Avnita

and truthfully, you’d confess—you’ve never been more at peace than right now. always caught in their crossfire, the chaos is far better than their icy cold silence, the kind that had you treading on fragile glass with every small step you wanted to take to them. as silly as it sounds, perhaps this was their way of making it up to you, who constantly gets stuck in the middle.

“where the fuck do you think you’re going?” rin snarls, the two of you watching sae get up from his seat. you don't miss the way he takes his wallet with him.

“the toilet, you idiot,” sae retorts as he leaves your table to head inside.

bullshit. at least half of it is. he’s gonna pay the fucking bill before he comes back.

silence ensues between you and the younger brother, the two of you turning your heads and glancing at one another before reaching for your phones in lightning speed. “that fucking whore. we said we’d split.”

“your brother hasn’t done math for years, rin. he doesn’t know how to divide by three—should we count the service charges?”

“no. he was the only asshole on our table, anyways.”

you look over to the restroom from outside like a delirious stalker, noting that sae hasn’t left for the counter. you don’t pay attention to when your phone conducts its biometric scan, feeling it vibrate in your palms at the unsuccessful attempt as it brings you to the keypad. you type out your incredibly original password with muscle memory—your birthday in numerical digits—and open your screen for the online banking app.

except you have no idea where the fuck it is. since when did your home screen look like this?

“huh?” you question, swiping left and right to the foreign layout. you speak to rin, “cover mine for me first, please. my phone is acting up.”

“roger that,” the athlete responds, typing in both of your shares and confirming the transaction. he hits send, and the mission is accomplished for both of you, assuming sae doesn’t send the money back. the device vibrates at the new notification: your account has received xxxxx japanese yen from r*n i***hi.

wait a moment..?

rin can’t mistake sae’s number for yours. that’d be stupid, even for him. you know both yours and sae’s contacts are saved, and he had to confirm the payment details a second time before sending it out.

unless—holy shit—

“that’s my phone, dumbass,” a voice quips. you look to see japan’s national treasure in all his glory, wallet in hand as he gives you an undecipherable look. you put his device down immediately like you’re allergic to his belongings.

“ah, sorry—” you say, scrambling for your own phone on the table so you can pay rin back. that explains why the layout was unfamiliar to you. god forbid you ever need to go through sae’s home screen again for anything; you’d take forever figuring out which app was in what folder.

you stop typing.

never mind the fact that you weren’t on your phone. how did you even get as far as unlocking sae’s? you have no clue what his password is (nor do you know rin’s, for that matter). you only know yours; your birthday.

your birthday—you did try opening his phone with your password.

and it worked. your password worked. that was the only way you would’ve gotten as far as his home screen—oh.

oh my fucking god.

his password is your birthday.

sae itoshi’s password is the same as yours—your fucking birthday. the same fucking numbers in the same fucking order. not his birthday, or rin’s, or his favorite soccer player from when he was a kid.

yours.

you drop your phone unceremoniously, not trusting yourself to pay anything with the way your brain is lagging. your face is warm, cheeks hot and eyes wide. god bless rin, too sidetracked by his messages to notice how you’re sinking further into your seat.

and you know sae; known him for most of your life, known him long enough to know that this means something—that this meant you mean something to him. do you? do you mean something?

your head spins dizzy at the implications, and you make the mistake of looking in his direction while the realization washes over your features. your eyes meet his in a steely teal, inevitably so, and the older brother stares at you like its confirmation.

he knows. he’s looking at you like he wanted you to know. like he was waiting for you. like he has you right where he wants you to be.

(if you were paying more attention, you would’ve seen yourself in his wallpaper.)

“figured something out?” he asks, a ghost of a smirk on his lips as he quirks his brow.

hesitantly, you nod.

“good.” sae leans back, just in time for the waiter to return with the bill and his card.

~

a pair of shoes tumbles before the step homewards in the genkan, a grunt heaves from you as you reach down to hook your fingers in the open mouths to place them tidy amongst other pairs.

“thanks for walking me back,” you say, casting a sideway glance at your companion. your eyes narrow, already bracing for an incoming smart remark. “even if it’s just six houses away.”

sae shrugs. “didn’t want you falling asleep standing up.”

“as if you'd catch me if i did.” you yawn, plopping a seat on the step of the genkan.

sae doesn't say anything. instead, he moves toward the empty space next to you, lowering himself into a seat.

but before he can settle, you spring back to your feet. his brow lifts in quiet confusion, catching the way you’re giggling at his expression. you turn away, stepping inside—only to feel your socks betray you, sliding across the freshly polished floor.

because the genkan is far too fucking wide for you to grab ahold of a wall, you let out an involuntary wail, a high-pitched noise somewhere between panic and despair, arms flailing as your legs scramble for grip. it’s a pathetic sound—loud enough to echo against the empty hall.

in a desperate attempt to save yourself, your hand latches onto the nearest thing—sae’s head.

your fingers clutch his hair like the claw of a crane machine, yanking upward as you twist your body to keep balance. the wail tapers into an awkward groan as you finally manage to steady yourself in the most absurd pose imaginable, one foot twisted behind the other.

there’s a beat of silence. you slowly turn your head, heart pounding to see him below you—one full palm braced against the floor, his back caught mid-fall, hair sticking up between your fingers where you yanked like you’d damn near uprooted him.

he looks up at you, deadpan, while you’re still frozen in your awkward stance, clutching his head like a trophy you didn’t mean to win.

the ridiculousness of it all hits you, and you let go like you’ve just realized you were holding fire. a choked laugh slips out—half hysterical, half wheeze. “oh my god… you—i—”

sae doesn’t move. “are you done?” 

you're not. you're doubling over, clutching your stomach, the laughter spilling out like you've completely lost it. “your face—i almost killed you—”

“you almost killed yourself.” he mutters, running a hand through his hair with a sigh as if this is somehow your fault.

you stagger back a step, still giggling, wiping at your eyes. “i’m sorry, i swear i didn’t mean to grab you like a—like a claw machine prize.”

he pushes himself up, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “you’re terrible at walking.”

“no, it’s the floor,” you shoot back between snickers, pointing an accusing finger at the glossy surface. “it’s polished within the inches. i was set up.”

he gives you a flat look, the kind that says he’s not buying it, then walks past you like nothing happened.

you watch him, still trying to catch your breath. “wow. no sympathy, huh?”

“you lived.” he says simply, heading for the kitchen like he owns the place.

you trail after him, muttering under your breath, and grab a glass from the cupboard. cold water rushes from the tap, and the sound steadies you a bit.

“want some?” you ask, holding up a second glass.

he glances at you, expression soft under the kitchen lights. “yeah.”

you fill it and carefully walk over, planting each foot like you’re crossing a minefield. he takes the glass from you, fingers brushing yours for a split second—enough to make you overly aware of the warmth.

you lean back against the counter, sipping your water with exaggerated nonchalance. “sooo,” you say, “do you always escort people six houses down just to watch them nearly die in their own home?”

sae sips his water slowly, eyes flicking up to meet yours over the rim. “only you.”

you choke on your drink a little, coughing, while he turns away to set his glass down like he didn’t just say that.

then you ask if he wants anything else. he only shakes his head.

“no. i’ll just head home. we have an early morning tomorrow.”

you nod, gulping down the rest of your water, the coolness washing away the lingering heat of embarrassment. setting the glass aside, you follow him back to the door.

the night air seeps in as you slide it open. he steps into his shoes while you linger by the door, hand resting on the frame. there’s a beat where neither of you moves.

“i’ll walk you,” you offer, almost casually.

he gives you another of those looks of his—flat, the kind that makes you second-guess yourself. “you’re walking me home now?”

you mirror his expression without missing a beat. “i’m being polite.”

for the first time all night, his mouth twists, not into a smirk but a sneer. it’s faint, but it pulls at his features in a way that tugs at a memory—rin’s face, sulking and bitter, flashes briefly in your mind. the resemblance is uncanny; you're struck by how alike they are in moments like this. you bite back a laugh, thinking how much rin would hate that comparison.

sae doesn’t say anything, just shoves his hands in his pockets and steps out. without thinking, you fall into step beside him.

the summer air is still warm and heavy, clinging to the edges of your skin. streetlights hum above, their glow pooling faintly on the pavement, and somewhere in the trees, cicadas drone—a low, constant chorus that stitches the night together.

you walk side by side, shadows stretching long and thin, barely brushing. neither of you talk much, but it doesn’t feel awkward. silence always settles between you that says everything without saying anything at all.

you arrive at the entrance of the itoshi estate sooner than expected. the gates stand tall, sleek against the dim glow of the solar-powered lights lining the path. the house looms beyond, parts of it swallowed by the dark, save for the warm glow of a single light upstairs.

“he’s still out?” you ask, squinting at the window.

“probably,” sae mutters. “told us he was with friends.”

you snort. “and he says they aren't his friends.” 

sae doesn't say anything. the silence folds back over the two of you, thick and still. you shift your weight, toes curling against the edge of the pavement.

“well… i’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” you say, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

sae steps forward, close enough that the faint scent of summer clings to him. the breeze teases a loose strand across your cheek, and without thinking, his hand lifts. fingers ghost over your skin as he tucks it back, grazing the side of your face with a touch so light it almost isn't there.

“yeah,” he says, voice low—softer than the night air.

you keep his hand there, leaning into the warmth, and meet him halfway. your lips press a quick, lingering kiss to the side of his face—fleeting, but enough to leave something burning in the air between you, a spark that hums long after you pull away.

his hand abruptly slips from your cheek as you turn, the movement almost reluctant, as if it wishes to stay. but you take off quickly, not daring to look back, and so you miss the way he stays there—rooted to the spot, the night holding its breath around him like he is. the glow under the streetlight spills over him, catching on strands of auburn—his current shade so close to the strands it almost blurs, as though the night itself softened to hold him in its light.

sae watches as your figure retreats into the night, each step pulling you deeper until the shadows and the heavy summer air seem to swallow you from his sight. yet his eyes follow, tracing your outline long after it’s gone, as if by sheer will he can keep you from disappearing. 

8:12 PM

your phone buzzes against the desk, screen lighting up the dim of your room.

— (8:12 PM) rinnie boy: can you meet me at the usual spot? wont take long.

you stare at it for a moment, the corners of your mouth tugging upward. no greeting. no explanation. just straight to the point. you laugh under your breath—quiet, hearty. it’s so him. so rin. 

you don’t text back. instead, you slip the phone into your jacket pocket and tiptoe out of your room, tell no one. the house remains still as you move through it like a ghost.

the front door groans open on its hinges, a muted creak breaking the stillness. you leave it unlocked, a small, silent promise to yourself that you’ll be coming back.

outside, the night air wraps around you once more with the smell of summer earth; you inhale deeply, filling your lungs until it almost aches, then tilt your head back as you exhale slowly, watching the breath disappear into the darkness.

above you, the moon hangs high—silver and clear, its light spilling soft across the quiet street.

how pretty.

the neighborhood fades behind you, each step carrying you closer to the edge of the trail where the scent of saltwater thickens in the air, sharp and familiar. ahead, the distant crash of waves rises and falls, a low, steady heartbeat calling you forward.

you know this path by heart. it’s the same one you’ve taken a hundred times before, back when summers were endless and the sea belonged to you, sae, and rin. even now, the memories cling—you can almost hear their voices chasing each other through the dark, laughter bouncing between the trees.

the rocks appear first, jagged silhouettes against the pale sand, and you smile faintly at the sight. how many times had you dared each other to climb them barefoot, only to scrape your knees raw? you step closer, the sand crunching soft under your soles.

the beach opens up before you, quiet with the low glow of the moon on the water. the tide reaches lazily across the shore, then slid away with a sibilant sigh, leaving behind trails of moonlit fissures.

you crouch at the edge where the sand meets stone, fingers curling under the hem of your shoes. they slip off, the cool air brushing against your socks. you peel those off too, tucking them into the shoes before setting both aside neatly.

the rocks usher you down slowly, hands brushing against the rough stone for balance, the sea growing louder with every step. the moonlight cuts across the water, a trembling path of silver leading straight into the horizon, and you follow it with your eyes, heart thrumming.

the sand is cold, the grains soft and shifting between your toes, clinging as if they don’t want to let you go. you breathe in deeply, the salt in the air biting at your lungs, while the wind threads through your hair, pulling at it like an old friend. for a brief moment, the night feels almost gentle—wrapping itself around you with the same warmth it once held in summers past.

as you walk further, the sand darkens, damp and heavy, sticking to your skin with every step closer to the water’s edge. the sea breathes in and out, each wave folding over itself. you smile faintly because this place has always been yours—yours and theirs.

and there—where the tide stretches to kiss the shore—you see him. rin stands unmoving, the wind tugging at his hair. his back is to you.

you pause for a moment, your steps slowing as your eyes trace the rigid line of his shoulders. even from here, you can see how tightly he’s wound, every muscle locked like he’s holding something back. is he cold?

the wind bites sharper the closer you get, and he looks as if he’s been standing there for some time. how long has he been out here, waiting in the dark with only the sea to keep him company? the thought settles heavy in your chest, but you keep walking, drawn to him like the tide to the shore.

