潔 世一 • lu

The roar of the crowd was deafening, swelling around the stadium like a tidal wave of adoration and pride. Cameras flashed from every corner, flags were waving high, and yet—up in the VIP box—you could only hear the sound of your daughter’s tiny voice chirping with glee.

“Goal, Papa!” she shouted, standing on her little tiptoes with her arms thrown up as if she herself had scored the point. Her dark hair bounced with every jump, her toothy grin pure sunshine.

Your son, ever the quieter one, simply clapped his hands with a soft smile on his lips. A small, reserved gesture—but his eyes shimmered with the same pride. You gently rubbed his back while watching the man down on the pitch, who had just turned toward the stands and raised his hand.

Isagi Yoichi—your husband, the face of Japanese football, and now the Best Player, Best Goal, and Best Playmaker all in one glorious season—was waving up at you three. The stadium buzzed with even more energy as the jumbotron captured the precious moment: a father celebrating not just with his teammates, but with his family watching from above.

Your heart swelled.

The ceremony followed with flashbulbs, thunderous applause, and three trophies in Isagi’s arms. One by one, his name echoed through the stadium as he accepted each award, his smile humble but unmistakably joyful. You began to make your way down to the side of the field with the kids in tow—press and fans respectfully parting as staff helped you navigate toward him.

And just as the post-match interview began, your daughter wriggled free from your hold and dashed toward her father.

“Papa!!”

The reporter laughed as the crowd let out a unanimous chorus of awe. Isagi immediately turned from the mic, crouching down and catching her mid-run, lifting her with ease as she squealed.

“She’s the real MVP today,” he chuckled into the mic, nuzzling her cheek as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Guess she couldn’t wait.”

He stood with her on his hip, calm despite the storm of cameras, answering a few more questions with his daughter babbling happily in the background. You and your son stood just a few feet behind, the latter hugging your leg shyly as he looked up at his dad with big, starry eyes.

When the interview ended, Isagi walked straight to you. His expression softened even more—if that was possible—as he reached you, giving you a warm kiss first, then leaning down to press one to your son’s forehead.

“You were amazing,” you whispered, brushing a stray curl from your daughter's face. She responded by planting a wet kiss on Isagi’s cheek.

“I love you,” he murmured, eyes only for you before turning to both your kids. “All three of you.”

What followed was more chaotic joy than you’d expected. The Blue Lock alumni—Isagi’s teammates, friends, brothers in every way but blood—gravitated toward you like moths to light.

Bachira Meguru was the first to appear, his grin wild as ever. “Oi, oi, oi! Look at you guys! Mini Isagis!”

Your daughter let out a gleeful squeal as he crouched down and wiggled his fingers at her. “Hey, wanna play with Uncle Meguru?”

She immediately nodded, reaching out to him without hesitation.

Meanwhile, your son clung a little closer to you, but his gaze flicked to a familiar figure.

“Yoichi Jr.!” Barou bellowed from a short distance away, striding toward your group with a rare smirk. The nickname made Isagi groan, but your son’s eyes lit up. Barou, despite his rough image, had always had a soft spot for your boy—maybe because they were both more serious than the rest.

Chigiri crouched beside your daughter, offering her a small ball and a soft smile. “Wanna race, little comet?”

“Raaaace!” she echoed, jumping up and down. You couldn’t help laughing as Chigiri pretended to struggle keeping up with her, deliberately losing just to make her shriek in triumph.

Nagi sat down beside your son with a yawn, watching the field with his usual lazy air. “Wanna sit with me for a bit?” he offered without pressure. Slowly, your boy nodded and settled beside him—no words needed.

Rin gave your daughter a rare pat on the head as he passed, pretending not to smile when she shouted “Green Uncle!”

Moments later, the ball rolled away from Chigiri’s foot toward Bachira and your daughter, who stood a little ways off. Bachira crouched again, holding the ball gently in front of her.

“Wanna try and score like Papa did?” he encouraged, eyes wide and animated. “I bet you can do it!”

Your daughter hesitated—just for a second—before puffing up her chest. She looked around, then cupped her hands to her mouth and yelled.

“Papa! Watch me!”

Isagi turned around immediately, still holding the awards, and gave her his full attention. The crowd hadn’t dispersed yet—and seeing the little girl on the field made them collectively hold their breath.

