Welcome to Daydream Land

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 water’s 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.

“Alright, we’re rolling in three, two, one...” the cameraman’s 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.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

His voice echoed softly against the terracotta walls behind him.

“This is my TUMI backpack. I take it everywhere, especially when I’m traveling. It’s kind of like my...survival kit,” he chuckled, unzipping the top compartment. “You’ll see what I mean.”

One by one, he began pulling items out, placing them carefully on the small table beside him.

“First up: my headphones,” he said, holding up a sleek black pair. “Can’t live without these. Whether it’s music, Netflix on the plane, or zoning out in the paddock, these save me.”

He paused and smirked at the camera. “They also help when I’m pretending not to hear Oscar.”

The staff behind the camera chuckled.

“Next... passports. Plural. Yeah. I have three.” He fanned them out like a hand of cards, laughing. “I’m international, baby.”.”

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.

“My mum got me these for Christmas,” he said quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t always wear them on track days, but I keep them close. Just… makes me feel a bit more grounded.”

He placed them gently down and then brandished a small tin.

“Cinnamon mints,” he declared proudly. “For the sweet tooth. Helps with cravings. Or when you want to pretend you don’t eat like a raccoon at midnight.”

More laughter. The atmosphere was warm, friendly. Lando was in his element, somewhere between boyish and bold.

“Now we’re getting to the fun stuff.”

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.

“A fan gave me this,” he said, holding it between his fingers. “I’ve had it for years. It’s falling apart but... can’t travel without it.”

He smiled at the memory, then paused as his hand slipped into one of the deeper side pockets. His brow furrowed.

“Oh... wait,” he muttered, pulling something halfway out before immediately stuffing it back in.

He looked up at the camera, suddenly sheepish.

“Uhh...yeah. Some stuff I definitely can’t show you,” he said, grinning and scratching the back of his neck. “Let’s just say... it's better to stay protected”

The staff broke into laughter. One of the camera guys let out a dramatic “ooooohhh.”

“What?” Lando laughed, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “You never know, okay? I like to get prepared.”

Still grinning, he reached again into the bag and pulled out a small, silver disposable camera.

“This guy comes everywhere with me,” he said. “I take film photos when I travel. Stuff that’s just for me, you know? Not for Instagram. Just memories.”

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.

“I’m kind of a hoarder,” he admitted. “These are all... pieces of places. People. Moments. I like keeping them close.”

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' .

“Oh. My god.”

He blinked, went pale, then immediately turned red.

“I...okay, that’s not, this is not...this wasn’t meant to be in here.”

He stuffed it back into the pocket, eyes wide.

The cameraman wheezed behind the lens. A staffer covered her mouth.

“I swear this is not... I didn’t pack this bag this morning!” Lando stammered. “Okay I did, but not, like, not with this interview in mind so I didn't know I had to show it.”

Lando groaned. “Can we cut that out? Please? It’s for...dry skin.”

“Oh wich part of your skin?”

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.

“Oh!” he beamed. “Okay. These are my favorites.”

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.

“This... is my girlfriend.”

The way he said it, like he couldn’t believe his luck, was soft, sincere.

He flipped through the pictures with reverence.

“This is her in Spain last summer. Look at this, she was trying to take a serious photo and I made a face behind her.”

He laughed.

“This is us in Monaco. Don’t ask how I convinced her to get in the pool. She hates cold water.”

Another.

“This is her sleeping. And this... this is her at breakfast, in my hoodie.”

His smile melted into something private, like a quiet sunrise behind his eyes.

“And this...”

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. “What?” Then looked at the picture.

“Oh...oh, no. No, no, no...”

He yanked it back quickly, his ears flushing bright pink.

“Shit, this isn’t...this was not supposed to be in that pile.”

He stuffed it deep into the side of the bag, clutching the remaining Polaroids protectively.

“Oh my god, please can you blur it,” he groaned, covering his face. “That’s from the other pile. Like...the private-private collection.”

The entire crew burst into cackles.

“I swear to god if that makes the cut, I’m a dead man. She’s going to kill me.”

“Was that a nude?” someone asked, not even trying to hide the glee.

“I am not answering that.”

“Was it?” the assistant pressed.

“I plead the fifth,” Lando said dramatically, still red-faced. “Blur it. Blur it, please. I’m begging you. I have a career. I have a relationship.”

He tried to laugh it off, but his smile was flustered, eyes wide and nervous.

Eventually, he cleared his throat, trying to move on.