8:22 PM

“you’re late,” rin’s voice cuts as he turns to meet you.

you laugh softly, brushing hair away from your cheek as the wind nudges it back. “only by five minutes.”

but there’s something in the way he stands—something brittle and trembling, like glass stretched thin to the point of shattering—and it stills your laughter in your throat. you take a step toward him, then another, the sand giving way beneath you. “what’s wrong?”

“why him?” he says, and immediately, the words don’t sound like they belong to him at all. they rip free, raw and jagged, like something torn from his throat—stripped of the calm you’re so used to. it’s not the voice of rin who teases, who sulks, who hides behind sharp remarks—it’s something darker, something that trembles with anger and something else you can’t name. it sends a shiver crawling up your spine, because for the first time, you’re not sure if he’s asking you, or if he’s asking himself. “and why was it always you?”

you blink, stunned, his words ringing against the roar of the sea. “rin, what are you—”

“you could’ve chosen me,” he whispers, and there it is—laced with something fiercer, something akin to a storm tearing itself apart. “you could’ve stayed.”

the tide swells at his voice, a sudden surge against the shore, louder, harsher, like the sea itself recoiled with him.

it unsettles you—like standing barefoot at the shoreline, the tide lapping at your ankles, each wave pulling sand from beneath your feet as if urging you. to answer to it—and you would if it were any other time. the sea had always been beautiful. but tonight it feels like the trick of the tide—soft one moment, pulling the next.

your gaze meets rin’s, and find the ocean staring back at you.

its surface seems to burn, swirling with a fierce, impulsive light—lit by sharp, unspent fury. harsh breeze churning like waves struck by a storm. it’s something desperate enough to ignite the water itself, and you feel it crawl up your ribs like the start of an undertow.

it’s a sea that doesn’t wait for you to swim. it seizes, it drags, it devours.

it is so how unlike sae it is. his waters never lunge. his tide a patient pulse that presses gently against your ankles, again and again. his sea is quieter, cold in the right places and almost still, but the brined winds are sharp where it must be. a calm that only cuts those who venture too deep, but with you, it was always a quiet hush.

“rin, you’re my—” but the words tangle and catch, fraying on your tongue. a friend, a brother—something not enough. and whatever else you might have said is swallowed by the storm raging in his eyes.

then his hand moves—faster than thought, faster than fear. the impact explodes white behind your eyes as his fist collides with your face. blood rushes hot and sudden from your nose, the metallic taste flooding your mouth.

teal eyes flash—something jagged caught between fury and remorse—just as your balance slips. the tide lapping higher as you stumble backward, the shore vanishing beneath your feet. cold bites at your shins, then your knees, then your weightless plunge. and before you can catch yourself, the ocean spreads its arms wide and cradles your falling in.

you thrash on instinct, the salt scalding your eyes, lungs searing as you break the surface with a ragged gasp. “rin—!”

but his hands are on you again, holding you, forcing you under. the sky fractures above, stars scattering like shards of broken glass as your vision blurs, bleeding at the edges. the waves roar in your ears, louder and louder, until the world narrows to nothing but sound and the searing panic in your chest. your hands swipe blindly, clawing at his sweatshirt’s arm, nails catching and tearing through the fabric as though in doing so would unmake his hold. your mouth parts to scream—but the sea swallows it. your cry turning to bubbles that rush upward, burst and disappear into nothing.

through it all, through the burning in your throat and the darkness curling at the edge of your sight, you see his eyes.

they hover above you, unnaturally bright against the hollowed dark of his face, catching light where none should linger. glowing faintly as if the moonlight itself had sunk into them. they churn—alive and uncontrollable. they hold you there as surely as his hands do, burning with anger and grief and something you can’t name.

your breath curls into ribbons of nothing, lost to the waters. and still—still—you see them.

amidst the sea against the rocks, they are like seaglass kissed by the sun. like the ocean caught mid-breath, like light bent and refracted through water until it becomes something softer, something sadder. they burn into you, the only thing that does not blur no matter how the world folds in on itself.

you want to tell him they’re beautiful. you want to tell him they’ve always been beautiful. but the water chokes the words before they can leave you, drowning them as easily as it drowns the last air in your chest.

and then—suddenly—the pressure around your throat eases. almost as if the fury has burned itself out. his grip, once the anchor dragging yoy under, shifts—hesitates—then slide from your neck to your shoulders. his fingers tremble against your salted skin as it continues to your back, gathering your unmvoving body as if something fragile, breakable. fingers that moments ago threatened your life now clutch at you with a different kind of desperation, hauling you up, up, as if the sea itself might seal you away. 

he drags you through the dark, breaks you through the skin of the sea with you in his arms. the night air rushes in like a gasp, cold and trembling, kissing your face where water could not. 

but it’s too late.

the fire in your chest is gone, the weight in your limbs drags you down from within. even as he holds you, the tide claims you, resting you in its cold embrace, rocking you.

your body drifts, weightless, and your gaze stays locked on his. even as the world dims, even as everything else fades, those eyes remain—the storm-tossed fury is gone, snuffed out like a wave receding from the shore.

what’s left is something unsound, something breaking—tears gathering at the edges, trembling before they spill. they catch the moonlight as they fall, glimmering like tiny shards of glass, sliding down to the apples of his cheeks, ripened red from the cold and from something far colder.

amidst your fading consciousness, as your hearing betrays you and the roar of the waves swallow all else, you catch them. your throat raw from the water, you force out the words anyway.

“...i’m sorry…rin..”

even as they scrape from your lips, hoarse and thin, your gaze finds his tears. the salt on his face mirrors the salt in the sea, and for a fleeting instant, all you want is to reach out to him, bring comfort to him, to tell him it’s okay, but your hands—still clutching at him—feel impossibly heavy. your limbs refuse their service and only a scarce breath escapes you.

he sees it—or at least, he sees you try. and in that frozen instant, panic and horror and love all collide in his gaze.

you’re still alive.

you no longer hear the waves, or the wind, or even the loud thread of your own heartbeat. but through the haze of your rapidly darkening vision, you catch the shape of his mouth, trembling as it forms words you can’t reach.

“no, no, no—i’m sorry!”

his voice doesn’t carry to you, but the desperation does—cracking, splintering under the weight of your name. 

you feel him wipe at your busted lip, again and again, only making it worse. his knuckles brushing the cut like he can erase the damage he put there. salt stings it. his breath hitches, catching in his throat like barbed wire.

the sea sloshes cold at your back, your legs, pulling, but rin pulls harder—hauled up against him with frantic, jerking movements. his hands are everywhere at once: his thumbs drag beneath your nose, pushing the wet hair from your face, his palm cups your chin but trembles too hard to hold you steady, snearing the blood across your cheeks in his rush to find you under it all.

“come on—hey—breathe,” he stammers—no, begs—his voice cracking and frayed, words spilling without aim. like the prior storm-wracked in his eyes. he shakes you once, stills, then shakes again—too hard, too desperate the longer you don’t react. CPR doesn’t even cross his mind, the sheer urgency of his panic burns out reason—there’s only the animal, blind instinct to have you respond to him.

your nose is bent at an ugly angle, blooming a bruise warping the bridge of your nose, the swelling, the slick blood pooling in the hollows of your face. his breath stutters as he presses there, gently at first, then firmer as though coaxing bone back into place could undo the way your breath rattles. he sees your eyes dull, the life draining out of them—staring, unfocused—and that terrible, terrible thing crawling up his throat as your life slips through his fingers: what have i done?

the fury returns in his eyes—at himself, at you, at the world—but it’s drowning fast, collapsing under the weight of horror. he’s still shaking you, but it’s softer now, like shaking is the only thing left he knows to do, and it’s failing him.

the waves is too loud. it presses from all sides. too heavy, too cold. his arms are the only warmth, and even that is fading.

the sea holds you, his arms are around you, but it’s his eyes that cradle you, and you realize as the darkness at last swallows you, that they are the last piece of the brothers you take with you.

the sea keeps all secrets.

there’s a place in kanagawa where the waves don’t reach too far up the sand.

where the wind isn’t harsh, and the sun sets slow.

they’d build lopsided castles with toy shovels, scold the tide for ruining them, try again anyway.

“this one’ll last.”

“let’s build it taller than yesterday.”

“if we make it far enough from the water, maybe the sea won’t touch it.”

and the brothers would nod. every time. because if she said so, it must be true.

tonight, the stars are out.

they scatter like shards of glass across the black, sharp and cold, but still burning. they watch silently from above, distant witnesses, as if they too, remember.

but rin doesn’t notice. not the stars, not the sky—he barely notices the cold creeping up through his soaked socks, numbing his feet. the weight in his hands heavier than he ever imagined, dragging at the back of his shoulder blades, his arms, at his chest—its struggles slowing, weakening, until it settles into something unbearably still.

she’s not fighting anymore.

only her hair moves now, fanning out on the surface—like seaweed, like something untethered, like a ghost.

something in him breaks open when her body finally slacks—utterly, fatally still. his hands fall useleslly at her sides, then clutch again. tighter, tighter, until his nails leave crescents in her skin. his head bows, forehead to forehead, breathing shaking and hot with the salt of the sea and something bitter.

“i didn’t…” he starts, low, lost. caught between throat and chest, too heavy to form properly. “i didn’t mean—”

the words refuse to leave, sinking like stones in water, pressing down against his tongue. each breath shudders through him, ragged and trembling. carrying weight of everything he cannot undo.

he tells himself it’s not happening. that if he just blinks hard enough, he’ll wake up. maybe in the old room he shared with sae, maybe in 2012, sunburnt and laughing, ten years old again. knees scraped raw from the beach, the smell of salt clinging to their skin.

her voice would be there too, ringing sharp and bright in his ear. 

“rin! look at this crab! it’s waving at you!”

but this one isn’t a crab.

it’s her hand.

floating.

limp.

8:34 PM

he didn’t mean to do it.

that’s what he keeps telling himself.

he’d just wanted her to say it. that all this time, he hadn’t been invisible. that sae could see him too. hadn’t stolen her too.

“why him?” he asked her. “and why is it always you?”

she said something, he can’t remember what. perhaps, he never really heard it. it wasn’t what he wanted. it wasn’t enough.

he doesn’t remember the way his hands were moving.

doesn’t remember his fist flying toward her, the shock in her eyes before the edge of the dock.

he doesn’t remember pushing her into the water.

doesn’t remember holding her down.

only the way his name left her mouth last.

soft. breaking. gargled.

8:39 PM

the grains lodge under his nails. salt stings every raw scrape on his fingers. he’s still breathing hard. shaking. half-choked on sea air and something copper. he’s still on his knees when the tide rolls in.

the same tide they used to play tag with. the same one they used to pretend was magic. that they could tame it.

