#actually i just misread the post...slightly..

Behind-the-scenes paddock access. A full team tour. And for one lucky fan: a passenger hot lap with one of our junior drivers.

You read it twice, then a third time, thumb hovering over the entry link. You weren't the type who won things. You'd entered a dozen contests over the years including raffles, sweepstakes, a radio call-in once that you'd forgotten about within the hour and won exactly nothing. But it cost nothing to enter, and it took less than a minute, so you filled in your name, your email, ticked the box confirming you were a member of the community, and went to bed without thinking about it again.

That was three weeks ago.

The email arrived on a Thursday afternoon while you were microwaving leftover pasta, your phone buzzing against the counter with a notification you almost swiped away without reading. You caught the subject line at the last second.

Congratulations — You've Won the Mercedes Petronas AMG Hot Lap Experience!

You stood very still for a moment, the microwave humming behind you, and read it again to make sure you hadn't misread a word of it. You hadn't. Your name was there. Your entry number was there. There was a phone number to call to confirm your identity and begin arranging travel.

"No," you said out loud, to nobody, because your flatmate was still at work and the only witness to this moment was a bag of frozen peas in the freezer door. "No, that's not… that's fake. That's got to be fake."

You spent the next twenty minutes doing exactly what any sensible person would do: you searched the sender's email domain, cross-referenced it against the team's official website, checked the community forum to see if anyone else had posted about winning, and eventually with your heart hammering somewhere up near your throat you called the number.

A woman with a crisp, professional voice answered on the second ring, said the team's name, and asked for your entry confirmation code like this was the most ordinary phone call in the world.

It was not, for you, an ordinary phone call. Your voice cracked on your own name.

By the time you hung up, you were laughing, and then you weren't laughing, you were sort of gasping, one hand braced on the kitchen counter, and the pasta was forgotten and slightly overcooked and you did not care even slightly.

You called your mother first. She didn't fully understand what Formula 1 was, let alone why you were shrieking about it, but she understood you, and she let you talk in circles for ten minutes before asking, gently, "So you get to meet the driver? The one you like?"

"I don't like him, Mum, I just — I've followed his career, it's not like that—"

"Mm," she said, in the particular tone mothers use when they've already decided something and are simply waiting for you to catch up.

You called your best friend next, and she screamed loudly enough that you had to hold the phone away from your ear, and then she immediately began drafting a list of things you needed to buy, none of which you actually needed, all of which you agreed to anyway because arguing felt like a waste of the good mood.

You did not, notably, mention how long you'd followed him. How you'd watched every junior series race you could find a stream for, back when he was driving in series most people had never heard of, back before anyone outside the paddock knew his name. How you'd felt something close to pride, absurd and one-sided as it was, the first time he stood on a Grand Prix podium. You told yourself it wasn't a crush. It was admiration. It was respect for a quiet, hardworking kid who'd made it to the top of the sport through sheer bloody-minded persistence rather than noise or ego.

You told yourself this several more times over the following two weeks, with decreasing conviction.

—------

The Mercedes Petronas AMG press office sent a schedule, a waiver, a dress code (smart casual, closed-toe shoes, no loose jewellery), and a document confirming that your travel and one night's accommodation near the circuit would be covered. You read every word of it more times than was strictly necessary.

You told yourself you wouldn't get your hopes up about anything beyond the obvious: a hot lap, a photo, maybe a signature if you were lucky and didn't completely embarrass yourself. He was a Formula 1 driver in the middle of a championship battle. He had a media schedule, sponsor commitments, physio, debriefs, a hundred other things pulling at his time. You would get an hour with him if you were fortunate. Maybe less.

That didn't stop you from watching every recent interview clip you could find, not to prepare talking points exactly, just to remind yourself who he actually was, rather than the flattened, half-imagined version you'd built up over years of distant admiration. You noticed things you'd noticed before but filed away properly this time: the way he answered questions slowly, choosing words with visible care, like he didn't trust himself to speak without thinking first. The dry, almost apologetic humour that surfaced when a reporter caught him off guard. The way he went quiet and still whenever a camera lingered too long on his face, like attention was a coat that didn't quite fit him yet.

Your flatmate, tired of hearing about it, eventually banned the subject from the flat after nine p.m., which you respected for approximately four days.

You packed and repacked your bag three times. You bought a new pair of trainers you didn't need because the dress code had made you paranoid your usual ones looked too worn. You lay awake the night before your flight running through a dozen imagined versions of how the day might go, none of which, you would later think, came anywhere close to how it actually unfolded.

The circuit reached you before you reached the circuit.

You felt it from the shuttle bus window, a low mechanical thrum vibrating up through the floor and into the soles of your new trainers, engines somewhere out on track running practice starts, the sound doubling back off grandstands and hospitality units in a way that made the whole world seem to hum. Traffic crawled along roads lined with flags — every team's colours strung up in long fluttering rows, Mercedes Petronas AMG's silver and deep green among them, and you found yourself staring at that particular combination of colours the way you might stare at a familiar face in a crowd.

The campsites had bloomed up overnight in every field bordering the circuit, tents in clusters, barbecue smoke rising thin and grey into a sky that couldn't quite decide whether it wanted to rain. Fans walked in every direction wearing every driver's merchandise, faces painted, flags draped over shoulders like capes, and somewhere in the crowd you spotted no fewer than six people wearing his number.

You didn't say anything about that. You just noticed it, and something in your chest went warm and strange.

The paddock, once you were credentialed through security with a laminated pass on a lanyard that you were fairly sure you would frame later and never admit to, was its own separate world entirely. It smelled like nothing you'd expected and everything you should have: hot rubber, spilled espresso, sunscreen, the faint acrid tang of fuel drifting from somewhere near the garages, and underneath it all, the mineral smell of rain that hadn't fallen yet but was clearly considering it.

Team personnel moved everywhere, at a walking pace just shy of a jog, headsets clipped to belts, tablets tucked under arms, badges swinging. A cluster of mechanics wheeled a tyre trolley past you close enough that you had to step back, and one of them said "sorry, love" without breaking stride. Media crews with enormous cameras stood in loose knots outside hospitality units, waiting for someone important enough to justify the wait. Somewhere above it all, a tannoy voice announced a schedule change for the support race in a tone of practiced, weary cheer.

A young woman in a Mercedes polo shirt found you within minutes of you stepping through the gates, checking a name off a tablet with the brisk efficiency of someone who did this exact task every single race weekend and had long since run out of patience for anyone who wasted her time.

"You must be our competition winner," she said, extending a hand. "I'm Priya, hospitality and guest relations. Welcome to the paddock, how was the journey?"

"Good. Fine. A bit surreal, honestly," you admitted, and she laughed, not unkindly.

"That's the normal reaction. Come on, I'll get you settled before the tour starts."

She walked you through hospitality, a glass-fronted structure humming with quiet, expensive calm, sponsors' logos etched into the windows, drivers' overalls displayed behind glass like museum pieces, and talked you through the schedule for the day. Garage tour first. Lunch. Then, mid-afternoon, the hot lap itself, timed carefully around track sessions and media windows.

"And Kimi's meeting you for the tour," she added, checking her tablet again, "assuming media doesn't run over. Sometimes it does."

Hearing his name said so casually, so functionally, like he was simply an item on a schedule rather than someone you'd watched race in the rain three years ago and thought, quietly, to yourself, that one's going to be special — it did something strange to your stomach.

"Sounds good," you said, in a voice you hoped sounded like a normal person's voice.

Priya glanced at you sideways, the corner of her mouth twitching, and said nothing at all.

—------

He was fifteen minutes late, which Priya assured you was, for a Grand Prix weekend and for an Italian, essentially early.

You were standing just inside the garage, trying very hard to look like someone who belonged there and not like someone counting the seconds, when you saw him come around the side of the building, caramel hair still slightly damp from a shower after the morning session, team polo shirt, a lanyard identical to your own except his had about four times as many access levels printed on it.

He looked younger in person. Not younger than his age, exactly, but softer somehow less like the composed figure in post-race interviews and more like someone who'd simply woken up that morning and put on the clothes his job required of him.

He spotted you and slowed his pace, and for just a second which was brief enough that you might have imagined it, except you didn't think you had something like nerves crossed his face before he schooled it into a polite, careful smile.

"Hi," he said, stopping a respectful distance away and extending a hand. "You're— sorry, I should know this— you're our competition winner?"

"That's me," you said, shaking his hand, which was warm and slightly rougher than you'd expected, calloused in a way that made you think, absurdly, of steering wheels and gear paddles. "Thank you for— I mean, this is— I don't really know what to say, honestly."

"That's alright," he said. "I never really know what to say either."

It was such an unexpectedly honest thing to say that you laughed before you could stop yourself, and he blinked, then smiled properly this time, small and a little surprised at himself.

"I mean it," he added. "People assume because I talk to cameras I'm good at talking. I'm not. I just— I've had practice not saying anything stupid on camera. It's different."

"Well, you're doing fine so far."

"Ask me again in an hour."

You both stood there a beat too long, the kind of silence that isn't quite comfortable yet but isn't unbearable either, and then he gestured toward the garage entrance with a sort of relieved briskness, like he'd been handed a task and was glad to have something to do with his hands.

"Should we start the tour? I was told I'm meant to show you around. I'm not— I'm not always sure how much detail people want, so tell me if I'm being boring."

"I promise I won't find it boring."

"You say that now," he said, and there was the dry humour you'd noticed in interviews, quieter in person, almost private. "Wait until I start explaining tyre degradation."

You did not, in fact, find it boring.

He walked you through slowly, gesturing at things with an ease that only surfaced once he had a subject he actually knew inside and out, and you began to understand, watching him, that his earlier awkwardness had nothing to do with unfriendliness and everything to do with simply not knowing what was expected of him in an unscripted moment. Give him a car to talk about, though, and he relaxed by degrees.

"This is basically where the whole weekend lives," he said, nodding toward the garage floor, where the chassis sat raised on a rig, engineers crouched around it with the unhurried focus of surgeons. "Everything gets stripped down and rebuilt overnight sometimes. People think it's just — bolt the wheels on, done. It's not like that at all."

"How much of it do you actually understand? Like, mechanically."

"More than people expect. Less than the engineers would like." He nodded toward a man frowning at a laptop screen displaying rows of data. "That's Bono, my race engineer. If you want to know anything real about the car, ask him, not me. I just drive it and complain when it doesn't do what I want."

"Do you complain a lot?"

"Constantly," Bono said without looking up, and Kimi made a small wounded noise that made you laugh again.

He showed you the steering wheel display, walking you through what half the buttons did with a patience that made it clear he'd explained this exact thing dozens of times before to dozens of guests and had never once found a shortcut, because he genuinely wanted people to understand it properly. He showed you the pit wall, quiet mid-afternoon, monitors dark, and told you what it was like during a race how loud it got in his helmet, how strange it was that he could hear his engineer's voice perfectly clear over an engine screaming at seventeen thousand revs.

"Does it get lonely?" you asked, without entirely meaning to. "In the car, I mean. During a race."

