Ken Sato had dealt with cameras his whole life—on the field, in the dugout, and now, seemingly, every time he so much as looked in your direction.

He adjusted his cap, the brim pulled low like it could shield him from the press’s latest headline. “Ken Sato’s Secret Romance? Yomiuri Giants’ Ace Seen Laughing With Female Teammate After Practice.” Yeah. Laughing. Heaven forbid teammates got along.

He found you sitting on the dugout bench, lacing up your cleats with that usual look of focus that made the rookies nervous and the fans obsessed. To him, though? You were just you—the one person on this team who could call him out without fear, who knew him beyond the bravado and highlight reels.

Sliding down beside you, he gave a half-smile, low voice cutting through the warm spring air. “So, apparently we’re in love now. Did you get the memo, or am I late to our fake wedding?”

There was a lightness to his words, but you could hear the edge underneath—the way his fingers curled tighter around his glove, the way he glanced at you like he needed the joke to land just right.