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Hi girl, how are you? I don’t know if you’re still taking Blue Lock requests, but I loved your series “You Have My Eyes” and I’d really like you to make one about Reo Mikage. He’s my favorite Blue Lock character. I’d love it if you could do it—of course only if you have time and feel like it. If not, just ignore this lol. I love your writing, and I love you too haha 💕

You Have My Eyes - Pt.1

[You Have My Eyes Series]

The first time you saw Reo Mikage, you thought he looked expensive.

Not in the obvious way people usually meant it, either. Not just the silver watch resting loose against his wrist, catching warm café light every time he moved. Not the dark coat folded perfectly over the back of his chair without a single wrinkle. Not even the polished shoes that clicked softly against the wooden floor like the place belonged to him.

It was something quieter than that. The kind of expensive that came from never having to hesitate. Like he had grown up in rooms where people listened the first time he spoke. Like every door had always opened before he even reached for the handle. Like the world had spent his entire life making space for him without being asked.

And maybe it had.

You met him by accident.

There was a small bookstore café wedged between two office buildings downtown, the kind people only found if they were looking for somewhere to disappear. Its sign flickered when it rained, and one of the windowpanes had a thin crack running through the corner that the owner never bothered fixing. Old jazz hummed softly through dusty speakers overhead. The air always smelled like espresso beans and paperbacks that had been touched by too many hands.

You used to go there whenever life felt too loud.

That day, the rain was relentless.

Water streaked down the windows so heavily the city outside looked underwater, headlights melting into blurred gold and white. Every seat in the café was taken by students hiding from deadlines or office workers pretending not to answer emails. Someone near the counter kept turning pages too loudly. The milk steamer hissed every few minutes like a sigh.

Your laptop had died twenty minutes earlier.

You were crouched awkwardly beside your chair, digging through your bag for your charger with growing desperation, muttering curses under your breath when a voice spoke beside you.

“You’re sitting next to the only outlet in the entire place.”

Smooth voice. Calm. Amused in a way that suggested he already knew you’d say no.

You looked up.

Purple hair softened by the warm amber lights overhead. Violet eyes that looked almost unreal against the rain-dark afternoon. Pretty in a way that felt unfair, honestly. The kind of face magazines probably begged for. He stood there holding an untouched coffee cup, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

You glanced around the packed café before looking back at him.

“Then I guess you’re unlucky.”

Most people would’ve laughed awkwardly and walked away after that.

He smiled instead. Slowly.

Like your answer interested him.

“I can pay you for it.”

That made you snort before you could stop yourself.

“There it is,” you muttered.

“There what is?”

“The rich person solution.”

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly. “You can tell I’m rich?”

You gestured vaguely toward him. “You practically sparkle.”

For a second, he just stared. Then he laughed. Not the fake, polite kind people used in conversations they wanted to escape from. A real laugh — sudden and bright and embarrassingly warm. It turned heads nearby. Even the barista glanced over.

And somehow, that was the beginning.

After that, he kept appearing.

At first, you honestly believed it was coincidence.

Then coincidence started arriving every Thursday afternoon at exactly three-thirty.

Same café. Same corner table.

Same expensive cologne that lingered in the air long after he left — clean and woodsy and impossible not to associate with him afterward. Sometimes he wore dark sweaters with sleeves pushed carelessly to his forearms. Sometimes crisp button-ups that looked freshly ironed. Once, he showed up with rainwater still clinging to his hair, smiling like he’d run the entire way there.

Sometimes he asked before sitting down.

Sometimes he didn’t.

Sometimes he brought two coffees and placed one in front of you without a word, already knowing your order.

You never figured out when he memorized it.

Caramel latte in winter.

Iced americano when the weather got warmer.

Extra sugar when you looked tired.

It became easy to measure time through him.

The changing weather outside the fogged windows.

The stack of books beside your elbow growing taller every week.

The way the owner started greeting him by name despite pretending not to care about customers.

The way your Thursdays slowly stopped feeling complete unless he was there.

And Reo talked. God, he talked easily.

About football practice and business lectures he barely paid attention to. About traveling to countries you’d only ever seen online. About being dragged to formal dinners full of rich executives who treated conversations like chess matches. About how exhausting it was to constantly be impressive.

Sometimes he’d lean back lazily in his chair while speaking, expensive rings catching light as he gestured. Other times, he’d rest his chin in his hand and watch you while you talked like every word mattered.

You learned quickly that Reo Mikage hated boredom more than anything.

“You know what your problem is?” you told him once.

Rain tapped softly against the windows that evening. The café smelled like cinnamon because the owner had started baking pastries in the back.

Reo glanced up from his phone immediately. “I’m dying to hear this.”

“You’ve never had to want anything long enough.”

The words left your mouth casually.

But something in his expression shifted.

It was subtle. So subtle you almost missed it.

His smile didn’t disappear entirely, but it quieted around the edges. His fingers stopped moving against his phone screen. For one strange second, he looked younger somehow. Less polished.

Like your words had landed somewhere you hadn’t meant to touch.

After that, he started looking at you differently. Longer. Softer.

Like he was trying to solve something.

The first time he asked you out properly, it was embarrassingly romantic in the least expected way possible.

You had prepared yourself for extravagance.

