darling, you

He raised an eyebrow. “I remember just fine. You’re the one who almost burnt the rice last time.”

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, placing a carton of eggs and some fresh vegetables on the counter. “That was one time.”

“It was also the last time we cooked together.”

You paused, his words anchoring the moment. Yeah… it had been a while.

Too long.

Back when he still had time to come home once a week instead of once a season. Back when you didn’t have to plan months ahead just to share a dinner. Now, with the offseason finally here, he was back. Not just physically, but fully. No looming responsibilities. No early departures.

Just… here.

You met his gaze and offered a small smile. “Then we better make this one count.”

Sae’s expression softened, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright, chef. Tell me what to do.”

You handed him a cutting board and a knife. “You’re on veggie duty. I’ll handle the meat.”

He moved beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he took his place at the counter. The silence between you was comfortable as the rhythm of cooking took over the sound of the knife against the board, the sizzle of oil heating in the pan, the clink of utensils.

It felt domestic. Familiar. Like something you used to have and were finally remembering again.

Sae, focused and methodical as always, chopped the vegetables with precision. Bell peppers, zucchini, carrots. Each slice perfect.

“You’re scarily good at that,” you murmured, glancing over.

“Knife skills,” he replied without looking up. “I could’ve been a chef in another life.”

You smirked. “You would’ve been a terrifyingly quiet chef.”

“Better than a loud one who sets rice on fire.”

“Okay, I walked into that one.”

He chuckled a low, quiet sound that vibrated in your chest more than it rang out. You missed that sound. More than you realized.

You turned to the stove, seasoning the chicken as it sizzled. The scent of garlic and ginger filled the space, warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. Sae moved behind you to grab something from the pantry, his hand brushing against your back gently as he passed.

It wasn’t even intentional, probably. But you felt it anyway. How he lingered a second longer. How his hand steadied you by your waist before moving on. How he didn’t say anything, but the touch said everything.

“I missed this,” you said softly.

Sae didn’t answer right away. He grabbed the sesame oil, poured a bit into a pan, and returned the bottle to the shelf. Then he looked at you.

“Me too.”

Just those two words. But they hit you harder than any long-winded confession could’ve.

You didn’t need much from him never had. But his honesty, when it came, always carried weight.

You reached over, lacing your fingers with his free hand.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and absentminded.

“We’ve been doing okay, right?” you asked, your voice quieter now, laced with the uncertainty you hadn’t allowed yourself to say aloud until now. “With the distance and everything?”

He set the knife down and turned to face you fully. “It’s not easy. I know that. But you’ve been patient. Always waiting. Always here.”

You looked up at him, and for a moment, the kitchen faded around you, the clatter of pans, the heat of the stove, the scent of dinner. It all melted into the background.

“I wait because I want to,” you said. “Because it’s you.”

He leaned in, forehead pressing against yours gently. “I’ll make it up to you. This whole offseason, I’m yours.”

“You better be,” you whispered.

Then the pan crackled behind you, reminding you that dinner was still in progress.

You both pulled away with matching smiles, more at ease than either of you had been in weeks.

Sae moved back to his station, tossing the chopped veggies into a pan with practiced ease.

“You ever think about us doing this more often?” you asked, stirring the chicken.

He raised an eyebrow. “Cooking?”

“Just… being home. Living normal days together. Like this.”

He was quiet for a moment, the spatula in his hand flipping the vegetables with care. Then:

“I do.”

You looked at him again, surprised by how easily he’d said it.

“I think about it a lot,” he added. “About what comes after football. What kind of life I want. Who I want to come home to.”

Your heart thudded.

“You’ve never really talked about retiring before.”

“Not retiring,” he said quickly. “Just… the future. I know football won’t last forever. I’ve been planning for what comes next.”

“And… I’m part of that plan?”

Sae met your eyes, dead serious. “You are the plan.”

He said it so plainly, like it wasn’t even a question.

And it left you speechless.

You stared at him, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes, not from the onions this time.

“You’re gonna make me cry while I’m sautéing chicken,” you muttered, sniffing.

Sae stepped closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and gently kissing your temple.

“Sorry,” he murmured, clearly not sorry at all.

You leaned into him, allowing yourself a few seconds in his arms before pulling back. “Okay, okay. If we burn this dinner, it’ll ruin the moment.”

“Then let’s not ruin it,” he said, moving back to the stove.

The rest of the cooking continued with light chatter. You argued over whether or not to add chili flakes. He complained you were using too much soy sauce. You countered that he was too stingy with seasoning.

By the time everything was plated and set on the table, the sun had dipped below the skyline, leaving the apartment bathed in soft golden twilight.

You sat across from each other, barefoot and relaxed. The kind of comfort that came from familiarity.

Sae picked up his chopsticks, looking at the spread you’d made together. Teriyaki chicken, stir-fried vegetables, rice, and miso soup.

“It looks good,” he admitted. “Smells better.”

You grinned. “That’s because I saved the rice this time.”

He gave you a flat look. “Barely.”

You giggled, and he shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched up. You knew that was his version of laughing.

You both dug in, quiet for a while, just eating and enjoying the silence. It wasn’t awkward—it was peaceful. The kind of silence that felt like home.

Halfway through the meal, Sae looked up. “Let’s make this a thing.”

You paused. “What?”

“Dinner nights. Just us. No cameras, no teammates, no training schedule. Even when the season starts again. I’ll make time.”

Your throat tightened. “You promise?”

He held your gaze. “I do.”

And you knew he meant it.

Because Sae Itoshi didn’t make empty promises.

Later that night, after the dishes were done and you both were curled up on the couch, his arm draped over your shoulder and your head resting against his chest, you realized that this quiet, simple, and real was your favorite version of him.

Not the prodigy. Not the star. Not the impossible-to-reach player adored by millions.

Just Sae.

You scoffed at the ludicrousness of his choices with a grin. "Is that the best you can come up with?"

Sae gave you a warning look, something that says to just roll with it before his patience waned. Pursing your lips, you sighed and do as he implied, going over his choices.

"Um, I did pack you a ham sandwich today since I remember you asking for extra mayo from the last time, so that's out," you pondered, "and you went to Australia for a conference a couple years back… so it's the last one, isn't it?"

Sae stared at the red taillight of the car in front again, blinking slowly. He licked his lips.

"No."

You're flabbergasted as his steady response. You made a noise of surprise and went over his choices again, brows furrowing.

"It has to be," you insisted, "I threw away the container of ham this morning and I remember reading an article of the conference in Australia the morning of."

The car steadied itself when Sae pressed on the brake, rooting you two in place. Sae stilled for a moment before he turned to you, eyes droning with boredom.

"I went for a conference in Austria, not Australia," he corrected, a little bit of prideful spite sparking in him as he witnessed realization slapping across your face. "You're right about the ham sandwich bit, though."

Sae settled back into his seat, awaiting your response for the game, but when he doesn't receive it, he turned back to you.

"It's your turn—"

"You were supposed to be a twin?" you asked incredulously, eyes wide and aghast at the thought of a reality where there were two Itoshi Sae-like beings alive at the same time.

Sae raised a brow, not thinking of it being all that interesting when there were other qualities of himself to boast about that would gain much more of a reaction.

"Yeah," he said all-too simply for your liking.

"Don't stop there!" you exclaimed. "Fraternal or identical? Was it supposed to be a girl or boy? Did your parents already have a name for it?"

A cheek is bit in between semi-tense teeth at your jabbering, but Sae, once again, resisted the urge to be snappish and decides to busy you to keep you tame.

"Identical," he clarified. "So another boy. He was supposed to have Rin's name. But he died before birth, so it went to the Rin you know today instead."

Your face softened at the thought, though Sae's remained as stony as ever, unaffected at the mention of a familial death. Little was there to blame for it, however—it wasn't like there was anything for Sae to mourn over considering the twin ceased to exist in the first place.

Still, tender as ever was your heart. A hand gently went over his arm in sympathy. "Do you know what happened to him?"

The music came to a slow stop for a moment and the beeping of cars quieted down for the briefest of seconds. The red glow of the taillight bled onto Sae's face again, his eyes dulling and lips being tempted into a frown that was deeper than his usual one at the recollection of the reality told by his parents.

Sae's fingers began drumming on the steering wheel again, still looking as bored as ever.

You first saw Itoshi Rin when you were around ten years old, at a grand charity gala your parents insisted you attend. You were still small enough to get away with hiding under buffet tables or sneaking extra dessert plates, but that night, something made you pause.

He was sitting at a corner table, not quite sulking but clearly not enjoying himself. His older brother, Sae, stood just a few feet away, surrounded by adults clapping him on the back, heaping praise for his early success in football. Rin sat stiffly, watching in silence, his small hands clenched in his lap. He must have been only a year or two older than you, but already you noticed the way his shoulders curled in—like he was used to shrinking himself down beside Sae’s spotlight.

