Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Madrid. 8:43 AM.

The café is quiet — just the way he likes it.

Sae Itoshi sits at a window booth, scrolling through match footage with one hand and sipping tea with the other. No one has bothered him yet.

That changes in less than ten seconds.

"Oh my god—!"

A crash. A splash of heat.

He flinches, just barely, as coffee spills across his chest, soaking the front of his crisp, white shirt. His brows knit together the moment it hits — not in pain, but in the immediate, simmering annoyance of someone whose day just got very complicated.

You're in front of him, horrified. Tourist. Definitely. The English is a dead giveaway.

"Shit, I didn't see you and I tripped!!!! I am so—oh god—lo siento, I mean—wait, ¿está mojado tu… camisa?"

You're fumbling napkins from the counter and trying to pat the stain off his chest before he can even speak.

He grabs your wrist — not harshly, but firmly enough to stop you.

"Don't," he says flatly, in English.

You freeze.

Your heart is hammering. His voice is sharp, smooth, and cold — and his eyes? Piercing. Pale teal and unreadable.

'I—I was just trying to clean it—"

"You're making it worse."

You pull your hand back like you touched something electric. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there. I was just walking, and I tripped, and—"

Sae looks you over for half a second. There's a splatter of your own drink on your sleeve. Passport poking out of your tote. Sweat at your brow. Your Spanish? Atrocious.

He already knows: you have no idea who he is.

Good.

He lets out a quiet exhale and picks up a napkin himself, dabbing once at the soaked fabric.

"Is it ruined?" you ask hesitantly.

He doesn't answer right away.

You shift awkwardly, then blurt out, "How much was it?"

He finally looks at you again, mildly surprised by how direct the question was. He narrows his eyes slightly.

"You want to know how much the shirt costs?"

"I should pay you back, right?" you say, already fishing your credit card from your wallet. "So, just—name it."

A pause. Then:

"€580."

You go still.

Your jaw tugs open slightly. You blink. Then you press your lips together like you're trying very hard to stay composed.

"Right," you say. "Okay. That's… more than my flight here. But sure. Cool. Normal."

Your hand trembles slightly as you hold the card up.

He doesn't take it.

You glance at him. "What, you think I'm joking? I said I'd pay. I'm not a scammer."

He stares at you, that same distant expression on his face — but there's something else now, something subtle. Something intrigued.

"I don't need your money."

"You sure? Pretty sure I just committed fashion manslaughter."

"You think that shirt is fashion?"

You blink. "It was...... white?"

Sae huffs once. Barely a laugh. More like air.

You sigh. "Listen, man, I really didn't mean to ruin your mood. Or your… shirt budget."

He doesn't respond. Instead, he shifts slightly in his seat and says, "Sit down."

You blink. "What?"

"You're still standing. It's annoying."

"You're serious?"

He just stares.

You hesitantly sit across from him, trying not to touch anything else. You expect the silence to be suffocating — but strangely, it isn't. He sips what's left of his coffee like nothing happened.

Then your eyes catch something over his shoulder.

A man with a camera phone. Snapping a picture. And another.

Of him.

Of you with him.

You stiffen. "Hey… someone's taking pictures."

"I know," he says, not even turning.

You blink. "You know?"

"They usually do."

That gives you pause.

"Are you famous or something?"

Sae finally looks at you again, impassive. Then shrugs once. "Something like that."

You squint. "Wait. Are you in politics?"

He actually chokes on his coffee a little.

You sit back, suspicious. "Or a Spanish pop star?"

"I'm not Spanish."

"Then what the hell are you?"

He stares at you, long and hard. You feel like you should shrink under that gaze — but strangely, you don't.

Finally, he says:

"I'm a footballer."

"Oh."

You blink again.

"So, like. For a club or something?"

He doesn't answer. His jaw twitches. You figure you've probably insulted his job.

You rub your forehead, flustered. "Okay, so you're mysterious and intimidating and apparently worth photographing. Great. I'm gonna be on someone's blog titled 'Foreigner girl ruins local athlete's entire fit.'"

"I'm not local either."

''…Are you just trying to be difficult now?"

He doesn't reply. You groan softly and lean back.

And yet… he still hasn't told you to leave.

Outside, Madrid wakes up slowly.

Inside, he watches you like a puzzle that he wasn't expecting to want to solve.

You, the first person in a long time who didn't flinch when he got cold.

Didn't pretend to like him just for his name.

Just a tourist.

Clumsy. Honest.

Annoying — but real.

He glances at his ruined shirt again, then back to you.

"You owe me a new coffee," he says.

You blink.

"Wait. Seriously?"

"I didn't stutter.'

You huff.

"Fine. One coffee. But I get to pick the table this time."

"Anywhere without you holding a drink is fine."

"Rude."

Sae doesn't smile.

But he also doesn't look away.

Chapter Text

Madrid. Finally.

After all the begging, budgeting, bargaining and borderline blackmailing, you made it. You—alone. A working-class girl with more dreams than money and more fire than luck. Seven days. One foreign city. Your own itinerary. Your own rules.

Today was day two. And it was perfect.

Well—aside from spilling coffee on a very expensive man.

But honestly? Whatever. So what if the man in question is Itoshi Sae? So what if you panicked and grabbed a napkin with the energy of a dying gremlin while apologizing in two and a half languages?

It's not like you're going to see him again. It's a blip. A ridiculous, unfortunate, very sexy blip.

You're still glowing when you collapse into your Airbnb bed, freshly showered and smelling like lavender soap and freedom. You call your mother, like a good daughter. Gush about the weather, the streets, the food, the sky. Tell her you're safe. Happy.

Then, half-asleep, you open Instagram to post a few stories — the kind with dramatic captions and sparkly filters, maybe a black-and-white skyline shot to look artsy.

That's when you see it. The notification. And then another. And another.

Message requests. Dozens. Strangers. Girls. Some writing in languages you can't read. Most of them saying one name:

Itoshi Sae.

Your stomach sinks.

You check Twitter. Search his name. Your fingers tremble. And there it is.

A photo.

You — hunched over, clutching a napkin, eyes wide in horror — trying to clean the stain off his designer shirt. And Sae? Sitting there like a goddamn renaissance statue. The internet has exploded.

A fan account posted it. Captioned:

Who's the mystery girl with Sae Itoshi? Secret girlfriend?!

You groan into your pillow.

How the hell did they even find your Instagram?

Your account is private. You're not famous.

But apparently, being next to someone famous is enough.

You console yourself with logic. It's fine. This will pass. The internet will get distracted by something else — maybe another celebrity scandal or a weird football transfer rumor. You're nobody. They'll forget.

So you force yourself to breathe. Roll onto your back. And eventually, drift off to sleep.

—

The next morning, you swear you're not going back to that café. Absolutely not.

But then… you remember the prices. The almond milk. The divine bitter roast that costs less than a subway ride.

Madrid is beautiful, yes — but expensive. You're budgeting. Surviving. Thriving, even, if you don't count the social media disaster currently haunting your soul.

And it's not like Sae Itoshi will come back to that place. He probably stumbled in once by accident. Or because it was quiet.

So you step inside.

The bell above the café door chimes, sweet and innocent.

