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He shouldn't be in Valencia.

He should be training for the Club World Cup in Madrid. On the pitch. With the ball. Not in a high-speed train, speeding across the country to a photo shoot in a custom-made suit for a luxury brand.

And much less if he was going to be in that same session.

Bunny Iglesias.

Just thinking about that damn name gave him a headache. Itoshi Sae sighed, exasperated. Why had he accepted? Easy: because he was now the main face of Massimo Dutti's men's campaign.

That's why.

From his first-class seat, he watched the fields for sale pass by the window, his expression neutral, almost annoyed. Beside him, his agent, Giraud Dabadie, was meticulously examining a tablet.

"Yeah," he said, turning the screen toward him. "Mr. Carlos Hernandez sent me these suit options for tomorrow."

Sae barely looked away. Yes, they were impeccable suits. Precise cuts, fabrics that exuded elegance. But he wasn't thinking about that. He was more concerned with the person who would be in front of him, in that session.

Him. Bunny.

Without adding anything else, Sae pointed at the screen.

 -That.

It was a sober black suit. The greenish-blue tie stood out in the exact same range as his eyes: between the frozen ocean and a contained storm.

Giraud murmured something in French that Sae couldn't quite understand, but she caught the tone: approval. His manager knew that, at least in terms of style, the boy had a natural instinct.

It's a shame that not even the best Italian cut could prevent the clash that was about to come.

Valencia's Estacion del Norte bustled with tourists, fans, and people who didn't know if they were there for a train or the chance to see a celebrity. And of course, it wasn't just any day.

They both arrived with an escort.

Real Madrid's security guards flanked Itoshi Sae as if he were the Spanish crown reincarnated in the form of a Japanese soccer player. And well, he basically was. The club's best player, the absolute star. Everyone knew it. Including him.

Sae adjusted his sunglasses with the precision of someone who's rehearsed that gesture in front of the mirror more times than she'll ever admit, and stepped off the train as if she were walking the runway at Milan Fashion Week. Not a glance. Not a gesture. Just long, elegant strides toward the waiting car.

"Don't talk to me," he muttered to himself, like a mantra.

People shouted his name. Some asked for autographs. A woman threw a fan at him. He didn't stop. He didn't even blink.

He knew this day was going to be long. That posing with Bunny Iglesias, FC Barcelona's shining star, was going to demand all his Zen-like self-control.

But at least, she thought as she got into the car with a resigned sigh, she liked the Valencian sea. A lot. Sun, salt water, decent food... The only thing she had left over was a certain Catalan with a dazzling smile and a tendency to tell his lame jokes every three minutes.

Yes. This was going to be eternal. And it was just the beginning.

[🐰]

There he was. Backstage, surrounded by warm lights, Italian linen fabrics, and a French designer who sweated more than the players in extra time in a Champions League match.

Itoshi Sae.

The black suit already fit him like a second skin. The blue-green tie highlighted the impossible color of his eyes. On his wrist, a silver watch, one of those that doesn't tell the time, but rather a status. Impassive. Perfect. The kind of man who seems to be listening to Bach even when there's only silence.

Of course, because he always did this. He arrived first, dressed first, and made it clear who the star was.

And then… No.

NO.

HE arrived now.

"Are you serious!?" the designer muttered under his breath as he tightened the last pin.

Bunny Iglesias.

He walked in like it was his own personal music video: tall, athletic, with windblown white hair and those damn scars that gave him a "yes, I fight wolves for a hobby" look. His red irises shone in the dressing room light, large and opaque, as if hiding bottled sarcasm.

And to top it all off… The cap. Black. With a rabbit face. With scars. Matching. Because of course. Themed.

And the buttonless coat, floating behind him as if fashion didn't affect him. A white, well-fitting T-shirt.

Sign in the center: "Just Me." In Comic Sans.

"Sorry, I'm late. The AVE train had some problems in Tarragona," he said, as if being late was the most natural thing in the world. As if it hadn't just interrupted the aesthetic peace of the entire set.

Sae didn't respond.   He  just lowered his sunglasses a couple of millimeters and glared at him. The atmosphere dropped five degrees.

Bunny noticed. And since it was his nature to annoy stoic figures like Sae, he gave his a sly, toothy smile.

—Ah, Sae… Always arriving early. Like the scoreboard at the Clásico.

