Ryul observed the young man sitting limply on the edge of the bed, his posture crumpled in on itself. Jihoon's pale hands were twisted in the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white from the grip. The tremble running through him was subtle at first, but as Ryul watched, it deepened—like a shiver that wouldn't stop.
He looked like he might break.
Ryul had seen this before—had comforted people on the verge before. But something about Jihoon now made his chest tighten in a different way. This wasn't the same quiet strength Ryul had glimpsed before in him. This was raw and unraveling, like the boy was barely holding himself together by threads.
He stepped forward slowly, then crouched in front of Jihoon. Without a word, he reached out, carefully prying Jihoon's hands away from the wrinkled fabric. They were clammy with cold, fingers stiff and shaking. But Ryul didn't let go. He held them gently, anchoring him with the quiet steadiness of his touch.