“Anyway. My phone. My wallet. You know. The boring stuff.”

But even as he listed the rest of his items, he kept glancing at the camera, haunted. Regretfully boyish. Still blushing.

“Alright. That’s what’s in my bag,” he said quickly, snapping the backpack shut. “And apparently... a reason to get murdered by my girlfriend.”

He groaned again. “Can we cut that part? Please? I swear, she’s gonna make me sleep on the balcony.”

The red light turned off.

The staff burst into applause.

“Best interview yet,” one of the directors laughed, clapping. “Gonna break the internet.”

@TUMIofficial

WHAT’S IN MY BAG with Lando Norris: Lake Como Special Catch our exclusive behind-the-scenes interview with what Lando really carries with him👀

@_user1 WAIT. Did he just… show a nude of his gf on camera?? 😭😭😭

@_user2 THE WAY HE PANICKED. omg that was NOT staged. He looked like he wanted to die 💀💀💀

@_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 IT’S A FAMILY VACAY SNAP 💀💀

@_user5 He carries cinnamon mints for his sweet tooth AND spicy pics of his girl?? man’s layered fr

@_user6 Not Lando Norris accidentally exposing his thirst for his gf on a sponsored ad 😭 someone check on the TUMI PR team

@_user7 Lube AND nudes of his girl?? Lando Norris is not packing for a trip. He’s packing for a weekend of sin.

@_user8 He really said: “this is her being pretty, this is her sleeping… and this is her NAKED” lmao LANDO WHYYYYY

@_user9 This man is not traveling. He’s 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 “Some stuff I can’t show you” and then five minutes later accidentally shows us 😭 this man has NO filter and NO chill

@_user12 This isn’t a “what’s in my bag” this was a “what’s in normally in my bedroom drawer but I somehow take it everywhere in my backpak”

@_user13 He said “I like to be prepared” and I believe him now

@_user14 “That’s from the other pile” UM. HELLO????? THERE IS A PILE??

@_user15 Protective AND obsessed with his girl?? I need a man like Lando

@_user16 He really said “what’s in my bag?” and the answer was: horniness

Texts messages

Y/N Just watched the TUMI video 😇

Lando Oh no.

Y/N The one where my nude photo makes a guest appearance in front of 1.2 million people? 🤗

Lando BABE It was an ACCIDENT But don't worry it's blur we can't see a single thing I didn’t mean to pull that photo I meant the cute ones!! The breakfast one!! The one where you’re wearing my hoodie!!

Y/N So you show the one where i’m wearing nothing at all?

Lando I’m sweating I’m actually sweating I’m gonna get sued. by you. By TUMI. By your parents

Y/N My mum did text me She said “interesting campaign... very modern”

Lando NOOOOOOOOOOOO I’m crawling into the lake

Y/N Also “i like to be prepared”? Really? What exactly are you preparing for mid-flight with lube? 🤔

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 🙃

Lando I’m scared to check twitter Someone called my bag “frat boy coded" They’re not wrong

Y/N You do carry condoms, lube, candy and a Polaroid of me naked in the same backpack You’re like Dora the Explorer if she was addicted to sex

Lando DORA?!?!?! 😭

Y/N “What’s in my bag?” Everything but self-control

Lando Okay, first of all, RUDE Second of all… the lube smells nice Third of all… You didn’t complain last time

Y/N Oh so now you’re doubling down??

Lando Just trying to make the best of my public humiliation Besides What’s so wrong with carrying a few... essentials? A man’s gotta travel prepared

Y/N You sound like a horny boy scout

Lando “Always be ready” is a valid motto 🙋‍♂️

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 You’re lucky i love you And you’re lucky the nude was actually a good one

Lando Thank you 🥺 i almost show the one where you’re 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 Polaroid… One just for me to see😉

Y/N … 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.” He hadn’t 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.

“Morning,” Oscar said, way too casual. “Sleep well?”

Lando didn’t answer. Just dropped into the chair across from him and stared at the ceiling.

Oscar waited half a beat.

Then: “So… what’s in your bag today?”

Lando groaned, eyes closing. “No.”

“No what?” Oscar asked, blinking innocently.

“I’m not doing this with you.”

Oscar nodded slowly, tapping his phone against the table. “Right. Of course. Strict media day focus. No time for lube talk.”

Lando didn’t move but look at him shocked. “Oscar!”

“Yes?”

“I will actually fight you if you keep talking”

Oscar continued, unfazed. “I’ve learned a lot about you this week.”