What stuck with you wasn’t Sae’s fame. It was the subtle way Rin glanced at his brother—part admiration, part resignation. He looked like he was used to being second. But Sae didn’t look pleased either. In fact, the older boy was barely masking his annoyance, his lips in a tight line as though the attention was more exhausting than flattering. And in that strange moment—amid clinking wine glasses and adult laughter—you realized both brothers hated being there, just in different ways.

You didn’t talk to Rin then. Just observed him from behind your parents’ tailored clothes. And then you kept seeing him.

At more events—charity auctions, fundraising banquets, community celebrations that tied your two influential families together. Sometimes it was just a nod, a glance from across the ballroom, a shared glance when the grown-ups talked too loud or said the wrong thing. One time, at your cousin’s wedding, you didn’t realize your dress zipper had broken. You were too busy helping with the reception program when someone placed a warm jacket over your shoulders. You turned around in surprise, and there he was—Rin. He didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod before walking away. That coat smelled like mint and laundry detergent, and you remembered thinking how quiet boys always noticed the important things.

You ended up attending the same prestigious high school, though you were in different classes. Rin was already well on his way to stardom—dedicated to football, almost unreachable in his discipline. You found your own rhythm in the science labs and student council meetings, pouring yourself into volunteer work, biology papers, and late-night cram sessions.

Your family came from a long line of doctors—all men, all top of their class. You were the first daughter in generations to pursue medicine, but no one discouraged you. In fact, your parents were unusually supportive, proudly calling you their “game-changer.” Medicine wasn’t just a family legacy to you—it was your choice, your dream. You wanted it more than anything else. And after years of sleepless nights, caffeine-fueled revisions, and anatomy charts tattooed behind your eyelids, you had finally graduated.

You were now a first-year resident, newly transitioned from the chaos of med school into the grueling hours of internship. It was hard. No one romanticized the truth—thirty-hour shifts, patients coding, seniors snapping, hands that trembled from exhaustion. But you loved it. Every messy, sleep-deprived, adrenaline-filled second of it.

Rin’s trajectory wasn’t any less impressive. His family, known for producing world-class athletes and ruthless business tycoons, had high expectations—and Rin met every single one. He dominated the Japan Football League like a silent storm, precise and terrifying in his technique. Off the field, he ran training camps for aspiring athletes, managed a string of sports clinics, and co-owned a retail chain of elite gear stores. Rin wasn’t just a star player—he was building an empire with the same laser-sharp focus he had as a child.

You had accepted that your paths would always run parallel. Close, almost intimate, but never crossing.

Until the day you dragged yourself home after a brutal twenty-four-hour hospital shift, having juggled emergency rotations and review materials for your upcoming internship exams, and your parents sat you down at the dinner table.

They looked too calm. The kind of calm that came right before life took a sharp, irreversible turn.

“We have something to tell you,” your mother said gently, folding her hands.

Your father smiled, as if this was good news.

And then they said it.

You were engaged—to Itoshi Rin.

You didn’t complain—you saw this coming.

You had prepared yourself for it years ago, the possibility always lingering quietly in the back of your mind like a shadow at the edge of a doorframe. And truthfully? You didn’t care. Not in the way that made most women your age spiral into panic or daydreams. You had already built a life for yourself—a solid, hard-earned future that didn’t depend on anyone else.

You were a doctor now—first female in your family to make it past the impossible bar set by generations of male predecessors. You graduated with honors, fought tooth and nail through sleepless nights and clinical rotations, survived condescending mentors and soul-crushing shifts. You were already enough.

So if your name was to be tied to Itoshi Rin’s—if your future was to include a man chosen not by your heart but by obligation—you’d manage. Like always.

After all, you came from a long line of women who did the same.

Arranged marriages were practically tradition in your family—your mother included. But hers was the rare kind that bloomed over time. Your parents' marriage became something beautiful, built on mutual respect and unspoken understanding. What started as strategy became a sanctuary—resulting in a home filled with love, quiet strength, and two children who never once doubted what affection felt like.

Maybe, somewhere in your heart, you hoped yours would follow that path.

And to be fair—you liked Rin. Even before this engagement was proposed.

He was familiar to you. You’d seen him at social events growing up—quiet in the corners, head slightly bowed, posture straight, always watching. Always listening. You went to the same prestigious high school, though his reputation preceded him. Stoic. Calculated. Intimidatingly brilliant. You were never close, but your paths crossed often enough that his name never felt foreign in your mouth.

And now—it was bound to yours.

The engagement was announced the way everything in Rin’s world was—polished, pristine, and press-ready. A curated image for the public to consume. His family handled the release—a glossy photo of the two of you, a generic caption about love and legacy. It was posted to official pages, picked up by sports blogs, and spread across gossip forums before the ink on the paperwork even dried.

You didn’t even mind. You were used to pressure. To scrutiny. To people making assumptions about your life without knowing a single thing about it.

And that’s how you found yourself standing at the entrance of a penthouse—high above the city, luxury wrapped in glass and marble—gifted by Rin’s parents as a pre-wedding gesture. A shared space for a shared future.

You arrived first—boxes filled with textbooks, surgical clogs, and two dozen mugs from med school. You picked the guest room to unpack in, unsure if it was too soon to claim the master bedroom. Not that Rin would have cared.

He moved in two days later—silent, efficient, meticulous. No questions. No expectations.

Rin wasn’t cold—not the way people thought.

He was quiet. He was reserved. But he was also the kind of man who paid attention in the softest, most deliberate ways.

He cooked dinners on the nights you came home late, even if it was already past midnight. He didn’t complain when you were too exhausted to eat properly, instead placing a warm bowl in front of you, murmuring, “At least a few bites. I’ll warm the rest later if you want it.”

And when you had to study for your internship exam, Rin was there. Not in a loud or flashy way, but present in the little things. He brought coffee to your desk without asking, sometimes with a post-it stuck to the mug that read, You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.

“Don’t fall asleep on your notes,” he’d say, gently tapping your forehead with a knuckle when you dozed off mid-sentence.

You passed, and Rin celebrated it the way he knew you’d prefer. No huge party, no surprise announcements. Just him, standing in the kitchen with a cake—your favorite flavor—and a spread of greasy takeout food you craved after every long shift. He looked almost smug when you smiled at the sight.

“Thought you’d like this more than people clapping in your face,” he said, opening the plastic containers.

“You were right,” you murmured, leaning on the counter beside him. “This is perfect.”

After that, the transition into your residency was brutal. The hours were longer, the responsibilities heavier, but Rin was always around. Despite training for upcoming matches, juggling press conferences and overseeing his sports brand, he still found time for you. He’d text when he was on the way, and true to his word, he’d be there—waiting at 2am by the hospital’s parking lot in his car, music low, headlights off, eyes tired but patient.

“You should’ve gone home,” you’d tell him as you slid into the passenger seat.

“You looked like you needed a ride more than I needed sleep,” he’d reply simply, hands steady on the wheel.

Sometimes, when your shifts required staying overnight, Rin would send food—carefully packed, with your name scribbled on the lid in black marker. He’d even send two sets if he thought you forgot your lunch too. And when you finally returned home after days of being on call, he’d pull you into a hug so firm it threatened to break you.

“You smell like antiseptic,” he’d mutter against your shoulder.

“You smell like overpriced cologne,” you’d say back, muffled into his chest. But you never pulled away.

At home, you often ended up sprawled on the couch with your head on his lap, recounting the chaos of your day. Rin would run his fingers gently through your hair, pausing only to smooth the strands when they tangled.

“One of my patients coded and came back after six minutes,” you told him once, eyes wide with leftover adrenaline. “It was surreal. His eyes opened and he asked for water like nothing happened.”

Rin blinked, then tilted his head. “So he technically died?”

“Technically, yes.”

He let out a soft whistle. “You guys are scary.”

You laughed, breathless from the high of saving someone’s life. “You play in front of fifty thousand people. I think we’re even.”

Rin hummed. “Yeah, but no one flatlines on the pitch.”

Moments like these painted a picture of something gentle, something bordering on intimate. He remembered what snacks you liked after a long day. He learned how to recognize when you needed to talk versus when you needed silence. He was always there, always attentive, always kind.

But underneath it all—behind the small comforts and shared routines—you knew the truth.

He only agreed to the engagement because it was expected of him.

Because his parents arranged it. Because you were a match that made sense on paper—two heirs from reputable families, both successful in your own rights. Because this was how your world worked.

And you accepted that.

Because that was how it always went for women in your family. Because your mother had once told you that love wasn’t the foundation, but rather something you learned—if you were lucky.

So you stopped hoping for anything more than this quiet companionship, this respectful co-existence.

Because he had to.

And you would learn to be okay with that.

Okay with letting go of the little things—your favorite flowers not making the bouquet, the venue being in his family’s preferred country club, the gown being selected before you even had time to breathe. You would learn to nod when asked a question, even if the answer had already been decided for you.

