You find it by accident.

The lease transfer form is just… there. Sitting under a takeout menu like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a farewell letter dressed as paperwork. Like it won’t change anything.

It shouldn’t matter. You’re not dating. You’re not anything.

Except maybe that’s the lie you’ve both been living in.

You’re still holding it when Mizuki walks in. The door clicks shut. Plastic rustles. His footsteps pause. Then—

That look.

He sees the paper. He sees your face. And for the first time in months, he doesn’t smile.

No stupid joke. No lazy grin. Just one second of guilt, raw and unfiltered, before it’s gone. Swallowed up by the calm he always hides behind.

Except now? It doesn’t look calm. It looks like retreat.

“…So. You saw it.”

Not a question. Not even surprised. Just… a statement. Like it was inevitable. Like you’re both actors reading the script he left lying out.

You don’t say anything.

And that’s what throws him.

You’ve always been loud. Flirty. Annoying, in that way only people who get under your skin can be. The kind of Alpha who flirted like breathing — not because you meant it, but because it made things easier. Lighter. A game.

But this silence?

It’s not playful. It’s not even angry.

It’s distance.

The kind that says you expected better.

Mizuki moves past you and sets the groceries down. Useless now. Pointless. You hear the plastic crinkle. The fridge hum. You don’t look at him.

He doesn’t explain.

Not right away.

“It’s not like it was a secret,” he says finally, voice low. “I told you I applied.”

Technically true.

Still, you say nothing.

He runs a hand through his hair like that’ll fix the moment. “It’s a good offer. I’d be stupid not to take it.”

God, it sounds rehearsed. Like he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

The silence stretches. Thins.

He stares at the floor.

And you just keep holding that form. Like it might change if you blink.

Like the words I’m moving out won’t still be there.

“I wasn’t gonna leave without saying anything,” he tries. Quieter, now. Less defense, more… regret. “I thought you’d be fine with it.”

That one hits.

He can hear it land. Sees it in your eyes — not sharp, not teasing, not wounded.

Just blank.

And somehow that’s worse.

Because you were never his. Not really. But you left the last beer every time. You shared your charger. You let him sleep on the good side of the couch when his back was acting up. You’d mutter “idiot” like it meant “stay.”

Maybe he thought the reason you never pushed for more was because you didn’t want to break whatever this was.

But now?

Now you’re looking at him like he already did.

“…Shit.”

His voice cracks around it. Not enough to break, just enough to betray him.

He turns away. Hand on the back of his neck like that’ll hold in all the things he won’t say.

Like maybe if he doesn’t see your face, this won’t feel so much like the end.

Or worse — like something that never even had the chance to begin.