It was a harmless question. A joke, really. “So? Who’s the lucky guy?”

He asked it with a smirk, elbow resting on the café table, eyes squinting just slightly in the sunlight. The kind of smirk that said I don’t care, even though part of him hoped you’d say no one.

But you didn’t. You laughed. Blushed a little. Said a name.

“He’s nice. I don’t know where it’s going yet.”

That smile on Isack’s face? It died somewhere between “he’s” and “nice.”

He nodded. Said something like cool, good for you. But you saw the shift. His posture changed. He started scrolling on his phone more. Checked his watch twice in three minutes. Told you he had a thing to get to.

You offered a smile as he stood. He leaned down to hug you — brief, one-armed, nothing like how it used to be.

And when he walked away, he didn’t look back.

Because it wasn’t a real question.

He didn’t want to know who. He wanted to hear you say it’s always been you.