The Lie Starts Costing
On Sunday, Stamford looked like a campus that had forgiven itself.
The grass at the edges of the Skybridge was trimmed, the tiles along the walkways still slightly dark from old rain but drying fast under a sun that had decided to be generous. Students moved slower than they did on weekdays–weekend clothes, weekend faces, the kind of ease that made life feel as if it had room.
Rafi Tan didn’t feel the room.
He stood at the edge of Rutherford Hall’s lobby, suit jacket folded over his forearm, waiting for the lift with the posture of someone who didn’t want to be late and didn’t want to be seen wanting anything.
His phone read 9:52 AM.
Dr. Koh’s message from last night still sat at the top of his notifications like a pinned threat.
We need to discuss optics. Tomorrow, 10 AM. No excuses.
He had showered early. He had dressed carefully, not in full donor dinner armor but in something close enough–white shirt, dark slacks, tie loosened but present. He had not told himself it was because he was nervous.
He had told himself it was because he respected time.
The lift doors opened.
Rafi stepped in.
The cold air inside smelled like polished stone and lemon cleaner. Rutherford Hall always smelled like that–like a room that wanted you to forget it was built on money.
As the lift rose, Rafi’s bag shifted slightly against his side.
Inside it, his umbrella rested the way it always did.
It wasn’t raining.
He still carried it.
Habit.
Control.
And, lately, the quiet superstition that if he had shelter on hand, maybe nothing would break.
Level 6.
The doors slid open.
The Donor Gallery hallway was quiet at this hour, stripped of orchids and applause. Without the warm lighting and event chatter, the place looked what it was: an expensive corridor lined with framed photos of smiling alumni beside oversized cheques.
Rafi walked toward the SADRO meeting room.
His footsteps sounded too loud.
He knocked once.
“Come in,” Dr. Koh called.
Rafi entered.
Dr. Elaine Koh sat behind a glossy table with a tablet in front of her, blazer sharp, hair pulled back with the kind of precision that suggested her life did not allow untidy thoughts. A cup of black coffee sat untouched at her right.
She looked up.
Her gaze flicked over Rafi.
Not in a human way.
In a cataloging way.
“Rafael,” she said.
“Yes, Dr. Koh.”
She gestured to a chair.
Rafi sat.
The leather seat was cold against his palms.
Dr. Koh didn’t waste time with greetings.
“The donor dinner was… eventful,” she said.
Rafi kept his face neutral.
“Yes,” he replied.
Dr. Koh’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You made a choice,” she said, as if speaking about a strategic move on a chessboard.
Rafi held her gaze.
“It diffused a hostile situation,” he said.
Dr. Koh’s mouth curved.
“Hostile,” she repeated, amused. “You’re describing a sponsor coordinator like a threat actor.”
Rafi didn’t smile.
It had been a threat.
Just not the kind donors acknowledged.
Dr. Koh tapped her tablet.
The screen lit with images–screenshots.
StamfordSpills posts.
The group photo.
A short clip of him leading Mika out of the Donor Gallery.
A still of the kiss, slowed down, frozen at the angle where it looked cinematic rather than impulsive.
Rafi’s stomach tightened.
He had known this was coming.
He still hated the sight.
Dr. Koh observed his reaction with clinical calm.
“This,” she said, tapping the kiss photo, “is now part of your profile.”
Profile.
Like he was an account.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“We did not authorize filming,” he said.
Dr. Koh’s gaze sharpened.
“And yet,” she replied, “it happened.”
Rafi exhaled slowly.
Dr. Koh leaned back slightly.
“Rafael,” she said, voice smooth, “you are a strong candidate. Academics, leadership, technical track. The committee likes you.”
Rafi nodded once.
Dr. Koh’s eyes held his.
“But donors invest in stability,” she continued.
Stability.
Again.
Rafi’s fingers tightened beneath the table.
Dr. Koh tapped another screenshot.
This one was from a comment thread.
is he serious or just using her for optics
Dr. Koh’s voice softened, almost sympathetic.
“You understand the problem,” she said.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“The problem is people,” he said.
Dr. Koh’s lips pressed into a small smile.
“Yes,” she agreed. “And donors are people.”
Rafi stared.
Dr. Koh leaned forward.
“Tell me the truth,” she said.
