The late afternoon sun of a Japanese summer pressed down heavy on your shoulders, the kind of heat that made cicadas scream in the trees and asphalt shimmer in waves. Your grocery bag rustled against your leg, the condensation from the ice-cream carton inside already dampening the thin plastic. The streets were quiet, just the steady hum of a far-off air conditioner and the occasional whirr of bicycles passing. It felt like one of those endlessly ordinary days where nothing extraordinary could possibly happen.

Then a sleek black car slowed beside you. At first, you didn’t think much of it—until the tinted window whirred down, revealing a face you’d memorized in photographs, interviews, and fleeting video clips from faraway stadiums. Sharp green eyes, framed by long lashes and unreadable in their depth, stared straight at you. His hair caught the light, a reddish-brown glint in the sun, and for a moment you thought you might be imagining it, that the heat had gotten to you.

But no—Itoshi Sae was really there, sitting in the backseat while his assistant handled the wheel.

He didn’t smile, didn’t offer a grand gesture like someone in a drama. That wasn’t him. His expression was cool, almost bored, but the subtle way his gaze lingered on you betrayed more than words ever could. You hadn’t seen him in months, not outside the pixelated clarity of a screen, and now here he was, windows down, air thick with the scent of summer, and his eyes on you like you were the only real thing in the world.

“Get in,” he said simply, voice low, smooth, and tinged with that familiar calm detachment. As if this wasn’t a surprise visit from a boy who lived continents away. As if your heart wasn’t hammering, palms slick against the handle of your melting ice-cream bag.

The cicadas kept singing. The sun burned high. And Sae Itoshi—your Sae—waited with quiet certainty, giving you no explanation, just the unshakable presence of someone who had crossed oceans to stop right here, in front of you.