about author: adult, any pronouns, autistic, potentially dyslexic, physically disabled, full-time student, multifandom
currently obsessing over: F1, Damien Haas, eddie munson, steve harrington, ghost/simon riley, kĂśnig, any book boyfriend ever
requests?: sure, if you want! inbox should be open with anon on! nothing involving emeto, male!reader, or dom!reader for personal comfort please! pick any character iâve previously written for or is on my obsessed list, give me an prompt/idea, and send it in!
navigation?: see below!
Eddie Munson:
Skittish - Shy!reader meetcute fluff!
Kinks And Cookies - hurt/comfort and love confession with some BDSM themes! : Drops And Jumps - Part 2 with subdrop hurt/comfort!
Sickly sweet hurt/comfort fluff after sub!reader gets insecure about using their safeword!
Physical hurt/comfort with sub!reader getting too worked up during a scene while left alone!
Eddie and his passenger princess!
Soft aftercare after falling too deep in subspace!
Roommates to lovers purposeful exhibitionism/accidental vouyerism! : A very smutty part 2 with orgasm denial and degradation/praise mix!
Red Light, Green Light - some soft aftercare after eddie calls safeword for a stubborn reader!
literally just me elaborating on my thanking kink
Reader getting insecure about squirting x Eddie taking none of that shit
Katsuki Bakugo:
Hard!Dom Baku x pup!reader
Steve Harrington:
Whiny Puppy - Sub!reader puppyplay and overstim!
Run, Rabbit, Run - Brat taming Steve + predator/prey
Harsh overstim + the gentlest of aftercare!
Unsupervised Aftercare - Tooth rotting hurt/comfort fluff where Steve accidentally falls asleep before giving reader aftercare!
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WHEN YOUR BOYFRIEND SENDS A PRIVATE TEXT TO THE GROUPCHAT
( texts masterlist \ main masterlist \ letâs talk )
â : feat :: max verstappen, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri
â : genre :: yall know whats up (mature crack)
Šmaxtermind // do not copy, rewrite or translate any of my work on any platforms.
â : a/n :: ignore the typos, comments, thoughts and reblogs are appreciated!
princess treatment or bare minimum? | lando norris
Lando Norris is dating a digital influencer, and making tiktok's trends with her already became his routine.
âSo,â Y/N began, smiling playfully as she looked straight into the camera. Beside her, Lando was already staring at her with that mix of curiosity and amusement he could never quite hide. For him, being part of her daily routine was nothing short of fair. After all, she was part of his chaotic life as an F1 driver â the traveling, the stress, the endless hours at the track. Doing a few silly TikTok trends in comparison? That was nothing.
âToday,â she announced dramatically, âweâre going to find out if my boyfriend is well-trained.â
Lando blinked. âWhat does that even mean!?â he asked, his accent making the words sound even more exasperated.
âIâm going to test you,â Y/N replied, wagging her eyebrows mischievously. âIâll say a situation, and you have to guess if itâs bare minimum or princess treatment.â
âAnd if I get it wrong?â
She smiled sweetly, holding up a glass of water. âCold water in your face.â
Lando groaned. âI did not agree to that part.â
âToo late,â she sang. âSo⌠first one: open the door for me?â
âBare minimum,â he answered confidently.
âCorrect.â She nodded approvingly.
âOkay, easy,â he smirked.
âNext: give me your sneakers and walk in my heels if my feet are hurting.â
Y/N immediately splashed the cold water across his face.
âY/N!â he gasped, wiping his hair back.
âThatâs bare minimum!â she declared, crossing her arms.
âNo itâs not!â
âMy feet are hurting!â
âSo mine have to hurt too!? You chose the shoes!â
âLando!â she hissed, but her smile betrayed her. âNext.â
âUnfollow a girl who makes me insecure.â
âBelow bare minimum. Like, thatâs obvious.â
Y/N clapped dramatically. âGreat, very great. Finally, you got something right. Next: give me flowers.â
Lando smirked, thinking he had her figured out now. âPrincess treatment.â
Without hesitation, Y/N drenched him again.
âY/N!â His voice cracked, half laughing, half desperate.
âThatâs bare minimum!â she argued. âYou should give me flowers all the time.â
He groaned but grinned at her anyway, his shirt sticking to his chest. âYouâre impossible.â
She giggled, leaning closer, her eyes still sparkling with mischief. âNext one: sacrifice your world championship for me.â
Lando didnât hesitate. He looked straight at her, his tone suddenly softer. âBare minimum. Youâre the reason Iâm there, the one whoâs always been by my side.â
Y/N froze for a second, caught off guard by the weight in his voice.
âSpeechless?â he teased gently, brushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead.
She rolled her eyes, flustered but smiling. ââŚShut up.â
all works are completely fictional and owned by me. please do not copy, share, or repost my work on any other sites without my explicit consent.enjoy :-)
word count is next to each fic title
the tortured drivers' department masterlist
⥠personal favorites // ⪠popular (1k+) // requests are: open // prompt list
A. Albon
Pinky Toes (676)
-> the A/C is dying, and so is Alex... of cuddle deprivation // fluff, established relationship
F. Colapinto:
The Manuscript (3.3k)
-> the tears fell in synchronicity with the score, and at last, she knew what the agony had been for // playwrite!reader, ex!Carlos Sainz, age gap (with Carlos), new relationship!Franco
Under the Mistletoe (1.9k)
-> forced into a night of civility for the sake of your best friends, you try to ignore the small sparks and the insufferably charming man you loathe the most // enemies to lovers, mistletoe
P. Gasly
Bigger Isn't Always Better (2.1k)
-> getting a Christmas tree was supposed to be simple, but for better or for worse, both you and Pierre's minds are stuck in the gutter // established relationship, Christmas, innuendos
I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can) (3.4k)
-> your good lord didn't need to lift a finger. i can fix him. no really, i can. woah, maybe i can't // established relationship, angst, hurt
L. Lawson
Color Me in Your Key (9k)
-> between paint-stained mornings and moonlit melodies, something between you and the late-hired music counselor begins to bloom // arts camp counselor au, new relationship
C. Leclerc
Cassandra (3k)
-> you can mark my words that i said it first. in a mourning warning, no one heard // teammate!reader, angst
Homecoming (5.5k) // smau
-> have you ever had a massive crush on your team rival? // redbull driver!reader, friends to lovers
Man's Best Wingman (2.6k) âŞ
-> they say dogs are a manâs best friend, but a certain dachshund may be manâs best wingman // veterinarian!reader, dog dad!Charles
My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (3.6k)
-> just say when, i'd play again. he was my best friend down at the sandlot // on and off again!relationship
L. Norris
Just Pretend (1.5k)
-> a disastrous night out in London may end up being the best decision you've ever made // strangers to flirting
Last Kiss (5.7k)
-> your name, forever the name on my lips // ex-girlfriend!reader, angst, hurt
The Bolter (5k)
-> the chariot is waiting, hearts are hers for the breaking. there's escape in escaping // hilton heiress!reader, cat and mouse relationship
O. Piastri
Almost Ready (8.6k)
-> everyone sees it but them. one final summer to admit the truth // childhood friends to lovers, camp counselor au
I Look In People's Windows (1k)
-> does it feel alright to not know me? i'm addicted to the "if only" // exes to lovers, pining
Tradition (2.8k)
-> with you and Oscar having different traditions when it comes to the holidays, you figured you'd show him some of your favorites // fluff, established relationship, holidays
D. Ricciardo
How Do I Do This? (1.1k)
-> after a public divorce with your ex-husband, you found yourself learning to try again // famous!reader, first date
Rooms Where You Waited (4.8k) âĄ
-> you traded galleries and studios for pit lanes until the space he left behind became louder than his presence // painter!reader, angst
The Tortured Poets Department (1.6k)
-> i scratch your head, you fall asleep, like a tattooed golden retriever // established relationship, little angst
G. Russell
To Be Your Muse (5.5k) // smau
-> as you and George navigate your relationship, you do the one thing you know how to: write a song // singer!reader
C. Sainz
House Rules (1.4k)
-> everyone knew you loved halloween, but no one knew just how much // established relationship, halloween
Operation: Mayhem (12k) âĄ
-> after a legendary prank war gets officially banned, you and Carlos, your rival campâs infuriatingly competitive head counselor, are forced to team up for the sake of peace // enemies to lovers, camp counselor au
L. Sargeant
Jealousy, Jealousy (1.5k)
-> Logan was never the jealous type... or so you thought // established relationship, jealousy, harmless crush
Snowed In (3.3k)
-> being stranded in the airport is never ideal... and you're stuck on Christmas Eve... with Logan // childhood lovers to exes to friends? Christmas
L. Stroll
Fresh Out The Slammer (2.9k)
-> now, pretty baby, i'm running back home to you // reunited childhood friends, slight angst
M. Verstappen
Flash Forward (73.1k total, 3 parts) âĄ
-> the world of F1 is never easy. throw in reuniting with your childhood enemy and a coworker you can't quite get a read on? you're in for a wild few seasons // childhood enemies to friends to lovers, Ferrarisocialmedia!reader, angst, hurt
Ten Years (3.3k)
-> years apart may not erase memories. time spent in a gymnasium you once knew like the back of your hand makes you wonder if the life you built without Max is really the one you want // reunited high school sweethearts
lando norris
a guy touches your waist at an event and Lando sees red
you blink and suddenly heâs between you two, arm firm around you
âdid you not see her face? she was uncomfortable.â
his tone is calm. too calm.
you swear his hand doesnât leave your lower back all night
âstay close, yeah? just so I donât have to commit a crime.â
oscar piastri
someone makes a slick comment about you on social media
he quotes it with a âsay it again and Iâll have your name on legal paperwork :)â
in real life?
he holds your hand tighter in crowded places, body always angled toward you
he doesnât get loud â he gets scary quiet
and later whispers,
âno one touches you. no one talks about you like that.â
charles leclerc
youâre flustered during a chaotic media event
he steps in front of the cameras like a shield, takes your hand and mutters in French,
âbreathe. iâve got you.â
he never raises his voice, but the look in his eyes shuts everyone up
if someoneâs rude?
he stares them down like
âsay it again. i dare you.â
and then walks you away, brushing your hair back like
âthey donât matter. you do.â
carlos sainz
he hears someone say âyouâre just dating him for cloutâ
he stops in his tracks. turns.
âcare to repeat that?â
one hand around your waist, the other not shaking because heâs holding it together
heâs got âdonât mess with whatâs mineâ energy
and later tells you,
âyou never have to defend yourself. not when Iâm here.â
lewis hamilton
he sees you uncomfortable across the room and is by your side in three seconds flat
âyou okay, love?â
says it sweet â but his eyes scan the situation like a bodyguard
if someone pushes a boundary, he steps in
calm. firm. deadly
ârespect her, or leave.â
and then soft again, thumb on your cheek
âyou come before everything.â
daniel ricciardo
someone makes a crude joke about you
he laughs at first â then stops
the room goes quiet
ânah, mate. not her. not ever.â
later he cups your face and murmurs,
âno one talks about my girl like that. iâd burn the room down first.â
protective but still smiling
still unhinged enough to scare someone into wetting their pants
max verstappen
says nothing when someone steps too close
just walks up behind you, grabs your hand, and glares at the guy until he backs off
deadass pulls you into his lap in front of the entire paddock if needed
âno one gets near you. not without my eyes on them.â
he doesn't even realize how territorial he sounds
you: â...you good?â
him: âiâm perfect. youâre safe. thatâs what matters.â
gabriel bortoleto
soft but FIRM
a man stares too long and Gabi immediately shifts in front of you
âcan I help you?â
he doesnât like to cause scenes â but he will if it means protecting your comfort
he holds you for a long time after
âi saw your face. i know what that felt like. iâm sorry.â
kisses your knuckles and mutters in Portuguese about how lucky he is youâre his
franco colapinto
protective in a quiet fury kind of way
someone bumps you at a party and doesnât apologize
heâs immediately grabbing your hand and pulling you away
âiâll make sure you donât have to deal with that again.â
later:
âi donât want anyone near you who doesnât treat you like youâre gold.â
and he means it.
lance stroll
he doesnât say much
he just appears, silently loops his arm around your shoulders and glares at whoeverâs making you feel uncomfortable
when youâre safe again, he presses a soft kiss to your temple
âif you ever feel off, you tell me. even if itâs small. especially if itâs small.â
would literally throw hands in a designer suit if someone crossed a line
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Summary : While filming a âWhatâs In My Bag?â video for TUMI during a dreamy shoot in Lake Como, Lando Norris proudly shares his favorite travel items: headphones, cinnamon mints, lucky charms⌠and a stack of Polaroids of his girlfriend.
Until one very private photo slips into the mix, and suddenly the internet sees a whole lot more than he meant to show.
Genre : suggestive, fluff, oneshot
Pairing : Lando Norris x reader
Warning : mature content, allusion to nude and sex activities
Main Masterlist
Author notes : funny and soft oneshot to bring a little bit of joy after the race of Sunday. Everyone please stay safe and if you can, stay away from social media if it gets too hard after this week-end race, love you all <3
Lake Como glistened in the soft morning light, its surface scattered with diamonds of sun as gentle waves rolled against the dock. A light breeze rustled the cypress trees lining the waterâs edge, carrying with it the scent of pine and polished wood from the nearby villas. Birds chirped, water lapped, cameras clicked.
And somewhere on a private terrace above the lake, Lando Norris was trying not to sweat through his linen shirt.
âAlright, weâre rolling in three, two, one...â the cameramanâs voice faded into silence as the red light blinked on.
Lando sat back in the sleek director-style chair, a black TUMI backpack resting on his lap. He adjusted the strap, cleared his throat, and gave the camera his signature, cheeky grin.
âOkay. Letâs go.â
His voice echoed softly against the terracotta walls behind him.
âThis is my TUMI backpack. I take it everywhere, especially when Iâm traveling. Itâs kind of like my...survival kit,â he chuckled, unzipping the top compartment. âYouâll see what I mean.â
One by one, he began pulling items out, placing them carefully on the small table beside him.
âFirst up: my headphones,â he said, holding up a sleek black pair. âCanât live without these. Whether itâs music, Netflix on the plane, or zoning out in the paddock, these save me.â
He paused and smirked at the camera. âThey also help when Iâm pretending not to hear Oscar.â
The staff behind the camera chuckled.
âNext... passports. Plural. Yeah. I have three.â He fanned them out like a hand of cards, laughing. âIâm international, baby.â.â
He dug deeper into the backpack and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Opening it carefully, he revealed several stone bracelets in warm earthy tones.
âMy mum got me these for Christmas,â he said quietly, his tone softening. âI donât always wear them on track days, but I keep them close. Just⌠makes me feel a bit more grounded.â
He placed them gently down and then brandished a small tin.
âCinnamon mints,â he declared proudly. âFor the sweet tooth. Helps with cravings. Or when you want to pretend you donât eat like a raccoon at midnight.â
More laughter. The atmosphere was warm, friendly. Lando was in his element, somewhere between boyish and bold.
âNow weâre getting to the fun stuff.â
He pulled out a tangled mess of keychains, one shaped like a tiny McLaren helmet, another a fluffy orange pom-pom, and the last: a piece of tissue with the initials LN sewn into it.
âA fan gave me this,â he said, holding it between his fingers. âIâve had it for years. Itâs falling apart but... canât travel without it.â
He smiled at the memory, then paused as his hand slipped into one of the deeper side pockets. His brow furrowed.
âOh... wait,â he muttered, pulling something halfway out before immediately stuffing it back in.
He looked up at the camera, suddenly sheepish.
âUhh...yeah. Some stuff I definitely canât show you,â he said, grinning and scratching the back of his neck. âLetâs just say... it's better to stay protectedâ
The staff broke into laughter. One of the camera guys let out a dramatic âooooohhh.â
âWhat?â Lando laughed, holding up his hands in mock innocence. âYou never know, okay? I like to get prepared.â
Still grinning, he reached again into the bag and pulled out a small, silver disposable camera.
âThis guy comes everywhere with me,â he said. âI take film photos when I travel. Stuff thatâs just for me, you know? Not for Instagram. Just memories.â
He held it up with affection, then reached in again and began pulling out little mementos: a handmade skull keyring from Mexico, a folded receipt with something scribbled on the back, a broken friendship bracelet.
