#fake fan…. i know…….💔 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peaktora · 13 days ago

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𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀 ˚◞♡ ⃗ sae itoshi

𝜗𝜚₊˚ MOVIE DESCRIPTION┊for the first time, sae itoshi’s football reputation is working against him. to the public he’s too cold—arrogant, even. rumors are spreading and they’re starting to damage the team. to fix it, his agency stages a fake relationship—wth you. a well-known model with a bright image, are meant to soften his edges. make him appear likable. relatable. and sure, you you two play nice in public, but the second you’re alone? it’s obvious you can’t stand each other.

CONTENT ┊10.7k words (the tension?? the intensity?? the banter??? the angst?? literally off the charts this is so so delicious i PROMISE it’s worth every second). fem!reader. jealousy jealousyyyy. making out. angst with comfort. sort of an enemies to lovers-ish concept? you both just absolutely hate eachother in the beginning. there’s so much stupidity on sae’s part it’s just embarrassing.

AUTHORS NOTE ┊you guys know i’ve been talking about writing angst for the longest, so now when it finally came down to writing the littlest bit i fear i was OVERLYY geeked 💔 thank you { @bestboileeknow } for requesting this, hope i did your idea justice lovely

sae sighs deeply as he steps into the conference room, already bracing himself for whatever headache awaits. at the center of the room, his agent is waiting, restlessly circling the long table.

without taking a glance at him, his agent directs him to take a seat, “we need to talk.”

he sighs once more and drops into the nearest chair, “if this is about that stupid interview—”

“it is,” his agent interrupts, already sliding a phone across the table. “and the sponsors aren’t too thrilled.”

sae looks down at the screen. a headline glares back at him in a bold, black font:

“too cold to care? is football player: sae itoshi’s attitude problem hurting the national team?”

beneath it is a photo of him ducking down past a crowd of reporters. a handful of the team can be seen in the background—staring at sae with what he assumes is a mix of both disbelief and disappointment.

he doesn’t bother looking at the picture twice.

“they’re journalists,” he mutters, pushing the phone back. “this is what they do.”

his agent groans, and what follows isn’t quite an eye roll (although it’s a near miss). if his gaze actually hit the ceiling, he could be out of a job. “doesn’t matter. sponsors want warmth. humanity. a pulse, preferably.”

sae decides to not play into the comments. and as his agent sits in his silence, he could begin to see why the public found him so unnerving. at first, “curious” was the word that they used. an attempt to romanticize the unknown of his character. weirdly enough, the word stuck around for a pretty long time—longer than expected. fans spewed theories online about who he might be on and off the field, speculated endlessly about both his personality and private life. though over time, that curiosity dulled, soured, and settled into something completely different than before. now, he’s looked at with discomfort. more recently, he was described as “crude”.

“right now?” his agent clears his throat, “the public thinks you’re an asshole,” he leans forward, fingers lacing together. “and when the public talks, managers listen.”

that is what finally catches sae’s attention. and not because he cares what strangers think—he couldn’t care less about people making theories about him on social media—making a game of operation out of dissecting his personality. what matters is this: the last thing he needs is more cameras focused on his team instead of the pitch.

he drags a hand through his hair, then down his face, “so what? i don’t see why we can’t just make some public statement telling them to get over it.”

across the table, his agent blinks slowly at him. then, without a word, reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a biege folder, sliding it onto the table.

sae glances at the folder and then his eyes slowly trace back to his agent, who has the audacity to smile and usher him to open it.

“well, go on. look inside!”

he reluctantly flicks the folder open, eyes landing on the picture that’s been pasted front and center.

it’s you.

mid-laugh, mouth open, standing under the red carpet lights—is you. you’re waving at someone just out of frame, dressed in some designer’s latest work and heels that you embrace so naturally it’s as if they were second skin. the faces of the people standing in the background are blurred out, but it’s obvious that they’re starring. it’s safe to assume they adore you, the cameras surely do.

he flips the page, more from obligation than interest. he makes a quick scan of your profile: finds out your name and that you’re a model. apparently, you’re even a “social media darling”. overall, you have a pretty clean record. not a single misstep aside from an alleged boyfriend a couple of years back. one write up, bold and underlined even goes as far to call you, “beloved.”

he’s not impressed.

not by your smile, not by the headlines, not by the supposed perfection you wear.

if anything, all of those factors makes him suspicious of you. this couldn’t possibly be your actual life. what could you be hiding?

“she’s your fix,” his agent declares. “i mean, her spotless record? her image? she’s the kind of person who makes people feel something—or in your case? be something. something even remotely close to being human.”

sae makes a mental note to fire his agent after all of this is done. he’s sick of his jokes. raising a brow, he asks, “so?”

“so we stage a relationship, get enough photos to swarm the headlines. you could have a few interviews. maybe a red carpet appearance or two…you’ll be seen with her, and suddenly the media won’t think you’re a cold, selfish dickhead. they’ll just see you as misunderstood! private. selective. romantic, even?”

“she looks annoying,” he scolds, closing the file shut.

“well, it’s not like you’re supposed to fall in love with her, itoshi. just hold her hand and smile like you’re not bored or plotting murder.”

inside, something disrupts sae. it’s not fear, most definitely not interest—could it be irritation? yes, he thinks, definitely irritation.

because he doesn’t want this, doesn’t need it. definitely doesn’t need you to fix a narrative he never asked for.

but still, he isn’t stupid. he’s calculatedand strategic. he’s the type of player who sticks to his game no matter how long they run. all because you can’t hate the player—you have to hate the game.

“fine,” he blurts out, standing up to stretch. “let’s get this over with.”

his agent gives him a short nod, too busy checking his watch, “great, great. i think she should be here any—”

a knock interrupts him, but before either man can move to answer it, you’re already pushing the door open and letting yourself into the room. you walk into the conference room with a bounce in your step and a smile on your face.

sae doesn’t believe in theatrics. but if he did, he’d swear the entire room shifts the moment you enter. like the air itself exhales, finally remembering how to breathe.

“hi there! sorry i’m a little late—traffic was a mess, and i refused to let my stylist redo my hair just because the wind had an attitude,” you exclaim, half-laughing, as you pull your sunglasses from your head and tuck them into your bag.

your perfume follows you in—it’s sweet and floral. nothing that sae ever smelled before.

you wave to everyone in the room, even tossing one back toward your own management team lingering behind you.

your manager, stylist, and pr rep all follow you into the room with a poor attempt at trying to keep pace with your own. they’re quieter, more focused, though are clearly used to the way you present yourself.

sae had already assumed you’d be annoying, and the moment he sees you? that assumption is immediately confirmed.

there’s just too much energy. too much movement. too much noise.

you spot him instantly and step towards him, eyes flicking over his appearance.