The word truth sounded strange here, in a room built on curated narratives.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“What truth?” he asked.
Dr. Koh’s gaze didn’t blink.
“Is she real?” Dr. Koh asked.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
The question was not romantic.
It was administrative.
Real meant: risk.
Real meant: liability.
Real meant: can you control it.
Rafi held Dr. Koh’s gaze.
“She’s a person,” he said.
Dr. Koh’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
He could lie.
He could say, No, it’s fake.
He could say, It’s casual.
He could say what Dr. Koh wanted to hear.
But the thought of reducing Mika to a checkbox made something harden in his chest.
He exhaled.
“She matters,” he said.
The words landed heavier than he intended.
Dr. Koh went still.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Matters,” she repeated.
Rafi didn’t backtrack.
“She’s an international student,” he said, voice steady. “She’s being pressured by family. She’s involved in campus committees. She didn’t ask for any of this attention.”
Dr. Koh watched him.
Then she leaned back, expression unreadable.
“You’re emotionally invested,” she concluded.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“I’m responsible,” he corrected.
Dr. Koh’s smile sharpened.
“Responsibility can become mess,” she said softly.
Rafi’s pulse jumped.
Dr. Koh tapped her tablet again.
An email draft appeared.
From: NCSB Internship Screening Team
Subject: Preliminary Screening – Background & Character References
Rafi’s stomach tightened.
Dr. Koh looked at him over the screen.
“They contacted SADRO for a character reference,” she said.
Rafi went still.
A reference.
Background.
NCSB was not casual.
If his image looked unstable, the opportunity could vanish without explanation.
Dr. Koh’s voice remained calm.
“I will support you,” she said. “But support requires confidence.”
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“And my… personal presentation?” he asked.
Dr. Koh’s gaze sharpened.
“Yes,” she said. “Your personal presentation.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
Dr. Koh folded her hands.
“I’m not telling you to end anything,” she said, smoothly, as if the sentence itself was a generous gift. “I’m telling you to control it.”
Control.
Rafi exhaled.
“How?” he asked.
Dr. Koh’s expression softened into something like advice.
“Less content,” she said. “Fewer public moments. No more–” her gaze flicked to the kiss screenshot, “–grand gestures.”
Rafi’s chest tightened.
Grand.
It hadn’t been grand.
It had been panic wrapped in decision.
Dr. Koh continued.
“And if you attend events together,” she said, “be discreet. You are not a celebrity couple. You are a candidate.”
Candidate.
The word made his stomach twist.
Dr. Koh’s gaze held his.
“Do you understand?” she asked.
Rafi nodded once.
“Yes,” he said.
Dr. Koh’s smile returned.
“Good,” she said. “Now, I need you at SADRO tonight at 7. Donor pre-brief. And on Tuesday, the committee will meet again. You will not give them fresh reasons to worry.”
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“Okay,” he said.
Dr. Koh watched him for a beat.
Then, softer, she added, “Rafael. The world will take whatever you give it. Don’t feed it.”
Rafi stood.
He bowed slightly.
“Thank you, Dr. Koh,” he said.
Dr. Koh nodded.
As Rafi turned to leave, she spoke again, almost casually.
“And if her parents want to meet,” she said, “don’t let it interfere with your timeline. Your future comes first.”
Rafi froze.
Her parents.
Meet.
Intentions.
The lie was already costing.
Now it had a schedule.
Rafi forced himself to nod.
“Yes,” he said.
Then he left.
The corridor outside felt colder than before.
His phone buzzed.
Mika.
Mika: Haruka keeps texting. She says my father wants a proper meeting. I feel sick. Can we talk?
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He typed, thumb firm.
Yes. Juniper. 2 PM.
He hesitated.
Then added:
Bring your notebook. We plan.
He hit send.
As he stepped into the lift, Rafi’s reflection stared back at him in the polished metal.
He looked composed.
He looked stable.
He looked like a man who could manage.
But inside, something in him felt like a cable stretched too tight.
One more tug.
And it would snap.
Juniper Café on a Sunday afternoon was a quieter kind of busy.
The crowd was different–students with laptops open, couples sharing cake, a few alumni-looking people in smart casual like they’d wandered in to remember what campus felt like before it became a memory.