âIâm kind of a hoarder,â he admitted. âThese are all... pieces of places. People. Moments. I like keeping them close.â
His hand brushed against something in the side pocket. A small, rubbery bottle.
He pulled it out before he registered what it was.
There was a beat.
He stared at the camera.
The bottle gleamed in the sunlight. Bright pink. Labelled clearly ' Lubricant: Strawberry flavor' .
âOh. My god.â
He blinked, went pale, then immediately turned red.
âI...okay, thatâs not, this is not...this wasnât meant to be in here.â
He stuffed it back into the pocket, eyes wide.
The cameraman wheezed behind the lens. A staffer covered her mouth.
âI swear this is not... I didnât pack this bag this morning!â Lando stammered. âOkay I did, but not, like, not with this interview in mind so I didn't know I had to show it.â
Lando groaned. âCan we cut that out? Please? Itâs for...dry skin.â
âOh wich part of your skin?â
He buried his face in his hands and trie to change the subject.
Still flustered, he grabbed one of his tech pouches and unzipped it, desperate to pivot.
âOh!â he beamed. âOkay. These are my favorites.â
From the padded pouch meant for a laptop, he pulled out a neat little stack of Polaroids tied with a red ribbon. He untied them quickly, holding the first one up to the camera.
âThis... is my girlfriend.â
The way he said it, like he couldnât believe his luck, was soft, sincere.
He flipped through the pictures with reverence.
âThis is her in Spain last summer. Look at this, she was trying to take a serious photo and I made a face behind her.â
He laughed.
âThis is us in Monaco. Donât ask how I convinced her to get in the pool. She hates cold water.â
Another.
âThis is her sleeping. And this... this is her at breakfast, in my hoodie.â
His smile melted into something private, like a quiet sunrise behind his eyes.
âAnd this...â
He held up the next Polaroid to the camera without looking at it first. There was a beat. A pause.
From behind the camera, someone made a choked noise.
Lando glanced up. âWhat?â Then looked at the picture.
âOh...oh, no. No, no, no...â
He yanked it back quickly, his ears flushing bright pink.
âShit, this isnât...this was not supposed to be in that pile.â
He stuffed it deep into the side of the bag, clutching the remaining Polaroids protectively.
âOh my god, please can you blur it,â he groaned, covering his face. âThatâs from the other pile. Like...the private-private collection.â
The entire crew burst into cackles.
âI swear to god if that makes the cut, Iâm a dead man. Sheâs going to kill me.â
âWas that a nude?â someone asked, not even trying to hide the glee.
âI am not answering that.â
âWas it?â the assistant pressed.
âI plead the fifth,â Lando said dramatically, still red-faced. âBlur it. Blur it, please. Iâm begging you. I have a career. I have a relationship.â
He tried to laugh it off, but his smile was flustered, eyes wide and nervous.
Eventually, he cleared his throat, trying to move on.
âAnyway. My phone. My wallet. You know. The boring stuff.â
But even as he listed the rest of his items, he kept glancing at the camera, haunted. Regretfully boyish. Still blushing.
âAlright. Thatâs whatâs in my bag,â he said quickly, snapping the backpack shut. âAnd apparently... a reason to get murdered by my girlfriend.â
He groaned again. âCan we cut that part? Please? I swear, sheâs gonna make me sleep on the balcony.â
The red light turned off.
The staff burst into applause.
âBest interview yet,â one of the directors laughed, clapping. âGonna break the internet.â
@TUMIofficial
WHATâS IN MY BAG with Lando Norris: Lake Como Special
Catch our exclusive behind-the-scenes interview with what Lando really carries with himđ
@_user1
WAIT. Did he just⌠show a nude of his gf on camera?? đđđ
@_user2
THE WAY HE PANICKED. omg that was NOT staged. He looked like he wanted to die đđđ
@_user3
No bc I NEED to know what was on that Polaroid. Was it like artsy nude or nude-nude?
@_user4
LMFAO he had the audacity to hint at condoms, then literally WHIPPED OUT A NUDE LIKE ITâS A FAMILY VACAY SNAP đđ
@_user5
He carries cinnamon mints for his sweet tooth AND spicy pics of his girl?? manâs layered fr
@_user6
Not Lando Norris accidentally exposing his thirst for his gf on a sponsored ad đ someone check on the TUMI PR team
@_user7
Lube AND nudes of his girl?? Lando Norris is not packing for a trip. Heâs packing for a weekend of sin.
@_user8
He really said: âthis is her being pretty, this is her sleeping⌠and this is her NAKEDâ lmao LANDO WHYYYYY
@_user9
This man is not traveling. Heâs on a mission.
@_user10
Lando really opened that bag and gave us: emotional support bracelets, cinnamon mints, protection, lube, porn. He's got range.
@_user11
âSome stuff I canât show youâ and then five minutes later accidentally shows us đ this man has NO filter and NO chill
@_user12
This isnât a âwhatâs in my bagâ this was a âwhatâs in normally in my bedroom drawer but I somehow take it everywhere in my backpakâ
@_user13
He said âI like to be preparedâ and I believe him now
@_user14
âThatâs from the other pileâ UM. HELLO????? THERE IS A PILE??
@_user15
Protective AND obsessed with his girl?? I need a man like Lando
@_user16
He really said âwhatâs in my bag?â and the answer was: horniness
Texts messages
Y/N
Just watched the TUMI video đ
Lando
Oh no.
Y/N
The one where my nude photo makes a guest appearance in front of 1.2 million people? đ¤
Lando
BABE
It was an ACCIDENT But don't worry it's blur we can't see a single thing
I didnât mean to pull that photo
I meant the cute ones!! The breakfast one!! The one where youâre wearing my hoodie!!
Y/N
So you show the one where iâm wearing nothing at all?
Lando
Iâm sweating
Iâm actually sweating
Iâm gonna get sued. by you. By TUMI. By your parents
Y/N
My mum did text me
She said âinteresting campaign... very modernâ
Lando
NOOOOOOOOOOOO
Iâm crawling into the lake
Y/N Also âi like to be preparedâ?
Really?
What exactly are you preparing for mid-flight with lube? đ¤
Lando
Dry skin!!!
I said it's for my dry skin!!!!!
Y/N
Right
Because when i think of skin hydratation i think of edible lubricant đ
Lando
Iâm scared to check twitter
Someone called my bag âfrat boy coded" Theyâre not wrong
Y/N You do carry condoms, lube, candy and a Polaroid of me naked in the same backpack
Youâre like Dora the Explorer if she was addicted to sex
Lando
DORA?!?!?! đ
Y/N
âWhatâs in my bag?â Everything but self-control
Lando
Okay, first of all, RUDE
Second of all⌠the lube smells nice
Third of allâŚ
You didnât complain last time
Y/N
Oh so now youâre doubling down??
Lando
Just trying to make the best of my public humiliation
Besides
Whatâs so wrong with carrying a few... essentials?
A manâs gotta travel prepared
Y/N
You sound like a horny boy scout
Lando
âAlways be readyâ is a valid motto đââď¸
Y/N
Valid until you drop a bottle of lube in front of a camera crew
Lando
They laughed so hard i thought someone was gonna need CPR
Y/N
Youâre lucky i love you
And youâre lucky the nude was actually a good one
Lando
Thank you 𼺠i almost show the one where youâre biting the sheet but i had... instincts
Y/N
INSTINCTS????
You mean your last two brain cells had a moment of clarity
Lando
Pls
Do you still love me?
Y/N
Debatable
Might depend on whether or not you bring me almond croissants when you will come back
Lando
Deal
But only if you let me take a new PolaroidâŚ
One just for me to seeđ
Y/N
âŚ
Good luck on media day tomorrow Norris
Lando
Oh no god I forgot about that
The paddock was already buzzing by the time Lando arrived, hoodie up over his head like he was trying to go incognito. Not that it helped, cameras turned as soon as he walked through the gates.
Media day.
He kept his head down, offering a few tight-lipped smiles to passing crew and journalists. He could feel the looks. The barely contained smirks. The PR team had already warned him to "expect commentary.â He hadnât realized commentary meant the entire motorsport world was now intimately familiar with the contents of his bag.
He reached the McLaren hospitality unit and headed straight for the driver lounge.
Oscar was already there.
He looked up from his phone the second Lando walked in, and the smile started immediately.
âMorning,â Oscar said, way too casual. âSleep well?â
Lando didnât answer. Just dropped into the chair across from him and stared at the ceiling.
Oscar waited half a beat.
Then: âSo⌠whatâs in your bag today?â
Lando groaned, eyes closing. âNo.â
âNo what?â Oscar asked, blinking innocently.
âIâm not doing this with you.â
Oscar nodded slowly, tapping his phone against the table. âRight. Of course. Strict media day focus. No time for lube talk.â
Lando didnât move but look at him shocked. âOscar!â
âYes?â
âI will actually fight you if you keep talkingâ
Oscar continued, unfazed. âIâve learned a lot about you this week.â
âPlease stop.â
âYour skincare routine. Your travel essentials.â
âItâs for my girlfriend,â Lando muttered.
Oscar nodded slowly. âRomantic.â
Lando looked at him. âI didnât mean to show half that stuff.â
Oscar took a long sip of his water bottle, then added, deadpan: âYou were really sweating.â
âI was panicking, Oscar.â
âYeah. I noticed.â
There was a pause.
Oscar looked back down at his phone.
âI just didnât know you were the type to carry⌠souvenirs.â
Lando threw his head back and groaned. âItâs private. Itâs supposed to stay private.â
Oscar raised an eyebrow. âYou handed it to a camera crew.â
âI didnât know it was that one.â
Oscar hummed. âRisky system.â
Lando covered his face. âIâm not coming out for media. Tell them Iâve combusted.â
Oscar leaned back again, shrugging. âMight be safer. Someone from Williams asked if youâre sponsored by Durex now.â
Lando didnât respond. He was too busy trying to crawl into his chair.
Oscar gave a tiny, satisfied nod.
Then, after a beat: âAt least the mints were normal.â
âThanks,â Lando said miserably. âReally comforting.â
Oscar took another sip from his water bottle, then looked back at Lando, who was still sulking in the chair across from him, hoodie half over his face.
After a moment, Oscar spoke again. Calm. Curious.
âOkay, but... I actually have a question now.â
Lando didnât move. âPlease donât.â
Oscar ignored him, tone completely deadpan. âWhatâs in the pile?â
Lando sat up slowly, blinking at him in horror. âWhat the hell, Oscar?â
Oscar stayed relaxed, perfectly composed. âYou said it yourself. There's the normal Polaroids. And then thereâs the private-private pile. So⌠whatâs in it?â
âI am not...â Lando pointed at him, absolutely done. â...having this conversation with you.â
Oscar raised a brow. âJust curious. For science.â
Lando stood up instantly. âIâm leaving.â
Oscar shrugged. âFair.â
Lando stormed toward the door, muttering something about changing teams, changing sports, maybe even changing names.
He was halfway out when,
âOi!â Oscar called after him. âDonât forget your backpack, Norris.â
Lando froze mid-step.
Oscar was already grinning.
âYou left it,â he added, far too casually. âYâknow⌠the one with your precious things in it.â
Lando turned around like a man walking back into a crime scene, snatched the bag off the chair with one hand, and glared.
âStop talking about it,â he muttered.
Oscar just smiled. âIâm not saying anything.â
âYou are thinking them.â
Oscar leaned back, unfazed. âIâm not.â
âYouâre being insufferable.â
Lando slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out without another word.
As the door shut behind him, Oscar shook his head slightly and let out a quiet laugh, just enough to himself, just loud enough for it to echo in Landoâs memory for years to come.
Your eyes flutter open, the spot beside you in bed is cold, blankets slightly crumpled from where he mustâve slipped out. You blink a few times, stretching with a small groan before tossing the covers off and padding out of the room in your oversized tee.
You find him a minute later, hunched slightly forward in his gaming chair, headset on, fingers quick on the keyboard. His voice is calm and focused as he talks to chat and his teammates, eyes locked on the screen. You smile softly, watching from the doorway.
He glances overâand the moment he sees you, his entire face lights up.
âBaby,â he grins, pushing his chair slightly back, arms open. âCome here.â
You shake your head, bashful. âI donât wanna interrupt.â
His brows lift like you just said something ridiculous. âBaby, you never interrupt. Come on.â
You hesitate for only a second before walking over. The chatâs already going crazy:
âOMG WAIT HE HAS A GF???â
âTHIS IS SO CUTE WTF.â
âI WANNA SEE HERRRRR.â
âW BRO.â
âDROP HER @ RN.â
You stand beside his chair, glancing at him with a nervous smile. âYou sure?â
âOf course Iâm sure,â he says, reaching for your hand and tugging you closer. âCâmere.â
You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips and then his cheek. The chat absolutely erupts:
âSHEâS GORGEOUSSS.â
âW GIRL W GIRL.â
âTHEYâRE SO CUTE IâM CRYING.â
âBROâS WINNING IN LIFE.â
He doesnât let goâjust gently pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist like you belong there (because you do). You rest your head on his shoulder, watching his screen while his hands go back to the game.
Mostly.
Because a minute later, one hand stays firmly on your waist, fingers lazily tracing over the fabric of your shirt.
âOMG WAIT HEâS PLAYING WITH ONE HAND.â
âKING ENERGY.â
âTHE DEDICATION IS REAL.â
He just smirks, glancing briefly at the chat. âYeah⌠makes it more fun this way.â
You giggle softly against his neck. A yawn escapes your lips before you can stop it.
He slides his mic to the side, murmuring just for you, âYou tired, baby?â
âA little,â you admit, rubbing your eyes, âbut Iâm hungry too.â
He smiles, squeezing your hip. âSay less.â
Then he returns to the mic. âAlright chat, I gotta go take care of wifey. Yâall be good.â
The chatâs final flurry scrolls by fast:
âAWWWWWWWW.â
âHE CALLED HER WIFEY đđđâ
âW RELATIONSHIP.â
âBRB CRYING IN SINGLE.â
You tilt your head up, cheeks warm, eyes filled with love.
He glances down and winks. âTold you Iâm lucky as fuck I found you.â
Summary... Vogue asks Y/N to film her skincare and makeup routine.
A/N: I hope you guys enjoy this little blurb. Let me know what you guys wanna see next. Request are open.
â・Ëâď¸Ë・â・Ëâ˝Ë・â
The video opens with the click of a camera turning on, followed by a small laugh.
âHi, Vogue,â Y/N greets warmly, brushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her skin is fresh, makeup-free, her voice still a bit husky from sleep. âIâm Y/N Verstappen and Iâve been asked to share my daily beauty routine⌠which honestly feels like a joke considering Iâve been up since 5 a.m. because my daughter thinks thatâs an acceptable wake-up time.â
She shrugs playfully, leaning on the white marble bathroom counter. Behind her, viewers get a glimpse of their Amsterdam apartment, clean lines, cozy lighting, a plant in every corner.
âSo letâs get into it,â she smiles. âI already cleansed off-camera because, well, my toddler smeared porridge on my face earlier and that wasnât very Vogue.â
She lifts a bottle toward the camera. âThis is what I used, super gentle, because hormones after breastfeeding are no joke. I used this religiously when Isa was still newborn and I felt like a walking zombie with acne.â
Just then, thereâs a tiny knock on the bathroom door. Y/N pauses.
âMama?â A small voice calls.
She bites back a smile. âCome in, schatje.â
Isa waddles into the room in her little bunny-print pajamas, hair a curly mess, one sock missing, holding her plush lion by the tail. Her eyes are wide with sleepy curiosity as she pads in and immediately reaches her arms up.
Y/N lifts her easily, balancing the toddler on one hip.
âThis is Isa,â she chuckles. âMy shadow. She doesnât believe in personal space. Or sleep-ins.â
Isa rests her head against Y/Nâs shoulder and waves lazily at the camera, mumbling, âHi Vogue.â
âIâm gonna keep going while she hangs out,â Y/N explains. âMom life doesnât pause for skincare, right?â
She manages to tone with one hand, dotting serum on her cheeks while Isa fiddles with the collar of her robe.
And then, âLieverd?â Maxâs voice comes from somewhere off-camera. âHave you seen her other sock? She left it in the pantry again, I think.â
Y/N rolls her eyes fondly. âCheck under the cereal boxes.â
Thereâs a pause.
