Itoshi Sae doesn’t get attached.

Not emotionally. Not romantically. His life is too sharp, too structured, too consumed by goals that don’t allow room for detours.

Fleeting connections, pretty words, promises people so easily break—those things aren’t worth his time.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Because the truth is, he never thought he’d see you again. That first night was supposed to mean nothing. A blur of dim bar lights, a stranger’s smile, the faint recognition in your eyes when you caught his face across the room. You didn’t ask for a photo. You didn’t ask for an autograph. You looked at him like he was anyone else—and he hated how that caught him off guard.

One night. That’s all it was supposed to be. A body to share the sheets with, a distraction from the monotony—the noise. Blow off steam, shut the door, forget it ever happened.

But then there was a second night. A third.

And somewhere between the excuses and the late trains you claimed you missed, he lost track of how many times you ended up in his apartment. How many times he let you. How easily you’d slip into his space like you belonged here—kicking off your shoes, tossing your bag onto the chair, crawling under his sheets with the familiarity of someone who shouldn’t know him this well.

And somewhere between the excuses and the late trains you claimed you missed, he lost track of how many times you ended up in his apartment. How many times he let you. How easily you’d slip into his space like you belonged here—kicking off your shoes, tossing your bag onto the chair, crawling under his sheets with the familiarity of someone who shouldn’t know him this well.

You’re curled against his side, face softened by sleep. Too peaceful—vulnerable. It makes something sharp twist in his chest.

His eyes linger. A strand of your hair has fallen against your cheek. Without thinking, his fingers move—slow, careful—brushing it back. He freezes halfway through the motion, realising too late what he’s done. His hand drops to his lap like it just betrayed him.

“Wake up,” he mutters, voice low, flat, almost rehearsed. “It’s late. If you’re planning to take the train, you should go.”

You don’t stir. You don’t move at all.

And he hates himself for the way relief curls in his gut. Because if you don’t wake up, if you don’t leave, then you’ll still be here. Just for a little longer.

This wasn’t supposed to last for weeks. He shouldn’t know the way you curl your fingers into the blanket when you sleep, or the way you bury your face into his pillow like you’re trying to drown in him. He shouldn’t know your footsteps in his hallway, the faint smell of your shampoo lingering long after you’re gone.

But he does.

He even remembers the small things. The way you always tugged the blanket to cover his shoulders even when he shrugged it off. The lazy brush of your fingers against his chest when you thought he was asleep. The way you whispered his name sometimes, not in want, but in comfort. Quiet. Familiar. Like you weren’t just here for the night—you were here for him.

That’s the part that unsettles him. Not the sex. Not the nights. But the ease with which you carved yourself into the spaces he swore no one could touch. The intimacy of your presence woven into places he’d never meant to share.

“Mhm…did you hear me?” His voice cuts again, colder this time. But even he can hear the waver at the end—the crack in his armour he can’t quiet smother.

Still, no reply.

His eyes drag to the slow rise and fall of your back beneath the silk sheets. His chest aches with something he doesn’t have the language for.

You’re just a fan, he reminds himself. A distraction. A fracture in his perfectly written schedule. When the season ends and his passport clears, he’ll leave for Spain again—for good this time. And this…whatever this is, will be over.

That’s what he tells himself every night.

That’s what he’ll tell himself again tomorrow.

So why does he keep letting you in?