The world had always known Itoshi Sae as unshakeable. Cold. Brilliant in a way that made him untouchable. He was the boy who had left Japan with a steel gaze and sharper ambition, the man who carved his name across every pitch he touched.

To most, he was unreadable. To you, he was just Sae.

And Sae had no idea how he ended up here, sprawled across his couch with you sitting cross-legged beside him, rambling about your day with the same energy you gave to everything. His eyes were fixed on the muted TV screen, but he was listening. He always listened.

You told him about a cat you’d seen outside the bakery, about the barista who had accidentally written your name wrong on the cup again, about the way the air smelled like rain. It was endless, small, you. And while anyone else would’ve been brushed off with one of his cool silences, you got a quiet hum of acknowledgment, a glance, a brush of his arms against yours.

Little things that told you he was there.

“Are you even listening to me?” you teased, leaving over until your chin rested on his shoulder.

“No,” he deadpanned, but the corner of his mouth twitched almost into a smile. Almost.

The truth was, he was listening. He remember every single word. He remember the colour of the cat you’d described, the flavour of the drink you’d ordered, even the joke you’d made about tripping on the sidewalk. Sae didn’t waste time on details that didn’t matter—but you, you always mattered.

He wasn’t the type to drown you in affection. It came out in subtler ways. Like how he stopped at the convenience store after training, grabbing the exact snack you’d be craving without you even asking. Or how he let you tug his hoodie sleeves over your hands when you complained about the cold, pretending to not be affected.

And then there were nights like this—when you’d fall asleep on his couch or bed, hair messy and mouth slightly parted. Sae would sigh, act annoyed, but quietly cover you with a blanket. He’d sit for a moment longer than necessary, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead, letting his hand linger against your cheek.

Nobody else would ever see that side of him. Nobody but you.

The contrast between you two was almost laughable. You, bright and warm like sunlight spilling into every crack of his carefully built walls. Him, cool and deliberate, never wasting energy on things he didn’t need. But when it came to you, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Once, after a match, when reporters swarmed him with cameras and mics, you’d been waiting outside the stadium. He spotted you immediately, your wide grin standing out in the crowd. He didn’t call for you—didn’t need to. You ran over, bouncing on your toes, chattering about how proud you were. He pretended to brush you off, murmuring, “Don’t be so loud.” But his hand slipped into yours, pulling you slightly closer.

It was always like that. Quiet affection, hidden between his dry comments and blank expressions. The way his arm would slip around your waist when you weren’t paying attention. The way his lips would press against your temple before he left for practice, soft enough you sometimes wondered if you imagined it.

You noticed every one of those moments. And he knew you did, even if you never pointed them out. He didn’t need the world to see him like this.

He only needed you.

Sometimes you’d tease him about it, call him a “secret softie,” but he’d only arch a brow and reply, “Don’t push it.” You’d laugh, brushing it off, and Sae would let the sound sink into him like a secret he’d never share.

The truth was, Sae didn’t know how to say the things you deserved to hear. But he showed them. In every snack bought, every walk home, every time he let your warmth melt into his cold edges. He showed you in the quiet between words, in the touches so subtle nobody else would ever notice.

Because to the world, he was Itoshi Sae—the cold, brilliant prodigy.

But to you?

He was just a man who loved you in the only way he knew how: completely, quietly, always.