A reservation at some impossible rooftop restaurant. A chauffeur. Flowers worth more than your rent. Something dramatic and expensive because that was what people like him did, wasn’t it?

Instead, you opened your apartment door to find him standing there with convenience store snacks tucked under one arm and two umbrellas in his hands.

Rain drummed steadily against the stairwell windows behind him.

His hair was slightly messy from the humidity.

“You live here?” he asked, looking around your apartment building with exaggerated fascination.

“You’ve seen me walk home before.”

“Yeah, but I assumed you disappeared into the mist dramatically.”

You rolled your eyes immediately. “What do you want, Mikage?”

And then something unexpected happened.

He got nervous. Actually nervous.

Not fake-flustered for charm. Not playful.

Real nervousness.

You saw it in the way his grip tightened slightly around the umbrella handle. The way he shifted his weight. The brief hesitation before he spoke again.

“I want to take you out.”

“You already do.”

“No.” His voice softened. “I mean properly.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Rain tapped steadily above the building. Somewhere downstairs, a television played muffled commercials through thin apartment walls. Cars hissed through wet streets outside. The hallway smelled faintly like detergent and rainwater.

And standing there beneath flickering yellow lights, Reo Mikage suddenly looked uncertain in a way that almost hurt to see.

“You make me feel weird,” he admitted quietly.

“Weird?”

“I think about you all the time.”

Your heart betrayed you a little at that.

He laughed softly afterward, rubbing the back of his neck with visible embarrassment.

“I know how pathetic that sounds.”

“It does a little.”

“Yeah, well.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours anyway. Honest. Steady. “Go out with me anyway.”

You should have said no.

Even then, the distance between your worlds felt obvious.

He came from penthouses and private schools and futures already mapped out in gold ink.

You came from overdue bills stuffed into kitchen drawers and learning not to ask for too much.

People like Reo Mikage existed in different universes from people like you.

You knew that.

But rainwater dripped quietly from the edge of his umbrella. His fingers tightened nervously around a plastic bag full of convenience store snacks. And for the first time since meeting him, he looked less like someone untouchable and more like a boy waiting to be chosen.

So you said yes anyway.

And that was the start of everything.

Your first date lasted almost twelve hours.

It began in a ramen shop so small you nearly missed it the first time he walked past. The windows were fogged white from steam, handwritten menu cards taped crookedly against the walls. The air smelled like broth and garlic and fried dumplings.

Reo Mikage looked painfully out of place there.

Not because he acted snobbish about it — he didn’t.

But because the old couple running the shop kept glancing at him like they expected him to realize he was too rich to be sitting on a squeaky stool beside a chipped wooden counter.

“You know,” he said as he peeled apart disposable chopsticks, “I did have other options.”

“I know you did.”

“There’s a restaurant twenty minutes from here where the chef trained in Italy for twelve years.”

“And this place has unlimited pickled radish.” You pointed triumphantly toward the container beside him. “So really, who’s winning?”

He huffed out a laugh.

Halfway through dinner, he paused suddenly, eyes narrowing at you.

“You don’t trust me with expensive restaurants.”

“I trust you,” you corrected while stealing one of his dumplings. “I don’t trust myself.”

That made him frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means if I get used to your lifestyle, I’ll never financially recover.”

For a second he just stared.

Then he laughed so hard he bent forward slightly, shoulders shaking, the sound loud enough that the waiter looked over from the kitchen with concern.

And that laugh...

You were starting to realize it was your favorite thing about him.

After dinner, he acted like the night was nowhere near over.

“You’re going home already?” he asked when you checked the time.

“It’s ten.”

“So?”

“So normal people sleep.”

And somehow you ended up following him through the city afterward like you’d both forgotten time existed.

The arcade was loud and overflowing with neon lights, machines chiming over each other in chaotic bursts. Reo became unbearably competitive immediately.

“You cheated.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

“You’re just weak.”

“You wound me.”

He pressed a dramatic hand against his chest while you laughed hard enough to nearly drop your tickets.

Later, he dragged you onto a rooftop garden hidden above a department store. The city stretched endlessly around you, glowing gold beneath the dark sky. Wind tugged lightly at your sleeves. Somewhere below, traffic hummed like distant ocean waves.

Reo leaned against the railing beside you, unusually quiet for once.

“You come up here often?” you asked.

“Sometimes.”

“When you want to escape your tragic billionaire life?”

He smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

There was something soft about him up there.

Without the crowded café or teasing conversations to hide behind, you could see it more clearly — the exhaustion tucked underneath his confidence. The loneliness he covered with charm and noise and movement.

And for some reason, that version of him felt even more dangerous. Because it made you want to stay close.

The convenience store happened around midnight.

You were half-asleep wandering the aisles while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, pointing lazily at random snacks you liked.

“These are good.”

Into the basket.

“Oh, and this.”

Into the basket.

“You’re abusing your power now,” you told him as he followed obediently behind you.

“You created this monster.”

At one point, standing beside the drink refrigerators, he just stopped walking.

You looked back at him.

“What?”

He stared at you for a second too long.

Not at your face exactly. At all of you. Like he was memorizing the moment. The oversized sweater you’d thrown on earlier. The tiredness in your eyes. The way you hugged a bag of chips against your chest absentmindedly.