Silence. The designer sighed. The stylist fled. A dove fell dead in the distance.

Sae closed his eyes for a second.

This. Was. Going. To. Be. Hell.

And the photos hadn't even started yet.

At that moment, another man appeared on the wings. Tall, thin, with a tape measure hanging from his neck and a measuring tape coiled like a trusty snake: the second designer.
The one who really ruled.

"Thanks for coming, Bunny," he said in a tone somewhere between relieved and resigned, like someone who sees a leading actor appear just as he was about to fake his death to cancel filming.

Bunny Iglesias nodded with the same elegant calm with which one closes the door of one's house before breaking down emotionally in private. He smiled. He always did.

He had that kind of smile that seemed gentle… but never entirely happy. A smile like a fresh scar: visible, but poorly healed. His voice, soft and polite, floated through the air as lightly as his "Just Me" T-shirt. Each word carried an almost poetic directness, but tinged with barely concealed irony.

"The photo shoot won't happen on its own, Mr. Miguel," she said with a small, theatrical bow, as if apologizing for existing... but not really sorry.

Itoshi Sae snorted. Not loudly. Just enough to make it clear he'd heard everything and wasn't impressed. He turned to the designer with his signature "I'm already losing brain cells by the minute" look.

"Are the cameras ready yet?" he asked tersely, as if he were asking if they could just end his suffering once and for all.

The designer didn't respond. He just raised his eyebrows, signaled to one of the attendees, and muttered something in Italian that sounded suspiciously like "May the drama gods help me."

And so, the atmosphere, already charged with egos, expensive fabrics, and football tension, officially became flammable.

And they hadn't even posed together yet.

[🐰]

The first pose was simple. Or so the photographer said with a French accent and great confidence in his art.

“Looking at the camera. Natural posture. Elegant seriousness.” Of course. Natural, but with suits that cost as much as a small car.

Itoshi Sae was supposed to sit, legs crossed with surgical precision, his elbows barely resting on the arms of a chair that seemed designed to inconvenience millionaires. Bunny Iglesias, on the other hand, was supposed to be standing next to him. Close. Very close. Too close.

They were both undeniably attractive, the kind that bothers average people. Sae, with his impeccable black suit and blue-green tie that accentuated his eyes, as cold as the surface of a winter lake. And Bunny, with his bright, almost provocative white suit and a red tie that seemed to scream the opposite of what he was saying. Fire alongside ice. Barcelona alongside Madrid.

The contrast between the two was so visually striking that the photographer muttered something like “it’s a divine war” before giving the signal.

—Camera ready. Bright light. Don't move. Look straight ahead. No emotions. Just tension. —he ordered with artistic enthusiasm.

And then it began. The first take.

Click.

The shutter clicked. The silence was filled with the faint sound of the spotlight rotating on the set. The chair was a modern punishment. Sae didn't show it, but his eyebrow trembled slightly.
And just then, as if the universe conspired to ruin his day…

Bunny leaned in a little. Very close. And whispered, in that soft voice, almost affected by a quiet irony:

—You look radiant.

Sae didn't flinch. He  didn't look at him. He  didn't turn his head. He  just answered in a dry whisper, as if talking to an insect that had landed on his shoulder:

—I don't need any compliments, idiot.

Click.

The photographer applauded.

—That's it! That's what I want! The tension. The story. The love that hates hate. The tragedy of the Classical made it fashionable!

No one fully understood what he was saying. But it worked.

And as the lights kept flashing and the shutter kept clicking, Bunny just smiled a little wider.

Because he was enjoying this. And Sae knew it. The worst part was… the idiot was glowing.

That's what the photographers said to each other, reviewing the results with smiles that showed more teeth than at Christmas. Phrases like "pure tension", "a burning chemistry", "the essence of the Classic". They floated around the set with the lightness of vanity.

But Sae wasn't thinking about that. Not about the light. Not about the angle. Her attention wandered, for a moment, to something that had nothing to do with fashion.

As soon as the photographers stepped back and the makeup artists approached, the atmosphere changed. The spotlights dimmed slightly, the brushes rose, and expert hands began retouching faces with surgical precision.

Sae looked at Bunny.

And unintentionally—like a painful reflex—the memories came flooding back.