With Bachira guiding her, she took a few steps back. Then, with all the might her tiny legs could muster, she kicked the ball forward.

It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t precise—but it rolled past the cones Bachira had arranged as makeshift defenders and landed in the small corner of the goal Chigiri had set up earlier.

The stadium roared.

Your daughter’s eyes went wide as her lips curled into a shy smile. For a moment she froze, overwhelmed—but then she turned and sprinted toward Isagi, who had already dropped the trophies to his teammates and knelt with open arms.

She tackled into his chest with the force of a comet.

“You saw it, Papa?”

“I saw everything,” he whispered into her hair. “You were perfect.”

You watched them from a few steps away, your son’s hand in yours as he leaned his head against your side. Your eyes misted—not just from pride, but from the sheer, quiet beauty of the scene.

Night had settled over the city like a velvet curtain dusted with stars, Tokyo’s skyline twinkling beyond the glass windows of your penthouse—your home. From this high up, the world below looked like a miniature diorama, but inside, everything was warm, lived-in, and entirely yours.

The penthouse, luxurious by every standard, carried the unmistakable elegance of Isagi’s success. Polished floors gleamed beneath soft lights, tall ceilings made space for laughter, and sleek designer furniture filled the wide living area. But despite its opulence, the place didn’t feel like a cold showroom. It felt like family. The walls bore framed memories—candid shots of the four of you smiling on vacations, your daughter’s chaotic crayon masterpiece from preschool encased in a pristine white frame, your son’s first goal certificate from soccer club tucked beside one of Isagi’s earliest professional awards. Even the scent of the place was familiar: a subtle blend of chamomile from your diffuser and the faint trace of your husband’s cologne that lingered no matter how often he changed clothes.

The kids had long since eaten—the whole team had been treated to dinner by Reo that evening, which gave you a rare break from meal prep. By the time you all returned home, the two little ones were already halfway to dreamland, heads bobbing sleepily in the backseat. They were growing fast, but some things remained the same—like their nightly rituals.

You took charge of bath time, fingers gently scrubbing shampoo into your daughter’s hair as she chattered away about her day at kindergarten—how her teacher praised her drawing, how her best friend said she ran the fastest in their game of tag. Your son, quieter as always, nodded solemnly beside her, occasionally mumbling his agreement or adding his own quiet bits in between yawns.

After you dried them and helped them into matching pajamas, Isagi was already waiting by the door to their shared playroom. He scooped them up with that familiar warmth in his eyes, carrying them one by one into their rooms. His voice dropped to a soft hush, reading aloud from their favorite bedtime story, pausing only to kiss each of their foreheads goodnight. You watched for a moment from the doorway, heart full. Watching him as a father had been one of life’s most unexpected, beautiful surprises.

The penthouse grew quieter after that—the sounds of cartoons faded from the background, and soft breathing took their place. You padded barefoot into the hallway, cradling a warm cup of tea between your palms. You didn’t need the caffeine, not this late, but the routine of it was comforting. You stood there in the hallway, eyes lingering on a particular photograph: you and Isagi, arms wrapped around each other under a cherry blossom tree. He was in his early twenties then, still fresh off the Blue Lock program, cheeks fuller, eyes hungrier. It was the spring after he returned home to take a break, the time you first met—just a quiet girl who had moved into the neighborhood near his parents’ house. You became close to them before you even met him, often chatting over fences and bringing leftovers they swore reminded them of his favorite meals. They used to tell you stories about their son—how determined he was, how he never cried as a baby, how the fire in his eyes never dimmed. You had smiled politely back then, not realizing that fate would bind you so tightly to the very boy they were so proud of.

A soft rustle stirred behind you before you felt his presence. Warm arms snaked around your waist, pulling you gently into him. Isagi’s chin rested on your shoulder, and he swayed you side to side with quiet affection, as if to a melody only the two of you could hear.

“Still up?” he murmured against your ear.

“Just thinking,” you said, leaning back into him, your hand reaching to thread with his.

You stood there together for a long moment, soaking in the silence of your shared life. The lights cast a soft glow over the hallway, illuminating the tender timeline of your love etched into every photo, every framed school paper, every little scribble that had earned a proud spot on the wall.