âGot it.â
Max enters a moment later, barefoot in sweatpants and one of Y/Nâs oversized hoodies, holding the missing sock like itâs a trophy.
âVictory,â he smirks, and steps into view to slide it onto Isaâs tiny foot as she babbles softly.
âOh, and if I didnât mention it... Iâm married to that guy,â Y/N gestures at him, âwho sometimes borrows my hoodies and always makes me tea while I do this.â
As if on cue, Max returns moments later with a steaming mug and a kiss to her temple. He doesnât say anything else, just gives her a little smile and nods toward the camera like youâve got this before disappearing again.
Y/N smiles after him.
âOkay, so next, I use this moisturizer. I keep it in the fridge because Max likes our house at ârace car garageâ levels of cold and my skin canât cope.â
She taps product on her face gently, still bouncing Isa in her arms.
âLip balm,â she adds, reaching across the counter. âI donât go anywhere without it. This one smells like mango. Isa always tries to eat it.â
âMine,â Isa declares sleepily, snatching it from Y/Nâs hand.
Y/N laughs. âTold you.â
Thereâs another interruption, this time the sound of a crash followed by Maxâs startled âAlles goed?!â from the other room.
Y/N blinks at the camera, totally unbothered. âThatâs our cat knocking over Maxâs trophies again. She has a personal vendetta against the Monaco one.â
She finishes her makeup: light concealer, brow gel, tinted lip balm, all with Isa still perched on her hip.
âOh, and when I do go to races, I do a bit more. Blush, mascara, maybe eyeliner if Isa hasnât decided my makeup brush is her new toy.â
From the mirror, you can see Max re-entering, now carrying their cat under one arm and waving a toy toothbrush in the other.
âDoes this belong to the tiny dictator?â
Isa perks up. âMINE!â
Max hands it over solemnly. âI thought so.â
He leans against the counter again, watching as Y/N wraps up her routine.
âYou look beautiful,â he murmurs under his breath.
Y/N smiles at the compliment but turns it into a tease. âEven without the mascara?â
Max grins. âAlways.â
The camera catches Isa reaching over to swipe her fingers in the blush compact and smear it across Y/Nâs cheek. Y/N gasps in mock horror while Max bursts into a quiet laugh.
âRaw and unfiltered,â Y/N tells the camera, dabbing at her cheek. âExactly what Vogue asked for, right?â
She sets Isa down gently, and the little girl waddles over to Max, nestling herself into his arms like a koala.
âI donât get a lot of âmeâ time,â Y/N admits, tucking her hair behind her ears. âBut I wouldnât trade this life for anything. Itâs messy. Loud. Exhausting. But also, really, really full of love.â
Max leans into the frame for a moment, his voice soft. âThatâs because youâre the heart of it.â
Y/N blushes, swats him away gently, and turns back to the camera.
âThank you for watching this chaos. And Vogue? If you ever want a dad edition of this, Max has a killer 7-step beard care routine he refuses to admit to.â
Max, now offscreen, calls out, âThatâs classified information.â
Y/N grins. âBye, Vogue.â
She reaches to turn off the camera just as Isa squeals from the other room: âDAAAADDY! Cat stole my toast!â
Hi! Umm.. could you make a story where y/n is a model and Pedri Gonzalez younger sister and Barcelona's sweetheart, and Oscar just says in an interview that he thinks she's pretty and after that Barcelona players just start commenting on his posts like "post 8/10" or stuff like that
shoot your shot â op81
smau/blurbs
oscar piastri x !pedri sister reader
pedri x !sister reader
being pedri gonzĂĄlezâs little sister was already a full-time jobâespecially when you were also barcelonaâs unofficial sweetheart and one of europeâs most in-demand models. paparazzi at dinner, fans at fashion week, and your brotherâs teammates treating you like the teamâs baby sister? just another day in the life. but things take a chaotic turn after one quiet, polite aussieâoscar piastriâmentions you in an interview. just a quick comment. just one sentence. and suddenly, barcelonaâs entire starting XI is in oscarâs instagram comments acting like bodyguards, pedri is texting you in all caps, and oscar? Well⌠heâs just trying to survive it all with an awkward smile.
fc: saradeanii on ig and random pinterest gals
(a/n) : wuv this idea and wuv you + my spanish is a little rusty I apologizeeee
â
oscar piastri interview with lissie mackintosh on 6/2/2025
â
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â
its_yn
liked by pedri, pablogavi, oscarpiastri & 3,027,290 others.
its_yn : life lately đ¸
tagged : pedri, pablogavi & lamineyamal
â
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username00 : yn like this comment if you think oscar is cute
liked by its_yn
âł username10 : oscar come get your girl
liked by oscarpiastri
âł pedri : no te entretengas con esto, yn. (do not entertain this)
liked by its_yn
username15 : are her and gavi together???
âł pedri : en absoluto. (absolutely not)
âł pablogavi : ojalĂĄ fuĂŠramos đ (i wish we were)
liked by its_yn
Ⳡpedri : basta. ya tengo bastante de què preocuparme con estos pilots de carreras. (stop. i have enough to worry about with these race car drivers)
liked by its_yn, pablogavi, paucubarsi, lamineyamal, hctorforrt_ and marcbernal_
lamineyamal : that race car driver is in the likes đ
liked by its_yn and pablogavi
âł pedri : ay dios mĂo (oh my god)
alejandrobalde : what did i miss? what trouble did you get yourself into this time? đđ¤Ł
liked by its_yn, lamineyamal and pablogavi
âł its_yn : its more along the lines of what trouble i WILL get myself into
liked by oscarpiastri, alejandrobalde, lamineyamal, pablogavi and hctorforrt_
âł pedri : no. eres demasiado joven para tener citas. y menos aĂşn para salir con un deportista. (no. you are much too to date. you will especially not date an athlete.)
âł its_yn : boooooooođ
âł lamineyamal : whatâs wrong with athletes???
liked by alejandrobalde, pablogavi and hctorfortt_
âł alejandrobalde : wait wait wait who?
âł hctorfortt_ : @/oscarpiastri
âł alejandrobalde : vamos caballeros (let's go gentlemen)
liked by pedri, pablogavi, hctorfortt_, lamineyamal and paucubarsi
â
oscarpiastri
liked by its_yn, lando, lamineyamal & 2,090,001 others.
oscarpiastri : Successful couple of days.
â
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its_yn : are you looking for a mrs. piastri by chance??
liked by oscarpiastri and lamineyamal
oscarpiastri : just so happens i am
liked by its_yn
lando : get in there osc!!
liked by its_yn
fcbarcelona : mans has no survival instincts and about 10 angry brothers coming his way
liked by its_yn and lando
âł pedri : i am about to start making death threats.
liked by lamineyamal, pablogavi, lando, hctorfortt_ and alejandrobalde
username0 : way to go oscahhh!
username15 : great couple days indeed
lamineyamal : sleep with one eye open amigo
liked by its_yn, pedri, pablogavi and hctorfortt
pablogavi : 6/10
liked by its_yn
âł its_yn : yes this post would be much better with me in it. id make an excellent trophy wife.
liked by oscarpiastri
âł pedri : oscar id like to remind you that you do have to come to spain soon so id choose your next words wisely.
liked by its_yn and oscarpiastri
â
oscarpiastri has sent you a message!
oscarpiastri : uh hi yn! how are you??
âł hi oscar!! im good wbu??
oscarpiastri : good good. i um was just wondering if youâd maybe like to come to my next race? its in monaco.
âł omg yes! that would be so much fun!!
oscarpiastri : awesome! ill send you all the details later. canât wait to see you, yn.
âł canât wait to see your adorable face in person:)
liked by oscarpiastri
â
third person pov
Oscar Piastri was pacing. Not in a calm, reflective way. Not like someone deep in thought. No, Oscar was pacing like he was being hunted. Like the world was ending. Lando, meanwhile, was sprawled on the couch in their shared hotel suite, casually tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth, watching the scene unfold with deep amusement and zero intent to help.
âIâm serious, Lando,â Oscar hissed, waving his phone in the air like it was cursed. âShe said, âCanât wait to see your adorable face in person.â Her exact words. Adorable face. What does that mean?!â
Lando didnât even look away from the TV. âI dunno, mate. Sounds like she thinks your face is adorable.â
âThatâs a flirty thing to say,â Oscar said, eyes wide, panic in full bloom. âThatâs not just casual. Thatâs not like, âOh hey, see you there.ââ
âShe complimented your face, mate. Chill.â
Oscar kept pacing. âIs my face adorable right now? Is it too adorable? Is itâGodâfor the love of everything, do I need to learn how to smile like, casually charming but not trying too hard?â
Lando turned, finally giving Oscar a glance. âRight now you look like someone who tried too hard and failed.â
Oscar let out a strangled groan and collapsed face-first onto the bed. âI canât do this. I cannot do Monaco. Iâm canceling my whole life. Iâll tell Zak I need to go into witness protection.â
âYouâre literally the driver. You canât call in sick to a race.â
âThen Iâll wear a bag over my helmet,â Oscar muttered into the sheets. âAn emotional support bag. Like the paper ones. For panic.â
Lando cracked a grin. âYou know Netflix is going to eat this up if she shows up and you melt into a puddle the second she smiles at you.â
Oscar turned his head, eyes wide, hair sticking up in a mess from the stress. âDo you think sheâs going to smile at me? Like on purpose?â
âI hope so,â Lando said. âBecause if you act like this when she just texts you, I canât wait to see what happens when she breathes near you.â
Oscar buried his face back in the bed with a dramatic sigh.
âLet them film the downfall,â he mumbled. âLet the world see. Iâm the lead idiot.â
â
f1gossipgirls
297,034 likes.
f1gossipgirls : Supermodel YN GonzĂĄlezâaka Barcelona royalty and sister of football star Pedriâmaking waves in the Monaco paddock today. Oh, and did we mention sheâs the self-proclaimed crush of McLarenâs Oscar Piastri? Invited by the team, no less. Coincidence? Weâre not buying it.
â
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username0 : someone needs to film her and oscarâs first interaction I NEED IT
username5 : i need to see this man absolutely melt
username10 : @/lando help us out PLEASE
âł lando : im trying HUSH
username20 : the fact that her brother probably has no idea where she is rn makes me giggle.
username30 : no one snitch. i want to see this couple HAPPEN.
â
your pov
I hadnât even fully stepped out of the McLaren hospitality area before I heard someone whisper, âThatâs her.â
It wasnât subtle. It wasnât quiet. And I was absolutely certain it came from Lando Norris, who was very poorly pretending not to be watching me from behind his sunglasses.
The cameras clicked around me, and a few staff members nodded politely, but I wasnât paying attention to any of it. My heart was doing this ridiculous fluttering thing in my chest, and I feltâdespite being in full glam and wearing custom designer boots. Then I saw him. Oscar Piastri. Standing near the garage in his race suit, half-zipped, arms crossed like he was trying really, really hard not to look like he was waiting for me.
He failed miserably. The second our eyes met, he straightened up. His face lit upâblush and allâand then he smiled. That smile. I grinned, slow and teasing, and made my way over.
âHi,â I said when I reached him, slipping my sunglasses down with a grin. âAm I early or are you just shocked Iâm real?â
Oscar blinked like he was rebooting. âIâIâm not okay.â
I laughed. âHonest. I like that.â
âYouâre actually here.â
âYou invited me,â I reminded him. âDonât tell me you were bluffing.â
âNo! I meanâyes. I invited you. I just didnât think youâd actually⌠say yes. And show up. And look like that.â
I raised a brow. âLike what?â
He blinked again. âLike a problem.â
I smiled, taking a tiny step closer. âFor who?â
âMe. Focus is gone. Race weekend over. Tell the team I said sorry.â
Somewhere behind us, Lando called out loudly, âIs this you flirting? Because youâre one stutter away from fainting.â
Oscar groaned and muttered, âWhy is he always here?â
âI think heâs enjoying the show,â I said. âCanât say I blame him.â
He looked at me, all soft eyes and pure chaos behind them. âDo I get to see you again after this? Like, maybe when Iâm not panicking?â
I tilted my head. âOnly if you survive the race without crashing from thinking about me in your garage.â
Oscar deadpanned, âThis is a threat.â
âItâs a challenge.â
His mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh but was still short-circuiting. âIâm doomed.â
âNo,â I said softly. âYouâre cute.â
His ears turned bright red. Lando whooped from somewhere behind the pit wall, and I could already imagine the media chaos later. But I didnât care. Pedri didnât know I was here. Oscar was looking at me like I hung the moon. And for once, I wasnât just someoneâs sister or a model on the sidelines.
â
Monaco had a way of making everything feel cinematic. The glowing harbor, the chaos of the paddock, the thunder of engines echoing off stone wallsâit was a city made for stories. But watching Oscar race from the garage? That was something else entirely. Nerve-wracking, electric, intimate in a way I didnât expect.
Every time his name lit up on the timing screens, my stomach flipped. Not just because he was doing wellâP3, smooth and sharpâbut because I cared. More than Iâd let myself admit, even to him. When the session ended and the team erupted into celebration, I stood back, quiet, watching him pull his helmet off. His hair was damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed, his eyes scanning the crowdâuntil they landed on me. And then he smiled. Not the usual polite grin. Not the camera-ready smirk. Just a boy looking at a girl and thinking, thank God sheâs still here.
I stayed near the back while the team swarmed him, congratulating, debriefing. When it all settled and the noise dimmed, I felt a presence beside me.
âHey,â Oscar said, a little breathless still. âThanks for not disappearing.â
I turned to him. âTempting as it was after watching the whole team gang up on you? I stuck around.â
He gave me a crooked smile. âTheyâre never going to let me live this down.â
âThey might forget eventually.â
âNot a chance. Lando already told me heâs printing screenshots of your Vogue cover for my driver room.â
I laughed, and we stood there for a secondâjust us, the fading garage noise, and the weight of whatever was building between us.
He rubbed the back of his neck. âSo, I was thinkingâŚâ
âDangerous.â
He shot me a look, but he was smiling again, soft and unsure. âWould you want to get dinner tonight? Just us. Nothing fancy unless you want fancyâI just thought⌠it might be nice. To talk. Without a headset on. Or Lando in the background narrating my every move.â
My heart fluttered, which was annoying, because I liked to think I was above that kind of thing. But apparently, Oscar Piastriâawkward and golden and way too sincere for his own goodâwas an exception.
âIâd really like that,â I said.
His shoulders dropped like heâd been bracing for a different answer. âYeah?â
âYeah,â I confirmed. âBut only if you promise not to make me eat something weird.â
He grinned. âI can do that. Any other rules?â
âNo mention of Pedri.â
Oscar actually flinched. âRight. He doesnât know youâre here?â
âNot yet.â
He stared at me. âYou are so terrifying, and also extremely hot.â
I burst out laughing. âGreat start, Piastri.â
He offered his hand, mock-formal. âShall we?â
I took it without hesitation. âLetâs.â
â
He met me just after sunset, changed out of his race gear and into a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone. His hair was still damp from a shower, a little messy.
âYou look nice,â I told him, biting back a smile as he fumbled with his car keys.
âYou lookââ He paused. âOkay, you know how when your brain stops working and your heart panics because someone is just really unfairly beautiful?â
âAw,â I said. âYou rehearsed that, didnât you?â
He groaned. âI had one line and I blew it.â
âNo, no,â I laughed, slipping into the car. âYou nailed it.â
He drove us just outside the busy part of the city, down winding coastal roads where the cliffs met the sea. We pulled into a quiet cove where a tiny marina was lit by string lights and low lanterns, and just across the dock was a tucked-away bistro with maybe ten tables and a view that made my breath catch.
âOscarâŚâ I turned to him as he parked. âThis isâŚâ
He shrugged, bashful. âI figured Monaco doesnât always have to be loud. Plus, they have truffle fries.â
âYou get me.â
We sat outside, the sea breeze soft and the candlelight flickering on the table between us. There was no one screaming in the background, no engines revving, no group chats exploding. Just⌠calm. He looked at me across the table, elbow resting against the wood, fingers tapping lightly.