Most of the wedding planning was orchestrated by his family. You quickly realized that your presence in the room was more ceremonial than necessary. It was his mother and aunts who ran the show, voices firm and faces practiced in subtle smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. They had a vision, and you—well, you were just expected to fit into it.

You said yes a lot. Yes to the menu, yes to the flowers, yes to the dress his mother thought would “balance out your shoulders.” It didn’t matter if you liked it. It was easier to agree than to fight a battle you were never going to win.

And always, always, their comments had a certain edge to them. Not loud enough to cause a scene, but sharp enough to cut.

“She’s always so tired, isn’t she? I suppose that's what happens when you're running around in a hospital all day,” his mother would murmur with a sip of wine.

“You’d think someone in medicine would have more time management,” an aunt said once while flipping through the guest list. “She nearly missed the cake tasting last week.”

Another chimed in, almost sympathetically, “Well, it's not easy balancing a career and a wedding. I suppose it’s admirable she’s trying at all.”

You smiled through it. Every time. You bit your tongue until it hurt and you smiled. Because you weren’t just marrying Rin. You were marrying into all of them. And after all, wasn’t this what they wanted? What your parents wanted? What was expected?

Rin wasn’t there for most of it. He had flown to Spain with Sae for a training camp. The timing couldn’t have been worse—or maybe it was perfect, depending on who you asked. His mother had taken it as a sign to step in fully. You, on the other hand, simply tried not to crumble.

But Rin... Rin still tried.

He would call you whenever he could—between practices, at odd hours when he knew you’d be on break or walking home from the hospital. His voice was steady, a little tired, but always laced with quiet concern. He didn’t say much, but he always asked if you were holding up, if things were too much, if you were eating.

And in those small, private moments, you felt seen.

You didn’t tell him everything. You never told him how his aunts would make you feel like an accessory instead of a bride. Or how his mother always looked at your hands like they weren’t delicate enough for a wedding band. Or how every time they brought up your job, it was as if it were a phase rather than the result of sleepless nights and years of sacrifice.

Still, Rin had this way of hearing what you didn’t say.

Maybe it was the way your voice dropped when you said “the venue’s fine,” or how long it took you to answer when he asked if you were okay. Maybe it was just Rin—ever quiet, ever watching.

And though he wasn’t there in person, though he couldn’t shoulder any of it physically, his presence still anchored you in a way no one else could.

You were drowning in table settings and fitting appointments and judgment disguised as advice—but whenever you heard his voice, even for a minute, something in you eased.

Even if you were exhausted. Even if your opinion didn’t seem to matter. Even if this wedding felt less and less like yours.

The engagement party was even more of a handful than you imagined.

It was hosted in a hotel ballroom—expansive, gilded, meticulously dressed in white and silver. On paper, it was flawless. But it wasn’t what you wanted.

You had hoped for something small, intimate. A quiet dinner maybe, a celebration with just the people who mattered most. Something you could actually breathe in. Something that wouldn’t feel like a PR move or a corporate gala in disguise.

But your preference didn’t come up.

Or maybe it did—but no one really listened.

His mother had already booked the venue before you were even asked. His aunts handled the guest list. Your own parents said it was “better this way.” You were told to wear the dress already selected for you and show up on time. So you did. Because what else could you do?

Guests arrived in waves—politicians, business partners, executives, hospital board members, distant relatives you’d never met before but were somehow still addressed by their titles.

You recognized none of their names. None of them were there for you.

You stood under the chandelier lights, in heels you didn’t pick, offering polite smiles to people who kept asking if you planned to stop working after the wedding. Some didn’t even know what your job was.

And the worst part?

You had just come off a 24-hour shift at the hospital.

You’d barely made it back in time to shower at the penthouse and lie down for two hours before hair and makeup arrived.

You were running on caffeine and adrenaline.

But you smiled anyway. Because you had to.

When you finally slipped away from the banquet hall, your legs ached and your throat was dry from talking. You found yourself out on the balcony, away from the lights and the noise, leaning on the railing just to keep upright. The cool air stung your skin, but it was the first real breath you took that day.

You weren’t alone for long.

The glass door slid open behind you, and quiet footsteps padded closer.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Rin said softly.

You turned your head slightly, exhausted eyes meeting his. He looked handsome as always in his suit, tie slightly loosened, dark strands falling into his eyes. He had only just returned from Spain a few days ago. You hadn’t even had the chance to really talk.

His gaze swept over you, taking in the curve of your shoulders, the subtle tremble in your arms, the way your back was turned just slightly—like you were too tired to keep your guard up.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentler than usual. “Are you holding up?”

You blinked slowly, the sting behind your eyes threatening to spill over.

“I heard you came straight from a 24-hour shift,” he added. “You barely slept, didn’t you?”

“Two hours,” you admitted, voice rough. “If that.”

He exhaled, jaw tightening. Not in frustration at you—but at the situation.

“This party... wasn’t what you wanted, was it?”

You gave a tired laugh, low and bitter. “What I wanted never really mattered.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just moved a little closer, enough that you could feel the heat of him next to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve pushed back. I should’ve been here.”

You shook your head, eyes fixed on the city lights beyond the balcony.

“They wouldn’t have listened to you either, Rin.”

“Maybe not,” he murmured. “But I still should’ve been beside you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

And in that sliver of silence, the music from inside dimmed, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses faded, and it was just the two of you. Just like before—before the pressure, the plans, the politics.

Your eyes fluttered shut, just long enough to feel the weight of his words settle on your chest.

“I’m trying,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said.

And even though everything else felt staged and suffocating, this moment—with just him beside you—was the first time in weeks that felt real.

You tried. God, you tried to be the perfect little daughter-in-law they seemed to want.

Always coming presentable, showing up to their dinners with practiced poise and a strained smile, wearing soft-colored dresses and modest heels, even if you had to change in the hospital locker room. You’d sit through evenings with people you didn’t even know—CEOs, donors, investors, polished women who never broke a sweat, let alone a 30-hour shift—smiling through the remnants of a breakdown you barely had time to feel earlier that day.

Because earlier that day, you lost a patient. A young one. Cardiac arrest. And no matter how many times you ran the rhythm check or how many rounds of epi you administered, they never came back. You washed your face with cold water and shoved your grief into a neat little box so you could go to his family's dinner.

Because you didn’t want to be the disappointment. Not after everything. Not when you were the first female doctor in a long line of men. Not when their entire family had planned the wedding. Not when you still held that flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—someone at that table would see you for who you were.

But alas, everything has a boiling point.

Yours came at a dinner held in Rin’s childhood home. His entire extended family was there—your own parents, too, sitting stiffly at one end of the long, polished wooden table, like two pieces of fine china that didn’t quite match the rest of the set.

You had just come off a 30-hour shift, the last 13 hours of which were spent inside an operating room after the lead surgeon collapsed mid-procedure. You were the one who stepped up. Held the scalpel. Led the team. Saved the patient.

And then, running on half a protein bar and caffeine that burned your gut, you let Rin pick you up straight from the hospital. He offered to cancel the dinner, but you shook your head. “I’ll be fine,” you lied, pinching your cheeks for color in the mirror of his car.

You should’ve known better.

Because the moment you stepped into that dining room, you felt the eyes—judgment dressed as concern.

“She’s paler than the daikon,” one of his aunts said with a light chuckle as she sipped her soup. “Are you sure you’re eating enough, sweetheart?”

“You poor thing,” another aunt added. “Do you even have time to do your hair? You’re always so… busy.”

You tried to breathe through it, through the tightness in your chest, through the taste of iron at the back of your throat. Rin glanced at you, the muscle in his jaw ticking—but he didn’t speak. Not yet.

And then came the real blow.

“Well, I suppose it must be difficult,” one of Rin’s uncles said, swirling his wine like he was about to make a toast. “Being the only female doctor in your family. That’s quite the burden. But you’ll quit when you start a family, won’t you? I mean, no husband wants a wife too tired to care for the kids.”

Laughter followed. A low, agreeable chuckle from the end of the table, and a few muttered “true”s and “just saying”s that felt more like daggers than conversation.

“I mean, sweetheart, you’re just a resident—not even a full physician or surgeon yet at this point.” One of Rin’s uncles leaned back in his chair, lips curved in amusement like he was giving sage advice and not dismissing years of your hard work with a single sentence.

“He’s right,” another aunt piped in, her voice laced with faux sympathy, the kind that dripped more venom than concern. “You’re better off as a housewife.”

There was a beat of silence before another relative added, as if it were the most logical conclusion in the world, “Do you even know how to cook or clean?"

A few more chuckles followed. You weren’t sure if they were laughing at their own cruelty or at the look on your face, but either way, it made your stomach twist.

You sat there frozen.

Your hands rested in your lap, fingers curled so tightly into your palms that your nails bit into your skin. You looked at Rin—stiff and silent, jaw clenched, eyes cast low. Your heart pounded in your chest, not from embarrassment, but from the growing storm inside you. You mentally begged him to say something. Anything.

