„𝙖𝙡𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩“
Itoshi Sae x Fem!Reader
romance, slow-burn, subtle yearning
word count: ~1,700
⸻
It was always like this with Sae.
Close, but not close enough.
You sat across from him in a quiet café, the city lights spilling through the windows, casting a soft glow over his face. His eyes were on his phone, fingers idly scrolling, but you knew he wasn’t really paying attention.
“You’re distracted,” you murmured, wrapping your hands around your cup.
Sae didn’t look up. “I’m always distracted.”
You sighed, watching him carefully. This had become routine—late-night meetings in places where no one would recognize him, quiet conversations filled with things he’d never say outright.
And yet, you still came.
Still waited for something more.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you said softly.
This time, his eyes flicked up—sharp, unreadable. “Doing what?”
You hesitated. “Calling me when you’re back in Japan. Pretending like we’re something we’re not.”
Sae leaned back in his seat, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “And what do you think we are?”
Your grip on your cup tightened. “I don’t know. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Silence stretched between you.
Sae had always been hard to read, always kept people at a distance. And yet, you could feel it—the way he lingered just enough to make you wonder, the way his gaze softened when he thought you weren’t looking.
Finally, he exhaled, setting his phone down. “You’re overthinking things again.”
You laughed, but it held no humor. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending you don’t mean anything to me.”
His jaw tensed. For the first time, he looked almost… hesitant.
Sae wasn’t good at emotions. He wasn’t good at holding onto things that felt real—because real meant complicated, and complicated meant messy.
But you’d always been different.
And that scared him.
You sighed, standing up. “I should go.”
Sae’s fingers twitched, as if he wanted to reach out. But he didn’t.
He never did.
Instead, he just watched as you grabbed your coat, stepping toward the door.
Just before you left, his voice stopped you.
“Stay.”
The word was barely above a whisper, but it held enough weight to make you freeze.
Slowly, you turned.
Sae wasn’t looking at you, his gaze fixed on the table, his expression unreadable. But his hands were clenched into fists, his posture rigid—like he was fighting against something he didn’t quite understand.
“You always leave,” he muttered.
You swallowed hard. “Because you never give me a reason to stay.”
He looked up then, and for the first time, you saw it—the fear, the hesitation, the quiet longing he never allowed himself to voice.
“I’m not good at this,” he admitted, voice rough.
Your heart ached. “I never asked you to be.”
Sae exhaled slowly. And then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he reached out, his fingers brushing against yours.
Not enough to hold you in place.
But enough to make you stay.