“nice of you to join us,” his agent smiles. “sae, meet your fake girlfriend.”

you softly laugh, “girlfriend? wow, we’re skipping the small talk, huh?” then, smile still as evident and bright, you extend your hand toward sae, “pleasure to meet you.”

sae glances at your hand, then back at your face. he doesn’t take it.

“yeah,” he says, voice low and flat. “a pleasure.”

you don’t allow your smile to falter. you drop your hand with grace, tucking it into your pocket instead. nodding, you click your tongue in disapproval, “seems like this’ll be fun.”

he sits back down in his chair. your heels click softly as you move to the seat besides him, settling in with one leg over the other.

“so,” you chirp, “you’re the great sae itoshi. guess the internet wasn’t exaggerating about you.”

he doesn’t make an effort to reply.

you hum, “‘m guessing small talk’s off the table?”

he rolls his eyes, “do you always talk this much?”

you flash a grin, “only when i’m nervous.”

he studies you, expression unreadable as he bites the inside of his cheek, “alright, then let’s hurry up and sign these papers. wouldn’t want you getting too flustered hanging around someone as distracting as me.“

your manager slides a packet between you. which, after further investigation, you learn is a three-month contract. there’s no real obligations during your relationship with sae beyond the illusion you need to give off. you’re required to have: two outside documented joint appearances, one red carpet, one charity gala, and a fashion show appearance on sae’s end. after that, you’re free to stage a “mutual” breakup. one due to the “consistent clashes” from your career schedules.

“well,” you chime in sae’s direction, skimming to the last page, “we don’t even have to like each other. just pretend we do.”

he meets your eyes, “i’m good at pretending.”

you give him a dry, unimpressed laugh, “so am i.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the back and forth motion of your pen against the contract. then, you slide the folder across the table toward sae.

you’d heard all the talk—the media speculation, the analysis of his private life on twitter, the words fans used to describe his presence. so it’s safe to say, you thought you knew what to expect walking into this. still, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. a little grace. you were hoping for professionalism at the very least, maybe even a halfway civil conversation. if you were really lucky, maybe he’d let some childhood story slip out.

but the second you walked in and caught that look—sharp and dismissive, a quiet judgment—you knew exactly what this was going to be.

so you lean forward, elbows propped on the table, chin in your hand, “so, how do you wanna play our first public interaction? we need a strong debut…something cutesy, obviously. because if we’re doing this, it can’t be boring. i will literally shrivel up.”

he silently accepts the pen handed to him, flipping straight to the signature page of the contract.

you have to admit, watching a world-famous footballer size you up like you’re some sort of threat? it’s honestly hilarious.

“what about hand-holding on a picnic? oh—an amusement park date? i’ll pretend to fake swoon if you can manage to fake charm.”

“i don’t do charm,” he doesn’t bother to look up.

you smile widens, “great! and i don’t do dull. so we’re both making sacrifices. you know, most people would ask how i plan to fake-swoon. or at least pretend to care about the public’s reaction.”

the pen scratches roughly against the paper “good thing i’m not most people.”

your smile tightens a little, “right, you’re special… allergic to personality. that does stand out.”

with a quick flick of his wrist, he finishes his signature and finally looks up at you, “i just don’t like wasting time on things that don’t matter.”

“you think this doesn’t matter?”

“it’s fake,” he replies, fighting a sigh. “so no, i don’t think whether we hold hands or share a cupcake in public is life or death.”

you hum, unfazed, “of course you don’t. because you think this is all about you. in case it slipped your mind, my name’s on the line too. and your sponsors aren’t paying for an emotionally draining man with acting skills—they want chemistry, warmth, something human. you’re gonna need to show at least a little bit of growth by the end of this so-called relationship.”

his jaw tightens, eyes narrowing, “i didn’t ask for this.”

“and i didn’t ask to babysit someone who can’t even pretend to be likable,” you tilt your head, “but here we are.”

he leans back in his chair, “if you’re so good at pretending, just smile and do your job.”

you sit up straighter now, smile fading entirely, “say that again.”

the room goes quiet. even your team uncomfortably shifts in the background.

sae holds your gaze, his tone mockingly even, “you’re only here to fix a problem. don’t forget that.”

you lean back in your chair, arms slowly crossing. your eyes stay locked on his and to his surprise, you smile once more, “oh, don’t worry. i won’t forget.”

you don’t catch sae watching you leave. but you do hear his agent mutter a string of curses under his breath as the door clicks shut behind you.

it’s unfortunate that you leave the meeting with your jaw tight and your pulse louder than it should be. it’s unfortunate that you let such a irritable person get to you.

but you can’t help it. there was just something about him—about that flat, bored tone and that unreadable face—that grates against you. he spoke as if he knew you. as if everything you’ve worked for could be summed up with a pretty smile and an empty laugh.

“don’t take it personally,” your manager tells you once you’re out of earshot. “he’s like that with everyone.”

you say nothing, you simply just keep walking.

the first appearance is set less than three days later, and you just happen to arrive ten minutes early.

you try not to read too much into it—but your nerves refuse to let you go so easily. you lean further against the cool metal railing of the parking garage and look down at the view below. crowds move in and out of boutiques, swarming around food trucks and pop-up shops.

you’d meant every word during that first meeting with sae—you really were hoping your big debut together would be cutesy, maybe even rom-com worthy. anything, as long as it was something memorable. for instance a cute cliché photo op or a amusement park date that fans could gush over.

instead?

your grand “pop-out” happens on a mall date.

you should’ve expected this, since sae received the honors of choosing the location for today. of course he would pick somewhere like this—something entirely off-brand for you, a little standard and dull, just like him. it was so him to ignore what you might’ve liked and choose something purely for himself. how selfish.

you hum to yourself and tap your phone gently against your palm. the screen lights up with a vibration, and you smile before even reading the notification. its a text from your manager:

[my winggirl🥹]: don’t let him get you out of character, gorgeous! remember, a little hand holding, one meal, and one outfit purchase is all you need and then you’re done! make sure to look atleast just a little obsessed with the man, okay??

you softly laugh, text back a quick spam of heart emojis, then swipe to your camera app. the outfit for today is simple: a solid black top, a matching mini skirt, as well as the sleekest pair of heeled boots you own. you catch your reflection in a car window and tilt your head, playfully posing.

you practice your smile in the reflection for a little, before finally calling it a day and adjusting your hair once more. all in all, you’re camera-ready.

everything’s set. everything’s fine. that is until—

“how nice of you to dress up.”

you whip around, “oh my god, do you practice sneaking up on people or are you just naturally creepy?”

there, standing behind you, sae stands in a replica outfit of yours. a pair of black jeans, a matching crewneck, and black shoes to top it all off. was it a coincidence he happened to match with you? or did your agency plan this out?