You silently begged him to look at you. To speak up. To make them stop.

But he just stayed silent.

"Excuse me," you said, your voice low and trembling as you stood up from the table. Your chair scraped softly against the hardwood floor, far too gentle a sound for the chaos building inside your chest.

You had barely taken a step when one of his uncles laughed again and muttered, “Overreacting, aren’t we? Must be the hormones.”

Something in you cracked.

You turned around.

"I followed everything you asked me to do," you started, voice shaking, but louder now. "I swallowed my pride and played the part you all wanted me to play. I stayed quiet while you planned a wedding I didn’t even have a say in. I smiled through every dinner, every meeting, every fitting—even when I felt like I didn’t belong."

You paused. Your throat burned, but you refused to cry yet.

“I stayed silent every single time you belittled my career. I worked ten—no, more—years of my life for those two letters after my name. MD. I missed birthdays, holidays, sleep, my youth, to earn that. And you all reduce me to a glorified housewife with no ambition—like I'm some accessory to Rin’s life and not someone who has her own.”

More silence. Their smug expressions turned neutral, uneasy. But Rin still said nothing. You turned your eyes to him—pleading, searching—for something. Anything.

Nothing came.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips.

“You know what? I don’t want this anymore,” you whispered, the words tasting like blood in your mouth. “You can find someone else who’s fine being your doll. Someone who’ll smile and nod and cook and clean and never talk back. Because I sure as hell am not her.”

Your voice cracked.

“You can talk shit about me all you want—I’ve gotten used to that. But you don’t get to talk down on what I worked my entire life for. I’ve poured every ounce of my being into becoming the woman I am. And you all sit there laughing like I’m nothing but a joke.”

Tears burned in your eyes. You didn’t want to cry in front of them. God, you hated crying in front of them. But it was too late now.

You looked at Rin again, and this time, your voice broke as your gaze locked with his. “And you. You saw how hard I worked. All those nights I called you from the hospital. All the times you told me I was incredible, that you admired me. You knew how much this meant to me. And you let them tear me to pieces right in front of you.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t move. Didn't reach for you. Didn’t say a word.

“I loved you,” you said, the final blow. Your breath hitched. “All these years—I loved you. Even before this stupid engagement. Even when we were kids and you barely looked at me at those family events. I loved you.”

Silence.

Your heart felt like it was collapsing inside your chest.

You reached up and slid the engagement ring off your finger. Your hand trembled as you placed it on the table in front of Rin.

“It’s over,” you whispered, voice hoarse and raw. “I’m calling this off.”

Then you turned around and walked out the door—this time, no one dared to laugh.

The tension that lingered in your absence was suffocating. It clung to the ornate walls of the dining room like smoke, thick with the remnants of mockery, judgment, and something worse—entitlement. For a moment, no one moved. Then, the silence was broken by a scoff. Rin's mother.

"Honestly," she said, dabbing at her lips with a cloth napkin, her voice dripping with faux exasperation. "I was just being polite, but I always knew that girl didn’t quite fit in with us. I have another girl in mind to continue this engagement. Someone better suited for this family. With better pedigree."

"Better breeding," muttered one of the aunts with a knowing smirk. "Not just some overworked girl playing pretend as a doctor."

One of the uncles snorted. “Her family’s money might come from hospitals, but it’s nothing compared to the legacy of the Itoshi name. A few doctors in white coats don’t hold a candle to generations of status.”

"All that effort," another chimed in with mock pity, swirling wine in his glass, "just to end up being a glorified caregiver in a glorified clinic. That’s not ambition. That’s settling.”

Rin had been staring at the ring the whole time. The one you'd taken off and left in front of him—gently, without a word, without drama, just the way you always did things. Quiet. Graceful. Strong. His fingers twitched.

Then—

“Shut the fuck up. All of you.”

The room snapped to attention.

Rin stood slowly, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His voice was steady but laced with the kind of fury that burned from the inside out.

“She just got off a thirty-hour shift. Thirteen of those hours, she was standing in an operating room after the head surgeon collapsed. And you have the audacity to sit here and laugh at her? Call her unworthy? She saved lives last night while you all drank champagne and polished your fucking heirlooms.”

He looked at each of them, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass.

“She is more admirable than any of you—than any of your wives who haven't lifted a finger for anyone but themselves. Who’ve never touched anything real other than a wine glass or jewelry they wear to cover up their loveless marriages and affairs.”

One of the uncles opened his mouth, “She’s just a glorified caregiver—”

“She’s a fucking doctor,” Rin barked, slamming his hand on the table, the plates rattling violently. “A better doctor than you ever were a father, or a businessman, or a fucking man, considering the only thing you’re good at is gambling away your inheritance and chasing women young enough to be your daughter!”

Another aunt tried to speak, but Rin cut her off too.

“And don’t you dare talk about her family like they’re beneath us. At least they earned their name. They built something from compassion and service—not from exploiting people or stepping on others just to climb higher.”

Sae stood then, trying to place a hand on Rin’s shoulder, trying to calm him. “Rin—”

“Don’t,” Rin snapped, brushing his hand off without looking at him. “Don’t try to stop me. You’ve done that our whole lives. Let me say what I need to say.”

There was something feral about him now, like he had been caged his entire life, and the bars were finally breaking.

He looked at his mother.

“You knew my only condition for this arranged marriage,” he said, voice low and raw. “You knew that the only reason I agreed to it was because it was her. I told you from the start—if it wasn’t her, I wasn’t going to go through with it. You knew that. And now you're throwing her away like she was disposable?”

“She overreacted—”

“No,” he snapped. “She endured. For months. She endured the cold stares, the snide remarks, the condescending tones from all of you, just to make this family proud. And I—” his voice cracked for the first time, pain flickering behind his rage, “I let her. I stood here and let all of you chip away at the one person who saw me for me.”

He reached toward the ring that sat untouched in front of him. The heirloom. The same one you left just moments ago with trembling fingers.

Rin picked it up and walked toward his mother, standing in front of her like a final act of rebellion.

“I don’t need this anymore,” he said. “This ring, this entire charade—you can keep it. Because I already had something made for her. Something I designed. For a proposal I planned. After all this bullshit was over. Something simple. Something real. Something hers.”

His mother looked horrified. The uncles murmured, but no one dared to interrupt again.

“I loved her,” Rin continued, quieter now, as if the rage was slowly hollowing out into something else—grief. “Since we were kids. I didn’t even realize it at first. But every time I saw her at those childhood events, every time she smiled at me like I wasn’t just the second son of a cold empire, I loved her. And now she’s gone. All because this family couldn’t stomach the idea of someone good being part of it.”

He took a shaky breath and looked back at the table one last time.

“And you—” he pointed at one of his uncles, “—talk like you're above everyone when you’re the one who couldn’t even stay faithful to your wife.”

"And you," he turned to another, "have the nerve to comment on love and worth when your own children won’t even speak to you."

He stepped back. “I stayed in this because I wanted to please all of you. I did everything you asked. Soccer. Branding. The name. But I set one condition—and you broke it. So now I’m done. I’m not marrying anyone else. I won’t play this role for you anymore. I won’t be your pawn.”

Rin turned and walked out, the weight of everything crashing down on his shoulders. He didn’t look back.

A sharp silence fell over the room in his absence—like all the air had been sucked out. Everyone was too stunned to move, to speak. The engagement ring Rin had left behind sat untouched in front of their mother, its presence colder than steel, heavier than gold.

Sae leaned back in his seat, dragging a hand down his face. Then he exhaled long and slow, like this entire dinner had been rotting from the start. His gaze swept across the room, not rushing, but resting—unforgiving—on each of their faces.

"You know," Sae started quietly, "I used to think keeping quiet was the best way to keep peace in this family. Smile through it. Swallow the poison and call it dinner."

His voice dropped a little lower, his tone chilling. "But after what I just witnessed? I think it's time someone tells the truth—no matter how ugly."

Their mother straightened, eyes narrowing, as if bracing herself. But Sae didn’t flinch.

"You sit there acting like Rin’s ungrateful. Like he's immature. But what I saw just now? That wasn’t a tantrum. That was someone finally realizing he’s done bending over backwards for people who only want him when he’s compliant and silent."

There was a shift in the room. An invisible thread pulled taut.

Sae laughed bitterly. “You all act so concerned about appearances. Your image. Your status. Your legacy. And yet behind all that, do any of you even remember how to care for your own blood?”

He looked at their mother now, sharp and unwavering. “You want to lecture Rin about duty? When all you've ever done is try to mold him into a version of himself that you could show off like an accessory at fundraisers.”

She opened her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to defend herself—but Sae cut her off.

"You think I didn’t notice what you did to him all those years? How every time I tried to take on the pressure so Rin wouldn’t have to, you just redirected it harder on him? I left to shield him from this circus. I took the heat, the spotlight, the expectation. And somehow, you still made him carry it alone."

