My masterlist is of some of my newer works since my writing style has definitely changed over the years. Don’t worry my old works are still on my page, you just might have to scroll :)
Rin Itoshi
• he can’t get enough of your belly ✦
• couples yoga
• more kids?
• rin and nana
• he calls you baby for the first time
• walking down the aisle
• father
• choosing a ring
Michael Kaiser
• couples interview ✦
• he still has insecurities
• sick day
• spotlight & stadium lights
Kunigami Rensuke
• why does he love the beach so much?
• he loves thicc girls
Isagi Yoichi
• he posts you all the time ✦
• the argument
• hes so whipped
Sae Itoshi
• sae and Violet Evergarden ✦
• telling him you’re pregnant
• just you two
Nagi Seishiro
• date night
• gaming
• nagi x desi reader
Reo Mikage
• flowers
Oliver Aiku
• lazy day
• another lazy day
Multiple
• do they only love you for your body?
• their favorite cuddling positions
• embarrassing moments
• their wallpaper of you | their wallpaper of you II
Isagi Yoichi had watched hours of game footage without blinking, memorized entire defensive patterns in seconds, and could read a soccer field like it was stitched into the back of his eyelids. But standing in the middle of the jewelry store with his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets? That was terrifying.
Because this mattered more.
He stared down at the rows of rings under the glass, brows pinched together in concentration so intense the sales associate almost laughed. Every tiny detail felt important: the shape of the diamond, the band color, the way it would look wrapped around your finger when you reached for his hand after matches.
“Something simple,” he murmured mostly to himself. “But not boring.”
The associate set another ring in front of him, and Isagi immediately shook his head. “No, that’s not her.”
Not her.
The words came so naturally it startled him a little.
He knew exactly what reminded him of you. Soft edges. Quiet elegance. Something beautiful that didn’t need to beg for attention to be noticed. A ring that looked warm instead of flashy. Something you’d wear every day without taking it off.
Then he saw it.
A delicate oval diamond with a thin gold band that caught the light every time he tilted it. Elegant. Gentle. Timeless.
His chest tightened instantly.
You.
Isagi picked it up carefully, almost nervously, imagining how your face would look when he opened the box. Whether your eyes would widen first or if you’d start crying before he could even get the words out. He could practically hear your laugh already.
And suddenly, for once in his life, Isagi Yoichi didn’t need to overthink his next move.
“This one,” he said immediately, smiling to himself. “Yeah… this is definitely the one.”
prettttyyy please weite a nagi fic x desi reader doing mehndi on his back
or js artsy ready drawing w markers or smt
PLEASE
The first thing Nagi noticed when he walked into your apartment wasn’t you, it was the smell. Something warm and sweet drifted through the air, jasmine oil, sandalwood incense, and the unmistakable scent of fresh henna paste. The lights in your bedroom were dimmed low, golden fairy lights strung around the walls like tiny stars, and somewhere in the background soft Hindi music played from your speaker. Nagi blinked sleepily beneath his white bangs. “…Smells weird in here.” You looked up immediately, offended. “Weird?” you repeated. “Excuse me. It smells heavenly.” “Mhm.” He dropped his gym bag near the door and wandered toward you lazily. “Like a flower shop exploded.” “You’re lucky you’re cute.” “I know.”
He collapsed face-first onto your bed, completely unbothered, limbs sprawled everywhere. “Practice sucked,” he muttered into your comforter. “Coach made us run forever.” “You say that every day.” “Because every day sucks.” You rolled your eyes and looked back down at the mehndi cone in your hand. Your left hand was already covered in intricate patterns, vines curling around your fingers and wrist. Nagi finally noticed after a moment. “Oh. You’re doing that thing again.” “That thing?” you echoed. “It’s called mehndi.” “Mendhi.” “Mehndi.” “Mendy.” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing it on purpose now.” He grinned. You’d explained it before, how it was part of your culture, weddings, festivals, family gatherings, how your cousins would crowd around each other laughing while aunties gossiped and henna stained their hands. He remembered bits of it mostly because he liked hearing you talk like that, softer, brighter. “What’re you drawing?” he asked. “Bridal design.” His eyes stayed half-lidded. “…Bridal?” “Not for me,” you laughed quickly. “Just practicing.” “Do it on me.” You froze. “What?” He rolled slightly onto his back. “Do it on me.” “You want mehndi?” “Yeah.” “You?” “Mhm.” You stared at him. Nagi hated effort, hated sitting still, hated anything that took time, yet he was looking at you like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You realize it takes hours, right?” you said slowly. “Okay.” “You can’t move.” “Okay.” “It stains.” “Cool.” “It might itch.” He yawned. “You talk too much.” You threw a pillow at him. He caught it without even opening his eyes properly. “Come decorate me or whatever.” You should’ve said no. You didn’t. Thirty minutes later he was shirtless on your bed while you sat beside him with the mehndi cone, concentrating hard as you pressed cool paste onto his back. He twitched slightly. “Cold.” “Stop moving.” “Can’t.” “Yes, you can.” “No motivation.” You sighed and continued the first curling vine across his shoulder blade. The contrast of henna against his skin was already beautiful. Nagi hummed softly. “It tickles.” “Sorry.” “It’s nice.” Your hand paused for half a second before continuing. “You like it?” “Mhm.” His voice was already getting sleepy. You focused harder, drawing flowers and paisleys that spread across his back like a map. “Mehndi has meanings,” you said after a while. “Like what?” “Flowers mean joy. Vines mean connection. Sometimes people hide initials.” He cracked one eye open. “Put mine.” “Your initials?” “Yeah.” “You’re ridiculous.” “Put yours too.” Your hand froze. “Nagi…” “What?” he mumbled. “Thought it’d be cute.” Cute. Of course he said it like that, like it wasn’t dangerous for your heart. You exhaled and kept drawing. “Fine.” A small satisfied sound left him. Minutes passed. Then more. The room stayed quiet except for music and your steady breathing. Nagi got heavier under your touch, relaxing more and more. “You’re weirdly patient,” you said. “You’re focused,” he replied. “That’s it?” He turned his head slightly. “You look pretty when you focus.” You stopped completely. “Nagi.” “What?” “You can’t just say that.” “Why?” “Because—” You failed to finish as he smirked faintly. “You’re blushing.” “I hate you.” “No you don’t.” Unfortunately he was right. Hours later the design covered most of his back, intricate and flowing, your initials hidden among the vines.