The past. Training together at Real Madrid's youth academy. Sharing jokes in the locker room. Running in the rain. And then, later, in those hotel rooms with the blinds half-closed and the world contained within the warmth of rumpled sheets. Before Bunny was sold to Barcelona in 2017.

The makeup artist in front of Bunny pulled out a small tube of pink-tinted gloss. He delicately applied it to his lips, giving them just a hint of color. Something subtle. Something pretty.

Sae swallowed. Because at that exact moment, that gesture—that soft touch on Bunny's lips—reminded his of everything.

The kisses. Slow, impatient, hidden among sighs that no longer fit on the court.

His jaw tightened.

"Mr. Sae, look here, please," said a female voice beside him.

Sae reacted a second too late. He  turned his face obediently.

The makeup artist smiled calmly and began brushing pink powder over his cheeks, seeking to accentuate his natural skin tone without hiding his Greek-model build.

"What beautiful skin soccer players have, my goodness..." the other makeup artist whispered, while carefully wiping away an imaginary line on Bunny's face.

Apparently, they had decided to go for natural beauty. And that was the worst part.

Because the more natural they made them look, the more the things they couldn't hide came to light.

Not with dust. Not with lights. Not with contracts.

[🐰]

The second part of the session called for something more intense. No chairs. No distance.

The photographer spoke with his hands and emotion:

—Now, I want something that screams power, desire, rivalry. Like they're about to kiss or fight. I don't know which one they'll give me first, but I want to see it on camera.

The poses were closer, almost choreographed: walking toward each other with determination, barely touching, adjusting details of each other's suits as if it weren't intimate. And then, a riskier one: Bunny had to take Sae's tie.

He did it with a gentleness that contrasted with the message behind it. His long fingers tugged lightly at the knot, with a dexterity that revealed this wasn't the first time he'd done it.

"How are you?" he whispered, in a low, almost theatrical voice.

Sae frowned.

What kind of question was that?

"Fine," he replied tersely, but without moving away.

"That's better!" the photographer shouted from behind the lens, delighted by the electric silence between them.

Then Bunny smiled. But not just any smile. The kind of smile you don't learn, you hide. And then he came closer, so close that his breath brushed Sae's skin, stopping just inches from his mouth.

—They told me you're going to play in the Club World Cup.

Sae didn't move. He didn't blink.

"I should be playing it now, instead of here." His tone didn't change, but his gaze… did. It burned, as if each word burned the tie Bunny was holding a little deeper.

The Barcelona player barely raised the corner of his lips. A funny, dangerous grimace. Almost honest. Almost.

"Mm..." he murmured. That small exhalation said more than a whole paragraph. Sae knew him. Behind that smile were secrets. Untold stories. Stolen kisses and wrong decisions.

But that time… that smile was genuine.

"I'm going to beat you in the World Cup," Bunny said, with a sweetness that almost seemed like a compliment.

Sae tilted his head slightly, with a dry, contained smile.

—I'd like to see it.

Click.

The shutter froze the moment.

And if anyone looked closely… there was more war in that frame than in ninety minutes of a Clásico.

[🐰]

There was a break between sets.

A moment of respite, although no one was really breathing.

The designers worked quickly, changing fabrics, adjusting hems, and smoothing collars. The new line was for the summer season, lighter, brighter. Sae now wore a pearl gray suit, with a crimson red tie that gave him the air of an elegant politician or an operatic villain.

Bunny, for his part, appeared in a navy blue suit, white turtleneck shirt, and that air of "I don't care about anything, but I'm watching you anyway." that always accompanied him.

Sae was sitting alone. He had his phone in his hand, his back straight, his legs crossed casually. On the screen: Japan 2 - Nigeria 1 .

"We're moving on," he muttered to himself, sliding his thumb down. Next opponent: England.

His jaw tightened slightly. He was proud, even if he didn't say it deep down, that Rin scored the 24th minute goal.

He should be in Japan. Not here.

Posing among lights with someone who…

The dressing room door swung open.

"No, Giraud," he said immediately without looking.

"Giraud?" a softer, more familiar voice repeated.

Sae looked up. And there was Bunny, walking through the door with the expression of someone who'd just barged into someone else's conversation.

"What are you doing here?" Sae asked coldly, not moving from the chair.

Bunny raised both hands, as if surrendering.

—I wanted to go to the bathroom, but I got lost. I swear.

