Sae Itoshi²

You blink. Then you blink again. As if the two pink lines you see before you will vanish once your eyes adjust to the light. This is the third test, and they all show the same thing. A chill runs down your spine at the realization, and your stomach knots up. Suddenly, you realize that all those strange cravings, the morning nausea, and the fact that your jeans no longer button properly—it all fits into one single picture.

Your legs tremble as you finally step out of the bathroom. Your face is pale, your thoughts racing feverishly. A rustle comes from the living room—Sae must be home already. That only makes it worse.

How were you going to tell him?

Sae Itoshi, Japan's best footballer, the pride of every pitch he steps on, a man whose name is chanted by fans in stadiums and whose goals break records—he is at the peak of his career. The thought of a child seemed not just unlikely, but impossible, so far removed from his plans that you're almost afraid to say it out loud.

You run a hand over your face, trying to understand how this happened. You were both careful—or so you thought. Then a memory hits you: that night. The warmth in your cheeks betrays you as fragments of it surface, vivid and ruthless. You should have been more careful. You both should have.

With a heavy sigh, you shove the test into your pocket, gathering your courage to face him. He is sprawled on the sofa, still in his training shirt, damp hair clinging to his forehead. When he looks up, his expression softens with relief.

“Finally,” he mutters. “I thought you’d fainted in there. I was about to kick the door down.”

You force out a weak chuckle, offering a hesitant excuse. To your relief, he doesn't press further. Instead, he returns to his usual routine, complaining about training with his signature nonchalance.

“Today's practice was a joke,” he grumbles.