Nagi had fallen asleep halfway through, face buried in his arms. You finished carefully, then nudged him. “Nagi.” A groan. “Henna needs to dry.” “Sounds fake.” “It’s not.” He sighed dramatically. “Too much effort.” “You literally did nothing.” “Exactly.” You laughed softly and stayed beside him. After a while he reached back blindly and grabbed your wrist, pulling you closer. “Stay,” he mumbled. “I need to clean up.” “Later.” His grip tightened just slightly. You gave up instantly. “Fine.” He went quiet again. A long pause passed before he spoke softly without opening his eyes. “Would your family hate me?” You blinked. “What?” “For this. Cultural stuff.” Your expression softened. “No. They’d like you.” “Even though I’m lazy?” “They’d feed you until you couldn’t move.” “Sounds good.” You laughed. His fingers stayed loosely wrapped around yours. “Mehndi is supposed to bring luck,” you said quietly. “Then make it strong,” he replied. “Why?” “So I score next match.” “You’re unbelievable.” “Charming.” Later when it finally dried, you cleaned the flakes off his back and revealed the deep reddish-brown design underneath. Nagi looked at it over his shoulder. “…Whoa.” You smiled. “Told you.” He took a picture awkwardly. “Kinda sick.” “Kinda?” “Very sick.” Then he leaned back against you again, completely relaxed. “You should do this professionally.” “You think so?” “Mhm.” He paused. “Because you did it.” Your chest tightened. “You really like it that much?” “Yeah.” “Why?” He looked at you like it was obvious. “Because it’s you.” You looked away immediately, overwhelmed. “That’s unfair.” “What is?” “You saying things like that.” He tilted his head slightly. “Why?” You didn’t answer. Then quietly, almost like it slipped out without thought, you said, “I love you.” Silence. You panicked instantly. “Forget I said that.” Nagi turned fully despite your protests, hair messy, eyes suddenly more awake. “You love me?” Your face burned. “Don’t make it weird.” He stared for a second, then smiled. Slow, soft. “Good.” “Good?” “Yeah.” He leaned forward until his forehead touched yours. “I love you too.” Simple. Honest. Completely him. Your breath caught. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you whispered. “I know.” And somehow, with henna still drying on his skin and your fingers still tangled together, it felt like something permanent had already settled between you two.
It was one of those mornings where the rain tapped softly against the windows, and the world outside felt far away. The kind of morning Oliver loved. It meant there was absolutely no reason to leave the apartment.
You were in the kitchen, still in your oversized sweater, trying to decide between making pancakes or just heating up yesterday’s pastries. Oliver padded in quietly, his hair an adorable mess, eyes half-lidded with sleep. Without a word, he came up behind you, looping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough and warm.
You smiled, tilting your head toward him. “You’ve been awake for two minutes and already attached to me.”
“Mm,” he hummed, not denying it. “Missed you.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, but your hands stilled on the counter as his grip tightened slightly, keeping you against him. This wasn’t the cocky, effortlessly charming Oliver the world knew, this was the Oliver who liked to wander the apartment in sweatpants, who always wanted to know what you were doing, even if it was something as boring as pouring coffee.
He stayed there while you plated the pastries, occasionally stealing a bite straight from your hand. By the time you both made it to the couch, he’d snagged the blanket from the armrest, draping it over the two of you before pulling you into his lap.
“You could’ve sat next to me, you know,” you teased, though you didn’t move away.
“Why would I do that?” he said like it was the most ridiculous suggestion in the world. “You’re warm. And soft. And mine.”
You felt your cheeks heat, but you tried to play it cool. “You’re clingy today.”
“Today?” he snorted, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “Babe, this is just the usual. You’re noticing because I have the day off.”
The rain outside grew steadier, the soft patter blending with the background noise of the sitcom you had on. At some point, Oliver stretched out, laying flat on the couch and bringing you with him so you were lying on his chest. His hand traced slow, absentminded patterns along your back, and every now and then, he’d press his lips to your hairline.
When your stomach growled, he chuckled. “Guess that means it’s lunch time. I’ll make something.”
“You cooking?” you asked, sitting up to look at him suspiciously.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he said, pretending to be offended. “I make a mean grilled cheese.”
And he did, burning the first batch slightly, but proudly serving them on mismatched plates anyway. You ate together on the couch, legs tangled, sharing sips of tea.
The rest of the day passed in the same easy rhythm, warm, slow, and quiet. And when the rain finally stopped, Oliver just tightened his hold on you and murmured, “Still not letting you go.”
Kunigami Rensuke was never the type to get caught up in appearances, at least, that’s what he always told himself. What mattered most to him was strength, confidence, and heart. But if he was being honest, there was something about you that made his chest warm in a way nothing else could: the way your curves filled his arms when he hugged you, the way you looked so comfortable in your own skin, the way he could bury his big hands around your waist and never want to let go.
He loves it. He loves you.
When you curl into his side while he’s sprawled out on the couch, he can’t help but pull you even closer, palm splayed against your hip like he’s trying to memorize every inch. He’ll kiss the side of your head and murmur, “You fit so perfectly against me. Like you were made to be here.”
Kunigami doesn’t just see your body, he adores it. He admires how strong you are when you carry yourself with confidence, and even on the days when you don’t feel as secure, he’s the first to remind you. “You’re beautiful,” he’ll say firmly, his voice carrying the same conviction he uses on the field. “Don’t ever doubt that.”
And when you wear clothes that accentuate your curves? He’s done for. He’ll blush like crazy, scratch at the back of his neck, but his eyes will follow you in quiet awe. “You’re going to kill me,” he’ll mutter with a half-smile, the tips of his ears burning red.
Most of all, Kunigami treasures how soft you are compared to him. After long training sessions, when his body aches from the intensity, you’re his comfort. He’ll wrap his arms around you, face pressed against your chest or your stomach, sighing deeply like he’s finally found peace. “This… this is my favorite place in the world,” he whispers, holding you tighter.
Because to Kunigami, you’re not just “thicc.” You’re everything he ever wanted: warmth, softness, strength, and beauty all in one. And he’ll never stop reminding you how much he loves you for it.
Rin Itoshi never thought he’d be the type of man who would melt at the sound of a tiny voice calling him Papa. If you had asked the teenage version of him, the one who was sharp, guarded, and so focused on nothing but soccer, he would have scoffed, muttered something under his breath, and turned away before anyone could see the faint redness in his ears. Family, softness, vulnerability, those things didn’t fit the image he carried of himself.
But then he had her.
The first time Rin held his daughter, so small she barely fit in the crook of his arm, something inside of him shifted in a way he couldn’t put words to. He stared down at her with wide, stunned eyes, afraid to even breathe too hard in case she broke. And when her tiny fist curled around his finger, Rin Itoshi, the cold, aloof prodigy had been undone.
Now, years later, the world knew Rin Itoshi as a professional soccer player at the peak of his career. But at home? At home, he was Papa. At home, he wasn’t the ruthless striker whose glare could freeze a stadium—he was the man who sat cross-legged on the living room floor with a pink plastic tiara tilted on his head because his daughter insisted he needed to be the “king” in her little tea party kingdom.
“Papa, sit still,” she scolded one afternoon, standing on the couch cushion to carefully press glittery star stickers to his cheeks. She had inherited his serious expression, but when it came to him, she wielded it with all the authority of a tiny queen.
Rin blinked, his lips twitching into a rare smile. “I am sitting still.”
“Not still enough,” she said, squinting as she pressed another sticker to the bridge of his nose. “You’re gonna mess it up if you move.”
Anyone else, Rin would have rolled his eyes at. But his daughter? He sat as still as a statue, enduring the stickiness of glitter stars on his face, just to hear her delighted giggle when she leaned back and admired her handiwork.
“There! Now you’re perfect,” she declared, and Rin’s chest warmed so completely he thought it might burst.
He didn’t care if he had training in an hour. He didn’t care if Sae found out and mocked him mercilessly for being wrapped around his daughter’s tiny finger. Rin only cared about the way she beamed at him like he was her whole world.
Because she was his.
And Rin was a girl dad through and through.
