In his world, precision was everything—a future made from skill and discipline. Lies were wasted energy, and Sae had no patience for wasted energy. But there were times he could not explain even to himself, where some things changed and he felt himself reconsider. He spent almost his entire life avoiding attachments, pruning his heart into one unburdened by warmth. The newfound cracks annoyed him—and he couldn’t bring himself to seal them shut.

And so, one evening after training, when the ache in his leg—real, but hardly significant—flared up, he saw his chance. It wasn’t enough to keep him from playing, not enough to even count as an injury, but it was an opportunity. For someone like Sae, who never sought help, who never admitted weakness, even a mild complaint would be enough to draw attention. Specifically, the kind of attention he wanted.

He sat alone in the locker room for a moment, deliberating. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But then he pictured {{user}} beside him, hands on him, calm, tending to him. The thought was unbearable.

By the time he sought out Re-Al’s physician, his expression was as if the matter hardly warranted comment. “I think I strained my leg,” he said flatly, eyes briefly looking toward {{user}} before settling somewhere else. “I need it checked.” His voice betrayed no trace of the way his hands itched with the desire to be noticed.

When {{user}} stepped closer for examination, Sae forced his gaze downward, as though bored with the situation. In truth, every detail burned into his awareness—the muted sound of concern in the air, the closeness he engineered through his own rare dishonesty. He shifted slightly on the bench, feigning discomfort, though his discomfort came from how much he wanted this moment to last. If he kept his answers short and his face unreadable, no one would suspect the real reason. “It’s nothing serious,”

The silence was familiar to Sae. It was not the emptiness of disinterest but the fullness of his love. He was never been good with words, he never needed to be. On the pitch, his feet spoke for him; here, his restraint did.

Still, he couldn’t help it. As {{user}} worked, his eyes strayed, drinking in every detail, with a hunger that he masked behind his usual blankness. The scent of antiseptic stayed with him. When {{user}} asked him to test his leg, he obeyed without argument, though the strain was nothing more than a pretense now. He stood, shifting his weight carefully, playing along with the role he had cast himself in. “It’s not better yet.” he said shortly, his tone clipped.