05.
Later, after our father urged my brother several times—his patience visibly wearing thin and just before he was about to send someone to forcibly bring him back—my brother finally moved home.
I was actually a little happy. His room was arranged right next to mine, which meant I could see him every day.
On the first day he returned, I stood at the top of the stairs, watching him carry his luggage into the room that had long remained silent.
He wore a loose black turtleneck sweater that made his skin appear even paler. The whole of him looked like a shadow blurred from an ink painting—quiet, distant, untouchable.
Father stood at the end of the corridor, giving him a few brief instructions in a cold tone. He lowered his eyes and nodded, never once looking at me.
He was like a stranger, forcibly stuffed into this family.
Suddenly, I realized I wasn't all that happy anymore.
06.
My brother barely ever left his room. Meals were brought to him by the servants. He only showed up when our father summoned him, sitting quietly at the farthest edge of the dining table—like a wandering soul.
I tried to start conversations with him, asking what food he liked or what hobbies he had. He only gave brief replies and never met my gaze.
"Bro, where did you live when you were abroad?" One evening after dinner, I couldn't help but ask, pretending not to know.
He was sipping soup at the time. His fingers paused slightly, and the spoon clinked softly against the edge of the bowl.
"…City B."
"Alone?"
"Yeah."
"Didn't you get lonely?"
He looked up at me—for the first time, really looked at me. His eyes were a pure, deep black, like a winter night sky—cold, devoid of light.
"I got used to it."
Those three words sounded as light as a sigh.
My chest suddenly felt tight.
07.
I started deliberately creating "coincidences."
Like passing by his door by chance.
Or running into him in the kitchen when he was getting water.
Or appearing in the garden when he was sunbathing.
Each time, he simply nodded faintly, then quickly walked away.
Until that night, I heard a dull thud from the room next door—like something heavy had fallen to the floor.
I rushed over and knocked on the door. "Bro? Are you okay?"
No answer.
I knocked twice more—still no response.
I turned the doorknob—it wasn't locked.
The room was dark, only lit by moonlight streaming through the window, outlining the figure curled up beside the bed. He was clutching his stomach, his face deathly pale, sweat glistening on his forehead.
"Stomachache?" I rushed over, squatted down, and tried to help him up.
He instinctively shrank back, brows furrowed. "…I'm fine."
"This is fine?" I touched his forehead—it was clammy and ice cold. "You have a fever?"
He shook his head, breathing a little labored. "Old problem… I ate something wrong."
Then I noticed the half-finished glass of milk on his nightstand.
I remembered from the investigation file: my brother was likely lactose intolerant. But no one seemed to remember that.
Without hesitation, I lifted him into my arms. His body stiffened, and he instinctively clutched my shirt. "…Put me down."
"Shut up," I said, carrying him out. "We're going to the hospital."
He struggled weakly, his voice feeble yet stubborn. "…No need."
"If you move again, I'll call Father over right now."
He immediately went quiet.
08.
That night, I stayed with him in the hospital the whole time.
The doctor said it was acute gastroenteritis. They gave him an IV and told him to rest.
He lay on the hospital bed with his eyes closed, lashes casting soft shadows on his pale cheeks. He looked like a painting.
I sat beside the bed, watching the IV drip fall one drop at a time, suddenly feeling absurd—
We were brothers, yet more distant than strangers.
"…Why did you drink the milk?" I finally asked.
He opened his eyes, paused for a moment, then answered softly, "Father had it prepared."
"If you didn't tell him, how would he know you can't drink it?"
He glanced at me. His look said it all—
What's the point of saying it?
And in that moment, I understood.
In this house, no one cared about what a Beta liked.
09.
From then on, I started to observe him.
He didn't like milk, but he drank black coffee.
He hated sweets, but could eat an extra slice of bittersweet matcha cake.
He never spoke first, but if you asked about a book, he'd answer seriously.
He was like a closed book—and I had finally found a way to open it.
10.
One late night, I heard muffled coughing from the room next door.
I knocked. "Bro? Still awake?"
There was a brief pause before a low "Mm" came from within.
I pushed the door open. He was leaning against the headboard reading, the warm bedside lamp softening his edges—he looked a little less cold.
"Caught a cold?" I walked over and touched his forehead.
He didn't flinch, just shook his head gently. "Throat hurts a bit."
I took a pack of throat lozenges from my pocket and tossed it onto his bed. "Try these."
He looked surprised, picked up the box, and glanced at me. "…You carry these around?"
"Yeah." I shrugged. "Heard you cough the other day, so I bought them."
He stared at me for a few seconds—and then, unexpectedly, smiled.
It was the first time I saw him smile.
Like a crack suddenly split the frozen surface of a lake, revealing the flowing water beneath.
I stood there dazed, my heart slammed by something unseen.
11.
After that, he began letting me into his room.
Sometimes to borrow books, sometimes just to chat, sometimes simply to sit there and do our own things.
He liked to curl up in the single-seater by the window when he read.
The sunlight filtering through the curtains gilded him in a soft golden hue.
Occasionally, he'd look up and catch me staring, raising an eyebrow: "…Something wrong?"
"No," I'd smile and look away. "Just thought—you're really good-looking."
The tips of his ears would flush red, and he'd lower his head to continue reading, lips curving up ever so slightly.
12.
Honestly, I think I'm pretty handsome too.
Maybe not the kind of beauty that makes people fall at first sight like my brother,
But we were born of the same parents—well-proportioned features, tall and well-built.
Definitely a presentable Alpha.
My scent, too, is more pleasant than most Alphas'.
Too bad my brother can't smell it.
Sometimes I'd stand in front of the mirror, carefully examining my face, wondering if he'd ever fall for me.
I'd study each line and angle, hoping to find a trait he might like.
I'd compare my brows, cheekbones, jawline—trying to see if I resembled him even the slightest bit.
But I didn't.
We didn't look alike at all—
He was a Beta, I was an Alpha.
Our bone structure, aura, even the way we looked at people were completely different.
My brother's gaze was always gentle, warm, like he could accidentally stir someone's heart.
Mine was different—when I looked at people, it felt like I was about to devour them.
No wonder Father never let me handle clients.
When my brother smiled, everyone listened.
When I frowned, people just wanted to run.
I thought about it for a long time, but never figured it out.
Still…
If my brother ever liked an Alpha,
I think he'd like me.