She clung to his leg when he tried to leave for practice, her little hands gripping him tightly. “Papa, don’t go!” she whined, her lip wobbling.
Rin crouched down so they were eye level, brushing her hair from her face. “I’ll be back, okay? Always back.”
“But it’s too long!”
That familiar guilt twisted in his chest, but he kissed her forehead and whispered, “Then I’ll score a goal for you. And when I get home, you can watch it with me. Deal?”
Her tears instantly vanished, her whole face lighting up. “Deal!”
It became their thing. Every goal Rin scored, he dedicated silently to her. Sometimes he’d point to the stands after scoring, and the cameras would think he was being stoic as usual. But really, that small gesture was for his daughter watching at home, bouncing excitedly on the couch with you as she shouted, That’s my Papa!
Rin also discovered that being a dad meant losing arguments. Constantly.
Like when she wanted to paint his nails.
He had grumbled, “Why not Mama’s nails?” but sat down anyway when she pouted at him. Ten minutes later, his usually calloused, bruised hands were covered in streaks of uneven, sparkly pink polish. He lifted his fingers, looking at the mess, and sighed.
“It’s beautiful, Papa,” she said proudly, resting her chin in her hands.
And just like that, Rin nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
Or when she begged him to braid her hair. Rin had zero clue what he was doing, his fingers weren’t built for delicate tasks like that, but he tried. Fumbled. Retried. And when she looked in the mirror and squealed, “Papa, you did it!” Rin felt like he’d just won a championship match.
The funniest thing, though, was how obvious it was to everyone around them that Rin was a total softie for his little girl.
When his teammates visited, they would see the way she sat perched on his lap, babbling about her day while Rin listened intently, nodding like every word she said was the most important thing in the world. If she asked him for something, water, a snack, her stuffed animal, he’d get up without hesitation.
“She’s got you whipped,” Bachira teased once.
Rin scowled, but his daughter patted his cheek and said, “Don’t be mean to Papa,” and suddenly Rin’s glare melted into something gentle. “See? Even she knows.”
She was his little shadow, following him everywhere, into the kitchen, out into the backyard, even sitting beside him while he stretched after training. Sometimes she’d try to copy his stretches, her tiny arms and legs wobbling, and Rin had to bite back his laughter as he corrected her form like she was one of his teammates.
But the best moments came at night.
When the world was quiet, and it was just the three of you at home, Rin would carry her to bed after story time. She always begged for just one more book, and Rin, predictably, always gave in. Eventually, though, she’d yawn, her little hands gripping his shirt as she drifted off against his chest.
Rin would tuck her into bed, brush his fingers gently through her hair, and just look at her for a while. In those moments, he couldn’t believe how much he loved her. It was overwhelming, consuming. A kind of love that terrified him, because it was so much bigger than anything he had ever known.
And every time, without fail, she’d mumble in her sleep, “Papa…” like even her dreams revolved around him.
Rin would whisper back, voice low and rough, “I’m right here. Always.”
If you asked Rin Itoshi to describe himself, he’d probably mutter something about being a soccer player, a striker, a professional.
But if you asked his daughter? She’d grin wide, her eyes shining, and say proudly, “He’s my Papa.”
And honestly, Rin wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because the truth was simple: Rin Itoshi, the boy who once thought he was too cold and too sharp for softness, had become the biggest softie of all. A girl dad to his core. And his daughter? She was his little daddy’s girl, his pride, his heart, and his entire world.
Nagi Seishiro had always preferred gaming over just about anything else, except when you were involved. That’s why it felt like heaven to him when the two overlapped. You were tucked under his arm on the couch, legs tangled with his, both of you holding controllers. He leaned against you lazily, his hair brushing your shoulder as his sleepy eyes stayed locked on the screen.
“Babe, you’re supposed to hit that one,” you said, giggling when his character missed the target completely.
“Mm… too much effort,” he mumbled, nudging your cheek with his nose. “You do it for me, yeah?”
“Sei, it’s your game!” you laughed, leaning away as he tried to pass the controller into your hands.
He sighed dramatically, slumping into you like you’d personally betrayed him. But then, with his usual laid-back genius, he pulled off a combo so smooth it had your jaw dropping. His lips curled into the faintest smirk when you gasped.
“See? Easy,” he murmured, like it took no work at all.
But the truth was, he loved these little moments with you. Winning didn’t matter nearly as much as the sound of your laughter in his ear, your warmth pressed against him, and the quiet reminder that he could spend forever like this—controller in one hand, you in the other.
Oliver Aiku doesn’t get many days off, but when he does, he insists on doing absolutely nothing, and he insists on doing it with you. The two of you are tangled up on the couch, him sprawled across it like he owns the whole thing, head resting on your chest while you absentmindedly run your fingers through his hair. He keeps murmuring how soft your touch feels, pressing lazy kisses against your collarbone whenever he feels you shift.
Neither of you bother with real clothes; you’re in one of his oversized shirts, and he’s in sweats, claiming he’s never been more comfortable in his life. Netflix hums quietly in the background, though neither of you are paying much attention, you’re too busy laughing at his half-asleep commentary and the way he tries to pull you closer every time you move an inch away.
At one point, he whines about being hungry, but instead of cooking, you both settle for ordering takeout. When the food arrives, Oliver insists you feed him a bite or two just because he wants an excuse to stay nestled against you.
By the end of the day, there’s no grand plan, no adventure, just his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, his sleepy voice mumbling that this, you and him in your little cocoon of warmth, is his perfect kind of day.
Rin Itoshi starts bawling when you walk down the aisle.
Why? Because he’s so insanely in love with you.
He’d told himself he wouldn’t cry. That he’d keep it together, stand there looking calm and collected like he always does. But the second the doors opened and you stepped into view, all bets were off.
Your dress, your smile, the way your eyes found him instantly, it was too much. His chest tightened, his vision blurred, and before he could even think about holding it in, tears were streaming down his face. Not the polite, dignified kind, either. Full-on, shoulders-shaking, can’t-breathe crying.
Everyone was watching him lose it, but Rin didn’t care. You were walking toward him, his future, his forever, and in that moment, he couldn’t stop himself from falling apart in front of everyone.
By the time you reached the altar, he was still sniffling, trying to laugh at himself and failing miserably. He leaned in just enough so only you could hear and whispered, voice breaking,
“I’m so in love with you it’s pathetic.”
And the truth was… he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Reo has always believed that love should be shown, not just spoken. Words are nice, he tells you he loves you every day without fail, but he’s the kind of man who thinks affection should be tangible, visible, something you can hold in your hands. And nothing captures that better for him than flowers.
It started small. A single white lily on your desk after a particularly stressful week. No note, just the quiet understanding in his smile when you found it. Then, a bouquet of tulips on your birthday, vibrant, delicate, a splash of color that lit up your living room. You teased him that he was trying to outshine the flowers with his own charm. He only shrugged and said, “Impossible. You’re the prettiest thing in the room.”
From there, it became something of a ritual. Every time he saw flowers, he thought of you. Walking past a florist on his way to a meeting? He’d stop and pick out the freshest, fluffiest blooms. Traveling overseas for a match? He’d send an arrangement to your door the day he left, so you’d have something beautiful to keep you company until he returned. Even late at night, if he spotted a roadside vendor, he’d pull over without hesitation, handing you roses through the passenger window with a grin that made you melt.