“You’re really pretty,” he said quietly.

Your brain short-circuited instantly. You turned too fast, nearly walked directly into a metal display rack, and had to grab the shelf to steady yourself while he burst out laughing behind you.

“Oh my God.”

“That was adorable.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

The train station was almost empty by the time you got there.

The fluorescent lights above the platform flickered faintly, casting pale reflections across the tracks. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear rainwater dripping steadily from the station roof.

You were talking about an old movie you loved — rambling, honestly — while he watched you with that quiet expression he got sometimes now.

Like listening to you was enough.

“And the ending makes no sense if you really think about it,” you continued. “Because there’s absolutely no way he survives that fall—”

Reo suddenly went quiet.

You frowned slightly. “What?”

For a second, he didn’t answer.

Then he stepped closer.

Close enough that the cold night air stopped existing between you.

His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing against your cheek with a care that made your chest tighten painfully. Warm fingertips against cool skin. Gentle enough to make you still completely.

Like he was afraid too much pressure would make the moment break apart.

“You talk too much,” he murmured softly.

“Oh, shut u—”

And then he kissed you.

At first, it barely felt real.

Just warmth.

The soft press of his mouth against yours.

Tentative for all of two seconds.

Then something in him shifted.

His hand slid more firmly against your jaw as he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, like he was trying to learn the shape of your breathing. The world around you dissolved into fragments — distant train announcements, the low rumble of tracks beneath your feet, the cold metal railing pressing lightly against your sleeve.

All you could really focus on was him.

The faint smell of rain and expensive cologne.

The warmth of his body standing close enough to steal all the cold from the night.

The way his breath caught slightly when you kissed him back harder.

Your stomach flipped so violently it almost hurt.

And when his thumb brushed softly beneath your eye, something inside you melted completely.

It wasn’t polished. Wasn’t practiced.

You could feel his nervousness in it — the tiny hesitation between movements, the way he exhaled shakily against your mouth afterward like even he hadn’t expected this to happen.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours for a second.

He looked almost startled by himself.

Like he couldn’t believe he’d done that.

You stared at him breathlessly, heart pounding hard enough to make your hands shake.

“That was smooth,” you whispered.

“It really wasn’t.”

“No, actually,” you said weakly, still dizzy, “it was horrible.”

He groaned immediately while you laughed against his shoulder, and the sound echoed softly through the nearly empty station.

That night, he walked you all the way home despite his driver waiting three streets away.

The city was quieter now, rainwater shimmering beneath streetlights, the air cold enough to turn your breaths visible. Your shoulders brushed occasionally while you walked. Every time they did, he smiled to himself like he couldn’t help it.

And once you noticed it, you realized something else.

So were you.

Falling in love with Reo Mikage happened so slowly you didn’t notice it at first.

Then suddenly it was everywhere.

In every part of your life.

It settled quietly into routines before you understood what was happening. Into habits that became impossible to separate from him. Somewhere between Thursday café visits and midnight train rides home, he stopped feeling temporary.

And that terrified you a little.

Because people like Reo weren’t supposed to become permanent. But he did.

It was never one grand moment. Not really.

It was smaller than that. Softer.

The way your phone would buzz ten minutes after football practice ended without fail.

Reo: Practice sucked today.

Reo: Miss me?

Or:

Reo: I saw a dog that looked grumpy like you.

Or sometimes just blurry pictures of the sunset outside the training facility because “it looked pretty enough to send.”

You started waiting for those texts without realizing it.

Started checking the time automatically.

He looked for you first in crowded rooms.

Always.

At parties filled with people more important than you. At events. At crowded stations. It didn’t matter who was talking to him — his eyes searched instinctively until they found you somewhere nearby, and the second they did, something in his expression eased.

Like the world settled correctly again.

And Reo loved loudly. Openly.

Intensely enough to feel overwhelming sometimes.

When he wanted something, he reached for it with both hands and never pretended otherwise. There was nothing restrained about the way he cared. He touched you constantly without thinking about it — fingers brushing against your wrist while passing by, hand resting absentmindedly on your knee during conversations, pulling you closer by the waist whenever crowds got too dense.

At first, it embarrassed you.

Then one day you realized you’d started leaning into it automatically.

Two years passed like that.

So naturally it almost frightened you afterward, realizing how quickly time had moved.

Two years of falling asleep with him still talking quietly against your shoulder during late-night calls.

Two years of train rides where he’d tug you sleepily against his side because “you’re warm.”

Two years of arguments over absolutely stupid things.

“You cheated.”

“I literally beat you fairly.”

“You used psychological warfare.”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It should be.”

Two years of watching him work long after midnight, sleeves rolled up, laptop light reflecting in tired violet eyes while you lay sprawled across his couch pretending to read.

Sometimes he’d reach over absentmindedly and kiss your forehead without even looking away from his screen.

Like loving you had become instinct. Like breathing.

His apartment started feeling familiar eventually.

The soft hum of the city outside thirty floors below. The expensive coffee machine he still didn’t know how to use properly. The blankets that always smelled faintly like him. Rain tapping against enormous windows during storms while music played softly somewhere in the background.

You started leaving pieces of yourself there without noticing.