And there he is.

Same seat. Same face. Same stupid aura of divine indifference. Like a marble sculpture come to life just to ruin your day.

Your entire body tenses.

You could still turn around. Pretend you forgot your wallet. Or decided you were fasting. Or just bolt into the street screaming.

But the barista spots you. Smiles. Waves.

Damn it.

You sigh. Take a step in. Another.

He sees you. Lifts a single finger.

You blink. "Are you—did you just summon me like a dog?"

He doesn't speak. Just tilts his head toward the chair across from him, like a king granting you audience.

"I hate you," you mutter as you storm over, grabbing your drink along the way and flopping into the chair with a dramatic sigh.

He says nothing. Just watches.

"You again. Great. Because I totally didn't come here to have ten minutes of peace without being reminded that my life is now a clickbait headline."

"You could've picked another café," he says, unbothered.

"Oh sure," you snap. "I'll just go pay seven euros for liquid disappointment because King Itoshi decided to haunt this one."

He doesn't even blink.

You point at him accusingly. "I looked you up."

"Obviously."

"Not because I was interested. It was because your fangirls were haunting me. Also, you have millions of followers."

"Yeah."

"Yeah," you mimic, full of sarcasm. "Are you not disturbed by how insane that is?"

A shrug. "Why would I be?"

You lean forward, eyes narrowing. "Because you're rude. You're emotionally constipated. You don't even smile. How do you have fangirls?"

"Maybe they like that."

You gag. "Are they okay? Do they need therapy? Should I start a GoFundMe for group counseling?"

He says nothing. Just takes another sip.

"And don't think I didn't notice," you add, voice rising. "That photo. You knew. Didn't you?"

He pauses.

"I saw it this morning," he admits. "It's everywhere now."

"You let it happen?!"

Your hand hits the table. A sharp thud. "You could've stopped it! Celebrities do that! Send DMs, issue statements, call your PR people!"

"They wouldn't have stopped," he replies, maddeningly calm. "Not with that angle."

You stare at him. "Oh my God. Are you being vain right now?"

He blinks. "It was a good angle."

Your head hits the table. "I hate you."

Silence.

"I really, really do."

"I know," he says quietly.

You look up, exhausted, furious, vaguely humiliated.

"They found my private Instagram," you mutter. "I don't even know how."

"You're noticeable," he says.

You frown. "What does that mean?"

"Petite. Round face. Foreign. Angry."

Your jaw drops. "So I'm a mad cartoon character and that makes me easy to stalk. Awesome. Great."

You take an aggressive sip of your coffee.

He watches you, silent.

Then suddenly—

"You're fun to argue with."

You stare. "That's not a compliment. That’s a cry for help."

A beat of silence.

"You're the first person who's ever told me they hate me."

"Yeah, and I meant it."

His eyes soften. Just a little. Barely enough to notice.

"Do you always talk this much when you're mad?"

You huff. "Only when I'm being stalked, mistaken for a celebrity girlfriend, and cursed to run into some arrogant football god who looks like he chews emotions and spits out apathy."

He says nothing.

And then, softly — quieter than before:

"I don't like the attention either."

You snort. "Oh please. Must be so hard, being rich and adored."

"It is."

You stop. The tone isn't sarcastic. It's just… flat.

Empty.

Something in your chest shifts.

"I don't like people looking at me unless they know me," you whisper. "I'm not used to being invisible. I'm used to being me. Loud, blunt, dramatic, annoying. But not this. Not… someone's shadow."

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Quiet.

"It won't last forever," he says.

You laugh. Bitter and light. "Famous last words."

You take another long sip, straw rattling.

Then mutter through your drink:

"I still hate you."

Sae just nods.

"I know."

Chapter Text

Day: 3, Madrid.

How did you end up here?

You swore to yourself that after that second encounter you will never go to that cafe again, because you might meet THE SAE ITOSHI again. You'll try your best not to face him but...

Here you are, sitting with your arms crossed, gum snapping between your teeth, looking like the villain in a teen drama who secretly funds an animal rescue. Hair slicked back into a high ponytail. Thick eyeliner, revenge red lipstick, and someone else's jersey clinging to your shoulders.

Definitely not Sae Itoshi's.

You're hoping that this makes a difference. Hoping that this dramatic looks will make you unrecognisable.

You don't even like football. But your online friend Mina flew in from another country for this match and begged you to come with her. You, being too soft under all that eyeliner, said yes.

So now you're here. Stuck in a stadium filled with screaming Sae fans and hormone-charged hype, trying not to shrivel under the glares of every girl who's ever fantasized about marrying the Itoshi surname.

Mina is bouncing in her seat, clutching a banner with glitter and hearts. You, on the other hand, are calculating the fastest way to get out without being trampled and scrolling your Instagram to distract yourself from looking at "Him"

Him, Sae Itoshi.

Running across the pitch like he owns gravity. Hair damp with sweat. That stupid focused look on his face. And as much as you want to deny it, your stomach flutters in protest.

Behind you, someone squeals.

"No way..."

You turn lazily.

A girl is pointing her phone at your Instagram profile.

Mina freezes beside you.

"Wait a second," the girl says, narrowing her eyes. "That's you, right? From that café photo with Sae?"

Your blood goes cold.

"Are you serious—?"

She flips her screen. There's the viral screenshot from Twitter. You. Sae. The angle. The lipgloss. The death glare. And your private Instagram account's screenshot.

She gasps. "It is you! Your username matches!"

"Oh my god, guys, I found her!" she yells, spinning to her group. "Mystery Girl is HERE."

More phones come out. More gasps.

"She's wearing someone else's jersey?" "Did she dump him already?" "Poor Sae..." "Wait, is she a clout chaser?" "I knew she looked familiar!"

You hiss, grabbing Mina's arm. "We need to leave."

You both scramble to your feet—but it's too late.

The final whistle blows.

The stadium erupts. People flood the aisles. A wave of movement swallows the crowd. Someone shouts: "Sae! She's here!"

Worse? A hand stops you.

"Miss."

You look up. A security staffer. Black badge. Earpiece. Professional, annoyed, and familiar with chaos.

"Mr. Itoshi has asked you to come to the players' lounge."

You gape. "You're kidding."

He shakes his head. "It's for your safety. The crowd's escalating."

"Nope," you say, trying to push past. "I don't care what your celebrity prince wants....."

"Ma:am, I can't let you leave until this is under control."

Mina tugs you. "Let's just go! I want to see the hot players up close!"

You glare at her like she just sold your soul for concert tickets.

But the whispers are growing louder. Someone goes live. Others start following.

You sigh. "Fine. But I'm not talking to him."

---

The players' lounge is a nightmare.

Sweaty jerseys. Bare abs. Gatorade spills. A cologne ad with bad acoustics.

You walk in like you're entering enemy territory.

"Holy shit," Mina whispers beside you. "Is this what heaven smells like?"

"No," you snap. "This smells like dying feet and broken dreams."

A player laughs. "That's just Rin."

You ignore them. Your eyes are already on him.

Sae.

Standing across the room, cool as ever, water bottle in hand, hair still damp.

You scoff. Loudly.

"Oh look. It's Madrid's national menace."