âI know weâve only known each other properly for like⌠five minutes,â he said, voice soft and careful, âbut it doesnât feel that way.â
I nodded. âNo. It doesnât.â
âIâve had crushes before,â he admitted. âAnd Iâve had people say nice things about me and leave it at that. But with you itâs justâevery time I talk to you, I want to say more.â
My heart squeezed. âYouâre not what I expected.â
His brow lifted. âIs that a good thing or a bad thing?â
âGood,â I said. âYouâre more⌠real. Sweet. And maybe a little chaotic.â
âThat feels targeted.â
âYou panic every time I say something flirty.â
âThatâs because you mean it,â he said, almost accusingly. âYou say things like about my face being adorable and then show up looking like that, and expect me to function?â
âYou did well today.â
âI blacked out for half of quali.â
We both laughed, and I watched as he leaned back in his chair, just smiling, eyes soft. The waiter brought foodâpasta, truffle fries, sparkling waterâand we talked about everything and nothing. I told him about modeling, about growing up in Pedriâs shadow but also making my own path. He told me about growing up in Australia, moving to Europe alone, how weird it is to become peopleâs favorite driver overnight. And how surreal it is to have his crush actually show up at his race.
By the time dessert cameâtiramisu, split between usâit felt like the rest of the world had gone quiet.
He looked over at me, a little more serious now. âSo, when do you think youâll tell Pedri?â
I groaned. âCan we not?â
âNot tonight,â he agreed. âBut one day?â
I nodded slowly. âOne day.â
He took the last bite of tiramisu and offered it to me on his fork. âUntil then⌠weâre a little secret.â
I leaned forward and took it, smiling. âOur little secret.â
And then he reached across the table and gently took my hand in his. Just held it. No cameras, no teasing. Just warm fingers and a quiet, glowing kind of happiness.
âThank you for coming today,â he said.
âThank you for asking.â
We stayed like that for a while. Fingers laced, quiet smiles, Monaco glittering behind us.
â
The elevator ride was quietâbut not awkward. More like that warm, humming kind of silence that happens when youâre too full of butterflies to speak. Oscar stood beside me, hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulder brushing mine every time the elevator jolted. His hair was still messy from dinner and sea breeze, his smile a little too shy for a guy who just held my hand all through dessert.
âYou sure this is okay?â he asked, glancing at me as the numbers climbed. âI donât want toâlikeâassume anything.â
I smiled. âOscar, I invited you up. You already assumed.â
He blinked. âOkay. Thatâs fair.â
The doors opened to my floor and I reached for his hand, tugging him down the hallway toward my room. I unlocked it with a soft beep, kicking off my shoes the moment we stepped inside.
âMake yourself at home,â I said, tossing my bag on the armchair.
Oscar hesitated in the doorway like he was stepping into a dream, then slowly followed. âWow. Fancy.â
I shrugged. âPerks of the job.â
He wandered in a little, turning in a slow circle to take it all inâthe view of the glittering Monaco coastline, the soft golden lights, the untouched minibar. He turned toward me then, his expression shiftingâshy, but bold underneath. âIs this⌠weird for you?â
âWhat?â
âHaving a me in your hotel room after dinner?â
I smiled. âOnly a little. But I think I can handle it.â
His eyes dropped to my lips for a split second. Just a second.
And then I leaned in, fingers lightly brushing his jaw as I kissed himâsoft, slow, and warm. He kissed back like heâd been holding his breath all night, one hand finding my waist, the other curling gently into my hair. It wasnât rushed. It wasnât fireworks. It was better than that. It was soft. Real. Like we had time. We pulled apart slightly, his forehead resting against mine, both of us quietly smiling like idiots.
âYouâre too good at that,â he murmured.
I was about to kiss him again whenâ
BRRRRRT. BRRRRRT.
My phone buzzed violently on the coffee table.
Then it buzzed again. And again. And again.
Oscar glanced over. âPersistent.â
I sighed and reached for it. âItâs Pedri. And Gavi. And Lamine. Great.â
âTell them youâre fine and alive and definitely not kissing an F1 driver.â
I rolled my eyes and answered the FaceTime, angling the phone just toward my face as Oscar walked into the other room looking through the fridge.
âHey, Iâm alive, thanks for the dramatic emergency callââ
âHERMANITA.â Gaviâs face was up against the camera like a man possessed. âWhere have you been? The group chatâs been dead for hours.â
âYou look weird,â Lamine said suspiciously. âLike⌠happy. Are you on a date?â
I scoffed. âDo I look like Iâm on a date?â
âYou look guilty.â Pedri said flatly.
And that was exactly when Oscar called out from behind me, chipper and too loudâ
âHeyâdo you want tea or water?â
Silence. The kind of silence you only hear when three overprotective boys are connecting dots at the exact same time. Thenâ
âÂżQUIĂN ERA ESE?â Pedriâs voice dropped into full big brother mode. (who was that?)
âThat sounded like a f*cking Australian.,â Gavi hissed.
âIs he in your hotel room?!â Lamine shouted.
My eyes widened. âIâumââ
I didnât think. I just panicked. And hit end call. The screen went black.
Oscar peeked his head around the corner.
I turned to him slowly. âI donât think Iâll ever know peace again.â
He blinked. âShould I leave?â
I dropped onto the bed and groaned into a pillow. âToo late. Youâre already a fugitive.â
He sat beside me, laughing softly. âDo I at least get a goodbye kiss before the Spanish Mafia shows up?â
I lifted my head just enough to kiss him againâslow and sweet.
âIf I disappear tomorrow,â I whispered, âavenge me.â
âAlways,â he whispered back, grinning.
â
Even before the lights went out, the whole city buzzed like it had a secret. I stood near the McLaren garage, team pass hanging around my neck, oversized sunglasses shielding my face, but I still felt eyes on me. I wasnât sure if it was because people recognized me or if Oscar had actually mentioned me in one of his many, many press rounds. Probably both. He was subtle as a brick. The mechanics gave me warm smiles and cheeky winks as I passed. One even muttered, âGood luck charm, that one,â under his breath.
The race itself was a blur. Monaco always is. Tight corners, strategy chaos, and overtakes that made your heart drop into your stomach. But Oscarâhe drove like a man possessed. Calm, calculated, fast.
And when he crossed the finish line in P3, I swear I nearly cried. I clapped, screamed, probably startled the poor comms intern beside me, and watched as the team erupted in hugs and cheers. Oscarâs race engineer shouted something triumphant in his ear. I couldnât hear the words, but I could see the grin on Oscarâs face as he slowly peeled off his helmet and stood atop his car, one fist raised to the sky. I couldnât stop smiling. Not even when my cheeks hurt. Later, after the podium celebrations and media madness, I found him in the back of the McLaren motorhome, still flushed from champagne and adrenaline, hair wild from the cap heâd just yanked off. The second he saw me, his smile doubled.
âI told you you were good luck,â he said, arms open as he stepped toward me.
âYouâre giving me credit for that drive?â I teased, stepping into the hug. âI barely survived watching it.â
âI could feel you watching,â he murmured near my ear. âIt helped.â
God, he was unfair.
I pulled back slightly, but not too farâjust enough to meet his eyes. âP3 in Monaco. Thatâs massive.â
âYou being here made it better.â
We stood like that for a secondâhis hands on my waist, mine resting on his chest. There was noise all around us, laughter and footsteps and radios crackling, but I barely noticed.
He smiled, this softer, more private kind. âCome to Spain.â
I blinked. âWhat?â
âBarcelona. The race next week. Come with me.â
I laughed. âYou realize thatâs home turf, right?â
âExactly,â he said. âYouâll be there anyway for Pedriâs game. Might as well come early. I'll spend the week.â
I tilted my head. âAre you asking me to meet my brother at the same time as asking me to be your race weekend date again?â
His expression turned half-nervous, half-charming. ââŚYes?â
âOscar.â
âWe can ease him into it. Iâll even wear a Barcelona jersey. Or like, a full kit if that helps.â
âYou in shin guards trying to impress Pedri is going to kill me.â
He grinned, hopeful and boyish. âIs that a yes?â
I sighed dramatically, even though I was already imagining the look on Pedriâs face when he found out. âFine. But youâre the one explaining to him why youâre suddenly glued to my side.â
âDeal,â he said, then added with a wink, âWorth it.â
I leaned up and kissed his cheek, laughing. âYou say that now. Wait until Gavi and Lamine get involved.â
He groaned. âCan I take back my yes?â
âAbsolutely not.â
We stood there for a moment longer, just soaking it in. Him in his race suit, me in my sunglasses and stolen team jacket, Monaco still buzzing in the background.
â
oscarpiastri
liked by its_yn, lando, pablogavi & 3,007,002 others.
oscarpiastri : Always a pleasure, Monaco.
â
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lando : oh mate. youâre risking it with this one.
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âł its_yn : my post is even worse.
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fcbarcelona : đđ
charles_leclerc : this is the most emotion iâve seen out of you in likeâŚever. she is magical.
liked by oscarpiastri and its_yn
lamineyamal : brooooooooo what is this @/pedri
âł its_yn : messy messy
pablogavi : canât wait to see you in spain, oscar.
liked by its_yn and oscarpiastri
âł lando : that sounds like a threat (take him out so i can win wdc)
âł oscarpiastri : wow thanks lan
pedri : hm.
liked by its_yn
alejandrobalde : caption should be âthis will be my last podium as i will be meeting her brothers next weekâ
liked by pablogavi, pedri, hctorfortt_, lamineyamal and paucubarsi
â
its_yn
liked by lando, oscarpiastri, pedri and 5,090,007 others.
its_yn : rlly like this orange team and their token aussieđ¨đ§Ąđ
tagged : mclaren and oscarpiastri
â
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lando : oh you werenât lying. yours was much worse.
liked by its_yn
âł its_yn : congrats winner đ
liked by lando
pablogavi : i genuinely think pedri would be less upset if you were dating me
âł pedri : that is absolutely not true.
mclaren : we are very flattered! come back anytime princess đ§Ą
liked by its_yn
charles_leclerc : imma start planning oscarâs funeral now.
liked by pedri, pablogavi, hctorfortt_, lamineyamal and alejandrobalde
pedri : i am taking an extended break from the internet.
liked by its_yn
lamineyamal : no bc this is insane. like. you really chose him??
hctorfortt_ : BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
â
Returning home to Barcelona felt like walking into a lionâs denâwith the lions being Pedri, Gavi, and Lamine, all waiting in the living room like the Spanish Inquisition but in sweatpants. I barely made it through the door before I heard Pedriâs voice, flat and dangerous.
âWell, well, well. Look what the cat dragged back from Monaco.â
âOh good, youâre all here,â I said cheerily, like I wasnât about to get interrogated for treason. âPerfect timing.â
Lamine looked me up and down. âYou smell like lies.â
Gavi crossed his arms. âYou hung up on us.â
âIt was poor Wi-Fi!â I tried, throwing my tote bag onto the couch. âHappens to the best of us.â
âYou were inside a five-star hotel in Monaco,â Pedri deadpanned. âYou could stream an entire Champions League final in 4K from the bathtub.â
I froze. âOkay, rude. I was gonna ask how your game went but clearly weâre all still in our feelings.â
âWeâre not mad,â Gavi said, even though he absolutely looked mad. âWeâre just disappointed.â
âDeeply,â added Lamine, eating chips loudly.
Pedri stood up slowly, hands on hips. âSo. The truth. You were in Monaco. You were at the race. You hugged Oscar Piastri on cameraââ
âYou canât even see my face!â I shouted.
âHE HAD A STUPIDLY IN LOVE SMILE,â Pedri roared back. âWE KNOW IT WAS YOU.â
I sighed dramatically, flopping onto the couch like a Victorian woman with a scandal. âOkay. Fine. Yes. I was there. And yes, Oscar may have invited me.â
Gaviâs jaw dropped. âInvited?! So it was a date???â
âOh my god, I said may have!â
Lamine gasped. âYou wore his hat. Thatâs practically marriage.â
âLook,â I said, sitting up and trying not to smile like an idiot. âI didnât tell you guys because I knew youâd act like this. And I didnât even do anything scandalous. I watched the race, we got dinner, we talked. Heâs sweet. Like, really sweet. And awkward. And makes me laugh. Andââ
âPedri, control your sister,â Lamine whispered.
Pedri rubbed his temples like he aged ten years. âIâm going to have to try not to kill him. Ay Dios MĂo.âÂ
âMaybe,â I said, tone casual, âbut only if you come to the Spanish Grand Prix with me next week.â
Dead silence. Lamine choked on his chips. Gavi dropped the remote. Pedri stared at me like Iâd just asked him to walk into traffic.
âYou want us⌠to go with you⌠to his turf?â Pedri asked slowly.
âNot his turf. The paddock. You know. For moral support.â
âSupport for you or for him when I bodycheck him into the pit wall?â Pedri asked, deadly serious.
I grinned. âBoth?â
âAbsolutely not.â
âToo late,â I said brightly, standing up. âAlready requested your passes. VIP, obviously. Youâll be treated like kings. Or scary brothers. Whichever works.â
Pedri let out the longest sigh Iâve ever heard. âThis is my worst nightmare.â
âI already picked your outfit,â I added with a wink.
Gavi groaned. âFor the record, I hate this.â
Lamine just muttered, âCan I at least hang out Lando? He seems fun.â
âOh,â I said, reaching for my bag again, âand Oscar says heâs really excited to meet you.â
âTell Oscar,â Pedri replied, âIâm really excited to ruin his life.â
And yet⌠no one said they werenât coming. Victory.
â
f1gossipgirls
540,003 likes.
f1gossipgirls : Well, well, well⌠not only is YN GonzĂĄlez back in the paddock today, but sheâs brought big brother Pedri and a few of his Barça teammates along for the ride. Protective brother check? New boyfriend inspection pending?
â
username00 : lando can you actually film properly this time? the last video looked like one of those 7th grade fight videos
âł lando : you all are so greedy. canât even be thankful for what i give.
username10 : oh my poor little oscar. he is too shy for this
username15 : honestly oscar is so valid. id fight for yn too.
username20 : he better win today.
â
Race day. Barcelona. Oscar Piastri on pole. Me in the McLaren paddock. And trailing behind me like a security detail made entirely of judgmental Spanish boys⌠my brother Pedri and two of his equally dramatic teammates. Honestly? Iâve made better decisions.
âRemind me again why I let you talk me into this?â Pedri asked, tugging his hat down like someone might recognize himâlike the literal thousands of people around us werenât already whispering about the fact that Pedri GonzĂĄlez was in the paddock with his sister.
âBecause Iâm your only sister and you love me,â I said sweetly, adjusting my McLaren jacket. âAnd because I promised to not tell mama you nearly burnt the house down making toast last week.â
âBlackmail. Got it,â Gavi muttered beside him, scowling like someone had insulted Spain itself. âHope he crashes.â
âPablo!â I gasped, smacking his arm.
âNot badly! Just like⌠gets humbled a little. Maybe a wing falls off. Or his steering wheel stops working. Nothing fatal. Just a minor character arc.â
âOkay, villain origin story,â I muttered.
Lamine, naturally, was living for the drama. âIâm just here to watch the fight.â he said, filming all of us with zero shame. âYouâre gonna cry when he wins and Iâm gonna get it in 4K.â
âHeâs not winning,â Pedri said, arms crossed.
âHeâs starting from pole,â I reminded them.
âPole isnât a win,â Gavi muttered. âItâs just foreshadowing. Like in a horror movie.â
I stopped walking and turned to them with a dramatic sigh. âListen, I brought you all here to be supportive. Not to start a brawl in the paddock. Youâre embarrassing me in front of my future husband.â
Pedri blinked. âI beg your pardon?â
âIâm joking! Mostly.â
Lando walked by at that exact moment and pointed a finger at Pedri. âIf he tries to fight Oscar, Iâm filming it and putting it on the McLaren YouTube channel.â
âLando,â I warned, âdonât encourage themââ
âToo late,â Pedri said. âI like this guy.â
âUnbelievable.â
We made it to the McLaren hospitality suite just in time to watch Oscar line up on the grid, and I swear, I felt my heart do a little somersault. He looked so calm, so focused, so completely oblivious to the fact that my brother was watching him like a hawk with murder in his heart. By lap ten, Pedri had his arms crossed and was muttering split strategy critiques under his breath like he was Oscarâs race engineer. By lap thirty, Gavi had stolen my headset to âhear the enemyâs commsâ and Lamine was loudly analyzing tire degradation like he somehow knew what he was talking about.
And by the final lap, I was practically vibrating out of my seat. When Oscar crossed the line P1âhis first ever Grand Prix win, on Spanish soil, in front of me and every single person whoâd ever doubted himâI stood up so fast I knocked over someoneâs chair and screamed. Screamed like I was the one who just won the damn race.