Hair ties around his sink.

Sweaters hanging over chairs.

Books stacked beside his bed.

And somehow, without either of you talking about it directly, his place stopped feeling like his.

It became yours too.

Your first time together happened during winter.

Snow drifted softly beyond the apartment windows, turning the city outside pale and quiet. Everything felt muted that night — the distant traffic below, the dim amber lighting in his bedroom, even your breathing.

You remembered being nervous. Not because he pressured you. Never that. But because everything about Reo always felt so perfect from the outside. Beautiful. Untouchable. Like he belonged in magazines or expensive films where nothing awkward or human ever happened.

And part of you was terrified of ruining that illusion. But the second he touched you, you realized something that made your chest ache.

He was nervous too.

You saw it in the carefulness of his hands. In the way he kept searching your face between every kiss like he needed reassurance you were still there. Like he cared too much to risk getting any part of this wrong.

“You okay?” he whispered at one point, forehead pressed lightly against yours.

You almost laughed softly at how serious he sounded.

“You look more nervous than me.”

“That’s because I am.”

The honesty in his voice made something warm unravel inside your chest. And after that, everything softened.

The nervousness faded into slow kisses and tangled blankets and quiet laughter whenever one of you bumped awkwardly into the other. Snow continued falling steadily outside while the city lights blurred gold against the dark windows.

And afterward, you lay against his chest listening to his heartbeat slowly calm beneath your ear.

His fingers drifted lazily through your hair.

Every now and then he’d press another sleepy kiss against the top of your head like he couldn’t stop himself.

The room smelled faintly like snowfall and expensive detergent and him.

You were halfway asleep when he spoke.

“I love you.”

Quiet. Muffled slightly against your hair.

So natural neither of you reacted immediately.

Then your breath caught.

You felt his body still underneath you.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

Reo Mikage looked down at you with sleepy realization settling across his face.

And then he smiled.

“I really do,” he whispered.

Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt. Because suddenly every small moment over the past two years rearranged itself into something undeniable.

To this. To him looking at you like you were something precious enough to break him open completely.

You kissed him before he could say anything else. Slowly. Tenderly.

And somewhere outside, snow continued falling over the sleeping city while Reo Mikage pulled you impossibly closer, like even now he still couldn’t believe you were real.

Meeting Reo Mikage’s parents ruined everything.

Not immediately. That would have been easier.

No — it ruined things slowly, quietly, in the way water ruins paper. You don’t notice the damage at first. Then one day you pick it up and realize it’s already falling apart in your hands.

You tried so hard before meeting them. Embarrassingly hard.

You stood in front of your mirror for almost an hour changing outfits because suddenly every piece of clothing you owned felt cheap. Too plain. Too small. You curled your hair, brushed it out, redid it twice when your hands started shaking. You spent forty minutes researching fine dining etiquette like it was an exam you could fail.

By the time Reo Mikage arrived to pick you up, your stomach hurt so badly you thought you might actually throw up.

He noticed immediately.

“You okay?” he asked softly the second you got into the car.

You forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

He frowned.

“You don’t have to impress them.”

You laughed quietly at that. Because he genuinely believed that.

That was the tragic thing about Reo sometimes. He loved you so honestly that he forgot the rest of the world existed.

The Mikage estate didn’t look real.

The gates alone were taller than your apartment building. Black iron curling into patterns sharp enough to look dangerous. The driveway stretched forever beneath dim golden lights, tires whispering over stone while the enormous house slowly emerged from the dark like something carved out of winter itself.

Estate felt like the only word for it. Calling it a house sounded ridiculous.

It was beautiful in the same way expensive jewelry behind glass was beautiful. Cold. Untouchable.

The kind of place where voices probably echoed too loudly.

The kind of place where people learned very young not to make mistakes.

When the doors opened, warmth spilled outward from the foyer, but somehow it didn’t feel welcoming.

Everything inside gleamed.

Marble floors polished so perfectly they reflected light. Massive chandeliers dripping gold overhead. Paintings that probably cost more than your entire future hanging across dark walls.

And suddenly you became hyperaware of yourself.

Your shoes.

Your posture.

The fact that your palms were sweating.

Reo Mikage reached for your hand briefly, squeezing once.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispered.

You wanted to believe him.

His mother examined you the second you walked in.

Like she was assessing damage after a storm.

Her smile was flawless. Elegant. Controlled. Every inch of her looked expensive in the same suffocating way the house did. Even sitting still, she carried herself like someone used to being obeyed.

And immediately — immediately — you felt it.

The judgment.

His father barely looked up from his drink when you were introduced. Just a small nod before his attention drifted back toward the amber liquid in his glass.

Like you had already been categorized.

Dinner began politely enough. Too politely.

Questions delivered with practiced smiles.

Your studies.

Your family.

Your plans after graduation.

The silverware alone probably cost more than your rent. Every tiny movement suddenly felt wrong under the weight of their attention. You became painfully aware of how carefully you held your fork. How softly you chewed. Whether your voice sounded stupid every time you answered.

Meanwhile, Reo kept trying to pull you into conversation naturally.

He touched your knee beneath the table once.

A silent reassurance.

Then his mother smiled over the rim of her wine glass and destroyed the entire evening in a single sentence.

