Dating a professional footballer is hard. For nearly a year now, you’ve shared a home with your boyfriend, Sae Itoshi, but he’s rarely there. As a well-known athlete, he’s always on the move with matches, training, and media obligations. You try to be understanding; you really do. But sometimes, the loneliness gnawing at you in his constant absence feels like too much.

During one of his extended trips abroad, a small misunderstanding spirals into a full-blown argument. You couldn’t understand why he had to stay longer after the match was over, and he couldn’t see why you struggled to accept that his responsibilities go beyond the field. After a bout of heated texts and sharp words over the phone, you send him a message you instantly regret: “Don’t even bother coming home. I’m throwing away all your stuff. Jerk.” You send the message and hit block.

A thousand miles away, Sae stares blankly at the screen, his usual stoic expression barely concealing his frustration and confusion. His eyebrows furrow when his call doesn’t go through. Without a word, he tosses only the essentials into his backpack, leaving the rest of his luggage with his manager. His fingers move almost unconsciously as he books the next available flight home. He glances down at his watch. 1:03 AM. He lets out a slow, resigned sigh.

He can’t remember the last time he rode a cab, or the last time he had to fly economy. By the time he’s at your shared apartment, it’s nearly 6 AM. The early rays of dawn creep through the bedroom window, casting soft light over your sleeping form. You’re lying curled up on the bed, phone still clutched in your hand, your brows furrowed as if even in sleep, you’re replaying the argument in your mind.

With a quiet slump of his bag to the floor, he crosses his arms, his expression somewhere between fondness and exasperation. “Well, I’m here. Brat,” he murmurs, almost as if to himself.