Rain hadn’t started yet, but clouds hovered at the edges of the windows, darkening the light with the promise of return.
Rafi chose their usual corner table near the window.
He sat with his back to the wall, eyes able to see the entrance.
He set his umbrella beside the chair even though it wasn’t raining.
Mika arrived ten minutes later.
She looked like she hadn’t slept properly.
Her outfit was simple–white blouse, cardigan, dark trousers–but the carefulness of it felt like armor. Her hair was tied back, but a few strands had escaped at her temples as if she didn’t have the energy to control everything.
She walked in and scanned the room.
When she saw him, her shoulders loosened slightly.
Relief.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
She sat opposite him, placing her notebook and phone on the table with precise hands.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” Rafi replied.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The café’s background music murmured softly.
Outside, clouds pressed lower.
Mika exhaled.
“I hate this,” she whispered.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
Mika’s fingers curled around her phone.
She slid it across the table.
A message thread.
Haruka.
My mom talked to your dad again.
He’s serious. He wants to meet Rafi-kun properly.
This is good!! Your parents will relax.
Mika’s cheeks flushed with shame.
“He thinks the kiss means… intention,” she said softly.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“It does,” he said before he could stop himself.
Mika blinked.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
He corrected quickly, voice lower.
“I mean… in their eyes,” he said. “It changes the story.”
Mika’s eyes stayed on him.
“Did it change it for you?” she asked.
The question landed like a drop of cold water.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He didn’t answer immediately.
He couldn’t.
If he answered honestly, he might not be able to control what came next.
So he opened his notes app.
MEET PROPERLY – PLAN
Mika watched him.
The movement was familiar now–his instinct to build structure when emotions threatened.
Mika’s lips pressed together.
“You always do that,” she murmured.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“Do what?”
“Hide inside planning,” Mika said softly.
Rafi stared.
The accusation wasn’t harsh.
It was tired.
Honest.
Rafi exhaled slowly.
“Planning keeps us safe,” he said.
Mika’s eyes softened.
“For you,” she whispered.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He forced his voice calm.
“For both,” he corrected.
Mika looked away.
Her fingers traced the rim of her cup.
“I don’t want my parents to think we’re… engaged,” she said.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“Then we set boundaries,” he said.
Mika nodded.
Rafi typed.
- Formal video call. Schedule. Controlled environment.
He looked up.
“Your father wants to meet properly,” he said. “We give him a proper call. We don’t give him a flight ticket.”
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
She let out a small, humorless laugh.
“My father would love a flight ticket,” she whispered.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“I know,” he said.
Mika’s eyes flicked up.
Rafi continued, voice steady.
“We do it Sunday evening,” he said. “Tonight. Your mother will be awake. Your father will be there. We answer. We end the call clean.”
Mika swallowed.
“And if he asks… about intentions?” she whispered.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He stared at her.
Intention.
Meet.
Proper.
These words were becoming a rope.
Rafi exhaled.
“We answer the same way,” he said. “Respect. Support. Students. Future.”
Mika’s lips pressed together.
“That sounds like… resume,” she murmured.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“It’s what they accept,” he said.
Mika looked away.
“And what do you accept?” she asked softly.
The question was barely above the café noise.
Rafi’s pulse jumped.
He stared at his phone.
At his notes.
At his attempt to control.
He heard Dr. Koh’s voice:
Your future comes first.
He heard Mika’s voice:
This was supposed to be pretend.
Rafi exhaled.
“I accept…” he began.
He stopped.
Because he didn’t know.
Not yet.
Mika watched him, her eyes too clear.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He shifted to something safer.
“I met Dr. Koh,” he said.
Mika stiffened.
“What did she say?”
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“She wants control,” he said. “Less content. Fewer… moments.”
Mika’s cheeks went pale.
“So,” she whispered, “she wants you to… stop.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“She didn’t say stop,” he said.
Mika’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“But she wants you to hide,” she said.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
Hide.
Yes.
Dr. Koh wanted him polished.
Discreet.
Invisible.
Mika’s voice trembled.
“Rafi, if your donors–”
Rafi cut in, firm.
“Don’t,” he said.
Mika froze.
Rafi’s voice softened a fraction.
“Don’t carry my worries too,” he added. “You already have enough.”