He considered this for longer than you expected, like it wasn't a question he got asked often, or maybe wasn't one he'd properly asked himself.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "It's just you and the car and a voice in your ear. You can't see anyone's face. You can't really talk to anyone except your engineer, and even then it's mostly numbers and instructions." He paused. "I like it, though. It's the one place where nobody's watching me think. They just see what I do."

You didn't say anything to that, not right away, because it felt like something truer than he'd meant to say out loud, and you didn't want to make him self-conscious about it.

"That's a very poetic way to describe going round in circles very fast," you said instead, gently, and he huffed something that was almost a laugh.

"Don't tell the engineers I said anything poetic. I'll never hear the end of it."

—---------

Lunch was in a corner of hospitality, a plate of pasta you barely tasted because you were too busy trying not to stare at him across the table, and he ate with the brisk efficiency of someone used to eating on a schedule rather than for pleasure, though he did pause halfway through to make a face at his own plate.

"This is very beige," he said. "Nutritionist's orders. I love pasta but I miss it with actual flavour."

"What would you eat if you could eat anything right now?"

"Honestly? My grandmother's cooking. She does this— " he gestured vaguely, searching for a word in Italian that clearly wasn't quite cooperating, " —it doesn't translate well. Very simple. Very good. I haven't had it properly in months."

"You could ask catering to make it."

"I did, once. It wasn't the same. I think it's not really about the food." He shrugged, a little embarrassed at himself for having said something so unguarded, and reached for his water instead of continuing.

You found, over the next twenty minutes, that this was a pattern with him, a genuine thought would surface, unguarded and a little raw, and then he'd catch himself and retreat slightly, as though worried he'd overshared with a stranger. You didn't push. You just let the silences sit there, unhurried, and slowly he seemed to relax into them rather than fill them nervously.

At one point you asked, carefully, trying not to sound like exactly the kind of overinvested fan you were trying not to be, how he was finding the season so far.

"Honestly, tiring," he said. "Good, but tiring. It's a lot of everyone always wants something. An interview, a photo, an opinion. I don't mind giving those things, I just—" He exhaled. "It's nice, today, actually. Nobody wants anything from me except to look at a car with me."

"I want a hot lap out of you," you pointed out. "So technically I want something too."

That earned you the first proper laugh of the day surprised out of him, a little loud, quickly muffled with the back of his hand like he hadn't expected himself to laugh that openly in front of someone he'd just met.

"Fair," he said. "Alright. You've earned that one."

—----

The garage had cleared of most of the morning's crowd by the time you were led toward a side room lined with helmets on shelves, HANS devices hanging from hooks, and a wall of race suits arranged by size.

A mechanic introduced simply as Tomas, forearms permanently smudged with something dark and mechanical fitted you for a helmet with brisk, careful hands, checking the strap twice, tilting your head gently side to side to make sure it sat properly.

"Little tight is good," he said. "Loose is bad. You'll thank me later."

Kimi appeared a few minutes later already half into his own overalls, hair pushed back, looking genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy in a way he hadn't quite been all afternoon. This, you realised, was his actual environment. Everything before had been performance, however gentle. This was simply him.

"Nervous?" he asked, watching you turn your helmet over in your hands.

"Extremely."

"Good. Means you're taking it seriously." He crouched slightly to look you properly in the eye, voice dropping into something more careful. "It'll be loud. Really loud, even with the helmet on. The braking will feel harder than you expect — like something's got hold of your whole body and yanked it forward. If you want me to slow down at any point, just tap my shoulder, twice, hard. I'll feel it even over the engine. Okay?"

"Okay."

"You're allowed to scream," he added, and there was that dry humour again, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Everyone does. I won't tell anyone."

"Do you scream?"

"The first time I drove one of these, yes. Don't tell anyone that either."

The car itself, once you were lowered into the passenger seat beside him — a tight, secure fit, the world suddenly reduced to the curve of the cockpit and the tang of race fuel close enough to taste — felt smaller and larger at once. Smaller because there was barely room to move. Larger because the second the engine caught, a shattering, physical roar that you felt in your teeth before you properly heard it, the whole world seemed to expand outward from that sound.

Kimi glanced over once, checked your harness with two firm tugs, and gave you a thumbs up through his visor that you returned, considerably less steadily.

Then he pulled out of the garage, and the world changed entirely.

The pit lane felt fast. The main straight, once he opened the car up properly, felt like something else altogether — a pressure against your chest, the scenery beyond the cockpit smearing into long indistinct streaks of green and grey, the sound swallowing every thought in your head except a single continuous noise that might have been a scream and might have been a laugh, you genuinely couldn't tell which.

Through the corners, the car seemed to compress and stretch in ways that made no physical sense, g-forces hauling your head sideways, your hands gripping the harness straps hard enough that your knuckles ached. Braking into the tighter sections felt exactly like he'd described — something enormous seizing your entire body and dragging it forward, your vision briefly doubling with the force of it.

You were, you realised somewhere around the second lap, laughing continuously, helplessly, the sound swallowed by the engine but still shaking through your chest, and beside you, through the small gap in his visor, you caught the edge of Kimi's expression — focused, utterly calm, and unmistakably, quietly delighted at your reaction, glancing over just slightly more often than the driving strictly required.

By the final lap your throat was raw from noise you hadn't fully controlled, your hands trembling faintly even after he brought the car to a gentle stop back in the garage, engine ticking as it cooled, silence rushing in so suddenly it felt like its own kind of pressure.

Kimi pulled his visor up first, grinning, actually grinning, wide and unguarded, nothing careful about it at all.

"So?" he said. "Verdict?"

"I think I left my stomach somewhere around turn six."

"That's the correct reaction." He was already climbing out, offering you a hand as you unclipped the harness with fingers that weren't entirely steady yet. "You did well. Some people go completely silent. Some people cry. You just laughed the whole way, it was—" He stopped himself, seeming to realise he was about to say something he hadn't quite planned to, and settled instead for, "—it was nice. Driving someone who's actually enjoying it."

You pulled your helmet off, hair static-charged and sticking up in every direction, and he looked at you for a beat too long before glancing away, ears faintly pink, and you decided, charitably, that it was probably just the heat.

You expected that to be the end of it. A hot lap, a photo with the car, a polite goodbye, back on the shuttle bus with a story you'd tell for the rest of your life.

Instead, once you'd both changed back into ordinary clothes and your legs had steadied under you, Kimi lingered by the garage entrance, hands in his pockets, looking faintly uncertain in a way that didn't match the confidence he'd shown behind the wheel.

"Do you—" he started, then stopped, then tried again. "I don't have anything else scheduled until the evening debrief. If you wanted, I could show you a bit more. The rest of the paddock. It's not really part of the— official tour, but." He shrugged, a little helplessly. "I don't mind. If you want."

"I'd like that," you said, probably too quickly, and he seemed relieved enough that you both pretended not to notice.

He showed you the trophy cabinet in the team's hospitality unit, tapping the glass in front of a modest collection of silverware with something between pride and embarrassment. "Not much yet," he said. "Give it time."

"I believe you," you said, and meant it, and he glanced at you sideways like he wasn't quite sure what to do with someone saying something like that so plainly.

He introduced you to a mechanic named Dario who was halfway through rebuilding a gearbox and who, upon hearing you were the competition winner, said something in rapid Italian that made Kimi go faintly red and mutter something back that silenced him, though not before Dario shot you both an unmistakably knowing look.

"What did he say?" you asked.

"Nothing," Kimi said, too quickly.

"Kimi."

"He said I usually finish these tours in twenty minutes," he admitted, not quite meeting your eyes. "We've been out here two hours."

"Is that bad?"

"No," he said, and then, quieter, almost to himself, "no, I don't think it's bad at all."

You wandered past the team truck, where a mechanic was cataloguing spare parts with the focus of a librarian; past a wall where photos from every race of the season were pinned in careful rows, Kimi pointing out ones that had gone particularly well or particularly badly with equal, easy honesty; past a quiet corner of the paddock where the noise of the wider circuit fell away almost entirely and it was just the two of you, walking slowly, in no particular hurry to be anywhere else.

"Can I ask you something?" you said, somewhere in that quiet stretch.

"You can ask."

"Why does the awkwardness go away when you're talking about the car, or the team, but come straight back the second it's just conversation?"

He was quiet for a while, long enough that you wondered if you'd overstepped, and then he said, carefully, "I've always found it easier to be sure of things I understand completely. A car, I understand completely. A person—" He gestured vaguely, a small helpless motion. "I don't always know what's expected of me. I say the wrong thing, or I don't say anything at all, and then it's worse."

"You haven't said anything wrong all day."

"Give it time," he said, echoing your earlier words back at you, and you both laughed, and something in the space between you eased another fraction.

Priya found you both near the hospitality unit as the light outside had started turning gold with early evening, her expression somewhere between amused and faintly exasperated as she checked her tablet.

"There you are," she said. "I was starting to think we'd lost our winner. And you—" she pointed at Kimi, "—Marco's been asking where you've got to. Debrief's in forty minutes."

"I know," Kimi said, not sounding remotely sorry about it.

"Mm," Priya said, exactly the way your mother had said it on the phone weeks earlier, and you decided you would think about that later, when you weren't quite so distracted by the way Kimi was looking faintly, helplessly pleased with himself.

Marco, who you'd gathered by now this was the team's press officer, appeared shortly after with the harried expression of a man whose carefully planned schedule had somehow stretched itself by several hours without his input, glancing between you and Kimi with an expression that suggested he understood exactly why, even if he wasn't going to say so out loud.

"We do need you for debrief soon," he told Kimi, not unkindly. "Toto's waiting."

"I know," Kimi said again, and then, to you, quieter: "I have to go in a minute."

"I figured."

"I didn't want to," he said, and then looked faintly startled at his own honesty, the way he had all day whenever something true slipped out before he'd properly decided to say it.

You walked the last stretch back toward the paddock exit together, slower than either of you needed to, the golden evening light stretching long shadows across the tarmac, distant engine noise from the support race still rolling faintly through the air like weather.

"Thank you," you said, when you reached the gate, meaning it more than the words could probably carry. "For today. Genuinely. I don't think I'll ever– this isn't the kind of thing that happens to people like me."

"I don't think there's a specific kind of person this is supposed to happen to," he said. "It happened. That's enough, isn't it?"

"I suppose."

You stood there a beat too long, the way you had at the very start of the day, except the silence now felt entirely different not awkward exactly, just full, weighted with something neither of you had quite named yet.

"I should say goodbye properly," you said eventually, holding out your hand the way you had that morning, "since I doubt I'll—"

"Wait," he said.

You waited.

He looked, for a moment, exactly like he had before the first word he'd ever spoken to you — nervous, visibly working up to something, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he needed somewhere to put them.

"I don't—" he started, then stopped, exhaled, tried again. "I don't usually do this. I want to say that first, because I don't want you to think I do this with every — with anyone who wins a competition." A faint, self-deprecating huff. "I don't. I've never wanted to, before today."

