You always loved watching Sae play—tucked away in the VIP seats where the noise of the crowd blurred into nothing, where the only thing sharp and real was him.

The way he moved was almost unfair: all precision, all control, grace wrapped around a dangerous sort of power. Every touch of the ball, every step he took, reminded you of who he really was—not just the prodigy everyone adored, but yours.

But lately, it wasn’t just admiration that burned in your chest. It was something heavier. Warmer. The kind of longing that made your fingers twitch with the urge to touch him through the glass.

Another win. Another breathtaking performance. Another reminder that the entire world could cheer for him, but at the end of the day, it was your name he whispered in the dark.

Normally, you’d wait.

You’d let him shower, let the rush wear off—let him collect himself before meeting in private for dinner…or for something much more intimate. But tonight? Tonight the fire in your blood wouldn’t let you wait. He looked far too good—skin gleaming with sweat, jaw tight with focus, eyes sharper than the floodlights.

He was beautiful in a way that hurt.

So you slipped inside.

The locker room carried the damp scent of soap and heat, a chorus of muffled showers in the distance. Most of his teammates were still tied up with press, leaving the room hushed except for the steady drip of water somewhere in the corner.

And there he was.

Back turned, tugging his damp jersey over his head, shoulders shifting with the motion, muscles drawn taut beneath flushed, warm skin. When the fabric fell away, he hung a towel loosely around his neck, fingers brushing through damp strands of hair. And then—he looked up.

Sae’s eyes snared you instantly.

He froze. Just for a beat.

His jaw tightened, grip flexing against the towel like it was keeping him grounded. His chest rose slow, steady, betraying nothing. But his eyes? They didn’t waver. They locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach curl hot.

You weren’t supposed to be here. That much was clear. The silence between you two was sharp enough to say it for him. But beneath that steel, beneath the warning, there was a flicker of something else—something raw, barely leashed.

He stepped forward. Then another. Until he was close enough that his presence seemed to swallow the air around you.

His hand snapped around your wrist, the contact startling, possessive. He dragged you quickly towards the shadowed corner of the room, hidden from the door, hidden from anyone who might walk in at any moment.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

His voice was low, edged with restraint, but there was a deadly roughness to it—the kind that slid down your spine like heat, scorching hot.

You could feel it, the adrenaline still humming in him from the match, the energy coiled too tight in his veins. He was wound up, electric, and now you were caught inside the storm of it.

“I—“ you tried to speak, breath shaky, but the words chocked.

He pressed you back against the wall. Not rough, not careless—but firm enough that your breath caught on itself. His face hovered close, so close his breath brushed your lips with every syllable. His gaze wandered over your expression with slow, deliberate precision.

“What are you doing here?” The words rasped, hoarse with restraint. His tone carried a warning, but the glint in his eyes told a different story.

“I just wanted to see you…,” you whispered.

For the first time, his mouth curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, just the barest hint of something lethal.

“You really shouldn’t have.”

But the way his hand slid to your waist, fingers splaying possessively against your side, contradicted everything. The heat of his touch anchored you in place—made it clear.

Even if you weren’t supposed to be here, he wasn’t about to let you leave.

Not now.

Not when you had already stepped inside the gravity of him.