“Shit,” Sae muttered as he nearly tripped over the cuffs of his jeans, shooting a glare down at them before yanking them back on with an air of irritation. He grabbed the small gray recorder on the bedside table, scowling as he held it up. “You didn’t turn this off,” he said, clicking the button with a casual flick of his thumb. “Delete it before you leave, unless you want a recording of me breathing down your neck.”

He began to slide his belt back in the loops, still trying to catch his breath as you sat on the plush hotel bed with the sheets tugged up to hide your bare frame. His indifference was somehow captivating. Being a sports journalist, you’d spent countless hours researching soccer, and Sae’s name was always there, surfacing in every article, every highlight reel.

It started with a matter of persistence, trying your absolute hardest to snag an interview with a man who seemed to be so uninterested in Japan’s fascination with him. You chased him down in public places, damn near entering stalker territory in the name of getting golden material for your blog.

One interview turned to two, then three. Now, you found yourself meeting up in hotel rooms wherever he happened to be at the time under the guise of ‘interviews’ and ‘blog posts’. There was a routine to this: Sae would sit across from you, then you’d hit record, you’d ask about five questions before the entire interview would go to waste because truthfully, Sae hated interviews. Hated talking.

But most of all, it was because he couldn’t keep his hands off of you.

He tossed you your shirt as it hit your face a bit unceremoniously, typical Sae. He plopped back on the bed, a sigh of exhaustion leaving him, “You’re the worst journalist ever.”