To most of the world, Sae Itoshi was untouchable.

With piercing eyes like the winter sea and a game so elegant it bordered on artistry, Sae didn’t do distractions. Especially not fans. Not out of arrogance, but precision—he had built his world on control, discipline, and solitude.

So when the match in Tokyo ended and the team funneled through the press area, Sae did what he always did: nodded politely, signed a few shirts out of obligation, then moved toward the exit.

That’s when he heard her.

Not loud, not desperate—just clear. "Excuse me, Sae, could you sign this?"

He didn’t know why he turned. He usually didn’t. Maybe it was the voice. Calm. Not shaking with nerves like most. He looked, and saw her: standing a little to the side, holding a small notebook, no phone in sight.

No camera. No friends giggling behind her. Just her and a pen.

He took it.

As he signed, she spoke again. "You played like a painter today. The pass in the 74th minute—outside foot, left curve. Beautiful."

His pen stopped.

People praised him all the time, but rarely did anyone notice. They liked goals. Flashy finishes. Not passes that dissected space like thread through cloth. His gaze flicked up, really seeing her for the first time.