The question is framed politely.
That's what makes it dangerous.
"Is it appropriate," a student asks during the next meeting, tone light but calculated, "for personal relationships to overlap with leadership roles in collaborative projects?"
The room stills—not frozen, but attentive.
Juni feels it immediately. The familiar tightening in his chest. The instinct to shrink, to wait for Elian to answer—to let power speak on his behalf.
Elian doesn't.
He stays silent.
He looks at Juni.
The invitation is unmistakable.
Juni takes a breath.
"I'd like to answer that," he says.
Heads turn. Not dismissive. Curious.
"Our relationship isn't a qualification," Juni continues evenly. "And it's not leverage. If there's concern about fairness, then let's talk about process—clear roles, transparent feedback, shared accountability."
He meets the speaker's gaze. "But questioning someone's presence because of who they're close to is not neutral. It's selective."
The silence stretches.
Juni doesn't rush to fill it.
Another student clears their throat. "That's… fair."
A faculty advisor nods slowly. "We can formalize review structures if needed."
The meeting moves on.
Afterward, in the hallway, Juni's hands shake faintly—not from fear, but from adrenaline. Elian walks beside him, careful not to touch, giving space without withdrawing.
"You didn't have to do that," Elian says quietly.
"I wanted to," Juni replies.
They stop near the exit. Sunlight filters through the glass, soft and ordinary.
"I know you could've stepped in," Juni continues. "But I needed to speak for myself."
Elian nods, respect clear in his expression. "Thank you for trusting me not to."
Juni smiles—a small, grounded thing. "Thank you for listening."
Later, alone, Juni sits with the echo of his own voice in the room. The words hadn't been perfect. His hands had trembled.
But he hadn't disappeared.
Agency, he realizes, doesn't arrive all at once.
It arrives the moment you decide not to wait for permission.
And for the first time since university began, Juni feels something solid settle beneath his feet—not certainty, not confidence.
Ownership.
Of his voice.
Of his place.
Of himself.
Love didn't make him smaller.
It gave him space to stand.