Sae paused, his jaw tense. “And I regret that. I regret leaving him with people who were supposed to love him, but instead made him feel like love was a transaction. Like he had to earn it.”

His father’s fingers clenched lightly around his glass. His mother said nothing, but her stare was steely, unrepentant.

“You wonder why Rin and I grew apart? Why he never wanted to follow in anyone’s footsteps?” Sae scoffed under his breath. “Maybe it’s because he grew up watching two people stay in a marriage out of obligation and image instead of love.”

His father’s lips thinned. “Watch yourself, Sae.”

“No,” Sae said sharply. “No more watching myself. That’s what we’ve all been doing—watching this family crack and rot under the weight of pride.”

He stood slowly, every movement deliberate, controlled, but beneath it all simmered an anger older than the silverware on their polished table. “You all just saw the girl Rin loves walk out of here with tears in her eyes. And instead of reaching out, you judged her. That’s the girl he’s talked about for years—told me how she’d find him at every function, how she actually listened when he spoke. How she made him feel seen.”

Sae’s voice dropped. “Do you even understand what that means? Feeling seen? Because Rin’s spent most of his life feeling like a shadow in this house.”

Another beat of silence.

He shook his head. “I’m going after him. Because clearly, none of you will.”

And without waiting for a reply, Sae turned and walked away—out the door, out of that godforsaken room with its stifling legacy and empty crystal glasses.

The air was cool that evening, the kind of soft breeze that carried old memories with it. Rin sat alone on the edge of the small football field behind their family home—one they used to play in as kids, back when the world was simpler. His cleats dug into the grass, half-forgotten as he leaned back on his hands, eyes turned toward the soft dusk sky.

He didn’t turn when he heard footsteps approach.

“You always did like brooding out here.”

Rin exhaled, almost amused, before glancing sideways. “And you always liked finding me when I did.”

Sae stood beside him, hands tucked in the pockets of his coat, eyes scanning the empty field like it still held echoes of their childhood laughter. “I didn’t come to pick a fight,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t think you did,” Rin replied, patting the grass next to him.

Sae hesitated for a second before sitting down. Silence settled between them—not heavy, but thoughtful.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sae said, “about how things turned out. And if… I ever made you feel like I was too far away from you. Not just physically. I mean… everything.”

Rin’s lips tightened. “I know you didn’t mean to. But yeah,” he admitted, voice softer, “it hurt. You were always the one I looked up to. And then suddenly, it felt like I couldn’t reach you anymore.”

Sae’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve done better. Should’ve been better.”

Rin shook his head, staring down at his hands. “We’re here now, I guess. That’s something.”

“It is.” Sae looked over at his brother. “You know… I’m proud of you. For not giving up on her. For fighting for the love of your life.”

Rin’s brows furrowed, eyes flickering to his brother. “Why are you saying that like it’s something you couldn’t do?”

Sae smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because it’s not something I did. I let her go.”

There was a long pause.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” Rin said. “You always told me life’s too long to carry regrets.”

Sae chuckled, low and self-deprecating. “Might be already too late, Rin.”

“But you never know.”

The older Itoshi brother looked up at the sky, eyes distant. “Yeah… maybe.”

Then, with a sigh, he stood and dusted his pants off. “Go to her.”

Rin looked up.

“Go,” Sae repeated. “She’s still your home. And I think she’s still waiting for you to find your way back.”

Rin didn’t hesitate. He stood, nodding once. And within the hour, he was in the car, heading toward the penthouse they’d shared since the engagement.

He entered quietly, hoping he hadn’t missed her by seconds. But the moment he stepped in, his heart dropped.

Everything was still in place. Her shoes by the door. Her favorite mug drying on the rack. Her coats still hung beside his.

But she wasn’t there.

He checked every room, calling out softly. Nothing.

The silence was deafening.

He didn’t want to assume the worst. So instead, he respected the quiet. He sat down in the living room and looked around—remembering all the nights she fell asleep on the couch waiting for him, the mornings she’d leave notes on the fridge after another night shift, how their life had slowly started to blend into one.

But he also remembered something else: the old apartment near the hospital. The one she used before everything—before the chaos of the engagement, before they were a unit. She hadn’t been there in months. Not since she moved in with him.

And though he didn’t know the exact address, he knew it was close to her work. He could call. He could search. But he didn’t want to push. He didn’t want to chase her too hard, not when she was still hurting.

So he stayed back. Waited. Gave her space, even if every part of him itched to go find her.

Meanwhile, in the quiet familiarity of the old apartment, you curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your lap, the cup of tea on the side table already cold and untouched. The walls still smelled faintly of old books and eucalyptus—home. Comfort. A scent you always loved.

It was quieter here.

No press calls. No stylists or wedding planners asking you to adjust your schedule. No constant reminders of the version of yourself you were supposed to become just to fit neatly into another family’s idea of what a wife should be.

Here, you didn’t have to smile politely when someone talked over you. Or pretend their backhanded compliments didn’t sting.

The doorbell rang, cutting through the silence. You hesitated, then stood, dragging the blanket along with you. When you opened it, your parents stood there—your father with his hands deep in his coat pockets, your mother’s shoulders slightly slumped but her eyes sharp with worry.

Neither of them said anything at first.

They stepped inside like it was instinct, like it would always be their place too. The door clicked shut behind them, and despite the air being still and thick with unsaid words, the apartment felt warmer just by their presence.

It was your mother who spoke first.

“What was that all about earlier?” she asked, voice softer than usual, but disappointed all the same. “You walked out of that dinner like you were setting fire to the table.”

You looked away, your throat tight. “Because I was tired of pretending.”

Your father sat down on the armrest of the chair across from you. “Pretending what?”

You swallowed hard. “That everything they said didn’t bother me. That I could just keep sitting there while Rin’s aunts looked me in the eye and made jokes about how I’m ‘too smart for my own good’ or that I should ‘take off the lab coat and put on an apron’ once I marry into the Itoshi family.”

Your mother’s lips thinned.

“They insulted me, right in front of everyone,” you continued, voice cracking now. “They mocked our family—said we were only good for hospitals and surgeries and wondered how someone like me, who works graveyard shifts in an ER, would ‘entertain’ a man like Rin.”

You laughed bitterly. “Then why did you even arrange this in the first place?”

There was a long pause. You looked between the two people who raised you—taught you how to stitch your first wound, taught you to never fold under pressure.

“We agreed to the engagement because we thought you would be happy,” your mother finally said, her voice quieter now. “Because we knew you liked Rin. You’ve liked him for years, even if you never admitted it. And when the Itoshis approached us, it… it felt like it made sense.”

You closed your eyes. “They don’t like me.”

“They don’t know you,” your father said. “Not the way we do. You’re a hardheaded girl, you always were. You never let anyone tell you what you can or can’t do. You broke every expectation the family had because you believed you could do better—and you did.”

You opened your eyes again, blinking through the haze.

Your mother took a step closer. “If you’ve made up your mind… if you want to end the engagement, then we’ll support you. And if you want to leave the country for a while, take some time to breathe, we’ll support that too.”

You looked at them both—your parents, tired from the dinner, from the expectations, from the tug-of-war between two families—but still standing here, with you. Choosing you.

“You’re not alone in this,” your father said gently. “You never were.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from humiliation or exhaustion. This time, they came from the warmth that bloomed quietly in your chest—the kind only home could bring.

And that’s what you did—booked a one-way ticket from Tokyo to Tromsø, Norway.

No return date. No itinerary. Just your passport, one suitcase, and the aching exhaustion of trying to please everyone except yourself.

You had mentioned it to Rin once. A few months ago, back when the engagement had just been announced. When the two of you were still learning how to exist around each other—not quite strangers, not quite lovers. Just two people trying to navigate a decision made on their behalf.

It was during a quiet evening at your family’s countryside villa. The air was crisper there, and the sky spilled stars in a way Tokyo never could. You had both slipped away from the formal dinner after too many toasts, your head light from the wine and the pressure. Rin had found you sitting at the edge of the garden steps, your heels discarded in the grass.

“I read about this place once,” you said as he settled beside you, hands resting loosely on his knees. “Tromsø, in Norway. Far north. They say in the winter, the sun disappears for months. But the Northern Lights come out like a dream.”

Rin tilted his head. “Sounds freezing.”

You laughed softly. “It is. But kind of beautiful, right? A place where it’s dark all the time, but something still dances in the sky.”

There was a quiet moment between you, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled. Then Rin murmured, “Is that where you want to go when it all becomes to loud."

You glanced at him, surprised. Then you nodded. “Someday. I don’t know when. But I’d like to.”

He hummed. “Let me know when you do. Maybe I’ll go with you.”

And you had smiled at that. Silly, hopeful thing that you were.

But now, as the final plane descended onto the snow-dusted runway of Tromsø Airport—twenty-four hours later, red-eyed from layovers, your limbs stiff and heavy from travel—he wasn’t here.