“Please stop.”

“Your skincare routine. Your travel essentials.”

“It’s for my girlfriend,” Lando muttered.

Oscar nodded slowly. “Romantic.”

Lando looked at him. “I didn’t mean to show half that stuff.”

Oscar took a long sip of his water bottle, then added, deadpan: “You were really sweating.”

“I was panicking, Oscar.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

There was a pause.

Oscar looked back down at his phone.

“I just didn’t know you were the type to carry… souvenirs.”

Lando threw his head back and groaned. “It’s private. It’s supposed to stay private.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You handed it to a camera crew.”

“I didn’t know it was that one.”

Oscar hummed. “Risky system.”

Lando covered his face. “I’m not coming out for media. Tell them I’ve combusted.”

Oscar leaned back again, shrugging. “Might be safer. Someone from Williams asked if you’re sponsored by Durex now.”

Lando didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to crawl into his chair.

Oscar gave a tiny, satisfied nod.

Then, after a beat: “At least the mints were normal.”

“Thanks,” Lando said miserably. “Really comforting.”

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.

“Okay, but... I actually have a question now.”

Lando didn’t move. “Please don’t.”

Oscar ignored him, tone completely deadpan. “What’s in the pile?”

Lando sat up slowly, blinking at him in horror. “What the hell, Oscar?”

Oscar stayed relaxed, perfectly composed. “You said it yourself. There's the normal Polaroids. And then there’s the private-private pile. So… what’s in it?”

“I am not...” Lando pointed at him, absolutely done. “...having this conversation with you.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Just curious. For science.”

Lando stood up instantly. “I’m leaving.”

Oscar shrugged. “Fair.”

Lando stormed toward the door, muttering something about changing teams, changing sports, maybe even changing names.

He was halfway out when,

“Oi!” Oscar called after him. “Don’t forget your backpack, Norris.”

Lando froze mid-step.

Oscar was already grinning.

“You left it,” he added, far too casually. “Y’know… the one with your precious things in it.”

Lando turned around like a man walking back into a crime scene, snatched the bag off the chair with one hand, and glared.

“Stop talking about it,” he muttered.

Oscar just smiled. “I’m not saying anything.”

“You are thinking them.”

Oscar leaned back, unfazed. “I’m not.”

“You’re being insufferable.”

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 Lando’s memory for years to come.

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 over—and the moment he sees you, his entire face lights up.

“Baby,” he grins, pushing his chair slightly back, arms open. “Come here.”

You shake your head, bashful. “I don’t wanna interrupt.”

His brows lift like you just said something ridiculous. “Baby, you never interrupt. Come on.”

You hesitate for only a second before walking over. The chat’s already going crazy:

“OMG WAIT HE HAS A GF???”

“THIS IS SO CUTE WTF.”

“I WANNA SEE HERRRRR.”

“W BRO.”

“DROP HER @ RN.”

You stand beside his chair, glancing at him with a nervous smile. “You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, reaching for your hand and tugging you closer. “C’mere.”

You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips and then his cheek. The chat absolutely erupts:

“SHE’S GORGEOUSSS.”

“W GIRL W GIRL.”

“THEY’RE SO CUTE I’M CRYING.”

“BRO’S WINNING IN LIFE.”

He doesn’t let go—just 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.

“OMG WAIT HE’S PLAYING WITH ONE HAND.”

“KING ENERGY.”

“THE DEDICATION IS REAL.”

He just smirks, glancing briefly at the chat. “Yeah… makes it more fun this way.”

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, “You tired, baby?”

“A little,” you admit, rubbing your eyes, “but I’m hungry too.”

He smiles, squeezing your hip. “Say less.”

Then he returns to the mic. “Alright chat, I gotta go take care of wifey. Y’all be good.”

The chat’s final flurry scrolls by fast:

“AWWWWWWWW.”

“HE CALLED HER WIFEY 😭😭😭”

“W RELATIONSHIP.”

“BRB CRYING IN SINGLE.”

You tilt your head up, cheeks warm, eyes filled with love.

He glances down and winks. “Told you I’m lucky as fuck I found you.”

And you just smile—because you feel lucky too.

The video opens with the click of a camera turning on, followed by a small laugh.

“Hi, Vogue,” 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. “I’m Y/N Verstappen and I’ve been asked to share my daily beauty routine… which honestly feels like a joke considering I’ve been up since 5 a.m. because my daughter thinks that’s an acceptable wake-up time.”

