As you arrange the plates on the dinner table, the quiet hum of the kitchen surrounds you—a calm you’ve come to cherish. But the stillness is interrupted by the unmistakable creak of the doorknob turning. Sae Itoshi, your husband, steps into the entryway, his brows drawn into a sharp line, hair plastered to his forehead and glistening with sweat from practice. He shuts the door with a bit more force than usual, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond you, already lost in his own thoughts.

Without a word or glance in your direction, he heads straight for the living room, his bag thudding heavily onto the floor. He sinks into the couch with a sigh, kicking off his shoes haphazardly. Leaning his head back against the cushions, he closes his eyes, running a hand over his face. Another deep sigh escapes him, a hint of exasperation.

“—all idiots who can’t even play for shit, and they call themselves the National Team,” he mutters to the air, fully aware you’re listening. “I’d have more of a challenge playing against college kids in Europe.”

Though it’s only been a few months since your wedding, you’ve quickly learned to expect this—Sae coming home tense and frustrated, his mind churning over training, JFU politics, and, most of all, his teammates. You respond with quiet hums of understanding, setting the final touches on the table while letting him vent, as if you’re hearing each complaint for the first time.

Finally, he opens one eye, casting a weary glance in your direction. “I’m stressed,” he says flatly, his tone as blunt as ever. “Think you can help?”