“if you stand really still,” she told rin once, “you can feel the ocean’s heartbeat.”

right now, he can’t feel anything.

not even the fresh color of scarlet tainting the water, painting his palms. not even the faint pulse from her neck.

his hands fall away from her, and the waves rise to claim what’s left—washing the blood into the dark, swallowing it whole.

he stands, but the sea does not absolve him.

the water cleanses everything but him.

he nudges her with his foot, a small, almost reluctant motion that sends her drifting farther out. her shoulder rolls with the tide, the moonlight catching on pale skin. for a moment she floats—weightless, suspended—before the current claims her again, pulling her under like she knows how to hide.

his fingers tremble when he pulls off his sweatshirt. leaving him in a thin, white undershirt. the fabric bears the evidence of the chaos, but it’s not in tatters; it’s still whole enough to be folded. a dark, wet stain mars the hem, obvious against the fabric. he folds it once, twice, balls it up tight, and the bundle disappears into the underbrush along the cliff trail, down the path no one goes to anymore.

his socks squish with each step. squelching and waterlogged. so, they're off next. they are cold and suffocating, and he peels them off like skin—like shedding something rotten. flings them into the ditch and lands by the service road, swallowed by weeds.

his shoes go back on bare. the laces cut into his skin. they bite, and he lets them.

he doesn't run. running would make it look real.

so he walks—slow, steady—each step measured against the pounding in his chest. he pats his sand-ridden pants as he passes the forgotten footprint trails that won't survive the tide. past the rocks where the three of them once sat shoulder to shoulder, necks craned to watch fireworks bloom and die in the sky.

rin’s gaze catches the shoes she had kicked off before making her way down the rocks toward the beach. he snatches them up without a thought, tossing them into the underbush, burying them in the shadows. evidence, he knows. and he can only hope the sea carries her body far, far away before anyone finds it. 

he moves past the gnarled tree they’d used as a goalpost, where laughter once clung to the bark. the echoes now twisting in his chest like a cruel reminder of what’s been lost.

by the time he gets home, it was a quarter to nine. his fingertips are raw, skin scraped from stone and salt, every nerve humming with exhaustion and a carefully maintained air of nonchalance. but underneath it all, he’s shitting himself.

his parents don't notice his missing clothing. nor the dampness clinging stubbornly to his pants. they never paid too much attention, after all. never asked too many questions, never lingered long enough to see.

rin passes by his older brother’s room. sae had just returned from spain with her—something about renewing visas—and earlier, rin had seen the two of them together. although sae had seemed to have no plans to stay at the house, he knows his brother is in there; he caught sight of sae’s shoes by the genkan. sae had stayed, after all—conveniently along the way after dropping her home.

sae is probably already asleep, unaware of everything that’s happened. 

rin swallows hard, picturing the scene tomorrow… tomorrow, when practice rolls and she doesn't show—what will his brother do? the thought claws at him akin to earlier on his skin. sae isn’t cruel, not entirely. he’s still a human, with rules, with morals. capable of emotions, capable of normal worry. but rin knows the sharp indifference, the cutting edge of his brother’s personality—the same edge that had scarred him one snowy night—shall it slice through tomorrow.

he imagines sae pacing, almost see the sharp line of sae’s jaw, the narrowing of his eyes as frustration blooms, the quiet gnawing disappointment in his brother’s eyes. lips pressing into a thin line as he processes the absence. maybe a sigh, a terse question, or an eruption of pointed words—but ultimately, concern will bloom through the cracks, because sae may be blunt, but he has a conscience.

the weight of guilt presses hard against rin’s ribs. constricting and unforgiving. he could lie, fudge the truth, pretend. but he knows sae. the truth, when it finally strikes, will land like a storm.

and rin, passing by, can only feel the weight of what’s coming, he can’t stop it. he can only brace himself for the reckoning he knows is coming.

he showers without thinking. the water runs hot, so hot it burns the skin at his shoulders, but not enough to scald away what clings to him. the steam clouds the glass, curling around him like a shroud. there’s blood beneath his nails—thin, dark crescents that refuse to wash out. he digs at them, scrubbing until the skin around them furthers, reddened and raw. he tells himself it’s rust from the swing set they used to fight over. he tells himself it’s nothing.

each lather, each scrub of his arms, his chest, is frantic, desperate. the water beads and rolls off, but the water only runs red, then clear, down the drain, but not the weight in his hands. it doesn’t wash.

he reminds himself again that it’s nothing. tells himself she would’ve said sorry for making him feel this way. 

he swears it. each pass of the soap like a prayer, each rinse like a wish, like a child trying to trade his soul for a do-over.

he tells himself again that it’s fine. you cleaned it all. you didn't mean it.

she would have forgiven you.

and that’s the worst part. she would have.

if he’d cried. if he’d said sorry. if he’d just reached for her instead of pushing her deeper where the water swallowed her screams.

she would’ve hugged him. told him it’s okay. like she always did when sae ignored him. when he was mean.

she would’ve forgiven him for murder.

he swallows the bile blooming at the back of his throat, bitter proof that guilt has a taste—and it lingers.

his fingers rake through his hair like sand, as if he could tear out the memory with the strands. the water runs down his face, hot enough to sting his eyes, but not enough to erase the image of her hair fanning out on the water, the way it wrapped around his wrists like bounds—soft, silken chains that burned more than any rope could.

his fingers rake again and again through hair, across skin, searching for something that was never his to hold.

not her hand.

not her throat.

not her forgiveness.

but he digs anyway—into his scalp, into his own flesh—if he tears deep enough, he might find it buried there. as if pain could trade for absolution. as if depth could turn back time, as if the tide hadn’t already swallowed her laughter whole.

the water runs hot, then scalding, then cold, but still he digs. because stopping would mean admitting it’s gone. admitting she’s gone. and the only thing left of her is the memory that won’t let him go.

it clings to him, even as she sank. how it tethered him to the moment he wishes he could wash away, the moment that will never loosen its grip.

with each desperate handful of sand, he stacks apologies he’ll never get to say.

walls to keep the tide from coming in.

turrets of denial rising against a storm that won’t stop.

the shower hisses to a close, the last threads of steam curling around him like smoke. he tilts his head back beneath the dying spray, relentless—like the phantom trace of nails once dragged down his back, something that dared to fight even as it yielded.

it’s almost punishing, but not enough.

it can’t beat the blood out of his hands. can’t strip the ghost of her touch from his arms. can’t drown out the sound of her voice saying his name for the last time.

as the water slides down his face, he remembers her voice, small and sure, from summers long ago. the three of them crouched by the shore, watching the tide eat away at the edges of a sandcastle they’d built too close to the waves.

“my nana always tells me that the sea never forgets,” she had told them, eyes bright as she traced circles in the wet sand. “the water holds memories. it keeps them, even when people let go.”

back then, he’d laughed, throwing shells into the foam. back then, it was just a story.

now, every drop feels like it should cleanse, like it should take the weight from his shoulders, but instead it reminds him—water remembers. it carries things. it holds them close, even when no one else will.

and no matter how hard he scrubs, no matter how hot the water runs, it leaves him standing there with the same stain seared into his chest.

some things, he realizes, are never meant to wash away.

the tides watch.

and the sea never forgets.

extras

— (7:55 PM) you: You made it home safe, right?

— (7:57 PM) pest 🦟: yup!

— (7:57 PM) you: Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.

— (7:57 PM) pest 🦟: oh haha oh nooo i think im sickk

— (7:58 PM) pest 🦟: i wont be able to come to practice tmrw i think cough cough

— (7:58 PM) you: You are not getting out of this.

— (7:58 PM) pest 🦟: 😰😰 > read

— (8:18 PM) you: Thanks for earlier btw.

he deletes it. Retypes.

— (8:19 PM) you: Thanks for walking with me.

sae hesitates, thumb lingering, then hits send.

minutes stretch. he scrolls up, eyes catching on the last message she sent—something silly, something mundane, just minutes ago.

— (8:23 PM) you: You’re not asleep yet, are you?

the screen stays blank. he exhales, turns onto his side.

— (8:34 PM) you: Guess you are.

— (8:34 PM) you: Call me when you see this.

he types one more, softer than the rest, almost like he’s saying it out loud.

— (8:39 PM) you: Goodnight.

michael kaiser

you two probably text a lot more than you call, so the first time he hears your voice properly is either because he called without thinking or you sent a quick voice message.

he freezes the second you start speaking. like, for once, michael kaiser is actually silent.

you're in the middle of explaining something and he suddenly interrupts with,

"wait, wait, hold on. why do you sound like that?"

cue him immediately smirking when you go, "what do you mean?" in your natural accent.

if you're aussie, he's mimicking you on the spot, going "g'day mate" in the worst accent known to man.

if you're british, he instantly starts going "oi bruv, innit?" every chance he gets, even though you tell him you don't talk like that.

once the teasing dies down, he's actually fascinated by it. asks where you grew up, what other words you say differently.

will start sending you random sentences to "say out loud for him" so he can hear how you pronounce them.

itoshi sae

sae does not call often. so when he does, it's usually quick and to the point.

but the moment you answer and speak, there's this very noticeable pause.

"you didn't tell me you had an accent."

if you're aussie, he's caught off guard because he didn’t expect the slang—he'll make you repeat phrases, pretending it's because he doesn’t understand, but he's really just listening.

if you're british, there's a tiny smirk in his voice when he says, "figures. you sound like you're about to invite me for tea."

100% starts paying extra attention to how you pronounce his name.

he won't say it, but he thinks it's really attractive. it makes you stand out in his head, especially when you get emotional or excited and your accent thickens.

occasionally texts you with: "call me when you can." and when you ask why, it's just "want to hear your voice."

in person, he's more obvious. leans in when you talk, maybe smirks when you slip into slang without realising.

nagi seishiro

nagi’s first reaction is pure confusion:

"woah… your voice is, like… different. that's cool."

if you're aussie, he's instantly grinning and asking, "say shrimp on the barbie" while lying in bed.

if you're british, he laughs when you say "bottle of water" and makes you say it three more times.

not much gets nagi interested, but your voice is an instant hook. he'll call just to hear you talk.

literally has you on speaker while gaming and will just go, "keep talking, it's nice."

if you're ever tired and speaking softer, he gets so clingy:

"mm, don't hang up yet. i like it."

once he hears your accent, he associates it with comfort and warmth, so even if he teases you sometimes, he secretly loves it the most.

reo mikage

reo's reaction is pure excitement. he's loud about it from the start.

"WAIT. oh my god, you have an accent?? why didn't you tell me?!"

if you're aussie, he's instantly asking you to teach him slang and will attempt it horribly:

"arvo? what the hell is that? ohhh afternoon??"

if you're british, he's begging you to say posh things just so he can laugh:

"please, say 'would you like a spot of tea?'"

immediately brags to his friends. "you guys have to hear their voice, it's literally the cutest thing."

saves voice messages you send him and sets them as notification sounds.

if you say his name in your accent, he's GONE:

"say it again. just one more time. …okay, five more."

100% tries to copy your accent when you're together, but it's so bad you have to beg him to stop.

and whenever you asked why he looked so serious in the baby store, he'd mutter something about you choosing a car seat based on colour and not safety features.

he was terrified.

but he was excited too.

the photo of the baby’s ultrasound scan never left his wallet ever since he saw the tiny life growing inside of you. he didn’t talk about it much, but you noticed how often he would stare at it all the time with a faint smile on his face. you saw it in how often he stayed home instead of training. how gently he touched your belly. how carefully he held you when your body grew tired.

he never planned to start a family, never expected to be a father. but now, he wanted to be one more than anything.

the hospital

it started with cramps at first. then bleeding. then panic.

you were rushed to the hospital, and sae was already running out of his match-day warm-up session before the call ended. and when he got there, he sat by your side the entire time — holding your hand, breathing in sync with yours, trying to keep calm while the doctor’s words blurred into static.

your body was too weak, and the pregnancy had already taken a toll.

but the doctors were confident. said they could manage it. said the labour wasn’t progressing fast. said they had time.

he didn’t want to leave. didn’t want to leave you alone here. because if anything happened, he could be by your side and help you get through it.

so he told his manager, voice clipped and shaking, “i’m sitting out.”

the manager looked at him — not cold, not unfeeling — just stuck. “i’m sorry, sae. this is bigger than me. the higher-ups said no. it’s a must-win match and you’re irreplaceable.”

sae gritted his teeth. “i don’t give a fuck about the match. my wife is in the hospital. our child could die, or even worse, she— just… i’m not going.”

“you’ll breach contract. you’ll be fined, dropped. you know what that means. it’s too late for them to find a replacement for you, not when all the strategies and formations have already been decided. you know the others don’t compare to you.”

then you, lying in the bed, barely strong enough to lift your head, said softly, “he’s right. it’s too much of a loss, sae.”

he turned to you. “don’t.”

“the doctor said there’s still time. please, sae. just finish the match. then come back. i’ll wait. i promise.” you pleaded, squeezing his hand lightly, desperately.

his heart was breaking, but he nodded. kissed your hand. and whispered, “fine, okay. please, just… be safe.”

the call

he was halfway through the match when the call came. he didn’t answer. couldn’t. his phone was switched off, so the hospital called his manager.

it happened during halftime.

the team was in the locker room. the coach was shouting. sae wasn’t listening until the manager crouched beside him and said nothing at first. just placed a hand on his shoulder.

“what?” sae asked, already knowing.

the manager hesitated. “the baby didn’t make it.”

sae blinked. like the words didn’t register.

“what…?”

“she went into labour early. the baby—”

“no. no, fuck— is she okay?” he stood up, ready to walk out. “i need to go. now.”

“you can’t.”

“don’t fucking tell me i can’t—!”

“we’re already here, halfway into a match. if you walk out now, you’ll breach the contract. they’ll sue. you’ll lose everything.”

“i don’t care.”

the manager didn’t argue. didn’t push.

he just said, “she would.”

and that broke him.

he sat back down. buried his face in his hands. let out a frustrated groan. dragged his fingers through his hair like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

“she was still fighting for our child,” he muttered. “and here i was, kicking a fucking ball.”

he hated himself.

the second half

the moment the second half begun, he stepped onto the pitch like it was a battlefield.

he didn’t play to win.

he played to end it. to end everything.

the commentators said he looked ruthless. brilliant. phenomenal.

colder than ever.

but he wasn’t playing for the crowd. or the team. or the league. he was playing to survive the next forty-five minutes without you. to make everything end faster so he could be by your side again.

and the thought of you lying there alone broke his heart more than anything. because you, more than him, must’ve been more afraid than anyone else.

the aftermath

the second the whistle blew, he ran.

not a word to the team. not his teammates. not a glance. just sprinted down the tunnel without looking back. and when he ran out, the press was already there, waiting for him outside.

they knew.