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.

“So let’s get into it,” she smiles. “I already cleansed off-camera because, well, my toddler smeared porridge on my face earlier and that wasn’t very Vogue.”

She lifts a bottle toward the camera. “This 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.”

Just then, there’s a tiny knock on the bathroom door. Y/N pauses.

“Mama?” A small voice calls.

She bites back a smile. “Come in, schatje.”

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.

“This is Isa,” she chuckles. “My shadow. She doesn’t believe in personal space. Or sleep-ins.”

Isa rests her head against Y/N’s shoulder and waves lazily at the camera, mumbling, “Hi Vogue.”

“I’m gonna keep going while she hangs out,” Y/N explains. “Mom life doesn’t pause for skincare, right?”

She manages to tone with one hand, dotting serum on her cheeks while Isa fiddles with the collar of her robe.

And then, “Lieverd?” Max’s voice comes from somewhere off-camera. “Have you seen her other sock? She left it in the pantry again, I think.”

Y/N rolls her eyes fondly. “Check under the cereal boxes.”

There’s a pause.

“Got it.”

Max enters a moment later, barefoot in sweatpants and one of Y/N’s oversized hoodies, holding the missing sock like it’s a trophy.

“Victory,” he smirks, and steps into view to slide it onto Isa’s tiny foot as she babbles softly.

“Oh, and if I didn’t mention it... I’m married to that guy,” Y/N gestures at him, “who sometimes borrows my hoodies and always makes me tea while I do this.”

As if on cue, Max returns moments later with a steaming mug and a kiss to her temple. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives her a little smile and nods toward the camera like you’ve got this before disappearing again.

Y/N smiles after him.

“Okay, so next, I use this moisturizer. I keep it in the fridge because Max likes our house at ‘race car garage’ levels of cold and my skin can’t cope.”

She taps product on her face gently, still bouncing Isa in her arms.

“Lip balm,” she adds, reaching across the counter. “I don’t go anywhere without it. This one smells like mango. Isa always tries to eat it.”

“Mine,” Isa declares sleepily, snatching it from Y/N’s hand.

Y/N laughs. “Told you.”

There’s another interruption, this time the sound of a crash followed by Max’s startled “Alles goed?!” from the other room.

Y/N blinks at the camera, totally unbothered. “That’s our cat knocking over Max’s trophies again. She has a personal vendetta against the Monaco one.”

She finishes her makeup: light concealer, brow gel, tinted lip balm, all with Isa still perched on her hip.

“Oh, and when I do go to races, I do a bit more. Blush, mascara, maybe eyeliner if Isa hasn’t decided my makeup brush is her new toy.”

From the mirror, you can see Max re-entering, now carrying their cat under one arm and waving a toy toothbrush in the other.

“Does this belong to the tiny dictator?”

Isa perks up. “MINE!”

Max hands it over solemnly. “I thought so.”

He leans against the counter again, watching as Y/N wraps up her routine.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs under his breath.

Y/N smiles at the compliment but turns it into a tease. “Even without the mascara?”

Max grins. “Always.”

The camera catches Isa reaching over to swipe her fingers in the blush compact and smear it across Y/N’s cheek. Y/N gasps in mock horror while Max bursts into a quiet laugh.

“Raw and unfiltered,” Y/N tells the camera, dabbing at her cheek. “Exactly what Vogue asked for, right?”

She sets Isa down gently, and the little girl waddles over to Max, nestling herself into his arms like a koala.

“I don’t get a lot of ‘me’ time,” Y/N admits, tucking her hair behind her ears. “But I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. It’s messy. Loud. Exhausting. But also, really, really full of love.”

Max leans into the frame for a moment, his voice soft. “That’s because you’re the heart of it.”

Y/N blushes, swats him away gently, and turns back to the camera.

“Thank 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.”

Max, now offscreen, calls out, “That’s classified information.”

Y/N grins. “Bye, Vogue.”

She reaches to turn off the camera just as Isa squeals from the other room: “DAAAADDY! Cat stole my toast!”

Fade to black.

------

Carlos and Lewis /

Max and George /

Kimi /

BONUS: Oscar, Lando and Kimi /

yourbff this max guy owns me for hearing you screaming at the screen for 2 hours 💀

maxverstappen1 Thanks! I like your bookshelf by the way.