“And what exactly do you plan to offer our son long-term?”

Silence.

The kind that presses against your eardrums.

Your brain stalled completely.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re a sweet girl,” she said smoothly.

Sweet girl.

“But Reo’s future is already decided. Marriage in families like ours is rarely emotional.”

Beside you, Reo Mikage went completely still.

“Mother.”

His voice changed instantly. Sharp. Warning.

She ignored him like he hadn’t spoken.

“You understand there are expectations attached to him.”

His father finally spoke then, calm and detached.

“Reo gets distracted easily.”

Your stomach dropped.

Reo’s chair scraped harshly against the floor as he turned toward him.

“That’s enough.”

But his father continued anyway, eyes settling on you for the first time that night. Cold eyes. Measured eyes.

“You’re intelligent enough to understand reality, aren’t you?”

Humiliation is a physical thing sometimes.

People forget that. It burns.

Your face became unbearably hot while something heavy twisted beneath your ribs so tightly you could barely breathe. Suddenly the room felt too bright. Too silent. You could hear every tiny sound — the clink of glass, the ticking clock somewhere in the room, your own heartbeat pounding embarrassingly hard.

And the worst part—

The absolute worst part—

Was that they weren’t yelling.

They spoke gently. Reasonably.

Like this conversation was practical. Necessary. Mature.

Like you were not a person sitting in front of them.

Just a problem to manage. A temporary inconvenience their son had gotten emotionally attached to.

You realized then that this wasn’t the first conversation they’d had about you.

You imagined them discussing you over dinner before this. Calmly deciding what kind of girl you were. How long you’d last. Whether Reo would get bored eventually.

Like your relationship had already been reduced to a phase. And suddenly every insecurity you’d buried over the last two years clawed violently back to life.

Too poor.

Too ordinary.

Too temporary.

You smiled somehow.

You genuinely didn’t know how you managed it.

“I think I should leave.”

Reo Mikage stood immediately, panic flashing across his face so fast it hurt to see.

“I’m coming with you.”

His mother sighed softly. Tiny. Disappointed.

“See?” she murmured. “Exactly what I mean.”

Outside, cold air hit your face hard enough to sting.

You barely made it down the steps before your vision blurred.

“Hey— hey, look at me.”

Reo caught your wrist gently, voice suddenly desperate.

You couldn’t. If you looked at him, you would cry.

And crying here — in front of that house, beneath those enormous glowing windows where his parents were probably still sitting calmly at the dinner table — felt unbearable.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I swear they’re wrong. I don’t care what they think.”

But humiliation settles differently when it comes from family.

Especially his family. People with power.

People who looked at you once and immediately saw someone beneath him. Someone temporary.

You laughed shakily, but it came out broken.

“Reo.”

His expression cracked at the sound of your voice.

And suddenly he looked younger than he ever had before.

Just a boy realizing love might not be enough.

“They don’t decide my life,” he said, almost pleading now.

But the horrible thing was— You were starting to realize they might.

And deep down, beneath all the love and warmth and years you’d spent together, you saw it too.

The gap between your worlds.

You wanted to believe Reo Mikage.

God, you wanted to believe him.

Because loving him had become so tangled into your life that the idea of losing it felt impossible to survive.

So you stayed.

Even after it happened again.

And again.

Not always openly.

That would have been easier to fight.

Instead, it came in small cuts. Quiet ones. The kind you couldn’t point at afterward without sounding dramatic.

His mother asking if your parents were “comfortable financially” while smiling pleasantly over tea.

His father discussing daughters from wealthy business families during dinner like you weren’t sitting right there.

“She’s studying overseas now,” he’d say casually. “Very accomplished girl. Her father runs three companies already.”

And every time, silence would follow.

Heavy silence.

Waiting silence.

Like they were watching to see whether you understood the message.

One evening, his mother looked at you warmly — warmly — while adjusting the sleeve of her blouse.

“A relationship should elevate someone,” she said lightly. “Reo has always needed someone suitable beside him.”

Suitable.

The word lodged itself beneath your ribs like glass.

Not good. Not kind. Not loving.

Suitable.

Like you were an outfit that didn’t belong in the room.

Like you were cheap somehow. Wrong somehow. A mistake people were too polite to mention directly.

You smiled anyway.

You got frighteningly good at smiling.

That was the worst part of all this.

How normal it slowly became.

At first, Reo Mikage fought them immediately every single time.

“Can you stop talking about her like she isn’t here?”

Or:

“You’re being unbelievable right now.”

Or sometimes just cold silence before he grabbed your hand and led you out of the room entirely.

But arguments piled up quickly in that house.

You started hearing them through walls.

At first muffled. Then louder. Sharper.

One night you stood frozen halfway down the hallway while voices echoed from his father’s office downstairs.

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I’m embarrassing myself?” Reo snapped back. “Listen to the way you talk about her!”

“She is not the issue here.”

“She’s the only reason I’m even still standing in this house!”

The silence afterward felt dangerous.

Then—

“You’re throwing away your future over a girl who cannot keep up with your life.”

The words hit you like a slap.

And immediately, Reo shouted back.

“I don’t want the future you planned for me!”

You had never heard him sound like that before.

His voice cracked on the last word.

A door slammed so violently the walls shook afterward.

