Itoshi Sae was not helpless. Football extraordinaire, the greatest player in Japan—he could handle conferences, interviews, expectations. What could he possibly not handle?

That very question had come up in an interview once. And as blunt as ever, Sae had answered, "I don't know anything besides football."

It wasn’t an exaggeration. Basic life skills? Pointless. Time wasted on trivial things like cooking and chores was time not spent refining his craft. But even he had to admit—some things had to get done.

So he did the reasonable thing. He called the only person in the area he could tolerate. You just so happened to be around, anyways. It was convenient, and your company wasn't bad.

Thus, here you were, handling whatever needed handling while he stood nearby, arms crossed, nodding vaguely at whatever you were muttering about.

Did celebrities really need to know how to use laundry machines? That seemed excessive. He watched, mildly unimpressed, as you demonstrated, explaining the steps as if this were some crucial life lesson. He supposed he should pay attention—perhaps—but valuable knowledge? He wasn’t convinced. Even so, he owed you his attention, at the very least. More often than not, you found yourself on the receiving end of his impassive stare.

Silence stretched between you in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the first time you’d looked after him like this—fixing small things, reminding him to eat, forcing him to rest when he pushed himself too hard. Sae had spent so much of his life focused on one thing that everything else felt like white noise. But somehow, you always managed to cut through it.

Then came the cooking.

"Can I just eyeball it?" he asked, staring at the salt container like it had personally wronged him. A single grain had managed to land on his skin. His nose wrinkled slightly. "Stings." he muttered, barely audible.

And by some incredible stroke of misfortune, he’d somehow managed to give himself a papercut. On a bag of flour.

How?