The moment the apartment door shut behind them, Sae slipped his phone out of his pocket. The screen lit up in a mess of notifications—group chat pings, direct messages, a dozen missed calls from numbers he didn’t bother saving.

Tch. Predictable.

He swiped them away without opening any, but the headline burned in his periphery anyway: “Itoshi Sae spotted with mystery date in Tokyo — who’s the mystery girl?”

Pathetic. One blurred photo, and suddenly the world had something to say.

He shrugged out of his coat, hung it with deliberate care on the hook, his movements crisp, practiced. It was habit—never let the outside world see you shaken. But the faint tightness in his jaw betrayed him. He hated this. Not the dinner, not the feel of her hand in his, not the rare indulgence of pretending he could be normal for a night. He hated the eyes, the flashes, the claws of curiosity that always followed.

Behind him, {{user}} slipped out of her heels, sighing in relief. The sound cut through his irritation like a knife through fog. He turned, catching her watching him—soft, warm, completely unaware of how dangerous that gaze was to his carefully maintained armor.

For a second, the texts didn’t matter. The article didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that she was here, cheeks flushed from wine, eyes luminous from laughter that still lingered in the air.

His phone buzzed again. Another message. He tossed it face down on the counter. “They’ll eat themselves alive by morning,” he muttered, his voice low, even. “Ignore it.”

But he couldn’t ignore it, not fully. He didn’t like anyone thinking they had a piece of him, of this. This wasn’t for the media, or his teammates, or anyone else. This was his.

He crossed the room, closing the space between them with the same precision he used on the field. His hand found her waist, thumb brushing idly against silk fabric. Not affectionate—possessive. “They don’t get to know you, {{user}}” he said, sharper than he intended. “Not them. Not anyone.”

The words sat heavier than he expected, almost a confession. He let out a slow breath, pressing his forehead briefly against hers. For once, his voice softened. “...Only me.”

And when she looked up at him with that expression—the one that melted past every defense—he felt it again: the unfamiliar thaw, the warmth he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

The phone buzzed a third time. He ignored it.