Everyone was yelling, hugging, cheeringâbut all I could see was him, in the cockpit, fists in the air, helmet tilted to the sky, the sun catching his orange suit like fire. And when he finally climbed out of the car, lifted the trophy on the podium with champagne raining down, and looked straight at the crowd⌠I knew he was looking for me.
After the cooldown room, the press chaos, and the McLaren celebration that left half the staff crying, Oscar finally found me at the back of the garage. Still damp with champagne. Still holding his winnerâs cap. Still smiling like a dream.
âThere you are,â he said breathlessly, pulling me into a hug that felt like gravity itself. âI wanted to run to you right after the race, but they kind of made me⌠win a Grand Prix first.â
I laughed into his neck. âSo annoying when that happens.â
He pulled back just enough to look at me, still beaming. âYou were here. I kept thinking about that the whole race. You, watching.â
âI wasnât just watching,â I teased. âI brought witnesses.â
âHi,â Oscar said, voice jumping half an octave.
Pedri took a slow step forward. âCongratulations,â he said coolly. âOn winning. And on living long enough to meet me.â
âThanks⌠I think.â
âYou were very good,â Gavi said, clearly pained. âLike⌠annoyingly good.â
âI mean, if he keeps racing like that, I might start watching,â Lamine added. âStill donât like this though.â
Oscar glanced at me. âSo this is the approval process, huh?â
âBasically,â I whispered, biting back a smile. âYou won the race. Now win over the midfield.â
âImpossible,â Gavi said. âIâve already sworn to not engage with the enemy."
Pedri held out his hand. âWe need to talk. Alone.â
I swear Oscar flinched. I just grinned, kissed his cheek, and whispered, âDonât worry. He likes you already.â
He definitely didnât. But Oscar didnât need to know that. Yet.
â
third person pov
Oscar had just finished his fifth round of media and was attempting to inhale a bottle of water in peace when Pedri stepped around the corner of the McLaren motorhome. Oscar froze mid-sip.
âHey,â Pedri said, hands in his pockets. Calm. Too calm.
âHi,â Oscar croaked, accidentally inhaling half the water and immediately choking like a man who had never spoken to a footballerâor a girlfriendâs older brotherâin his life. âSorry. Swallowed wrong.â
Pedri raised an eyebrow. âYou alright?â
âYep. Yep. Just dying a little. All good.â
Silence. The kind of silence where Oscar could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.
Pedri leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. âYouâre a good driver.â
Oscar blinked. âThanks?â
âYouâre calm under pressure.â
âI try.â
âYou had no clue I was showing up today, did you?â
âI told her to bring you but she didn't exactly tell me you agreed.â Oscar admitted with a wry smile. âShe likes to keep me on my toes.â
âShe always has,â Pedri said, nodding. âSince she was four.â
Oscar nodded too. âIt tracks.â
Pedri studied him for a moment, quiet, unreadable. âShe doesnât bring people home. Or⌠anywhere.â
Oscar didnât say anything. He just waited. Respectfully. Cautiously. Like a man who knew one wrong word might get him tackled by a La Liga midfield.
âIâm not saying this to scare you,â Pedri added, softer now. âBut sheâs important. Not just because sheâs my sisterâsheâs her own person. And I know her. She gives everything. So if youâre going to be in her lifeâŚâ
âI know,â Oscar said quickly, sincerely. âI know what she deserves. And I wouldnât be here if I didnât mean it.â
Pedri looked at him again, really looked this time. Thenâmiracle of miraclesâhe smiled.
âOkay,â he said. âOkay.â
Oscar exhaled. Pedri started to walk away, but paused after a few steps and turned back. âIf you break her heart, I will do everything in my power to destroy your career. Just so weâre clear.â
Oscar laughedânervously. âUnderstood.â
âGood.â Pedri turned back around, then muttered, âAlso⌠congrats on the win. You were actually kind of impressive.â
Oscar blinked. âThatâs the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said to me after threatening me.â
Pedri didnât stop walking. âDonât get used to it, Aussie.â
â
oscarpiastri
liked by its_yn, lando, pedri & 5,007,002 others.
oscarpiastri : won spain and their sweetheart
tagged : its_yn
â
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mclaren : winning on and off the track :)
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âł oscarpiastri : with ease
âł lando : with ease my ass- you almost passed out the first time she touched you.
liked by its_yn
pedri : won one race and got cocky, huh?
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âł its_yn : erm actually it is his 5th this season
liked by oscarpiastri
âł pedri : hm. nice piastri.
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pablogavi : im watching you. always.
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lamineyamal : one minor mess up and ill be at your front door with a bat.
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â
f1gossipgirls
785,090 likes.
f1gossipgirls : From the paddock to the pitch! F1 star Oscar Piastri was spotted cheering on Barcelona alongside rumored girlfriend YN GonzĂĄlez at her brother Pedriâs match. The Aussie driver looked completely smittenâand we canât blame him.
â
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lando : i've known oscar for a while and this is the most expressive i've ever seen the man.
liked by f1gossipgirls
username10 : so youâre telling me oscar piastri voluntarily entered a stadium FULL of footballers who want to kill him??? for love?? ICONIC
username15 : not oscar piastri becoming barcelonaâs unofficial brother-in-law đ
username20 : I donât even know who Iâm more jealous of. Him for dating her. Her for dating him
username25 : he won spain and then said âiâll take the national treasure tooâ I CANâT BREATHEEEEEE
username30 : smitten??? be fr that man has cartoon hearts for eyes
â
I shouldâve known Oscar would be nervous the moment he triple-checked his outfit and then asked me what he should wear. Oscar 'Team Merch' Piastri asked me what to wear. We were standing in the elevator of the stadiumâs VIP box area and he was practically vibrating with nervous energy, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt like it was trying to strangle him.
âBabe,â I said, grabbing his hands to stop the fiddling. âYou race cars at 300km/h. You donât need to be scared of my brother.â
âIâm not scared of Pedri,â Oscar replied immediately. Pause. âIâm scared of your brother, his teammates, and his fanbase.â
Fair enough. But honestly? He had nothing to worry aboutâhe looked good. That kind of clean-cut, laid-back charm that made the older women in the suite give him approving nods and whisper things like âes tan educado, quĂŠ monĂsimo.â
The match was electric. Every time Pedri touched the ball, the crowd erupted. Oscar tried to keep cool but every time I clapped or jumped to cheer, he mimicked me like he was auditioning to be a lifelong Barça Ultra.
By the time the final whistle blew (3â1, of course), Pedri had waved up at us from the field with a look that screamed âI know you dragged your little racecar boyfriend here.â
-
âYou good?â I asked, bumping his arm playfully.
âDepends,â he said. âAm I about to be hazed again?â
âDefine hazed.â
He gave me a look. âGavi made me eat something called squid in ink at dinner in Spain and lied to me about what it actually was."
I snorted. âOkay yeah. Youâre definitely getting hazed again.â
The boys were already making their way over, sweaty and grinning, a few of Pedriâs teammates lingering behind them like they were approaching the scene of a friendly crime.
Gavi was first. âLook who survived Spain,â he said, dapping Oscar up with the exaggerated energy of someone pretending they werenât lowkey fond of the guy.
âAnd YN." Lamine added, strolling up behind him and pointing at me. âHonestly, bro, weâre impressed. Sheâs a lot.â
âExcuse me?â I blinked.
âShe made me do three takes of a selfie at the race because âthe lighting was bad,ââ Lamine said dramatically.
Oscar laughed. âIn her defense, the lighting is criminal."
Gavi pointed a finger at Oscar. âSee? Youâve already been infected. Thatâs how it starts.â
Ferran Torres joined the group, glancing between Oscar and me. âOh this race car guy again?"
âMe again,â Oscar replied, polite smile but eyes amused.
âYouâre like glitter. We canât get rid of you,â Ferran deadpanned.
âBetter than being a stain,â Oscar quipped back without missing a beat.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Gavi just started cackling. âNah, heâs in. Heâs officially in.â
Lamine leaned closer to Oscar. âYouâre growing on us, Kangaroo Ken.â
âI still donât like that nickname,â Oscar muttered.
âYou donât need to,â Gavi said, already pulling out his phone. âJust smile. Iâm gonna make this Pedri's lockscreen.â
âWait, where is Pedri?â Oscar asked.
I was wondering the same thingâuntil my brother jogged over from the far end of the pitch, towel around his shoulders, brow arched like heâd walked into something mid-chaos.
âWhy are all of you crowding my sister like sheâs the damn trophy?â
Pedri blinked. âI see that. Why is Gavi taking selfies with him?â
âHeâs famous now,â Ferran shrugged. âInstagram loves a golden retriever face.â
Oscar turned the color of a tomato. âIâm⌠just here to support.â
Pedri eyed him, slowly, deliberately, before turning to me.
âYou invited him?â
I raised an eyebrow. âHe comes with me from now on."
Pedri sighed like a man resigned to fate. âFine. But if he wears my jersey, weâre fighting.â
âIs it not supportive?,â Oscar asked.
âIt was,â Lamine said. âBut you just looked like a lost fanboy.â
Oscar looked at me. âI am a lost fanboy.â
âUgh, that was so sincere I think I just got heartburn,â Ferran gagged.
Pedri just gave me a lookâthe soft, older brother look, the one that said Iâm still watching him, but he hasnât completely blown it. Then he clapped Oscar on the back and muttered, âGood luck surviving this group. And her. Especially her."
Oscar smiled, crooked and real. âJust hoping you don't kill me in my sleep, hermano."
-
Lamine had stolen Oscarâs cap and was now wearing it sideways. Gavi was threatening to Photoshop Oscarâs face onto a Barça trading card. And Pedri was texting our mom that âyes, they were still just dating, no, there was no ring yet.â
Oscar turned to me as we reached the edge of the tunnel, grinning. âI think that went okay?â
âYou just got verbally tackled and emotionally roasted,â I replied.
âBut they like me, right?â
I glanced at the boys, now waving goodbye like chaotic gremlins.
âThey do,â I said. âGod help you.â
He squeezed my hand. âStill worth it.â
â
its_yn
liked by pedri, lamineyamal, pablogavi & 10,025,007 others.
its_yn : aw look we can all get along
tagged : oscarpiastri, lamineyamal, pedri and pablogavi
â
oscarpiastri : idk if i passed initiation or got adopted into my first frat
liked by its_yn
âł its_yn : both
pedri : don't push it. he is on a trial period for the first year.
liked by its_yn and oscarpiastri
âł its_yn : you say this like you didn't just invite him over to play games
âł its_yn : stop faking the tough older brother act and say you love him
âł pedri : i like him. i do not love him.
liked by its_yn and oscarpiastri
âł its_yn : good enough.
lamineyamal : i'd rather her pick oscar than lando tbh
liked by its_yn and oscarpiastri
âł lando : HEY. tf did i do?
âł lamineyamal : you just seem like trouble man.
âł lando : well
âł its_yn : lando and his man whore phase
liked by oscarpiastri
âł lando : I TOLD ONE STORY AND NOW I HAVE A REP
liked by its_yn, oscarpiastri and lamineyamal
pablogavi : if he ever messes up im swooping
âł pedri : over my dead body
pablogavi : i've changed my tone. happy for you, princesa!
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Featuring: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, Lewis Hamilton, Max Verstappen, George Russell & Kimi Antonelli
summary: Max falls in love with the cute fan who is also a double major student with a lot to teach him
based on this request
notes: i have no idea if juilliard has an english major, i also don't know how U.S colleges work, but for the sake of this smau let's pretend it does this way
đJuilliard, New York
liked by yourbff, yourroommate, maxverstappen1 and 456 others
yourusername Uni life, literature, musical theory, and one very important Sunday. Congrats on the win maxverstappen1 đđ
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yourbff this max guy owns me for hearing you screaming at the screen for 2 hours đ
maxverstappen1 Thanks! I like your bookshelf by the way.
âŞď¸ yourusername wait WHAT
âŞď¸ user bro blink twice if youâre being held hostage by your own emotions
âŞď¸ user what is HAPPENING here???
âŞď¸ user this is adorable. and terrifying. carry on.
user why is max randomly replying to fans????
user can someone explain how she got Verstappen to engage in emotionally intelligent dialogue because I canât get a guy to reply to âheyâ
yourroomate iâve never seen you sprint across the dorm faster than when you saw that comment đđ
user Max Verstappen replying to a redheaded lit/music major from yale⌠I smell a â¨plotlineâ¨
user âI like your bookshelf btw.â Sir. What does that even MEAN????
â ⊠â â â ⊠â â â âŠ
liked by yourbff, yourroommate, maxverstappen1 and 23,455 others
yourusername New week, new breakdown. But the piano solo slapped and I finally got a flat white that didnât taste like existential dread. Small wins count đĽšđЎ
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maxverstappen1: think you liked the keychain đ
> yourusername I DID! itâs everywhere with me now
> maxverstappen1 Iâll make sure to send you a cap next time
> yourusername I think that counts as a legally binding statement
user Max is down bad and this is adorable
user Bro is out here giving keychains đ
user the bookshelf is now lore. the keychain is lore.
user Max, tell the truth. Sheâs made you read Jane Austen, hasnât she?
âŞď¸ maxverstappen1 no. something worse.
yourbff I would like to publicly announce that i am such a fan of this
user Max said: âgirl studies books, I study HERâ đ
user WHAT IS GOING ON HERE IâM SWEATING???
user not me shipping this like itâs canon and Iâve read ONE comment thread
user the bookshelf comment. the keychain. ladies weâve got a CRUSH developing in real time
user now Iâm imagining her studying with live timing in the background while he texts her from the garage đđ
â ⊠â â â ⊠â â â âŠ
đMonte Carlo
liked by maxverstappen1, redbull, yourbff and 65,493 others
Y/N x Lando Norris
Theme: Fluff
as the daughter of a ferrari strategist, you're able to attend races. Thats when you developed a crush on Lando x
word count: 1390+
request by @gemwrestling, hope its okay! :S
It's the end of the first practice session this weekend. After raining for most of the session, and with the sun hiding behind a thin veil of clouds, a few warm rays manage to break through. However, it is still pretty cold, when you find yourself inside the Ferrari garage as journalists, mechanics, and of course, the drivers are running around the paddock, giving interviews, chatting, and laughing. Dreamily, you're leaning against the inside of the garage, watching two drivers chat with one another. Ferraris Charles Leclerc and McLarens Lando Norris are talking about their sessions, both of them smiling and motioning with their hands.
This year, your father got the job as one of the Ferrari strategists, after applying to more than a dozen different jobs, and your whole family is more than excited for him to work for this iconic team. Luckily, you can join him every other weekend, attend races, meet new people, and live this life. That's when you met both of your drivers, Charles and Carlos, and you bonded right away. You're especially close to Carlos, who's acting more like a big brother to you, while Charles is the one getting you into trouble. To be fair, he manages well, and most of the time, he gets you out of trouble as well.
Someone, however, caught your attention right away. The person Charles is talking to right now, Lando. You've met him a few times while hanging around with Carlos, and even though he acts shy at first, he is one of the most fun-loving, passionate drivers on the grid. Looking into his beautiful eyes, you couldn't help yourself but develop a crush on him.
Now, you're watching him closely, the way his face twists and turns, through multiple emotions while recounting his good training session, or the way his well-formed body moves when he talks. That's the other thing, his pretty physique attracts you as well. Lando is even growing a little beard, a light stubble, which you need to get used to, but somehow, it suits him well. "You're not even listening." A voice snaps you out of your dream, causing you to flinch shortly. "Uhhh, whaaat?" You say, turning around to see Carlos standing there, wearing his red racing suit, his hair messy, and a coy smirk spreading across his lips. "IâŚ.I was just thinking, aboutâŚ"
Thinking quickly, you try to come up with a reasonable response, but then, he approaches you, to stand by your side. "What were you looking at anyway." He says, gently pushing you aside with his hip, to get the best possible angle. "Hey!" You protest, but when you turn around, both of you are looking straight at Charles and Lando, snickering and smiling. "Ahhh," Carlos says, his voice turning into a giggle. "I see." Blushing heavily, you pout. "I don't even know what you're talking about." You say, unable to look at anything but Lando. "Oh?." Carlos smiles, turning his face to you, a faint glimmer shining inside his eyes. "It's okay, Y/N. I get it." He smiles warmly and turns his face again before he starts to take his gloves off.