He doesn't flinch. "You came to see me play?"

"Don’t flatter yourself. My friend dragged me. Can't you see this jersey?" You tug the collar. "Not yours."

He glances at it. "Is that Kaiser's?"

Kaiser, still in uniform, looks up. "Huh?"

"It was on sale," you say. "Yours costs like a kidney."

"Understandable," Kaiser says shrugging "But mine's cooler anyway." He smiles arrogantly. "You did a good job by buying mine instead of his."

Another player grins. "You two bicker like a married couple."

You spin. "I beg your pardon?!"

Laughter breaks out. One coughs into his hand. Another whispers, "She's terrifying. I like her."

You face Sae again, fury in your eyes. "Why didn't you stop those people from filming me?! Celebrities do that!"

"I was playing football."

"Multitask, Itoshi. God gave you legs and eyes."

"Didn't know you were that worried about your image."

"I wasn't. Until teenagers flooded my DMs asking if I was pregnant with your twins."

The room loses it.

You point at him. "You are ruining my peace. My phone is a crime scene. I'm this close to hurling myself into a paella pot."

He sips his water. Calm. Unbothered.

You growl. "How are you this calm?! Do you have feelings or are you just a sexy rock?!"

The entire locker room: "OHHHHHHH!"

Your cheeks go red. "I mean—regular sexy rock. Like, average. Mid-tier. Gravel."

"Still sexy rock," a player echoes, howling.

Sae raises a brow. "So you do think I'm sexy."

You choke. "I think you're insufferable."

"You're blushing."

"I'm overheating from rage."

Mina tugs your arm, breathless. "Can you marry him just so I can be maid of honor?"

You: "I swear to god....."

The guard returns. "Miss, we still can't let you out. Too many people at the gates."

You whip toward Sae. "You. This is your fault. I'm going to haunt you for this. Every time you open the fridge, I'll whisper, 'You're the worst' from the vegetable drawer."

"I rarely eat vegetables."

"Of course! You probably think emotional maturity is a vitamin."

He exhales sharply, like your existence is equal parts headache and fascination.

"Didn't think you'd show up," he mutters.

"Well, I did. Dressed to annoy you. Lipstick shade is called Revenge Red."

He glances at your lips. Too long.

Your stomach flips.

Someone whispers, "So... when's the wedding?"

You throw a protein bar at them.

Chapter Text

"Why am I here?!"

Your voice echoes off the interior of the sleek black car. You're seething in the backseat, arms folded, legs crossed, refusing to make eye contact with the driver… who just happens to be Sae Itoshi. In his full post-match glory. Still smug. Still composed. Still a menace to society.

"I could've waited," you snap. "They said the fans would clear out in few hours."

Sae doesn't look at you. "Or you could leave now. Safely."

Your friend up front spins around in the passenger seat, practically vibrating. "This car smells like his cologne, do you understand that?! Do you know how many girls would kill to sit where you are right now?!"

"Yeah," you mutter. "And I'd kill to be anywhere else. Including a ditch."

Sae finally glances in the rearview mirror, eyes meeting yours. "You're dramatic."

You scoff. "Oh, I'm sorry. I wasn't aware that being hunted down by fangirls because of a blurry picture made me the drama. I guess I'll just take accountability for your face, then."

"Wasn't my idea to wear someone else's jersey."

You gasp. "You're acting like you noticed that during the match."

He doesn't answer. Just smirks faintly.

Your friend loses it. "He noticed you from the pitch?! That's like… main character-level shit......"

"I hate this," you groan. "I hate all of this. I hate this car. I hate this interior. I hate the air in here."

"Then stop breathing it," Sae says dryly.

Your head whips toward him. "You're not funny."

"And yet you keep reacting," he replies coolly, eyes still on the road.

You sit back with a dramatic sigh, muttering under your breath, "Should've just worn a fake mustache and gone as my own uncle."

Your friend is fully fangirling now, taking selfies (without flash, thank god), whispering to herself about how her online fanfic world has suddenly merged with reality. You glance forward just in time to see her nearly pass out when Sae scratches his neck and the veins in his forearm pop.

You, however, stay petty. "Don't you have, like, bodyguards or something? Security? Fame protection or whatever?"

"I do," he replies.

"Then where the hell were they when my face got posted on football Twitter with the caption 'Is this Sae's girlfriend or a delulu?'"

Sae shrugs. "You never denied it."

Your jaw drops. "ARE YOU.....?!"

"You're yelling," he says, monotone. "We're in a car."

"Yeah, well, I'm about to jump out of this car."

"We"re on a highway."

"Then I'll die angry."

The car swerves slightly as Sae chuckles, actually chuckles, at that.

You blink.

Your friend gasps.

You blink again. "Did… did he just..."

"HE LAUGHED!" she screeches, shaking your arm. "Do you know what you've done?! You've glitched the Itoshi Sae...."

"Maybe he's malfunctioning," you mutter. "Maybe I've annoyed him into a coma."

You stare out the window, arms crossed again, but quieter this time. His voice cuts through the silence a few moments later.

"You said, you wore red lipstick on purpose."

You don't look at him. "So?"

A pause.

Then, as if he's answering himself more than you: "It looked good."

Your stomach drops. You snap your head to the side. "What?"

He doesn't repeat it. Just shifts into another lane, one hand on the wheel, eyes ahead, entirely unbothered.

You glance away, face burning, suddenly too aware of how much effort you did put into that makeup just to piss him off. You're flustered now. Which only makes you angrier. Which makes you sulk again.

"You're still an ass," you mumble.

"Not denying that."

"And you're paying for my Uber home."

"Already arranged," he says smoothly. "It's waiting at my apartment."

You freeze. "Your what....."

Your friend in the front seat lets out an unholy gasp.

"You never said you weren't going to his apartment—!"

You scream.

"I'm not staying here, Sae."

You toss your tote onto the polished marble floor of his swanky apartment and glare at him like he's a public health crisis. "You can't just lock me in a penthouse like you're some villain in a telenovela. I'll sue."

Sae sighs, running a hand through his damp post-match hair. "It's for your own good."

"My own...." you nearly combust. "No. This is for your image. You rich people and your PR-trained empathy. I'm just trying to survive this without being chased down by fangirls and trampled in someone's vlog!"

He blinks. "I sent your friend home safely. In an Uber Black. She waved at you."

"I saw, thanks," you hiss, fuming. "She went willingly because she'd let me die as long as she got a glimpse of your teammates' six-packs."

"She's doing the right thing."

You whip around. "Excuse me?"

"I mean," he says, walking to the fridge calmly, "you're the one who spent the whole match looking like a villain's mistress in that dark lipstick and tight ponytail. You even wore another player's jersey just to piss me off. Mission accomplished."

You clench your jaw. "Not everything revolves around you, O Great Sae. That jersey was on sale. Some of us live on a budget."

"Right," he mutters, reaching for water. "God forbid you forget to mention money for ten seconds."

"Oh, I will keep mentioning it," you snap, arms crossing. "How many square feet is this place? Ten thousand? Twenty? You have a voice-controlled wine rack. I've never even had fancy wine. I drink filtered tap water and pretend it's fancy."