↪︎ yourusername wait WHAT ↪︎ user bro blink twice if you’re being held hostage by your own emotions ↪︎ user what is HAPPENING here??? ↪︎ 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 can’t get a guy to reply to “hey”

yourroomate i’ve never seen you sprint across the dorm faster than when you saw that comment 💀💀

user Max Verstappen replying to a redheaded lit/music major from yale… I smell a ✨plotline✨

user “I like your bookshelf btw.” Sir. What does that even MEAN????

⋆ ✩ ⋆ ┄ ⋆ ✩ ⋆ ┄ ⋆ ✩

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 didn’t taste like existential dread. Small wins count 🥹🩷

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maxverstappen1: think you liked the keychain 😎

> yourusername I DID! it’s everywhere with me now > maxverstappen1 I’ll 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 💀

user the bookshelf is now lore. the keychain is lore.

user Max, tell the truth. She’s made you read Jane Austen, hasn’t she?

↪︎ maxverstappen1 no. something worse.

yourbff I would like to publicly announce that i am such a fan of this

user Max said: ‘girl studies books, I study HER’ 😭

user WHAT IS GOING ON HERE I’M SWEATING???

user not me shipping this like it’s canon and I’ve read ONE comment thread

user the bookshelf comment. the keychain. ladies we’ve got a CRUSH developing in real time

user now I’m imagining her studying with live timing in the background while he texts her from the garage 😭😭

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📍Monte Carlo

liked by maxverstappen1, redbull, yourbff and 65,493 others

yourusername books closed. dress zipped. weekend saved. 🥂🌊

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maxverstappen1 You forgot the picture of me winning.

> yourusername there are plenty of those online already 😘

user THIS COMMENT SECTION IS KILLING ME

danielricciardo The man is GONE. GONEEEE 😭

yourbff My bestie flew to Monaco and came back smugger than a triple world champ

user HOLD ON IS THAT MAX WITH THE WHITE CAP???

user Soft launch speedrun unlocked

user this whole thing is SICK AND TWISTED

user not a single tag but every girl with anxiety and a Red Bull hoodie knew it was Max immediately

user oh your honor they are in love.

user And now she’s back at uni reading Wuthering Heights pretending she wasn’t kissed on a yacht at midnight

user he liked her bookshelf and now she’s in Monaco. we’re in a romcom.

user i don’t even go to uni and I suddenly want to major in Literature 😭

user He’s such a Cancer moon I swear to god

user Is she gonna be in the paddock at Silverstone next???

user showed this to my mom and she said, “she has the look of a girl he’d fall for.” I’m emotionally unwell.

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maxverstappen1 Strong weekend. Good car. Great company. 🏁💙

(Tagged: yourusername)

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yourusername what happened to soft launching??

> maxverstappen1 Do I look like I know what that is?

danielricciardo AND JUST LIKE THAT HE IS IN LOVE

lando "great company” bro she made you eat vegetables this week admit it

charles_leclerc yourusername I'm sorry you have to endure him

> maxverstappen1 Be careful, I know where your dog lives.

user from bookshelf to podium. we rise.

user Verstappen HARD LAUNCHED Literature Girlfriend™ and I, for one, have not emotionally recovered.

user not max's rizz being about a BOOKSHELF

user can't believe i lived to see this day🧡

user HIS INTERVIEW SAYING, “I admire people who are passionate about what they love.” AND THEN THIS POST I'M IN AWE

pierregasly Did she write your caption or do you just sound like this when you’re in love?

georgerussell63 Charles owes me £50. I said it would be Belgium. Pay up.

> charles_leclerc 🙄🙄🙄

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. "I….I was just thinking, about…"

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, fu….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.

yourusername’s insta story

ln4fanclub

8,625 Likes

ln4fanclub Mini fan on Mclaren gear today at Silverstone! 🧡

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livelaughlando that’s so iconic

piastri444 I WANT A MINI SUIT TOO 😭😭

thelewiscloset we need lando to meet mini him

norrizf1 @ yourusername please my queen do your magic

loverofcarzz YES @ yourusername

yourusername’s insta story

mclaren’s insta story

mclaren

Liked by yourusername, landonorris and 326,851 others

mclaren We found Lando and he met his twin! 🥹🧡

#F1 #BritishGP

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yourusername admin i LOVE YOU

yourusername Mission accomplished ✅

mclaren Our queen 👏👏

landonorris This kid made my day

yourusername you’re WELCOME

landonorris also i’m scared of y/n someone save me

mclaren Nono, she has permission to lecture you

landonorris betrayed by my own team 😔💔

yourusername say bye to your seat, lando

roscoelovescoco

Liked by yourusername and 188,255 others

roscoelovescoco Nice meeting's ya @ landonorris

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yourusername Roscoe this is HILARIOUS BAHAHAH

landonorris destroyed by LH’s dog. what is my life?

yourusername first of all, is ROSCOE HAMILTON not “LH’s dog” get it right

yourusername second, you deserve it

yourusername third, i love u

landonorris i love u too 🙄🙄

mornings like these — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — with his job, he always has to — 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.