"Carlos. I don't know what you're talking about." You try your best to stop your face from turning as red as your Ferrari shirt, but you know he's looking right through you. "Okay. Okay." He hides a smile by biting his lower lip. Then, he straightens his back and stretches his arms, letting out a low groan. "You should tell Lando, you know." Blinking a few times, the sound of his voice sends shivers down your spine. "How do you know it's Lando?" You say without hesitation. Carlos tilts his head triumphantly. "Please, that's obvious," Carlos says, running a hand through his messy hair. Before you can respond, however, he takes a step toward you, again tilting his head. "Just the way your eyes light up when you look at him, your smile when he's around, or simply the way you're a little more nervous when talking to him."
Going through all of your interactions inside your mind, you cannot disagree with any of those. "I cannot tell him. What if he doesn't like me back. That would be so awkward." Carlos gives you a knowing look, basically telling you that that won't happen. "Well, Y/N." He says, taking a step back into the garage. "You will never know until you try." Thinking deeply, you look at him shrugging. "I will talk to you later." Carlos waves and heads inside for his debrief, but at first, he looks at something, someone behind you, and smiles warmly. Turning around, expecting to see Charles, you bump into someone else. "Oh, Y/N. I'm sorry." Lando is standing right in front of you, and to steady yourself, you placed both of your hands on his firm chest. "Oh, uh, no. It's my fault." You stutter, your eyes wandering across his chest, his neck, and even further upright to his beautiful eyes.
At first, he smiles quickly, before his eyes wander down his own body, looking right at your hands on his pecs. You're touching him, feeling his strong chest heaving against the palm of your hand. Instantly, you start to admire his form, the way he looks wearing that racing suit. It looks like it's hand-made for him, the fabric swirling around his whole body smoothly, flattering him flawlessly. For a second, you stand there, unable to move, before you regain your composure. "Oh, fuâŚ.I am sorry, Lando." You say, pulling your hands away quickly. Blushing, you wish for a hole to form underneath you, swallowing you whole. "That's okay, I startled you." He smiles warmly, and for a second, there is an awkward silence hovering between you, before you two open your mouths, trying to say something, but at the same time, interrupting each other.
Sharing a quick laugh, both of you blush now. "You first." He says kindly. "Did you want to talk to Carlos? I think he's going for his debrief now." You say, looking behind you to maybe spot Carlos still running around the garage, but he's nowhere to be seen. But when you turn back to Lando, you catch him smiling shyly, his eyes wandering all over your face. "Actually." He growls quietly. "I wanted to talk to you," Lando says, acting shyer than usual. "Mmmmeee?" You say, feeling your stomach now acting up, twisting and turning. Lando nods warmly, and you notice him slowly, gently stroking himself, running a hand across his chest, the other through his hair. "What can I do for you?" You say, trying your best to hide your nervosity behind a polite smile. Are you that obvious? Was Carlos right? Does Lando know as well? It's still time you turn around and leave, hide somewhere, maybe inside someone's motorhome.
A million thoughts are running through your mind, looking for something, some way to escape, but then, Lando opens his mouth again, taking a deep breath. 'What is he doing?' You think, when suddenly. "Do you want to, get something to eat? During the break?" Lando says quickly, nearly stumbling over his own words while his voice breaks slightly. Unable to respond, you slowly tilt your head slightly, blinking a few times. "Huh?" A low squeak escapes your mouth, no matter how hard you tried to keep it in. "Oh, uh, I understand you're busy⌠I just thought, eh, maybe.." Lando goes into panic mode, and you can tell he's as anxious as you are.
"No, uhm. I mean. That sounds great." Stunned, the two of you exchange a few awkward smiles before he finally realizes what you just said.
"Uhh, so food?" Lando smiles and steadies his hands on his hips. "I am so hungry." You say, and subconsciously, you hold your stomach. Not necessarily through hunger, but more due to the knot forming inside it. "Me too." He smiles again, both of you as red as that car standing inside the Ferrari garage. Together, you make your way through the paddock toward a little food truck handing out self-made hamburgers. You're enjoying your break with Lando, talking about his training session, the upcoming race, and the possibility of a podium. Before the next part of training is about to start, you set another time for a date, this time, away from prying eyes.
hi!! can i pls request an ollie bearman drabble of waking up next to him and cuddling and him being all clingy and cute thank you!!!
here you go! i absolutely loved writing this so i hope you enjoy it đĽ°
pairings. ollie bearman x reader
word count. 0.8k
warnings. flufff oh my god so much fluff (iâm still smiling like a maniac after writing this hsjhsjs)
read under the cut
mornings like these â ollie bearman
IT'S THE SUNLIGHT shining through the crack in your blinds that wakes you. Warm against your bare shoulder like the tender brush of his skin on yours, it's your second favourite wake-up call. The first lies next to you, tangled up in your sheets. His head lies on your chest where he'd rested it last night before you both drifted off into blissful sleep, and you can feel his soft, steady breaths dart across your skin. The sensation is familiar, comforting. You've woken up in his embrace too many times to count, yet it still feels new every morning that your eyes crack open to find his angelic face tucked into the crook of your neck â never failing, not once, to make your heart flutter.
Ollie soon stirs. He seems to have some kind of sixth sense for when you're awake, because not once have you ever had time to get out of bed before he pulls himself out of his sleep. You don't complain though. Mornings like these are, in many ways, your favourite part of the day. You love the slowness of it all, the lack of urgency when you have nowhere to be, and you can adjust to the dawn in your own time; hands exploring, sweet nothings whispered into ears, kisses lingering on your collarbone. This is the time when you're sure Ollie must be some kind of angel. The sun shines in his hair, leaving a soft glow on one side of his face where the other is left in shadow â yes, you're sure, he must be an angel. What you've done to deserve someone like him is beyond you, but you're certain, he has no right to exist when he looks that perfect; when he is that perfect, inside and out.
"You're staring." He breaks the silence first. His voice is raspy, head still buried into your chest, so you can feel the vibrations of his words against your skin. You chuckle. Your hands find his hair, threading through the soft curls tenderly.
"Can't I admire my boyfriend?" you shoot back, a grin playing on your lips that though he can't see, he can definitely sense. You know because his own lips stretch into a smile, now against your neck as he shifts. A few beats of silence pass, and he rolls over onto his side with a groan. You look down at him, messy hair, honeyed eyes and all. Your heart aches, because you've never known someone so beautiful as him. You hope you'll never have to go searching for one.
"I suppose I can allow it." Ollie murmurs. You let your fingers fall from his curls momentarily, until his dopey smile drops into a frown, and he pushes his head back into your hand. "On one condition." he says, sighing contentedly as you continue your movements.
"What's that, Bear?" you whisper.
Ollie cranes his neck up. He knows what he's doing, with his round eyes and pouted lips, looking so innocent, so angelic, how could you ever refuse him anything? Perhaps that makes him not quite so innocent â he knows exactly how to twist you around his little finger. You're a simple girl, after all.
"Cuddles?" he asks. The faintest of blushes bloom across his cheeks, just as they always do when he asks you this question. Even if you've been dating since you were both in your mid-teens, he'll always be shy when it comes to asking for your affection. You don't know why he needs to ask, but you find it adorable, so once again, you don't complain.
"C'mere." you giggle, and, needing no further invitation, he all but dives into your arms. A kiss is left on your forehead before he nuzzles his face back into your neck. His arms pull you in close, and you wrap your legs around his waist. It doesn't take long, in the silence and the warmth, for your breathing to sync and the velvet blanket of sleep to embrace you both once more. You're still vaguely aware of your surroundings, when Ollie murmurs the tiniest of I love yous into your skin. You whisper it back without hesitation.
Mornings like these stretch away in a blur of tangled sheets and golden sunlight. Every dip and curve of your bodies slot together like pieces of a puzzle; like you were made for each other. You sigh, hands in his hair, his fingers running up and down your ribs. He'll have to leave soon â with his job, he always has to â but you know he'll come back to you again, wrap you up in his arms, kiss you like you've been apart for years. You live for it. You wouldn't give it up for the world.
requests are open! send something in if youâd like <3
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I have another idea! So it's a flower shop worker!reader x one of the rookies. So it's like whoever it is goes to the flowers shop tk get flowers for some random thing and falls inlove with reader. So over the next month or so goes to flowershop and is giving anyone flowers, other drivers, family, neighbors. So much it gets to a point where some other rookies stage an 'intervention' where they just go and find out why he is buying so many flowers and it just spirals. But it's like total fluff and ends with the rookie asking out reader for lime coffee?
Thanksss
-đŚ
Lime Coffee and Peonies
Oliver Bearman x Flowershopowner! Reader
SULI: Hi Dino anon! Thank you so much for the request! I really enjoyed writing this one- it's short and sweet but I believe that's what you wanted- hope you enjoy! â also I never knew lime coffee existed? You learn something new everyday
Warnings: none!
The tiny flower shop on Rue des Iris had the kind of charm that made people slow down when they passed it. Ivy crawled along the edges of the windowpanes, and the air smelled like sunshine and eucalyptus. Oliver Bearman hadnât meant to stop. He was on his way to grab a protein shake after a sim session when he remembered a team PR event that needed a bouquet. Something for a sponsor. Simple. In and out.
But then he stepped inside and saw you.
You were rearranging lavender stems in a tall vase behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, earbuds in. The little bell over the door jingled, and you looked up. One earbud popped out.
âWrapped or loose?â you asked with a soft smile, nodding toward the array of flowers behind you.
Oliver blinked. Then blinked again. "Sorry, uh... wrapped? Maybe?"
You tilted your head, amused. âWhat kind of flowers are you looking for?â
His mouth opened, then closed. âHappy ones. Optimistic. For... uh... a sponsor who smiles a lot.â
You hummed thoughtfully and turned to the yellow tulips. âThese are good for optimism. Sunlight in flower form.â
He watched you wrap them carefully, deft hands and a ribbon that matched the tulips perfectly. The whole thing felt oddly cinematic. When you handed the bouquet to him, he stared for a second too long before fumbling for his wallet.
Outside, sitting in the driverâs seat of his car, he looked down at the bouquet and muttered, âOkay, calm down. It was just flowers. Just a florist.â
Three days later, he was back.
He told himself it was because his physio had been extra tense this week, and flowers were scientifically proven to reduce stress.
You were standing on a stool, hanging eucalyptus bundles when he entered. This time, you recognized him.
âBack already?â you asked, a teasing lilt in your voice.
âYeah. My physio's had a long week. Thought Iâd cheer him up.â
You nodded, already leading him to the hydrangeas. âGood choice. Gentle and calming.â
You helped him pick a note card. You even wrote the message he dictated, because his handwriting was, in his words, "basically a doctorâs signature but less professional."
This time, he lingered a bit. You offered him a wrapped chocolate from a jar on the counter. He left chewing it and smiling. And you watched him go.
By week two, he had become a regular.
âThese are for Charles. He had a good race.â
âNeighborâs cat passed away. Apparently she liked daisies."
âLando and I made a bet. I lost. So I owe him something ridiculous. What says, âI hate that you beat me but I respect itâ?â
You never pressed. Just smiled and helped him pick the right stems.
But there were moments. Little ones. Like when your fingers brushed over his while handing him a bouquet, and neither of you pulled away immediately. Or when he asked how your morning had been and actually seemed to care.
One day, he came in while you were wiping down the counters. You barely had time to greet him when he placed a takeaway cup in front of you.
âLime coffee,â he said. âItâs weird. You might hate it. But you also might not."
You blinked, then took it. âThanks. Iâll try it."
He nodded once, looking like he might say more, but then turned and left, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket.
That night, you drank it. And smiled.
The flower trend didnât go unnoticed.
Andrea Kimi Antonelli squinted at his phone. âYou spent âŹ85 on gladioluses? For who?â
âMy cousin. He had a dance recital.â
Arthur Leclerc leaned over the table. âYou donât even have a cousin in Monaco.â
âMaybe it was symbolic,â Jack dohaan added. âWe donât know his life.â
Eventually, after much rookie-level conspiracy, they stormed his hotel suite.
âYou have a problem,â Kimi said, holding a spreadsheet.
âThatâs an Excel document,â Oliver pointed out.
âExactly. We crunched the numbers. Youâve bought 19 bouquets in 24 days.â
âYou guys need hobbies.â
Arthur stood up. âWeâre coming with you. We need to see the florist.â
âAbsolutely not.â
âToo late. Weâve already called a cab.â
You looked up to the sound of several guys tripping over the flower shop threshold.
Four of them. All tall. All chaotic. All staring at you.
Oliver trailed behind them, face in hands.
Arthur beamed. âHi! Weâre... his intervention squad.â
Kimi added, âWe just wanted to meet the face behind the flowers.â
You looked from Ollie to the boys, amused. âHeâs been giving them to everyone but himself.â
Javk whispered, "He's doomed."
You handed Oliver his usual bouquet, subtle blush on your cheeks. He took it with a mumble, clearly dying inside.
When the boys stepped outside, giggling and nudging each other, Ollie lingered.
âSorry about them,â he said quietly. âTheyâre... you know.â
âProtective?â
He chuckled. âAnnoying, mostly. But yeah. I think theyâre just trying to figure out why I keep coming back.â
âAnd why do you?â you asked, voice softer now.
He looked at you, really looked at you, and smiled. âI think you know.â
Later that afternoon, after his friends had been lured away by a nearby gelato stand, Oliver returned.
You were tying up a bouquet for the display window when he cleared his throat.
âI didnât actually come in for flowers today,â he said.
You glanced up, heart weirdly thudding.
âI just⌠wanted to see you. And maybe ask if youâd want to go out for a lime coffee with me sometime.â
You didnât answer immediately.
Instead, you reached for a single daisy, tied a green ribbon around it, and handed it to him.
âOnly if you stop buying flowers for everyone but me.â
He grinned, cheeks flushed. You reached up and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.
He stood still for a moment, hand coming up to where your lips had touched.
âIâll take that as a yes?â
You nodded. âDefinitely.â
The next evening, just after you locked the shop, you turned to find Oliver waiting outside with two takeaway cups.
He looked nervous but thrilled.
âI didnât know if youâd actually like lime coffee,â he said, offering one to you. âBut I figured Iâd give it another shot.â
You took it, letting your fingers brush his.
âYou remembered how I take it?â
He nodded. âOf course. And... peonies, right? You said once they were your favorite.â
You sipped your drink and smiled. âSunlight in flower form.â
He looked at you like you were exactly that.
And just before you stepped away, you leaned in againâanother kiss on the cheek.
This time, he didnât stop smiling the whole way home.
summary â for 713 days, you've been sketching strangers on your morning commute, giving away portraits to brighten their day. when a missed train puts you on an unfamiliar route, you draw a white-haired man who's impossible to ignore. you think you'll never see him againâuntil he plasters half of tokyo with posters trying to find you.
word count â 16.4 k
genre/tags â modern AU, ceo x artist, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, soft romance, fluff, so much fluff, banter, provider!satoru gojo bc goddamn yes & him being a very dramatic puppy in love, misunderstandings
warnings â 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, brief mention of financial stress and reference to past cheating experience.
author's note â put on your favorite taylor swift playlist and get cozy for the fluff. i squeeeezed every tiny bit of fluff that i have out of my heart into this. side note, the idea came to me after seeing a tiktok of someone handing out sketches on a train hehe. hope it makes you smile <3
masterlist + support my writing + artwork by @3-aem
Your alarm goes off at exactly 5:45 AM, the same time it has for the past three years. You silence it with a tap (or try, anyway) and slip out from under your warm blankets before the urge to just stay there and call in sick becomes too stong to withstand it.
Your small one-bedroom apartment is quiet, save for the distant early morning traffic of the city outside your window and your groaning as you make your way to the bathroom.
Your morning routine was more muscle memory than anything other at this hour. Shower (seven minutes), hair (five minutes, more or less), makeup (eight minutes), and outfitâalready sorted from last night (smart you)âcoffee and an avocado toast.Â
By 6:30, youâre checking your bag if youâve got everything: laptop, planner, phone charger, and most importantly, your sketchbookâa simple Moleskine with cream-colored pages that are perfect for graphiteâand a few spare pencils.
