you’re face down on the couch in sae’s madrid apartment, groaning into a pillow that smells like his stupid expensive detergent, when he walks in.
you don’t even hear the door at first because you’re too busy dying dramatically about the email you just got—another deadline moved up, your boss being a bitch, the usual thursday nightmare. you’re muttering curses in three different languages when his shoes appear in your line of vision.
“get up.”
you flip the pillow off your face just enough to glare at him with one eye. “no. i live here now. bury me here.”
he’s still in his training kit, hair damp, cheeks a little flushed from the cold outside. he looks annoyingly good, as usual. he crouches down so you’re eye level, expression flat as ever.
“we leave in four hours.”
you blink. “leave for where? the kitchen? because i’m not cooking, you can starve.”
“maldives.”
you sit up so fast you almost headbutt him. “what?”
he pulls two tickets out of his jacket pocket and flicks them onto your lap like he’s tossing you junk mail. first class, malé departure tonight. your name is already printed next to his.
you stare at the tickets. then at him. then back at the tickets.
“sae. be serious.”
“i am.”
“you can’t just—maldives? like the actual maldives? overwater bungalow, turquoise water, instagram aesthetic maldives?”
he shrugs. “you kept sending me those reels last month. the ones with the stupid fish and the swings in the water. you said, and i quote, ‘i would sell my kidney to wake up there.’”
you did say that. you were crying over a video of a stingray because they’re faces are just so cute.
“so you… booked it?”
“yes.”
“without telling me?”
“surprises are supposed to be surprises.”
you’re still holding the tickets like they might disappear. “sae, i have work tomorrow. i have a 9 am call. i don’t even have a swimsuit here that isn’t from 2019.”
he stands up, already walking toward the bedroom. “i packed for you last night. your stuff’s in the black suitcase.”
you follow him on autopilot. sure enough, there’s a suitcase by the door you’ve never seen before, tag already on it, your passport in the front pocket like this is normal.
“you went through my underwear drawer?”
“you own too many cartoon patterns. i left the kuromi ones.”
you’re going to combust. “how long have you been planning this?”
“three weeks.”
“three weeks?! and you didn’t say anything?”
he glances back, one eyebrow raised. “you cry when you’re excited. i didn’t want to deal with it for three weeks.”
fair. but still.
you launch yourself at him, arms around his neck, legs kicking. he catches you without staggering, hands automatically going to your thighs like this is routine.
“you’re insane,” you mumble into his shoulder. “i love you so much i’m actually mad at you.”
“noted.” his voice is muffled in your hair. “shower. we leave soon.”
the flight is eleven hours and he doesn’t sleep the whole time, just watches three movies in a row and chibi maruko-chan and let’s you have his desert because it “ruins” his diet.
you wake up somewhere over the indian ocean with his hoodie over you like a blanket and his hand resting on your thigh, thumb moving in slow circles.
when you land in malé it’s already dark, but the air smells like salt and flowers and freedom. a private speedboat takes you to the resort—some insane place with glass floors and an infinity pool that drops straight into the ocean.
your villa is literally in the middle of the sea, stairs leading directly into the water.
you stand on the deck screaming quietly (because it’s 2 am and you don’t want to scare anyone) while sae leans against the railing, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a particularly entertaining documentary.
“this is disgusting,” you say, spinning in circles. “this is obscene. how much did this cost?”
“don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
you run and jump on him again. he lets you. he always lets you.
the next morning you wake up to sunlight on water so clear it looks photoshopped. sae’s side of the bed is empty, but you hear the shower running. you’re halfway through stealing his tshirt when he walks out, towel low on his hips, hair dripping.
“morning,” he says.
“morning, person who kidnapped me to paradise.”
you spend the day doing absolutely nothing. you swim until your fingers prune. you make him snorkel even though he complains the mask is “uncomfortable” and then spend twenty minutes floating while pointing out every fish like you’re david attenborough.
“that one’s a parrotfish,” you says, voice muffled by the snorkel. those national geographic days paying off.
“a what?”
later you’re on the deck swing, legs in the water, when he comes up behind you with two cocktails that are 90% fruit and 10% alcohol.
“drink.”
“trying to get me drunk, itoshi?”
“you’re louder when you’re tipsy. it’s funny.”
you kick water at him. he doesn’t even flinch.
night falls and the staff lights lanterns all around the villa. you’re sunburnt and happy, lying on the outdoor daybed staring at the stars when he sits down next to you, still in his black swim trunks, hair salty and messy.
you roll onto your side to look at him. “why’d you really do this?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just looks out at the water, the reflection of the moon broken into a million pieces.
“you were tired,” he says finally. “you stopped laughing. you always laugh.”
your chest feels too small for your heart.
“sae.”
“hm?”
“i’m laughing now.”
he turns his head. the lantern light catches the side of his face, makes his eyes look almost soft.
“good,” he says. then quieter, “don’t stop.”
you crawl into his lap, knees on either side of his hips, hands in his damp hair.
“thank you,” you whisper against his mouth.
he kisses you slow, lazy, tasting like pineapple and salt. one hand on your waist, the other sliding up your back.
“you’re annoying when you’re happy,” he mutters.
“you like it.”
“shut up.”
it’s enough.
(later, when you’re half asleep tangled in sheets that probably cost more than your rent, he says into your hair, voice so quiet you almost miss it—
“stay happy.”
you pretend you didn’t hear so he doesn’t get embarrassed.
but you hold him a little tighter and he lets you.)