Sae narrowed his eyes. The silence between them stretched like a taut string.

"Uh-huh," was all he said, his distrust oozing out of his eyelashes.

Bunny stepped back, with a sly smile that wasn't entirely an apology.

—Well, calm down, Itoshi.

—Get out of my sight.

Click. The door closed.

And for a moment, Sae stared at his reflection in the dressing room mirror. Red tie. Faint dark circles. England's name on his screen. And a navy-clad ghost circling outside his door.

Bunny approached, with that casual gait that Sae had always found suspiciously rehearsed. The light from the set reflected off his navy suit, giving him an air more theatrical than casual. He stopped about two feet away, just enough to be uncomfortable.

"Isn't Japan your younger brother's team?" he asked in a light but sharp tone. “ Itoshi Rin, right? Are you going to play there... or here?”

Sae looked up slowly, as if the comment had been a stone thrown into a still pond.   He  put his phone aside and stood with restrained composure.

—I spoke to the head of the Japan Football Association.

He paused briefly, just to let the words sink in.

—If Japan makes it past the group stage… I'll play for them.

And then, in a low but confident tone: “Anyway, I want to defeat you.”

Bunny tilted his head, his expression somewhere between curious and delighted.

—Mm… And the Club World Cup?

Sae sighed. Not with exhaustion, but with that air of "you already know this, but you still like hearing it from me."

—For Madrid.

  He  looked at him straight on.

—If you already know the answer, why are you asking?

Bunny smiled, that half smile that said more than it admitted.

—To confirm it with your own mouth, Sae.

He said it as if he savored every word.

And in that brief moment, between their luxurious suits, the lights of the set, and the shadow of the World Cup on the horizon, they weren't models. They were two players. Two pasts. Two futures. And only one common field to resolve it all.

Bunny came closer. One step. Then another. Until the space between them was nothing but a held sigh.

And then, without warning, he knelt.

Sae didn't back down.   He  just looked down, meeting those dull red eyes she still knew all too well, even though she tried hard to forget them. The silence was thick. The spotlights were off. The stylists were busy elsewhere. It was just the two of them, locked in something that neither the passing of years, nor rival clubs, nor different crests had managed to completely break.

They looked at each other. As if everything else had stopped.

And for a fleeting moment—as brief as a blink, as accurate as a shot from the corner—Sae bowed his head. And so did Bunny.

It wasn't a kiss. It was the idea of ​​a kiss. A tangible memory floating between their mouths, between doubt and impulse. And just as the distance was about to disappear, a voice broke the moment.

"Yeah!" Giraud's voice was loud and practical. "They're ready to continue the session."

The air shattered like invisible glass. Sae blinked, slowly straightening. Bunny looked down, slowly standing up.

And neither of them said anything. But they both knew.

Times change. But the feelings… the damn feelings were still there.

Sae stood up for the next session.

[🐰]

The last photos were different. More relaxed, more intimate in their lightness. No serious poses or perfectly still outfits. This time, it was aboutShow closeness. Complicity. A touch of fun... feigned or not.

Bunny was the first to break the formality.He formed a heart with both hands, placing it right in front of his chest, with an almost angelic smile.

Sae, after a brief pause, gave a thumbs up.He put them together, also forming a heart, although with less enthusiasm and more aesthetic resignation.

The photographer squealed with excitement.

—Perfect! This is perfect for Massimo Dutti magazine. Look like you're the coolest duo in world football!

Click. Flash. Another take.

But Sae couldn't look him in the eyes.Not after that damn kiss.Small. Chaste. Almost innocent.

And yet,her body was still shaking inside.

Bunny, for its part,He smiled as if nothing had happened.As if he hadn't knelt down. As if their lips hadn't touched in a moment that, for Sae, had been a crack in his wall of ice.

“Damn you…”, Sae thought, unable to help but glance at that crooked, charming smile.

One last photo.Sae lowered his hands, Bunny formed the heart again.

Click. Flash. Eternalized on glossy paper, with expensive suits, perfect smiles... and a chasm between them that no one else could see.

[🐰]

Bunny knew he would find him there.I didn't need to call him or send a message.It was a visceral certainty. As if knowing Itoshi Sae's habits was something that was never forgotten, even after years of not speaking to each other like before, even wearing shirts of enemy clubs.Sae always looked for the sea. When everything else was overwhelming, when he couldn't deal with the lights, the cameras, or the memories.