Sae looks vaguely traumatized.

"You're the reason I'll have to work till I'm ninety," you add. "You exist. You walk around casually being rich. Your shirt probably costs more than my rent. Being this wealthy should be illegal. I'm calling the economy."

He finally turns to you, utterly blank. "You're making me feel like having money is a sin."

"Good," you say flatly. "You deserve guilt."

That's when you turn on your heel and bolt toward the elevator. Your mental state is collapsing, your lipstick is probably smeared, and all you want is to sob into your hotel pillow and eat gas station chocolate.

But of course—of course—Sae grabs your wrist.

"Don't touch me!" you shriek. "This is hostage behavior! I'm calling the...."

Your phone buzzes.

FaceTime: Mom.

You freeze.

"Oh no," you whisper. "Not now. Not her."

"What?"

"She's just checking in. It's fine. She doesn't know I'm..."

You accidentally press accept.

Video.

Front camera on.

Instant chaos.

The screen reveals a luxurious modern rooftop, skyline glittering. A broad male chest in a dark shirt fills half the frame. Your mother's face appears—

And you know.

You know this is going to end in fire.

Her jaw drops. "WHO IS THAT?!"

You flail to aim the camera at your face, tripping over your words. "N-no one! Just—it's a—uh—a friend—"

"In a penthouse?! At night?! With no other girls?!"

You try to lie.

She speaks in your native tongue. And shrieks.

"YOU GOT A SUGAR DADDY?! YOU'RE TOO CUTE TO BE CORRUPTED! YOU WERE AN ANGEL! IS THAT CHAMPAGNE BEHIND YOU?!"

Sae tilts his head in confusion, whispering, "What's she saying?"

"She thinks you're my sugar daddy," you mutter through clenched teeth.

A pause.

He smirks.

"Don't—look—smug," you snap. "I'm suffering."

"YOUR DAD WILL LOSE IT!" your mom yells in your language. "WE RAISED YOU BETTER! ARE YOU DOING DRUGS TOO?!"

"I'm hanging up," you whisper. "I'm hanging up now....."

"Wait," Sae says, deadpan, "Tell her I'm famous. It might help."

"I'm not telling my mom you're famous. That makes it worse."

Eventually, after four minutes of panic and your mom threatening to fly over and "bring a priest," you manage to stammer a half-explanation about the stadium mess and viral pictures. You promise to explain later. You end the call with a dramatic sigh and collapse onto the couch.

Silence.

You bury your face in your hands.

Sae casually sits on the opposite end. "So. Sugar daddy?"

"Shut up," you groan.

"You do complain like a sugar baby....."

You throw a pillow at his head.

He catches it.

Smirks.

You hate him.

You hate him so much you might actually be in trouble.

Chapter Text

You fall asleep on his couch.

Mid-rant. Mid-eye roll. Mid-accusation that his "couch probably costs more than a kidney on the black market."

You pass out like you own the place, in full war paint, someone else's jersey, a dramatic ponytail and the smell of that dark red lipstick still hanging in the air. You're curled up on his fancy pillow like it's your personal revenge throne.

And Sae just stands there.

Staring.

Blinking.

Processing the fact that you, the human equivalent of a cat screaming at a billionaire, are now sleeping in his living room.

And he should be annoyed.

But he isn't.

In fact, the corner of his mouth twitches. A small, dangerous smile that no one ever sees, not the press, not the fans, not even Rin.

You're out cold, and somehow, this is the most peace he has felt in months.

His thoughts start rewinding, unprompted:

The café.

The tea.

The look on your face on the photo that stalker took. He doesn't know why he didn't stopped that men from posting that photo. 

Maybe it was a twisted joke... For ruining his shirt but...

He kinda wanted that photo to get viral, wanted the world to see you two together.

He knows he should've walked away. But instead, he stayed.

Then came the sarcasm. The insults. The way you talk to him like he's some minor inconvenience instead of a global celebrity.

You never cared about his fame.

You cared that he was rich enough to make you suspicious.

You cared that he dared to exist in your line of vision while being infuriating.

And somehow, your hatred is the most honest thing he's experienced in years.

You pout like you're at war with capitalism. You insult his money like it personally wronged your ancestors. You get that scrunched-up little look every time he calls you "adorable" like you're about to sue him for emotional distress.

And God help him…

He likes it.

He laughs because of you.

You don't know it but every time you call him "walking ATM" or "dead-eyed Gucci mannequin," he wants to laugh so hard it breaks his cold, boring reputation.

He watches you now — passed out, lips parted, breathing softly. That smudged makeup. That ridiculous jersey. The slight twitch of your brows like you're annoyed even in your sleep.

He exhales slowly, staring up at the ceiling.

It's quiet.

Too quiet.

Without your voice ricocheting around the apartment, it feels like he's back to being alone in the world. Just a guy with too much money and no real reason to smile.

Even football feels like work now. Exhausting. Predictable. Emotionless.

But you?

You're chaos. You're messy, loud, impossible, and painfully real.

And maybe — maybe it's not love.

He doesn't know what love even is.

But when you blushed the other day at something flirty he said, why did he want to kiss that exact spot on your cheek? Why did his heart pick up? Why did he want to say something worse, just to see that look again?

Why does he remember every insult you've thrown at him like they're compliments?

Why does he feel like chasing you?

Why does your annoyed face bring him more joy than a trophy?

This isn't love.

No.

This is something worse.

Because it makes him feel alive.

And nothing else does.

Chapter Text

You blink awake.

Ceiling.

White. Way too clean. No dust.

Definitely not your ceiling.

Definitely not your house.

Your brain lags behind your eyes. You sit up slowly, head pounding like it hosted a concert overnight.

And then the real horror begins.

Your ponytail is still intact, tight as a goddamn promise. You groan, gripping it like it's personally responsible for this headache. Even with your silky hair, even with a loose rubber band, your scalp feels like it's been fighting demons all night.

You run your fingers through your hair...

and stop.

Your hand comes away sticky. Cakey. Glittery.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FU—"

You scream.

Loud. Panicked. Like you've just discovered your body in the third act of a horror movie. You sprint toward the hallway mirror and—

You're still wearing your full makeup.

Mascara slightly smudged. Red lipstick worn and tragic. Foundation holding on for dear life. Your ponytail now crooked in a way that makes you look criminally unhinged.

And worst of all…

You remember.

You slept.

In someone's apartment.

Not just someone.

Sae Itoshi.

You freeze.

Slowly, you turn toward the living room where he's sipping tea in an oversized hoodie, looking at you like you're the morning news.

"...Did you," you start slowly, expression blank.

His eyes meet yours.

You don't blink.

"…Did you get me drunk and steal my virginity last night?"

Sae pauses.

Your voice echoes.

Silence.

The tea cup halts halfway to his mouth.

A single blink.

"…You're not in pain, are you?"

You shriek again, clutching your heart like a Victorian widow.

"OH MY GOD, YOU..... PERVERT! SATAN! GET OUT OF MY FACE, ITOSHI!"

He sips his tea slowly.

"This is my house by the way." he says blankly.

“GET OUT OF MY VISUAL RADIUS!”

He raises a brow.

You scream again but this time more out of shame than fear.