When your tea had gone cold and the weight of the day finally settled into your bones, Isagi tugged your hand gently and led you toward your shared bedroom. The room was dimly lit, the sheets already turned down, the faint breeze from the balcony ruffling the curtains.

You slipped beneath the covers together, his arm instinctively finding your waist. There was no rush to sleep. You stayed like that, exchanging whispered memories—about your first house in the suburbs, about how nervous he was the first time he introduced you as his girlfriend to his teammates, how his parents cried on your wedding day. He told you again how he used to imagine this—this quiet, steady kind of love—back when he was in the Blue Lock facility, and you confessed how surreal it still felt sometimes, being the one he came home to.

Eventually, your voices faded into sleepy murmurs, and then silence. The steady beat of his heart against your back lulled you to sleep, his hand still curled around yours beneath the sheets.

Outside, Tokyo glowed into the night. And inside your home—be it the grand penthouse or the quiet house by the suburbs—the real light had always been each other.

You had built this life together. And even in the hush of midnight, it pulsed with love.

It hovered beside you, clenched around his phone, thumb tapping mindlessly as the screen replayed the last match. Again and again.

You glanced at the image. You recognized it instantly—his team had lost.

You could tell by the way he blinked slower than usual. The way his jaw clicked every now and then, like he was chewing his own frustration.

You didn’t speak. You’d learned not to on days like this.

When you landed, he didn’t offer to carry your bag. He didn’t even notice you struggled with the heavy zipper as you adjusted the handle.

It wasn’t on purpose. That was the cruelest part.

None of it ever was.

You moved across the world for him. Left your family, your hometown, your college friends. All of it, without regret.

That was your choice.

But loving someone like Yoichi came with unspoken terms.

You’d grown to understand that every time he stepped onto the pitch, he gave a piece of himself away.

The problem was…he never brought all of himself back.

The apartment in Germany was too quiet for a game day.

Muted walls, blinds drawn halfway, city lights bleeding through in dim gold slivers. The couch had a permanent dip on his side now, molded by long nights of post-game reflection.

You always sat on the other end. Close enough to be near him. Far enough not to interrupt.

You cooked anyway. You weren’t sure why anymore.

Maybe because he needed routine. Or maybe because you did. Maybe it was one of the only things you could control.

The timer on the rice cooker dinged softly. You stirred the soup twice clockwise, the way his mom taught you, and poured it into the bowl with a practiced hand.

Your fingers moved on autopilot, mind elsewhere—on the way he hadn’t said a full sentence to you since yesterday, on the two lines that had appeared on the pregnancy test this morning, on the ache in your chest that didn’t seem to go away lately.

You placed the tray on the table. He was already seated, eyes locked on the TV.

He’d changed into his sweatpants and that faded FC Bastard München hoodie—the one you used to steal to sleep in before it stopped smelling like him and started smelling like his stress.

“Dinner,” you said gently, the word slipping out like a question.

He didn’t respond. Not because he was upset. Because he was watching. Studying. Dissecting every angle of his mistake.

You could hear the commentator's voice describing the play in German, but Yoichi didn’t need words. He already knew what he did wrong.

He was reliving it. Frame by frame. Thought by thought.

You sat across from him and ate in silence.

When you were eighteen, he would’ve teased you for using too much soy sauce.

He would’ve touched your ankle under the table.

He would’ve told you his dumb post-match jokes in that awkward way of his, hoping to make you laugh even when he lost.

Now, he barely remembered you were there.

You kept your eyes on your food. The chopsticks shook slightly in your hand. Not from fear. From restraint.

You weren’t afraid of him. Not Yoichi. Never.

But you were afraid of this... version of him.

The one who had slowly, unrelentingly, replaced the boy you loved.

He hadn’t always been like this.

Back in high school, he used to skip his cooldown jog to walk you home.

He carried your books in his soccer bag and bought you taiyaki after every match.

He used to call you at 1 AM just to say, "I can't sleep if I don't hear your voice."

He kissed you like he had time.

Like he didn’t know the world was coming for him, teeth bared, ready to chew him up and spit him back out as a star.

Now, he kissed you in fragments—when he was euphoric from victory or desperate after a loss.

He kissed you like he was trying to remember something he used to be.

