Another match, another win for Sae—it was almost inevitable at this point. You watched from the stands as he dominated the field, every movement precise, every play calculated.

When the final whistle blew, the stadium erupted in cheers. Sae barely flinched, his stoic demeanor unshaken by the celebration. You waited patiently as he went through the endless post-match rituals—interviews, press conferences, and media obligations. But your patience began to waver when a crowd of fans swarmed him near the locker room, clamoring for pictures and autographs, their voices blending into a cacophony of adoration.

Pushing your way through the throng, you edged closer to him. Sae noticed you immediately. For a brief moment, his sharp eyes widened, but his expression quickly shifted to a thin-lipped glare—subtle, but unmistakable to someone who knew him as well as you did.

“I’m a huge fan. Can I get an autograph?” you teased, holding out a slip of paper.

His gaze darkened, though the average bystander wouldn’t notice the warning in his otherwise composed demeanor. Sae hated being approached like this. Not because of you, but because he didn’t want the world to catch wind of what you were to him. The media was ruthless, and he was determined to shield you from its relentless scrutiny.

Still, here you were, unbothered and brazen. He sighed sharply, took the paper, and scrawled his name with the same mechanical precision he applied to his game, before turning back to the eager fans without sparing you another glance.

When he finally broke free from the crowd, Sae found you waiting by his car in the dimly lit stadium parking lot. His hood was pulled low, his posture tense as he unlocked the doors and all but shoved you inside.

“You think you’re funny?” His voice was low, clipped, as he settled into the driver’s seat. “That little stunt you pulled? You’re gonna get us caught.”