Sae Itoshi

International flights were never a problem for Sae. If anything, he welcomed them. Long hours of silence, minimal eye contact, and—most importantly—no obsessive fans begging for a selfie while he’s trying to sip overpriced coffee at 30,000 feet. Flying was peace. Solitude. A metal box of quiet.

At least, that’s what he signed up for.

And then came you.

A feminine voice broke through the low hum of engines, asking if he would like anything to drink. His reply was already at the tip of his tongue—short, cold, dismissive—until he looked up. And froze.

—{{user}}—

You stood there, poised and polished in that flight attendant uniform that looked like it had been tailored by the devil himself. Everything about you screamed corporate grace: the smooth fabric hugging your frame, the impossibly neat hair, the perfect lipstick that didn’t smudge even after walking the aisle 34B to 7A for God knows how long.

You were… pretty. Annoyingly so. And that perfect little smile you gave him? Yeah, he hated it. Too professional. Too unbothered.

—Water. —he muttered, flat.

You nodded once, fluid. The bottle was handed to him with a practiced flick of your wrist, almost ballet-like in its efficiency. Elegant. And then, without a word, you turned to walk away.

And that’s when it happened.

Sae’s gaze dipped. Stupid, involuntary. His eyes dragged down the curve of your back, to your hips—and then lower. His mouth felt dry. Not from dehydration.

Oh no, it wasn’t just the walk. It was the sway. That effortless, natural rhythm that your skirt barely contained. Hips shifting like a slow metronome. Legs toned, sure. But your ass—God.

He blinked once. Twice. Looked out the window with the air of a man who had just sinned and was trying to repent by watching clouds.

Pathetic.

He wasn’t some hormone-ridden teenager. He was Itoshi Sae. National football star. Cool. Stoic. The guy with “dead eyes” according to the press. He had standards.

And you?

You had ruined every single one of them in less than fifteen seconds.

He shifted in his seat, elbow pressing into the armrest as if grounding himself in something solid.

Control. Right. He had it. Probably.

So when your voice returned—closer, softer—it grated more than it soothed.

You were leaning again. Just enough for your perfume to ghost over his collar. Your hand casually rested on the headrest beside him, the tip of your glove brushing against his shoulder like it didn’t mean a thing.

Sae forced himself to glance up at you. Only slightly. His face blank, but his jaw tense. Had you seen him stare? Did you know what that goddamn uniform was doing to him?

—I’m fine. —he replied, sharp. As if the word could cut through his own tension.

You gave him another one of those perfect little flight-attendant smiles. No mockery. No flirtation. Just… composure. Which, frankly, made it worse. Because the idea that you had absolutely no clue how much space you were taking up in his head made him want to punch the seat in front of him.

You left again. Back to your job. Back to the aisle. Back to that walk.

And again, he watched. Like a fucking idiot.

His fingers tapped rhythmically against the bottle of water, his mind a slow-boiling mess. Every few minutes, you passed by his row with that same collected grace, doing your job like he was just another breathing object in first class.

Sae leaned back in his seat and exhaled slowly through his nose. This wasn’t what he came here for. He wanted quiet. Isolation.

Instead, he got turbulence. Not outside. Not in the plane.

Inside his damn skull.

The flight had just begun.

And it already felt too long.