The cold was immediate when the terminal doors opened. Icy wind kissed your cheeks as you stepped out, the kind that bit into your skin and made you feel alive all at once. You pulled your scarf tighter, breathing in frost and something like freedom.

You had booked a small cabin on the outskirts of the city, tucked near the fjords. It wasn’t much, just one bedroom and a stove that needed coaxing to warm, but it was quiet. Untouched. A world away from Tokyo’s blinking lights and bitter dinner parties.

You dropped your bags by the door and stood in silence, listening to the hush of snowfall outside the window. No phones buzzing. No family expectations echoing in your ears. Just the whisper of wind and the possibility of healing.

And as you sank into the unfamiliar bed that night, the aurora just beginning to shimmer faintly through the glass above your head, you wondered—

Would Rin still remember the way you said his name that night?

Would he still remember Tromsø?

You hadn’t left a clue. Not a note. Not a word to anyone. No paper trail, no last-minute phone call. Just the hiss of your apartment door closing softly behind you before the early flight from Tokyo to Tromsø took off into the violet-gray dawn.

This wasn’t supposed to be permanent. You didn’t come here to disappear.

You just needed somewhere quiet—somewhere that didn’t expect anything from you. Somewhere far enough to think, but not so far that it felt like running away.

He wouldn't remember.

That’s what you told yourself again and again. Not when you only ever mentioned it once, months ago, at the beginning—when everything between you and Rin was new and strange and teetering between civil and chaotic. When the engagement was still fresh and everyone expected you to smile, to bend, to be proud and graceful and agreeable in the way your parents always expected you to be.

He wasn’t supposed to remember. But part of you had hoped he would.

You’d been in Tromsø for just under a week, staying at a quiet rental near the harbor, surrounded by pale wooden homes and snow-dusted rooftops. The kind of town where the wind moved slower and people remembered your face after just one visit.

You hadn’t done much—read in bed, walked along the water, bought groceries in awkward English. And every morning, you stopped by the same small café just down the street. It had yellow doors, always warm inside. They already knew your order now: black coffee, two sugars, and a cinnamon roll with extra icing when the ache in your chest got too heavy.

And today, you were walking there again.

Boots crunching softly against a thin dusting of fresh snow, scarf wrapped tightly around your mouth. The clouds overhead looked like they hadn’t moved all morning—gray and full, like something was waiting to break.

You turned the corner. The café was up ahead.

But you stopped.

Because you saw him.

You blinked hard, then again, wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you.

Tall frame. Dark green hair, tousled and damp at the ends from melting snow. He was bundled up in a black wool coat, a thick navy scarf tucked neatly around his neck. He stood near the flower stall beside the bookshop, talking to someone—one of the local vendors, it seemed.

You ducked slightly behind a parked car, your breath catching.

His voice floated through the space between you.

“…Ah, I see. Thank you,” he said, bowing his head politely before taking a small step back.

The way he spoke—it was soft. Controlled. Like he’d said the same thing to several people already. You couldn’t hear what he’d asked, but the pattern was clear now that you were listening.

He was asking around.

You felt your stomach twist.

Rin was here.

In Tromsø.

Looking for you.

He moved to the next person, expression composed but weary. There were shadows under his eyes, even from where you stood. A tension in his jaw. His hands kept clenching inside his pockets like he wasn’t used to this—like he wasn’t used to not knowing where to find you.

And he looked like he hadn’t slept well in days.

Your heart kicked against your ribs, faster now, almost panicked. You hadn’t expected this. You didn’t plan for this.

What were you even going to say?

But then—he turned his head.

Slowly. Searching the street.

And then his eyes found you.

Your breath stopped.

You didn’t know what expression you wore, but whatever he saw on your face was enough.

Because Rin moved.

He started walking—fast, like he was afraid you might disappear if he looked away. Then he broke into a run, boots kicking up snow, scarf flying out behind him as he crossed the narrow road.

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t breathe.

Until he reached you.

His arms wrapped around you without hesitation, pulling you into his chest like you were something precious he thought he’d lost. He held you with both arms around your waist, his gloved hands gripping your coat tightly, like if he loosened them even a little, you’d vanish again.

You hadn’t cried since arriving.

But something about the way his chin tucked over your shoulder, how he let out a shaky breath like he'd finally exhaled after holding it in for days—that undid you.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, voice low and rough and uneven against your ear. “For two days.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

His eyes were glassy, rimmed with red from cold and exhaustion. His brows furrowed as he studied your face, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“I didn’t know if you were actually here. I wasn’t sure if… if you even meant it,” he murmured. “I started thinking maybe I was stupid for trying. That maybe I’d misunderstood.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“I was already starting to lose hope,” he confessed, his voice softer now. “That maybe you weren’t in Tromsø at all. That maybe you picked somewhere else. Somewhere I couldn’t guess.”

He paused. His hands clenched at your sides again.

“But I still came. I still looked,” he said, voice steady now with something unshakable. “Because… you said it once. That if things ever got too heavy, you’d come here.”

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

“And I had to believe you.”

You swallowed. Your chest felt painfully full.

All this time… you didn’t know if he even cared. You didn’t know if your absence would be met with relief or indifference. You were bracing yourself for silence. For more cold.

But here he was.

Breathing hard. Shaking. Still holding you like it physically hurt him to let go.

He remembered.

And he came.

Not because anyone told him to. Not because he had to.

But because he wanted to.

Because it was you.

And just like that—

The tight knot in your chest began to loosen.

Your hand came up to his cheek, thumb gently brushing against the skin that was chilled from the northern wind. You didn’t even notice your breath catching until it came out as a shaky whisper.

"Rin… why are you here?"

He leaned into your touch like he had been starved of it—like this small gesture grounded him, reminded him that you were real and not some cruel trick of the cold.

“I came for you,” he said quietly. His voice didn’t waver, but his eyes—those storm-colored eyes that always guarded too much—were softer now, less composed. “Because I remembered.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You were still standing on the cobbled path, the faint crunch of snow beneath your boots the only other sound besides the rush of your pulse in your ears. Tromsø had been your quiet escape, the place you once said you'd go if life ever got too heavy. A passing comment from long ago, half-laughed over in bed or under the sheets of a rainy afternoon. You never thought he’d hold on to it.

"I didn’t tell anyone," you murmured. “No one knew.”

“I know,” he said. “I figured you wouldn’t.” He looked around—at the rows of snow-covered rooftops, the quiet hills that framed the town like a secret. “But this place… I remembered how your eyes lit up when you talked about it. So I came here. Just hoping.”

Your chest tightened. You hated how well he knew you. You hated that even after all the tension, the silence, the weight of everything between you—he still knew how to find you. That he remembered where you’d go when you needed peace, even if it meant chasing you halfway across the world.

"I didn't think you'd actually—"

"I didn’t come to make you leave," he said, cutting through your doubt like a blade, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “I just needed to see you. To make sure you were okay. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t even have to forgive me yet. I just… I had to be here.”

The wind blew again, sharp but fleeting. Still, all you felt was him.

“Rin…” your voice cracked, just a little, and his arms tightened around your waist.

“If it’s space you need, I’ll give it. I’ll wait in whatever way you need me to,” he said, breathing in like he was memorizing the scent of your jacket, your skin, your quiet presence. “But I’m here. And I’m not letting you go again without knowing what you want.”

And just like that—his words unhurried, unpolished, but honest—your resolve, already thin and frayed, began to slip through your fingers like snow melting in your palm.

You ended up inviting him to the cabin where you were staying—half out of instinct, half out of something deeper that your heart hadn’t yet found the words for. It wasn’t much. Just a small wooden place tucked at the edge of a forest clearing, the kind that smelled of pine and silence and something safe. You had rented it without any intention of being found. Yet here he was—standing in the doorway, snow still caught on his lashes and his scarf damp from the wind.

He stepped in carefully, like he didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile peace you had built for yourself over the last few days. You didn’t speak much at first. He helped you take off your coat, set your gloves by the small heater near the door. The only sound in the cabin was the low crackle of the fire in the corner and the slow, nervous beat of your heart.

He sat across from you at the small dining table, elbows on the wood, hands clasped together like he needed something to hold onto.

“There’s something I should’ve told you sooner,” Rin said, finally breaking the silence. “That night. At the dinner.”

You looked at him, your expression unreadable.

“After you left,” he continued, eyes on yours, “I didn’t just sit there.”

He swallowed, jaw tight, as if replaying the memory still made his skin burn. “I told them off. My parents. My relatives. I told them they didn’t know a damn thing about you or what you’ve been through. That you’ve done more with your life—more good, more meaningful work—than any of them sitting around that table.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t interrupt. He went on, voice lower now, more careful.

“I told them about your residency. How hard you’ve worked. The way you’d still show up to shifts even when you were dead on your feet. How you’d tell me stories about your patients like they were the brightest parts of your day. I told them you weren’t just my wife because our families wanted it—you’re someone I’ve always admired. Someone I’ve always cared about.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything the snow outside could ever weigh down.