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.

“Wrapped or loose?” 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. “What kind of flowers are you looking for?”

His mouth opened, then closed. “Happy ones. Optimistic. For... uh... a sponsor who smiles a lot.”

You hummed thoughtfully and turned to the yellow tulips. “These are good for optimism. Sunlight in flower form.”

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 driver’s seat of his car, he looked down at the bouquet and muttered, “Okay, calm down. It was just flowers. Just a florist.”

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.

“Back already?” you asked, a teasing lilt in your voice.

“Yeah. My physio's had a long week. Thought I’d cheer him up.”

You nodded, already leading him to the hydrangeas. “Good choice. Gentle and calming.”

You helped him pick a note card. You even wrote the message he dictated, because his handwriting was, in his words, "basically a doctor’s 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.

“These are for Charles. He had a good race.”

“Neighbor’s cat passed away. Apparently she liked daisies."

“Lando and I made a bet. I lost. So I owe him something ridiculous. What says, ‘I hate that you beat me but I respect it’?”

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.

“Lime coffee,” he said. “It’s weird. You might hate it. But you also might not."

You blinked, then took it. “Thanks. I’ll 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 didn’t go unnoticed.

Andrea Kimi Antonelli squinted at his phone. “You spent €85 on gladioluses? For who?”

“My cousin. He had a dance recital.”

Arthur Leclerc leaned over the table. “You don’t even have a cousin in Monaco.”

“Maybe it was symbolic,” Jack dohaan added. “We don’t know his life.”

Eventually, after much rookie-level conspiracy, they stormed his hotel suite.

“You have a problem,” Kimi said, holding a spreadsheet.

“That’s an Excel document,” Oliver pointed out.

“Exactly. We crunched the numbers. You’ve bought 19 bouquets in 24 days.”

“You guys need hobbies.”

Arthur stood up. “We’re coming with you. We need to see the florist.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late. We’ve already called a cab.”

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. “Hi! We’re... his intervention squad.”

Kimi added, “We just wanted to meet the face behind the flowers.”

You looked from Ollie to the boys, amused. “He’s been giving them to everyone but himself.”

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.

“Sorry about them,” he said quietly. “They’re... you know.”

“Protective?”

He chuckled. “Annoying, mostly. But yeah. I think they’re just trying to figure out why I keep coming back.”

“And why do you?” you asked, voice softer now.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and smiled. “I think you know.”

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.

“I didn’t actually come in for flowers today,” he said.

You glanced up, heart weirdly thudding.

“I just… wanted to see you. And maybe ask if you’d want to go out for a lime coffee with me sometime.”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you reached for a single daisy, tied a green ribbon around it, and handed it to him.

“Only if you stop buying flowers for everyone but me.”

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.

“I’ll take that as a yes?”

You nodded. “Definitely.”

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.

“I didn’t know if you’d actually like lime coffee,” he said, offering one to you. “But I figured I’d give it another shot.”

You took it, letting your fingers brush his.

“You remembered how I take it?”

He nodded. “Of course. And... peonies, right? You said once they were your favorite.”

You sipped your drink and smiled. “Sunlight in flower form.”

He looked at you like you were exactly that.

And just before you stepped away, you leaned in again—another kiss on the cheek.

This time, he didn’t stop smiling the whole way home.

Taglist, comment to be added;

You’d 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 couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer. 

Surprised. Delighted.

“Is this me?” 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 you—a 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 didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.

As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you 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 you’d 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. 

Panic started to bubble.

“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”

Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes?

Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up. 

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 smell—less 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 you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them. 

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 didn’t 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 like—well, like he wasn’t 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 one’s ribs didn’t 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. 

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 easy—walk 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 if—

The train began to slow. Now or never.

You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.

“Excuse me,” 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 you’d just stepped into sunlight.

“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.

For a second, he didn’t 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 doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.

Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile. 

“A drawing? Of me?”

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 morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.