There were good days. Of course, there were.

When he scored, when his team won, when the crowd chanted his name and he walked off the field beaming—you saw him again.

The boy you married. He'd hold you in the locker room hallway, sweaty and breathless, whispering, “Did you see that?” like you weren’t watching every second of him with your whole heart.

He'd bury his face in your neck that night, voice cracking as he thanked you for waiting. For believing. For being here.

Those days, you let yourself forget.

But wins were getting fewer now. The game was changing. So was he.

And now, he lost more than he won.

Which meant you lost him more often than not.

He didn’t eat much that night. Just picked at the food while the replay looped again. When it ended, the room went still.

He leaned back and exhaled, frustrated.

“I should’ve passed earlier.”

His voice was hoarse. You could tell he hadn’t spoken in hours.

You nodded, gentle. “Maybe. But you’re still him, you know?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

For the first time all day, you saw him behind his eyes. Your husband.

Not the striker. Not the man the world expected him to be. Just Yoichi.

He reached across the table and took your hand. His touch was warm and grounding.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles like he was apologizing for forgetting how to be tender.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know I haven’t been…”

“You don’t have to say it,” you replied. “I know.”

You did. You always had.

But it still stung to know love didn’t always protect you from being invisible.

Later, when he was asleep beside you, one arm slung across your waist and his head buried against your shoulder, you stared up at the ceiling and pressed a hand to your stomach.

Eight weeks. That tiny baby was already growing.

Already real. Already yours.

And you didn’t know how to tell him.

Because this man—the one who fell asleep still frowning even in his dreams—he wasn’t ready to hear it.

You could wait. You always waited. Through every loss, every silence, every ache.

So maybe you’d wait just a little longer.

Maybe after the next win, you thought. Maybe then you’ll tell him.

The morning of his next match, you woke to the familiar rustle of his pre-game routine.

The clink of his water bottle against the counter.

The zip of his duffel.

The quiet hum of him pacing the living room while reviewing formations in his head. Y

ou lay there in bed, unmoving, listening to him breathe like you used to when you were kids sharing late-night calls and falling asleep mid-conversation.

He always moved differently on game days — like he was already sprinting, even when standing still. Like the world couldn’t keep up with the storm inside him.

You rolled onto your back, your hand automatically brushing over your stomach.

Eight weeks and three days. Still just a secret between you and the slow, turning universe.

You had a plan this time.

If he won, you'd tell him.

You met him at the stadium entrance, as always. He jogged up to the gate, earbuds in, face focused but softer when he saw you.

“Morning,” he said, barely out of breath.

You held out his good luck charm — a braided bracelet you'd made in high school, black and navy.

It was frayed now, but he still tied it to his water bottle every match.

“You forgot,” you said, gently scolding.

His expression flickered—guilt, then affection. “Didn’t forget. Just wanted to see you hold it again.”

He kissed your cheek. Quick. Thoughtless. Rushed.

But it was something.

You watched him walk into the stadium, duffel slung over his shoulder, shoulders squared. You watched until the last trace of him disappeared into the tunnel.

And you whispered to yourself, Please win.

The match wasn’t perfect. But he played with fire in his veins. And this time — this time — it worked.

He scored.

One clean, brilliant strike. Just outside the box. You saw it leave his foot and knew before the net even rippled.

The crowd screamed. His name echoed, thick and powerful, like a storm had broken over the field.

He stood there, fists clenched, head tilted back toward the sky.

And for one beautiful second, he looked like the boy who used to practice free kicks in the park with you after school, sweaty and sunburned and beaming.

He won.

And for once, he smiled like it meant everything.

That night, you cooked again — something heavier. Celebration food.

You even played the playlist he made you once during your first year in Germany, the one with old Japanese love songs and soft instrumental tracks.

You set the table with two candles, flickering gently in the low light. The whole apartment smelled like home — miso and garlic and sweet soy.

When he walked in, it felt like he brought a different kind of energy with him. Lighter. Looser.

“You did it,” you said, trying not to sound too breathless. “That goal was—Yoichi, it was beautiful.”

He leaned against the kitchen doorframe, still wearing his team hoodie and sweat-slick hair.

“It felt good,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he always did when he was happy but didn’t know how to say it.

