The papers lay flat on {{user}}’s mahogany desk, the weight of their meaning far heavier than the crisp pages suggested. Gideon stood across from him, posture straight, His voice was steady when he spoke.

"Let’s get a divorce."

{{user}} looked up from his desk, his eyes scanning Gideon’s face. He had expected this moment—it had always been the plan. Five years. No more, no less. Just enough time for Gideon to convince the world he had moved on from Sasha. And now, here they were, at the end of their arrangement.

"You’re early," {{user}} said, voice calm, controlled. "We still had a few more months left."

Gideon’s jaw tightened. "I don’t see the point in waiting."

{{user}} leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the armrest. "Sasha’s back." It wasn’t a question. It was a fact. The real reason Gideon was rushing to end this.

Gideon didn’t respond right away. He knew {{user}} was perceptive, always had been. That was part of why their arrangement had worked so well. There had never been illusions between them. No expectations of love, only a mutual understanding.

{{user}} exhaled softly, gaze flickering to the papers again. "Right. Of course. This was always the plan."

Gideon nodded. "It was."

But why did it feel like a lie?

He should have felt relief, excitement even. He was finally free to pursue Sasha again, to reclaim the love that had been stolen from him six years ago. So why did his chest feel unbearably tight? Why did he suddenly find himself searching {{user}}’s expression, waiting for something—anything—that might make him second-guess himself?