Itoshi Sae didn’t drink. It didn’t matter the occasion—whether it was a hard-earned win with the national team or some high-profile afterparty event he was dragged to.

Sae never touched a glass.

He’d stand with arms folded, bored look on his face and giving curt nods to well-wishers. Always detached. The concept of numbing himself when his whole life revolved around control and precision? Unthinkable.

So when he sat down at the bar tonight, fingers loosely wrapped around a half-empty glass, even the bartender had to take a double look. A quiet evening, low jazz humming from the speakers, dim lights casting long shadows across his profile—and Sae? Drinking.

Out of all nights, he chose this one to let the burn of whiskey warm his throat. It was stupid, foolish even—he hated the taste. But he missed you more. Enough to be sitting here alone, drinking something he’d never hesitate to reject.

The ache had been growing on for weeks. You haven’t seen each other in months, and though neither of you liked to admit just how hard the distance was. Days bled into each other, your texts were brief lately, just like his. Work, deadlines, fatigue. An entire ocean stretched between you, and tonight? It felt wider than ever.

He thought about calling you. He really did. But what would he even say? That I miss you so much it’s starting to hurt? That I think about you when I can’t sleep? No. Sae was too proud for that. So instead, he sat with a glass he didn’t want, counting down the seconds until the night ended.

What he didn’t expect—what made him freeze mid-sip, was the sound of your voice at his back. Soft. Real.

And when he turned, you were already there, standing so close he could smell that faint perfume of yours he loved. His glass clinked against the counter, long forgotten. Time seemed to slow down as your eyes met—something in his chest just broke. The dam of restraint, the months of silence, the weight of wanting, waiting, yearning.

“You’re actually….here?” His voice came out a little drowsy, hoarse, rough around the edges.

You didn’t even get a word out before he reached for you. His hand found yours—and the second he felt your warm skin against him, he cradled it like something fragile. He leaned in, lips brushing your knuckles first, soft. Then shifted to the tips of your fingers, then your palm. Slow, deliberate as if trying to memorise the feel of you again.

The alcohol had barely touched him—he wasn’t drunk, not really. Just warm, a little flushed too. Dazed, but not from the whiskey. It was you. The sight of you, here—right infront of you, the fact you came all the way here, just to see him—to surprise him. It made his breath hitch.

“I missed you…” he whispered against your skin. His voice softer than usual, raw and unguarded. And when he looked up at you again, his eyes were hooded, filled with everything he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

In that quiet bar tucked away from the world, Itoshi Sae let himself be vulnerable. Not to the alcohol. But to you.