You crossed the space between you and wrapped your arms around his waist.

And this time, he held you back.

Tight.

He smelled like grass and victory and warmth. You wanted to stay there forever.

He kissed your temple. “Thank you for always being here.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Just breathed against his chest.

Now, you told yourself. Tell him now.

You pulled back enough to look at him.

Your hand hovered over your stomach — your body ready to speak even before your mouth could catch up.

“Yoichi,” you whispered. “I have to tell you something.”

His eyes searched yours. The room felt heavy with possibility.

“I—”

But then he moved.

Still smiling, still gentle, but already reaching for his phone.

“Sorry—just real quick. They uploaded the post-match footage already. I wanna review the press angle of the goal.”

And just like that, the moment passed.

He didn’t mean to interrupt. He didn’t realize.

But the look in your eyes dimmed. Your hand dropped back to your side.

You watched him walk over to the couch, already immersed in another game, another analysis, another version of himself.

Dinner was warm. The candles flickered. Your plate was full.

But you ate alone again.

Later that night, he curled around you in bed like nothing had changed.

And maybe it hadn’t.

He whispered something sleepy into your shoulder. “Did good today, right?”

“You did amazing,” you said, lips brushing his knuckles as you held his hand against your stomach. You wanted to say it again — to try.

But he was already asleep.

And your voice caught in your throat like it wasn’t ready to fight the silence a second time.

You didn’t cry. Not really.

You just lay there, eyes open, thinking of how long it had been since he looked at you and really saw you. Not as someone who supported him. Not as his anchor or his comfort.

But as his person.

The girl he fell in love with in the empty gym after school.

The one he used to text poetry to, shy and anonymous.

The one he swore he’d never forget.

You turned your head and whispered into the dark, “I miss you.”

Yoichi stirred slightly, tightening his hold around your waist.

But he didn’t wake.

There was something strange about the days before a game.

He always moved through them like a shadow — present, but only in shape. You would speak to him in the morning and realize hours later he never answered.

You’d make dinner, and he’d eat on autopilot.

You’d sit beside him on the couch, trying to rest your head against his shoulder, only for him to lean forward and scroll through clips on his phone instead.

It wasn’t unkind. Just…empty.

And you were getting used to being second to the game. You’d started counting things in silences — like the number of days it had been since he asked you how you were.

Or the number of times you’d caught him glancing at his phone during your conversations.

You weren’t bitter. Just tired.

Pregnancy had been a lonely experience so far.

The quiet kind of lonely, where even though you lived in the same apartment and shared the same bed, it felt like you were always reaching for someone just a few steps ahead.

You wanted to believe he’d be excited. That maybe if you could just get the timing right, he’d stop the world long enough to really hear you.

So you waited again.

One more game.

He played poorly. You saw it from the first fifteen minutes.

His body was off. His passes weren’t connecting. He was late to the press. You could see it in his face — every step weighed down with frustration.

Every mistake making him spiral tighter into himself.

And then they lost.

Badly.

You watched the scoreboard blink red.

You watched him walk off the field with his head down, ignoring his teammates, jaw locked tight.

The post-game press didn’t call for him. He was too keyed up to speak clearly anyway.

You knew he’d just want to go home.

So that’s what you did.

The silence in the car was unbearable.

You sat beside him, hands clasped over your stomach, while he gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him together.

The streetlights passed over his face in quick intervals — light, shadow, light — but he didn’t say a word.

Not even a sigh.

When you reached your building, he parked and got out without waiting for you.

Didn’t open the door. Didn’t glance back.

Just went ahead and disappeared into the elevator.

You followed him upstairs with a quiet, mounting ache in your chest.

He didn’t take off his shoes when he came in. He dropped his duffel at the door and headed straight to the living room.

The TV was already on. The game was queued up.

You stood in the hallway, watching him fast forward to the 42nd minute.

You hadn’t even taken off your coat.

“Yoichi,” you said softly, stepping forward. “Hey, can we just—”

“Leave me alone.”

It was sharp. Immediate. Not yelled, not cruel — but final.

You froze.

Something in you broke.

“God,” you whispered, voice suddenly rising, chest aching. “If you can’t take the losses, why don’t you quit, huh?”

He turned to look at you for the first time all evening — stunned.

Caught off guard.