"Kimi—"

"I'd like to see you again," he said, in a rush now, like if he didn't get it all out at once he might lose his nerve entirely. "Not not like this. Not a tour, not a schedule. Just you. If you wanted that. I don't know how it would work, with the season, I travel a lot, I know that's but I'd like to try, if you'd let me."

You felt something in your chest go very warm and very still all at once.

"Are you asking me on a date?" you said, partly to buy yourself a second to process it, partly because you wanted to hear him say it properly.

He went slightly pink, glanced away, then made himself look back at you anyway, which felt like the bravest thing you'd seen him do all day, braver somehow than a hundred and eighty miles an hour down a straight.

"Would it be alright," he said, carefully, like he'd been rehearsing the exact words, "if I took you on a date sometime?"

You didn't answer immediately, not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to hold the moment a beat longer, this ordinary, extraordinary boy standing in front of you with his hands in his pockets and his ears gone faintly red, looking more nervous asking this question than he had looked driving a car at ludicrous speed an hour earlier.

"Yes," you said. "I'd like that. A lot."

The smile that broke across his face then was nothing like the careful, camera-ready one from the morning. It was wide and a little disbelieving and entirely unguarded, and you thought, quietly, that you would remember that exact expression for a very long time.

"Okay," he said, like he needed to hear himself confirm it. "Okay. Good."

He asked for your number, fumbling slightly with his phone in a way that felt endearing rather than smooth, and you gave it to him, and he saved it immediately with a small, private smile like he wanted to make sure it was real before he let himself believe it.

"I'll text you," he said. "Properly. Not just— I mean, I'll actually plan something. I'm not very good at it, I'll warn you now, but I'll try."

"I believe you," you said again, and he ducked his head, pleased and a little shy about it, the same way he had been in the trophy room hours earlier.

Marco called his name from somewhere behind you, gently insistent, and Kimi glanced back, then at you, clearly reluctant to be the one to end this.

"I have to—"

"I know. Go."

He hesitated one more second, like he wanted to say something else and hadn't quite decided what, and then, simply, quietly: "Thank you for laughing the whole way round. Nobody's ever done that before."

Then he was walking backward for a few steps, still looking at you, before he turned properly and jogged back toward the garages, and you stood at the gate with your pass still around your neck and your phone now holding a new contact and the whole gold-lit evening settling warm around you.

The shuttle bus back to the hotel was quieter than the one that morning, most passengers scrolling through photos of their day, comparing notes on which driver they'd glimpsed and where. You sat by the window with your phone in your lap, not checking it exactly, just aware of its presence, the way you might be aware of a held breath.

The message came through just after nine that evening, while you were repacking your bag for the flight home.

Debrief ran long. Sorry. Today was good. Better than good. I meant what I said — I'll actually plan something properly, give me a few days to sort my schedule. Thank you for today.

You read it four times before you let yourself reply, and even then you deleted your first two attempts for sounding either too casual or entirely deranged with enthusiasm.

Today was one of the best days of my life. I'm serious. Thank you for asking.

The reply came almost immediately, like he'd been waiting, phone in hand, the exact way you had been.

I'm glad it was you who won. I don't say things like that easily. But I mean it.

You sat on the edge of the hotel bed for a long moment after that, phone held loosely in both hands, feeling something settle in your chest that felt less like the end of an extraordinary day and much more, unmistakably, like the very beginning of something else.

Outside, faint and distant, you could still hear engines somewhere on the circuit, the last stretches of evening track action winding down into the ordinary quiet of a race weekend settling toward night. You thought about the roar of that hot lap, the warmth of his hand steadying yours as he'd helped you out of the car, the particular, unguarded way he'd smiled when you said yes.

You didn't know yet what shape this would take  how a rookie driver's punishing travel schedule and your very ordinary life might fit together, what a first date with someone whose face occasionally appeared on billboards might actually look like. You didn't need to know yet. For tonight, it was enough to have the message glowing on your phone screen, and the quiet, steady certainty that this wasn't goodbye at all.

It was, very simply, a beginning.

caelus

✧ caelus is feeling a mix of patience and confusion. mostly confusion.

✧ you’d stress them out by acting overly distant or cryptic with your words. of course, this would be a bit too mean but.... you needed to know whether or not he truly liked you or not!!!

✧  now caelus always has this quiet confidence about him, a grounded presence that somehow keeps you both intrigued and comforted. you’ve been walking the line between friendship and something more for weeks now—soft smiles, lingering touches, and late-night conversations that stretch into the early morning. but neither of you has made the leap to define it, and the uncertainty starts to gnaw at you.

✧ so, you decide to test him. not out of malice, but out of curiosity—does he care as much as you think he does? or are you misreading everything?

✧ it starts small. you "accidentally" forget your jacket during a particularly chilly day on the xianzhou luofu. "it's fine," you say, feigning nonchalance as you rub your arms. "i’ll survive."

✧ caelus, who notices everything, doesn’t hesitate. without a word, he shrugs off his coat and drapes it over your shoulders. it’s warm and smells faintly like him—clean and earthy.

✧ "you’ll catch a cold," he says simply, his expression unreadable. but the way his fingers linger at your shoulder for a moment longer than necessary sends a shiver down your spine.

✧ okay, you think. that’s a point for him.

✧ but you don’t stop there. later, as the two of you work together to sort some scattered archives, you sigh dramatically. "i’m so bad at this," you say, even though you’ve already figured out the system. "caelus, can you help me? i think i’m doing it all wrong."

✧ he glances at you, eyebrows raised slightly. he knows you’re capable—you’ve proven it plenty of times.

✧ "really?" he asks, his tone soft but teasing. "you seem like you’ve got it handled."

✧ but he still moves to your side, explaining the process again with patience and care. you can’t help but notice how close he stands, the way his arm brushes against yours.

✧ another point, you mentally tally, biting back a smile.

✧ the final "test" happens that evening. the two of you are sitting on a bench overlooking the bustling streets below. you lean your head back, sighing loudly.

✧ "caelus," you start, your tone heavy with faux melancholy, "do you ever think... maybe we’re wasting our time? like, maybe this—whatever this is—isn’t worth it?"

✧ his head snaps toward you so fast you almost laugh. his usual calm demeanor falters for a moment, and there’s a flicker of something raw in his amber eyes.

✧ "what are you trying to say?" he asks, his voice lower than usual.

✧ suddenly, the air feels heavier. you weren’t expecting such a serious reaction, and it makes your chest tighten.

✧ "i mean..." you hesitate, suddenly feeling a little guilty for pushing him. "i don’t know. it just feels like maybe we’re stuck in this limbo, you know?"

✧ he stares at you for a moment, his gaze searching. then, he exhales softly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "if you think this isn’t worth it," he says, his voice steady but quiet, "then tell me. but don’t assume i feel the same."

✧ your heart stutters at his words.

✧ "you don’t?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. he turns to look at you again, his expression soft but serious.

✧ "no," he says firmly. "you mean a lot to me. more than you realize. i’m just... waiting for you to figure out how much you mean to me too."

✧ and just like that, the test is over. you realize you didn’t need to test him at all—he’s always been steady, always been sure. it was you who needed the reassurance, and he gave it to you without hesitation.

✧ as the silence stretches between you, you feel the weight of his coat still draped over your shoulders. you finally let yourself smile, leaning closer to him.

✧ "okay," you murmur. "i get it now."

✧ he doesn’t say anything, but the small, satisfied smile that tugs at his lips says enough.

gepard

✧ poor gepard takes your “test” far too seriously.

✧ (his face falls immediately, and he starts overthinking everything he’s ever done. he’d even try to change his habits, stumbling through awkward attempts to “loosen up.” “i—i can be fun! watch this!” (proceeds to try something clumsy.))

✧ testing gepard’s feelings feels almost unfair. he’s so earnest, so genuine, that you almost feel bad for trying to push his limits. but a little part of you—it’s that gnawing insecurity, that need for reassurance—wants to see how much he’s willing to handle for you.

✧ it starts during a routine patrol around belobog. you walk beside him, pretending to be engrossed in your surroundings, but you’re really watching him out of the corner of your eye. his posture is as perfect as always, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes scanning for any sign of trouble.

✧ "gepard," you say suddenly, interrupting the calm. he turns to you immediately, his expression softening. "yes?"

✧ you fake a dramatic sigh. "do you ever think you work too hard? like... maybe you’re so busy being a model captain that you don’t have time for other things?"

✧ his brows furrow slightly, clearly not expecting this question. "what do you mean?"

✧ "i mean, what if someone in your life needed more of your attention? would you even notice?"

✧ he stops walking, turning to face you fully. there’s a flash of concern in his blue eyes, and you almost feel guilty for how well this is working.

✧ "if someone needed me," he says, his voice steady but laced with worry, "i’d do everything in my power to be there for them. are you... trying to tell me something?"

✧ you wave your hand dismissively, laughing lightly. "oh, no, just a hypothetical. don’t worry about it." he doesn’t look convinced, but he nods and resumes walking, though you notice he stays closer to your side after that.

✧ later, you decide to push a little harder. when the two of you are back at the overworld base, you feign exhaustion, slumping dramatically onto a nearby bench.

✧ "i’m so tired," you complain, rubbing your temples. "today was so stressful. i don’t think i can even move."

✧ before you can say anything else, gepard is already at your side. he crouches slightly, his hands hovering awkwardly as if he’s not sure whether he should offer to help you up or just sit beside you.

✧ "you should have said something earlier," he says, his voice full of concern. "if you’re overworked, you need to take a break. here, let me—"

✧ you cut him off with a teasing smile. "what are you going to do, carry me around belobog like some kind of knight in shining armor?" he freezes for a moment, his cheeks flushing pink. "i mean... if you needed me to, i would."

✧ you weren’t expecting such a sincere answer, and it throws you off balance. your heart flutters, but you’re determined to keep the act going.

✧ "you’re too sweet, gepard," you say with a grin. "but don’t worry, i’m fine. just testing you a little." his blush deepens, and he shifts nervously. "testing me?"

✧ "yeah," you admit, leaning back against the bench. "just wanted to see how far you’d go for me."

✧ he frowns, clearly conflicted. "you don’t need to test me," he says quietly. "if something’s bothering you, you can just tell me. i’d rather you be honest than try to figure things out on your own."

✧ his words hit you harder than you expected, and you suddenly feel a little guilty.

✧ "you’re right," you mumble, looking down at your hands. "sorry, i didn’t mean to make you worry."

✧ he sighs softly, then sits beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. "it’s okay," he says after a moment. "i just... care about you. a lot. and i want you to know that you never have to doubt it."

✧ you glance at him, his expression as open and honest as ever, and your heart aches in the best way.

✧ "thanks, gepard," you say softly.

✧ he smiles, and it’s so warm and genuine that you know you didn’t need to test him in the first place. he’s always been exactly who he says he is—steadfast, caring, and utterly devoted.

✧ “please, don’t do that again. my heart can’t take it. but... i do care about you more than anything.”

dr. ratio

✧ dr. ratio sees through your “stress test” almost immediately, being as perceptive as he is.

