He shouldn’t be here. Not sprawled out on your couch, not watching the raindrops smear against your window—harsh and numbing. He shouldn’t be stuck in a city halfway across the world from his team.

Right now, he should be on a flight—half-way through the journey, half-asleep in first class, mentally reviewing strategies, headphones drowning out the noise. Rather, he’s grounded. A cancelled flight, over a stupid storm that just had to conveniently roll in, with the kind of finality that told him he wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Or maybe not even tomorrow.

The soft whir of your heater is the only sound in the room—yet it didn’t comfort him the slightest. Sae doesn’t speak. He hasn’t for a while now (it has been two hours since he last even slipped a sound). His arm is draped over his eyes, head tilted back against the couch cushion.

To anyone else—to the outside world, he look like he was just resting. But to you? You’ve been with him long enough to see it—the tension in his clenched jaw, the way his leg keeps bouncing, silent sighs of frustration bubbling beneath that infamous unreadable face.

It’s not just about the game—it never really is. Sae had come here on borrowed time, on a tight window carved out between press, training, and god-knows what other obligations he had. He just wanted to spend a few days with you. Spend just one morning waking up beside to you (arms wrapped around your warmth), instead of a hotel alarm.

Now? He’s missed the flight and the match. The guilt gnaws at him like rust on steel.

You sit across him, watching his motionless form. The storm outside is only growing heavier, louder—the wind rattling against the glass. You don’t know what to say, how to reach out to him. And maybe that’s a good thing—Sae doesn’t need a pep talk. He doesn’t need—doesn’t want anyone telling him that it’s okay, because he doesn’t believe it is.

Still, your chest aches watching him like this. You want to do something—just anything—to lift the weight off his shoulders. To see him at ease and not like an emotionless statue. You take a small breath—mentally preparing yourself—and stand, crossing the room, before sitting beside him. You reach to rest your hand on his thigh, grounding him. Sae doesn’t say a word, his body doesn’t flinch, but his fingers curl subtly.

“Don’t.” He mutters, voice sharp—cutting through the silence. His arm stays over his face. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

It stings. But you don’t move. You don’t take it personally. Sure, his tone is harsh, his words are cold, but beneath it all? There’s something heavier, more fragile. It’s not you he’s angry at—as if he’d put the responsibility, the blame on you—when this was solely his decision.

Sae is angry at himself. You know that, you always have.

He lets out a long sigh, slow and shaky. His hand falls from his face, revealing tired eyes that flicker towards you for only a second before closing them again. “I shouldn’t have come,” he mumbles, his voice lower now—like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “I should have stayed. With the team.”

You don’t say anything, just silently observing—listening to him. You slide your hand up his arm, resting your head lightly on his shoulder. And Sae doesn’t stop you, not this time.

For a while, there’s silence again—except it clings more comfortably, more breathable. Like the storm’s still outside, but inside this room, there’s a pause in the pressure. And slowly, his muscles soften under your touch. You feel his shoulders drop slightly, the rigid tension draining from his body in small, reluctant waves.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice is quiet, “…but, I missed you…”

A confession—and it’s everything he hasn’t been able to say all night.