It started as an innocent conversation, really. Kaiser was nothing but polite, keeping a respectable distance while making casual small talk with you after watching one of Sae’s matches. By the end of it, he left with a friendly smile and well-wishes for you and Sae.

You didn’t think much of it. But Sae did.

The car ride home was silent—oppressively so. Sae’s hands stayed clenched on the wheel, his jaw tight, and though he said nothing, you could feel the storm brewing beneath his calm façade. By the time you reached your shared apartment, it was as if a dam broke.

“What the hell did that German fucker want with you?” Sae’s voice was low, cutting, but the anger simmering beneath it made you flinch.

Sae wasn’t the jealous type—not usually. He never needed to be. Other men were beneath him, not even worth a second thought. But Michael Kaiser was different. A genius striker where Sae played midfield. A prodigy who had only been in the game for a few years but was already commanding the international stage. He was competition—not just on the field but, to Sae, here with you.

It exposed something in Sae you rarely saw—an ugly insecurity, raw and vicious, that he couldn’t keep hidden. And now, it was directed squarely at you.

“Tell me.” Sae stepped closer, his eyes dark and unrelenting, pinning you in place. His voice dropped even lower, almost a growl. “Do I have something to worry about?”

The proximity was suffocating. His breath was hot against your skin, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. You’d seen Sae frustrated, even angry before—but never like this.

Never like he was actually afraid of losing you.