“itoshi sae—” “we heard your wife was hospitalised—” “is it true she lost the baby?” “was it worth it?”

flash. flash. flash.

questions like bullets. cameras like weapons.

it made him sick.

“shut the fuck up. get out of my face. don’t touch me.” he snapped.

he shoved cameras. knocked a mic clean out of someone’s hand.

no apologies. no explanations.

he wasn’t thinking straight, he couldn’t. he just ran.

the guilt

the moment he reached your hospital room. everything inside him was shaking.

then you looked up at him with an extremely forced smile that broke him even more. that was the saddest smile he’d ever seen.

he dropped to his knees beside the bed, his hand clenching yours tightly.

“i know you’re trying to be strong,” he whispered. “but please… don’t comfort me. i know you want to cry too.”

so you did.

you both did.

“i’m so sorry, sae,” you cried.

and that apology hurt him even more.

“no… don’t be. i’m sorry,” he breathed. “for not being with you. i’m so sorry.”

and you held each other like you were the only two people left in the world.

after

after you were discharged, he stayed by your side for days. weeks, even. he cooked. cleaned. sat beside you while you stared at the wall blankly. he told you stories. played the playlist you'd made for the baby. held your hand. fed you. everything.

but you were gone. not physically.

just… somewhere else.

the light in your eyes was gone. and no matter what he did, he couldn’t bring it back.

the baby died that day.

but so did something in you.

and sae… he felt like he buried his whole heart in that same grave. he lost everything, and so did you.

itoshi rin

he didn’t mean to knock the box out of your hands. he just brushed past you in a rush and smack. 

“...” 

the silence was LOUD. 

rin turned slowly, like he already knew he committed war crimes. “was that…” 

you just stared at the frosting-covered sidewalk. 

“it’s fine,” you said quietly. “not mad.” 

he was about to say “i’ll buy you another one,” but you sniffled and he short-circuited. 

“you… you’re crying???” 

you tried to cover your face but he saw it. the quiver in your lip. the glassy eyes. the sorrow of a woman betrayed by fate. 

rin.exe has stopped functioning. 

“okay. okay. it’s not just the cupcake. something else happened. i– fuck.” 

he immediately grabs your hand and drags you into the nearest store. 

“pick anything you want,” he says. “anything. i’ll pay. just stop crying before someone thinks i murdered your dog or something.” 

he’s so awkward, but so desperate to fix it. ends up sitting with you in a café quietly feeding you cake with a fork while looking guilty like a wet cat. 

mikage reo

he’s holding the box like it’s a designer clutch until nagi calls him and he answers with one hand while gesturing dramatically. 

the cupcake box slips out of his arm like a stock market crash and plummets. 

splat. 

“OH NO.” he gasps. “OH NONONONONO babe. babe. no.” 

you stare at the ground. dead-eyed. 

“i-it’s okay,” he says, already pulling out his credit card. “we’ll get a better one. a gourmet one. a ten-tiered one.” 

but you just turn away, shoulders shaking. 

“wait. wait are you–??” 

when you actually start crying, reo has an emotional breakdown like this is his fault and his family just lost their fortune again. 

“BABY NOOO, i didn’t know this cupcake meant THIS MUCH. i didn’t know it was a symbol of PEACE IN YOUR LIFE.” 

hugs you like you’re made of glass. whispering things like “you’ve been so strong for so long” and “you don’t deserve this pain.” 

drags you to the fanciest dessert place in town and makes them cater to you like a royal. you leave with five cupcakes and a new scarf. 

nagi seishiro

simply forgot it was in his bag. 

sat on it. 

“oh. whoops.” 

you look. you blink. the cupcake is a pancake. 

and he’s just. sipping his energy drink. 

“it’s okay, i’ll buy you a new one,” he says casually, until he sees your lip wobble. 

then he's like "wait… are you crying? over that?” 

“it’s not just that,” you say, voice cracking. 

his eyes widen like 👁👁 oh shit. 

he awkwardly reaches out and pats your head. “uhh. there, there. cupcake’s dead but you’re not. that’s what matters.” 

somehow makes you laugh just a little through the tears. then he’s like “mission complete.” 

later buys you two cupcakes and lets you eat both while he watches youtube videos beside you in comfortable silence. 

kaiser michael

he was showing off. twirling the cupcake box in one hand like it's a prop in a circus. 

you literally said “stop playing with it before you–” 

thud. 

the look on your face was betrayal incarnate. 

“oh c’mon, you weren’t really gonna eat that were you?” he smirks, until you just sit down on the curb and burst into tears. 

he stands there, blinking. “wait. are you actually–? OH NO.” 

it’s the one moment he realizes he is not the main character of this tragedy. you are. and he’s the villain. 

he crouches beside you, trying to offer hugs and compliments and dumb jokes: “i’ll make a music video called ‘cupcake girl’ in your honor.” 

ends up walking you into a bakery and going, “my girlfriend’s having a full-blown meltdown. what’s the most comforting thing you sell.” 

he spends $60 on sweets and then feeds you like you’re royalty while stroking your hair. 

“if anyone drops your cupcake again i’m breaking their legs, got it? even if it’s my own.” 

shidou ryusei

he tried to take a bite before you could. 

like a menace. he thought he was being funny. 

instead he missed, the cupcake fell, and he looked up with frosting on his nose and no regrets. 

“... i’ll buy you another one, babe.” 

“no it’s fine,” you say. “totally fine. not gonna cry over a dessert like some child.” 

and then. you. start. crying. 

“WAIT. you are crying?? over a cupcake?!??” 

then he starts LAUGHING. “you’re so dramatic, i love it.” 

gives you the most chaotic but genuine hug ever, spinning you around and calling you his “little frosting goblin” like it’s endearing. 

makes you scream-laugh until you forget why you were upset. 

still buys you a new cupcake, but puts his name on it. “property of shidou’s girlfriend. do not touch or you die.” 

karasu tabito

kicked the box by accident when you set it on the bench for a second. 

you both watched it drop in slow motion. 

“noooOooooOooo!” you screeched. 

splat. 

“bro i’m so sorry,” he whispers, looking like he just killed your dog. 

“i-it’s fine,” you say. “it’s fine.” 

then you sniffle. and he flinches. 

“WAIT. no. don’t cry. please don’t cry. i’ll do anything. i’ll dance. i’ll rap. i’ll dye my hair. i’ll fight otoya in your honor.” 

you let out a wet sob. 

now he’s spiraling. pulls his hoodie over your head to hide you like “DON’T LET THE WORLD SEE YOU LIKE THIS YOU’RE TOO PRECIOUS.” 

carries you bridal-style into the nearest bakery like it’s a heist. 

“we need a cupcake. stat. the best you have. this is a CODE RED.” 

makes it his life mission to ensure you never cry over desserts again. 

itoshi sae

you were walking side-by-side. he swung his gym bag a little too hard. 

BAM. cupcake box flies out of your hands and lands frosting-side down. 

you stood in silence. the world went quiet. 

sae blinked. “... oops.” 

“i’m going to pretend you didn’t just ruin the only thing getting me through this day.” 

“it’s just a cupcake–” 

bad choice of words. 

you start crying. not loud. but just standing there, silently sobbing like the heroine of a tragic k-drama. 

sae just stares. frozen. he is not emotionally equipped for this. 

“fuck. okay. um.” 

he pulls you to the side, puts his jacket over your shoulders, and buys out half the bakery. 

“take them all. eat until you forget i was ever involved.” 

you sniffle and mutter “i hate you.” 

he scoffs but wipes your tears anyway, mumbling “yeah yeah, save the drama for the frosting.” 

itoshi rin

rin is not affectionate in public. that’s a given. 

so when you coaxed him into one kiss while watching a movie in his living room? you weren’t expecting him to grab your face like it was the last thing keeping him alive. 

it was slow. delicate. his hands gentle like you were breakable. 

but then it got needy. desperate. the kind of kiss that said “i haven’t stopped thinking about you for twelve hours straight and it’s making me crazy.” 

his lips were warm against yours and he was muttering stuff between kisses like “you smell good. you always smell good. it’s so annoying.” “stop looking at me like that. you’re gonna make me stupid.” 

you had just climbed into his lap when sae walked in. with a bag of snacks. froze in the doorway like he just stepped into a fanfic. 

“... you kiss now?” he said blankly. “you’re capable of affection? is this a hostage situation?” 

rin shoved a pillow at him like a feral raccoon. he didn’t talk to anyone for two days. 

but later that night, when you tried to sneak off, he grabbed your wrist. “... stay. i’m not done kissing you.” 

itoshi sae

this man has zero shame. none. 

you were just grabbing a glass of water in the kitchen. he walked in, saw you in your hoodie and messy hair, and went weak in the knees. 

grabbed your waist, tugged you closer, and kissed you like a man home from war. 

his voice against your mouth was low, teasing. “you know what you do to me when you look like that?” “you’re lucky i have self-control. barely.” 

had you pinned to the counter, hands under your shirt, when his mom walked in. 

gasped. dropped a bag of groceries. 

“SAE ITOSHI WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” 

you nearly collapsed. sae just licked his lips and blinked slowly like, “... hydrating.” 

“YOU WERE SUCKING HER SOUL OUT.” 

the next day she made you both sit at opposite ends of the dining table like you were 1800s courtship partners. 

sae? still found ways to sneak foot touches under the table. 

“you’re lucky she walked in. i wasn’t done.” 

kaiser michael

you made the terrible mistake of kissing this man in private. because once he has a taste, he wants all of you. 

he backed you into a wall, hands flat on the sides of your head, eyes all half-lidded like: “you started this. i’m just finishing it.” 

full tongue, slow neck kisses, a bite to your lip that made your brain short circuit. 

you two were seconds away from crime when ness walked in. and gasped like a betrayed wife. 

“YOU SAID YOU NEEDED ALONE TIME TO ‘CLEAR YOUR HEAD,’ NOT PLAY TONSIL HOCKEY.” 

kaiser? absolutely unbothered. “you’re just mad i didn’t invite you.” 

ness left the room shrieking. 

you were hiding your face in kaiser’s chest, dying of shame, while he kept stroking your hair like, “you okay? we can continue. i locked the door this time.” 

shidou ryusei

you were sitting on his lap, kissing him slow and sweet. and shidou was whimpering. whimpering. 

fingers digging into your hips, breath shaking like you were kissing the oxygen out of him. 

“fuck, baby, do you even know what you’re doing to me?” “look at you, look how hot you are, god–” 

he tilted his head back like you were the sun and he was in desperate need of salvation. 

and then you both heard a cough. his coach: ego. standing in the doorway. staring like he saw satan himself. 

“shidou ryusei. clothes. now.” 

shidou just leaned up to whisper in your ear: “i can outrun him. wanna finish in the shower?” 

you’ve never smacked someone with a couch cushion so fast in your life. 

mikage reo

you pulled him into a quiet garden corner at his estate. blossoms falling. birds chirping. romantic as hell. 

reo? immediately dropped his rich boy act and melted into your arms. 

you were straddling him on a marble bench when he started mumbling: “marry me.” “no seriously. we should just elope. like right now.” “my parents can fund the wedding, i’ll fake faint so we can run away.” 

he was so down bad, whispering between kisses: “you make me insane, i think i’m obsessed, is that normal? say it’s normal.” 

and then you heard a very polite cough. his butler, ba-ya. 

“reo-sama… your father is– oh. apologies.” 

you jumped off reo like he was on fire. 

reo literally threw his suit jacket over your head to protect your honor. 

he later gave his butler a raise for “protecting their romantic privacy.” 

rich boy behavior. 

nagi seishiro

you were on his bed. half-asleep, cuddling. 

he rolled over. kissed your nose. and suddenly it was the makeout session of the century. 

sleepy, lazy, slow kisses. soft whines when you pulled away. 

“c’mon. five more minutes. just five more…” 

you were mid-giggle, kissing his jaw, when reo opened the door. 

“HEY NAGI YOU SAID YOU’D–” pure silence. 

nagi blinked, eyes half-lidded. 

“close the door, bro.” “YOU’RE NAKED–” “i’m not. yet.” 

reo screamed. ran. 

nagi went back to kissing your neck. 

“i’m locking it next time. and unplugging the wifi. no interruptions.” 

karasu tabito

you got caught in the school storage room. classic. 

he was all over you. hands gripping your thighs. kisses messy, breathy, needy. 