✧ testing dr. ratio feels like trying to rattle an unshakable pillar—he’s sharp, meticulous, and composed to the point where you’re almost certain he’ll see through you immediately. but your curiosity gets the better of you. you want to see if the normally calm and collected doctor could ever crack, even slightly, under your antics.

✧ you decide to start small, choosing to "stress" him out during one of his intense research sessions.

✧ "dr. ratio," you call out from across the lab, your tone light and teasing.

✧ he doesn’t look up from his holopad. "yes?"

✧ "can you explain this to me again? i swear i just don’t get it."

✧ you hold up a tablet displaying a simple analysis you’re perfectly capable of interpreting. it’s the third time you’ve asked him about something today, and you’re sure he’s starting to notice.

✧ he sighs, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. "are you sure you’re not just overthinking it?"

✧ "maybe," you say, shrugging. "or maybe you’re just bad at explaining things."

✧ that earns you a sharp look, and for a split second, you think you’ve actually pushed too far. but then his lips twitch, a flicker of amusement breaking through his usual stoicism.

✧ "bad at explaining things?" he repeats, setting his holopad down. "are you testing my patience, or are you testing my intelligence?"

✧ "both," you reply with a cheeky grin. he chuckles softly, shaking his head. "if you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked."

✧ despite his calm exterior, you notice the subtle way he shifts closer to you, his focus entirely on you now. you can’t help but feel a small thrill of triumph, though you know you’re playing with fire.

✧ later, you decide to up the stakes. while he’s meticulously organizing data, you lean against the desk, deliberately placing your hand over one of his charts.

✧ "do you ever think about taking a break?" you ask, tilting your head at him. "you work so much, it’s like you’re married to your lab."

✧ he arches an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to your hand covering his work. "and if i am? does that bother you?"

✧ "a little," you admit, your tone teasing. "what if you end up ignoring more important things?"

✧ he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studies you. "and what would those ‘important things’ be?"

✧ his voice is calm, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes you feel like you’ve walked right into his trap. "me, obviously," you say, trying to maintain your confidence.

✧ he hums thoughtfully, as if considering your words. then, without warning, he reaches out and gently flicks your forehead.

✧ "you’re not very subtle," he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

✧ "ouch," you say, rubbing your forehead with a pout. "was that necessary?"

✧ "completely," he replies smoothly. "if you’re going to test me, at least make it challenging."

✧ his words leave you flustered, and you quickly retreat from his desk, muttering something about needing fresh air. but later, when he finds you in the lounge, he sets a cup of tea in front of you without a word.

✧ "what’s this for?" you ask, looking up at him.

✧ "you seemed tense earlier," he says simply. "and since you’re so concerned about me ignoring important things, I thought I’d remind you that you’re one of them."

✧ your heart skips a beat at his casual declaration, and for once, you’re at a loss for words. he smirks at your reaction, clearly pleased with himself, before walking away, leaving you to process his unexpected yet reassuring gesture.

✧ turns out, dr. ratio isn’t so easy to test—but he makes it clear that he’s always paying attention.

✧ however, he sits you down for a serious talk afterward. “you don’t need to test me. i like you—that much should be obvious by now.”

aventurine

✧ aventurine takes your antics in stride but is clearly not one to tolerate nonsense for long.

✧ but in all seriousness it feels like you're trying to move a mountain. his steadfastness and confidence make it seem impossible to throw him off balance, but you’re determined to see how deep his patience and affection run. you tell yourself it’s just curiosity, but deep down, you crave the reassurance that this larger-than-life man truly feels the same way you do.

✧ it begins subtly, during one of his routine mineral inspections. he’s meticulously cataloging a haul of rare crystals when you decide to “help.”

✧ “aventurine, what’s this one called?” you ask, holding up a dazzling gem you already know the name of.

✧ he barely glances up, his deep voice calm and measured. “that’s a starshard geode. its structure is—”

✧ “wait, wait,” you interrupt, turning it over in your hands. “are you sure? it kinda looks like... a moonstone?”

✧ his head finally lifts, and he looks at you with a mixture of amusement and mild disbelief. “a moonstone? not even close. are you trying to challenge my expertise?”

✧ “maybe,” you tease, placing the gem back in the wrong compartment.

✧ he sighs, but there’s no frustration in his expression, only a patient shake of his head as he moves the gem back to its proper place. “you’re impossible,” he mutters, though there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

✧ later, you decide to turn up the heat. as he’s polishing a massive chunk of raw celestium, you sit nearby, swinging your legs off the edge of the table.

✧ “aventurine,” you say sweetly.

✧ “mm?” he responds without looking up.

✧ “do you ever get tired of being around me?”

✧ that gets his attention. he pauses mid-polish, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he turns to face you fully. “what kind of question is that?”

✧ you shrug, feigning nonchalance. “i mean, i can be annoying sometimes. don’t you ever just... wish for some peace and quiet?”

✧ he sets the celestium down with deliberate care and crosses his arms, his imposing figure suddenly feeling even larger.

✧ “you’re trying to get a reaction out of me,” he says plainly, his voice as steady as the ground beneath your feet.

✧ “what? me? no way,” you reply, trying to sound innocent.

✧ he steps closer, leaning down so his face is level with yours. his expression is serious, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

✧ “if i wanted peace and quiet, i wouldn’t be here,” he says firmly. “do you really think i’d waste my time with someone i don’t care about?”

✧ his straightforwardness leaves you momentarily stunned, and he chuckles softly at your silence. “you don’t need to test me, you know,” he adds, his tone softening. “if you have doubts, just ask. i don’t like games, but i’ll always give you the truth.”

✧ you feel a pang of guilt for pushing him, but his reassurance warms your heart. “sorry,” you mumble, looking down. “i just wanted to be sure...”

✧ he reaches out, gently lifting your chin so you’re forced to meet his gaze.

✧ “then let me make it clear,” he says, his golden eyes unwavering. “you matter to me. and that’s not going to change, no matter how many gems you mislabel.”

✧ you laugh softly, the tension melting away as his words sink in. it was clear that his affection for you is as solid and enduring as the earth itself.

boothill

✧ boothill is rough around the edges but has a soft spot for you, so your little test catches him off guard.

✧ boothill's unmovable, stone-faced, and never shows signs of cracking, no matter what you throw his way. but that’s exactly why you’re so curious. you’ve seen his stoic side, his professionalism, and his dedication, but does that mean there’s any space for you in that heart of his? you decide to try and test the waters.

✧ it begins in a quiet moment, after a long mission. you’re both back at the base, sitting side by side on a bench. boothill is cleaning his weapon, his focus so intense that it feels like nothing in the world could distract him. you watch him for a moment, then decide to start.

✧ “boothill,” you call out softly.

✧ he doesn’t look up, but you see his fingers pause for a fraction of a second before he resumes cleaning his weapon.

✧ “yeah?”

✧ “do you ever wonder if you’re too... distant? i mean, you’re always so focused, so serious. don’t you ever need to relax a bit?”

✧ he glances at you now, his piercing gaze meeting yours for just a second. but he doesn’t answer right away, instead just continuing with his task.

✧ “relaxing isn’t exactly something i prioritize,” he replies with his usual calm. “there’s work to be done.”

✧ you scoff lightly, pushing your luck a little. “work, work, work. what about you, huh? when’s it your turn to... i don’t know, enjoy life? have some fun?”

✧ he looks at you then, and there’s something almost unreadable in his expression. his eyes soften just a fraction, and he lets out a small sigh.

✧ “if you think i don’t enjoy life, you’re wrong,” he says, voice low but surprisingly tender. “i just don’t need distractions.”

✧ you press a little more, feeling a mischievous spark inside you. “so, you’re saying you don’t need me to distract you?”

✧ boothill stops what he’s doing for a moment, and this time, he stares at you, really staring. for a split second, you think you’ve gone too far. but then he leans back, folding his arms across his chest, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

✧ “testing me, huh?” he says, his voice laced with dry amusement. “you’re a little more persistent than i expected.”

✧ you shrug nonchalantly, hoping your nonchalance hides the fact that your heart is pounding. “i just want to know if you care, boothill. i mean, you’re so... detached sometimes. how do i know it’s not all just professional to you?”

✧ his gaze softens, and for a brief moment, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that catches you off guard. then, without warning, he reaches out and gently grabs your hand, pulling it into his lap.

✧ “care?” he murmurs, his thumb stroking the back of your hand in slow, deliberate movements. “i care more than you know.”

✧ your breath catches in your throat, and you feel the weight of his words settle over you like a blanket. the walls he’s built around himself are still there, but now, you realize that inside, there’s room for you.

✧ “you don’t need to test me for that,” he adds, his voice low and reassuring. “just... don’t expect me to show it the same way as everyone else.”

✧ you can feel the sincerity in his touch, in his gaze, and something inside you finally clicks. boothill’s love is subtle, understated, and a little rough around the edges, but it’s real.

✧ “i get it,” you whisper, squeezing his hand gently. “sorry for making you doubt me.”

✧ he chuckles quietly, a rare sound that makes your heart flutter. “you’re relentless. but that’s why i like you.”

✧ and there it is—he may not always wear his heart on his sleeve, but boothill’s love for you is unwavering, and that’s something you can rely on, even if it’s not always obvious.

gallagher

✧ gallagher is as easygoing as they come, but even he has limits.

✧ it starts innocently enough—just a playful attempt to poke at his carefully maintained composure. he’s in the middle of preparing a meal, the scent of fresh herbs and sizzling meat filling the air as he moves about the kitchen with his usual precision. you, however, are seated at the table, tapping your fingers lightly against the wood, watching him with a raised eyebrow.

✧ “gallagher,” you start, your voice casual but laced with curiosity.

✧ “hm?” he replies, glancing at you briefly before returning to his task.

✧ “how do you always manage to keep your cool? i mean, don’t you ever get tired of being so... well, perfect?”

✧ he doesn’t look up this time, but there’s a subtle shift in the air, like he’s sensing you’re trying to test him. his movements are smooth and measured, and he doesn’t skip a beat as he finishes plating the food.

✧ “there’s no point in losing composure over things that don’t matter,” he says matter-of-factly, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “chaos doesn’t make for a good meal.”

✧ you bite your lip, leaning back in your chair. “so, you’re saying everything has to be ‘in its place’ with you? even with people?”

✧ his hands freeze for just a moment, and you catch a flicker of something in his expression—maybe amusement, maybe something else. but it’s gone as quickly as it came. he finishes plating the meal with a soft sigh, setting the plate in front of you.

✧ “i’m not a machine, if that’s what you’re implying,” he says, finally meeting your gaze. “i’m not perfect. i just prefer things to be organized—helps with focus.”

✧ you raise an eyebrow, pushing a bit more. “oh? and does that mean you like it when people don’t mess with your focus? or is that just a ‘you’ thing?”

✧ gallagher pauses, studying you carefully. for a moment, the air is thick with tension, but then he smirks slightly, a glimmer of teasing in his eyes.

