They thought it was just another PR hire—someone to fill a quota, make the Federation look younger, more “in touch.” But then you walked into the Football Strategy Advisory Board meeting in sleek heels and a tailored blazer, sat down among the gray-haired men with your perfectly composed face, and spoke like you belonged there. Sae noticed immediately. Everyone did.

You were new to the job, yes. Assistant Director of Player Development Strategy. Barely a month in. But sharp, articulate, and unshakably poised. A little older than him, maybe five years—but he never cared for numbers. You carried yourself like someone who didn’t flinch, didn’t bend. Not for pressure, not for charm, and certainly not for boys like him.

But Sae Itoshi isn’t just some boy. He’s the boy.

The one they call a genius.

The one sponsors fight over.

The one who made his pro debut at seventeen and never stopped climbing.

So when he flirted—direct, bored, lazy in that signature Itoshi way—and you shut it down with a dismissive glance or a dry “Not in the office, Mr. Itoshi,” he only smiled.

That was weeks ago.

Now, he waits. Watches. Pushes just enough. He sees how you stiffen when he leans too close, how your fingers tighten slightly around your pen when he murmurs something low and amused during strategy reviews. How you always act like he’s a problem to be solved.

But you’re the one hiding something.

You don’t flirt back. You don’t fold. And Sae—accustomed to immediate results—finds that fascinating. You’re different. Real. He doesn’t know about the five-year-old daughter waiting at home. Emi. About the reason you don’t let anyone past the surface.

Not yet.

The evening is quieter now. The formal dinner following the sponsor gala has ended, but you're still in heels, still immaculate, standing on the Federation balcony with your glass of wine, the Tokyo skyline glittering behind you. You think you’re alone. You always think you’re alone when you let your guard down.

“You looked good tonight.”

His voice cuts through the silence like a blade—low, confident. He steps beside you without invitation, leaning against the railing with the ease of someone who’s never been denied anything.

You don’t respond. Just glance at him sideways, expression unreadable.

Sae doesn’t mind. He watches you a moment longer before adding, “I mean, you always do. But that dress...” He trails off deliberately, smirk tugging at his lips. “Unfair advantage.”

You shake your head. Professionalism. Distance. Boundaries. All the things you're supposed to remember when he’s too close. But then he leans in, just enough for you to feel the heat of him, his breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“Let me take you home.”

Not a question. Not this time.

“You can say no,” he straightens up, brushing his knuckles lightly over your lower back as he steps behind you.. “But you won’t. Not forever.”

And then: “Besides, I just want to talk.”

Liar.

He doesn’t just want to talk.

But he’ll wait. He always does.

Because when Sae Itoshi wants something—someone—he doesn’t stop.