“you should be more aware of your surroundings.”

“well, hello to you too,” you mumble, dropping your phone in your purse. “didn’t know you had it in you to compliment someone.”

“that wasnt a compliment,” he replies. “i said you dressed up. that’s just a fact, no?”

“you’re so exhausting. no wonder your team begged for this fake relationship.”

he gives you a look over.

“and you have the nerve to be late,” you add, crossing your arms.

“by…” he glances at his watch, “two minutes.”

you curse underneath your breath, and push past him. you make a bee-line for the garage exit stairway, heels clacking loudly against the floor, “two minutes can cost a headline. in case you didn’t know, punctuality is what creates chemistry and it’s important we give off that energy!”

that earns you nothing but an eye roll as he quietly follows your path.

you ramble as you make your way down the stairs, “we don’t even have to actually like eachother. but faking it works better when you stop looking like you’re in a hostage video—and for the record—” you look back at him. “most guys would be thrilled to be dating a model. even if it was for show! you’re the only person i’ve ever met who makes the entire experience feel like a curse. i mean, the fact that you can’t even act as if you’re happy is just—“

“are you nervous?”

you nearly trip on the next step, “what?”

he doesn’t look at you, just keeps walking, “you said you talk a lot more when you’re nervous.”

your breath catches from the pure absurdity of that asshole.

“oh, how nice of you to remember,” you snap, although it’s more of a clarification than anything. because somehow, he remembered. he listened.

and truth be told, you are nervous.

you snort, “didn’t think i left much of an impression that quick.”

“not a positive one,” he notes, making his way outside.

under normal circumstances, you’d be thoughtful enough to choose to go to a store that you both could enjoy. but sae had decided to be selfish—deliberately picking a date spot he knew you’d hate. and while you’re not one get out of character—stray too far from your usual self, you retaliate with a choice of your own: the dainty boutique with two security guards stationed at the door. sure, it’s filled with delicate, designer dresses—but have a small section dedicated to suits too! how considerate of you.

behind you, sae lets out a sigh so dramatic, you don’t even need to look back to know he absolutely hates this.

“why this store?” he grunts, staring at the pink ‘open!’ sign.

you spot them the moment they round the corner—two different pairs of paparazzi, their cameras already raised and aimed in your direction. instantly, you turn and reach for sae’s hand.

his eyes narrow the second your fingers brush against his. “what are you doing?” he mumbles under his breath, low enough for only you to hear. he makes a slight attempt to pull his hand back.

you catch his wrist before he can completely retreat, intertwining your fingers with his in one fluid motion. “they’re watching,” you whisper, flashing a smile. “you’re supposed to be obsessed with me. now, play the part.”

he gives you a dry, unimpressed look. “seriously, don’t flatter yourself,” he tells you, but he doesn’t pull away this time—just lets his hand sit limply in yours. as if it pains him to be touched.

you give his hand a subtle squeeze and turn toward the boutique, leading him forward as the cameras click behind you. “you can hate this all you want,” you mutter through clenched teeth, “but if we’re doing this, you better commit.”

sae sharply exhales, biting back a comment as you lead himinto the store.

the boutique is a maze of clothing racks holding delicate, beautiful dresses. minty perfume drifts in the air and there’s soft instrumentals playing as background. luckily for you two, the shop already happens to be cleared out. there’s not one citizen in sight.

a boutique worker rushes to you with an eager smile—one that practically screams that she was prepped and fully briefed. she hurries to the entrance to signal the security guards, then quickly returns to you, motioning toward a display of brightly colored dresses.

“these just came in yesterday!” she exclaims. “would you like to try a few pieces?”

“yes, please! just give me one…” your eyes drift back toward the entrance you came through. outside the windows, you see that a line has already formed around the boutique’s entrance, cameras flashing so much that all you can see is white. the security guards make sure to block anyone from coming in.

whatever privacy you had when you walked in is clearly gone.

you glance down at your hand, only now noticing that sae had let go. you look across the room, and it takes you a few moments to find him. but when you do? you find him a few feet away, standing with his hands shoved into his pockets, scanning the shop up and down with a frown.

you spot the worker, who is now peeking over at you two from the cash register. great. you give her a sweet syrupy smile and walk toward him, steps echoing in your path.

sae doesn’t move as you approach, but his eyes don’t fail to flick toward you.

without hesitation, you loop your arm through his, pressing in close until your side touches his. his body goes stiff at the contact—especially when your cheek almost brushes his shoulder. but he doesn’t pull away. that’s good, you think. good for the image.

you tilt your head up, and finally, your eyes meet his. when you speak, your voice is soft, “relax. you’re gonna make it obvious. stop acting like i bite.”

“maybe i’m hoping you do,” he whispers back, “so i can sue.”

you smile a little wider for the benefit of the worker watching from behind the counter. then, you shift so that you’re standing in front of him, leaning in until your temple rests against his shoulder. from the corner of your eye, you catch the way sae’s gaze sharpens, your nose hovering just near the line of his jaw.

“the boutique girl’s watching,” you coo, “and so are the cameras outside.”

he moves to look at the windows, but you use your hand to guide his face back to you.

“if you keep dropping my hand and acting like you’d rather be anywhere else, she’s gonna figure out this is fake in two seconds,” you let your fingers slowly trail down his arm before loosely lacing them through his again.

“i’m here aren’t i? that alone should say something.”

“we’re supposed to seem madly in love. not… co-workers forced into a group project.”

he exhales roughly through his nose, but he doesn’t shake you off. he doesn’t even do so much as look away.

“look like you like me,” you add, then glance at the boutique worker. you return your gaze to sae and give him a pointed look, “or at least act like i’m not annoying you to death.”

for emphasis, your grip on his hand tightens. after all, you weren’t doing this for your own amusement. this was for the boutique worker. for the photos. for the narrative. you try not to make a habit of doing things half-assed.

still, you can’t help but notice—he hasn’t let go. in fact, he squeezes your hand back even harder.

you take advantage of that, dragging him over to a random clothing rack.

“help me pick something,” you chirp, holding two dress up to your chest. “something boyfriend-approved!”

he lazily scans the options before stating, “that one.” he points at one on the rack that you’re not holding, “that one’s not stupid.”

