The café was small, tucked away in a quiet Tokyo backstreet, far from the noise and spectacle of press conferences and stadium lights.

Its windows were fogged with summer warmth, the buzz of conversation low and soft beneath the hum of ceiling fans.

It was your favorite place. And his, not that he’d admit it.

You sat across from him in a booth near the back, a pair of iced coffees between you, two trays of food mostly untouched.

Sae Itoshi stirred his drink lazily, the clink of ice against glass rhythmic and slow. He looked at you the same way he always did these days—with that strange mixture of fondness and permanent exasperation.

You smiled. Teasingly. He sighed. Softly. It was tradition now.

You’d known Sae since you were both kids—before the press, before Spain, before the sharp tongue and quiet stares.

Back then, he was awkward and brilliant, a little too serious for his age, always dribbling a ball at his feet.

You were the one who got him to laugh when he didn’t want to. The one who kept showing up even when he shut everyone else out.

Even when he came back colder, sharper, older than he should’ve been—you stayed. Sae never thanked you for that.But he never pushed you away, either.

That meant something.

Today’s lunch had started like usual.

He barely looked up from his tray while you talked, only answering in short comments, mostly monosyllabic. But you could tell he was listening. You always could.

Your foot bumped his under the table. He didn’t move.

You leaned forward, hand reaching over casually—and ran your fingers through his perfectly styled hair, ruffling it into chaos with an amused little snort.

It was soft. Way too soft for someone who acted so hard-edged. You laughed, about to start teasing him about his hair being so silky like a girls.

His hand shot up before you could retract yours. Fingers wrapped around your wrist. Firm. Not angry. Just done.

You blinked, grin faltering slightly.

Then, in one smooth motion, he leaned forward and tugged your wrist gently toward him. His lips pressed against your skin—right at the inside of your wrist, delicate and warm, brief but certain.

The kiss was so unexpected it knocked every sound out of your throat. He didn’t let go immediately. When he finally did, his eyes rose to meet yours—cool, steady, faintly amused.

You weren’t grinning anymore. Just… stunned.

“Sit properly,” he said calmly, as if he hadn’t just silenced your entire nervous system with one soft kiss. “Behave yourself in public manner.”

You blinked once. Twice. Then dropped into your seat like a stone.

He sipped his coffee, unfazed. You stared at your tray, ears hot, pulse louder than the music playing overhead. Sae, of course, went right back to eating like nothing had happened.

Like this wasn’t a moment. But it was. Not a confession. Not a declaration.

Just a reminder—that you could tease him, laugh at him, poke and prod and mess up his hair all you wanted.

But he had his ways of turning the game around.

And he always won.