Mika swallowed.
Her eyes stung.
She blinked quickly, forcing composure.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Rafi’s chest tightened at the way she said it.
Default.
Tired.
He reached for his coffee cup.
He didn’t drink.
He looked at her instead.
“We do the call tonight,” he said.
Mika nodded.
Rafi added, “After the call, you rest. Tomorrow, you prep for Kintsugi. Tuesday, you do your review. We keep moving.”
Mika’s lips pressed together.
“You sound like life is a checklist,” she murmured.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
“It is,” he said.
Mika looked at him.
Her eyes softened with something like sadness.
“For you,” she whispered.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He didn’t know how to argue.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
At 6:30 p.m., the sky finally gave in.
Rain hit Juniper Café’s windows in hard sheets, turning the outside world into a blur of lights and shadow. Students at other tables leaned closer to their laptops, as if the rain made the room smaller.
Rafi and Mika had moved to Bayview’s common kitchen again.
Not because it was romantic.
Because it was controlled.
Bright light.
Neutral background.
A space that looked like community.
Priya sat at a different table with her laptop open, pretending not to be a bodyguard. She had promised she wouldn’t interrupt unless Mika started crying or Rafi started punching walls.
Rafi set his phone on the table.
Mika’s phone was fully charged now.
Her laptop sat open, portfolio files lined neatly, as if she needed reminders that her future still existed outside family politics.
Mika’s hands were cold.
Rafi noticed.
He didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
He watched the clock.
7:00 PM
Mika inhaled.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Rafi nodded once.
She pressed call.
Aiko Nakamura appeared first.
Her mother’s face softened immediately.
“Mika,” Aiko said.
“Hi, Mama,” Mika replied, smile polite.
Kenji Nakamura leaned into frame.
His gaze was sharp.
Rafi’s stomach tightened.
This was not a donor.
This was something else.
A father.
A gate.
“Mika,” Kenji said.
Then his eyes flicked to Rafi.
“You,” he said.
Rafi inclined his head.
“Good evening, sir,” he said.
Kenji’s eyes narrowed.
“You chose a public place to kiss my daughter,” Kenji said, voice calm.
Mika froze.
Her cheeks flushed.
Aiko’s expression shifted–half apology, half worry.
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He kept his voice steady.
“I didn’t intend to disrespect her,” he said.
Kenji stared.
“Then why?” he asked.
The question was a blade.
Rafi swallowed.
He could say it was necessary.
He could say it was optics.
He could say it was a mistake.
None were safe.
So he chose a truth he could live with.
“Because people were questioning her,” he said. “In a way that wasn’t fair. And I wanted it to stop.”
Kenji’s gaze sharpened.
“And you thought kissing her would stop it,” Kenji said, skeptical.
Rafi held his gaze.
“Yes,” he replied.
Aiko exhaled softly.
Kenji’s eyes flicked to Mika.
“Mika,” he said. “Is this true?”
Mika swallowed.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Kenji’s gaze returned to Rafi.
“You say you respect her,” he said. “Then tell me your intention.”
There it was.
The word again.
Intentions.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
He felt Mika’s tension like heat.
He remembered Priya’s instruction.
Answer first.
Don’t let her carry.
Rafi exhaled slowly.
“My intention is to treat her properly,” he said.
Kenji’s eyes narrowed.
“That is not an intention,” Kenji said. “That is a behavior.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
He kept his voice calm.
“My intention is to support her staying in Singapore,” he said. “To protect her space here. She has goals. She has interviews. She has work. I don’t want her pulled away because people misunderstand her.”
Kenji stared.
Aiko’s eyes softened.
Kenji’s voice remained calm.
“And after Singapore?” he asked.
Mika’s breath caught.
Rafi’s stomach tightened.
After.
The question was not about now.
It was about ownership.
Rafi swallowed.
“We’re students,” he said. “We’re still building. It’s too soon to promise things that are… permanent.”
Kenji’s gaze sharpened.
“Then why kiss my daughter,” Kenji said, voice low.
Mika’s cheeks went pale.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
Because I wanted to.
Because it didn’t feel fake.
Because she looked like she was drowning.
Because I chose her.
He couldn’t say any of that.
So he said, carefully,
“Because in that moment,” he said, “I was sure I wanted people to stop treating her like a story.”