“you’re not fair,” he mumbled into your mouth. “you walk around all cute and expect me to be normal?” 

your laugh had barely left your lips when the janitor appeared. 

mop fell. you screamed. karasu said: “sir, this isn’t what it looks like–” “it’s exactly what it looks like.” “... what’s your venmo?” 

you were banned from that closet. forever. 

karasu? brags about it to this day. 

“hey, remember that time you made out with me so hard the janitor cried? yeah. good times.” 

ness alexis

you kissed him once. and he melted. full face red. hands trembling. muttering “holy shit” over and over. 

then you pulled him back in. this time longer. deeper. and he let out a full-on moan. 

and then his teammate opened the door. 

“NESS???” 

ness yelped. tripped. nearly broke his ankle. 

“WE WERE– CPR. IT WAS MEDICAL.” 

you tried to help him up while he dramatically wailed like someone caught him cheating on a test. 

later he apologized 83 times. 

“you’re not mad, right? you’ll still kiss me again? eventually? like… now?” 

boy is down astronomically. 

“they’re journalists,” he mutters, pushing the phone back. “this is what they do.”

his agent groans, and what follows isn’t quite an eye roll (although it’s a near miss). if his gaze actually hit the ceiling, he could be out of a job. “doesn’t matter. sponsors want warmth. humanity. a pulse, preferably.”

sae decides to not play into the comments. and as his agent sits in his silence, he could begin to see why the public found him so unnerving. at first, “curious” was the word that they used. an attempt to romanticize the unknown of his character. weirdly enough, the word stuck around for a pretty long time—longer than expected. fans spewed theories online about who he might be on and off the field, speculated endlessly about both his personality and private life. though over time, that curiosity dulled, soured, and settled into something completely different than before. now, he’s looked at with discomfort. more recently, he was described as “crude”. 

“right now?” his agent clears his throat, “the public thinks you’re an asshole,” he leans forward, fingers lacing together. “and when the public talks, managers listen.”

that is what finally catches sae’s attention. and not because he cares what strangers think—he couldn’t care less about people making theories about him on social media—making a game of operation out of dissecting his personality. what matters is this: the last thing he needs is more cameras focused on his team instead of the pitch.

he drags a hand through his hair, then down his face, “so what? i don’t see why we can’t just make some public statement telling them to get over it.”

across the table, his agent blinks slowly at him. then, without a word, reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a biege folder, sliding it onto the table.

sae glances at the folder and then his eyes slowly trace back to his agent, who has the audacity to smile and usher him to open it.

“well, go on. look inside!”

he reluctantly flicks the folder open, eyes landing on the picture that’s been pasted front and center.

it’s you.

mid-laugh, mouth open, standing under the red carpet lights—is you. you’re waving at someone just out of frame, dressed in some designer’s latest work and heels that you embrace so naturally it’s as if they were second skin. the faces of the people standing in the background are blurred out, but it’s obvious that they’re starring. it’s safe to assume they adore you, the cameras surely do.

he flips the page, more from obligation than interest. he makes a quick scan of your profile: finds out your name and that you’re a model. apparently, you’re even a “social media darling”. overall, you have a pretty clean record. not a single misstep aside from an alleged boyfriend a couple of years back. one write up, bold and underlined even goes as far to call you, “beloved.”

he’s not impressed.

not by your smile, not by the headlines, not by the supposed perfection you wear. 

if anything, all of those factors makes him suspicious of you. this couldn’t possibly be your actual life. what could you be hiding? 

“she’s your fix,” his agent declares. “i mean, her spotless record? her image? she’s the kind of person who makes people feel something—or in your case? be something. something even remotely close to being human.”

sae makes a mental note to fire his agent after all of this is done. he’s sick of his jokes. raising a brow, he asks, “so?”

“so we stage a relationship, get enough photos to swarm the headlines. you could have a few interviews. maybe a red carpet appearance or two…you’ll be seen with her, and suddenly the media won’t think you’re a cold, selfish dickhead. they’ll just see you as misunderstood! private. selective. romantic, even?”

“she looks annoying,” he scolds, closing the file shut. 

“well, it’s not like you’re supposed to fall in love with her, itoshi. just hold her hand and smile like you’re not bored or plotting murder.”

inside, something disrupts sae. it’s not fear, most definitely not interest—could it be irritation? yes, he thinks, definitely irritation. 

because he doesn’t want this, doesn’t need it. definitely doesn’t need you to fix a narrative he never asked for. 

but still, he isn’t stupid. he’s calculatedand strategic. he’s the type of player who sticks to his game no matter how long they run. all because you can’t hate the player—you have to hate the game. 

“fine,” he blurts out, standing up to stretch. “let’s get this over with.”

his agent gives him a short nod, too busy checking his watch, “great, great. i think she should be here any—”

a knock interrupts him, but before either man can move to answer it, you’re already pushing the door open and letting yourself into the room. you walk into the conference room with a bounce in your step and a smile on your face.

sae doesn’t believe in theatrics. but if he did, he’d swear the entire room shifts the moment you enter. like the air itself exhales, finally remembering how to breathe.

“hi there! sorry i’m a little late—traffic was a mess, and i refused to let my stylist redo my hair just because the wind had an attitude,” you exclaim, half-laughing, as you pull your sunglasses from your head and tuck them into your bag.

your perfume follows you in—it’s sweet and floral. nothing that sae ever smelled before. 

you wave to everyone in the room, even tossing one back toward your own management team lingering behind you.

your manager, stylist, and pr rep all follow you into the room with a poor attempt at trying to keep pace with your own. they’re quieter, more focused, though are clearly used to the way you present yourself.

sae had already assumed you’d be annoying, and the moment he sees you? that assumption is immediately confirmed.

there’s just too much energy. too much movement. too much noise.

you spot him instantly and step towards him, eyes flicking over his appearance.

“nice of you to join us,” his agent smiles. “sae, meet your fake girlfriend.” 

you softly laugh, “girlfriend? wow, we’re skipping the small talk, huh?” then, smile still as evident and bright, you extend your hand toward sae, “pleasure to meet you.”

sae glances at your hand, then back at your face. he doesn’t take it.

“yeah,” he says, voice low and flat. “a pleasure.”

you don’t allow your smile to falter. you drop your hand with grace, tucking it into your pocket instead. nodding, you click your tongue in disapproval, “seems like this’ll be fun.” 

he sits back down in his chair. your heels click softly as you move to the seat besides him, settling in with one leg over the other. 

“so,” you chirp, “you’re the great sae itoshi. guess the internet wasn’t exaggerating about you.”

he doesn’t make an effort to reply.

you hum, “‘m guessing small talk’s off the table?”

he rolls his eyes, “do you always talk this much?”

you flash a grin, “only when i’m nervous.”

he studies you, expression unreadable as he bites the inside of his cheek, “alright, then let’s hurry up and sign these papers. wouldn’t want you getting too flustered hanging around someone as distracting as me.“

your manager slides a packet between you. which, after further investigation, you learn is a three-month contract. there’s no real obligations during your relationship with sae beyond the illusion you need to give off. you’re required to have: two outside documented joint appearances, one red carpet, one charity gala, and a fashion show appearance on sae’s end. after that, you’re free to stage a “mutual” breakup. one due to the “consistent clashes” from your career schedules. 

“well,” you chime in sae’s direction, skimming to the last page, “we don’t even have to like each other. just pretend we do.”

he meets your eyes, “i’m good at pretending.”

you give him a dry, unimpressed laugh, “so am i.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the back and forth motion of your pen against the contract. then, you slide the folder across the table toward sae.

you’d heard all the talk—the media speculation, the analysis of his private life on twitter, the words fans used to describe his presence. so it’s safe to say, you thought you knew what to expect walking into this. still, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. a little grace. you were hoping for professionalism at the very least, maybe even a halfway civil conversation. if you were really lucky, maybe he’d let some childhood story slip out. 

but the second you walked in and caught that look—sharp and dismissive, a quiet judgment—you knew exactly what this was going to be.

so you lean forward, elbows propped on the table, chin in your hand, “so, how do you wanna play our first public interaction? we need a strong debut…something cutesy, obviously. because if we’re doing this, it can’t be boring. i will literally shrivel up.”

he silently accepts the pen handed to him, flipping straight to the signature page of the contract.

you have to admit, watching a world-famous footballer size you up like you’re some sort of threat? it’s honestly hilarious.

“what about hand-holding on a picnic? oh—an amusement park date? i’ll pretend to fake swoon if you can manage to fake charm.”

“i don’t do charm,” he doesn’t bother to look up.

you smile widens, “great! and i don’t do dull. so we’re both making sacrifices. you know, most people would ask how i plan to fake-swoon. or at least pretend to care about the public’s reaction.”

the pen scratches roughly against the paper “good thing i’m not most people.”

your smile tightens a little, “right, you’re special… allergic to personality. that does stand out.”

with a quick flick of his wrist, he finishes his signature and finally looks up at you, “i just don’t like wasting time on things that don’t matter.”

“you think this doesn’t matter?”

“it’s fake,” he replies, fighting a sigh. “so no, i don’t think whether we hold hands or share a cupcake in public is life or death.”

you hum, unfazed, “of course you don’t. because you think this is all about you. in case it slipped your mind, my name’s on the line too. and your sponsors aren’t paying for an emotionally draining man with acting skills—they want chemistry, warmth, something human. you’re gonna need to show at least a little bit of growth by the end of this so-called relationship.”

his jaw tightens, eyes narrowing, “i didn’t ask for this.”

“and i didn’t ask to babysit someone who can’t even pretend to be likable,” you tilt your head, “but here we are.”

he leans back in his chair, “if you’re so good at pretending, just smile and do your job.”

you sit up straighter now, smile fading entirely, “say that again.”

the room goes quiet. even your team uncomfortably shifts in the background.

sae holds your gaze, his tone mockingly even, “you’re only here to fix a problem. don’t forget that.”

you lean back in your chair, arms slowly crossing. your eyes stay locked on his and to his surprise, you smile once more, “oh, don’t worry. i won’t forget.”

you don’t catch sae watching you leave. but you do hear his agent mutter a string of curses under his breath as the door clicks shut behind you.

it’s unfortunate that you leave the meeting with your jaw tight and your pulse louder than it should be. it’s unfortunate that you let such a irritable person get to you. 

but you can’t help it. there was just something about him—about that flat, bored tone and that unreadable face—that grates against you. he spoke as if he knew you. as if everything you’ve worked for could be summed up with a pretty smile and an empty laugh.

“don’t take it personally,” your manager tells you once you’re out of earshot. “he’s like that with everyone.”

you say nothing, you simply just keep walking.

the first appearance is set less than three days later, and you just happen to arrive ten minutes early.

you try not to read too much into it—but your nerves refuse to let you go so easily. you lean further against the cool metal railing of the parking garage and look down at the view below. crowds move in and out of boutiques, swarming around food trucks and pop-up shops. 

you’d meant every word during that first meeting with sae—you really were hoping your big debut together would be cutesy, maybe even rom-com worthy. anything, as long as it was something memorable. for instance a cute cliché photo op or a amusement park date that fans could gush over.

instead?

your grand “pop-out” happens on a mall date.

you should’ve expected this, since sae received the honors of choosing the location for today. of course he would pick somewhere like this—something entirely off-brand for you, a little standard and dull, just like him. it was so him to ignore what you might’ve liked and choose something purely for himself. how selfish. 

you hum to yourself and tap your phone gently against your palm. the screen lights up with a vibration, and you smile before even reading the notification. its a text from your manager:

[my winggirl🥹]: don’t let him get you out of character, gorgeous! remember, a little hand holding, one meal, and one outfit purchase is all you need and then you’re done! make sure to look atleast just a little obsessed with the man, okay??

you softly laugh, text back a quick spam of heart emojis, then swipe to your camera app. the outfit for today is simple: a solid black top, a matching mini skirt, as well as the sleekest pair of heeled boots you own. you catch your reflection in a car window and tilt your head, playfully posing. 

you practice your smile in the reflection for a little, before finally calling it a day and adjusting your hair once more. all in all, you’re camera-ready. 

everything’s set. everything’s fine. that is until—

“how nice of you to dress up.”

you whip around, “oh my god, do you practice sneaking up on people or are you just naturally creepy?”

there, standing behind you, sae stands in a replica outfit of yours. a pair of black jeans, a matching crewneck, and black shoes to top it all off. was it a coincidence he happened to match with you? or did your agency plan this out?

“you should be more aware of your surroundings.”

“well, hello to you too,” you mumble, dropping your phone in your purse. “didn’t know you had it in you to compliment someone.”

“that wasnt a compliment,” he replies. “i said you dressed up. that’s just a fact, no?”

“you’re so exhausting. no wonder your team begged for this fake relationship.”

he gives you a look over. 