AND that night, in the Valencian beach, with the warm Mediterranean breeze stirring the sand and the saltpeter seeping into the clothes, Bunny saw him.

There he was, backwards, with shoes to one side,feet in the wet sand, and his suit jacket folded neatly on a nearby rock. The sky was orange, as if the day refused to end.The city roared in the distance.

Sae hadn't moved.But Bunny knew he had heard him coming. He always knew.

—You are here.

It wasn't a question. It was an acknowledgment. A confirmation that, despite everything, they could still meet on the same horizon.

Sae turned his face just enough to look over his shoulder.He rolled his eyes with that gesture of his, as automatic as it was irritated.

—What do you need again?—he said with disdain, as if the conversation was already a burden to him before it even began.

Bunny was unfazed.He stood there, a few feet away, with his hands in his pockets and that half-smile that was hard to read.

—I don't need anything.

His voice was soft, low, with no intention of provoking… at least not yet.

—I just wanted to see you without the spotlights on you.

Sae snorted through his nose.

—You've seen enough of me today.

—That was the model. The product.

Bunny took another step, and then another.

 —I want to talk to Sae, the real one. The one who gets angry when I beat him in training. The one who doesn't know what to do when someone tells him they miss him.

Sae tensed.

The breeze ruffled his bangs, his eyes lowered, focused on the sea.He didn't say anything.But he didn't leave.And that, knowing him, was almost an invitation.

—Have you played with Rin lately?"Bunny asked, moving close enough that their voices didn't need to shout over the waves.

—No.—The answer was sharp and dry. —I'm not even interested in talking about him with you.

—So tell me about yourself.

A silence fell between them, as long as a goalless halftime.The kind of pause that burns.

Sae broke it.

—What happened today…—he began, looking at the ground.It shouldn't have happened.

  He  looked up, and this time she looked at him straight on.

—Don't kiss me again. Don't do it again.

Bunny watched him calmly.Without a smile, without cynicism. Just with that honest, broken expression he only showed when he was away from the stadiums.

—I didn't kiss you.

He took a step closer, so close that the space between them could have been a memory.

—You were the one who approached. I just stayed.

Sae gritted his teeth.

The sea lapped gently at their feet. Night had already fallen.And between them, the world kept turning… unaware that these two players understood each other better in silence than in any language.

—Don't come looking for me like that again.—Sae said finally, turning to leave, picking up his jacket.

Bunny didn't stop him.He just followed him with his eyes, and in a low voice, almost to himself, he murmured:

—But you'll come back for me, Sae. Because you haven't forgotten either.

And the wind blew it away. As it always does with things the two of them can't name.

[🐰]

Five days later, Itoshi Sae was officially in Japan.Not that he particularly enjoyed it.

The flight had been long, filled with crying children, treacherous turbulence, and a man who insisted he was a soccer fan... but mistook Sae for Minamino . Unforgivable crime.

The car picked him up punctually at Narita Airport and was now taking him to the hotel, crossing the avenues of Tokyo under a soft, poetic rain—too poetic for his mood.

Sae Itoshi was tired, hungry, and emotionally unwell.

So he did the most dangerous thing anyone in his condition could do:He opened Instagram.

And there they were. The photos.

The damn photos.

Those from the Massimo Dutti shoot, of course. Impeccable. Perfect. With high-end magazine lighting, porcelain skin, and intense gazes as if they were modeling clothes or filming a Korean soap opera.And there he and Bunny Iglesias were.

He, serious, elegant, with his blue-green tie and his “if you talk, I’ll kill you” look. And Bunny… smiling as if she hadn't kissed anyone five minutes before the click.

Sae scrolled. Eight Million likes. More than 8,000 reposts. 87,000 comments.

Eighty-seven thousand.

His temple began to hurt just thinking about it.

But of course, Sae made another fatal mistake.He read the comments.

@fandesae: “HAVE YOU SEEN HOW THEY LOOKED AT EACH OTHER??? I'm screaming 😭😭😭”
@bunnysaeslop: “Swear to me someone is writing fanfic about this because I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.”
@jaydaahX3: “I used to have these opinions but now I'm a changed man and now I'm the biggest bunnysae shipper ”
@rei_oiwa:“The tie... THE TIE 😳😳😳🔥🔥🔥”

Sae rubbed his face with one hand.