✧ “messing with my focus?” he repeats, his voice playful now. “is that what you’re doing? because, if i’m being honest, it’s working. you’ve got my attention now.”

✧ you blink, taken aback by his response. you expected him to brush it off, but instead, he steps closer, his presence a little more imposing now.

✧ “you know,” he continues, his tone lower, “you’re not as subtle as you think you are. but i’ll give you points for persistence.”

✧ you try to recover, but there’s something about the way he looks at you that leaves you speechless for a moment.

✧ “persistence?” you murmur, a little breathless.

✧ he nods, his smile softening just enough to show you that it’s genuine. “you’ve got a lot of questions, but i don’t need to play games with you. if you want answers, just ask. you don’t have to test me to find out if i’m interested.”

✧ his words hit you harder than you expected, and you realize that gallagher isn’t someone to hide his feelings. it’s not that he’s cold—he’s just direct. he’ll never say it in the way you might expect, but his actions speak louder than anything else.

✧ “i guess i’m just used to waiting for things to fall into place,” you admit, trying to play it cool.

✧ he leans in slightly, the faintest hint of humor in his eyes. “you don’t have to wait with me. i’m already here.”

✧ his tone is simple, but it carries a weight of meaning that makes your heart skip a beat. gallagher doesn’t do drama, but when he gives you his attention, it’s clear that he’s all in, no matter how much he might downplay it.

moze

✧ moze is a man of few words, and your antics genuinely confuse him. 😰😰

✧  he's calm, composed, and always so serious, which makes you determined to break through that cold, unreadable exterior. you’ve decided to test his limits, just to see if you can get a real reaction out of him.

✧ it starts on a typical day after a mission. you’re sitting across from him in the common room, watching as he pores over some data logs. your usual routine involves making things just a little more interesting for him, because let’s face it—moze needs to lighten up.

✧ “moze,” you say, a grin tugging at your lips.

✧ he doesn’t look up, but you can see the slight twitch of his eyebrow. “what is it?”

✧ you make a show of examining the ceiling, tapping your chin dramatically. “have you ever wondered if the world is actually upside down? like, maybe gravity's all wrong, and we’re just... stuck to the floor by pure luck?”

✧ moze pauses for a split second, probably wondering how you can turn a perfectly normal moment into this. then, without missing a beat, he glances at you, deadpan.

✧ “if the world was upside down, i assume you'd be the one stuck on the ceiling by pure luck,” he says flatly, already returning to his work.

✧ you burst into laughter, but moze doesn’t even flinch, just continues typing, his expression still as composed as ever. he’s like a stone statue, and it’s honestly a little impressive.

✧ “okay, okay,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye. “let’s try something different.” you lean forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “do you ever get bored? you know, just sitting there all serious, pretending like you’re too busy to talk?”

✧ this time, he doesn’t even look up from his work. “bored? No. Are you trying to see how far you can push me before i snap?”

✧ you nod, trying not to smile too widely. “yep! How’s it going so far?”

✧ moze lets out a soft sigh, clearly unamused but still managing to hold his ground. “i’m doing great. You, on the other hand... are a handful.”

✧ “a handful? me?” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. “I’m hurt, moze. I’m just trying to keep things interesting around here!”

✧ his lips twitch ever so slightly, but it’s almost imperceptible. “you’re making it interesting... in the same way that throwing a tantrum in a library is interesting.”

✧ you tilt your head, pretending to consider this for a moment. “so, you’re saying you don’t like chaos?”

✧ “i like order,” he says, never looking away from the screen. “but if you’re asking if you can test my patience, then yes, you’re doing a very good job of that.”

✧ you giggle, thoroughly entertained by the way he’s handling you. "oh, come on, just admit it. you love the chaos! You secretly think it's hilarious when I mess with you."

✧ moze looks up at you for the first time in a while, his expression still all business but with the tiniest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “if by hilarious, you mean mildly irritating, then yes.”

✧ “mildly?!” you gasp in faux offense. “I’m doing my best here, moze! how could you rate my efforts so low?”

✧ he leans back slightly in his chair, finally breaking his stoic routine. “honestly, i’m impressed you’re still going. most people would’ve given up by now.”

✧ “well, i'm not ‘most people,’ am I?” you reply with a cheeky smile.

✧ he smirks ever so slightly, though it’s mostly to himself. “no. clearly.”

✧ you can’t help but giggle, because while moze definitely isn’t as easily rattled as others, it’s clear he’s starting to find the humor in your antics.

✧ “admit it, moze,” you tease. “i’m the most fun you’ve had all week.”

✧ he raises an eyebrow, finally closing the data pad and turning his full attention to you. “if by ‘fun’ you mean ‘annoying distraction,’ then yes.”

✧ you stick your tongue out at him playfully. “you love me, admit it.”

✧ moze chuckles dryly, though it’s far from his usual serious tone. “you’re impossible. But for some reason, i don’t mind.”

✧ “there it is!” you exclaim, pointing dramatically. “the confession! finally!”

✧ he sighs, but there’s a hint of fondness in his eyes now. “don’t push your luck. i’m still not letting you off the hook for the chaos you’ve caused.”

✧ you grin, leaning back in your seat, satisfied. “you can’t get rid of me that easily, moze. get used to it.”

✧ “i’m already used to it,” he mutters under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

jiaoqiu

✧ jiaoqiu is calm and composed, but your “test” slowly chips away at his patience.

✧ his idea of "testing" his patience feels almost like trying to mess with a finely tuned recipe—you know that if you push too far, something could spoil, but you can't resist seeing how he’ll react. the thing about jiaoqiu is that he’s blind, but that doesn’t stop him from being as sharp as a knife when it comes to his senses. especially when it comes to cooking—his true passion.

✧ you’ve noticed something about him, though. the more you “stress” him, the more attentive he gets, in his own way. it’s kind of like the game’s in his favor, and you’re slowly realizing he might be playing right along with you.

✧ one evening, you’re hanging out in the kitchen with jiaoqiu, and you’ve already decided to take your "testing" to the next level. as he prepares some of his signature dishes—no surprise, they're the most complex meals imaginable, even though he can't see a thing—you're doing your best to throw him off.

✧ “jiaoqiu, are you sure you don’t want me to help with that? it looks... dangerous,” you tease, noticing the steam rising from the pot in front of him.

✧ “dangerous?” he repeats, clearly amused but not thrown off. he moves deftly around the kitchen, the sound of his chopping board in the background. “my dear, cooking isn’t dangerous unless you’re trying to make something impossible.”

✧ you laugh softly, leaning against the counter. “so, you’re saying if I started pulling the wrong spices out, you wouldn’t even notice?”

✧ he pauses, then lets out a small chuckle of his own. “i might not see it, but i can certainly smell it. and don’t think i don’t know when you’re reaching for something you shouldn’t be.”

✧ you feign shock, dramatically holding your hands up as if caught in the act. “i would never! i have complete respect for your culinary expertise!”

✧ jiaoqiu hums, as if pondering your words, but then he continues his cooking with that quiet confidence he always carries. “you’d be more convincing if you didn’t have that mischievous glint in your eye.”

✧ your grin widens. it’s clear he’s onto you now, but you still try to push. “well, how would you know? You can't see, after all.”

✧ “true,” he replies calmly, “but i know the sounds of the kitchen well enough. if you were to drop something, or mess with the ingredients... i’d hear it. the rhythm of it all gives me a good idea of what’s happening.”

✧ you blink, stunned. you had been testing him, but jiaoqiu seems to always be one step ahead. how does he know? how can he be so confident?

✧ “and,” he adds, his voice still soft but with a hint of playfulness, “i know you, [your name].”

✧ you laugh, finally admitting defeat. “okay, okay! you got me. but seriously, how do you do it? how do you know where everything is?”

✧ he pauses his cooking and turns toward you, his voice warm yet full of humor. “let’s say i’ve had a lot of practice. and when you love something as much as i love cooking, you learn to rely on all your senses, not just sight. even when you can’t see, your other senses fill in the gaps.”

✧ you watch him work for a moment, and despite his lack of eyesight, he’s a master in the kitchen. it’s clear that his expertise comes from much more than just the act of cooking; it’s a connection to the ingredients, the textures, the sounds of each step.

✧ “okay, but what if i really messed something up? what if i did something totally wrong, just to mess with you?”

✧ he raises an eyebrow—something that’s only visible through his voice, but you get the feeling he’s smirking. “well, if you did that, i’d probably just end up fixing it before you even noticed. and then i’d make you do the dishes.”

✧ you groan, defeated but also thoroughly entertained. “you’re way too good at this.”

✧ “you’re the one testing me, not the other way around,” jiaoqiu reminds you, returning his focus to his cooking. but this time, you can hear the faint warmth in his tone, a reassurance that’s just for you. “but don’t worry, i’m not going to let you ruin dinner. even if you try to be a little mischievous.”

✧ there’s something comforting in the way he handles it all—the teasing, the games you play, even the mess-ups you deliberately throw his way. he may not be able to see you, but you know he can feel your presence, your energy, and you can’t help but feel safe in it. despite his teasing, despite the quiet confidence, jiaoqiu has a way of making everything feel just... right.

✧ “next time,” you say, grinning, “i’m going to really throw you off.”

✧ jiaoqiu just laughs softly, shaking his head as he finishes up his dish. “i’ll be waiting, [your name]. i’ll be waiting.”

✧  “but uh, next time, just ask me. there’s no need for this kind of... drama.”

sunday

✧ sunday is all sunshine and joy, but even he can get flustered when you start testing him.

✧ sunday is a halovian, with those distinct small fluffy wings nestled around his neck—adorably soft and always twitching with his every mood. you’ve learned that while he might seem all chill and sunny on the surface, he’s got his own quirks, and if you push him far enough, he’s more likely to play along than snap at you.

✧ one day, you’re lounging in the living area, and sunday’s sitting across from you, lazily flipping through a book. you can’t resist; it’s time for some mischief.

✧ “hey, sunday,” you call, trying to hide your grin.

✧ “yeah?” he replies, looking off guard. "have you ever been nervous before? like, nervous nervous?"

✧ “nervous? me? c’mon, i’m practically impossible to ruffle.” he gives you a lighthearted shrug, but you can see the playful challenge in his eyes. he’s used to keeping things breezy, but you’ve caught his attention now.

✧ you press on, deciding to have a little more fun with this. “oh really? well, let’s see... I’ve got a whole list of ways I could mess with you.”

✧ sunday doesn’t seem fazed at first, but you notice the way his fluffy wings twitch a little more with each word you say. it’s like a radar for his mood—you know he’s still calm, but there’s something in the way his feathers ruffle when he’s listening to you.

✧ “well, you’ll have to be a lot sneakier than that if you want to get under my skin,” he says, flashing you that signature grin of his, but now you can see a little spark of competitiveness in his eyes.

✧ you, of course, aren’t backing down. “let’s see if i can. hey, sunday, do you ever get tired of being all... perfect?” you ask, making air quotes around "perfect" with your hands.