Minutes pass.

You calm down.

Kind of.

The redness on your face refuses to fade. You sit across from him now like a war survivor, hugging a pillow with dead eyes and your ruined ponytail still hanging like a battle flag.

Quietly, almost whispering, you speak:

"…Can I go now?"

Sae looks up.

You sigh. Shoulders heavy.

"I need to… explain to my mom why I fell asleep in a strange man's penthouse and accidentally showed her his abs over FaceTime and now she thinks I've gotten corrupted by foreign money."

Sae doesn't reply at first.

But the corner of his mouth lifts.

Just a little.

And you want to die all over again.

You stare at the marble coffee table like it personally offended you.

"I need to go," you grumble, cheeks still red as hell, mascara halfway down your cheek. "I already look like a leftover character from a 2000s emo music video."

Sae doesn't even look up. "Can't."

Your eyes twitch. "Excuse me?"

He flips a page in the newspaper. "Security still advised you not to leave until the crowd dies down."

Your hand curls into a fist. "Oh really? What am I supposed to do then? Sit here looking like a raccoon while the world thinks I'm your sugar baby?"

He doesn't even flinch.

You stand, dramatic. "I'd rather jump off your pretentious ass balcony than stay here a second longer...."

"I locked it."

You blink.

"I literally locked it," Sae repeats calmly. "So you don't try that exact thing."

You gape at him. "WHAT ARE YOU.... A MENTAL HOSPITAL NURSE?!"

His lips twitch.

You grab a throw pillow and throw it at his head.

He doesn't dodge. It just hits him, softly.

"Stop laughing," you say, voice strained.

"I'm not."

"You're smiling."

"Barely."

"That's equal to laughing for a man like you! So don't!"

You slump back into the couch, kicking off your shoes dramatically. "I swear to god, Sae. I swear this is why rich people shouldn't be given power. You're acting like a villain from an office-themed romance manhwa."

He sips his tea. "Want toast?"

You look at him like he just offered you poison.

"Do I look like I want toast?"

"You look like you need a therapist."

"Your face needs a therapist," you snap back, still curled up like a feral animal in oversized earrings and dried lipstick. "Don't talk to me."

He stands anyway, going to his million-dollar kitchen, probably to toast something gold-plated and sinful.

You hear a click. The toaster.

"You'll feel better if you eat."

"I'll feel better if you get drafted to the moon."

From the kitchen: "Not possible. FIFA would lose revenue."

You want to choke.

You cross your arms. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"This!" You wave at the space between you. "Trapping me in places. Sending my friends home. Blocking my exits like a fucking Skyrim NPC. You're insane."

He returns with a plate. "I don't want you walking into crowds while you're trending."

You pause. Genuinely stunned for a second.

"…I'm what now?"

"You're trending. Again. Thanks to your makeup and someone filming you running from the lounge."

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

"I HATE THIS COUNTRY," you scream into a throw pillow.

"You should have worn a hoodie."

"I WORE MAKEUP ON PURPOSE TO ANNOY YOU, NOT TREND WORLDWIDE!"

He tilts his head. "It worked. I was annoyed."

"GOOD!"

"Not for the makeup but for the jersey."

Silence.

He places a small breakfast plate beside you, warm toast with honey, a boiled egg, and a single strawberry sliced like a heart.

You blink at it.

"…You made this?"

"Just eat. Or pass out. Your choice."

You sulk again.

But eat.

Because you're too hungry and crying with dried lipstick isn't cute.

After a few minutes, voice quiet, you speak again.

"…I didn't mean to sleep here."

Sae shrugs. "You looked like you needed it."

You pause mid-bite. Your expression softens without meaning to.

He sips his tea like this isn't weird. Like he didn't just say something heartbreakingly human and make your chest tight.

"You still can't leave, by the way," he adds.

You groan. "WHY!"

"Because now my mom thinks I brought home a girl."

You stare at him, horrified.

His lips twitch.

"Should I let her know you're just a 'bleach-eating raccoon girl with financial jealousy issues'?"

You shriek again and throw another pillow.

He lets it hit.

"I can't even go back. I'm going to die in this jersey. They're going to build a shrine for me at the stadium. The girl who perished of humiliation."

Sae doesn't look up from his phone. "Sounds dramatic, even for you."

You make a strangled sound. "Don't you have any dignity? I just publicly disrespected you in a packed stadium and trended for being your maybe-mistress..."

His phone buzzes.

He glances down.

 Ma calling…

You lurch forward, eyes wide. "Reject it.'

He raises an eyebrow.

"Sae," you say, a warning.

He press answer.

"NO—!"

Too late.

The screen lights up with a video call, and before you can duck behind a cushion, he flips the camera to show your tragic self.

Hair: messy. Makeup: melted. Jersey: not even his.

Posture: crumpled like a haunted raccoon caught raiding the pantry.

His mother's elegant face appears on-screen. Sae looks terrifyingly like her.

"This is the girl I brought home, ma. I know you called me for that ."

Sae speaks in clear English making her eyes widen. Her lips part in surprise.

"Sae… who's that girl? Why does she look like she just crawled out of your bed wearing another man's jersey?"

You snap your head to him, scandalized.

He blinks. "She's not mine."

Your jaw drops. "Excuse you..."

He adds casually, "She accused me of drugging her and stealing her virginity when she woke up."

YOU CHOKE ON AIR.

"WHAT?!"

He smirks. "You kind of did."

"I DID NOT—"

His mom is choking on laughter now.

"Is this how you flirt now, Sae? Stealing women's virtue then denying them tea in the morning?"

"IT WAS A COUCH NAP," you yell. "And I still haven't had tea!"

His mom wheezes, pressing a hand to her chest. "You're adorable."

"I'm humiliated," you say instead, shoving your face behind a throw pillow. "Ma'am, I'm very sorry you had to see me like this. This wasn't… this wasn't supposed to happen. I didn't mean to fall asleep here!"

"So you planned to be in his apartment fully awake?"

You make a dying noise.

Sae finally ends the call without warning, and the moment the screen goes black, you grab another pillow and hurl it at him.

He dodges with a smirk, smug as ever.

"You are the worst man alive."

"You're the one who slept over," he replies.

You throw another pillow. He catches it.

You're hunched on his couch, doom-scrolling.

Sae sits on the armrest, arms crossed, one brow raised as you groan.

"Can you get my suitcase?" you ask suddenly.

"No."

"Sae!"

"You insulted my money."

"I insult your entire bein, and yet here you are."

He tilts his head. "Touché."

Look, I don't have anything here. No clothes. No skincare. No face wash. I'm turning into a ghoul by the second."

He's silent for a moment, lips twitching.

You glare. "Why are you smirking?"

"Just waiting for you to beg."

You sit up. "Excuse me?!"

"You want me to use my rich connections to magically bring your suitcase here, right?"

"...Yes."

"And yet you spent the last two days mocking me for being a football prince."

"I still stand by it," you snap. "But right now, I'm in distress and I require royal assistance."

He actually laughs. Quiet, low, annoyingly attractive. Like this whole thing is just a game to him.

"Say it nicely," he says, almost teasing.

You narrow your eyes. "No."