“You’re very talented.”

...Huh?

You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d 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 god—the presentation.

“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”

“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.

“I hope you like it!” 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 wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the 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 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d 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. You’d never see that man again. 

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 background—a 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.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

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. You’d made her day, she said. 

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 morning’s sketch—an 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.

“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”

But then it hit you. 

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. 

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 platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or 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? I’d 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 “thank you properly” 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. 

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. 

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 didn’t know anything about him—other 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 you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and 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 you’d 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, wasn’t 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. 

He was a stalker. 

Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know? 

But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.

“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”

You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.

“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”

You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest. 

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 couldn’t be possible.

You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking? 

The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened. 

But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d 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?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.

You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, 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. 

7:30.

7:45.

8:00.

He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.

8:15. 

8:30.

Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.

9:00. 

Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.

You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d 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 didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you. 

And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d 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 sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers? 

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 someone—him, obviously—had 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 DIDN’T COME TO DINNER

I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d 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 didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.

“Is that about you?”

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 hadn’t even noticed her step off.

“What? No, I—”

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”

Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”

“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.

“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.

“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”

She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”

A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.

“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” 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 he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours. 

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. 

Either way, you had a decision to make.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there. 

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 hadn’t called it. Yet.

By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision. 

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. Then—

“Hello?”

That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.

“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”

“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”

“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”

“I thought they were romantic?”

“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”

“Are you?”

You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.

“I’m Satoru, by the way.” 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. You’d 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.

“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”

“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”

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. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”

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, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.

It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d 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.

“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”

“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”

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 something—or 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 could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”

“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”

And then you saw the flowers. 

Correction: you saw the flowers.

He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d 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.

“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Satoru had suggested a café 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 he’s 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 didn’t 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 and—

Wait.

Holding hands?

Why were you even thinking about holding hands?

He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—

You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s 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 café, staring hard at a menu you’d 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. 

Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”

“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”

“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”

“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”

He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”

“Oh really?”

His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”

“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”

He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”

“And? Verdict so far?”

“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”

Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.

“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.

“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”

“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”

“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” 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.

“Okay. What was that about?”

“What do you mean?”

“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”

Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”

You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”

“I come here a lot.”

“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”

He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.

“Fair point.”

The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.

“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”

“I suppose because I am someone important”

“What does that mean?”

“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”

You stared at him. Blankly.

“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.

Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d 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.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”

“So this building—?”

“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”

“Which is why they know your usual.”

He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”

“So when you were on that train…”

“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”

“A practical billionaire. How novel.”

“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”

“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.

“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”

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.

“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”

“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”

You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation. 

“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”

“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”

“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”

“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”

Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.

“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”

“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”

“Is that a yes?”

You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”

“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”

You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”

He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”

Stupid, handsome man. “I  hate you.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you? 

You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still 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. 

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 you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.

Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”

You nodded, reluctantly.

“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”

“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.

She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”

Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.

That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more. 

The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in 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 ritual—train 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 again—from 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, life—as it so often does—made 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 months’ rent.

That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t 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 you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” 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. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”

The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d 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 ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.

Offices like this weren’t 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.

“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.

“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”

“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”

“I’m not most clients.”

“Clearly.”

He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun. 

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.

“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”

His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with 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.

“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”

Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”

“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”

“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”

Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.

“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”

You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”

“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”

“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”

His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”

“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.

“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”

You approached the window where he stood.

“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”

You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”

“May I?”

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.

“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”

Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at 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 don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”

“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”

His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“You’re so weird.”

“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”

“You’re the stalker here.”

“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”

“Let’s talk numbers first.”

“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.

You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough 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.

“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.

His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”

“I’m quite an artist.”

“That’s already well above—”

You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”

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. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”

Satoru blinked. “Wait—”

You took another step.

“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”

“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”

Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”

“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”

“We can go over those in an email.”

“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”

You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.

“I don’t.”

“Then it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”

“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”

“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”

“Not for everyone.”

“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”

“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”

“McDonald’s exists.”

“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”

“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”

“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”

You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”

“What would give you that impression?”

“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”

“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”

“Presumptuous.”

“Am I wrong?”

You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”

“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”

“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”

“It is at my company.”

“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”

“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”

You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”

He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.

“If you say so,” he said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

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. 

The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.

What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d 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 you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d 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, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.

“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)

He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time? 

Other times, he’d 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, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.

“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.

“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.

And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t 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 hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.

You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.