He paid attention, too. He learned your favorites, the creamy-white peonies you adored in spring, the sunflowers that reminded you of your childhood summers, the pale pink roses that made you feel like you were in a fairytale. He’d mix them into each bouquet, always with an artist’s eye, because for him it wasn’t just about handing you flowers, it was about creating a moment.
Sometimes, he’d surprise you in smaller, sweeter ways. A single daisy tucked into your hair before you went out together. Lavender sprigs slipped into the pages of the book you were reading. A soft blush-colored carnation left on your pillow for you to find in the morning. He loved the way your eyes lit up each time, like he’d given you the most precious thing in the world.
“You don’t have to keep buying me flowers, you know,” you’d tell him with a laugh, though your fingers always lingered on the petals.
“I know,” he’d reply, brushing a kiss over your forehead. “But I want to. Every time I see something beautiful, I think of you and I can’t help wanting to bring it to you.”
It wasn’t just about the flowers. It was about the way he saw you: worth celebrating, worth cherishing, worth reminding over and over just how deeply loved you were. And if it took a lifetime of bouquets to get that message across, Reo Mikage would gladly make every trip to the florist with a smile.
Because for him, you weren’t just the reason he loved giving flowers.
Synopsis. A pop star and a notorious footballer navigate love under the glare of the spotlight, proving that sometimes the world’s warnings mean nothing when you know someone’s heart. A request from the lovely @elisa21sstuff :)
The roar of the crowd hit you before the lights even found you.
Your in-ears buzzed with chants of your name, a thrum of anticipation running through your veins. Berlin was loud , louder than most cities and tonight you could feel every decibel rattling in your chest. The glittering set pieces gleamed under the arena lights, stagehands darting behind curtains, and the smell of smoke machines and perfume filled the air.
But none of it was what had your pulse stuttering.
It was the knowledge that he was here.
You hadn’t needed to scan the crowd to find him. Michael Kaiser didn’t blend in anywhere. Even from the stage earlier, when your opening act was on, you’d caught a flash of him in the VIP section: blond hair catching the lights like spun gold, silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to make the tabloids salivate, that infuriatingly self-assured smirk aimed directly at you.
Your lips had almost betrayed you with a smile mid-song. Almost.
The crowd’s chanting swelled again, and your cue came.
Stepping onto the stage was always like stepping into another version of yourself, bigger, bolder, untouchable. Your dancers fell into formation, the bass thumped through your bones, and thousands of screaming voices blended into one electric rush.
Halfway through the set, the intro chords of that song began, and you felt the shift. The fans knew it. The media knew it. And Michael? Oh, he definitely knew it.
“Please Please Please” had become a phenomenon, chart-topping, meme-worthy, endlessly dissected online. The lyrics were vulnerable and pleading, laced with frustration, about loving someone the world warned you against.
Naturally, the internet had decided it was about Michael Kaiser.
Every performance clip got slowed down, zoomed in, edited into fan theories: the way your eyes sometimes lingered toward VIP during the chorus, the half-smile you’d get on don’t make me cry at the end of the night. And the moment last month when Michael, caught on a fan cam, mouthed I would never back at you during a show? That had sent your mentions into meltdown.
You sang it now with your heart pounding, gaze sweeping the crowd until it landed on him. He was leaning back in his seat like the king of the arena, but his eyes never left you. When you hit the final chorus, he tilted his head, smirk tugging deeper and yeah, he mouthed it again: I would never.
Hours later, you slipped into your dressing room, still buzzing with post-show adrenaline, and found him already there.
“Du warst unglaublich, schatz,” he said in that low, lazy drawl, leaning against your vanity like it was a throne. You didn’t flinch at the German anymore. You were incredible, honey.
Your makeup artist hadn’t even made it in yet, but Michael had somehow bypassed security, not that you were surprised. “You weren’t supposed to be back here yet,” you teased, setting your mic pack on the counter.
“Hmm.” His grin widened. “Guess security likes me more than you think.”
“Or they’re just scared of you.”
“Scared?” He pushed off the counter and crossed the room in three unhurried steps. “They should be.”
His arms slid around you, and suddenly all the noise of the arena faded. He kissed you, slow and lingering, and the adrenaline from the stage bled seamlessly into the warmth curling in your chest.
“You know,” you murmured against his lips, “you’ve caused me nothing but trouble since you got here.”
“Only the fun kind,” he countered without hesitation.
The “trouble” wasn’t new.
Earlier this week, paparazzi shots of you and Michael leaving a late-night dinner in Berlin had splashed across every gossip site. Your fans flooded your tags with run while you can. His fans claimed you’d end up breaking his heart. The rest of the internet just argued about whether you two were PR or a disaster waiting to happen.
And during your album press tour, a bold interviewer had asked point-blank: Is ‘Please Please Please’ about Michael Kaiser?
You’d smiled like it was nothing. “I don’t confirm or deny my muses.”
But everyone had already made up their minds.
“I actually like the song,” he murmured now, brushing a damp strand of hair off your temple.
You raised a brow. “Do you?”
“Mmhm. It’s catchy. A little desperate,” he teased, “but then again, so are you when I’m gone too long.”
You shoved him lightly, but he caught your wrist and tugged you closer. His smirk softened.
“They don’t know me,” he said.
“I know they don’t.”
“They think I’ll hurt you.”
“I know.”
“And you—” His voice dipped, eyes sharp and searching. “You’re still here.”
You held his gaze. “I’m still here because you’ve never given me a reason not to be.”
Two nights later, it was your turn to watch him perform.
If your concerts were a storm of glitter and lights, his matches were a battlefield. The stadium vibrated with chants, rival fans hurled insults, and flashes from camera shutters lit up the pitch.
Kaiser thrived in it. He weaved through defenders with infuriating ease, scored with theatrical flair, and celebrated like the entire stadium was built for him alone. But every so often, you caught his eyes flicking toward your box.
When he scored the game-winning goal, he pointed straight at you. The crowd erupted, and his mouth shaped the words you knew by heart: For you.
Back in the car after the match, he slid in beside you, his hair damp from the shower, his cologne warm and intoxicating.
“Did you like the goal?” he asked casually, though his eyes already held the answer.
“I think the whole stadium knows I did.”
“Good.” He leaned back, smirk deepening. “Then they also know I’m not the villain in your little song.”
“You’re not a villain, Michael,” you said with a half-smile. “You’re just—”
“Irresistible?”
“—Exhausting.”
You thought back to the first time you’d played the demo for him.
It had been a quiet night in your apartment. You’d been nervous, not because you thought he’d hate it, but because it was so raw. You’d written it on a hotel floor in Paris, scrolling through headlines about him, missing him while he was halfway across the world, wondering if loving him made you naive.
When the last note faded, he’d been quiet. Then, with a tilted smirk, he’d said:
“It’s a love song.”
You’d laughed. “It’s a don’t make me regret this song.”
“Same thing,” he’d said, pulling you into his lap.
Weeks passed, and the song kept climbing. Fans brought signs to your shows: Please Please Please (Marry Me?) and He Better Behave. Paparazzi camped outside venues, waiting for a slip-up they could spin into betrayal.
