For two months, that was the rule. Two months of overtime, two months of turning down every invitation until your friends stopped asking, two months of staring at flight prices at 3 a.m.
You spoke to him less. You blamed work, and you blamed the imaginary Spanish model girlfriend.
"It's okay, you can talk to her while I'm busy"
"She's busy in Paris fashion week."
He never once asked who she was. He never broke character. He simply absorbed your fiction.
......................................
The day of the match, you landed in Madrid. You didn't stop at a hotel. You went straight to the stadium.
Except the side exit was blocked. Black metal barriers. Two security guards, were waving people away without even looking.
"Please, I'm here to meet a player."
"Restricted. Fan zone is that way."
A feeling of despair rumbled in your stomach. You'd flown across the world. The heat of unshed tears pressed behind your eyes, and you were fighting them with everythingyou had when a voice spoke behind you.
He was leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed. His hair was a beautiful shade of pink. His eyes were crimson.
He pushed off the wall and walked towards you.
You assumed he was stadium staff. Maybe security.
"You look like you're about to cry, and you're still smiling. It's revolting."
"I don't... who are you?"
He ignored the question. His crimson eyes flicked to the barrier, then back to you.
"You want to get through. To see someone."
"My boyfriend. He's a player."
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and it wasn't a smile it was something cold.
He said something in Spanish to the guards. They nodded and pulled the barrier aside without hesitation.
"Try not to look so happy when you see him, it's nauseating."
He was gone, disappearing into the crowd like he'd never been there at all. Weird staff member, you told yourself. Really weird. But he helped.
You didn't have time to dwell. You rushed through the gate. The minutes crawled. Staff filtered through. A few players you didn't recognise. Your hands were shaking.
Then the door swung open again.
Itoshi Sae stepped out. His teal eyes met yours and went wide. You'd never seen it. Not once. Not ever.
He walked toward you. Then he rushed and then his arms were around you, crushing you into his chest so tight. One hand pressed flat between your shoulder blades. The other cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair.
You wrapped your arms around his waist and held on.
The ride to his apartment was quiet. Not awkward. His hand stayed on your thigh the whole way, thumb tracing patterns through your jeans.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he turned. His hands found your waist, pulling you close, and for a long second he just looked at you.
"Two months felt like two years."
He kissed you. Slow at first, then deeper, fingers tightening at your waist, and you felt the distance of eight weeks burning away between you. You could have let him walk you to the bedroom. His hands were already guiding you that way.
You pulled back, breathless, and shook your head.
You nodded toward the living room, toward the couch where you'd spent countless video calls watching him eat dinner or analyse match footage.
"I want to be where you always are. Where you talk to me."
He led you to the sofa. Sat down first, then pulled you gently onto his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The television was still on from earlier, some match paused mid-play. He didn't turn it off. He just shifted so he could see the screen over your shoulder, one hand resting on your lower back, the other coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that made your chest ache.
"Disappear. Get distant. I knew you were hiding something, but still"
He kissed you then. His fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head back, his other hand tightening on your lower back and pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
"Tell me what you flew here for."
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and the look in them made your stomach flip. Dark. Focused. The same intensity he brought to the pitch
Something in him shifted and his hands moved with urgency. He pulled your shirt over your head in one clean motion, and his lips found your throat, your collarbone, your breasts.
You arched into him, fingers gripping his shoulders.
"Every time I left. Every time I got on that plane. I'd spend the whole flight thinking about coming back to you."
His hands found the clasp of your bra, undid it with precision.
"You're very good at that."
"I'm good at everything."
He undressed you like he was unwrapping something he'd been waiting months to touch, his lips following every inch of your exposed skin.
By the time you were bare beneath him, your back against the sofa cushions, you were trembling, not from cold, but from his attention.
"Because you're staring."
He shrugged off his own shirt, and your hands were on his chest.
He kissed you hard once again one hand bracing himself above you, the other sliding down your body. His fingers found you ready, waiting.
"Look at me, I want to see you when I..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, and your eyes stayed locked on his the whole time. The stretch, the fullness, the way his jaw tightened you felt all of it, and you watched all of it, and it was the most intimate thing you'd ever experienced.
His forehead dropped to yours.
There was only his breath against your neck, his whispered words- needed this, never letting you go that long again, don't pair me up with some tepid imaginary model and when you finally broke apart beneath him, he followed seconds later with a groan.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. He stayed inside you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard. His hand found yours, fingers threading together.
He pulled back to look at you. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.
"I love you. I don't say it enough."
"You show it, and that's enough for me."
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