“wow,” you gasp, lips twitching. “romantic and poetic.”

you pick a few more outfits and make your way to the worker, asking, “fitting room?”

“right this way,” she guides you. “would your boyfriend like to wait outside the door?”

“actually,” you stammer, “he’s very opinionated. i think he should be in there with me.”

sae visibly chokes on air, pulling you close before whispering, “the hell i am.”

“relax i don’t want you to see me naked, weirdo. in there, at least you don’t have to worry about your public image.”

he glances back at the worker, and for the first time—you see a different expression plastered on his face. the switch is terrifying. he loops an arm around your waist, face melting into what you would assume is his wacky version of a smile.

“we’ll be quick,” he announces.

and just like that, the curtain closes behind you two.

you find that the dressing room is small. really small. as in, it’s a hazard small.

the two of you awkwardly shift around in the cramped space, doing your best to avoid brushing against each other. once you’ve each claimed your corner, you gesture for him to turn around.

“don’t look,” you warn.

he does as told, turning away without a word. you toss the dresses onto the bench and quickly reach for the zipper on your skirt.

“i’m not a perv,” he mutters, pulling out his phone. “trust me, the last thing i want is—”

“okay, okay,” you shush. “shut up, just don’t comment on anything.”

you slide on one of your many options. it takes you a while to zip it up by yourself, but eventually, you get the job done.

“well?” you ask.

he turns around and glances up from his phone, eyes moving slowly, deliberately, from head to toe.

“it’s fine.”

you scoff, “fine? that’s it?”

“what do you want me to say?” he asks, and you can’t quite tell if he’s serious or not. “you’re not ugly. congrats.”

“i hate you.”

“feelings mutual,” he tilts his head. “you just like being told you look good.”

“turn around,” you direct him, moving to slide on another one of your options.

you can feel a lump form in your throat as you quote what he said. “‘you just like being told you look good,’ and you like what? brushing off your fans? spreading doom and gloom? oh please.”

your irritation only grows worse from there. you hastily slip into a few more dress options, ready to get it over with and escape the annoyingly cramped dressing room. when you’re finished, you finally move toward the curtain in a huff—only for him to catch your wrist before you can pull it open.

he’s not even looking your way when he speaks, “don’t act irrational. don’t you remember we still have an audience out there?”

you blink once, then twice.

right.

there’s an audience.

you give yourself a moment to recollect yourself. then you pull the curtain back, just a few inches to get a look around before stepping into the light. you feel sae shift behind you, his hand resting lightly on your hip.

for someone who’s never touched you before today, who acts as if he loathes you with his every being—he sure seems like he knows exactly where his hands belong on you.

you go to a few more stores after that, and somewhere along the way, sae even forces himself to initiate a few staged couple poses. in the past two hours with him on this date, you’ve learned that he’s most comfortable wrapping his arms around your waist. a simple gesture for the paparazzi to feed on.

eventually, you both end up on a park bench, food truck meals balanced on your laps while a not-so subtle crowd begins to gather nearby, phones pointed in your direction.

“are you gonna complain about the food too?” you judge between sips, eyeing him over your drink.

he peers down at the plastic container holding his steak, “depends. is it actually safe to eat?”

“well, if you die, ‘m not doing cpr. failed that test in high school,” you warn, placing your cup on the floor as he shakes his head.

“so….” you take a bite from your skewer, “did you always hate people, or is this new?”

“i don’t hate people. some just get on my nerves. you specifically are just…exceptionally good at it.”

you clutch your heart, “wow. you’re meaner in person.”

“i’ve been in person this whole time?”

“exactly,” you grumble with a long, exasperated sigh. “it’s been exhausting. i deserve double pay.”

it gets quiet after that, and you decide to fill the space by sharing your admiration for one of your favorite designers. you’re just about to finally switch topics when he interrupts you.

“do you ever stop to breathe?”

you snort, arms crossing lazily as you shoot him a look, “well i’m sorry, is my joy offensive to your pity party?”

“watching you is like i’m watching a permanent sugar rush.”

you grin, “aw, you actually pay attention to me?”

he scoffs under his breath, “occasionally.”

you lean toward him with mock curiosity, “seriously though. what’s your problem with me? you act like i’m a disease.”

he eyes your figure, “you’re always… loud. energetic. there’s no way that’s what you’re like when no one’s watching. has to just be for the cameras, no?”

you raise a brow, “what, you think i’m fake? huh, tell me how you really feel.”

“i just did.”

“well, i hate to disappoint, but this—” you gesture to yourself dramatically, “is very real. i’m not performing. i just don’t wake up every day wanting to punch sunlight in the face like you do.”

he shrugs, “i think most people hold some type of fakeness to them. especially in this industry. but you? you laugh like the world itself and everyone in it is something worth celebrating—worth romanticizing. that doesn’t happen unless you’re pretending.”

you stare at him for a second, lips quirking, “and you think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“i don’t care enough to figure you out,” he replies. then, quieter, “i just notice things.”

your teasing tone falters, “like what?”

sae bites the inside of his cheek, “at our first meeting i thought you were just loud noise. always talking. smiling. probably acted like every day was the best day of your life.”

you watch him intently, “and now?”

he hesitates at first. but then, “now i think… it’s kind of nice. that you can be like that, even with people watching. or not watching.”

your lips part slightly, “so—wait, you think i’m nice?”

“i didn’t say you’re nice,” he smirks. “i said what you do is nice. big difference.”

you roll your eyes, “so just to be clear, you don’t think i’m fake anymore?”

sae looks away briefly, then back at you, “i think you’re real in ways i didn’t expect.”

you try to speak, but nothing comes. he takes note of that, and instead of smirking or tearing you down, he softly reassures, “don’t get it twisted. you still annoy me, plenty.”

“you still act like a jerk.”

the rest of the time you two spend on the bench, he stays quiet—to avoid asking questions and making you get sidetracked, you think—as you talk about whatever comes to mind. he watches you absentmindedly twist your napkin between your fingers, doesn’t even interrupt when your thoughts drift into a ramble about some model you hate.

for once, in this moment, you find yourself actually willing to withstand him.

your mall date had been a success. the results were actually better than expected. that day, you received three published articles, a huge boost in your follower count, a flood of different hashtags with your name beside sae’s—and the best part of all? your favorite part? the fan edits.

that was two weeks ago.

two weeks since the fitting room. two weeks since you shared a deep talk with sae. two weeks since the headlines labeled you sae itoshi’s “perfect match,” after seeing you both on two more dates later that week.

and not a single text or call from him outside of the time you’ve spent together.

not that you were expecting one, he’s made it clear that you aren’t exactly high on his list of priorities. neither does he exactly give off “i care deeply about my fake girlfriend” energy. it just came off as strange to you.

so when your pr manager messages you:

[my winggirl🥹] : livestream tomorrowwww! its at your house gorgeous. sae’s coming, make sure to keep it close. make them believe it!

you nearly throw your phone across the room.

your home is yours. your escape. the only space he hasn’t been able to invade with his unreadable stares and silence. you don’t want him here—especially not with cameras watching your every move.

so you do the only reasonable thing.

you call her.