Kenji stared.
Silence expanded.
Rain hit the kitchen windows harder.
Aiko spoke softly.
“Kenji,” she murmured.
Kenji didn’t look at his wife.
His eyes remained on Rafi.
“You are Singaporean,” Kenji said.
“Yes,” Rafi replied.
“And Muslim?” Kenji asked.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” he said.
Mika’s breath caught.
Aiko’s eyes widened slightly.
Kenji’s gaze sharpened.
“Mika,” Kenji said, turning toward her. “You did not tell us this.”
Mika swallowed.
“I didn’t think it mattered for now,” she whispered.
Kenji’s expression tightened.
“It matters,” he said.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He held his posture steady.
Kenji looked back to him.
“Do you expect my daughter to change?” Kenji asked.
The question landed like a stone.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
He answered carefully.
“No,” he said. “I don’t expect her to do anything she doesn’t choose.”
Kenji’s eyes narrowed.
“You say many good words,” Kenji said.
Rafi didn’t flinch.
Aiko leaned in, voice gentler.
“Mika,” Aiko said softly, “are you happy?”
Mika froze.
Her eyes stung.
She forced a polite smile.
“I’m okay,” she said.
Aiko’s expression softened.
Kenji didn’t smile.
He looked at Mika.
“You will come home after the semester,” he said.
Mika’s chest tightened.
Her fingers curled around the table edge.
“I want to stay,” she whispered.
Kenji’s gaze sharpened.
“You want many things,” he said.
Mika swallowed.
She looked at Rafi.
Rafi held her gaze.
Not telling her what to say.
Not saving her.
Just… present.
Kenji’s voice was calm.
“If this is serious,” he said, “then you will meet us properly. In person. When you return.”
In person.
When you return.
A schedule wrapped around her throat.
Mika’s breath trembled.
Aiko’s eyes softened.
“Mika,” she said gently, “we miss you.”
Mika’s eyes stung.
She nodded.
The call ended with polite farewells.
Kenji’s final instruction:
“Do not embarrass yourself.”
As the screen went dark, Mika stared at her reflection.
Her composure held for three seconds.
Then it cracked.
Not sobbing.
Not dramatic.
Just a silent tremble in her lips.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He leaned forward.
“Mika,” he murmured.
Mika inhaled sharply.
“I’m tired,” she whispered.
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“I know,” he said.
Mika’s eyes filled.
She wiped them quickly, ashamed.
“Sorry,” she murmured automatically.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“Stop,” he said, firm.
Mika blinked.
Rafi exhaled slowly.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.
Mika’s breath trembled.
“My father will never accept something unclear,” she whispered. “He wants promises. He wants…”
Control.
Structure.
A husband.
Rafi swallowed.
“And Dr. Koh wants control too,” Mika added, voice shaking. “Everyone wants to control.”
Rafi’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t know how to argue.
Because it was true.
Priya, across the kitchen, pretended to be absorbed in her laptop, but her shoulders were tense.
Mika looked down.
“This started as proof,” she whispered. “Now it’s…”
A trap.
A schedule.
A future she didn’t know how to promise.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He reached into his bag and pulled out his umbrella.
He set it on the table between them.
A familiar symbol.
Mika stared at it.
Rafi’s voice was low.
“We can still manage,” he said.
Mika’s eyes lifted.
Her voice was small.
“At what cost?” she asked.
Rafi froze.
The question cut.
Because he had an answer.
NCSB screening.
Donor committee.
Dr. Koh’s tightening grip.
His future.
Her internship.
Her parents’ expectations.
Their rules.
Everything.
Mika swallowed.
“I saw the way Dr. Koh looked at you,” she whispered. “Like you are a project.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“And my father looked at you like… a decision he hasn’t made yet,” Mika continued. “I don’t want you to be evaluated because of me.”
Rafi’s throat tightened.
“Mika,” he began.
She shook her head quickly.
“No,” she said, voice trembling. “Listen. Please.”
Rafi went still.
Mika’s eyes were bright.
“I can’t…” she swallowed, struggling for words. “I can’t be the thing that makes your future harder. I can’t be the mess.”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“You’re not mess,” he said.
Mika laughed softly, bitter.
