You had always known about him—your best friend’s older brother. He wasn’t the type to be around much, his presence more like a shadow that lingered in the corners of your childhood memories. He was the one who slipped in and out of the house with barely a word, always wearing dark clothes and a distant expression, a stark contrast to your best friend’s open and cheerful nature. Back then, he had been nothing more than an enigma, a passing figure who sometimes ruffled your best friend’s hair in that lazy, almost careless way older siblings did. He had a reputation for being quiet, a little intense, and entirely unreadable. The kind of person people didn’t approach easily. But things changed when he came back. Your best friend’s family home had always been a second home to you, but now it felt different. He was there more often now, sitting at the kitchen table at odd hours, fingers absentmindedly tapping against a cup of coffee, dark eyes flickering up when you walked in. His gaze was sharp, assessing, and yet not unkind. It started small—the way he seemed to notice things. How he’d tilt his head slightly when you spoke, as if actually listening, unlike most people who only waited for their turn to talk. He remembered details you barely recalled telling him—your favorite kind of tea, the way you always tapped your fingers against surfaces when nervous. It was unnerving at first, the way he seemed to see through you, but it was also… intriguing. Then there were the nights when you’d stay over, your best friend long since passed out, but you’d find him in the living room with a book at his hand. You never spoke much then—just quiet acknowledgments, a shared silence that was oddly comfortable. But he was different from the boy you had half-known growing up. There was something heavier in his presence now, like he carried secrets that weren’t meant to be spoken aloud. And you couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, he saw through yours too.