You stood there in the hallway unable to move while your chest hurt so badly it made you nauseous.

Fights like that leave marks.

You started noticing exhaustion in Reo Mikage after that.

The kind he tried desperately to hide.

Dark circles beneath his eyes after practice.

Long silences during drives home.

The way he’d stare at emails too long without reading them.

Sometimes you’d wake up at three in the morning and find him sitting alone on the balcony, city lights flickering across his face while he scrolled mindlessly through messages from executives and managers and family assistants.

Pressure was swallowing him whole.

Football.

Business expectations.

Family obligations.

Interviews.

Sponsors.

You.

Always you somewhere in the middle of it all.

And guilt started eating through you quietly.

Because Reo loved with his entire heart.

There was nothing cautious about him.

When he loved you, he defended you openly. Chose you openly. Reached for your hand in front of people who disapproved. Fought for you even when it exhausted him.

And all loving you seemed to bring him was conflict.

You started noticing the sacrifices.

The business dinners he skipped.

The cold tension every time his father called.

The way conversations stopped when you entered rooms at family events.

One night, after another argument downstairs, he came into his bedroom looking exhausted beyond words.

His tie hung loose around his neck. Hair messy from frustrated hands dragging through it. There was still anger burning behind his eyes, but underneath it—

He looked tired. Truly tired.

The second he saw you sitting on the edge of his bed, his entire expression softened instantly.

Like seeing you made him remember how to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And something inside you cracked painfully at that.

Because he always apologized afterward.

Even when he wasn’t the one hurting you.

He crossed the room slowly and rested his forehead against yours, hands settling carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might disappear.

“I’m so tired of fighting with them,” he admitted quietly.

You closed your eyes immediately because hearing that hurt too much.

Not because you blamed him.

You blamed yourself.

Because before you, maybe things had been easier.

Maybe he’d smiled more.

Maybe he slept properly.

Maybe he didn’t come home every night carrying the weight of war across his shoulders.

“You know what the worst part is?” you asked softly.

His brows furrowed slightly. “What?”

Your throat tightened.

“They’ll never think I’m good enough for you.”

He pulled back immediately.

“Don’t say that.”

“But they’re right.”

His face changed so quickly it frightened you. Pain.

Like the words physically hurt him.

“No,” he said firmly. “They’re not.”

“But look what this is doing to you.”

His hands tightened at your waist.

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

The room went quiet after that.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the enormous apartment windows. The city below glittered endlessly, beautiful and distant and cold.

And no matter how much Reo Mikage loved you—

You didn’t know how much longer he could survive being torn apart between two worlds that refused to exist together.

The breakup happened quietly.

That was what made it unbearable. It sat between you both like something dying slowly in the room.

Reo Mikage came home late from training that night.

You heard him before you saw him — the soft electronic beep of the apartment lock, the tired drag of his footsteps across the floor, the rustle of his bag slipping from his shoulder.

And for one horrible second, your body reacted automatically.

He’s home. Relief.

Then you remembered why you were there.

Your overnight bag sat beside your feet on the edge of his bed. Half-zipped because your hands had been shaking too badly to finish properly. The room smelled faintly like rain and his cologne and the coffee he’d left unfinished that morning before practice.

You’d been staring at the same spot on the floor for almost twenty minutes.

Trying to figure out how to destroy both your lives gently.

“Baby?”

His voice was tired. Soft. Completely unaware.

Then he walked into the bedroom. And stopped.

Immediately, his entire face changed.

Not confusion. Recognition.

Like some part of him had known this was coming for a long time.

“No.”

You hadn’t even spoken yet.

He looked at the bag.

Then at you.

And suddenly there was real panic in his voice.

“No.”

Your throat tightened so violently it hurt.

“Reo…”

He crossed the room so fast he nearly stumbled.

“No, don’t do this,” he said immediately, grabbing your wrists like if he held on tightly enough you couldn’t disappear. “Don’t— don’t look at me like that.”

Tears burned your eyes instantly.

Because he already knew.

“I can’t anymore,” you whispered.

The words barely came out.

Like your body was trying to choke them back down.

His hands started shaking against your face immediately.

Actually shaking.

“We can fix it.”

“You can’t fix your parents.”

“I don’t care about them!”

“But I do!” you cried suddenly.

The sound ripped out of you so hard it startled both of you.

Silence crashed into the room afterward. Heavy.

Breathing hard, you covered your mouth with trembling fingers as sobs started breaking loose uncontrollably.

“I walk into rooms and feel unwanted,” you whispered brokenly. “I feel small all the time now.”

Reo Mikage looked like you’d stabbed him.

“No,” he said instantly. “No, you’re not small.”

“But they make me feel like I am.”

His expression shattered completely.

And suddenly he looked terrified.

Like he could physically feel you slipping away from him.

“But I love you,” he said desperately.

His voice cracked apart around the words.

That almost made you stay.

Almost.

Because nobody had ever loved you the way Reo did.

He loved like drowning.

Like devotion.

Like he’d tear himself open willingly if it meant keeping you warm.

And maybe that was part of the problem.

“You think love is enough because you’ve never had to lose anything,” you whispered through tears. “But I can’t survive being hated forever.”

Something in him snapped then.

