You knew—understood—the brutal rhythm of Sae’s life.

Airports blurred into stadiums, cameras into interviews, training into matches that demanded more than human endurance. Schedules that carved him into something sharp, relentless, inescapably composed.

And Sae bore it all the only way he knew how—in silence.

It was his nature. He carried pressure like it belonged to him, wore expectations like a second skin.

For years, had he lived like this—untouchable, controlled, unshaken. And still, he always tried to reach you. Late-night texts. A photo sent between flights. The simple good night typed out in his careful way. And you clung to them, each digital trace of him.

But after weeks apart? That only made the absence louder. Words were not his hands. A screen was not his warmth.

So nothing could ever prepare you for the quiet knock at your door.

And when you opened it, your breath hitched.

There he was—Itoshi Sae.

The golden hallway light softened him up, made him look almost breakable. Hair damp from the drizzle outside, stray strands clinging to his forehead. His shoulders slouched, heavy with exhaustion, posture stripped of its usual precision.

And his eyes…how tired they looked, rimmed with shadows, carrying the weight of every sleepless night.

For a long moment, you both just stared at each other. A month had passed since you had last saw him. A month of distance, of separation. And now that he was here, close enough to touch—you didn’t know whether to sob or fold yourself into him until nothing else existed.

He exhaled, low and frayed. “I should go home…,” he murmured. His voice was hoarse, threaded with fatigue. But the words rang hollow, because his feet didn’t move—because his own body betrayed him, leaning ever so subtly closer, as though gravity had chosen you.

His eyes searched yours—uncertain, raw. His hand lifted, hesitated, then found your waist. Not urgent, not demanding—just there. An anchor.

Like touching you was the only way he could keep himself from unraveling.

Your hand rose on instinct, brushing damp strands away from his face. And that’s when you noticed—his jacket still clung to him, heavy and damp, the scent of sweat and rain clinging to the fabric. He hadn’t gone home. He hadn’t even showered.

He had come straight here. To you.

Like something inside of him couldn’t wait any longer.

“I missed you,” you whispered, the truth slipping free from your lips before you could stop it.

His eyes closed like the words had physically struck him, like he needed them in a way he would never admit. He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, lips grazing your skin with the faintest, unsteady breath.

“I didn’t mean to show up like this,” he confessed softly. His voice was lower now, close enough that you felt it more than you heard it. “I didn’t want to make this your problem.”

Your fingers curled tight in his jacket, tugging him impossibly closer. “You’re not a problem, Sae. You’re allowed to need someone too.”

Something inside him wavered—visible in the way his breath caught, in the faint tremor of his hand against your waist.

For all his composure, for all his steel, right now, Sae was just a man standing infront of the one person who made him falter.

He didn’t come here to talk. He came because you were the only place he could put down the weight on. Because his need for you had burned hotter with every mile of distance, every sleepless night that couldn’t quiet the thought of your touch.

“Just for tonight…” his voice fractured, a whisper barely holding itself together, “…can I stay?”

You didn’t reply with words. You closed the distance, wrapped your arms around him, pressed him into you like he might slip through your fingers if you let him go.

And when his breath stuttered against your neck—low, heavy, something like a groan—you knew. The longing between you hadn’t lessened with time apart. It only grew stronger—sharper.

And tonight, neither of you would have to bear it in silence.