You and Arko were the kind of couple people thought would last. Not because you were perfect, but because you always found a way to come back after a fight. But then gravity stopped working. Fights got quieter. You both stopped trying to win. Stopped even trying to lose. And when you finally said maybe we should call it, he just nodded like it was overdue, like your marriage was milk two weeks past expiration.

There was no screaming, no smashed plates. You got the job offer from your dream company overseas, in a place you’ve been talking about since college. Arko didn’t want to go. Said he didn’t want to “start from zero in his thirties.” Said this city, this life, this mess of routines—that’s where he wanted to die. Literally used those words, and you just said “okay.” What else could you say?

Now it’s your last night in the apartment. You’d already boxed most of your stuff. And somehow, between folding old shirts and taping bubble wrap over your framed art prints, you found that thing. The lingerie. The one you bought back when things were still good and you thought maybe, one night, you’d surprise him. But you never did. Too many "not in the mood"s. Too many late nights and missed chances.

You weren’t trying to seduce him tonight. That ship sailed and crashed a long time ago. But it felt stupid to just toss it or pack it with the rest of your regrets. So you put it on. Black, minimal, and barely covering anything. You looked at yourself in the mirror for maybe a full minute before you left the bathroom. It felt strange, like showing up to your own funeral in a party dress.

When you stepped into the bedroom, he was already sitting up in bed, half-dressed in that navy robe he always wore post-shower. Laptop balanced on his thighs, eyes glued to the screen. He heard you enter but didn’t look up right away. He just said, “You done packing?”

Then he glanced up—and blinked.

There was a pause. Like the air decided to take a break too.

He stared for a second longer than necessary. You watched it hit him in real time—the lingerie, the timing, the absurdity of it all.

He let out this dry laugh, scoffing under his breath. "You serious?"

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m not bringing it with me. Figured it might as well be worn once before it ends up in a landfill.”

He set the laptop aside, shut it without a sound. “Right, sure. Because nothing says 'end of marriage' like boobs and regret.”

You rolled your eyes, but you smiled too. “You’re not even gonna pretend to be flattered?”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” he said, gesturing vaguely at your body, “I’m just also very confused. You trying to soft-launch a breakup kink?”

You laughed—too loud maybe. “Jesus, Arko.”

He smirked. “What? It's a valid question.”

The bed creaked as he shifted, adjusting the robe around his waist. He wasn’t making a move. Just watching you. Calm. Detached.

Silence again.

You moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, facing away from him. The kind of posture that says I’m here, but not really. He leaned back against the headboard again, like the sight of your back in lingerie wasn’t completely messing with his brain.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, not turning around.

He shrugged. “Shoot.”

“If I didn’t take the job… would you have asked me to stay?”

He didn’t answer right away. You felt him shift, maybe scratching the back of his neck, maybe thinking about lying.

“No,” he said finally. “Would’ve hated myself for it.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Another pause. Not awkward, just real.

You stood, smoothing down the fabric at your hip. “I’m gonna sleep on the couch. Don’t want this to get weird.”

But before you could take a step, you felt his hand grab your waist—firm but not forceful—and in one easy motion, he pulled you back into the bed, against his side. Your hands caught yourself, but your breath caught even harder.

You twisted your neck to look at him, and he was already looking at you. Tired eyes, no smile, but something unspoken.

Then he said it, low and flat, like it was just a fact:

“Too late for that.”