✧ sunday’s wings flutter again, and this time, you catch the faintest shift in his posture. “perfect?” he asks, trying to play it off, but there’s a subtle twitch in the fluff near his neck. “you’re really gonna call me perfect? what’s wrong with that?”

✧ oh, he’s biting now. perfect. you lean in, voice teasing. “well, it just seems a little... too easy, don’t you think? i mean, you’re always so relaxed, always in control. how do you even do it?”

✧ you can see sunday’s lips twitch in amusement, and his wings give an exaggerated little flutter, like they’re bristling. he’s definitely aware now, but the best part is how he's trying to play it cool, still acting like he’s the one in control.

✧ “you really think i’ve got it all under control, huh?” he responds, a bit of a challenge creeping into his tone. “well, i guess i am pretty awesome. i mean, who could resist all this charm?” he gestures to himself dramatically, his wings fluffing out like he’s proud of the effect they have.

✧ you laugh, but don’t let up. “oh, i’m sure the charm works, but... do you ever get tired of being this smooth?” you tease, pretending to think it over. “i mean, surely you get a little flustered once in a while, right? just a little bit?”

✧ that’s when you see it—a small, barely perceptible shift. sunday’s wings twitch against his neck, brushing lightly as he tries to keep his expression neutral, but you catch it. there’s a softening in his demeanor, a slight heat creeping into his tone.

✧ “huh. so now i’m too smooth?” he teases, but it’s a little less confident now. “maybe you’re just getting good at finding my weak spots.”

✧ you smile, leaning back triumphantly. “maybe. or maybe you’re just too easy to read, sunday.”

✧ he narrows his eyes playfully, but you catch the small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture as his wings flutter just a little more. it's like they’re signaling his internal shift—he’s starting to realize you’re not just playing around.

✧ “okay, okay,” sunday says with a dramatic sigh, his wings now fully unfurled behind him like a soft, fluffy halo. he rubs the back of his neck and gives you a teasing look. “you wanna stress me out, huh? well, guess i’ll have to turn the tables a little.”

✧ with that, sunday leans closer, grinning mischievously. his wings brush against his neck again, this time on purpose, causing a soft, tickling sensation that makes you jump a little.

✧ “how’s this?” he asks, and now, you realize—he’s playing his own game. “i think we’re gonna see how you handle me.”

✧ sunday’s easygoing nature mixed with his unexpected turn in this little game makes it all the more fun. as he continues to toy with you, you can’t help but laugh at how well he’s handled your antics.

✧ “alright, alright,” you admit, finally letting the game end, “you win. i’ll stop testing your patience... for now.”

✧ his wings flutter triumphantly behind him as he gives you a mock salute, his grin still wide and playful. “you’re welcome to try again any time, [name]. but you should know—I don’t get flustered that easily. unless...” he pauses, giving you a teasing look, “...you do something even crazier next time.”

✧ you can’t help but smile back. sunday’s laid-back nature might be hard to crack, but it’s clear—he does enjoy the game, and in the end, he’s always up for a little bit of fun at your expense.

jing yuan

✧ jing yuan usually keeps his composure, but when you start “testing” his patience, he begins to crack ever so slightly.

✧ jing yuan is the epitome of calm, controlled elegance. he carries himself like a well-balanced scale, measured in his actions and words, always composed, always unfazed. but when you start testing him that balance teeters, just a little, though he’s careful to maintain his outward serenity.

✧ you know he's a man of patience, but every person has their breaking point—and you're curious to see how far you can push his.

✧ it all starts innocently enough, a bit of teasing and mild mischief on your part. you might "accidentally" misplace his paperwork, or maybe ask him endless trivial questions when you know he’s buried in his work. you’re not being cruel, of course—just playful, testing the waters to see if he’ll falter.

✧ he humors you at first, a chuckle escaping his lips when you ask something particularly silly. “what is it, my dear?” he asks, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, his golden eyes never leaving his work. “another question for me?”

✧ but as the questions come one after another, you start to notice a shift. his pen slows, and for a moment, his fingers still. he leans back in his chair, gaze lifting to meet yours.

“you’re playing a dangerous game, my dear,” he says, his voice low, but laced with amusement. “are you testing me to see if i’ll lose interest? because i can assure you, i won’t.”

✧ there’s a sharpness to his tone now, the calm facade slipping just slightly. it's subtle, but you catch it—a flicker of something deeper behind his eyes. his gaze darkens with an unreadable emotion, and for the first time, you wonder if you've pushed him too far.

✧ but you’re not one to back down easily, so you keep going, shifting the game into a new gear. you become a little more persistent, trying to get under his skin without being too obvious. you ask more ridiculous questions, throw in more distractions, all in the name of seeing how he reacts. surely, a man like jing yuan, so steady and composed, would get annoyed eventually, right?

✧ you watch him for a long moment, his gaze steady and unwavering. His fingers tap lightly on the edge of the desk, his lips curling into a knowing smile.

✧ "is that what you're after?" he asks, his voice softer, but with a certain challenge in it. "you wish to see how far i'll bend? to see if i can be swayed by such... antics?"

✧ your breath catches in your throat, and you wonder if you’ve finally crossed the line. but instead of growing irritated, jing yuan does something entirely unexpected. he sets his pen down with a deliberate motion and stands up, walking around to your side of the desk. his presence looms over you in the most comforting, yet commanding way.

✧ before you can even react, he reaches for your hand, his touch warm and steady. “i can’t help but wonder…” he begins, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more affectionate than you were prepared for. “did you think you could test me without consequences?”

✧ you blink up at him, the playful tension suddenly replaced by a sense of vulnerability. there’s something in his eyes now, a deep knowing.

✧ without waiting for an answer, he leans down, his lips brushing lightly against your ear. “you’re not the only one who can play games, [name],” he murmurs, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine.

✧ you’re thrown off balance. the tables have turned, and now it’s you who’s feeling slightly flustered. where you were once testing him, now he’s testing you. he’s suddenly more attentive, more affectionate, drawing you in with every word, every touch.

✧ he chuckles softly when he sees your reaction, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. “you didn’t think i’d let you have all the fun, did you?” he teases. “i must admit, i’m rather enjoying this.”

✧ you open your mouth to respond, but all you manage is a soft laugh, caught between trying to keep your composure and wanting to give in to the sudden wave of warmth he’s throwing your way.

✧ “alright, jing yuan,” you say, trying to maintain your cool, but failing miserably. “i’ll admit defeat... for now.”

✧ his smile widens, a gentle but confident grin. “defeat? no, my dear. this isn’t about defeat. this is about knowing where we stand. and now that i’ve shown you, i expect no more games.”

✧ his words hang in the air like a promise, and you realize he’s not just testing you—he’s reassuring you, in his own way. with him, you never had to worry about being lost in his affection, because it’s clear: he’s always there, steady as ever.

✧ and just like that, the game you started has ended—only now, it’s more than you ever expected.

dan heng

✧ dan heng is the embodiment of calm and collected. his reserved nature and stoic expression almost never crack, even under the most trying of circumstances. it takes a lot to throw him off balance, which is why you’ve made it your mission to see if you can break that calm demeanor of his—just a little.

✧ at first, you start small. maybe you ask him to help you with something you’re perfectly capable of doing yourself, like reaching for a book you’re clearly just a bit too lazy to grab. you catch him off guard, but as expected, he’s kind enough to help without comment.

✧ “thank you, dan heng,” you say with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

✧ he gives you a short, quiet nod, his expression unchanged. “it’s no trouble,” he mutters, though there’s a faint suspicion in his voice.

✧ you smile innocently, but it’s not lost on you how quickly he’s growing aware of your game. so, you keep at it, asking for more and more “help” with things you’re fully capable of doing on your own. every time he obliges, you see his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and you can almost feel the gears turning in his head as he processes what's going on.

✧ “dan heng,” you ask one day, leaning into the playful tension between you two, “could you pass me the salt?” the shaker’s right in front of you, of course.

✧ there’s a long pause. his gaze flicks over to the salt shaker, then back to you, his brow furrowing just the tiniest bit. “you’re not really that helpless, are you?” he asks, his voice quiet but sharp.

✧ you feign surprise. “i’m not? you sure?”

✧ he doesn’t respond right away, his fingers tapping lightly on the surface of the table. you can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

✧ “i know you’re not,” he says finally, voice even but tinged with a little irritation now. “so, what are you trying to prove?”

✧ you chuckle softly, realizing you’ve definitely gotten under his skin now. but it’s more out of curiosity than malice—you want to see how far you can go before he snaps, how long he’ll let you test him before he turns the tables.

✧ “oh, nothing,” you say innocently. “just wanted to see if you’d do it without asking questions.”

✧ dan heng’s eyes narrow, and for the first time in this little game, he seems to truly study you, as if trying to gauge your intentions.

✧ “you’re not as subtle as you think,” he finally says, his tone firm but not unkind. “you’re trying to get a reaction out of me, aren’t you?”

✧ you grin, leaning back with a satisfied look. “maybe... what’s the harm?”

✧ dan heng stands up from his seat, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he slowly gathers his things. you know you’ve pushed him a little, but you’re unsure if he’s genuinely upset or just playing along.

✧ “fine,” he mutters. “you want a reaction? here it is.”

✧ you blink as he steps closer, his usual reserved demeanor slipping as he looks down at you with a slight, almost imperceptible frown. “if i didn’t care about you, i wouldn’t even be here, helping you with these ridiculous requests. so, stop trying to push my patience.”

✧ you freeze for a moment, surprised at how direct and blunt he’s being. there’s no anger in his words—just a quiet frustration, the kind that comes from realizing how much you’ve been testing him.

✧ he lets out a short laugh, shaking his head as if he can’t quite believe what he’s dealing with. “honestly, i’m not sure if you’re trying to get me to lose my patience or just see how far you can push me.”

✧ you smile sheepishly, knowing you’ve been a little relentless with your “tests.” “i guess a bit of both,” you admit, but there’s a softness in your voice now. “i just wanted to see if you’d care enough to call me out on it.”

✧ dan heng sighs deeply, but now there’s a warmth to his expression that wasn’t there before. he steps closer and places a hand gently on your shoulder, the touch more tender than you expected. “i care enough to call you out, even if it means putting up with your nonsense.”

✧ it’s quiet for a moment, but you can feel the sincerity in his words. you’ve definitely ruffled his calm, but in a way that shows just how much he’s paying attention, how much he truly cares for you.

✧ you laugh lightly, not expecting him to be so honest about it, but secretly glad to know you’ve gotten through to him. “i’ll try not to test you so much, okay?”

✧ dan heng shakes his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “i’ll believe it when i see it.”

welt yang

✧ welt, being the mature and experienced gentleman he is, notices your little “test” immediately.

✧ the man is used to dealing with delicate matters, whether in his long history of research, his time as a historian, or the countless responsibilities that come with leading in times of crisis. so, when you start testing his patience, you know it’s going to take a lot more than a small inconvenience to shake him. that being said, you enjoy challenging him, just a little, to see how far you can push him.

