countered in a flat, unyielding voice:
"So you wanted me to stand by and watch you get crushed by scaffolding, just so I could come back here, sit still, and let you worry about me?"
Juhoon caught his breath.
James's counter-question pierced through the narrow space. It was brutally realistic, completely dismantling Juhoon's press, yet simultaneously exposing an undeniable truth: In that split second of danger, protecting Juhoon was an absolute instinct driven by responsibility and unconscious care-he would rather take the blow himself than stand idly by and watch Juhoon get hurt.
The two stared at each other, a prolonged silence stretching across the desk.
Juhoon didn't answer. He blinked, the cold gray intensity in his eyes softening into a subtle ripple. He understood this senior all too well-James was far too proud, independent, and steadfast; he would rather construct the most dignified rebuttal than ever admit to his own vulnerability or hesitation.
James smoothly withdrew his hand from Juhoon's grip. Pulling down his shirt sleeve, he adjusted the neatly bandaged cuff, then turned casually back to face his computer screen.
"If you're done, go home," James said evenly, his fingers resuming their rhythmic movement over the keyboard. "Thanks for today."
Juhoon remained on the wooden stool for a few seconds longer. He looked down at his empty hand, then curled his lips into a smile-a smile devoid of irritation, carrying only deep understanding and unshakeable obsession.
Standing up, Juhoon packed away the first-aid kit and placed it back in the corner. He walked toward the studio door, pausing for a beat before turning his head toward the senior still steadfastly pushing himself beneath the yellow light:
"See you tomorrow morning, Senior. Take care of that arm."
The studio door clicked shut. James stopped typing. He raised his neatly bandaged right hand, staring at the gauze that still held a lingering trace of warmth from Juhoon's fingers.
The glass window reflected his composed face, but the rapid, heavy thrum of his heart against his chest could no longer be denied.
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