“and you have the nerve to be late,” you add, crossing your arms.

“by…” he glances at his watch, “two minutes.”

you curse underneath your breath, and push past him. you make a bee-line for the garage exit stairway, heels clacking loudly against the floor, “two minutes can cost a headline. in case you didn’t know, punctuality is what creates chemistry and it’s important we give off that energy!”

that earns you nothing but an eye roll as he quietly follows your path.

you ramble as you make your way down the stairs, “we don’t even have to actually like eachother. but faking it works better when you stop looking like you’re in a hostage video—and for the record—” you look back at him. “most guys would be thrilled to be dating a model. even if it was for show! you’re the only person i’ve ever met who makes the entire experience feel like a curse. i mean, the fact that you can’t even act as if you’re happy is just—“

“are you nervous?”

you nearly trip on the next step, “what?”

he doesn’t look at you, just keeps walking, “you said you talk a lot more when you’re nervous.”

your breath catches from the pure absurdity of that asshole.

“oh, how nice of you to remember,” you snap, although it’s more of a clarification than anything. because somehow, he remembered. he listened.

and truth be told, you are nervous.

you snort, “didn’t think i left much of an impression that quick.”

“not a positive one,” he notes, making his way outside. 

under normal circumstances, you’d be thoughtful enough to choose to go to a store that you both could enjoy. but sae had decided to be selfish—deliberately picking a date spot he knew you’d hate. and while you’re not one get out of character—stray too far from your usual self, you retaliate with a choice of your own: the dainty boutique with two security guards stationed at the door. sure, it’s filled with delicate, designer dresses—but have a small section dedicated to suits too! how considerate of you. 

behind you, sae lets out a sigh so dramatic, you don’t even need to look back to know he absolutely hates this.

“why this store?” he grunts, staring at the pink ‘open!’ sign. 

you spot them the moment they round the corner—two different pairs of paparazzi, their cameras already raised and aimed in your direction. instantly, you turn and reach for sae’s hand.

his eyes narrow the second your fingers brush against his. “what are you doing?” he mumbles under his breath, low enough for only you to hear. he makes a slight attempt to pull his hand back.

you catch his wrist before he can completely retreat, intertwining your fingers with his in one fluid motion. “they’re watching,” you whisper, flashing a smile. “you’re supposed to be obsessed with me. now, play the part.”

he gives you a dry, unimpressed look. “seriously, don’t flatter yourself,” he tells you, but he doesn’t pull away this time—just lets his hand sit limply in yours. as if it pains him to be touched.

you give his hand a subtle squeeze and turn toward the boutique, leading him forward as the cameras click behind you. “you can hate this all you want,” you mutter through clenched teeth, “but if we’re doing this, you better commit.”

sae sharply exhales, biting back a comment as you lead himinto the store.

the boutique is a maze of clothing racks holding delicate, beautiful dresses. minty perfume drifts in the air and there’s soft instrumentals playing as background. luckily for you two, the shop already happens to be cleared out. there’s not one citizen in sight.

a boutique worker rushes to you with an eager smile—one that practically screams that she was prepped and fully briefed. she hurries to the entrance to signal the security guards, then quickly returns to you, motioning toward a display of brightly colored dresses.

“these just came in yesterday!” she exclaims. “would you like to try a few pieces?”

“yes, please! just give me one…” your eyes drift back toward the entrance you came through. outside the windows, you see that a line has already formed around the boutique’s entrance, cameras flashing so much that all you can see is white. the security guards make sure to block anyone from coming in. 

whatever privacy you had when you walked in is clearly gone.

you glance down at your hand, only now noticing that sae had let go. you look across the room, and it takes you a few moments to find him. but when you do? you find him a few feet away, standing with his hands shoved into his pockets, scanning the shop up and down with a frown.

you spot the worker, who is now peeking over at you two from the cash register. great. you give her a sweet syrupy smile and walk toward him, steps echoing in your path.

sae doesn’t move as you approach, but his eyes don’t fail to flick toward you.

without hesitation, you loop your arm through his, pressing in close until your side touches his. his body goes stiff at the contact—especially when your cheek almost brushes his shoulder. but he doesn’t pull away. that’s good, you think. good for the image.

you tilt your head up, and finally, your eyes meet his. when you speak, your voice is soft, “relax. you’re gonna make it obvious. stop acting like i bite.”

“maybe i’m hoping you do,” he whispers back, “so i can sue.”

you smile a little wider for the benefit of the worker watching from behind the counter. then, you shift so that you’re standing in front of him, leaning in until your temple rests against his shoulder. from the corner of your eye, you catch the way sae’s gaze sharpens, your nose hovering just near the line of his jaw.

“the boutique girl’s watching,” you coo, “and so are the cameras outside.”

he moves to look at the windows, but you use your hand to guide his face back to you.

“if you keep dropping my hand and acting like you’d rather be anywhere else, she’s gonna figure out this is fake in two seconds,” you let your fingers slowly trail down his arm before loosely lacing them through his again.

“i’m here aren’t i? that alone should say something.”

“we’re supposed to seem madly in love. not… co-workers forced into a group project.”

he exhales roughly through his nose, but he doesn’t shake you off. he doesn’t even do so much as look away.

“look like you like me,” you add, then glance at the boutique worker. you return your gaze to sae and give him a pointed look, “or at least act like i’m not annoying you to death.”

for emphasis, your grip on his hand tightens. after all, you weren’t doing this for your own amusement. this was for the boutique worker. for the photos. for the narrative. you try not to make a habit of doing things half-assed. 

still, you can’t help but notice—he hasn’t let go. in fact, he squeezes your hand back even harder.

you take advantage of that, dragging him over to a random clothing rack.

“help me pick something,” you chirp, holding two dress up to your chest. “something boyfriend-approved!”

he lazily scans the options before stating, “that one.” he points at one on the rack that you’re not holding, “that one’s not stupid.”

“wow,” you gasp, lips twitching. “romantic and poetic.”

you pick a few more outfits and make your way to the worker, asking, “fitting room?”

“right this way,” she guides you. “would your boyfriend like to wait outside the door?”

“actually,” you stammer, “he’s very opinionated. i think he should be in there with me.”

sae visibly chokes on air, pulling you close before whispering, “the hell i am.”

“relax i don’t want you to see me naked, weirdo. in there, at least you don’t have to worry about your public image.”

he glances back at the worker, and for the first time—you see a different expression plastered on his face. the switch is terrifying. he loops an arm around your waist, face melting into what you would assume is his wacky version of a smile.

“we’ll be quick,” he announces. 

and just like that, the curtain closes behind you two.

you find that the dressing room is small. really small. as in, it’s a hazard small. 

the two of you awkwardly shift around in the cramped space, doing your best to avoid brushing against each other. once you’ve each claimed your corner, you gesture for him to turn around.

“don’t look,” you warn.

he does as told, turning away without a word. you toss the dresses onto the bench and quickly reach for the zipper on your skirt.

“i’m not a perv,” he mutters, pulling out his phone. “trust me, the last thing i want is—”

“okay, okay,” you shush. “shut up, just don’t comment on anything.”

you slide on one of your many options. it takes you a while to zip it up by yourself, but eventually, you get the job done. 

“well?” you ask.

he turns around and glances up from his phone, eyes moving slowly, deliberately, from head to toe.

“it’s fine.”

you scoff, “fine? that’s it?”

“what do you want me to say?” he asks, and you can’t quite tell if he’s serious or not. “you’re not ugly. congrats.”

“i hate you.”

“feelings mutual,” he tilts his head. “you just like being told you look good.”

“turn around,” you direct him, moving to slide on another one of your options.

you can feel a lump form in your throat as you quote what he said. “‘you just like being told you look good,’ and you like what? brushing off your fans? spreading doom and gloom? oh please.”

your irritation only grows worse from there. you hastily slip into a few more dress options, ready to get it over with and escape the annoyingly cramped dressing room. when you’re finished, you finally move toward the curtain in a huff—only for him to catch your wrist before you can pull it open.

he’s not even looking your way when he speaks, “don’t act irrational. don’t you remember we still have an audience out there?”

you blink once, then twice. 

right. 

there’s an audience. 

you give yourself a moment to recollect yourself. then you pull the curtain back, just a few inches to get a look around before stepping into the light. you feel sae shift behind you, his hand resting lightly on your hip. 

for someone who’s never touched you before today, who acts as if he loathes you with his every being—he sure seems like he knows exactly where his hands belong on you.

you go to a few more stores after that, and somewhere along the way, sae even forces himself to initiate a few staged couple poses. in the past two hours with him on this date, you’ve learned that he’s most comfortable wrapping his arms around your waist. a simple gesture for the paparazzi to feed on.

eventually, you both end up on a park bench, food truck meals balanced on your laps while a not-so subtle crowd begins to gather nearby, phones pointed in your direction.

“are you gonna complain about the food too?” you judge between sips, eyeing him over your drink.

he peers down at the plastic container holding his steak, “depends. is it actually safe to eat?”

“well, if you die, ‘m not doing cpr. failed that test in high school,” you warn, placing your cup on the floor as he shakes his head.

“so….” you take a bite from your skewer, “did you always hate people, or is this new?”

“i don’t hate people. some just get on my nerves. you specifically are just…exceptionally good at it.”

you clutch your heart, “wow. you’re meaner in person.”

“i’ve been in person this whole time?”

“exactly,” you grumble with a long, exasperated sigh. “it’s been exhausting. i deserve double pay.”

it gets quiet after that, and you decide to fill the space by sharing your admiration for one of your favorite designers. you’re just about to finally switch topics when he interrupts you.

“do you ever stop to breathe?”

you snort, arms crossing lazily as you shoot him a look, “well i’m sorry, is my joy offensive to your pity party?”

“watching you is like i’m watching a permanent sugar rush.”

you grin, “aw, you actually pay attention to me?”

he scoffs under his breath, “occasionally.”

you lean toward him with mock curiosity, “seriously though. what’s your problem with me? you act like i’m a disease.”

he eyes your figure, “you’re always… loud. energetic. there’s no way that’s what you’re like when no one’s watching. has to just be for the cameras, no?”

you raise a brow, “what, you think i’m fake? huh, tell me how you really feel.”

“i just did.”

“well, i hate to disappoint, but this—” you gesture to yourself dramatically, “is very real. i’m not performing. i just don’t wake up every day wanting to punch sunlight in the face like you do.”

he shrugs, “i think most people hold some type of fakeness to them. especially in this industry. but you? you laugh like the world itself and everyone in it is something worth celebrating—worth romanticizing. that doesn’t happen unless you’re pretending.”

you stare at him for a second, lips quirking, “and you think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“i don’t care enough to figure you out,” he replies. then, quieter, “i just notice things.”

your teasing tone falters, “like what?”

sae bites the inside of his cheek, “at our first meeting i thought you were just loud noise. always talking. smiling. probably acted like every day was the best day of your life.”

you watch him intently, “and now?”

he hesitates at first. but then, “now i think… it’s kind of nice. that you can be like that, even with people watching. or not watching.”

your lips part slightly, “so—wait, you think i’m nice?”

“i didn’t say you’re nice,” he smirks. “i said what you do is nice. big difference.”

you roll your eyes, “so just to be clear, you don’t think i’m fake anymore?”

sae looks away briefly, then back at you, “i think you’re real in ways i didn’t expect.”

you try to speak, but nothing comes. he takes note of that, and instead of smirking or tearing you down, he softly reassures, “don’t get it twisted. you still annoy me, plenty.”

“you still act like a jerk.”

the rest of the time you two spend on the bench, he stays quiet—to avoid asking questions and making you get sidetracked, you think—as you talk about whatever comes to mind. he watches you absentmindedly twist your napkin between your fingers, doesn’t even interrupt when your thoughts drift into a ramble about some model you hate.

for once, in this moment, you find yourself actually willing to withstand him. 

your mall date had been a success. the results were actually better than expected. that day, you received three published articles, a huge boost in your follower count, a flood of different hashtags with your name beside sae’s—and the best part of all? your favorite part? the fan edits.

that was two weeks ago.

two weeks since the fitting room. two weeks since you shared a deep talk with sae. two weeks since the headlines labeled you sae itoshi’s “perfect match,” after seeing you both on two more dates later that week. 

and not a single text or call from him outside of the time you’ve spent together. 

not that you were expecting one, he’s made it clear that you aren’t exactly high on his list of priorities. neither does he exactly give off “i care deeply about my fake girlfriend” energy. it just came off as strange to you.

so when your pr manager messages you:

[my winggirl🥹] : livestream tomorrowwww! its at your house gorgeous. sae’s coming, make sure to keep it close. make them believe it! 

you nearly throw your phone across the room.

your home is yours. your escape. the only space he hasn’t been able to invade with his unreadable stares and silence. you don’t want him here—especially not with cameras watching your every move.

so you do the only reasonable thing.

you call her.