“Then I’ll leave them.”

Your eyes widened instantly.

“Reo—”

“I mean it.”

His hands tightened around your arms.

“I’ll walk away from all of it. The company, the estate, them— I don’t care anymore!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do!” he shouted.

The sound echoed violently through the apartment.

You’d never heard him yell at you before. Never.

His chest heaved sharply, eyes red already, hands trembling so badly against your sleeves it looked painful.

“I do,” he repeated, quieter this time. More broken. “Why can’t you believe me?”

Because you did believe him.

And you suddenly realized he really would do it.

For you.

He would destroy his relationship with his family.

Throw away the future planned for him since childhood.

Walk away from everything he had ever known.

Just to keep you.

The thought made you feel sick.

Because love wasn’t supposed to cost someone their entire life.

“Stop,” you whispered.

“No.”

“Reo—”

“You don’t get to decide this alone!”

His voice broke completely on the last word.

Tears were running openly down his face now and somehow that hurt worse than anything else.

He looked wrecked already. Like the grief had reached him before the breakup even finished happening.

And then suddenly he pulled you in and kissed you. Desperate. Messy.

Nothing like your first kiss at the train station. This one hurt.

His hands cradled your face so tightly it almost bordered on panic as he kissed you like he was trying to breathe life back into something dying. Tears mixed between both of you. His breathing turned uneven immediately when you kissed him back for one horrible, weak second.

Because of course you kissed him back.

You loved him.

His mouth trembled against yours as he pulled you closer, forehead knocking against yours clumsily while he whispered broken things between kisses.

“Please.”

Another kiss.

“Please don’t do this.”

Another.

“I can be enough.”

Your chest caved in completely.

Because he sounded like a boy begging the person he loved not to abandon him.

And for one terrible moment— You almost stayed.

You almost let him ruin himself for you.

But then you pictured him years from now.

Estranged from his family. Alone. Resentful.

Everything burned down around him because he chose you over everything else.

And eventually—

Eventually he would realize what it cost him.

You couldn’t survive becoming the reason he lost his future.

So you stepped away from him.

Just one step.

But it destroyed him.

The look on his face afterward would haunt you forever.

Like something inside him had physically split open.

Like he genuinely did not recognize the world anymore.

“You’re giving up on me?” he asked quietly.

The silence after that hurt more than screaming ever could.

“No,” your voice cracked violently. “I’m trying to save you.”

“I don’t want to be saved.”

You nearly broke right there.

His face was wet with tears now. Eyes red. Lips trembling from trying not to fall apart completely in front of you.

And still—Still all he cared about was keeping you there.

You picked up your bag with shaking hands.

He didn’t stop you this time.

He just stood there in the middle of the bedroom staring at you like he was watching the end of his life happen in real time.

When you reached the door, his voice came out rough and shaking.

“If you leave now…”

You froze instantly. Behind you, his breathing sounded uneven. Fragile.

“I don’t think I’ll recover from it.”

Your vision blurred completely.

Because you believed him.

You believed every single word.

But you left anyway.

And behind you, somewhere inside that apartment, Reo Mikage finally broke apart.

After the breakup, Reo Mikage disappeared into football so completely it almost looked violent.

Like he’d taken every feeling he didn’t know how to survive and buried it beneath training schedules and stadium lights and exhaustion.

At first, people praised him for it.

The media called it maturity.

Discipline.

Growth.

Articles started appearing constantly.

Reo Mikage more focused than ever.

Mikage aiming for international dominance.

The prodigy entering a new era.

Photographs of him flooded social media — stepping out of airports in dark coats with headphones on, expression blank beneath flashing cameras. Walking into stadiums under foreign skies. Standing during interviews with that same composed posture he’d always had.

Before, even when he was performing for cameras, there had always been warmth underneath it. A kind of natural brightness that slipped through no matter how polished he tried to appear.

Now his expressions looked practiced.

Reporters would ask questions and he’d answer politely without giving them anything real.

“How are you handling the pressure lately?”

“I’m focused on improving.”

“You seem more serious this season.”

“I have goals I want to reach.”

“Any comments on your personal life?”

“No.”

They called him composed now.

Professional.

Cold in the way elite athletes were apparently supposed to become.

Late at night, your phone would light up with another article.

REO MIKAGE LEAVING FOR SPAIN TRAINING CAMP

REO EXTENDS OVERSEAS STAY AGAIN

MANSHINE STAR DECLINES HOLIDAY BREAK

And every single time, your chest hurt in exactly the same place.

The interviewer smiled brightly. “You’ve been overseas almost nonstop lately. Do you ever miss home?”

For a second, Reo froze.

His smile faltered almost invisibly before returning.

“I’m used to being away now.”

Somewhere beneath all the distance and exhaustion and silence…

Reo Mikage was still waiting for you to come back.

Two months after the breakup, you started throwing up every morning.

At first, you blamed stress.

That made sense, didn’t it?

Your body had barely recovered from losing Reo Mikage. You weren’t sleeping properly. Eating properly. Existing properly.

Grief had settled into your life like mold in the walls. Quiet. Persistent.

Impossible to scrub out completely. Everything still hurt.

You still checked your phone for him sometimes before remembering there would be nothing there.

