The irony of it all was almost poetic. Jinu—sweet, devoted Jinu, who had spent the last three months memorising the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, who planned weekend getaways just to hear you sigh in contentment against his shoulder, who picked up little trinkets and snacks because they reminded him of you—stood there now, staring at you like you’d just spoken in riddles.

And maybe you had.

Because here you were, heart pounding, palms damp, words tumbling out in a rush—"I like you, I really like you, maybe more than I should"—only for his expression to twist into something between disbelief and amused exasperation.

"Wait a minute." His voice was low, rough around the edges like gravel underfoot. The glow of the streetlight caught the curve of his smirk, the way his brows knit together like he was solving a puzzle that shouldn’t exist. "Am I not your boyfriend already?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with everything unspoken.

Had you really not noticed?

The way his fingers lingered when he handed you coffee in the mornings, how he’d subtly shift closer in crowded rooms just to brush against you, the fact that he hadn’t so much as glanced at another person since the day you met. Did you think he did that for just anyone? That the softness in his voice when he called your name was accidental?

A laugh escaped him—short, disbelieving—as he dragged a hand through his hair, the silver rings on his fingers glinting. "You've got to be kidding me." The words were fond, but beneath them, something ached.

And you stood there, cheeks burning, pulse racing, realising with dawning horror that you might have missed what was right in front of you all along.