“please,” you beg. “can’t we do something else? a café, a picnic, a fake cooking class? anything but my apartment. that’s a huge step! and we haven’t even been supposedly dating for long so that’s, that’s—i mean there’s so much intimacy there!“

but she’s made it clear that this appearance isn’t negotiable. the audience wants to see intimacy. they want raw action of your day to day lives. they want to see sae—someone who’s known to be cold and off putting on your couch, in your kitchen, brushing shoulders with you in your own space. logically, this is the next step. if you were your manager, you would recommend a q&a livestream too.

but you’re not. you’re you.

you hang up and throw yourself onto the couch, groaning into a pillow.

when you push yourself up, you find yourself staring at sae’s contact on your screen for longer than you’d like to admit, thumb hovering over the call button.

you thought you should call him, just to see where his head is at. clarify a plan, maybe even a few rules. after all, he is going to be in your apartment. it would be weird not to at least touch base beforehand, right?

before you can overthink it, you hit “call.”

it rings once, twice, three times.

you’re already preparing to hang up when—

“hello?”

his voice is low and familiar in the worst way. it scratches against your nerves.

“hi! it’s me.”

he’s quiet for a second, “i figured. there’s not really…well nevermind.”

you roll your eyes, raising your hands to look over your nails, “so… livestream, huh? at my place too, that’s new.”

“mhm, so i hear.”

“right, well—” you continue. “i just figured it might be nice to, y’know, not wing it for once. not that winging it wasn’t fun and all because it was, really! but this is different. there’ll be so many cameras in my apartment, more than i could ever keep track of. like, you’re gonna be sitting on my real-life couch.”

“are you worried i’ll break something?”

you fidget with a nearby couch pillow, fiddling with the fabric before pressing it snug against your chest, “no. i just… i think we should plan this one. it’s different,” you snort, “i’m being filmed inside my home. so, this is real personal for me.”

he’s quiet again, but this time it doesn’t feel so cold to you. more like he’s thinking.

“alright,” he agrees. “let’s plan it.”

and though it’s just a word—something in you unclenches.

he said let’s. a synonym for “we.” a confirmation that he’s willing to actually hear you out, and make a plan because of your worries. your concerns. he’s being considerate.

“okay,” you slowly drag out, as if his word might break if you say it too fast. “so…we’ll have a q&a livestream, right? they want something that shows we’ve been dating for a while. something that shows our lifestyles merging together. we need fake memories and—“

he hums, “i know how to act that out. i did it at the mall.”

“you don’t need to act like a boyfriend, sae. you need to act like my boyfriend. there’s a difference y’know.”

“whatever you say. guess i’ll trust your judgment.”

you pause. he’s not usually this… affirming.

“anyway,” you mutter. “if you’re gonna be at my place, you’ll need to act comfortable too. like it’s not your first time being here. ill give you a facetime tour in a minute.”

“you want me to sit through a real estate presentation?”

“i want you to stop being difficult for two seconds.”

you expect him to say a smart comment back. instead, he hums.

“i’ll bring coffee.”

“…what?”

“tomorrow. i’ll bring coffee. if i’m intruding into your apartment, might as well bring a housewarming gift.”

your lips part, but words don’t come.

someone bringing you coffee is a gesture that shouldn’t mean much—but coming from him, the simplicity of the thoughtfulness lingers longer in your head than it should.

“uh—sure! ueah. that’s good, i’ll just text you my order later tonight, okay?”

“okay.”

he doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. the silence lingers for a long while, until—

“so, do you wanna facetime me so you can see my apartment? then we can talk about a few rules and all that stuff—“

“sure,” he says. and it’s faint, really faint, but you swear you hear him laugh to himself.

true to his word, sae brought you a coffee the next morning. by then, a camera crew had already begun setting up. tall stands, lights—all sorts of equipment you couldn’t name if you tried, cluttering up your space.

you hate it. the disruption and the random faces appearing in your home. sae’s presence is already an adjustment, but eight more strangers stepping into your space is far, far worse.

eventually, the crew clears out to go eat lunch, leaving you two with some privacy. you and sae end up side by side on the bench in front of your vanity, an uneasy silence between you.

then, you break the silence, “okay… are you ready, sae?”

he’s already pulling out his phone, thumbs tapping rapidly across the screen, “yeah.”

he props his phone onto the vanity, the livestream feed already visible on the screen. immediately, viewers flood in.

it doesn’t take long for the view count to reach over a thousand, as sae fails to make a habit of being on social media at all. for his fans? this was a shock. you watch as heart emojis and fire symbols flood the screen, ecstatically waving at the phone.

sae angles the phone and taps on the pinned question at the top of the Q&A queue.

“how did you two meet?”

you glance at him, though he doesn’t make a effort to look back at you.

even so, your nerves don’t feel as if they’re tearing up your insides. you don’t feel the need to fill the silence with rambling—you don’t panic. because you prepared for this. last night, on the call with sae, you both agreed on the backstory of your relationship. you met at a charity gala, and bonded over a disinterest of the event. quick and simple, end of story.

“do you want to take that one, babe?” you ask, a sweet smile on your face. you were ready to pick up where he leaves off.

“we met through mutual friends,” he replies. “at a party.”

you smile flickers away. your head turns slowly, eyes narrowing. that wasn’t what you agreed on.

you pull yourself back together, a smile snapping into place once more, “a really boring party,” you add. “if he hadn’t insulted me within the first ten minutes, i probably wouldn’t even remember it.”

“i was being honest—someone had to tell you that dress was trying too hard.”

you swear you can feel your eye twitch.

“wasn’t that the night i wore couture?”

he shrugs, “didn’t look like it.”

the chat does nothing but spam crying emojis and exclamation points. “omggg they’re so real for this,” someone comments.

you force a laugh and sip your coffee to stop yourself from snapping. sae taps onto the next question.

