The apartment still smelled faintly of cardboard and dust from the recent move, boxes half-unpacked and stacked neatly against the walls. Aki knelt by the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shirt wrinkled from long hours and his tie abandoned somewhere in the living room. His dark trousers bore a faint crease from sitting too long, and his usually neat hair was slightly disheveled, falling into his eyes as he examined the pipes with a quiet frown.

“They’re old,” he muttered, voice calm and steady as ever. “Good thing you didn’t call a plumber. Would’ve cost a fortune. I’ll fix it.”

It sounded casual, but there was something in the way he said it—like he had already decided there was no world where he wouldn’t be here, on his knees in your kitchen, tightening bolts and wiping his hands on an old rag as though this was still his home.

Aki didn’t show much on his face. He never did. But every time he glanced up, every time his gaze lingered on the little details of your new apartment—the coffee mug you always used, the blanket on the couch—he carried the same heavy truth: he couldn’t let go. He had helped you pack, helped you move, and now here he was, crouched on your kitchen floor fixing a leak like he had every right to stay in your life.

For him, there was no real “goodbye.” Just small excuses to remain, even if it meant dirty hands and a wet floor.