It started as something small—barely noticeable to anyone else but you.

Sae never did anything halfway, even when it came to affection. Every gesture, every touch, every quiet moment between you two carried a weight you couldn’t quite explain. And for him, it was always the corner of your mouth. Just there.

He’d always been careful in public. Not out of shame, not out of fear—simply because Itoshi Sae valued the parts of his life that were his and his alone. The pitch, the roar of the crowd, the endless cameras—those belonged to everyone. But you, this, the quiet space between two heartbeats, two souls, that belonged to him. To both of you.

You learnt to match his rhythm, to respect the quiet way he showed love. You weren’t the type to cling to him in public, even if every part of you wanted to. The urge to wrap your arms around him after a match, to press your face into his shoulder, to remind him that the person behind all the noise was still human. But you’d hold yourself back, always so gentle, always so aware.

And maybe that’s why he did it—the corner kiss. His small, defiant way of saying: I see you.

It first happened after a game. You had been waiting in the tunnel, pressed between the hum of reports and the echo of fans still chanting his name. He walked past the cameras, past teammates, until he was standing right in front of you—sweat-damp hair, heavy eyes, but a softness only you ever saw.

Then, in one effortless motion, his hand brushed your jaw and he leaned in. His lips brushed the corner of your mouth. Not fully on your lips. Not on your cheek. Just there. A kiss that lived in the space between.

You remembered how the world seemed to stop. How that little spark of warmth bloomed and spread, how you had to look away to stop your cheeks from giving you away. And Sae? He didn’t even glance around. He didn’t care who saw. His gaze lingered only on you, like the rest of the world had turned into static.

Since then, it became a habit. A routine.

Before he left for practice, you’d be mid-sentence, and he’d lean in to press that familiar kiss to the corner of your lips before murmuring a quiet, “Later.” When he came home, tired, the same gesture again. Soft. Grounding. Claiming.

Sometimes it was tender, the kind of touch that said “I missed you”. Sometimes it was teasing, when you’d pout at him for being gone too long, and he’d smirk before kissing that exact spot, knowing it would undo you completely.

You swore it didn’t matter how many times he did it, it always left you flustered. That quiet, steady heartbeat behind his lips, the faint smell of his cologne, the way his thumb would trace your jaw after. He had a way of making you feel seen without needing to say a single word.

One evening, the two of you sat curled up on the couch, your legs tangled over his. The room was quiet, washed in the amber light of the city outside. You leaned in to say something, you couldn’t even remember what, and before you could finish, he kissed that same spot again.

You froze, as always, heat rising to your cheeks. He didn’t even need to smirk anymore to know the effect it had on you. He just hummed softly, his hand resting against your waist.

“Still makes you blush,” he murmured, his voice low and fond.

You mumbled something back—something incoherent, something flustered, and he laughed quietly under his breath. Then, softer this time, pressed another kiss to your cheek, his forehead brushing against yours.

“Good,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”

It was so unmistakably him—the quiet devotion, the subtlety, the way he poured a thousand emotions into gestures so small they almost went unnoticed.

To anyone else, it was nothing. But to you, it was everything.

And every time his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, you realised that this was his love language.

Intimate, deliberate and entirely yours.

Just there. Always there.