“who confessed first?”

with this question, the two of you weren’t supposed to talk over each other. you were supposed to lead with a statement. then, just like you practiced, he'd jump in after with a silly add on.

however, the both of you answer this in unison. claiming, “neither of us.”

you hesitate to turn his way. but when you do, you wish you hadn’t done it at all. he stares back at you with that awful, goofy thing he calls a smile. you can't stand it.

“i mean,” you backtrack, “it was kind of mutual. wasn’t it?”

sae nods, “something like that.”

that wasn’t the line either. can’t he do anything right? he was supposed to say he asked you out first in private. that he was shy about it, but sincere. something soft to make the fans believe it.

he’s blowing it all off.

sae reads out the next big question, “what’s your favorite thing about each other?”

you smirk and shove his shoulder, “you go first.”

he side-eyes you, leaning forward, elbow resting on his knee. then, he hums, “perhaps the fact she’s quiet when she’s sleeping.”

“seriously?”

you’re even more annoyed that he doesn’t even flinch when he says, “it’s peaceful. unlike now.”

you force out a laugh, “how sweet, right guys? personally, i love how emotionally guarded he was when i first met him. really made a girl work for it.”

the comment section is losing it.

the screen is a mess of rapidly moving words, but you manage to catch a few glimpses of what people have to say. “this is peak love language” one reads. the other calming that you two, “bicker like old married people.”

sae slides a hand around your waist, and despite your urge to pull away—scream him at most—you lean in just enough to sell the lie.

the show must go on.

he reads out the next question, “when did you know you were in love?”

this time, you’re not surprised when he goes off script. you simply stare ahead at the screen, smile straining at the edges. silently wondering if there was a loophole in disobeying your shared contract.

the moment the livestream ends, you push away from the vanity, reaching forward to slam his phone face down.

you turn to him, arms waving around, “what the hell was that?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just leans back, one arm draped behind the bench, “what?”

you scoff, “what? are you serious? you went completely off script.”

he finally glances at you, giving you a look over, “relax.”

“no!” you snap, “don’t tell me to relax. we spent half the night going over what we were going to say—and not because i enjoy rehearsing fake couple stories with someone who clearly can’t stand me, but because i wanted this to be smooth. you said—you said—you were fine with the plan.”

sae looks away.

“and on the phone yesterday,” you continue, voice rising with every word, “you were actually…i don’t know. decent? you offered to bring me coffee i didn’t ask for. you were listening to me when i said this whole livestream thing with you in my house today made me anxious. you weren’t acting like a complete asshole. i thought maybe, maybe, you’d actually try to make this work.”

he stands up slowly, “it is working—“

“no, it’s not,” you grimace with a mocking tone. “you made me look like a liar. you made us look like a joke. we planned out a whole story—and you just threw it out because what? you were bored? was that it?”

he sighs, looking up at the ceiling.

you step in front of him, “say it. say the reason—because i need to know, now.”

he finally meets your eyes, “i went off script because it sounded fake.”

“this is fake, sae.”

he nods, “exactly. but like you proved before, it doesn’t have to look like it. i had a feeling that it’d be easy for people to tell we were lying, i mean our story was just too cliche. so, i acted on it.”

you don’t fight back. instead, you silently glare at him, because you don’t want to admit he has a point. looking back on it? the curated story, the scripted affection—it was a little too perfect. clean, boring and safe. something that a pr team would write up, not people who actually know each other.

nonetheless, that doesn’t make his actions right.

“then why not tell me you were going to change it?”

“because you would’ve overcorrected…and i just needed you to trust me on this.”

you hate that his opinion stings more than it should.

he keeps going, licking his lips, “you’re too concerned with what people want to hear, with how they’ll see us. you forget the whole point of this is to convince them we’re real. not just marketable.”

you swallow back the lump forming in your throat, “and you think dragging me on camera and blatantly ignoring everything we planned made it look real?”

“we looked like a couple that fights. that annoys the hell out of each other. that knows each other too well to pretend we’re all preppy and perfect.”

the worst part about all of this, is that the audience did love your banter. the viewers did think that there was chemistry, that there was something real. the chaos, the bickering, the off-script tension? it played itself perfectly.

your chest is tight as you declare, “well…next time, tell me.”

he looks at you again, and you expect him to say fine or whatever, yet he gives you a reassuring, “okay.”

you pause, “you know,” you mutter, “i let you into my space. i told you this whole thing made me uncomfortable. i thought you understood that.”

sae takes a step toward you, “i do.”

“then why make me feel like i was the only one trying?”

“i am trying,” it comes out as if it’s hard to admit. “just not the way you want me to.”

you look at him for a long second, not knowing if that’s supposed to be an apology or another excuse.

and then you turn away and head towards the living room, leaving him standing there in your room.

you knew what this was.

currently, you’re sitting at a café table across from sae. and besides the fact the scenery happened to be weirdly photogenic—every corner looking as if it were made simply for instagram (which isn’t sae’s style at all), what made it so special? was that it was home to the most exotic foods. a fact you vaguely mentioned in a conference room days prior, during a check up meeting with you and sae’s agency’s.

you chose to eat in the rooftop seating, something nice and open. to your satisfaction, sae didn’t complain once. he even let you order for both of you—claiming that it was because he didn’t quite know what to get, as he’s not one to go out of his nutritionists recommendations.

the fact that he wasn’t on his phone right now only helped prove this was apart of his apology. apart of his effort.

when your food comes, you pick at it, sunglasses perched on your nose, glancing across the table at him. he didn’t pay you much mind right now, choosing to stare at the scenery surrounding you both instead. but he was here, with you. eating a meal he normally wouldn’t eat, eating simply since it was recommended by you. that had to count for something, right?

until it didn’t.

“excuse me—sorry,” a voice interrupts. “are you…sae itoshi?”

you both look up.

the girl was pretty, though you cringed at the fact that she wore winter boots in the scorching hot summer heat. you recognized her instantly: a micro-influencer you’d met maybe once or twice at a after party.

sae gave a short nod, “yeah.”

“oh my god,” she gushes, stepping dangerously closer to your table. “i’m such a huge fan! i didn’t think you’d be here.”

you don’t move or speak. just watch as her eyes flick between him and your untouched drink.

she leans in a little, pressing a hand against the edge of your table. “i hate to interrupt, but…is it okay if i get a quick photo? you’re just so hard to run into.”

you wait for him to say, “i’m eating with someone.” for him to introduce you as his girl. or if that were too much for him, he could simply introduce you as—well—you. anything to imply you’re someone to him and not some random girl who decided to sit at his table.

sae thinks for a minute, chewing his cheek before sighing, “sure.”

the girl shrieks and pulls out her phone, standing beside him and smiling as she snaps not one, not two, but five photos.