But Michael never gave them one. He kept showing up at your concerts, your rehearsals, even sneaking into the studio to bring you coffee. He didn’t care about optics. He cared about you.
One night, after another sold-out show, you found him waiting in the hallway outside your dressing room, leaning against the wall with that smug grin.
“You’re early,” you said.
“Couldn’t miss my favorite part.”
“And which part is that?”
“The one where you walk off stage and straight into my arms.”
You shook your head, but you didn’t fight it when he pulled you close.
“You know,” he murmured, “you’re a lot like your album.”
You smiled. “Short and sweet?”
“Loud and unforgettable,” he corrected, kissing you slow and sure.
And you thought, as your fingers curled into his shirt, that tomorrow’s headlines could say whatever they wanted. Let them speculate, let them warn you.
Because the truth was simple: when you sang please please please on stage, you already knew the answer, and you’d never have to beg twice.
This story is inspired by Sabrina Carpenter’s Short n’ Sweet album. I do not own the album or its song titles. All rights belong to Sabrina Carpenter
Rain lashed against the windows of your shared Berlin apartment, the skies a stormy gray as if echoing how you felt inside. You curled deeper under the mountain of blankets on the couch, tissues scattered like fallen snowflakes on the coffee table, your nose stuffy and your throat sore beyond belief. Your fever hadn’t broken since yesterday, and even lifting your phone to check the time felt like a herculean effort.
The only comfort came from the faint hum of the TV playing reruns of your favorite comfort show and the scent of chamomile tea long since gone cold sitting untouched by your side.
You heard the front door click open, followed by the familiar sound of keys dropping into the bowl near the entrance. Then came the soft shuffle of expensive sneakers being kicked off.
You groaned slightly and buried your head in a pillow. The last thing you wanted was for Michael, your overly confident, annoyingly attractive boyfriend, to see you like this. But it was already too late.
“Love?” His voice was both honey-smooth and laced with concern. “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“I’ve been dead for the past 24 hours,” you croaked weakly, not even attempting to sound dramatic.
You heard footsteps pad quickly over the wood flooring. He appeared in the doorway of the living room, ditching his gym bag on the floor as his eyes scanned your sick, miserable form. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be seen.
“You look like shit,” he said, but the teasing was faint, overridden by the worry creasing his brows.
“Gee, thanks,” you muttered, coughing into your sleeve. “Great to see you too.”
Kaiser stepped closer, dropping to a crouch beside the couch. He didn’t care that your skin was flushed with fever or your hair was a tangled mess. His gloved fingers gently brushed a strand of hair away from your forehead, then rested there a moment, checking your temperature.
“Still burning up,” he muttered under his breath, voice almost too soft for you to hear. “Did you eat anything today?”
You shook your head. “Couldn’t keep anything down.”
“Okay. That’s it. My orders.” He stood up in a fluid motion, already pulling off his jacket and tossing it over a chair. “I’m handling everything.”
You cracked an eye open and croaked, “You? Cooking? Isn’t that illegal in, like, eighteen countries?”
He shot you a look. “I can cook, thank you very much. I just usually don’t have to.”
Despite your state, you let out a hoarse laugh, which only led to another fit of coughing. Kaiser was immediately by your side again, handing you water like it was a potion of immortality.
“No more sass until you’re better,” he said, tilting the glass to your lips. “Come on, drink.”
You obeyed, too weak to resist, and let him press the glass gently to your mouth. The cool water soothed your sore throat. When you were done, he dabbed your lips with a tissue and tucked the blankets around you tighter, his movements uncharacteristically tender.
“Michael, you don’t have to—”
“Shh.” He silenced you with a finger to your lips. “You took care of me when I twisted my ankle last season, remember?”
“That was barely a sprain.”
“And you still fed me soup and carried my ego when I said I felt useless for missing a match.”
You let out a weak chuckle.
“Besides,” he continued, brushing his thumb over your temple, “I like taking care of you. So shut up and let me.”
You blinked at him. This was not the same Michael Kaiser who taunted players on the field, who preened for cameras and bathed in arrogance. This was your Michael, protective, gentle, and impossibly sweet when he wanted to be.
He disappeared into the kitchen with the kind of determination he usually reserved for World Cup qualifiers.
Forty minutes later, your apartment smelled like heaven. The aroma of miso soup drifted through the air, and the sound of utensils clinking told you he hadn’t burned anything.
Yet.
He returned, now without his hoodie and in a tank top that showed off his toned arms (because of course he would). He carried a tray with a small bowl of soup, sliced fruit, and warm tea that actually steamed this time.
“Careful,” he warned, settling on the edge of the couch. “It’s hot.”
You gave him a look of awe. “Did you… make this?”
“Babe, please. I played soccer in Japan. I know my way around miso soup.”
“Did you actually make it or did you just pour hot water into an instant packet?”
Kaiser smirked. “That information is classified.”
Still, you took the first spoonful. It was warm, salty, and soothing, exactly what your body had been begging for. You sighed in relief.
“Good?” he asked, watching you like a hawk.
You nodded. “Perfect.”
Michael leaned back smugly, but the proud glint in his eyes wasn’t for himself, it was for you. “Told you I got this.”
He didn’t leave your side while you ate. In fact, he gently helped you hold the bowl when your hands trembled. When you coughed, he rubbed your back. And when you dropped your spoon and let out a frustrated groan, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.
“Don’t get all pouty. You’re sick, not helpless,” he murmured.
“I feel gross.”
“You look beautiful.”
You raised an eyebrow at him.
“I’m serious.” He tucked your hair behind your ear. “Even with that red nose and those watery eyes. You’re still mine.”
Your heart squeezed painfully, and not from the fever. It was so rare to see him like this, unguarded, his every action a testament to how deeply he cared.
“I probably got you sick already,” you mumbled.
“Let me guess,” he grinned, “you’re about to say you’re contagious and I should stay away?”
You nodded.
“Too late.” He leaned forward and kissed your forehead anyway. “I’m already infected with love.”
You groaned so loudly that your own lungs betrayed you.
“Michael, that was so bad.”
He chuckled. “I’ve been saving that one.”
Later that evening, when the medicine finally kicked in and your body grew heavier with the pull of sleep, Michael settled next to you on the couch, pulling you into his side. You lay against him, cheek on his chest, lulled by the rhythm of his steady heartbeat.
He absently played with your fingers, occasionally kissing the top of your head as he whispered softly:
“You’re gonna be okay. Just rest. I’ll be here.”
You smiled into his shirt. “You’re not gonna run off to a party or stream your match footage for the millionth time?”
“Tempting,” he teased, “but no. My queen needs her knight.”
“I thought you were the emperor.”
“I’m both,” he said proudly. “But right now, I’m your personal nurse. And a pretty damn good one at that.”
You couldn’t argue. The fever hadn’t vanished, but the ache in your chest, emotional, not physical had eased. Because no matter how bad you felt, you had Michael Kaiser wrapping you up in his warmth like armor.
And just before you drifted off to sleep, you heard him whisper one last thing into your hair:
“I love you, even when you’re a snot-covered mess.”
The late afternoon sun spilled through the open kitchen windows, casting soft gold streaks over the countertops and cabinets. The apartment was quiet save for the distant hum of city life outside, cars, people, the occasional bark of a dog, but inside, it was just them.
You and Sae.