He leans in. "Beg, and I'll get your suitcase."

You stare him down. "I'll bite you."

"Is that a yes?"

"I'll kill you in your sleep."

Sae smirks, standing and pulling out his phone. "Fine. I'll do it anyway."

"…Wait really?"

He glances back at you. "Only because you look like you're about to start crying over your missing toner."

You're about to protest when you pause, realizing he's right.

You are dangerously close to losing it over toner.

You mutter under your breath. "You rich people are so smug."

He doesn't respond. Just smiles faintly, dialing.

Chapter Text

The zipper of your suitcase groans under your frustrated grip as you finally drag it into Sae's polished apartment. You're too tired to appreciate the fact that it likely cost more than your parents' mortgage.

You mutter something inaudible under your breath, probably a mixture of gratitude and curses and stomp straight into the bathroom with the determination of a battle-worn soldier about to be reborn through soap and steam.

The door clicks shut. Finally.

Your shoulders drop.

The hot water rains down as you step into his ridiculously oversized shower, instantly easing the dull throb in your skull. Expensive shampoo. High-pressure rainfall from the ceiling. A slight scent of amber and cedarwood lingering in the air.

You sigh. Peace. Finally, peace.

You stay there longer than you should, maybe trying to wash off the whole week and when you're finally done, you reach for a thick white towel hanging on a golden hook. It's soft as a cloud, smells like cotton and sunshine and you practically hug it to your skin as you dry off.

Out of habit, you wrap it around yourself and open the bathroom door.

And walk straight out.

Right into Sae.

Frozen.

You both stare.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, lazily scrolling through his phone. Head lifts. Eyes meet yours. Linger.

You scream.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"

You immediately clutch the towel tighter around your chest like your entire dignity depends on it, which honestly, it does right now.

He doesn't even flinch.

"I live here?"

"BUT I'M IN A TOWEL!"

"...My towel."

You blink. 

"What?"

"That's mine," he adds calmly. "You're wearing "my" towel."

Your soul physically exits your body.

"YOU—WHAT—WHY DIDN'T YOU PUT FRESH TOWELS?! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE RICH!"

"I usually change them at night," he replies, standing up slowly. "Didn't think you'd use that one."

You scream again, half mortified, half trying not to die on the spot.

"I RUBBED THAT ALL OVER MY BODY—"

"So did I," he deadpans.

You freeze. Face turning a color that hasn't been invented yet.

"I'M GONNA DIE—"

You make a beeline back toward the bathroom, feet thudding against the hardwood.

"I'M TAKING A SHOWER AGAIN—"

His hand suddenly wraps gently around your wrist, stopping you mid-sprint.

"You'll catch a cold," he says, voice quieter now. "Stop."

You glance back, nearly hyperventilating, wide-eyed and humiliated.

"Why are you even here?! You're supposed to give me space like a gentleman! I was naked in there, Sae!"

"There's a room beside the bathroom. For changing," he replies, annoyingly unfazed. "You passed it."

You scream again, jerking your arm from his grip and stomping back into the bathroom.

Not to shower again, but to scream into the towel.

You finally manage to clothe yourself like a civilized human being and the two of you end up in the kitchen for lunch. The room is too sleek. Too sterile. Everything spotless, perfect, and expensive.

Unlike you.

You're still fuming. And flustered. And embarrassed beyond recovery.

You pick at your food. Still unable to meet his eyes.

The silence stretches until you speak.

And this time, your voice is quieter. Real.

"I saved for this trip."

Sae lifts his eyes from his plate.

"Three years," you murmur. "I've been saving from volunteer work, selling things online, tutoring spoiled brats who couldn't solve basic equations."

You let out a hollow laugh.

"This was supposed to be my dream. Seven days. That's all I wanted."

You finally look up. His eyes are on you, but softer now.

"And I've only had two good ones. Just one bad day, just one and now everything's gone sideways. I'm trending for something that didn't even happen. Worst? I'm stuck here."

You drop your fork with a soft clink.

"I just wanted to experience something for me. I thought I was finally being selfish in a good way."

Your voice wavers slightly.

"But now I don't even know what this is anymore."

Sae says nothing. His hand is motionless beside his drink. Eyes trained on you like you're the only thing in the room.

You exhale. Gaze down.

"Can you... drop me off at the airport on the seventh day?"

He finally speaks.

"You still want to leave?"

You look at him, startled.

"What?"

"You still want to go back," he says, slowly. "After all this?"

You bite your bottom lip.

"It's not like I have a choice."

"There's always a choice."

Your breath catches.

"Sae… I can't stay here. Even if I wanted to. I have a job. A life. Parents to answer to."

He doesn't reply. But his eyes soften in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"What, do you want me to stay here in your billionaire tower, wrapped in your towels, hiding from my mother's wrath?"

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face.

"Not the worst idea."

You laugh bitterly. Then glance down.

"This is crazy," you whisper. "Everything’s just... too much."

A pause.

Then Sae shifts, resting his forearms on the table. His tone is unreadable.

"You don't know how rare it is," he says, "to meet someone who talks to me the way you do."

You blink. Look up.

"Who doesn't want something. Who doesn't fake a smile. Who doesn't shrink away just because I'm Sae Itoshi."

You swallow.

"I insult you every five minutes."

"Yeah," he murmurs. "And it makes me want to laugh every time."

You stare at him.

He looks down at his plate, avoiding your eyes now.

"Football doesn't even make me feel that anymore."

Something about the way he says it, quietly, almost bitterly— sits deep in your chest.

"Then what does?" you ask, almost breathless.

A beat.

His eyes meet yours.

"You."

Silence.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

"It's not love," he says suddenly, voice firmer. "I don't even know what love is."

"Then what is it?"

He exhales.

"You blush, and I want to kiss you."

You freeze.

"You scream, and I want to tease you more."

He stands slowly.

"You look at me like I'm the most irritating man alive and it makes me feel... seen."

You don't know what to say. So you say nothing.

"It’s not love," he repeats.

But you both know that's a lie.

Chapter Text

Sae doesn't remember when the plan takes root in his head. Maybe it was somewhere between the way your voice trembled over lunch, murmuring how this trip is a dream built with your own hands, or the sight of your eyes dulling like stormy skies when you said your money has gone to waste.

"You still have three days," he says flatly.

You blink. "So?"

"You said it was a seven-day trip. Let's make the rest count."

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "What are you, a rom-com second lead?"

But you don't decline. You don't mock him again.

The next morning, your suitcase stands at the foot of the bed, wheels aligned perfectly. Sae hands you a crisp, printed itinerary. The last line is scribbled in his handwriting:

Wear good shoes. No sulking allowed.

Day One

You arrive at the Sagrada Família and gasp so loudly that people actually turn to look.

"This is real?" you whisper, awestruck.

"Obviously," Sae mutters.

"Shut up."

You grab his wrist and drag him inside.

The stained glass turns the cathedral into a kaleidoscope of light, every color dancing across your features like a celestial spotlight. You look like you belong here, like the entire cathedral has been built just to catch this one moment: you, standing in colored sunlight, grinning like a miracle.

And Sae? He is still.

