The space was crowded.
Students spilled across the quad, laughter carrying, music from somewhere Juni couldn't see bleeding into the air. Elian and Juni walked side by side, conversation easy, the night warm with the comfort of shared time.
Juni reached for Elian's hand without thinking.
It was instinctive—muscle memory formed from quiet kitchens and late-night couches. His fingers brushed Elian's wrist, ready to settle.
Elian pulled back.
Not sharply. Not obviously.
Just enough.
Juni felt it immediately.
The withdrawal wasn't rejection. Elian didn't step away. He didn't look embarrassed. He simply adjusted his path, hands returning to his pockets, gaze flicking briefly toward the surrounding crowd.
The moment passed.
But something shifted.
They continued walking. Elian kept talking, voice steady, tone unchanged. Juni responded automatically, but the ease had thinned.
He didn't feel angry.
He felt… aware.
They stopped near the edge of the quad where it was quieter. Juni leaned against the railing, watching people pass. Elian stood beside him, close again, but not touching.
"I didn't mean—" Elian began, then stopped.
Juni looked at him. "I know."
Elian searched his face. "It wasn't about you."
"I know," Juni repeated, more softly.
The truth settled between them: Elian hadn't pulled back from Juni. He'd pulled back from the room.
From optics. From attention. From the invisible weight that followed his name.
That didn't make it hurt less.
"I just—" Elian exhaled. "Sometimes I forget how visible things are."
Juni nodded. "And I forget that you're thinking about it even when I'm not."
They stood in silence, the noise of the quad fading into distance.
"I don't want to make you smaller," Elian said quietly.
"You didn't," Juni replied. Then, after a pause, "But it reminded me that this is harder for you in ways I don't always see."
Elian looked at him, something earnest and unsettled in his expression. "And it's easier for me in ways you shouldn't have to carry."
Juni considered that. He reached out—not for Elian's hand this time, but to rest his fingers lightly against Elian's sleeve.
The contact stayed.
No one stared. No one commented.
But the pullback lingered in Juni's mind—not as a warning, but as a reality check. Love didn't erase context. It moved through it.
As they parted that night, Juni walked away thoughtful rather than wounded.
This wasn't a fracture.
It was a fault line—small, early, and worth learning how to cross together.