“please,” you beg. “can’t we do something else? a café, a picnic, a fake cooking class? anything but my apartment. that’s a huge step! and we haven’t even been supposedly dating for long so that’s, that’s—i mean there’s so much intimacy there!“

but she’s made it clear that this appearance isn’t negotiable. the audience wants to see intimacy. they want raw action of your day to day lives. they want to see sae—someone who’s known to be cold and off putting on your couch, in your kitchen, brushing shoulders with you in your own space. logically, this is the next step. if you were your manager, you would recommend a q&a livestream too. 

but you’re not. you’re you. 

you hang up and throw yourself onto the couch, groaning into a pillow.

when you push yourself up, you find yourself staring at sae’s contact on your screen for longer than you’d like to admit, thumb hovering over the call button.

you thought you should call him, just to see where his head is at. clarify a plan, maybe even a few rules. after all, he is going to be in your apartment. it would be weird not to at least touch base beforehand, right? 

before you can overthink it, you hit “call.”

it rings once, twice, three times.

you’re already preparing to hang up when—

“hello?”

his voice is low and familiar in the worst way. it scratches against your nerves.

“hi! it’s me.”

he’s quiet for a second, “i figured. there’s not really…well nevermind.”

you roll your eyes, raising your hands to look over your nails, “so… livestream, huh? at my place too, that’s new.”

“mhm, so i hear.”

“right, well—” you continue. “i just figured it might be nice to, y’know, not wing it for once. not that winging it wasn’t fun and all because it was, really! but this is different. there’ll be so many cameras in my apartment, more than i could ever keep track of. like, you’re gonna be sitting on my real-life couch.”

“are you worried i’ll break something?”

you fidget with a nearby couch pillow, fiddling with the fabric before pressing it snug against your chest, “no. i just… i think we should plan this one. it’s different,” you snort, “i’m being filmed inside my home. so, this is real personal for me.”

he’s quiet again, but this time it doesn’t feel so cold to you. more like he’s thinking. 

“alright,” he agrees. “let’s plan it.”

and though it’s just a word—something in you unclenches.

he said let’s. a synonym for “we.” a confirmation that he’s willing to actually hear you out, and make a plan because of your worries. your concerns. he’s being considerate. 

“okay,” you slowly drag out, as if his word might break if you say it too fast. “so…we’ll have a q&a livestream, right? they want something that shows we’ve been dating for a while. something that shows our lifestyles merging together. we need fake memories and—“

he hums, “i know how to act that out. i did it at the mall.”

“you don’t need to act like a boyfriend, sae. you need to act like my boyfriend. there’s a difference y’know.”

“whatever you say. guess i’ll trust your judgment.” 

you pause. he’s not usually this… affirming.

“anyway,” you mutter. “if you’re gonna be at my place, you’ll need to act comfortable too. like it’s not your first time being here. ill give you a facetime tour in a minute.”

“you want me to sit through a real estate presentation?”

“i want you to stop being difficult for two seconds.”

you expect him to say a smart comment back. instead, he hums. 

“i’ll bring coffee.”

“…what?”

“tomorrow. i’ll bring coffee. if i’m intruding into your apartment, might as well bring a housewarming gift.”

your lips part, but words don’t come.

someone bringing you coffee is a gesture that shouldn’t mean much—but coming from him, the simplicity of the thoughtfulness lingers longer in your head than it should.

“uh—sure! ueah. that’s good, i’ll just text you my order later tonight, okay?”

“okay.”

he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. the silence lingers for a long while, until—

“so, do you wanna facetime me so you can see my apartment? then we can talk about a few rules and all that stuff—“

“sure,” he says. and it’s faint, really faint, but you swear you hear him laugh to himself. 

true to his word, sae brought you a coffee the next morning. by then, a camera crew had already begun setting up. tall stands, lights—all sorts of equipment you couldn’t name if you tried, cluttering up your space. 

you hate it. the disruption and the random faces appearing in your home. sae’s presence is already an adjustment, but eight more strangers stepping into your space is far, far worse.

eventually, the crew clears out to go eat lunch, leaving you two with some privacy. you and sae end up side by side on the bench in front of your vanity, an uneasy silence between you.

then, you break the silence, “okay… are you ready, sae?”

he’s already pulling out his phone, thumbs tapping rapidly across the screen, “yeah.”

he props his phone onto the vanity, the livestream feed already visible on the screen. immediately, viewers flood in.

it doesn’t take long for the view count to reach over a thousand, as sae fails to make a habit of being on social media at all. for his fans? this was a shock. you watch as heart emojis and fire symbols flood the screen, ecstatically waving at the phone. 

sae angles the phone and taps on the pinned question at the top of the Q&A queue.

“how did you two meet?”

you glance at him, though he doesn’t make a effort to look back at you.

even so, your nerves don’t feel as if they’re tearing up your insides. you don’t feel the need to fill the silence with rambling—you don’t panic. because you prepared for this. last night, on the call with sae, you both agreed on the backstory of your relationship. you met at a charity gala, and bonded over a disinterest of the event. quick and simple, end of story.

“do you want to take that one, babe?” you ask, a sweet smile on your face. you were ready to pick up where he leaves off. 

“we met through mutual friends,” he replies. “at a party.”

you smile flickers away. your head turns slowly, eyes narrowing. that wasn’t what you agreed on.

you pull yourself back together, a smile snapping into place once more, “a really boring party,” you add. “if he hadn’t insulted me within the first ten minutes, i probably wouldn’t even remember it.”

“i was being honest—someone had to tell you that dress was trying too hard.”

you swear you can feel your eye twitch.

“wasn’t that the night i wore couture?”

he shrugs, “didn’t look like it.”

the chat does nothing but spam crying emojis and exclamation points. “omggg they’re so real for this,” someone comments.

you force a laugh and sip your coffee to stop yourself from snapping. sae taps onto the next question.

“who confessed first?”

with this question, the two of you weren’t supposed to talk over each other. you were supposed to lead with a statement. then, just like you practiced, he'd jump in after with a silly add on. 

however, the both of you answer this in unison. claiming, “neither of us.”

you hesitate to turn his way. but when you do, you wish you hadn’t done it at all. he stares back at you with that awful, goofy thing he calls a smile. you can't stand it. 

“i mean,” you backtrack, “it was kind of mutual. wasn’t it?”

sae nods, “something like that.”

that wasn’t the line either. can’t he do anything right? he was supposed to say he asked you out first in private. that he was shy about it, but sincere. something soft to make the fans believe it.

he’s blowing it all off.

sae reads out the next big question, “what’s your favorite thing about each other?”

you smirk and shove his shoulder, “you go first.”

he side-eyes you, leaning forward, elbow resting on his knee. then, he hums, “perhaps the fact she’s quiet when she’s sleeping.”

“seriously?”

you’re even more annoyed that he doesn’t even flinch when he says, “it’s peaceful. unlike now.”

you force out a laugh, “how sweet, right guys? personally, i love how emotionally guarded he was when i first met him. really made a girl work for it.”

the comment section is losing it. 

the screen is a mess of rapidly moving words, but you manage to catch a few glimpses of what people have to say. “this is peak love language” one reads. the other calming that you two, “bicker like old married people.”

sae slides a hand around your waist, and despite your urge to pull away—scream him at most—you lean in just enough to sell the lie.

the show must go on. 

he reads out the next question, “when did you know you were in love?”

this time, you’re not surprised when he goes off script. you simply stare ahead at the screen, smile straining at the edges. silently wondering if there was a loophole in disobeying your shared contract. 

the moment the livestream ends, you push away from the vanity, reaching forward to slam his phone face down.

you turn to him, arms waving around, “what the hell was that?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just leans back, one arm draped behind the bench, “what?”

you scoff, “what? are you serious? you went completely off script.”

he finally glances at you, giving you a look over, “relax.”

“no!” you snap, “don’t tell me to relax. we spent half the night going over what we were going to say—and not because i enjoy rehearsing fake couple stories with someone who clearly can’t stand me, but because i wanted this to be smooth. you said—you said—you were fine with the plan.”

sae looks away.

“and on the phone yesterday,” you continue, voice rising with every word, “you were actually…i don’t know. decent? you offered to bring me coffee i didn’t ask for. you were listening to me when i said this whole livestream thing with you in my house today made me anxious. you weren’t acting like a complete asshole. i thought maybe, maybe, you’d actually try to make this work.”

he stands up slowly, “it is working—“

“no, it’s not,” you grimace with a mocking tone. “you made me look like a liar. you made us look like a joke. we planned out a whole story—and you just threw it out because what? you were bored? was that it?”

he sighs, looking up at the ceiling. 

you step in front of him, “say it. say the reason—because i need to know, now.”

he finally meets your eyes, “i went off script because it sounded fake.”

“this is fake, sae.”

he nods, “exactly. but like you proved before, it doesn’t have to look like it. i had a feeling that it’d be easy for people to tell we were lying, i mean our story was just too cliche. so, i acted on it.”

you don’t fight back. instead, you silently glare at him, because you don’t want to admit he has a point. looking back on it? the curated story, the scripted affection—it was a little too perfect. clean, boring and safe. something that a pr team would write up, not people who actually know each other.

nonetheless, that doesn’t make his actions right.

“then why not tell me you were going to change it?”

“because you would’ve overcorrected…and i just needed you to trust me on this.”

you hate that his opinion stings more than it should.

he keeps going, licking his lips, “you’re too concerned with what people want to hear, with how they’ll see us. you forget the whole point of this is to convince them we’re real. not just marketable.”

you swallow back the lump forming in your throat, “and you think dragging me on camera and blatantly ignoring everything we planned made it look real?”

“we looked like a couple that fights. that annoys the hell out of each other. that knows each other too well to pretend we’re all preppy and perfect.”

the worst part about all of this, is that the audience did love your banter. the viewers did think that there was chemistry, that there was something real. the chaos, the bickering, the off-script tension? it played itself perfectly.

your chest is tight as you declare, “well…next time, tell me.”

he looks at you again, and you expect him to say fine or whatever, yet he gives you a reassuring, “okay.”

you pause, “you know,” you mutter, “i let you into my space. i told you this whole thing made me uncomfortable. i thought you understood that.”

sae takes a step toward you, “i do.”

“then why make me feel like i was the only one trying?”

“i am trying,” it comes out as if it’s hard to admit. “just not the way you want me to.”

you look at him for a long second, not knowing if that’s supposed to be an apology or another excuse.

and then you turn away and head towards the living room, leaving him standing there in your room. 

you knew what this was.

currently, you’re sitting at a café table across from sae. and besides the fact the scenery happened to be weirdly photogenic—every corner looking as if it were made simply for instagram (which isn’t sae’s style at all), what made it so special? was that it was home to the most exotic foods. a fact you vaguely mentioned in a conference room days prior, during a check up meeting with you and sae’s agency’s. 

you chose to eat in the rooftop seating, something nice and open. to your satisfaction, sae didn’t complain once. he even let you order for both of you—claiming that it was because he didn’t quite know what to get, as he’s not one to go out of his nutritionists recommendations.

the fact that he wasn’t on his phone right now only helped prove this was apart of his apology. apart of his effort. 

when your food comes, you pick at it, sunglasses perched on your nose, glancing across the table at him. he didn’t pay you much mind right now, choosing to stare at the scenery surrounding you both instead. but he was here, with you. eating a meal he normally wouldn’t eat, eating simply since it was recommended by you. that had to count for something, right?

until it didn’t.

“excuse me—sorry,” a voice interrupts. “are you…sae itoshi?”

you both look up.

the girl was pretty, though you cringed at the fact that she wore winter boots in the scorching hot summer heat. you recognized her instantly: a micro-influencer you’d met maybe once or twice at a after party. 

sae gave a short nod, “yeah.”

“oh my god,” she gushes, stepping dangerously closer to your table. “i’m such a huge fan! i didn’t think you’d be here.”

you don’t move or speak. just watch as her eyes flick between him and your untouched drink.

she leans in a little, pressing a hand against the edge of your table. “i hate to interrupt, but…is it okay if i get a quick photo? you’re just so hard to run into.”

you wait for him to say, “i’m eating with someone.” for him to introduce you as his girl. or if that were too much for him, he could simply introduce you as—well—you. anything to imply you’re someone to him and not some random girl who decided to sit at his table.

sae thinks for a minute, chewing his cheek before sighing, “sure.”

the girl shrieks and pulls out her phone, standing beside him and smiling as she snaps not one, not two, but five photos.

“you’re single, right?” she asked, giggling. “just in case i tag the wrong girl.”

“no—“

you laugh under your breath, standing from where you sat.