Instagram closed.

He opened Twitter.

#bunnysae Trend #3 in Spain.Trend #5 in Japan.Trending #1 in the Philippines, for some reason I'd rather not understand.

And the edits. God, edits.

Videos with romantic Italian music. Montages with scenes from Call Me by Your Name . A fanart of him and Bunny in a lavender field holding a basket of fruit. And another where his face was clearly edited to make it look like he was crying while Bunny hugged him from behind, wrapped in an LGBT+ flag.

Sae turned off his cell phone. He threw it onto the other seat. And he crossed his arms.

"I won't say anything," he murmured softly, as if he had an invisible audience. “I'm not going to explain anything. I'm not going to feed anything. I'm in Japan to play soccer, period.3

A notification vibrated.

Bunny Iglesias tagged you in a story.

“Bunny Iglesias 🐰📸

@itoshisae was radiant, but don't be fooled. He kicked me in the ankle when the camera stopped rolling.  #MassimoDutti”

Sae screamed inside his soul.

—¡MALDITO SEAS!

The Japanese driver didn't understand the context, but assumed he should step on the accelerator.

[🐰]

A week after the official publication of the Massimo Dutti campaign,humanity was no longer the same.

Not because there was a war, a pandemic, or an economic crisis.

No.

Because Bunny Iglesias uploaded a story on Instagram.

—“Do you think Itoshi Sae smiles in private? I do. And I have proof. #BunnySae”
Attached: A blurry video, probably secretly recorded, where Sae sneezes and then SMILES SOFTLY as he wipes it with a white cloth napkin.

The Internet collapsed.

Twitter exploded in 0.3 seconds.

@bluelockshippingtrash I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. FIRST THE PHOTOSHOOT, THEN THE PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE COMMENTS, AND NOW THIS. IS SAE SMILING??? DID BUNNY MAKE HIM SMILE???

@phainon writing fanfic with tears 😭✍️📖

TikTok was filled with edits with background music like: “Electric Love” de BØRNS, "Kiss Me More" by Doja Cat, and in more extreme cases… “Time to Say Goodbye” de Andrea Bocelli.

Even LinkedIn reacted.LinkedIn.

A Massimo Dutti community manager posted:

"We appreciate the public's passion for our new campaign. Our next collection will be... breathable."

Meanwhile, Sae Itoshi, from his room in Tokyo, watched everything with an expression that oscillated between existential terror and absolute emotional indifference.

—Why… Are they editing us as if we were a Korean soap opera?

Giraud, his manager, drank sake as if his life depended on it.

—Because you are, Sae. You are.

 -THAT?

Meanwhile, Bunny Iglesias, from his room in Barcelona, ​​had activated Chaos Mode™.

He posted a tweet. Just one.

"If this post gets 100,000 likes, I'll ask Sae for a live date from the World Cup locker room." 🐰❤️⚽

300k likes in two hours.

FIFA had to intervene with an official statement:

“We remind you that locker rooms are private spaces and should be used exclusively for athletic purposes. Not romantic ones. Thank you.”

Sae, upon learning of this, locked herself in the bathroom for three hours.

The fans didn't stop.

 #SaeSeSonroja
#Buunyiglesiaswouldbeagoodboy
#ItoshiMeMirasYOlloro
#SaeBunnyWedding2026
#MourningRabbit (no one knows why, but it trended anyway)

The football world has stopped talking about signings. Now we were talking about the ficsFan art, edits, emotional analysis threads, "enemies to friends to enemies" theories, university essays on sensitive masculinity in sports...

One girl on Tumblr even wrote:

“Bunny represents the emotional fragility hidden behind the smile.
Sae represents repressed trauma channeled into perfection.
TOGETHER THEY ARE THE NARRATIVE ARC OF THE CENTURY.”
—Posted from an iPhone with 2% battery

Leaked alternate ending (only for the brave):

A month later, without warning, a photo was posted on Bunny's profile.

Just one.

A stuffed rabbit with a teal tie. Caption:

“He stole it from me. Literally.”

Pinned comment:

@itoshisae: “Don't say things without context. It wasn't a theft if you were kissing me.”
@bunn: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

The comments were lost forever in the internet crash.