“I should’ve said it in front of you,” he admitted, voice cracking the smallest bit. “I should’ve defended you before you walked out. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

You stared at him—really stared. For the first time in a long while, his walls weren’t up. His apology wasn’t rehearsed. It was real. Raw. The kind of vulnerable honesty Rin rarely let anyone see.

You rose from your seat slowly, the soft rustle of fabric and the crackle of the fireplace filling the silence between you. Your eyes never left him.

Rin was seated at the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense, as if he were bracing for a storm you hadn’t started yet.

You approached him with quiet steps.

When you reached him, your fingers reached out for his—hesitating only briefly—before you threaded your hand into his. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he looked like he was holding his breath.

His gaze flickered up to you, vulnerable in a way you’d only seen a handful of times in your entire life. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hope.

“Rin,” you said, voice low and steady. “What do you want to come out of this?”

He blinked slowly. Once. Twice. Then you felt his grip tighten around yours.

“I want…” he started, then faltered. “I want this to be more than just something we agreed to.”

You stared at him, heart climbing to your throat.

“I want you,” he said, firmer now. “I’ve always wanted you.”

The world seemed to quiet.

You barely managed to breathe. “What…?”

“I only agreed to this engagement if it would be with you,” Rin confessed, finally looking at you with eyes that burned straight through your disbelief. “That was my only condition. I told my parents—if it’s not her, I’m not doing it.”

You could feel your pulse in your ears.

“I didn’t know if you’d ever say yes to me if I asked on my own. Maybe because I’m not good with this—” he gestured vaguely between you, “—with feelings. With words. But even when we were kids, it was always you. Every year. Every time I saw you at those stupid events.”

Your heart stuttered. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” Rin’s voice was steady. “You were the only one who ever looked at me like I was more than Sae’s shadow. Like I was worth listening to. You’d tell me about your dreams, your stupid high school stories, your patients, your rounds… and I remembered everything. You made the world feel bigger, and for the first time, I wanted to be part of it.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

“I kept it all to myself because I didn’t want to mess it up. And then when our parents brought up the marriage, I told myself… maybe this was the only chance I had. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but if it was you—” he looked up at you, earnest and exposed—“I’d take it.”

He let go of your hand for a moment, and your fingers instinctively reached to keep the warmth of his touch. But he was already moving.

Down.

Onto one knee.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I wanted to do this right,” he murmured, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat. “Even if it came late.”

He opened a velvet box.

Inside was a ring with a pale pink diamond, delicately set in rose gold. The band was slim, elegant—simple in design, but breathtaking in execution. A custom cut. No gaudy flare, no excess—just quietly stunning. Just like everything Rin did when he cared.

“I had it made when I found out pink was your favorite,” he said, almost shy now. “Not because of the engagement. Because I thought maybe… one day, I’d get to ask you for real.”

Your hands flew to your mouth, lips trembling.

“Marry me, for real this time,” Rin whispered. “Not because they said we should. Not because it’s expected of us. But because you want to. Because I’ve always wanted you—and I’ll keep choosing you. Every time.”

Tears blurred your vision, spilling freely before you could stop them.

You fell to your knees in front of him, grabbing his face in your hands, shaking with disbelief and something deeper—years of silent longing finally catching up to you.

“You idiot,” you breathed, laughing through the tears. “You should’ve told me.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“And you think a pink diamond makes up for years of me thinking this was one-sided?” you teased, eyes wet.

He smirked, just a little. “It’s a start.”

You didn’t say yes.

You just kissed him—full, deep, and desperate like you were trying to make up for every day you had convinced yourself he didn’t feel the same. Like you were claiming him now.

And when you finally pulled back, forehead pressed to his, you whispered:

“Yes, Rin. For real this time.”

And in that quiet cabin, surrounded by snow and history and everything unspoken finally laid bare, Rin Itoshi smiled like he had everything he’d ever wanted.

Because he did. He had you.

And in that quiet cabin tucked beneath layers of snow, with logs crackling in the fireplace and the silence finally settling between confessions, Rin Itoshi smiled—not the kind of smile reserved for cameras or curated dinners, not the kind honed for politeness or worn like armor. This one was different. This one was unguarded and whole. It touched the corners of his eyes, curved his mouth in quiet reverence, and melted years of silence he didn’t realize he’d been carrying.

It was the smile of a man who, for the first time in a long while, felt like the weight of his world had finally found a place to rest.

Because in that moment, with your hand tucked safely in his, he had everything he’d ever needed. He had you.

There was no urgency to return to Tokyo. Rin stayed. Even when his agency called, even when his schedule threatened to snap back into its usual pace, he stayed. The world outside moved on, days bleeding into nights, but in Tromsø—between snowdrifts and coffee steam and the rustle of flannel sheets—time moved slower. Kinder.

He made you breakfast each morning, sometimes a little too burnt on the edges, sometimes just right. He kissed the sugar off your lips when you sweetened your coffee too much. He walked with you down the frozen paths, fingers laced in yours like he was afraid to let go. You shared memories like secrets under blankets at dawn, laughed in low murmurs, kissed in doorways, in the middle of cooking, while brushing your teeth. You held each other like you had all the time in the world. And maybe you did. Maybe time—this time—was finally on your side.

Rin never rushed. Never demanded. Never asked for more than what you could give. He simply stayed close, inching his way into the tender cracks of your heart until you forgot what it meant to be alone in love. Slowly, gently, he made you believe again—both in him, and in the life you could finally build without fear.

And Rin, in turn, began to free himself.

You noticed it in the way his phone calls grew shorter. His tone sharper. He started saying no—firmly, clearly. He turned down meetings without guilt, ignored messages that once would’ve sent him spiraling, and spoke less and less of the family that had always spoken for him. He didn’t rage or rebel. He simply… let go. Of expectations. Of appearances. Of people who didn’t see your worth or his. And in their place, he reached for something real. For you.

Then one night, the sky changed.

It was late—past midnight—and the world outside was quiet, blanketed in snow and silence. You were nestled together under a thick knit blanket when Rin nudged you gently, the air fogging in front of his mouth as he whispered, “Come outside.”

He didn’t say why, but his voice held something sacred, something childlike and awed. You slipped on coats and boots, fingers brushing as you stepped out into the night.

And above you—the heavens bloomed.

Green and violet streaks painted the sky, shifting like silk across the stars. It looked like magic. Like something out of a dream you forgot you had. The aurora shimmered, moved, danced across the canvas of the night like a prayer being answered.

Your breath caught, soft clouds puffing into the cold air.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, voice reverent.

Beside you, Rin didn’t look up.

His eyes stayed on you, unblinking, unwavering. The light from the aurora caught in your eyes, casting your skin in hues of emerald and lilac, making you look like something ethereal. Something made to be worshipped in silence.

“Yes,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear. “It is.”

You turned, a smile playing on your lips, but when you met his eyes—you knew.

He wasn’t talking about the lights.

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t look away. And in the middle of the snow and starlight, in the hush of the north, Rin Itoshi leaned forward—like the moment was too full, too sacred to speak through—and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t for anyone else.

It was just for you.

His lips found yours slowly, like he was memorizing the way you felt all over again. The cold air melted between your mouths, the warmth of him anchoring you even as the sky spun. It was a kiss that unraveled years of silence, a kiss that didn’t ask questions because it already knew the answer.

A kiss that promised he was here. Not because he had to. But because he wanted to.

You melted into him, hands tangled in the lapels of his coat, his arms wrapping around your waist. The aurora danced on, painting the snow with light, but the most beautiful thing in that moment wasn’t the sky—it was the boy who’d spent a lifetime chasing perfection finally choosing something messy, something soft, something real.

Choosing you.

And when he pulled back, his forehead resting gently against yours, he whispered—not to convince you, not even to convince himself, but simply because it was true—“I’m not going anywhere.”

In that sacred stillness beneath the stars, with snowflakes catching on your lashes and his breath mingling with yours, you finally believed him.

You believed every whispered word against the shell of your ear, every trembling syllable that carried years’ worth of emotions Rin never learned how to say until now. You believed it in the way his hand stayed wrapped around yours even as the cold numbed your fingers, in how his voice cracked when he said he never stopped looking—never stopped loving, in his own way.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Because the silence between you had never been empty—it had always been full of the things you never dared to say out loud. And now, the distance had crumbled into snowflakes between you.

When you both returned to Japan, not much had changed externally. The world kept spinning, your hospital still buzzed with chaos, Rin’s practices still ran long and grueling. Your lives didn’t magically transform overnight. But something had shifted. Everything was the same—but it felt softer now. Lighter.

He would still wait for you in the hospital parking lot, just like before. Except now, instead of sitting coldly in the driver's seat with a silent phone on the dashboard, he’d get out of the car the second he saw your white coat approaching through the night fog. And instead of you slipping in quietly after a long shift, he would meet you halfway, arms already open. He would pull you close into his chest, lifting your tired body slightly off the ground, and press a long, gentle kiss on your temple—or sometimes, directly on your lips, not caring who saw. “Missed you,” he’d murmur. “You look tired. Let me take you home.”