The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You

His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:

I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG

You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You

Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG

The exchanges continued like this—you 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. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG

You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:

I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You

His response came almost immediately:

Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG

You scoffed.

I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You

Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

“Hello?”

“I don’t accept a no.”

“That sounds problematic.”

He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”

“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”

“Flattery won’t work.”

“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”

Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”

“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”

“I could send photos of the work.”

“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”

“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

“No.”

You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”

“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”

“I can take the train.”

“Humor me.”

You could practically hear the smile in his voice.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing.”

“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”

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 wouldn’t 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 maybe—just maybe—make 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 didn’t believe it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

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 you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.

You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.

Downstairs. Take your time. — SG

You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and 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 he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you. 

No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t 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 wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.

“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”

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.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the 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, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.

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 you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each 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?)—you 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 didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”

You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”

“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”

He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d 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 think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t 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.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.

“Anything.”

“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”

He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”

“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why.”

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.

“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”

“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”

He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”

“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”

“Maybe I’m just picky.”

“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”

“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”

Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”

“So, casual things?”

“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”

You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.

For a moment, he didn’t 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 didn’t 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. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”

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.

“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”

“Among other reasons.”

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.

“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”

He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.

“Satoru…” 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 didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

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. 

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. 

“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.

“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”

It felt good—being 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.

You’d 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. 

“Dance with me,” Satoru said.

You turned to him. “What? No.”

“Why not?” He held out a hand.

You hesitated and looked around for a second. 

“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”

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 shouldn’t be.

“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”

“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”

“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”

“Not yet.”

“I like when you try to mess with me.”

“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”

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 shirt—too fast, like yours.

A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.

“You’re good at this,” you said softly.

“I only dance with people who make it easy.”

“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”

He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”

You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t 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.

“Still think it’s stupid?” 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.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”

“But?”

You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

That’s 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 he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.

“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you. 

Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.

“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t 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 weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

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.

“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.

“My pleasure.” 

The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either. 

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 hadn’t.

When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d 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.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”

He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”

“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”

“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”

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, expecting—

“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.

Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.

The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.

“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and 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 you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.

You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?

You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d 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 arm’s length.

It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.

More than you cared to admit.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

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 you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.

You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d 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.

“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”

“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.

“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”

“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”

“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”

“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”

You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.

“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”

“He didn’t kiss me.”

“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”

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 ‘vibe’—until 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 didn’t compare to what was coming later.

You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when 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 you’d 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 weren’t 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 you’d 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 door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved. 

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 again—that 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. 

Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”

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 city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.

Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and 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. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.” 

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 he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.

Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh. 

“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”

“It’s okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.

“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”

“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.

“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”

“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”

Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?

“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”

“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”

You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.

“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”

He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”

You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing 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 building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that 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.

“Wait, let me.”

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.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.

“You have a strange way of doing that.”

“I had a feeling.”

“About what?”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I don’t.”

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 didn’t notice.

“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.

“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”

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 he’d look without it.

“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.

“It’s hot.”

“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.

He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.

“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”

Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.

“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”

“Was I mistaken?”

“About what?”

“Our date.”

“What about it?”

His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”

You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”

“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”

“But you didn’t kiss me.”

His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”

“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”

“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”

“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.

He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.

“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”

“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words. 

No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. 

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 wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.

“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.

“Shut up.” 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 couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.

“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.

“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”

His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”

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.

“Still too slow for you?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.

“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

“I do like a challenge.”

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.

“Much better,” 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. 

“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.

“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”

“How convenient.”

“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”

You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”

“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”

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 you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.

“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.

“Oh, I have a feeling.”

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.

“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.

“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”

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 you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

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.

“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”

You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”

“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”

“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”

“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”

“The art commission?”

“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”

“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”

“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”

“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”

“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”

“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” 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. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” 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.

“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.

You scrambled to grab Satoru’s 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 who’d just been caught in a very compromising position

“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”

“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”

“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”

You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger. 

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 wasn’t 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. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”

Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious 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 he’d 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.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.

“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”

You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve 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 sketches—though 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, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.

“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.

“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”

The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the 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 you’d been trying to do.

“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.

“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”

“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” 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 Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.

Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.

“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”

“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”

The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot. 

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 you’d built together.

Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s 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 you’d 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.

“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”

Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures. 

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 studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t 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 didn’t know how to love in small doses.

“Still think I’m weird?” he’d 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.

“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”

“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.

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author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me 10 minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s 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.

it’s 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 doesn’t 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 i’m 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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