It was the first time in months that you had him for more than a day. No early morning training. No red-eye flights. No press conferences or team meetings. Just him. In faded gray sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt, barefoot, hair slightly messy from lounging on the couch earlier.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest, watching you pull out ingredients from the fridge.
“You sure you remember how to cook?” you teased, glancing over your shoulder. “Mr. World-Class Athlete, always eating catered meals and nutritionist-approved bento boxes?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I remember just fine. You’re the one who almost burnt the rice last time.”
You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, placing a carton of eggs and some fresh vegetables on the counter. “That was one time.”
“It was also the last time we cooked together.”
You paused, his words anchoring the moment. Yeah… it had been a while.
Too long.
Back when he still had time to come home once a week instead of once a season. Back when you didn’t have to plan months ahead just to share a dinner. Now, with the offseason finally here, he was back. Not just physically, but fully. No looming responsibilities. No early departures.
Just… here.
You met his gaze and offered a small smile. “Then we better make this one count.”
Sae’s expression softened, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright, chef. Tell me what to do.”
You handed him a cutting board and a knife. “You’re on veggie duty. I’ll handle the meat.”
He moved beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he took his place at the counter. The silence between you was comfortable as the rhythm of cooking took over the sound of the knife against the board, the sizzle of oil heating in the pan, the clink of utensils.
It felt domestic. Familiar. Like something you used to have and were finally remembering again.
Sae, focused and methodical as always, chopped the vegetables with precision. Bell peppers, zucchini, carrots. Each slice perfect.
“You’re scarily good at that,” you murmured, glancing over.
“Knife skills,” he replied without looking up. “I could’ve been a chef in another life.”
You smirked. “You would’ve been a terrifyingly quiet chef.”
“Better than a loud one who sets rice on fire.”
“Okay, I walked into that one.”
He chuckled a low, quiet sound that vibrated in your chest more than it rang out. You missed that sound. More than you realized.
You turned to the stove, seasoning the chicken as it sizzled. The scent of garlic and ginger filled the space, warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. Sae moved behind you to grab something from the pantry, his hand brushing against your back gently as he passed.
It wasn’t even intentional, probably. But you felt it anyway. How he lingered a second longer. How his hand steadied you by your waist before moving on. How he didn’t say anything, but the touch said everything.
“I missed this,” you said softly.
Sae didn’t answer right away. He grabbed the sesame oil, poured a bit into a pan, and returned the bottle to the shelf. Then he looked at you.
“Me too.”
Just those two words. But they hit you harder than any long-winded confession could’ve.
You didn’t need much from him never had. But his honesty, when it came, always carried weight.
You reached over, lacing your fingers with his free hand.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and absentminded.
“We’ve been doing okay, right?” you asked, your voice quieter now, laced with the uncertainty you hadn’t allowed yourself to say aloud until now. “With the distance and everything?”
He set the knife down and turned to face you fully. “It’s not easy. I know that. But you’ve been patient. Always waiting. Always here.”
You looked up at him, and for a moment, the kitchen faded around you, the clatter of pans, the heat of the stove, the scent of dinner. It all melted into the background.
“I wait because I want to,” you said. “Because it’s you.”
He leaned in, forehead pressing against yours gently. “I’ll make it up to you. This whole offseason, I’m yours.”
“You better be,” you whispered.
Then the pan crackled behind you, reminding you that dinner was still in progress.
You both pulled away with matching smiles, more at ease than either of you had been in weeks.
Sae moved back to his station, tossing the chopped veggies into a pan with practiced ease.
“You ever think about us doing this more often?” you asked, stirring the chicken.
He raised an eyebrow. “Cooking?”
“Just… being home. Living normal days together. Like this.”
He was quiet for a moment, the spatula in his hand flipping the vegetables with care. Then:
“I do.”
You looked at him again, surprised by how easily he’d said it.
“I think about it a lot,” he added. “About what comes after football. What kind of life I want. Who I want to come home to.”
Your heart thudded.
“You’ve never really talked about retiring before.”
“Not retiring,” he said quickly. “Just… the future. I know football won’t last forever. I’ve been planning for what comes next.”
“And… I’m part of that plan?”
Sae met your eyes, dead serious. “You are the plan.”
He said it so plainly, like it wasn’t even a question.
And it left you speechless.
You stared at him, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes, not from the onions this time.
“You’re gonna make me cry while I’m sautéing chicken,” you muttered, sniffing.
Sae stepped closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and gently kissing your temple.
“Sorry,” he murmured, clearly not sorry at all.
You leaned into him, allowing yourself a few seconds in his arms before pulling back. “Okay, okay. If we burn this dinner, it’ll ruin the moment.”
“Then let’s not ruin it,” he said, moving back to the stove.
The rest of the cooking continued with light chatter. You argued over whether or not to add chili flakes. He complained you were using too much soy sauce. You countered that he was too stingy with seasoning.
By the time everything was plated and set on the table, the sun had dipped below the skyline, leaving the apartment bathed in soft golden twilight.
You sat across from each other, barefoot and relaxed. The kind of comfort that came from familiarity.
Sae picked up his chopsticks, looking at the spread you’d made together. Teriyaki chicken, stir-fried vegetables, rice, and miso soup.
“It looks good,” he admitted. “Smells better.”
You grinned. “That’s because I saved the rice this time.”
He gave you a flat look. “Barely.”
You giggled, and he shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched up. You knew that was his version of laughing.
You both dug in, quiet for a while, just eating and enjoying the silence. It wasn’t awkward—it was peaceful. The kind of silence that felt like home.
Halfway through the meal, Sae looked up. “Let’s make this a thing.”
You paused. “What?”
“Dinner nights. Just us. No cameras, no teammates, no training schedule. Even when the season starts again. I’ll make time.”
Your throat tightened. “You promise?”
He held your gaze. “I do.”
And you knew he meant it.
Because Sae Itoshi didn’t make empty promises.
Later that night, after the dishes were done and you both were curled up on the couch, his arm draped over your shoulder and your head resting against his chest, you realized that this quiet, simple, and real was your favorite version of him.
Not the prodigy. Not the star. Not the impossible-to-reach player adored by millions.
Every time the net rippled with a goal scored by Isagi Yoichi, the stadium erupted. But for isagi, the roar of the crowd was just background noise compared to the way his heart pounded when he looked up into the stands to find you.
Because every goal, every single one was for you.
It had started subtly at first. A small glance up after his first goal in the Neo Egoist League, searching for your face among thousands. Back then, you were just dating. Quiet, uncertain, but hopeful. And that goal? It had been messy, chaotic, snatched from the jaws of confusion in the penalty box. But when the ball hit the net, and isagi turned to look up into the stands where he knew you were, something inside him shifted.
He found you in the crowd that day, hands over your mouth, eyes wide and sparkling, wearing his number on your hoodie like it was the only number that ever mattered.
After that, every goal became more than just proof of his growth as a striker.
They became yours.
“Another goal, huh?” you grinned, tossing a towel at him as he walked toward you after the game, still sweaty and breathless.
Yoichi beamed, cheeks red. “Yeah. Did you see the celebration?”
You nodded. “That little heart thing with your hands?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “It’s kinda cheesy, huh?”
“It’s cute,” you replied, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple. “I knew it was for me.”
