Mitsuki Kiryu.

Too handsome for his own good. Too kind for yours.

He was the kind of boyfriend people wrote about in novels—refined, gentle, noble despite his wealth, always attentive, always thoughtful. He remembered your favorite tea, your favorite shade of lipstick, the way you liked your hand held when you were nervous. He made you feel seen. Safe. Cherished.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because Mitsuki wasn’t just good to you.

He was good to everyone.

You watched from a few steps away as he smiled politely at the girl he’d just rescued—some gang members had cornered her, and Mitsuki, being Mitsuki, had stepped in without hesitation. He’d handled it with grace, with calm authority, and now he was sending her off with a warm farewell.

“Take care, okay? Call me if those guys bother you again. Bye bye!”

She smiled at him, cheeks flushed, eyes lingering a little too long before she turned and walked away.

And you—

You felt it.

That quiet sting.

Jealousy.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a small, sharp twist in your chest. Because technically, there was no problem. A girl was in trouble, and your boyfriend—your perfect boyfriend—did what anyone decent would do.

But still.

He turned back to you, casual and radiant, his fingers slipping between yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Honey, where should we go next?” he asked, voice light. “There’s a new restaurant that just opened. Would you like to go?”

He didn’t notice the flicker in your eyes. Didn’t see the way your smile faltered for half a second.

Because Mitsuki was perfect.

And perfection, sometimes, was hard to hold.