Still froze whenever you caught flashes of purple hair in crowded train stations.

Still woke up half-asleep reaching across the bed for warmth that no longer existed.

Sometimes you’d even dream about him.

Him standing in the kitchen making coffee badly while complaining about training.

Him laughing somewhere in another room.

Him pulling you against his chest sleepily at three in the morning because “you’re warm.”

Those dreams were the cruelest.

Because for a few seconds after waking up, you forgot he was gone.

Then reality returned all at once.

And every single morning felt like reliving the breakup from the beginning.

So when the nausea started, you ignored it.

Your body was exhausted. Of course it was.

You cried almost every night.

You barely ate anything except convenience store food and instant noodles because cooking for one person suddenly felt unbearable. Your apartment stayed too quiet now. No late-night phone calls. No random messages from Reo about training. No him sprawled dramatically across your couch demanding attention while pretending not to.

Just silence. Then came the exhaustion. The dizziness.

The way certain smells suddenly made your stomach turn violently.

Coffee became impossible first.

Then fried food.

One morning someone reheated fish in the office microwave and you had to lock yourself in the bathroom shaking because the smell made you gag so hard tears sprang to your eyes.

You still didn’t understand. Or maybe you didn’t want to.

One afternoon, you nearly fainted at work carrying a box that normally wouldn’t have bothered you at all.

The room tilted violently. Your knees buckled.

Someone caught your arm before you hit the floor.

And suddenly fear finally cut through the fog of grief.

That night, lying awake in bed, you counted backward quietly in your head.

Then counted again. Then again.

No.

Your chest tightened immediately.

No.

The clinic was small.

Warm lighting. Beige walls. Slightly old-fashioned furniture that looked untouched since the early 2000s. It smelled faintly like disinfectant and tea somehow.

A fake plant sat crookedly near the reception desk.

You stared at it for almost ten minutes because it was easier than thinking.

The doctor himself was older.

Kind in a quiet way.

Gentle eyes behind thin glasses.

The kind of person who spoke softly enough to make panic feel embarrassing.

He asked normal questions while typing notes into his computer.

Stress levels.

Sleep.

Appetite.

“How long has the nausea been happening?”

“A few weeks.”

“Any dizziness?”

“Yes.”

“Fatigue?”

You laughed weakly at that. “Constantly.”

Then eventually—

“When was your last period?”

Your stomach dropped.

Enough that your fingers started trembling violently in your lap.

The room suddenly felt too warm. Too small. Too quiet.

The doctor noticed instantly.

His expression softened carefully.

“We’ll run a test first,” he said gently.

You spent fifteen minutes staring blankly at a faded poster about vitamins while your heartbeat pounded so hard it hurt.

No.

No, no, no.

That wasn’t possible.

Except—

Maybe it was.

And suddenly memories came crashing back all at once.

Reo Mikage’s hands against your skin.

His sleepy voice murmuring I love you into the curve of your shoulder afterward.

The way he held you like he thought forever was something he could physically protect.

Your chest tightened so painfully it made you nauseous again.

When the doctor came back into the room, you knew before he even spoke.

His face gave it away immediately.

Soft. Careful. Almost relieved.

“Congratulations.”

The word shattered you.

You broke down crying instantly.

You folded inward so suddenly it felt like your ribs had collapsed around your lungs. One hand flew to your mouth as sobs ripped out of you harsh and broken and uncontrollable.

The doctor startled immediately.

“Oh— no, sweetheart, are you alright?”

You couldn’t answer.

Pregnant.

The word echoed through your skull without meaning anything.

You and Reo Mikage had broken up barely two months ago.

And now there was a child.

His child.

Your child.

Something living and fragile and real growing quietly inside you while the rest of your life was still in ruins.

The doctor handed you tissues carefully, looking increasingly concerned while you cried harder instead.

Because suddenly every emotion hit at once.

Fear.

Grief.

Love.

Panic.

And underneath all of it—

A horrible, aching longing for him. For Reo.

You wanted him so badly in that moment it physically hurt.

You wanted his hands holding yours.

Wanted him saying your name softly.

Wanted him looking at you with that stunned tenderness he always had whenever he talked about the future.

Because once, very early into the second year of your relationship, he’d admitted quietly:

“I think you’d look pretty holding our baby.”

At the time you’d shoved his face away in embarrassment while he laughed against your shoulder.

Now the memory nearly destroyed you.

The doctor crouched slightly beside your chair.

“You don’t have to decide everything today,” he said gently.

But that was the problem.

Even then—

Even crying in that tiny office with tissues clutched in shaking hands—

You already knew.

Because if you told Reo Mikage, he would come back immediately.

He would choose you immediately.

He would throw himself into your life without hesitation because that was who he was.

And his parents—

His parents would hate this child before it was even born.

An accident. A scandal. Proof that you had ruined their son exactly the way they feared.

You couldn’t do that to him.

Couldn’t chain him permanently to a life filled with resentment and war and sacrifice. Even if it killed you.

So you sat there crying silently in a beige clinic office while your entire future rearranged itself around you.

And somewhere far away, probably in another country by now, Reo Mikage had absolutely no idea he was already someone’s father.

[Part 2]

* Spent all day on this and Pt.2 :)

* I felt like this part was getting a little too long.

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