You didn’t stop.

“Do you think I like walking on eggshells every time your team loses? Do you think I enjoy watching you become a stranger after every mistake?”

His eyes narrowed, the same look he got when someone fouled him hard and the ref didn’t call it.

You kept going.

“You don’t talk. You don’t touch me. You come home and shut me out like I’m the enemy, like I’m the one who missed the pass—”

“I need to focus—”

“I need you,” you snapped.

And then it came.

The words spilled out before you could stop them.

“If you act like this… how are you supposed to be a dad?”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

He just stared at you.

And you stared back.

No rewind button. No replay. No edits.

You felt your throat go dry. Your eyes stung. But you didn’t cry.

Not this time.

He sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, as if the strength left his body all at once.

“...What did you say?”

You didn’t move.

“I’m pregnant,” you said, the words solid, heavy, trembling. “Ten weeks.”

Still, he said nothing.

You stepped forward, voice lower now. Sadder.

“I wanted to tell you. I kept waiting for the right moment. After a win. After a smile. After something that felt like… you were still in this with me.”

His hands dropped to his lap. Fingers clenched together. His breathing was uneven.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” you whispered. “I didn’t want the first time you heard it to be in the middle of a fight.”

He looked up slowly, his expression unreadable.

“Why didn’t you just tell me sooner?”

You shook your head. “Because you’ve been gone. You come home every night, but you’re still gone. I thought if I waited long enough, maybe you’d come back.”

That night, you slept in the spare room. Not because he told you to. Not because he raised his voice.

But because when he finally stood and walked past you, heading for the bathroom, he didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a single word.

You sat on the edge of the bed in the cold dark, your hands on your belly, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” even though you didn’t know who it was meant for.

You were so tired of being the one who waited.

The next morning.

You woke up to the sound of the front door closing.

He was already gone.

No note. No text. No promise to come back.

Just you and the sound of the heating kicking on. The silence stretched long, unforgiving, across the whole apartment.

You didn’t eat breakfast.

You just sat at the table, turning your wedding ring around your finger, wondering if he’d even worn his today.

You remembered the first time he told you he loved you.

It was after a loss.

He missed the penalty that would’ve sent them to nationals. He was quiet, more than usual.

Everyone else had gone home, but you stayed, pacing the field alone until you found him sitting against the fence, knees to his chest.

You sat beside him without saying a word. Let the silence hold you both.

After a long pause, he said, “I’m not good enough.”

You shook your head. “Not true.”

He turned, eyes glossy, voice raw. “But you still love me anyway?”

You smiled through the ache. “Yeah. I always will.”

He kissed you, trembling, teeth knocking against yours. And he said, “Then I think I’m gonna be okay.”

You looked down at your stomach now.

Ten weeks. And counting.

You wanted that boy back. The one who found hope in your love.

But right now… you didn’t know if he remembered how.

The silence in the apartment was almost reverent, like even the walls were mourning the words that had been said.

You hadn’t meant to say them—not like that.

Not in a scream, not with your hands trembling at your sides and your throat burning from the effort it took to say what had lived at the back of your heart for weeks now.

But Isagi hadn’t even flinched when you said it.

He just stood there in the living room after the match—shoulders slumped, hair still damp from the shower, his duffel bag half-unzipped at his feet—and said nothing.

He didn't fight back. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t cry.

He just said, “I said leave me alone.”

And so you did.

You packed a bag the next day.

You couldn’t even remember what you brought with you, only that the quiet of the hallway outside your front door felt louder than anything he’d said in the past two weeks.

You didn’t slam the door. You didn’t text him after. There wasn’t a dramatic exit. Just silence.

You stayed with a friend the first night.

Then two.

Then it was five.

No messages from him.

Not even a read receipt.

And you hated how your phone still lit up in your hand every time the screen buzzed—even if it was just your bank or a weather alert.

You hated the way your chest clenched when you saw a soccer related headline in your feed, and even more the way your eyes scanned every photo, every blurry zoom-in shot of the match, hoping for a glimpse of his face.

You saw him on a sports interview two days later. He looked tired. His smile was forced.

When the reporter asked about the loss, his jaw twitched.

They asked him if anything had changed in his routine.

He said no.

Isagi didn’t change anything in the apartment.