He has never seen you smile like this. Not once. No biting sarcasm, no scowling or narrowed eyes. Just you—fully, unguardedly happy. And he realizes something dangerous:

He likes it. 

No. 

He needs it.

"Come on, Itoshi!" you call, waving him over. "Take a picture of me here!"

"No."

"Yes. Get over here before I start screaming that the greatest midfielder 'Sae Itoshi' is here."

He sighs and takes the phone. The first picture comes out blurry. The second is worse—your face halfway cut off.

"Are you doing this on purpose?!" you hiss.

"I'm not your photographer."

"You're not even human. This is a hate crime against aesthetic."

You stomp over, switch to selfie mode, and shove the phone in his hand while pulling him down beside you.

"Fine. Let's make this idiot-proof."

You take photo after photo—some serious, most chaotic. You grin, he glares. You flash peace signs, he deadpans. In one, you yank his face close to yours.

And he doesn't pull away.

After taking photos, at a café nearby, you share a gelato and insist on trying every flavor the vendor has.

"You're going to get a sugar crash," Sae says.

"I'm living my best life. Don't interrupt me."

He watches you close your eyes with a smile after the fifth scoop. His heart does something weird, like it’'s skipped a beat, then lands too heavily in his chest.

Day Two

Park Güell is a mosaic explosion, but all he sees is you.

You make him take more pictures—this time with a Polaroid camera you bought impulsively from a vendor.

"You're still bad at this," you complain after the fifth photo.

"You're a terrible subject," he counters.

"Say that again and I'll glue this lizard statue to your luggage."

You take a selfie of both of you beside the famous salamander, laughing so hard you almost fall backward. Sae catches your arm instinctively.

"You caught me."

He lets go quickly. "You were falling."

"Don't explain it. Let me romanticize it, asshole."

The sky cracks open in a light drizzle. You squeal and run across puddles, twirling in the middle of the path like some rom-com heroine.

"You'll get sick," he calls out.

"I'll get memories!"

You look wild and free, like nothing in the world can touch you. He takes a mental photograph. It hurts.

Later, you drag him into a bookstore and make up fake backstories for every title.

"This one? It's about a haunted ham sandwich."

"You're insane."

"And you love it."

He doesn't respond. But he smiles.

And you don't notice.

Day Three

You go to the beach in the evening, golden hour curling along the horizon. You chase waves, click more Polaroids, and make him try random street food.

When you find a stall selling cheap jewelry, you buy matching bracelets.

"What are we, sixteen?" he grumbles, watching you tie the thread around his wrist.

"No, but my inner child deserves compensation."

You glance at him with a genuine smile.

"Thank you, Sae."

"For what?"

"For not letting me waste these three days. I haven't been this happy in... forever.”

Sae stares.

You mean it. You're happy. Because of him.

And then you smile again—that same open, bright smile. But it isn't for him. Not in the way he wants.

It's gratitude. Not affection.

And suddenly, he feels cold.

You're going to leave.

In one more day, you'll walk through those airport gates, turn back with a wave, and vanish. No more chaos. No more insults. No more morning screams over towel mix-ups.

Sae Itoshi realizes, with horrifying clarity:

He is in love.

And you are just passing through.

He is so doomed.

Chapter Text

The city lights spill into the penthouse like liquid gold, soft and humming with the kind of hush only deep night brings. Madrid winds down outside but inside Sae's apartment, the air feels alive. Not loud. Not chaotic. Just charged—like something waiting to be named.

You sit side by side on the oversized couch, bundled in a throw blanket that probably costs more than your rent, sipping hot chocolate he swears is from "some Swiss brand with a name I can't pronounce."

Your feet are bare. His hair is slightly mussed. Your voice fills the quiet as you pepper him with questions, half amused, half incredulous.

"So wait," you say, pointing toward the sleek bathroom door. "That faucet adjusts water temperature with motion sensors and lighting? For what? Mood showers?"

Sae lifts his cup, expression flat. "That's normal."

You nearly choke on your drink. "Normal? Do your plates has heating and cooling systems too?"

He exhales through his nose, the faintest curve tugging at his lips.

"You're impossible," he mutters.

"You're spoiled," you counter, grinning. "Your closet is bigger than my apartment. Your fridge is a touchscreen one. Your bathtub lights up. What's next—your pillows give massages?"

There's a pause. A beat.

"...Yes."

You burst into laughter, nearly tipping your cup.

The rhythm continues—your teasing, his dry retorts, your gasps of disbelief at every small luxury. Then, gradually, the laughter ebbs. Silence settles. A soft one. A comfortable one. Your head drifts onto his shoulder as if it belongs there.

"...Thanks," you whisper, quieter now. "For not kicking me out. For taking me to the beautiful places. For... making my trip memorable"

He doesn't answer right away. He rarely does. But then—

"Stay."

You blink, lift your head. "What?"

His hand finds your jaw—warm, steady, trembling just slightly. His voice doesn't waver. His eyes are intense than usual, heavy with something raw.

"Please stay."

Before your mind catches up, his mouth is on yours.

The kiss isn't gentle.

It isn't shy.

It's desperate.

He kisses you like he's been starving for it, like something inside him has cracked wide open and this is the only thing keeping him whole. You gasp into his mouth and he uses that chance to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours, fierce and consuming. Your hands fist in his shirt, clinging like it's the only thing anchoring you. You kiss him back like you've been waiting for this moment from the moment you spilled coffee on him.

When he presses you back into the cushions with his weight over you, heat sparks through your veins. His hand slips beneath your shirt, fingers splayed across your skin like he's memorizing you.

"I want you," he breathes against your lips, hips pressed against yours, voice rough, wrecked. "I want you so bad—"

"Sae," you gasp, catching his wrists as they tug at your waistband. "Wait. I—”"

Your grip is tight yet trembling. Your voice shakes. "I can't. Not here. Not now. Not when I don't even know if we have a future."

He freezes above you. His chest heaves. You brace for him to pull back, to scoff, to retreat behind that cold armor again.

But he doesn't.

He exhales, low and heavy, before lowering himself into your embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His arms wrap around your waist, fierce and unyielding like he can't let go even if he tried.

You lie still beneath his weight, stunned, your hands hovering before they slowly curl around his neck. 

He's warm. He's solid. His breath is ghosting across your collarbone.

For a long time, he doesn't speak.

Then he says it, so softly that you almost miss it....

"...Just for tonight."

Your throat tightens but you force a shaky laugh. "Get off me oh the greatest midfielder. You're a giant. And heavy. And a fatass. You're crushing me."

"I'm not fat," he grumbles into your neck.

"Then why do your pecs feel like boulders?"

"...Stop talking."

"Stop squishing me, Tokyo Tower."

But he still doesn't move. Just tightens his hold like letting go would destroy him.

So you stay. Your legs tangled, his breath against your skin, your fingers drifting absently through his soft hair. Somewhere between desire and safety. Somewhere between reality and heartbreak.

Fragile.

Sacred.

Just for the night.

Chapter Text

The morning air in Madrid is still, a gentle silence cloaking the apartment like a goodbye already whispered.

You stand near the window, wrapped in the oversized hoodie Sae lent you last night. The hem nearly reaches your thighs, and it still smells like him—clean, expensive, distant.