You flipped open to a new page in your sketchbook and wrote âDay 713.â Tomorrowâs entry would be 714.Â
Youâd been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldnât help but try to capture his ease. When youâd shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer.Â
Surprised. Delighted.
âIs this me?â he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.
You had simply nodded.
The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in youâa sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.
Maybe it was cheesy, but you didnât care. It was the smile that made it worth itâthe way a simple gesture could light up someoneâs face at such early hoursâthatâs what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.
As you locked your apartment door this morningâTuesday, 6:32 AMâyou had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.
Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:
Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.
Great. Just what you needed.
Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And youâd never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep.Â
Panic started to bubble.
âExcuse me,â you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. âWhatâs the fastest way to Central District Station?â
Clipboard guy barely looked up. âTake Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.â
Twenty minutes?
Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up.Â
Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.
Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smellâless lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.
Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and youâd know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These werenât your usual commuters, the ones youâve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if youâve never spoken to them.Â
But then you saw him.
He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.
He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didnât read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.
His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it likeâwell, like he wasnât trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.
Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between oneâs ribs didnât bother him.
You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class.Â
After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.
You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easyâwalk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.
What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What ifâ
The train began to slow. Now or never.
You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadnât moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.
âExcuse me,â you said.
He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like youâd just stepped into sunlight.
âThis is for you,â you said and offered him the drawing.
For a second, he didnât react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesnât say something, literally anything in the next second, youâre going to spontaneously die.
Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile.Â
âA drawing? Of me?â
His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.
You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morningâno, your entire existenceâwas waiting on his next words.
âYouâre very talented.â
...Huh?
You didnât know what you expected, but it wasnât that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said âthank you,â or âoh, that's so sweet,â something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like youâd just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.
You. Are. Very. Talented.
The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.
Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh godâthe presentation.
âThis is my stop,â you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. âI need to go.â
âWait.â He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.
âI hope you like it!â you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.
It wasnât until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signatureâthe tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.
It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AMâstill on time, miraculously), youâd almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.
You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. Youâd never see that man again.Â
Or so you think.
Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.
And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the backgroundâa fleeting moment in a city full of them.
Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.
Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. Youâd made her day, she said.Â
Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.
A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morningâs sketchâan older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else⌠something like recognition.
âWait,â he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. âAre you the subway artist everyoneâs been talking about?â
âIâm sorry?â
âThe subway artist,â he repeated, like that explained everything. âThereâve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someoneâs trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.â He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. âItâs you, isnât it?â
âLine 4? I... I donât usually take that line.â
But then it hit you.Â
You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?
There was only one person it could be.
The stranger from Line 4.Â
After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.
The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.
There, on a pillar near the platformâs edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome strangerâor rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:
LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST
Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? Iâd like to thank you properly.
Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX
The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?
You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did âthank you properlyâ even mean?
You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow.Â
On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you.Â
What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering⌠and also a little unsettling.
You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.
This was ridiculous. You didnât know anything about himâother than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?
You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days youâd feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subjectâa woman with a long braidsâand focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.
Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if youâd imagined it.
The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasnât just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:
TO THE ARTIST
Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.
Hanami Restaurant, Central District
You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god.Â
He was a stalker.Â
Or⌠maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didnât even know?Â
But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. Youâd seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasnât just casual ramen and a maybeâthis was⌠effort.
âOh, youâve seen them too?â
You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.
âIsnât it the most charming thing?â she said. âTheyâve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks itâs a movie promotion, but I think itâs a real love story in the making.â She gave a wistful sigh. âI hope the artist shows up.â
You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest.Â
This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldnât be possible.
You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking?Â
The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didnât have to go. Itâs not like he knew who you were or where you livedâtechnically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened.Â
But⌠what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything youâd secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?
You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.
My God.
What had you started?
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadnât worn in months. For a dinner you werenât going to attend. With a man youâd barely met.
âThis is ridiculous,â you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.
Youâd already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming toâŚwell, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.
You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock.Â
7:30.
7:45.
8:00.
He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.
8:15.Â
8:30.
Maybe heâd ordered a drink to pass the time.
9:00.Â
Surely, by now, he knew you werenât coming.
You told yourself it was for the best. This way, heâd get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.
Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didnât plaster the city with posters looking for you.Â
And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if heâs just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, youâd nearly convinced yourself youâd done the right thing. Youâd protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.
Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.
On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.
By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.
Another poster. But this one looked different.
As the train slowed, you could make out your sketchâthe one of the white-haired strangerâbut now surrounded by a border ofâŚwere those flowers?Â
You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.
You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someoneâhim, obviouslyâhad added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.
And below, a new message:
TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDNâT COME TO DINNER
I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But Iâd still like to meet you.
Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.
Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.
Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX
You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didnât feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.
âIs that about you?â
You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadnât even noticed her step off.
âWhat? No, Iââ
âIt is, isnât it?â she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. âYouâre the subway artist! Iâve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at schoolâs been talking about them.â Her eyes lit up. âBut itâs real! Itâs actually you!â
Your face went hot. âI just⌠draw people on my commute. Itâs not a big deal.â
âNot a big deal?â She looked at you like youâd just told her the earth was flat. âSomeone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. Thatâs so romantic.â She paused, glancing back at the poster. âThough I guess... it might feel a little intense if you donât know him.â
âExactly,â you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.
âBut now heâs apologizing and backing off. Thatâs actually kind of sweet, donât you think? Like he realized he overdid it.â Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. âOh! Were you going to give me something?â She pointed to your sketchbook.
âIâyes, actually.â Youâd almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. âI hope you donât mind.â
She took the drawing, her face bright. âThis is amazing! You made me look so... I donât know, determined? Like I actually understand what Iâm reading about.â She laughed. âThank you so much!â
A chime echoed through the stationâthe warning for the next train.
âThatâs my transfer,â she said and glanced at the poster one more time. âYou know, if I were you, Iâd call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.â And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.
You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers heâd carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours.Â
Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.
Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries.Â
Either way, you had a decision to make.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there.Â
You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadnât called it. Yet.
By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision.Â
The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.
It rang once. Thenâ
âHello?â
That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.
âUm. Hi,â you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. âThis is⌠well, I donât know if youâll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, andââ
âYou called.â He sounded genuinely relieved. âI was starting to think you werenât ever going to.â
âYeah, wellâŚâ You took a breath. âYou do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?â
âI thought they were romantic?â
âFor someone I donât know, itâs more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?â
âAre you?â
You went silent. Right. You probably shouldâve seen that one coming.
âIâm Satoru, by the way.â You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.
He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. Youâd heard it a million times before.
But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.
âListen,â you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. âIâve got my lunch break in about an hour. If youâre free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancyâjust coffee or something.â
âAn hour? Yes. Absolutely.â A pause. âWhere do you work? I can come to you.â
You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. âTakahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.â
âPerfect. Iâll see you in an hour.â
The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anythingâbut your eyes kept drifting to the clock.
It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train whoâd launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.
 Totally normal.
Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.
âHey, thereâs someone asking for you at the reception. And heâs... well, you should just come see.â
âSomeoneâs here for me?â you asked, frowning. âBut I was supposed to meetââ You stopped. âOh no.â
You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at somethingâor better said, someone.
And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.
He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.
When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you couldâve sworn someone behind her whispered, âOh my god.â
âArtist!â he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. âWow, youâre even prettier when youâre mortified.â
And then you saw the flowers.Â
Correction: you saw the flowers.
He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet youâd ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.
Every head in the lobby turned toward you.
Great. Just fucking great.
You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.
âYou really donât know how to be subtle, do you?â
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Satoru had suggested a cafÊ not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than⌠his face.
People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps heâs used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.
Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didnât recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline andâ
Wait.
Holding hands?
Why were you even thinking about holding hands?
He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. Aâ
You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoruâs hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.
Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.
A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet cafĂŠ, staring hard at a menu youâd already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.
You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently.Â
Finally, you set the menu down. âYouâre staring.â
âI am,â he said, without a hint of shame. âItâs not every day I get to meet the artist whoâs been haunting my dreams for weeks.â
âHaunting your dreams, huh?â You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. âYou know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.â
âDo I?â He tilted his head slightly. âIâll admit, I donât do this often.â
âWhat, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?â
He laughed. âBoth, I guess. That mightâve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once Iâve set my mind to something.â
âOh really?â
His smile widened. âOkay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defenseâit worked. Youâre here.â
âOut of curiosity more than anything,â you said, though you werenât entirely sure that was true. âSo now that youâve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?â
He paused, considering. âI must admit, I didnât think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.â There was an unexpected softness to his voice. âAnd maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.â
âAnd? Verdict so far?â
âEven more interesting,â he said without hesitation. âBut I still have questions.â
âSuch as?â
âSuch as how long youâve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.â He leaned in slightly. âAnd if youâd ever let me see your sketchbook.â
Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.
âHereâs your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.â She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadnât heard him order.
âChef sent these over for you both,â she added with a smile. âItâs that new recipe you suggested last week.â
âThank him for me, Hana,â Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. âThey look perfect.â
âOf course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.â She gave a polite bow before heading back.
You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.
âOkay. What was that about?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âThe chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your âusualâ, which looksâby the wayâlike something from the kidâs menu.â
Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. âTry one. Theyâre amazing.â
You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. âStill not answering my question.â
âI come here a lot.â
âIâve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,â you said, âand they still spell my name wrong on the cup.â
He laughedâa real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.
âFair point.â
The pastry was every bit as good as he promisedâlight, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you werenât letting him off the hook.
âSo?â you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. âWhy does everyone here treat you like youâre... I donât know. Someone important?â
âI suppose because I am someone importantâ
âWhat does that mean?â
âI figured Iâd bring this up eventually.â Satoru took a sip of his kidâs menu drink, then set the cup down. âI own Gojo Holdings.â
You stared at him. Blankly.
âOur headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,â he added, casually gesturing upward.
Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdingsâa name youâd seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.
âYouâre joking.â
âIâm not.â His tone was surprisingly straightforward. âIâm the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.â
âSo this buildingâ?â
âI donât own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This cafĂŠâs independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.â
âWhich is why they know your usual.â
He gave a small shrug. âPerks of a eating here often.â
âSo when you were on that trainâŚâ
âI was just commuting. Like anyone else.â He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. âTraffic sucks. Trains are faster.â
âA practical billionaire. How novel.â
âCEO. Not a billionare,â he corrected. âWellâtechnicallyââ
âNot helping your case,â you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.
âSo thatâs how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.â You leaned back, studying him again. âMost people wouldâve just... posted something online.â
âI donât do things halfway,â he said, not even pretending to apologize. âBesides, I donât have social media. Too messy in my position.â
You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.
âSo what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?â
âThe same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.â
You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He mustâve sensed your hesitation.Â
âOkay, listen,â he said, leaning forward. âIâve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and thereâs this white wall in my office. Itâs been empty for months because nothing felt right for itââ
âYou want to commission me?â You blinked, more confused than ever. âFor your office?â
âYeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,â he said. âNot landmarks or cityscapesâeveryone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.â
âSo all thisâthe posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhuntâwas for a commission?â
Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.
âNo,â he said after a second. âYeah. I meanââ He sighed. âDoes it sound that stupid?â
You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. âItâs an âIâm thinking about it.ââ
âPerfect,â he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. âNo pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.â
You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. âHow do you even know I draw anythingâbeside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.â
He raised an eyebrow, like he couldnât quite believe you said it yourself. âYou donât?â
Stupid, handsome man. âIÂ hate you.â
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Back at your desk, you twirled Satoruâs business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you?Â
You glanced at the flowers heâd gifted youâstill sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that.Â
You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.
Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait youâd sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.
Her reaction was immediate. âGojo Holdings? That Gojo?â
You nodded, reluctantly.
âAnd he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?â
âHe mentioned it,â you said, already regretting sharing anything.
She didnât miss the nuance. âOh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?â
Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.
That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself itâs just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more.Â
The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had âbad ideaâ written all over itâin flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.
Days passed. Then weeks.
You kept up your morning ritualâtrain sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.
The business card moved againâfrom your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.
And then, lifeâas it so often doesâmade the decision for you.
It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two monthsâ rent.
That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didnât cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didnât have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.
Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where youâd left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
âThis entire hallway is yours to reimagine,â Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. âBoardroom entrances, reception, executive officesâthe whole floor could use your touch.â
The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what youâd imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say âtastefulâ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.
Offices like this werenât meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.
âHow many pieces are we talking about?â you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.
âHowever many feels right.â He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. âWhat? I mean it.â
âYou know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.â
âIâm not most clients.â
âClearly.â
He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbookâdimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun.Â
You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.
âAnd this,â Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, âis my office.â
His office was hugeâat least four times the size of your apartmentâwith windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.
âItâsâŚâ you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldnât stroke his ego, ââŚadequate.â
Satoru burst out laughing. âAdequate? That might be the first time anyoneâs used that word to describe my office.â
âIâm sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.â You moved towards the windows. âI thought Iâd try something different.â
âAnd that,â he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, âis exactly why I hired you.â
âBecause I donât stroke your ego?â
âBecause youâre straight forward. I like that.â
Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.
âThat wall there,â he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, âis where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?â
You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. âItâs quite the blank canvas.â
âIâve been told my style is too minimalist.â
âBy who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?â
His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. âYou Googled me.â
âBasic research before meeting a new client,â you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.
âMmhmm.â He didnât look convinced. âCome here. I want to show you something.â
You approached the window where he stood.
âSee that building there?â He pointed toward the horizon. âThe one with the copper coloured roof?â
You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. âNot reallyâŚâ
âMay I?â
Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.
âThere,â he said, his voice brushing your ear. âBetween those two towers. Thatâs where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.â
Your pulse stumbled. âYou knew? All this time?â
âKind of, yeah,â he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. âIâd actually thought about commissioning you back thenâat the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like⌠I donât know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.â
âHow poetic.â You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. âWhy didnât you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Wouldâve saved you a lot of time. And posters.â
His lips curved into that maddening smile. âWhereâs the fun in that?â
âYouâre so weird.â
âSays the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.â
âYouâre the stalker here.â
âSo, what do you think?â He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. âCan you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?â
âLetâs talk numbers first.â
âI was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,â he replied, watching you carefully.
You nearly choked. That was more than generousâenough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.
âFour million,â you said, eyes steady. Bold.
His brows lifted. âThatâs quite a jump.â
âIâm quite an artist.â
âThatâs already well aboveââ
You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. âHmm. So, if you donât want meâŚâ
You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. âI get it. Itâs a big commitment. Iâm sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.â
Satoru blinked. âWaitââ
You took another step.
âThree million,â he said. âFinal offer.â
âDeal,â you replied, quick before he could change his mind. âBut I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.â
âNaturally.â He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. âThree million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.â
Your hand froze halfway to his. âDinner?â
âJust a simple business dinner,â he said innocently. âTo go over project details.â
âWe can go over those in an email.â
âSome things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.â
You crossed your arms. âThat sounds suspiciously like a date.â
âOnly if you want it to be,â he said, mirroring your stance.
âI donât.â
âThen itâs not.â
You narrowed your eyes. âFine. One business dinner.â
âAt Narisawa,â he added casually. âPrivate dining room, excellent view.â
âNarisawa? Thatâs a two month waiting list.â
âNot for everyone.â
âYouâre really trying to blur the lines between business and private, arenât you?â
âIâm merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.â
âMcDonaldâs exists.â
âIâm not taking you to McDonaldâs.â
âI thought I had creative control in this partnership.â
âOver the art,â he said. âDining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.â
You gave him a look. âIâm starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.â
âWhat would give you that impression?â
âMaybe because youâre pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.â
âI didnât need to push for the art. You were already sold.â
âPresumptuous.â
âAm I wrong?â
You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. âOne dinner. No private roomâthatâs weird. Main restaurant only. And Iâm paying for myself.â
âMain restaurantâs fine,â he conceded, far too agreeable. âBut Iâm paying. Consider it a signing bonus.â
âThatâs not how signing bonuses work.â
âIt is at my company.â
âFine. But this changes nothing. Itâs strictly professional.â
âOf course,â he said. âJust two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyoâs finest restaurants. Completely professional.â
âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.â
You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. âThree million yen, full creative control, and oneâsingular, not two, only oneâbusiness dinner.â
He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.
âIf you say so,â he said.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk.Â
The project had you more energized than anything youâd worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didnât want to waste it.
What you hadnât expected was how often youâd see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.
