It’s been three months since his PR team pushed the idea of a fake relationship onto him.

Their reasoning was the same as always: ”It’ll soften your image.” ”Your fans want to see the human side of you.” ”It’s good for endorsements.” And frankly, no matter how “convincing” their excuses were, he couldn’t care less about public opinion.

He didn’t need to be in a relationship. He was a footballer, not some romance drama lead. He didn’t need to prove to anyone that he was capable of loving someone—he didn’t need to prove anything.

The constant nagging was the reason he eventually gave in. It wore him down. Meetings dragged on, brand deals hung in the air like bait and the distraction of dodging every “just consider it” made it harder to focus on the one thing that mattered—football.

It’s been a month and a half since you were brought into the picture. Contract signed, a PR fantasy birthed. You were polite, warm—the right kind of charming. Everything Sae pretended not to care about.

At first, he hated it.

He hated the way your hand would slip into his the second cameras flashed. Hated how you’d tilt your head with that sweet, practiced smile when reporters circled. Forced dates, scripted moments and the occasional “you’re so sweet, Sae” all for the sake of show—it all felt like another weight of chains he never asked to wear.

As time rolled on, something shifted.

It wasn’t that he liked it—or enjoyed it. No, it was never that, but the irritation dulled. You never pushed, tried too hard. You filled silences without forcing him to speak. You followed the script when you needed to, but never suffocated him when the cameras weren’t around.

You didn’t pretend you were in love with him when no one was watching. Strangely, that made it harder for him to ignore you.

Though there were still parts he couldn’t stand—especially these stupid post-match dates his team would arrange. He hated knowing the paparazzi would be circling them, and waiting to capture the moment your hands would brush, or the second your eyes would meet for a split second.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You sat through the match like you always did, tucked away in VIP seats, wearing something that complimented his teams colours like the press requested. A practiced routine you couldn’t tell if you should be grateful for, or silently cursing at.

You weren’t bored—not outwardly. But you looked so alone. Watching him from a distance, hands folded in your lap, eyes darting between the pitch and your phone screen. A part of you grew a little tired of always observing him.

Same kicks, same movements—passes, whatnot. It wasn’t entertaining, at least not the way it felt when you first watched him.

Once the game ended and his team started filtering off the field, you rose from your seat, knowing he’d come to find you—he always did. It was never part of the contract, but he never left you behind.

You didn’t hear him approach, not until you felt his breath brush your ear. His voice low and smooth. “Let’s go?”

And when you turned to him, and for a second, his gaze softened. No cameras, no audience. Just you and him.

And for some reason, you couldn’t explain why your heart fluttered.