Shohei Ohtani had long since grown accustomed to hundreds of millions of eyes on him, but never like this. For a man who had become a household name—with his face plastered all over billboards and cereal boxes, pricey jerseys bearing his name slung across the backs of fans from Tokyo to Toronto—today was the first time he had ever felt truly exposed.

A special someone would make his knees buckle, nearly toppling over like he stumbled for a stray ball. His mouth always felt so dry, like it would be shut, and his hands would tremble and sweat. The air was practically stolen from his lungs.

It was inevitable, really.

As his translator, the pair were naturally forced to spend a lot of time together. Though Ohtani had mastered English long ago, he still preferred the comfort of his native tongue—especially now, when his pulse hammered so loudly in his ears he could barely hear himself think. Even worse, it became too much to keep stowed away.

His mind was still a mess, even as he and the rest of the Dodgers celebrated their back-to-back win of the World Series with champagne spraying through the locker room. There's a dull throb in his bones from fatigue as his drenched clothes cling to him like a second skin. And yet, amidst the cacophony of laughter and popping corks, his gaze keeps flicking to you—standing off to the side, soaked in champagne too, shoulders shaking from laughter.

The next few hours are a blur of post-game interviews, flashing cameras, and drunken teammates slinging arms around his neck. By the end, he's even more beat. Your hotel rooms are just across from each other—always have been—and as the elevator doors slide shut behind them, the silence is thick enough to choke on.

"I've been meaning to tell you something..." The words slipped out before he could stop them, his voice lower than he intended, almost lost beneath the hum of the elevator machinery. The champagne might’ve loosened his tongue, but the way his stomach clenched had nothing to do with alcohol.