You teased him once—called him clingy, even—but all he did was hum and kiss your cheek again. “Don’t care,” he said. “I like being around you.”

At home, Rin became a lovesick fool. You’d catch him smiling—actually smiling—at the sight of your pink Crocs kicked off beside his neatly lined cleats by the genkan. It was such a small detail, yet it never failed to tug at something deep in his chest. Every time he came home from training, weary and sore, the moment he saw them, he knew: You came home to me.

There were nights he’d come back later than you, only to find you dozing on the couch, still in scrubs, medical textbook open on your lap and an empty mug of coffee nearby. He never woke you. He just sat beside you carefully, one arm around your shoulders, his forehead resting against yours as he whispered, “Mrs. Itoshi,” like a secret he never thought he could say out loud.

You blinked awake once after hearing it and laughed, hoarse from exhaustion. “You’re using that now?”

He looked at you with soft, sleepy eyes and said it again—this time with a small smile that only ever appeared when you were around. “Yeah. Gotta get used to it, don’t I?”

Planning the wedding became its own kind of comfort. It wasn’t a spectacle the way both your families had once envisioned it—this time, it was yours. Just the two of you. There were late-night Pinterest boards open on his iPad, your fingers twined with his as you discussed outdoor venues and minimalist themes. Rin always let you speak first, nodding at your ideas, occasionally chiming in with, “I think you’d look good in that,” or, “I want it to feel like us. Simple. Real.”

You'd share clips of wedding playlists while brushing your teeth together, dance barefoot in the kitchen while you cooked dinner, and giggle in bed about guest lists and seating arrangements. And even when you argued about flower colors or dessert choices, it was Rin who’d pull you into his arms and kiss your forehead. “As long as it ends with you walking down the aisle to me—I don’t care if we serve onigiri and water.”

You often ended your days curled on the couch, your head in his lap as you recounted your patient cases, the rare ones that left you in awe or the difficult ones that tugged at your heart. Rin listened—really listened—his fingers gently combing through your hair as he asked questions. “What ended up happening to the kid from the ER the other night?” “Was that rare infection what you thought it was?” He may not have understood everything medically, but he understood you, and that was enough.

Sometimes it was the other way around—Rin lying on your lap, scrolling through plays or stats while you reviewed case notes, highlighters in hand. He wouldn’t speak much, but he'd glance up at you every now and then with this completely smitten look, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and his.

On weekends, when you had a day off together, he'd bring you breakfast in bed—badly cut strawberries and burnt toast sometimes, but you never complained. He tried. And that effort? That was Rin Itoshi’s way of screaming he loved you.

“I like seeing you like this,” he once said while you were in your pajamas, hair messily tied up, glasses on, bent over your laptop. “All soft. All mine.”

You chuckled, not even looking up. “I’ve always been yours, idiot.”

That night, he pulled you close as if vowing never to let go again. “Mrs. Itoshi,” he whispered again, lips against your bare shoulder.

“What is it, Rin?”

He kissed the skin just below your ear. “I’m so in love with you, it’s fucking embarrassing.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t tease. You just turned in his arms, kissed him back slowly, and whispered, “Me too.”

Because you were. And for once—it wasn’t out of duty, or pressure, or family expectation.

It was because you wanted to be his.

And this time, so did he.

Not because he had to—but because he wanted to.

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.

People don’t know the real Sae Itoshi.

Not the boy who used to kick rocks down your neighborhood street after school, scowling when they didn’t bounce the way he wanted. 

Not the one who once helped you carry your backpack home in the rain, both of you soaking wet and pretending not to care. 

They don’t know the kid who sat with you at lunch every day in silence, just close enough to count as something, even if neither of you knew what.

You were friends. In the way two kids who didn’t fit quite right into the world found each other.

Sae didn’t talk much, but you learned to hear him anyway. His silences said things. 

When he walked a little slower beside you, you knew he wanted you to stay. 

When he handed you a sports drink without looking, it meant he noticed you skipped lunch.

When he sat beside you during your library shift and didn’t open a book—just rested his head in his hand and closed his eyes—that meant he trusted you.

You started dating in junior high. Clumsily. Quietly. Like most kids, you didn’t call it dating. 

You just... stopped pretending you didn’t want to sit closer. Y

ou linked pinkies on cold walks home. You traded favorite snacks. 

You started saying goodnight on the phone even if neither of you spoke for the entire call.

And then, at thirteen, Sae left.

Spain. A dream. A career. A calling.

You still remember that day—standing at the edge of the train platform with him, both of you wearing your school uniforms, pretending your hearts weren’t hammering inside your chests. He didn’t promise you anything. 

Not forever. Not even a someday.

But he looked at you like he wanted to.

“I’ll come back,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Or you’ll come to me. Right?”

You nodded.

He squeezed your hand.

And then he was gone.

Years passed.

You lived your life in soft, slow ways. 

Kept your head down, studied hard, wrote to him sometimes, even when you weren’t sure he’d read it. 

The letters came less often. The calls dropped off. Time zones, training, language gaps—life.

And yet, the memory of him never left you. Not really. 

You dated, once or twice, but no one ever made you feel the way he did. 

No one ever looked at you like they understood your quiet too.

The second you graduated, you bought a one-way ticket to Madrid.

Your mother cried. 

Your father didn’t speak to you for a week. 

Your friends called you reckless—chasing a boy who hadn’t texted back in months. 

But you knew something they didn’t.

You weren’t chasing a boy.

You were chasing the only place you’d ever felt like home.

He was waiting for you at the airport.

Not with flowers or signs—he wasn’t that type. 

He was just there, hands in his pockets, grown into his height, jaw sharper, hair longer. 

He looked tired. 

Beautiful. 

Real.

“You’re here,” he said, as if he hadn’t quite let himself believe you’d come.

You didn’t cry until you got to the car.

He rested a hand on your thigh the whole drive home.

Life wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t romantic montages and sunshine mornings. 

You worked part-time jobs, learned to navigate the city on your own, struggled with loneliness and language and wondering if you’d made the right choice.

But every night, when Sae came home—sweaty and exhausted, his voice rasped from yelling on the pitch, eyes soft when they found yours—it felt worth it.

You weren’t living in a dream. You were building something real.

And then, at 22, everything changed.

You stared at the pregnancy test for a long time.

The bathroom light flickered overhead. Your legs were numb from sitting on the edge of the tub. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You hadn’t planned for this. You’d been careful. You had a plan.

When you told Sae, you were ready for the worst.

He stood still for a full minute, staring at the test in your hands like it was written in a language he didn’t understand.

And then, gently, he reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Me too,” he said quietly.

The first heartbeat.

The first tiny blur on the ultrasound screen.

The nurse asking, “Want to know the sex?” and your voice breaking as you said, “Yes.”

A boy.

A boy with his father’s name on the chart, and your hands trembling as you whispered, “A mini you.”

Sae didn’t speak for a long time. He just placed his hand on your belly, eyes locked there like it was a miracle and a disaster all at once.

“We’ll be okay,” he said eventually.

And somehow, you believed him.

Now, your son is two.

He has Sae’s eyes and your cheeks. 

He toddles around with wild hair, mismatched socks, and a favorite stuffed penguin he drags by the flipper. 

He calls Sae “Papa” and you “Mama” and yells “Goal!” every time he kicks anything remotely spherical.

Some nights, Sae gets home too late. Some days, he misses first steps or messy drawings stuck to the fridge. And yet—he’s there.

Always.

He sleeps with your son when he has nightmares. 

Buys new crayons every time the old ones snap. 

Kisses your forehead in the middle of diaper changes and murmurs “you’re doing great” even when you feel like you’re failing.

You’re engaged now.

Not married. Not in a rush. 

Your ring glints in the morning light when you stir your coffee and kiss Sae goodbye before training. 

You’ve been his since you were kids.

A ring didn’t change that.

You lie in bed one night, your son curled between you, one small fist gripping Sae’s shirt. The baby monitor glows soft blue.

Sae’s awake, staring at the ceiling, one hand resting on your child’s back.

You whisper, “What are you thinking?”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, “Sometimes I don’t know how I got here.”

You shift closer. “Do you regret it?”

He looks at you. Really looks. The boy who left. The man who stayed.

“No,” he says. “But I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up.”

You reach over, take his hand.

“You won’t.”

He squeezes it.

And for the first time in a long time, he sleeps soundly.

To the world, Sae Itoshi is an enigma.

But to you, he’s just him.

The boy who left.

The man who waited.

The father that your son runs to in the morning with sleepy eyes and open arms.

The love you’ve known for nearly your whole life—and still learn in new ways every day.

And in your quiet little life, built of messy rooms and warm dinners and tiny socks in the laundry, that’s more than enough.

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