“Then why does everyone talk about stability like I’m a storm?” she whispered.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
Because you’re not a storm.
Because the world is.
He couldn’t say it.
Mika’s voice broke.
“I think…” she inhaled shakily, “…we should stop soon.”
Rafi froze.
The words landed like the lift dropping.
Stop.
End clause.
No questions asked.
It was in their terms.
It shouldn’t have shocked him.
It did.
Because somewhere between umbrellas and train rides and a kiss he didn’t regret, Rafi had forgotten the lie had an end date.
Mika looked at him, eyes pleading.
“Before it becomes bigger,” she whispered. “Before my father demands more. Before Dr. Koh… before NCSB…”
She flinched at the name, realizing she knew too much.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
He stared at the umbrella on the table.
A tool.
A symbol.
A shelter.
He could have said yes.
He could have been rational.
He could have protected his future.
Instead, his voice came out low.
“And if we stop,” he asked, “what happens to you?”
Mika swallowed.
“I… handle my parents,” she said.
Rafi’s eyes narrowed.
“Alone?” he asked.
Mika’s cheeks warmed.
She looked down.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He hated the word alone.
He hated the idea of her standing under rain without shelter.
He hated that he wanted to be the shelter.
His phone buzzed.
He didn’t need to look to know.
Dr. Koh.
A reminder.
A leash.
He glanced anyway.
Dr. Koh: Reminder: Tonight 7 PM SADRO pre-brief. Also: keep your personal matters invisible. The committee will not tolerate distractions.
Invisible.
Tolerate.
Distractions.
Rafi’s throat went dry.
Mika saw his face change.
“What is it?” she asked, voice small.
Rafi hesitated.
Then he showed her the screen.
Mika’s cheeks went pale.
Her fingers trembled.
“She wants you to hide me,” Mika whispered.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“She wants me to hide everything,” he corrected.
Mika’s eyes filled.
“And you will,” she said softly.
It wasn’t a question.
It was resignation.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
“Mika–”
She shook her head.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You should. Your future…”
Her voice broke.
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
He hated that she was giving him permission to disappear.
He hated that he wanted to refuse.
He hated that refusing would cost.
Rain hit the windows harder.
The kitchen light flickered slightly.
Mika looked down at her hands.
“I think we should stop,” she repeated, quieter. “Not because I don’t… not because I regret.”
Her cheeks flushed.
She swallowed.
“But because I can’t bear being the reason you lose something you worked for.”
Rafi stared.
His throat tightened.
He wanted to tell her he didn’t regret the kiss.
He wanted to tell her he didn’t want to stop.
He wanted to tell her that sometimes the cost was worth it.
But he didn’t know if he was brave enough to live with that.
He stared at the umbrella.
He thought of all the times he had angled it to cover her more.
He thought of the cold that rushed in when he released her hand.
He thought of the way she looked when she said, I’m tired.
Rafi exhaled slowly.
“I need time,” he said.
Mika’s eyes lifted.
Rafi’s voice was low.
“To think,” he added. “To plan.”
Mika’s lips pressed together.
She nodded.
Time.
A delay.
A soft way of not answering.
Rafi stood.
Mika blinked. “Where are you going?”
Rafi’s jaw clenched.
“SADRO,” he said. “Pre-brief.”
Mika’s eyes widened.
“Now?”
Rafi nodded.
He grabbed his bag.
His umbrella stayed on the table for a second too long.
Then he picked it up.
A small motion.
A symbol reclaimed.
Mika watched him.
Her eyes were quiet.
Not accusing.
Just… hurt.
Rafi’s chest tightened.
He wanted to say something.
Anything.
Instead, he said the safest thing.
“Rest,” he told her.
Mika’s lips curved faintly, bitter.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Rafi hesitated.
He looked at her.
Her face was pale.
Her eyes were tired.
He didn’t know how to leave her like this.
So he did the only thing he could.
He leaned forward.
He touched her hand–briefly–two seconds.
Then he withdrew.
Private restraint.
A gesture that would haunt him more than it comforted.
Mika’s fingers curled around the warmth he left.
Rafi turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Rain met him at the Bayview entrance.
He opened his umbrella.
The canopy bloomed.
The city blurred.
He walked alone.
And with every step, the lie that had once felt like shelter began to feel like a debt.