𓋜 ──── ꒰ @rhindou !!
𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘛𝘐𝘊𝘒𝘌𝘛 𝘚𝘛𝘜𝘉 𝘚𝘈𝘠𝘚 . . .
okay, hear me out. two athletes, two perfectionists, two people who have exactly zero interest in pretending to be impressed when they aren’t. you said you can be too honest with feedback— darling, you were describing his entire personality. the difference is that when it’s the two of you, nobody flinches. you never have to read between the lines, and he never has to soften for you. do you know how rare that is for him? everyone else tiptoes. you just.. walk. here’s the thing about sae: he respects exactly one thing, and it’s earned skill. he’s watched you dance, and he knows what it costs, the repetition and the discipline, because he paid the same price in a different language. he will never once be condescending about your craft, and when he says you’re good, it’s worth more than a standing ovation, because sae has never in his life said something he didn’t mean. for someone who runs on validation? he’s the only source that never rings hollow. you asked for someone who understands personal space, someone who won’t take it personally when you take time to recharge. lilia. this man moved to another continent to focus. unanswered messages don’t register to him as rejection— they register as tuesday. when you’re overwhelmed and need to disappear for a bit, he won’t hover or guilt trip. he’ll just be there when you resurface, entirely unbothered, like no time passed at all <3
𝘚𝘕𝘈𝘗𝘚𝘏𝘖𝘛𝘚 𝘍𝘙𝘖𝘔 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘍𝘈𝘐𝘙𝘎𝘙𝘖𝘜𝘕𝘋𝘚 !
✧ there’s a dance master machine in the arcade tent, and you destroy him. sae stares at the scoreboard like it’s personally betrayed him, then jerks his chin toward the foosball table across the way: “again. my field.” he wins by a landslide. neither of you will ever, ever suggest a tiebreaker, because neither of you can afford to lose it.
✧ it takes you the length of the entire fairgrounds to talk him into the face paint booth, and he agrees with a sigh. you choose a little sunflower on his cheekbone, and while he glares at his reflection in the handheld mirror, he also doesn’t wash it off.
✧ you snipe at each other in three different languages at the food stalls— your italian, his spanish, meeting in the middle in english when the insults need precision. your rusty spanish makes him visibly suffer. “that conjugation was a war crime,” he mutters.
✧ gift-giving final boss meets the least giftable man alive, and wins anyway. you press one of your handmade keychains into his palm, and he looks at it for a long moment, says “hm,” and pockets it. weeks later, a match-day photo makes its rounds online: sae with his duffel bag, and hanging off the zipper, unmistakably, your keychain.
✧ there’s a live band, and the space in front of the stage becomes a dance floor. you don’t hesitate— and he doesn’t come with you, because that’s not his language. instead, he stands at the edge with his arms crossed, expression unreadable to everyone but you, and watches like there’s nothing else around worth looking at.
𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘍𝘖𝘙 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘗𝘙𝘐𝘡𝘌 . . .
you come back from the dance floor breathless and glowing, and he hands you your drink without a word— he’s been holding it the whole time, condensation and all. but sometime past ten, the noise starts to sit heavy on you. sae notices before you say it, and he angles you both away from the stage, past the last of the game stalls, to the quiet edge of the fairgrounds where the ferris wheel turns slowly over the tents. the silence is comfortable, but you break it anyway. “the foosball table was tilted, by the way. we’re settling it—” and that’s when you notice he’s not watching the ferris wheel anymore. he’s watching you, openly. “..sae?” “your birthday,” he says, “is this weekend.” he sets his drink down. deliberate. everything about him is deliberate— the turn of his shoulders, the hand that comes up to your jaw, tilting your face. “i don’t do parties.” “i know,” you manage. “so.” his thumb traces once along your cheekbone— the exact spot where the sunflower sits on his. “consider this early.” and then he kisses you— once, unhurried and intentional, nothing wasted and nothing held back either. when he draws back, it’s only far enough to study your face, cataloguing the result with visible satisfaction. “happy birthday, lia,” he says, reaching for his drink like his ears aren’t red.
♡ ─── cass’s carnival !!