He smiled so wide it almost hurt.
Reporters had started to notice, of course. One even asked him about it during a press conference.
“You always point up into the stands after scoring? What’s that about?”
Isagi had flushed bright red, eyes darting to the side. “Ah… it’s nothing special. Just someone I care about.”
You’d watched the clip at home, cheeks warm, clutching a pillow to your chest. You didn’t need him to say your name to the world. The gesture was enough. The look in his eyes was enough.
With each game, his goals grew cleaner, more precise, more brilliant. But what never changed was what followed.
A kiss to his index and middle fingers. Then, those same fingers lifted to the sky, pointed toward wherever you were in the stadium. Sometimes it was a little heart shape over his chest. Sometimes it was your initial drawn in the air, so quick and subtle that only you would notice.
You noticed every time.
The media eventually caught on. Fans speculated. Clips went viral online of every time Isagi scored and immediately sought you out in the crowd. A compilation video titled “Isagi Yoichi’s Love Goals (He’s So Whipped!)” racked up millions of views.
Isagi blushed when you showed it to him.
“I’m not whipped,” he groaned, trying to bury his face in a pillow.
You teased, “You literally made a heart with your hands after scoring against Germany.”
“That was a big goal!” he protested. “It felt right.”
You laughed. “I love it.”
Yoichi peeked up at you then, eyes soft. “I love you.”
There were days when he didn’t score. Days when he missed the mark by inches. Days when his frustration bubbled over and he’d walk off the pitch feeling like he failed everyone, his team, his country, himself.
But never you.
You never made him feel like less.
So even on the days he couldn’t point to the stands, when there was no goal to dedicate, he’d find you after the match. Quietly. Gently. And you’d tell him the same thing every time:
“You’re still everything to me.”
One night, after a particularly exhausting win where isagi scored the game-winner in overtime, he came straight to you instead of celebrating with the others. His shirt clung to his back, his legs wobbly from adrenaline and exhaustion.
But his smile?
That was all for you.
“I saw you,” you whispered as he pulled you into his arms.
He kissed the top of your head. “I always look for you first.”
“You don’t have to do that every time, you know.”
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “But I want to. Every time I score, it’s because I’m chasing something. Not just the goal. Not just the win.” His voice lowered. “I’m chasing the version of myself that deserves you.”
You stared up at him, throat tight.
“I play for myself, yeah. For the team. For Japan. But when that ball hits the net…” He smiled, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “It’s always for you.”
Years from now, when he’s older and has scored more goals than he can count, people will still ask about his little rituals. Why he always pointed into the stands. Why he always smiled right after a goal like he was thinking of something or someone else.
Sae Itoshi sat in his living room, phone face down on the armrest of the couch, half-listening to the sports recap on TV. He was still in his training gear, shorts, compression top, cleats kicked off at the door, but he hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Not even to drink the water you had placed on the coffee table in front of him.
The air between you was dense.
You stood in the kitchen doorway, wringing the hem of your oversized hoodie, his hoodie actually and chewing at your lower lip so hard it felt numb. The nerves had been building all morning, gnawing at you like they were trying to dig a hole through your chest.
You had known for two days. You’d taken three tests: all positive. And even after a panicked visit to the doctor yesterday, confirmation in hand, none of it had really felt real until you said the words out loud this morning:
“I’m pregnant.”
Now, you were both sitting in the aftermath.
Not planned. Not discussed. Not even vaguely joked about. You had only been dating seriously for a little over a year, still learning each other’s rhythms, likes, dislikes, quirks. You knew Sae didn’t like eggs unless the yolks were runny. He knew you couldn’t sleep with socks on. But babies? Parenthood?
You weren’t sure either of you knew what to do with that.
Sae’s elbows were on his knees, hands clasped tightly between them. His turquoise eyes were cast downward, expression unreadable. But you could see the subtle tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers, and you hated that you couldn’t tell if it meant panic or restraint.
“Say something,” you whispered finally, voice cracking under the pressure.
He looked up. Slowly. Deliberately. And when he did, his eyes weren’t angry. Or cold. They were… lost.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Blood test confirmed it yesterday.”
He nodded once. Swallowed hard. “How far along?”
“Almost six weeks.”
Silence.
You crossed your arms, feeling painfully exposed. “I didn’t plan this, Sae. I swear I was careful. I always”
“I know,” he interrupted, voice low. “I know you were.”
Something in the way he said it, not accusatory, not detached, but with a quiet steadiness, made your throat tighten.
You moved to sit beside him on the couch, but kept a small gap between you. Your heart was racing. “I don’t know what you’re thinking right now.”
He leaned back, head resting against the couch cushion, staring at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer. “Neither do I.”
That scared you more than anything.
Sae Itoshi always knew what he was thinking. He was precise. Focused. Disciplined. Whether it was on the pitch or in life, he never stepped into anything without intention. He didn’t like surprises, but this? This was the biggest one of all.
“Sae…”
He closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he sat up straighter, turning slightly toward you.
“I never pictured this,” he said. “Not now. Not with everything going on. Not with my career where it is. And definitely not… without planning.”
Your chest sank a little. You nodded, voice soft. “I know.”
He glanced at you. “And I’m scared.”
That was the last thing you expected to hear.
“You’re scared?”
“Yeah,” he exhaled. “I’ve spent my whole life making sure nothing throws me off. No distractions, no drama. Just the goal. Everything’s always been about football. I worked so hard to stay in control.”
You hesitated. “And now this makes you feel out of control.”
He didn’t deny it.
The confession sat between you, fragile and raw. You wanted to reach out to him, to offer comfort, but a part of you didn’t know if it would help or if it would push him further away.
Sae’s fingers raked through his hair, and for once, he looked like someone’s boyfriend, not an international soccer prodigy. Just a 22-year-old guy trying to process something impossibly life-altering.
“I don’t want you to think I’m mad at you,” he said quietly. “Or that I blame you.”
You blinked. “I didn’t… but thank you for saying that.”
He turned fully toward you now, his thigh brushing against yours. “What are you feeling? Really.”
You looked down at your hands. “Scared. Overwhelmed. Like I can’t breathe sometimes.”
His brow furrowed.
“I’ve been spiraling for days,” you admitted. “I kept trying to convince myself it was a fluke. That maybe the tests were wrong. But they weren’t. And now I just keep thinking about what it means for us. For me. For you.”
“For your career,” you added.
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about that right now.”
“How can I not?”
He paused. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand, hesitant at first, like he didn’t know if you’d let him and when you didn’t pull away, he held it in both of his.
“I need time to figure out what this means for me,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to disappear.”
Your eyes welled up. “Promise?”
His grip tightened. “I promise.”
And that’s when the tears came, not from panic, but from sheer relief.
You leaned into him, forehead resting against his shoulder, and he let you. His arms came around you, a little unsure at first, but then firmer, grounding.
“I’m sorry I dropped this on you like that,” you murmured.
“Don’t be. You’re going through this, too.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “I don’t even know what we’re supposed to do now. What if you decide this is too much? What if we’re not ready?”
“I don’t know if anyone’s ever really ready,” he admitted. “But I do know I care about you. And I care about this… baby.”
It was the first time either of you had said the word out loud. Baby.
He looked down at your belly, and instinctively, you covered it with your hand. The moment felt strange and sacred at the same time.