✧ you start off small, of course. asking him the most trivial questions when he’s in the middle of reading one of his ancient books. “hey, welt,” you say sweetly, “do you think this book is boring?” the book’s not even in your hands, and he knows that you’re probably more interested in him than in the actual content of the text.

✧ at first, he doesn’t mind. he chuckles softly and lowers the book, humoring you with a small smile. “if i’m being honest, i would say it depends on your taste in reading. but you do know i can’t really afford distractions right now, right?”

✧ you smile, but this isn’t nearly enough to throw him off. you push again, dropping little hints like the fact that he’s been at his desk for hours on end and could probably use a break. you make a comment about how he’s always so serious, so focused, and maybe you should help him lighten up.

✧ “you know,” you tease, “you work too hard. you should take a break. come on, just for a minute?”

✧ welt sets the book down and looks at you, raising an eyebrow. “i’m not sure if i would call it ‘work’ if i’m doing something i enjoy, but i do appreciate the concern. perhaps you have something else in mind to keep me occupied?”

✧ his tone is light, playful even, but there’s something in his eyes that suggests he’s well aware of your intentions. he’s not the type to get easily upset, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t picked up on your little game.

✧ “you really know how to throw me off track, don’t you?” he says with a smile, clearly amused by your antics. “is this your way of seeing how far i’ll go before i lose my cool?”

✧ you grin, not backing down. “maybe. you seem so calm all the time. i wanted to know if i could make you flinch, just a little.”

✧ welt lets out a soft laugh, leaning back in his chair. “you’re testing me now, aren’t you? i suppose i should’ve expected as much from you.”

✧ you notice his hands move to the side of his glasses, adjusting them ever so slightly, and that’s when you realize: he’s fully aware of what’s going on.

✧ “you know, it’s cute that you think i’m impervious to distractions,” he continues, clearly enjoying your playful attempts. “but perhaps you underestimate how well i’ve learned to focus in the midst of chaos.”

✧ you can’t help but laugh at that, realizing that no matter how hard you try, you’re not going to make him flinch. he’s too smooth, too used to handling these kinds of things.

✧ “maybe i should stop testing you,” you say, a bit sheepishly. “you’re just too good at staying calm.”

✧ welt smiles knowingly. “i’ve had plenty of practice, but if you really want to test me further, i’m sure there are other ways to do so.” he leans forward, raising an eyebrow, his voice turning just a bit teasing. “but i’m not so easily caught off guard, dear. if you want to see me lose my composure, you’ll have to be a little more creative.”

✧ you blink in surprise at how easily he flipped the situation on its head, and then it dawns on you: you’ve just been outplayed.

✧ he notices the realization in your expression and gives you an amused glance. “now, if you’re really interested, i can give you some advice on how to keep your distractions less obvious in the future. but don’t expect me to fall for it again so easily.”

✧ you can’t help but laugh. “alright, alright, you win this round.”

✧ welt chuckles softly, picking up his book again. “it’s not about winning or losing, but about knowing how to handle what comes your way. and if you ever need a distraction, you know where to find me.”

✧ “but do you know, if you want reassurance, you only need to ask. i don’t play games when it comes to my feelings for you.” my man does NOT play when it comes to you!! 🙅‍♀️ 🙅‍♀️

blade

✧ he is stoic, so basically this feels like poking a sleeping tiger. you’d try to stress him out by being overly affectionate in public or daringly teasing him in front of the stellaron hunters.

✧ blade is a man of few words, and even fewer smiles. so when you start poking at him, trying to get a rise out of him, you know you’re walking a fine line. but that’s exactly what you want, isn’t it? to see just how much you can push before he cracks.

✧ it starts with small, playful jabs. teasing him about his stoic nature, of course. you know he’s not the type to express himself easily, but that doesn’t stop you from trying to bring out something more from him.

✧ “blade, do you ever smile? i think i’d faint if i saw it.”

✧ you say it with a mischievous grin, watching for any sign of a reaction. his first response is the usual – a glare that could melt steel. but there’s something else in his eyes, a flicker of something that tells you he’s holding back a smirk. deep down, you know he secretly enjoys your antics.

✧ “you’re really trying to get me to laugh, aren’t you?” he says, his voice low and steady, though it has a hint of something playful beneath it.

✧ you push further, though, not willing to let up so easily. “come on, blade. you can’t possibly be that serious all the time. it’s like you’re stuck in permanent brooding mode.”

✧ and that’s when the situation takes a turn. before you can even process it, he grabs your wrist with surprising speed, pulling you close, his voice dropping even lower, sending a shiver down your spine.

✧ “you think i’d waste my time with someone i didn’t care about? don’t test me.”

✧ his words come with an intensity that you didn’t expect, his presence so overpowering that it almost takes the air out of your lungs. you blink, momentarily taken aback, but you don’t back down. the playful teasing lingers in the air, even though you can tell that you’ve crossed the line.

✧ but blade, in his own way, seems to realize that. after a moment, he releases his grip on your wrist, letting out a quiet sigh. the edge of his tone softens, just slightly.

✧ “you’re important to me,” he mutters, his voice low but genuine. “stop doubting that.”

✧ there’s no grand declaration, no flowery words. just the blunt honesty of a man who’s difficult to read, yet in his own way, he’s showing you something far deeper than what words could ever convey.

✧ you watch him for a moment, realizing that, despite all his coldness, there’s a warmth buried deep beneath the surface – one that he’s not so quick to reveal, but it’s there, unmistakable in its own quiet way.

✧ “i guess i’ll just have to take your word for it, huh?” you say with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood once more.

✧ blade doesn’t respond with a smile, but the slightest hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. and maybe, just maybe, that’s his version of a win.

sampo koski

✧ sampo loves games, so he immediately plays along with your little “test.”

✧ sampo has always been the life of the party, the one with a smile on his face and a witty comeback ready for anything. so when you start throwing him off with your uncharacteristic seriousness, it’s like throwing a wrench in his well-oiled machine of flirtations.

✧ you don’t laugh at his jokes, you don’t play along with his flirtations, and you certainly don’t give him the usual banter he’s used to. instead, you respond with an almost eerie level of calm.

✧ “oh? no witty comeback today? you’re scaring me, sweetheart,” he teases, leaning back, watching you with an exaggerated frown as though he’s genuinely concerned. you can see the twinkle in his eyes, but he’s trying to hold it together.

✧ at first, you don’t budge. you just stare at him, deadpan, giving nothing away.

✧ he blinks a few times, clearly thrown off. then, he lets out a dramatic sigh. “oh no, what’s happening? is this… a breakup? did i mess up somehow? what did i do wrong? i can change! i swear, i’ll stop with the flirtations—i’ll even stop trying to steal your snacks!" he says, eyes widening as though he's on the verge of a crisis.

✧ the way he overacts is so ridiculous that it’s hard to keep a straight face. but you’re committed, your expression still unreadable as you let him stew in the nonsense he’s coming up with.

✧ when you finally can’t hold it in anymore and let out a soft laugh, his entire demeanor shifts. in an instant, his playful grin is back, and he pulls you into a sudden hug.

✧ “sweetheart, if i didn’t like you, i wouldn’t stick around this long. but nice try!” he says between chuckles, his voice playful and warm.

✧ you can’t help but smile at his antics. he may act like he’s been genuinely stressed out, but deep down, you know he’s been enjoying every minute of your teasing.

✧ he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sparkling mischievously. “you really had me going there for a second. but hey, now i know you care enough to test me. i’ll take it as a compliment.”

✧ you shake your head, still amused by his dramatic performance. “don’t ever change, sampo.”

✧ he winks at you, his usual grin returning in full force. “don’t worry, sweetheart, i’m never going to change… unless it’s to make you laugh more.”

luocha

✧ luocha is patient and gentle, but even he has his limits. you’d try to test him by asking endless hypothetical questions about relationships or intentionally making vague statements about your feelings.

✧ when you start throwing questions his way, testing his patience with doubts about his feelings, you know he’ll handle it with the same serenity he always exudes. but the longer it goes on, the more you start to wonder if you’re pushing him too far.

✧ “what if someone better came along?” you ask casually, watching his expression for a hint of reaction. it’s a harmless question in your mind, but you can tell he takes it seriously.

✧ he pauses, his hand resting gently on his chin, thinking it through before answering with his usual calmness. “if someone better came along, then you’d deserve to find happiness with them, just as I would wish for your happiness no matter the circumstances.”

✧ his response isn’t what you expected. it’s thoughtful, selfless, and it makes you question your own intentions. but you can’t help yourself – you press on, seeking reassurance in the form of his steady words.

✧ “but what if you don’t feel the same as you did before? what if you find someone who catches your eye more than me?”

✧ luocha’s gaze softens as he listens to your words. there’s no anger in his eyes, no irritation. only concern, as if he’s trying to understand why you would even think such a thing. his voice remains calm, but now there’s a slight edge to it, as if the question weighs on him more than you realize.

✧ “are you trying to test me?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his brow furrowing just enough to show he’s genuinely curious. “i hope you know i mean every word i’ve said to you. my feelings are not something i take lightly.”

✧ you’re taken aback, your mind racing as you realize just how much this is affecting him. you weren’t trying to hurt him; you just wanted to see if he truly cared. but now, the weight of your questions hangs heavy in the air.

✧ seeing the uncertainty in your eyes, he lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. he reaches out, taking your hand in his, offering you a reassuring smile that radiates warmth.

✧ “there’s no need for doubt,” he says softly, his voice gentle yet firm. “my feelings for you are genuine, and they won’t change based on fleeting insecurities. you are the only one i see, the only one i care for.”

✧ his words carry a weight that resonates deep within you, his sincerity undeniable. you feel a warmth spread through your chest, a sense of relief washing over you.

✧ “i’m sorry,” you say, a little embarrassed by how far you’ve pushed him. “i didn’t mean to make you doubt how much i care.”

✧ luocha chuckles softly, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand. “it’s alright,” he says, his voice filled with understanding. “i know you’re just seeking reassurance. but i hope this is enough to put your mind at ease.”

✧ you nod, grateful for his patience and the depth of his affection. his unwavering calmness and the way he handles your doubts only make you feel even more certain that, with him, you never need to worry about someone else coming along.

note: if you would like to be added to the honkai star rail taglist pls just ask me!! dont be shy

taglist 🏷️:  @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato @v4an @imetsk @fiannee @sunnyf4lls @yuri-is-silly @khoiyyu @daydreaming-paradies if im missing anyone please tell me because i have an inkling feeling i missed a few..

The crew had been unusually invested in your interactions with Law. They loved matchmaking, and they loved you and Law. But this morning they were more adamant. Bepo paced nervously, glancing at Law with wide eyes. “She keeps looking at you,” he whispered. “Are you blind?” “Cmonnn captain” “Bepo leave.” Law said, unamused.