Sometimes youâd catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. Heâd be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.
Other times, heâd just⌠appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.
âNeed a hand?â heâd ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about âhangingâ your work. (âGet it? Because theyâll be hanging on the wall?â âYes, Satoru, I get it. Itâs still not funny.â âYou smiled though.â)
Heâd carve out little bits of timeâten minutes here, twenty thereâdespite his full schedule. Sometimes heâd walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who wouldâve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time?Â
Other times, heâd just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt⌠comfortable. Good, even.
And occasionally, heâd say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didnât expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.
âShouldnât you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?â youâd ask.
âI could, but Iâve already yelled at three departments today. Iâm ahead of schedule,â heâd reply with a grin.
And the strangest part wasnât how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasnât there.
Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.
Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadnât eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.
Youâd send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.
The concept boards are coming along well. Iâll have something concrete to show you by next week. â You
His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:
Iâm sure theyâre amazing, but Iâd rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? â SG
You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldnât help the small smile tugging at your lips.
The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. â You
Mr. Gojo was my father. Iâm Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. â SG
The exchanges continued like thisâyou sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet⌠you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.
Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:
Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. Iâve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless youâre planning to work through the weekend again? â SG
You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:
Iâm in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday wonât work. â You
His response came almost immediately:
Art can wait. Food canât. The reservation is at 8. â SG
You scoffed.
I donât recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? â You
Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.
âHello?â
âI donât accept a no.â
âThat sounds problematic.â
He laughed. âOnly when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones Iâve been waiting weeks for.â
âIâm covered in paint and havenât slept properly in days.â
âYou could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.â
âFlattery wonât work.â
âYouâre an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when youâre trying not to smile.â
Your traitor lips curved anyway. âYou canât possibly know that over the phone.â
âBut Iâm right, arenât I?â
You sighed and set your brush down. âWhy are you so persistent about this dinner?â
âBecause I want to see you,â he said simply. âBecause youâve been painting pieces for my walls and I havenât even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like youâre immune to my charm.â
âI could send photos of the work.â
âOr,â he said, âyou could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.â
âYou wonât let me out of this, will you?â
âNo.â
You sighed. âFine. But Iâm paying for myself.â
âWeâll discuss that over appetizers.â
âThereâs nothing to discuss.â
âFriday at 8,â he said, ignoring your protest. âIâll pick you up.â
âI can take the train.â
âHumor me.â
You could practically hear the smile in his voice.
âHas anyone ever told you youâre impossible?â
âYou. Repeatedly. Itâs part of our thing.â
âWe donât have a thing.â
âYet,â he added. And before you could argue, âIâll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.â
After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.
Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.
You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldnât go away.
It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.
Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybeâjust maybeâmake him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.
Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.
Even you didnât believe it anymore.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like youâcomfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.
You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.
Downstairs. Take your time. â SG
You walked over to the window for a quick glance outsideâand there he was.
Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one heâd worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you.Â
No wave, no winkâjust a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.
You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadnât in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.
It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.
You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.
He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.
When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasnât quite sure he was seeing you right.
âWow,â he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. âYou lookâŚâ He actually stopped to find the wordâthat alone felt suspicious. ââŚreally beautiful.â
âStop that.â
âStop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.â
Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even moreâthe kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, âyou absolutely cannot afford thisâ.
Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.
Conversation came easier than youâd expected. Over the first few coursesâeach one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)âyou talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.
But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didnât feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
âSo, the third piece,â he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish youâd ever tasted. âThe one with the commutersâhow do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?â
You paused. âYouâve been paying attention.â
âI told youâIâm interested in your process.â
âMost clients only ask when itâll be done and how much itâll cost.â
He smiled, lifting his wine glass. âIâm not most clients,â he said, echoing what heâd told you that first day at his headquarters.
For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you thinkâsharp, specific ones that showed he wasnât just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.
At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.
âCan I ask you something?â you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.
âAnything.â
âYou really went through all thisâthe car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinnerâjust to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?â
He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. âI donât know,â he said finally. âMaybe I just like you.â
âYou like me?â you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.
âIs that so hard to believe?â
âKind of, yeah.â You fidgeted with your napkin. âI mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOsâ daughters. People who donât get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.â
âMaybe thatâs exactly why.â
Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.
âSo, youâre single then?â you asked. âUnless your girlfriendâs very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.â
Satoru raised an eyebrow. âAre you asking if I have a girlfriend?â
âIâm asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.â
He laughed. âNo angry phone calls. And yeahâIâm single.â
âShocking,â you said. âA successful and attractive CEO who canât keep a girlfriend? Whatâs the catch?â
âMaybe Iâm just picky.â
âOr maybe youâre married to your work,â you teased. âLet me guessâcanceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?â
âThatâsâŚâ He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. âActually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.â
Your smile slipped. âOh. I didnât mean toââ
âDonât be sorry. She wasnât the right one. If she had been, maybe she wouldâve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.â
âHow long ago was that?â
âAbout two years.â He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. âHavenât really dated since then.â
âSo, casual things?â
âMore like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing Iâve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when sheâs disappointed.â
You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasnât even that funny, not really. But the way heâd said itâso dry, and slightly frightenedâand the face he made, like a kid whoâd just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.
For a moment, he didnât look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didnât get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.
You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. âIâm sorry.â
He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. âI like when you laugh like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike youâre not thinking about how you look doing it.â
Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.
âWell,â you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, âyour secretary sounds scary. I can see why youâd rather have dinner with me.â
âAmong other reasons.â
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. âAre you always this charming?â you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.
âIâm trying,â he said. âWith you.â
He said it like it wasnât heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.
âSatoruâŚâ you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didnât really hear because you only had eyes for him.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.
The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world.Â
Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side.Â
âThat was unnecessary,â you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didnât make much effort to slip out of his arms.
âMaybe,â he replied with a grin, âbut Iâve always wanted an excuse to do that.â
It felt goodâbeing with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.
Youâd just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.
You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips.Â
âDance with me,â Satoru said.
You turned to him. âWhat? No.â
âWhy not?â He held out a hand.
You hesitated and looked around for a second.Â
âYou know, I wonât take ânoâ for an answer.â
You surrendered and took his hand. âThis is so stupid.â
He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldnât be.
âYou know,â you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. âI usually donât do this with clients.â
âFigures. I always suspected I was your favourite.â
âI wouldnât say that,â you teased. âThat other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.â
âOh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?â
âNot yet.â
âI like when you try to mess with me.â
âIâm not trying. You just make it easy.â
He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirtâtoo fast, like yours.
A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didnât matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didnât feel like silence at all.
âYouâre good at this,â you said softly.
âI only dance with people who make it easy.â
âThat line would work better if your hands werenât shaking a little.â
He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. âSo are yours.â
You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didnât answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.
âStill think itâs stupid?â he asked.
Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.
âYes,â you whispered. âAbsolutely.â
âBut?â
You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. âBut I donât want it to stop.â
Thatâs when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.
His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished heâd kissed you but then the rain came heavier.
âThatâs our cue.â But he didnât move right away. His eyes stayed on you.Â
Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though youâd barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoruâs white hair beginning to darken with moisture.
âHome?â he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasnât quite ready for the answer either.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You werenât sure when it changedâonly that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just⌠thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.
âThank you,â you said, stepping out into the quiet night.
âMy pleasure.âÂ
The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someoneâs balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasnât quite ready to say goodnight either.Â
You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadnât.
When you finally turned to him, he was closer than youâd expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.
âI had a really good time tonight,â you said. âThank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescueâŚâ
He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. âEven the terrible jokes?â
âEspecially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.â
âOh, she haunts everyone,â he said. âSheâs very scary.â
You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expectingâ
âI should let you get some sleep,â he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.
Your breath caught as his hand roseâslow, deliberateâcoming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss youâd hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.
The kiss was soft, warmâoverflowing with care. But not the kind youâd been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.
âSleep well,â he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turnedâjust like thatâand walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.
Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just⌠not what youâd expected. Not what youâd wanted.
You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadnât he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?
Youâd been so sure. The way heâd looked at you over dinner. The way heâd held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.
But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at armâs length.
It shouldnât have stung the way it did. But it did.
More than you cared to admit.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because youâd forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.
Youâd spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your headâevery glance, every word, every fleeting gestureâuntil youâd nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.
And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.
âSoooo⌠how was your fancy dinner?â
âIt was fine,â you said, powering up your computer.
âFine?â Mei materialized beside her like sheâd been lying in wait for gossip. âThatâs it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?â
âIt was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.â
âWhat kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?â
âA man who takes his commission very seriously.â
You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.
âCome on,â Mei pressed. âDid he kiss you? He kissed you, didnât he? I can tell by your face.â
âHe didnât kiss me.â
âAh,â Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone whoâd just solved a puzzle. âSo you wanted him to.â
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. âCan we please not?â
But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a âvibeââuntil you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didnât compare to what was coming later.
You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logisticsâwhen to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.
Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths youâd basically lost your kitchen to the cause.
For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you werenât sure what to think anymore.
Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and youâd been naive enough to think it meant something more.
You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.
You raised your hand to knock on his office doorâthough really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and heâd already spotted you the second you moved.Â
He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was againâthat maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.
You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed.Â
Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. âHey, you want coffee?â
You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the cityâcommuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.
Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was closeâWhy would he come so close?âand placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment.Â
âSorry for the wait,â he said, voice low. âIâm nearly done.âÂ
And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.
When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.
You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure heâd already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.
Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh.Â
âIâm so sorry. Thereâs this big merger weâre handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot Iâve ever met.â
âItâs okay.â
He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.
âNo, itâs not. I donât want to keep you waiting.â
âI bet that just comes naturally with being important.â
âIâm not that important,â he replied with a grin.
âThe whole tower has your name on it. Iâd say that qualifies.â
âWhatâs more important right now,â he said, standing and walking over to you, âis you.â He took the seat across from you. âSo⌠how was your day? Treat you well?â
Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?
âIt was fine. Mondayâs not exactly my favorite.â
âDonât get me started.â He laughed. âI hope at least your meeting went well?â
You blinked. He remembers? Youâd mentioned it briefly during dinner.
âOh, uh⌠yeah. It went okay,â you said. âBut letâs talk about the commission. Thatâs why Iâm here, right?â
He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. âSure.â
You spent the next hour and a half going over the artworkâdiscussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.
You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.
It was in one of the offices on the west side of the buildingâthe ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Towerâthat you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.
âWait, let me.â
Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.
âThank you,â you said, suddenly flushed. But he didnât move away. âYou can step back now.â You didnât dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didnât want to face his chest.
âDoes this make you uncomfortable?â
âWhat kind of question is that?â
âIâm just checking in,â he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.
âYou have a strange way of doing that.â
âI had a feeling.â
âAbout what?â
âYouâre avoiding me.â
âI donât.â
He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didnât notice.
âSo this doesnât bother you?â he asked, almost curious.
âSatoru, whatâs your mission here?â
You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good heâd look without it.
âYouâre blushing.â He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.
âItâs hot.â
âIt isnât,â he said, and smiled.
He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.
âCan we go back to work? Iâd rather not have a sleepover here.â
Satoru didnât move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.
âYouâre acting strange today,â he said softly.
âMaybe because youâre keeping me here.â
âWas I mistaken?â
âAbout what?â
âOur date.â
âWhat about it?â
His hand dropped from your chin. âI thought it was⌠good.â
You blinked, trying to read him. âIt wasââ you cleared your throat, ââit wasnât just good. It was great.â
âOh. Yeah⌠I think so too. Then whyââ
âBut you didnât kiss me.â
His eyes widened just a little. âYou⌠wanted me to kiss you?â
âIâŚâ You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. âYes.â
âI thought Iâd be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?â
âI mean⌠yeah. It dependsâI guess, butâŚâ You trailed off, absolutely flustered.
He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.
âDonât smile like that,â you said, pushing lightly against his chest.
âIâm sorry, I just⌠I didnât want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind ofââ
âWeird? Borderline stalkerââ And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words.Â
No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.Â
His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.
You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasnât as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.
âStill think this is just about the commission?â he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.
âShut up.â And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.
This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldnât stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like youâd been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.
âWhatâs the hurry?â he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.
âYou made a whole-ass campaign to find me,â you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. âDonât back down now.â
His laugh was low and rough against your neck. âFair point.â
Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.
âStill too slow for you?â he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.
âGetting there,â you managed, though your voice was shakier than youâd intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
âI do like a challenge.â
Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.
âMuch better,â he breathed against your lips.
His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist.Â
âI hope you sent everyone home,â you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.
âDonât worry. And besidesâglass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.â
âHow convenient.â
âI thought so.â His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. âThough I have to admitâI didnât imagine using it like this when I had them installed.â
You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. âThen what did you imagine?â
âBoring conference calls,â he said between kisses. âDefinitely not as interesting as this.â
The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above youâthe way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.
âWhat makes you think Iâm that loud?â you murmured against his mouth.
âOh, I have a feeling.â
His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.
âSatoru,â you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.
âI know.â His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. âI hate waiting too.â
Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between youâand the things neither of you could hold back any longer.
ââ ⢠ăťâ¸â¸
Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.
âSo,â Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, âwhere exactly did we leave off with the commission?â
You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. âPretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.â
âAh, yesâthe once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. âOmg, what was I thinking?ââ he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. âFor what Iâm paying you, I really have no say.â
âDonât blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.â
âMy negotiation tactics are pretty solid,â he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. âI got exactly what I wanted.â
âThe art commission?â
âAmong other things.â His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. âThough I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.â
âIs that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?â
âThatâs my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,â he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. âThe CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.â
âPoor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.â
âTerrible oversight.â His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. âWeâll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.â
âHands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,â you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.
In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. âI think we should continue our discussion right now,â he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.
You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.
âOh fuck! I didnât know you were still here,â a voice blurted.
You scrambled to grab Satoruâs shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.
Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone whoâd just been caught in a very compromising position
âSuguru,â he said, voice calm and unbothered. âWhatâs up?â
âDonât botherâIâm just looking for my laptop charger. Iâll leave.â
âItâs okay. We were just...â Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. â...Having a meeting.â
You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how youâd imagined your evening endingâalmost naked on Satoruâs office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger.Â
The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasnât even the slightest bit ashamed.
Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. âHaha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?â Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, âCan we please never talk about that again?â
Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manageâspacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.
But it was the room heâd turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.
âYou didnât have to do all this,â youâd said, running your fingers along the custom easel heâd installed.
âI wanted to,â heâd replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. âI want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.â
Youâd cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-timeâsomething that wouldâve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketchesâthough you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.
Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, heâd show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout heâd ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you paintedâtaking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you donât overwork yourself again.
âYou know I can hear you smiling through the phone,â youâd tease after he hung up from his calls.
âCanât help it,â heâd say. âIâve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.â
The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping someâthe ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything youâd been trying to do.
âThis feels like coming full circle,â Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.
âFrom stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?â
âFrom falling in love with your work⌠to falling in love with you,â he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.
Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoruâs grand romantic gestures got out of hand.
Which happened more often than youâd expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because youâd wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shopâs worth of peonies because youâd mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the cityâs best sushi chefâapparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn townâpreparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because youâd been craving good fish.
âYou know you donât have to keep trying to impress me,â you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. âI already said yes to moving in with you.â
âIâm not trying to impress you. Iâm trying to spoil you. Thereâs a difference.â
The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way heâd automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how heâd text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that heâd learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot.Â
He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space youâd built together.
Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her âsecond sonâ after a chaotic family dinner heâd attendedâwhich, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their âsonâ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?âStill, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your fatherâs completely ordinary job and about your cousinsâ college applicationsâand even remembered your auntâs dogâs name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.
The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch youâd given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.
âThatâs where it all started,â heâd say whenever anyone asked. âBest investment I ever made.â
Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train ridesâgetting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking picturesâyou realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures.Â
A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.
And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studioâs windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldnât help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didnât know how to love in small doses.
âStill think Iâm weird?â heâd ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.
âThe weirdest,â youâd always reply, taking the coffeeâand the kiss that came with it. âBut youâre my weird. And I love you.â
âI love you more,â heâd say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
And that, youâd learned, made all the difference.
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author's note â wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, iâd be forever grateful if youâd consider gifting me 10 minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my masterâs thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)
here's the link.
itâs completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesnât feel right for you.
other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead iâm stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))
wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3
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