“i’ll help clarify,” you turn to her, removing your sunglasses. “hi. i’m definitely the girl you’ll be tagging. the one he’s been dating for—well, you could check the headlines for that.”

you watch as the recognition reaches her eyes. her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“and for future reference,” you take a quick sip of your drink, “if you’re going to flirt with someone’s boyfriend, try not to do it in front of someone who’s on this month’s vogue cover.”

the fan stammers and steps back, muttering apologies before scurrying away. the silence that followed felt louder than the café music.

sae watches as the fan leaves, “that wasn’t necessary.”

“wasn’t necessary?”

“she was just a fan.”

you laugh again, louder this time. “right. just a fan who flirted with you in front of your girlfriend. and you? you just let her. are you that oblivious? or—“

“i’m saying that she wasn’t someone of interest or importance, so it wasn’t worth the scene. all she wanted were a few lousy pictures—if i shoved that off, i would never beat the allegations you’re here to help defend.”

“no,” you push your plate forward, appetite long gone. “what’s not worth the scene is apparently me.”

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“i’ve been working hard since i was sixteen. i’ve walked for chanel, i’ve closed valentino, i’ve shot vogue, img, every major cover. do you think i need your name to be relevant? i don’t.”

“that’s not what i thi—“

“then act like it. because i’m not just some girl trying to present herself as a decoration to your being. i have my own damn life too.”

after that day, you stopped talking to him.

not completely—technically you still spoke—but only when necessary. only in the times where it was required so that you could get through your staged appearances. 

you still sat by him on couches and in press rooms, close enough to make headlines. still tilted your head toward him in pictures. still posted pictures and videos to feed the illusion of a happy relationship to the public. 

but the banter was gone.

you stopped challenging him when he teased you on camera. you stopped laughing, even fakely, at his dry remarks. if he made a joke, you let it pass without comment.

you gave him nothing more than what your contract required.

you hid your personality away, giving him a professional kind of distance. one that didn’t give him room to touch anything real again.

and somehow? that hurt worse than the argument ever had.

because before, there was tension—irritation, annoyance, a feeling of comfort here and there. beyond all, there was emotion. something that felt like life. something you could push against.

but now, there was just silence. a cold distance.

sae noticed, you know he did.

he started looking at you differently during events. he was more focused on your being, like he was trying to read between lines you weren’t speaking aloud. he even started texting you more—pointless questions, really. things he already knew the answer to. little excuses to start conversations you never asked for.

he made a habit of bringing you coffee, every morning without fail. still showed up with your exact order like it meant something.

but there was a caution in him, too. he chose his words more carefully around you, unsure of which version of you he’d be getting that day. the warm one he’d briefly known, or the version he’d made you retreat into.

it was always the latter.

still, he never asked about the distance. never brought it up. never said a word about the wall you’d built between you. you never offered him the courtesy of explaining, either. 

because after that argument, you’d decided that there was one thing for sure. you wouldn’t give anything real to someone who didn’t think it mattered

you wave your way through the red carpet, cameras flashing deliberately at your every move. you try to think of that instead of the fact that sae itoshi—your partner in public lies—is nowhere to be found on your big night. 

today was the day of your fashion show. or in other words, the final required joined appearance on the three month contract between you and sae. and while you two haven’t exactly made up from your argument, you have to admit—

you didn’t expect him to stand you up on your big day.

you soon discover that it’s not just you who notices, the press does as well. 

they call out your name as you make your way down the carpet, “where’s sae tonight?”

“trouble in paradise?”

“is it true he’s overseas?”

holy fuck were they annoying. 

“he’ll join later,” you reassure. “he’s proud of me either way.” then you wink at the cameras, continuing your way down the carpet as the paparazzi spews with follow-up questions.

you lied. you don’t know what he thinks. surprisingly, he hadn’t even texted you today with no pointless questions or clarifications about the event at all.

you pose once more for the cameras before stepping off the carpet and slipping into the backstage area. stylists rush by, assistants holding racks of gowns and headsets glued to their ears. the scent of perfume, steam, and hairspray invade your senses. you smile contently at the familiar smell.

you let your team pull you into your dressing room. you’re reminded that you’re the closer tonight—the final look, the centerpiece. you should be flattered. you should feel powerful and confident. 

instead, your stomach churns, and you can’t figure out why. 

perhaps its your outfit. 

the black mesh of your gown kisses your skin, decorated by a flower lace spirals down your hips. the bottom of the fabric flares out, allowing a train to form behind you.

its not something you’d prefer to wear, considering it’s strictly lace all over—but, you slip into it anyway.

for the image, for the look. for your job. 

unbeknownst to you, sae arrives ten minutes before the finale, quietly slipping through the back entrance. his manager had sent him what had to be over a dozen text, questioning him about his whereabouts. he knew he was late, didn’t care enough to explain.

he actually meant to skip the event entirely. 

it wasn’t that he didn’t have the energy to deal with the space growing between you—he planned to fix that. in fact, he was actively trying. when he gets a chance to hug you, he makes his hugs linger longer than they need to. he brings you your exact coffee order every morning without fail, hiding a little note on the cup he hopes you see. he even tries to playfully tease you to try and bring you out of your shell. yet, you won’t budge.

which is what made him figure that showing up tonight would only make things worse. with the way things stood between you, you’d probably just tense up the moment you saw him. the last thing he wanted was to make you more uncomfortable than you already were.

but then he saw your name trending. the photos from the carpet, and the video interview that followed.

you expected him to be there. scratch that, you wanted him to be there. 

the sight made him instantly call his private driver to pick him, quickly getting himself dressed in his best suit and tie. 

his jaw tightens as he enters the dressing room area, spotting your open door and the crowd around you. he notices the way a famous designer—one you once mentioned admiring—leans in too close. the way he places a hand on your hip. the way his mouth gets dangerously close to your ear, and most importantly? the way you laugh.

it’s not the fake one you’d been giving sae recently. its too bright and bubbly to be fake. 

he doesn’t realize he’s moving to make his way to your dressing room until a crew member stops him.

“VIPs only backstage—sorry, sir.”

he doesn’t even speak. just pulls out his lanyard, flashing his credentials like it’s routine.

his body moves faster than his thoughts can form. he thinks to himself, he can’t be doing this off of emotion. right?

because this—this thing between you two isn’t real. none of it is. that was always the agreement.

but then he sees your smile in his head—soft, easy, the kind you used to give him without thinking now aimed at someone else.

the more he thinks about it, something unsettles in his chest. its brief and stupid, so he forces himself to brush it off.

still, he doesn’t look away from your figure. 

and he really should.

you’re adjusting your earring when a low voice cuts through the noise.

“how nice of you to dress up.”

you freeze.

slowly, you turn toward him. sae leans lazily against the dressing room door. he’s relaxed with his hands in his pockets, all as if he hasn’t just decided to show up late on a very important night of your career.

“can everyone leave the room for a second? i think i can do the final touches.”

at your request, your assistants, managers, and the famous designer (who sae is glad to see go), leaves the room. 

“nice to see you too,” you mutter.

his eyes drag across your body. the slit in the gown that exposes the length of your leg. the way it hugs your curves and emphasizes them at the same time.

“talk about revealing, hm?”

you laugh, absolutely fucking stunned. you thought he showed his hand. every little surprise he had, yet he’s still coming up with new tricks.

“you’re late, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

he crosses his arms, “i thought you’d be fine on the carpet without me.“

“oh my—god, you’re unbelievable.”

“you look gorgeous.”

it’s not even what he says—it’s how he says it. as if your ambition, your image, your career are somehow less valid than his mood.

“are you serious?” you hiss, rising to close the door. “you left me to walk out there alone. in front of everyone. do you know what that looks like?”

“you looked fine.”

“that’s not the point!” you yell. 

he keeps his tone steady, “then what is?”

“the point is, throughout this entire thing, despite your—the—your difficulty and initial hostility? i’ve shown up to every single one of your matches, even the boring ones. i’ve worn your jersey. i’ve smiled for so many cameras. i’ve done everything this stupid deal required—and more. you can’t even bother to show up on time?”

“i’ve never understood why you read so much into appearan—“

“i care when my name is on the line,” you snap. “and when i’ve spent months trying to convince people this is real.”

sae’s expression falters, just for a second. then he steps closer and scoffs, “you’ve been distant for how long? you barely talk to me unless there’s a camera pointed at us. you’re mad at me for being late, but you’ve been gone longer than that.“

you shake your head, “that’s not fair. that’s not the same.”

“feels about the same.”

“no. you did it out of pettiness. i was hurt.”

the room goes still.

you stare at him. his chest rises and falls with quiet restraint. he’s looking at you like he wants to say more. like he wants to fight, but instead, he breathes out your name—soft and gentle.

from the hallway, you can hear as the producer’s voice yells, “thirty seconds! final model ready?”

thats your cue. 

“i’m ready!” you yell back.

you move to step past him, but sae catches your wrist.

he doesn’t speak right away, taking time to curate his words, “…i was out of line.”

you gape at him.

“for the way i handled everything in this…bond of ours. the way i handled the fan situation a few months back. the way i made you feel as if you had to hide yourself from me. all of it.”

his voice stays quiet and controlled, “all of it, that’s on me.”

your lip quivers. he’s never said anything like this before.

finally, he meets your gaze, “but understand that this is all new to me. and in the end, you were being genuine. i wasn’t ready for that.”

your throat tightens at the confession.

before you can say anything, the runway producer calls your name once more.

you gently pull your wrist from his hold, “we’ll talk after.”

the runway ends in flashing lights and applause. you close the show, and when the curtains fall, you’re swept into a crowd of hugs and praise from your colleagues.

and when the crowd parts, sae is waiting.

he doesn’t say anything, simply nods toward the back exit. you bite your lip at the gesture, your mind pulling you between the decision to stay or go. almost too naturally, you follow.

the limo is quiet when you slide in, the driver closing the door behind you before standing promptly against the car.

sae sits across from you, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees, “i meant what i said.”

you make a move to speak, only to be interrupted. 

“i didn’t think your opinion on me would matter,” he mutters, eyes fixed ahead. “but apparently it does.”

you lean back, watching him carefully, “you used to act as if you hated being around me.”

his mouth twitches, the closest thing to a smile, “you still annoy me plenty.”

you huff out a laugh.

“for instance,” his hands reach out to your waist, deliberate, and slow. “with how far you are,” he tugs you forward until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. “been ignoring me for how long?”

you shift on his lap, “you deserved it,” you whisper.

“you’re right,” he glances down at the slit of your dress. “so, let me make it up you.”

before you can answer, his hands drag along your sides, settling at your hips. his thumbs press into the curve of your waist, grounding you.

“sae,” you warn.

but its useless, he’s already on you. 

his mouth crashes into yours, and suddenly your detached from every reason you had to stay angry. you brace your palms against his chest, meaning to push him back, to keep the wall you’ve built between you intact. but the moment your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, you only pull him closer. he’s so warm—close, his cologne wraps around you. did he always smell this comforting?

you want to resist, to tell him that this isn’t enough. that apologies should come in a change of actions, and not kisses—but then his tongue slides along the seam of your lips, and your body betrays you. you part for him without thinking.

it’s a mistake. the second he slips inside, he groans. his lips move with yours—you hate how he’s so slow. he moves with a punishing precision, taking in every movement. taking his time, refusing to take a single second of you for granted. his hands roam, one sliding up your spine to anchor you closer. 

you’re melting in his hold. and fuck, do you hate that you’re melting.

you were supposed to still be distant, untouchable. but the way he kisses you makes it impossible to think about anything like that at all. his body is flush against yours, you can feel your chest rising and falling. 

your fingers curl tighter into his shirt. you tilt your head, deepening the kiss, to match the pace he’s set. it’s now messy and fast.

you should pull away.

you should remind yourself why you were angry in the first place. because of how careless he is with your feelings. but instead, your back hits the plush seat cushion, and you let him press you into it. 

he breaks the kiss for just a second, panting, his forehead resting against yours. his breath fans over your lips, and you hate how much you want him to kiss you again.

your voice trembles as you whisper, “i’m still mad at you.”

“we can always stop,” he breathes out.

you stare at him more intently, gently brushing your thumb against his cheek. "don’t torture me. please, sae just kiss me already,” you whine.

he doesn’t wait for permission this time. his mouth finds yours again—somehow deeper—and your anger fractures completely. all that’s left is the ache in your chest, the burn beneath your skin, and the way his hands roam like he’s starving to feel every part of you.

you kiss him back harder, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him even closer. you groan into his mouth.

you feel his lips pull away, and hear him laugh. you open your eyes to be sure, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he’s actually smiling. not the awkward, forced kind you’ve seen before, this one is natural—real. and this time around, somehow, it doesn’t look out of place on him.

you’ll be mad at him later. right now, you just want to feel him.