The others were scattered across the deck, pretending to work but stealing glances, nudging each other, whispering bets about whether you’d finally say something. You groaned softly, trying to ignore it. Yes, you had a crush on Law—it was quiet, impossible, and always there—but the thought of actually confessing anything was terrifying. Because Law was no where near interested in you. You’d seen your captain—irritated, hurt, amused..etc—but you had never seen him flirt or even be romantically interested in anyone. And it hurt, but you’d rather have him as a friend than lose him. Especially when the entire crew seemed determined to set you up.

You tried to distract yourself with medbay work, organizing supplies and checking logs, but today your head throbbed and your body felt heavy. Every step made your stomach twist, every movement a little harder than the last. You wiped sweat from your forehead and muttered to yourself, “I’m fine. I’m fine…”

Then Law appeared. Silently, as always, moving like a shadow, his coat brushing the floor. His sharp eyes immediately found you.

“You look hot,” he said, his voice low and even.

Honestly your unsure how you misread his observation. Your head snapped up, cheeks burning. “Are… are you flirting with me?” you asked, flustered and breathless.

Law tilted his head slightly, lips twitching in the faintest smirk. “No. I think you have a fever.”

The words hit harder than you expected. Oh. Your knees wobbled. Heat pooled in your chest, your vision blurred, and your heart raced. You tried to protest.

“Uh… Law…” you murmured, barely audible. “…I… I don’t…”

Your vision swam. You felt weightless, dizzy, and utterly powerless as your knees gave way. Law caught you effortlessly, his strong arms steadying your weight. “Damn it,” he muttered, holding you close. “You really need to take care of yourself.”

——————————————————

The next moments were hazy, a blur of light and shadow, consciousness slipping in and out. You felt someone’s arms steady you, cool cloths brushing your forehead.

“I… think… I…” you murmured, voice weak, your head lolling to the side. “…I think… I’m in… love… with… Law…” The last thing you heard before everything went black again was Law’s calm, almost amused murmur. “Of course it would come out now.”

When you stirred, Law’s sharp, calm eyes met yours. He didn’t move too quickly, letting you settle.

You’re awake,” he said simply, his eyes meeting yours. Calm. Focused.

Your heart raced. “Did… did I… say anything?” you asked weakly. You vaguely remember confessing something but you’re hoping it was a fever dream.

Law’s faint smirk appeared. “Yeah,” he said evenly. “You said you’re in love with me. Or something like that.”

You froze, hands flying to your face. “N-No! I didn’t!”

He hummed softly, smirk still there. “Mm. Right. I also know that you didn’t faint because of the heat alone.”

You peeked at him, cheeks burning, still weak. “Can…can we just forget this even happened?”

Law leaned slightly closer, voice calm and even, but his eyes held a weight you hadn’t seen before. “No. But since its between us. I’ll admit something too,” he murmured. “I’ve noticed you. Always. You’re… impossible to ignore. Don’t get used to me saying that.”

You peeked through your fingers, cheeks flaming, trying to figure out if he was teasing or serious. Law leaned back slightly, his one hand still casually holding the cloth against your forehead. “Next time, try not to pass out in front of me. It makes things awkward.”

Your heart skipped a beat. His voice was still casual, teasing, and utterly Law. There was no grand flourish, no dramatic confession, but the way he said it… the way he watched you… it felt real. “What do you mean?” you ask still dazed from the previous part of the conversation.

“You faint, I end up taking care of you. You say things when you’re delirious so I can’t respond to it…complicated enough for me.” His smirk was faint, but there was something almost indulgent in it.

You laughed nervously, warmth creeping back into your chest. “Yeah… guess that’s fair.”

Outside, Bepo and the crew were quietly celebrating their “victory,” though Law didn’t glance at them. “They’ll stop eventually,” he murmured, eyes back on you. His hand moved slightly to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, casual, precise, careful.

And somehow, that small, nonchalant gesture said everything he didn’t put into words.

It’s just that you’ve never liked being told when something is supposed to matter.

You don’t like that affection suddenly becomes scheduled, that restaurants become battlegrounds for reservations, that love feels louder on one specific date than it does on the quiet, ordinary Tuesdays when it actually lives. You prefer the small things: coffee handed to you exactly how you like it without asking, fingers laced together in the car, the way Max rests his hand on your waist without even looking.

You assume he feels the same.

Max has never been performative. He doesn’t post long captions or stage surprises for cameras. If he does something, it’s deliberate and private. He doesn’t waste words. He doesn’t waste gestures either.

So when you ask one evening, trying to keep your voice light and as casual as possible: “So… are you doing anything on the 14th?”. You don’t exactly expect the shift.

He’s standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, phone in one hand. He looks up at you, and there’s the smallest pause before he answers.

“No. Why?”

It’s barely noticeable. A fraction of a second. But you know him.

That pause settles somewhere uncomfortable in your chest.

Oh.

He’s thinking about it and he’s definitely planning something.

Maybe he was waiting to see if you’d bring it up. Maybe it matters to him more than he lets on. Maybe you’ve misread this entire time.

You shrug like it’s nothing.

“Just checking.”

He nods once, and the conversation moves on, but it doesn’t really move on. It lingers. It reshapes itself into assumptions.

Because what he hears is something different.

He hears: She expects something.

And Max has never been good at guessing expectations, so when he thinks there is one, he locks onto it with the same intensity he brings to everything else.

Neither of you clarifies.

And that’s where it starts.

The Week before

You don’t talk about it again, but suddenly it exists between you in a quiet, invisible way.

You catch yourself thinking about it while scrolling through restaurant options you already know you’ll hate. Candlelit tables with limited menu and too much couples around you. The exact kind of place you’d normally avoid. Still, you book one. The confirmation email lands in your inbox and makes you feel strangely nervous.

You tell yourself it’s important to him.

Maybe he doesn’t show it, but maybe he wants one night that feels deliberate. Maybe he’d be disappointed if you brushed it off. Maybe you’ve been too casual about something that matters more than you realized.

So you order a gift that feels thoughtful but not overwhelming. You buy a dress that’s softer than your usual style. You rehearse, in your head, what the night is supposed to look like.

Meanwhile, Max is doing the exact same thing in his own quiet, methodical way.

He calls ahead to confirm reservations at a place he knows you wouldn’t normally choose, because he assumes that’s the point. He buys flowers, which he almost never does, because that feels like the expected move. He stands in a store longer than he’d like, staring at something small and understated that he thinks you’d wear, telling himself that if he’s going to do this, he’ll do it properly.

He doesn’t complain about it. He doesn’t question it.

He just commits.

Because if you care, he cares.

February 14th

When he knocks on your door, he’s holding a bouquet that looks slightly too red to be natural.

You open the door and immediately clock everything at once.

The flowers. The way he’s dressed just a little more put together than usual. The fact that he looks almost… tense.

He clocks you too.

The dress. The effort. The way you’re trying to look relaxed and not overthink it.

“For you,” he says, holding out the flowers in a way that’s careful but not overly soft.

“They’re beautiful,” you reply, and you mean it, even if your stomach tightens slightly.

You both look like you’re about to attend something formal, something structured. Something neither of you actually likes.

The drive is quieter than usual, not in a bad way, just in a concentrated one. Max focuses on the road like he does before a start, very composed and controlled. You glance at him once or twice, wondering if you’re overthinking everything.

You reach over eventually and rest your hand on his thigh, grounding yourself. He covers it with his own without looking away from the road.

That part feels normal.

That part feels like you.

The moment you walk into the restaurant, you both know.

It’s worse than expected.

Pink candles line every surface. Rose petals are scattered across white tablecloths like someone lost control of a florist. A violinist plays something slow and cinematic in the corner. The hostess beams at you with an enthusiasm that feels aggressive.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“You too,” you both answer in identical, neutral tones.

The table is small, intimate in a way that feels forced. There’s a single candle between you, flickering dramatically. The air smells like perfume and champagne and something overly sweet.

Max pulls your chair out, and you thank him. He sits across from you, posture straight, jaw slightly tight.

You both try.

You really do.

You make polite conversation. You ask about his day. He asks about yours. You comment on the ambiance in a way that avoids being sarcastic.

But you notice the way he stares at the menu like it’s a strategic puzzle. He notices the way you keep adjusting your napkin, smoothing it over your lap.

The waiter approaches with a smile that suggests this is his favorite night of the year.

“And what are we celebrating tonight?”

There’s a fraction of hesitation.

“Valentine’s,” you both say at the same time.

It sounds rehearsed. Obligatory. Because it is.

The waiter nods approvingly and moves on.

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time.

Max looks at the heart-shaped appetizer placed in front of you, then at you.

“You hate this, don’t you?” he asks, finally.

The question lands softly, but it splits everything open.

You blink. “…You don’t?”

He frowns, genuinely confused. “I thought you liked it.”

“I thought you did.”

The realization spreads slowly across his face, mirrored by the same one on yours.

“I booked this because I thought you’d be disappointed if I didn’t,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

“I bought the flowers because I thought you expected it,” he replies immediately.

There’s no accusation in his tone. Just clarity.

You stare at each other across the candlelight, and the whole evening suddenly feels absurd.

“I don’t care about the day,” he says after a moment, leaning back slightly. “I care about you. The date doesn’t change that.”

You feel something in your chest loosen.

“I don’t like being told when I’m supposed to do something romantic,” he continues. “If I do something, it’s because I want to. Not because it’s February.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I thought if we didn’t do something, you’d think I didn’t care.”

His eyebrows pull together slightly. “You think that’s how I measure that?”

The answer is obvious. Of course not.

You both sit there for a moment, the violin swelling unnecessarily behind you.

“We could leave,” he says.

There’s no hesitation this time.

“Yes,” you reply immediately.

You leave before dessert.

The hostess looks faintly scandalized, but neither of you slow down. The cold air outside hits your skin and feels like relief. No candles. No expectations. No music trying to narrate your feelings.

You both exhale at the same time, and this time, you laugh.

Not polite laughter. Not controlled.

Real laughter.

“I can’t believe we did that,” you say, shaking your head.

“I can’t believe we both thought the other one liked it,” he replies, almost as if he doesn’t believe it..

In the car, the tension is gone. He reaches over and laces his fingers through yours, grounding you in that familiar way.

“I don’t hate Valentine’s,” he says after a while, eyes still on the road.

You glance at him.

“I hate pretending,” he clarifies.

That makes sense. It fits him perfectly.

You squeeze his hand. “Me too.”

Back at his place, you both change into comfortable clothes, the kind you actually live in. You order takeout that arrives in paper bags instead of silver trays. You sit on the couch, knees touching, plates balanced carelessly.

There are no candles.

No speeches.

No schedule.

At some point, you lean into him, and he wraps an arm around you automatically, like he always does. His thumb traces slow circles against your side, absentminded and grounding.

“I was worried you’d think I wasn’t doing enough,” he admits quietly, almost like it surprises him to say it out loud.

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You always do enough.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but his arm tightens slightly around you, like that’s answer enough.

Midnight passes unnoticed.

There’s no dramatic kiss or grand declaration.

It’s just the two of you, comfortable and close.

And for the first time all evening, nothing feels staged.

It just feels like the real version you.

Divider Credit: @uzmacchiato

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