Your slippers still sat by the door, your toothbrush was still tucked beside his, your half-read book was still on the nightstand, your cardigan still draped over the kitchen chair. He didn’t move any of it.

But he didn’t touch it either.

He walked around your presence like it was a ghost—afraid to disturb it, and too stubborn to let himself miss you.

He didn’t sleep well.

The bed was too cold. Too quiet.

His dreams always hovered on the edge of something—your voice, your warmth, the way you used to curl into his side with a sigh that made the world feel small and safe.

Now it all felt vast and hollow.

And that night—three days after you left—he stood in the doorway of what would’ve been the baby’s room.

The same one you painted together.

The same one where you’d sat on the floor with catalogues, talking names and middle names and whose nose you hoped they’d inherit.

He stared at the room in silence, eyes glassy.

Then he shut the door.

Meanwhile, You…

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked when you said it.

The line that echoed, again and again.

"If you act like this… how are you supposed to be a dad?"

You didn’t even cry that first night away from him. You just laid in bed, your friend asleep in the other room, and stared at the ceiling with guilt blooming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

Because you didn’t mean it like that.

You weren’t trying to say he wouldn’t be a good father.

You were trying to say—he couldn’t shut down. Not with you. Not with a child.

You wanted him to fight for more than just the game.

You wanted him to fight for you.

Day Five

It was raining.

Of course it was raining.

You’d left work late, shoes soaked from stepping in a deep puddle, and your umbrella had snapped back in the wind, rendering it useless.

The walk home was wet and cold and miserable—and when you finally reached the door to the apartment you weren’t even staying in, you saw him.

Isagi.

Sitting on the steps like a drenched ghost.

Hood pulled over his head. Face downcast. Knees to his chest.

You froze under the awning, staring at him.

He didn’t look up right away. Not until you stepped closer and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

He slowly raised his head.

His eyes were glassy, rimmed red. He looked exhausted.

“…I didn’t know where else to go.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

The rain dripped from his sleeves. His fingers twitched once, like he wanted to reach for you, but wasn’t sure if he should.

“Yoichi,” you breathed, “you shouldn’t be out here. You’re soaked—”

“I deserve it.”

It came out rough. Hoarse.

And then finally—his voice cracked.

“I deserved every word you said.”

You didn’t speak.

He wiped at his face with his sleeve like it could undo the past week. “I didn’t know how to handle it. The loss. The pressure. I—I kept thinking if I could just make it work, if I could just keep winning, I could fix everything. I thought I could carry it all. I thought I had to.”

You took a step closer.

He looked up at you like a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood.

“I didn’t mean to push you away,” he said, his voice barely above the rain. “I didn’t mean to make you feel alone. I was scared. And I took it out on you.”

Your throat closed up.

“I still want this,” he whispered. “You. Our family. I want it so badly it hurts.”

Silence fell again.

And then, softly—

“I don’t know how to be a dad yet. But I want to learn.”

You knelt beside him, rain soaking into your jeans, and reached out to cup his face in your hands.

His skin was cold, wet from more than just the storm.

He leaned into your touch like it was the first warmth he’d felt in days.

“You could’ve just said you were scared,” you whispered. “You don’t have to be perfect, Yoichi. You just have to be here.”

“I’m here,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m here now.”

And for the first time in days, you believed him.

The apartment was quiet again, but not the kind of silence that crushed your chest the way it had before.

Not like the nights he’d shut himself in the spare room, not like when you'd lie in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if love was enough to weather a storm like him.

This time, it was peaceful.

You were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket, the soft echo of your baby’s heartbeat still thudding in your ears from the appointment earlier.

You’d gone alone to many of the appointments. Been so used to being alone.

Except this time…he showed up.

Isagi Yoichi had missed three matches. The news had said “minor injury,” but everyone knew he’d played through worse.

A sprain, a sore knee, even a bruised rib once.

He never let it sideline him.

But this time—he chose to sit out.

He walked into that exam room timidly, like a guest in a stranger’s house, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie.

His eyes flicked nervously from the walls to the monitor to you. Then to your belly. Then away.

You hadn’t spoken much since the fight.

Just a few words here and there.

Texts about groceries. A quiet nod in passing.