Behind you, Sae watches, arms folded loosely across his bare chest, as though bracing for the inevitable. You haven't spoken much since you both woke up. Something heavy hangs between you—unspoken, unbearable.

He breaks first.

"Stay."

Your breath hitches.

You turn slowly, heart thudding in your chest. "What?"

Sae's eyes are unreadable but his voice is low, raw. "I said stay. With me. Here."

You stare at him. The words settle around you, suffocating.

He takes a step forward. "I'll handle everything. I'll get you into a university nearby. I'll take care of your living, your studies—anything. You won't need to worry."

Your chest twists. "Sae, don't—"

"I'm not saying this lightly," he cuts in, sharper than he means to. "I've thought about it. It makes sense. You'll be close, we won't have to say goodbye. You'll have more opportunities here."

You shake your head slowly, voice trembling. "It's not that simple."

"Really? Then explain it to me. Why not?"

You swallow. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand!" His voice cracks now—too loud in the stillness of morning. "Why can't you stay? I finally found something—someone—that makes me feel like I'm not just existing. And you're just... walking away?"

Silence.

You look down, fingers tightening around the hem of his hoodie. "Because I have people who'd miss me. People who'd break if I leave. I have family. Friends. A home that knows my name."

He steps closer. "You think I don't know what that feels like?"

"No," you say softly. "You don't."

His breath catches.

You look up, eyes glossy, words spilling before you can stop them. "You left Japan. You cut ties. You walked out of your hometown and never looked back. You didn't have lifelong friends begging you to stay. You didn't have a little cousin who makes you pinky promise you'll come back for New Year's. You didn't have a mom who calls you twice a day because she can't sleep unless she knows you ate. You didn't have roots, Sae."

Your voice cracks. "But I do."

He looks like he's been punched. Still, he doesn't say a word. He just stares—quiet, still, unraveling.

"And I know you think you can build something with me," you whisper. "But what if this is temporary? What if one day you wake up and I'm just a phase? What if you meet someone who's perfect for your world—fluent in designer brands and press etiquette, who can follow you through red carpets and interviews without flinching?"

You give a soft, broken laugh. "I can't even pronounce half the food you eat. I grew up clipping grocery coupons and reusing plastic bags. I don't belong here, Sae. Not in your glass towers and silk bedsheets."

He steps forward again, voice suddenly rough. "You belong with me."

You look at him. "No, I don't. And that's the bitter truth."

A silence so heavy falls between you it almost has sound.

"I'm not leaving because I don't love this," you say, your voice barely audible. "I'm leaving because I do. Too much."

Sae's throat bobs.

You continue, your voice shaking. "And you'll move on, one day. But me? If I stay and this ends, I:ll lose everything. My home. My family. Myself."

Tears prick your eyes and you look away, forcing out a smile that looks more like a wound. "You're used to solitude, Sae. You were built for it. But I wasn't."

He reaches for you now, fingers trembling for the first time. "I'm not asking you to cut them off. I'm asking you to add me to your life."

You let him touch your face—but this time, your smile is already soaked in goodbye.

"I'm not strong enough to live in your world," you whisper. "And you were never meant to stay in mine."

A pause.

Then your voice cracks again, louder this time.

"Please don't make me choose."

His hand drops.

And for the first time in a long, long time... Sae doesn't know what to say.

Not on the field. Not in interviews. Not even in silence.

Because what's the point of winning every match, every medal, every trophy—

If he's losing you?

➽──────────────❥

Airports are cruel.

Not because they take you places— but because they take you from them. From people, from memories, from moments you know you'll never get again.

You stand near your gate, one last time in that city where everything has changed.

And beside you stands him.

Sae Itoshi.

Hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff, that same unreadable face he's worn since the beginning. But now it's different. Not distant. Not cold. Just… hollow. The kind of silence that screams louder than grief.

You exhale slowly, smiling as you turn to him. "Well," you say lightly, "this is it!"

He nods once.

You elbow him gently. "You're not gonna cry, are you?"

His eyes flicker toward you. The smallest lift of his lips. Not a smile— just an echo of one.

"I'll haunt you, you know," you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "You'll be making eggs one day and hear my voice calling you a useless billionaire."

Still nothing. Just silence.

You soften a little, gaze dropping to the floor. "You can call me, Sae. If you ever feel like arguing with someone. Or being insulted. Or feeling like a person again."

He looks at you then, but doesn't speak.

"And if you don't," you add, trying to mask the tremble in your voice, "I'll still think of you sometimes. When I'll see someone wearing overpriced shoes. When I'll spill coffee."

A pause.

You laugh quietly to yourself. "Funny, huh? No one knew that stupid coffee stain would become a scar we'd both have to carry."

Still nothing.

Just the soft hum of people walking past you. The distant echo of boarding calls. The universe moving forward while the two of you stay frozen in a moment that already feels like it belongs to a memory.

You turn to him again, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Your silence is depressing," you joke. "Say something. Call me dumb one last time or I'll die thinking you've gone soft."

He opens his mouth like he might but nothing comes out.

Instead, he leans in and reaches out gently, almost absentmindedly adjusting your hairband— always slipping, just like your heart.

"You never fix this properly," he murmurs.

You blink.

Then he wipes at your lips with his thumb, a smudge of lipstick fading beneath his touch. "Still messy," he whispers.

You gasp, mortified.

"Why didn't you tell me that till now?"

He looks at you softly, as he smiles. 

"Because that's the real you." He leans in, and fixes the collar of your dress. "And I wanted you to be 'you' till you leave me."

And then…

He kisses your temple. Tender. Too tender. As if he knows this will be the last time he's ever allowed to be near you.

You smile despite yourself, cheeks burning, trying to joke again— but then he leans down, slower this time, and presses his lips to yours.

No hunger.

No passion.

Just pain.

A soft, aching kind of desperation. The kind that tastes like surrender. Like goodbye sealed in the warmth of a fading kiss.

And when he pulls away, his eyes are no longer hollow. They're full — of something you've never seen before.

Something raw.

Something final.

"I love you, y/n. Always be happy and free." he says quietly, like a secret he has no choice but to spill at the last second.

Your breath catches.

But before you can reply—

Before you can even breathe—

He turns and walks away.

No looking back.

No hesitation.

And you know then…

He won't call.

He won't text.

Because to him, holding on would be cruel. Reaching out would only tear open the wound again. So he'll bury it. Deep. Next to all the other loved ones he never got to keep.

And you?

You stand there as your plane is called, watching the man who once made you feel so alive walk away like you never existed.

You bite down hard on your lip, the tears finally slipping past your lashes. Your heart feels like it's been wrung dry. Like grief is pressing into your lungs, making it hard to breathe.

You have broken an already broken man.

Even if you never meant to.

And yet… he still loved you with what little pieces he has left.

Your fingers curl around the boarding pass. You take one step forward.

And as you pass through the gate, you look back just once— but he's already gone.

All that remains is the echo of his touch…

And the memory of a coffee stain.

No one realized back then— when hot coffee soaked through his pristine white shirt —

That it'll leave behind something more permanent.

Not on fabric.

But on hearts.

A stain that even time doesn't know how to erase.