“I never thought I’d be a dad at 22,” he said, almost to himself.
You gave a tearful laugh. “I never thought you’d be a dad at 22.”
His lips twitched, just slightly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
You nudged him. “You know what I mean.”
There was a long pause. He watched you carefully, expression unreadable again, but then he reached out, hesitating just inches from your stomach.
“Can I…?”
You nodded, guiding his hand.
His palm rested lightly over your abdomen, flat, still but somehow, everything felt different now. Like the gravity in the room had shifted.
“It doesn’t feel real,” he said.
You looked up at him. “I know.”
Another pause. Then, he whispered, “But it is.”
You nodded.
He was quiet for a while, just breathing in rhythm with you. Then, in a voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it, he asked:
“Are you going to keep it?”
You bit your lip. “I’ve been thinking about that. A lot. I didn’t want to say anything before I told you. But… yeah. I think I want to.”
He didn’t speak right away, but he didn’t look shocked either. Just thoughtful.
“Even if it means doing it alone?” he asked, quietly.
“I don’t want to do it alone,” you replied, honest and open. “But if I have to… I will.”
He looked at you then, and his eyes were burning with something different now, not panic, but conviction.
“You won’t have to.”
“Sae—”
“I don’t know what kind of father I’d be. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do first. But if you’re in this… I’m in this.”
You stared at him. “You mean that?”
“Yes.”
Tears rolled freely down your cheeks now. He brushed them away with the pad of his thumb, gentler than he’d ever been.
“I still don’t have answers,” he said. “And I’m still scared out of my mind.”
You smiled through the tears. “Me too.”
“But I want to figure it out. With you.”
You leaned into him, pressing your forehead against his. “Even if this is the hardest thing we’ve ever done?”
He gave a small, real smile. “Especially if it is.”
There were still a thousand things to talk about doctor appointments, the future, your families, the press but for now, in that moment, with his arms around you and the future slowly unfolding like a fog lifting from the field, it was enough.
You didn’t have all the answers. But you had each other. And that was a start.
Rin was not the type to slip up. Not on the field. Not during interviews. And definitely not when it came to words. Every sentence that came out of his mouth was precise, intentional, and delivered with that trademark cold calmness that made reporters tread lightly and teammates double-check his mood before speaking.
That’s why the moment he slipped, casually, unintentionally, and with absolutely no take-back felt like a cosmic event.
It started with something simple: laundry.
Well, your laundry. Rin had been lounging on your apartment floor, back propped against the couch as he scrolled through tactics videos on his phone, socks mismatched, hair still damp from his post-training shower. You were a few feet away, folding a pile of clothes on the bed, half-distracted by the way his messy fringe clung to his forehead and how he kept absently chewing on the cord of his earbuds.
“I swear,” you muttered, holding up one of his jerseys, “this smells like it died and came back as mold.”
He didn’t look up. “That’s the one I wore for three back-to-back practices. Left it in my locker.”
You made a face, dramatically holding it at arm’s length. “Gross. You’re lucky I love you.”
“Mhm.”
Your words didn’t even faze him. His attention was locked on the video. You huffed and tossed the jersey into the hamper. “Honestly, you’re lucky I do your laundry at all.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“But you let me.”
“That’s because I like how you fold my stuff.”
“Like how?”
He tilted his head slightly. “Neatly. Symmetrical. It’s nice.”
You blinked. Rin Itoshi just said something was nice. High praise. But still…
“Would it kill you to say thank you?”
That’s when it happened.
Without even thinking, without looking up from his screen, Rin replied:
“Yeah, thanks, baby.”
The silence that followed was so immediate and heavy, it was like all the air in the room had been vacuumed out.
Rin froze.
Your hand paused mid-fold, clutching one of his t-shirts. Your eyes darted toward him slowly, unsure if you’d heard right.
He realized it at the same time you did. His shoulders went stiff. His eyes widened just slightly subtle, but noticeable if you knew how to read him, which you did. His jaw clenched, and his thumbs suddenly stopped scrolling.
“…What did you just say?” you asked, voice careful, but amused.
He still didn’t look up.
You crossed your arms, fighting the grin threatening to split across your face. “Rin.”
Nothing.
“Rin.”
“…Forget it.”
You dropped the shirt and walked over, kneeling beside him. “No no no, see, now I can’t.”
His brows furrowed, lips tight. “It was a slip.”
“A what?”
“I didn’t mean to say it.”
“But you did.”
He ran a hand down his face and leaned back against the couch, letting out a long, slow exhale. “Don’t make it a thing.”
You tilted your head. “You called me ‘baby.’”
“I know.”
“Like it just came out of you naturally.”
“It was a mistake.”
You raised a brow. “So you don’t think I’m your baby?
He groaned, tipping his head back against the cushion with a dull thud. “Stop talking.”
You couldn’t help it you burst out laughing. Full, heart-in-your-throat laughter that echoed around the room, while Rin sat there, eyes squeezed shut like he was praying to disappear.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “Holy crap, Rin Itoshi blushed after calling me baby.”
He pulled away with a scowl, but the tips of his ears were so red you knew you’d struck gold.
You leaned in closer, hands resting on his knees. “I didn’t know you had that in your vocabulary.”
“I don’t.”
“You sure? Sounded real natural to me.”
His eyes flicked toward you, narrowed and accusing. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Absolutely.” You smiled, softer now. “I mean, I didn’t even know you wanted to call me that.”
He paused.
You watched him carefully, noticing the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his eyes briefly darted toward your lips before returning to your gaze.
“…I don’t not want to.”
Oh.
Okay, that answer was not what you expected. Not from Rin. You blinked. “Wait… so you do like the idea?”
“…Maybe.”
You leaned your head against his knee, smiling against the fabric of his sweatpants. “Then why not just do it on purpose next time?”
He didn’t reply.
You peeked up. “Too embarrassing?”
“I’ve never said that word to anyone before.”
“Not even an ex?”
“I didn’t have any serious ones. And even if I did, they weren’t… you.”
That silenced you for a second.
You sat up slowly, warmth blooming in your chest. Rin’s gaze was steady now still a little defensive, still a little annoyed at himself but sincere. The kind of raw honesty he only gave to you in moments like this, when his walls dropped for just long enough to let you see him.
You crawled into his lap, hands on his shoulders, and pressed your forehead against his.
“You’re lucky I love you too,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes. “…Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not already painfully aware.”
You giggled, lips brushing against his. “Say it again.”
“No.”
“Please?”
He groaned. “You’re so annoying.”
You kissed his cheek. “I’ll fold your nasty jerseys for a month.”
A pause.
“…Two months.”
You gasped. “Deal.”
He opened one eye, annoyed. “You’re ridiculous.”
You smiled wide. “But?”
He stared at you for a moment, weighing the embarrassment against the reward, before finally muttering, “Thanks, baby.”
You melted.
“Okay,” you whispered breathlessly, “that’s my new ringtone.”
He shoved you lightly off his lap with a glare, but the way he was biting back a smile gave him away.
Later that night, when you were half-asleep in bed and Rin was brushing your hair away from your forehead, you heard him whisper it again.
Soft. Almost too quiet.
“Goodnight, baby.”
You didn’t call him out on it this time. You just smiled against his chest and held him closer.
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