“you’re single, right?” she asked, giggling. “just in case i tag the wrong girl.”

“no—“

you laugh under your breath, standing from where you sat.

“i’ll help clarify,” you turn to her, removing your sunglasses. “hi. i’m definitely the girl you’ll be tagging. the one he’s been dating for—well, you could check the headlines for that.”

you watch as the recognition reaches her eyes. her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“and for future reference,” you take a quick sip of your drink, “if you’re going to flirt with someone’s boyfriend, try not to do it in front of someone who’s on this month’s vogue cover.”

the fan stammers and steps back, muttering apologies before scurrying away. the silence that followed felt louder than the café music.

sae watches as the fan leaves, “that wasn’t necessary.”

“wasn’t necessary?”

“she was just a fan.”

you laugh again, louder this time. “right. just a fan who flirted with you in front of your girlfriend. and you? you just let her. are you that oblivious? or—“

“i’m saying that she wasn’t someone of interest or importance, so it wasn’t worth the scene. all she wanted were a few lousy pictures—if i shoved that off, i would never beat the allegations you’re here to help defend.”

“no,” you push your plate forward, appetite long gone. “what’s not worth the scene is apparently me.”

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“i’ve been working hard since i was sixteen. i’ve walked for chanel, i’ve closed valentino, i’ve shot vogue, img, every major cover. do you think i need your name to be relevant? i don’t.”

“that’s not what i thi—“

“then act like it. because i’m not just some girl trying to present herself as a decoration to your being. i have my own damn life too.”

after that day, you stopped talking to him.

not completely—technically you still spoke—but only when necessary. only in the times where it was required so that you could get through your staged appearances.

you still sat by him on couches and in press rooms, close enough to make headlines. still tilted your head toward him in pictures. still posted pictures and videos to feed the illusion of a happy relationship to the public.

but the banter was gone.

you stopped challenging him when he teased you on camera. you stopped laughing, even fakely, at his dry remarks. if he made a joke, you let it pass without comment.

you gave him nothing more than what your contract required.

you hid your personality away, giving him a professional kind of distance. one that didn’t give him room to touch anything real again.

and somehow? that hurt worse than the argument ever had.

because before, there was tension—irritation, annoyance, a feeling of comfort here and there. beyond all, there was emotion. something that felt like life. something you could push against.

but now, there was just silence. a cold distance.

sae noticed, you know he did.

he started looking at you differently during events. he was more focused on your being, like he was trying to read between lines you weren’t speaking aloud. he even started texting you more—pointless questions, really. things he already knew the answer to. little excuses to start conversations you never asked for.

he made a habit of bringing you coffee, every morning without fail. still showed up with your exact order like it meant something.

but there was a caution in him, too. he chose his words more carefully around you, unsure of which version of you he’d be getting that day. the warm one he’d briefly known, or the version he’d made you retreat into.

it was always the latter.

still, he never asked about the distance. never brought it up. never said a word about the wall you’d built between you. you never offered him the courtesy of explaining, either.

because after that argument, you’d decided that there was one thing for sure. you wouldn’t give anything real to someone who didn’t think it mattered

you wave your way through the red carpet, cameras flashing deliberately at your every move. you try to think of that instead of the fact that sae itoshi—your partner in public lies—is nowhere to be found on your big night.

today was the day of your fashion show. or in other words, the final required joined appearance on the three month contract between you and sae. and while you two haven’t exactly made up from your argument, you have to admit—

you didn’t expect him to stand you up on your big day.

you soon discover that it’s not just you who notices, the press does as well.

they call out your name as you make your way down the carpet, “where’s sae tonight?”

“trouble in paradise?”

“is it true he’s overseas?”

holy fuck were they annoying.

“he’ll join later,” you reassure. “he’s proud of me either way.” then you wink at the cameras, continuing your way down the carpet as the paparazzi spews with follow-up questions.

you lied. you don’t know what he thinks. surprisingly, he hadn’t even texted you today with no pointless questions or clarifications about the event at all.

you pose once more for the cameras before stepping off the carpet and slipping into the backstage area. stylists rush by, assistants holding racks of gowns and headsets glued to their ears. the scent of perfume, steam, and hairspray invade your senses. you smile contently at the familiar smell.

you let your team pull you into your dressing room. you’re reminded that you’re the closer tonight—the final look, the centerpiece. you should be flattered. you should feel powerful and confident.

instead, your stomach churns, and you can’t figure out why.

perhaps its your outfit.

the black mesh of your gown kisses your skin, decorated by a flower lace spirals down your hips. the bottom of the fabric flares out, allowing a train to form behind you.

its not something you’d prefer to wear, considering it’s strictly lace all over—but, you slip into it anyway.

for the image, for the look. for your job.

unbeknownst to you, sae arrives ten minutes before the finale, quietly slipping through the back entrance. his manager had sent him what had to be over a dozen text, questioning him about his whereabouts. he knew he was late, didn’t care enough to explain.

he actually meant to skip the event entirely.

it wasn’t that he didn’t have the energy to deal with the space growing between you—he planned to fix that. in fact, he was actively trying. when he gets a chance to hug you, he makes his hugs linger longer than they need to. he brings you your exact coffee order every morning without fail, hiding a little note on the cup he hopes you see. he even tries to playfully tease you to try and bring you out of your shell. yet, you won’t budge.

which is what made him figure that showing up tonight would only make things worse. with the way things stood between you, you’d probably just tense up the moment you saw him. the last thing he wanted was to make you more uncomfortable than you already were.

but then he saw your name trending. the photos from the carpet, and the video interview that followed.

you expected him to be there. scratch that, you wanted him to be there.

the sight made him instantly call his private driver to pick him, quickly getting himself dressed in his best suit and tie.

his jaw tightens as he enters the dressing room area, spotting your open door and the crowd around you. he notices the way a famous designer—one you once mentioned admiring—leans in too close. the way he places a hand on your hip. the way his mouth gets dangerously close to your ear, and most importantly? the way you laugh.

it’s not the fake one you’d been giving sae recently. its too bright and bubbly to be fake.

he doesn’t realize he’s moving to make his way to your dressing room until a crew member stops him.

“VIPs only backstage—sorry, sir.”

he doesn’t even speak. just pulls out his lanyard, flashing his credentials like it’s routine.

his body moves faster than his thoughts can form. he thinks to himself, he can’t be doing this off of emotion. right?

because this—this thing between you two isn’t real. none of it is. that was always the agreement.

but then he sees your smile in his head—soft, easy, the kind you used to give him without thinking now aimed at someone else.

the more he thinks about it, something unsettles in his chest. its brief and stupid, so he forces himself to brush it off.

still, he doesn’t look away from your figure.

and he really should.

you’re adjusting your earring when a low voice cuts through the noise.

