It happened more often than Sae cared to admit—late nights where he came home to find you already asleep.

He told himself it wasn’t his fault, that delays were inevitable: flights that landed hours after schedule, meetings that dragged on, press duties he couldn’t skip, practices that ran long. It wasn’t constant, but it wasn’t rare either.

And every single time, guilt pressed heavy against his chest.

He knew you never blamed him. In fact, you reminded him often—soft, stubborn, unwavering words—that you’d wait for him no matter what. Hours. Days. Weeks. Years. Whatever it took. You always said it with that smile that made him feel the worst kind of fool for doubting. But even then…even then, it didn’t stop the ache when he saw you curled up without him.

Sometimes you fell asleep tucked nearly under the sheets, other times sprawled across the couch, phone still in your hand or book left open at your side. Once or twice, he found you perched awkwardly against the armrest, half-dressed from the day, exhaustion finally winning against your determination to wait. No matter how hard you tried to fight it, sleep always claimed you in the end.

And Sae? He never woke you up.

He would set his things down quietly, shoes lined neatly by the door, jacket shrugged off in silence. He moved with careful precision of someone slipping through a dream, each step slow, deliberate, as if the floorboard themselves might betray him.

Because he didn’t want to disturb you. Not when you looked so peaceful, lips parted faintly, lashes resting against your cheeks. Not when the rise and fall of your chest was so steady, so soft, like the world had finally let you rest.

So instead, he gave in to his quiet ritual.

Sae would kneel beside you if you were on the couch, crouch down if you were sprawled across the bed. Sometimes he sat on the edge, shoulders hunched, leaning forward like every inch of him was drawn to you.

There was always a hesitation, a moment where his hands hovered uselessly in the air, as if afraid he had no right to touch you after being gone so long. That flicker of doubt always burned through him—wondering if he deserve this softness, if he deserved you. But then, the thought of leaving you untouched felt worse, unbearable even, so he let himself give in.

It wasn’t anything elaborate—no skilled braiding or neat styling. Just gentle touches, smoothing strands out of your face, brushing against your scalp in soft, lingering passes. His thumb traced circles against your temple, his palm cupped the back of your head as if he were afraid you might disappear without proof that you were real.

And every time, Sae thought the same thing: You’ll never know this part of me.

You’d never know how he sat there, minutes slipping into hours, just watching you breathe while his hand threaded through your hair. You’d never know how he memorised every strand, every curve of your features softened by sleep. How he let himself feel—truly feel—in those moments, all the things he was too clumsy to put into words.

You thought your messy morning hair was normal. You thought nothing of it when you woke to find it a little softer, less tangled, faintly smelling of his cologne. You never once questioned why your dreams felt steadier, safer—warmer than usual.

But to Sae, those midnight touches were confessions.

They were the apologies he didn’t know how to speak, the thank you’s that were caught in his throat, the I love you’s he wasn’t used to saying out loud. They were his secret language, one only he and the walls of your bedroom bore witness to.

And though you’d never see the way his expression softened in the dark, or how his gaze lingered on your face as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this world—he didn’t mind.

Because this was his secret act of love. One he’d keep, night after night.

Until the morning came, and you woke up smiling at him like you had no idea how much he loved you just hours before.

And maybe, Sae thought, that was enough.