You weren’t sure what it meant—if he was retreating again or simply trying not to mess it up more than he already had.

The doctor greeted you both kindly.

She placed the gel on your stomach with gloved fingers and angled the wand over the curve of your belly.

You flinched slightly at the cold, but your eyes remained on the screen.

And then, there it was.

A grainy silhouette, a heartbeat strong and steady, fluttering across the screen like a drum.

Isagi froze beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, his gaze fixated on the monitor, his lips parted like he was trying to speak but couldn’t quite breathe.

His hand slowly, slowly reached out and wrapped around your wrist, holding on as if anchoring himself.

“…That’s… ours?” His voice broke. Completely cracked down the middle.

The doctor smiled kindly. “That’s your baby, Mr. Isagi. Looks healthy.”

“Do we… do we know—?”

“No sir, not for another few weeks,” she chuckled gently. “But everything’s progressing right on schedule.”

Isagi didn’t respond. His hand tightened around your wrist just slightly, his shoulders shaking.

And then—he cried.

You’d seen him angry. You’d seen him gutted from losses, curled over himself with rage and shame.

But you had never seen this.

Not tears of failure.

Not tears of frustration.

These were quiet.

These were soft, genuine tears falling down his face as he watched the smallest proof that he still had time to be someone good.

To be someone better. To be a father.

When you left the clinic, he insisted on holding the ultrasound photo, cradling it with a strange reverence you hadn’t seen in months.

He even smiled—just a little—while walking with you to the car.

That was when the flash went off.

The moment the light burst across your face, your gut dropped. Then came the sound of snapping shutters.

At least five photographers, you guessed, hiding behind parked cars.

"Isagi! Isagi! Is it true you’re going to be a father?!"

"Who's she to you? Is this your wife?!"

You turned your face away on instinct, but Isagi didn’t flinch. He didn’t shove past or let you walk alone.

Instead, he looked at you with this sort of soft question in his eyes—asking permission—and when you didn’t say no, he leaned in and kissed you. Right there on the sidewalk.

His hand around your waist, the ultrasound photo held up beside your joined faces.

And twenty minutes later, the internet exploded.

Rumors. Speculation. Headlines.

Your inbox filled up with friends asking if it was true, if you were really having a baby, if he really walked away from three games just to be with you.

He didn't wait to control the narrative.

Instead, he posted the picture himself.

📸 @ isagi_yoichi

the rumors are true.

The comments poured in instantly.

Some were cruel, but most were warm. Supportive. Overwhelming, even.

You saw your name trending, saw pictures of you from high school being shared and reposted.

You didn’t expect the news to spread like this. But strangely—you weren’t afraid.

Because for once, he wasn’t hiding.

Later that night, you sat at the kitchen table together in that same apartment where it had all started—the laughter, the fights, the cold walls and broken promises.

He reached across the table and held your hand.

“I know I hurt you,” he said softly. “I’ve been hurting you for a long time.”

You swallowed, your fingers lacing with his slowly.

“I thought I had to be perfect. Or else I’d lose everything. But I ended up pushing you away every time I failed… I was trying to protect you from the worst parts of me.”

“But Yoichi… I didn’t need perfect,” you said. “I just needed you to stay.”

He nodded, eyes glossy but steady. “I’m going to leave it all on the field from now on. My anger, my frustration, my self-hate. I won’t bring that home to you anymore. I won’t punish you because I couldn’t win.”

You squeezed his hand. “You’re not just a player. You’re going to be a dad.”

His eyes softened. “I want to be the kind of father they’ll be proud of. And I want to be a partner you can count on.”

He paused, then added, “I talked to my coach. I told him I’m not playing unless I’m ready. Not just physically, but here too.” He pointed to his head, then his chest. “I need to be whole—for all of us.”

The weeks that followed weren’t perfect. But they were better.

You cooked dinner together again. He came to every appointment. He fell asleep once with your head on his chest and his hand resting on your stomach, murmuring promises into the dark.

When he returned to the field, he scored—but didn’t watch the replays.

He walked straight past the film room and into the car where you waited for him, and drove home humming to the playlist you'd made together long ago.

The storm hadn’t passed completely. There were still bad nights, off days, hard conversations.

But he was trying.

And you were trying.

And that, more than anything, was enough.

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