“how nice of you to dress up.”

you freeze.

slowly, you turn toward him. sae leans lazily against the dressing room door. he’s relaxed with his hands in his pockets, all as if he hasn’t just decided to show up late on a very important night of your career.

“can everyone leave the room for a second? i think i can do the final touches.”

at your request, your assistants, managers, and the famous designer (who sae is glad to see go), leaves the room.

“nice to see you too,” you mutter.

his eyes drag across your body. the slit in the gown that exposes the length of your leg. the way it hugs your curves and emphasizes them at the same time.

“talk about revealing, hm?”

you laugh, absolutely fucking stunned. you thought he showed his hand. every little surprise he had, yet he’s still coming up with new tricks.

“you’re late, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

he crosses his arms, “i thought you’d be fine on the carpet without me.“

“oh my—god, you’re unbelievable.”

“you look gorgeous.”

it’s not even what he says—it’s how he says it. as if your ambition, your image, your career are somehow less valid than his mood.

“are you serious?” you hiss, rising to close the door. “you left me to walk out there alone. in front of everyone. do you know what that looks like?”

“you looked fine.”

“that’s not the point!” you yell.

he keeps his tone steady, “then what is?”

“the point is, throughout this entire thing, despite your—the—your difficulty and initial hostility? i’ve shown up to every single one of your matches, even the boring ones. i’ve worn your jersey. i’ve smiled for so many cameras. i’ve done everything this stupid deal required—and more. you can’t even bother to show up on time?”

“i’ve never understood why you read so much into appearan—“

“i care when my name is on the line,” you snap. “and when i’ve spent months trying to convince people this is real.”

sae’s expression falters, just for a second. then he steps closer and scoffs, “you’ve been distant for how long? you barely talk to me unless there’s a camera pointed at us. you’re mad at me for being late, but you’ve been gone longer than that.“

you shake your head, “that’s not fair. that’s not the same.”

“feels about the same.”

“no. you did it out of pettiness. i was hurt.”

the room goes still.

you stare at him. his chest rises and falls with quiet restraint. he’s looking at you like he wants to say more. like he wants to fight, but instead, he breathes out your name—soft and gentle.

from the hallway, you can hear as the producer’s voice yells, “thirty seconds! final model ready?”

thats your cue.

“i’m ready!” you yell back.

you move to step past him, but sae catches your wrist.

he doesn’t speak right away, taking time to curate his words, “…i was out of line.”

you gape at him.

“for the way i handled everything in this…bond of ours. the way i handled the fan situation a few months back. the way i made you feel as if you had to hide yourself from me. all of it.”

his voice stays quiet and controlled, “all of it, that’s on me.”

your lip quivers. he’s never said anything like this before.

finally, he meets your gaze, “but understand that this is all new to me. and in the end, you were being genuine. i wasn’t ready for that.”

your throat tightens at the confession.

before you can say anything, the runway producer calls your name once more.

you gently pull your wrist from his hold, “we’ll talk after.”

the runway ends in flashing lights and applause. you close the show, and when the curtains fall, you’re swept into a crowd of hugs and praise from your colleagues.

and when the crowd parts, sae is waiting.

he doesn’t say anything, simply nods toward the back exit. you bite your lip at the gesture, your mind pulling you between the decision to stay or go. almost too naturally, you follow.

the limo is quiet when you slide in, the driver closing the door behind you before standing promptly against the car.

sae sits across from you, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees, “i meant what i said.”

you make a move to speak, only to be interrupted.

“i didn’t think your opinion on me would matter,” he mutters, eyes fixed ahead. “but apparently it does.”

you lean back, watching him carefully, “you used to act as if you hated being around me.”

his mouth twitches, the closest thing to a smile, “you still annoy me plenty.”

you huff out a laugh.

“for instance,” his hands reach out to your waist, deliberate, and slow. “with how far you are,” he tugs you forward until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. “been ignoring me for how long?”

you shift on his lap, “you deserved it,” you whisper.

“you’re right,” he glances down at the slit of your dress. “so, let me make it up you.”

before you can answer, his hands drag along your sides, settling at your hips. his thumbs press into the curve of your waist, grounding you.

“sae,” you warn.

but its useless, he’s already on you.

his mouth crashes into yours, and suddenly your detached from every reason you had to stay angry. you brace your palms against his chest, meaning to push him back, to keep the wall you’ve built between you intact. but the moment your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, you only pull him closer. he’s so warm—close, his cologne wraps around you. did he always smell this comforting?

you want to resist, to tell him that this isn’t enough. that apologies should come in a change of actions, and not kisses—but then his tongue slides along the seam of your lips, and your body betrays you. you part for him without thinking.

it’s a mistake. the second he slips inside, he groans. his lips move with yours—you hate how he’s so slow. he moves with a punishing precision, taking in every movement. taking his time, refusing to take a single second of you for granted. his hands roam, one sliding up your spine to anchor you closer.

you’re melting in his hold. and fuck, do you hate that you’re melting.

you were supposed to still be distant, untouchable. but the way he kisses you makes it impossible to think about anything like that at all. his body is flush against yours, you can feel your chest rising and falling.

your fingers curl tighter into his shirt. you tilt your head, deepening the kiss, to match the pace he’s set. it’s now messy and fast.

you should pull away.

you should remind yourself why you were angry in the first place. because of how careless he is with your feelings. but instead, your back hits the plush seat cushion, and you let him press you into it.

he breaks the kiss for just a second, panting, his forehead resting against yours. his breath fans over your lips, and you hate how much you want him to kiss you again.

your voice trembles as you whisper, “i’m still mad at you.”

“we can always stop,” he breathes out.

you stare at him more intently, gently brushing your thumb against his cheek. "don’t torture me. please, sae just kiss me already,” you whine.

he doesn’t wait for permission this time. his mouth finds yours again—somehow deeper—and your anger fractures completely. all that’s left is the ache in your chest, the burn beneath your skin, and the way his hands roam like he’s starving to feel every part of you.

you kiss him back harder, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him even closer. you groan into his mouth.

you feel his lips pull away, and hear him laugh. you open your eyes to be sure, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he’s actually smiling. not the awkward, forced kind you’ve seen before, this one is natural—real. and this time around, somehow, it doesn’t look out of place on him.

you’ll be mad at him later. right now, you just want to feel him.

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