#yk22

Taking your time with everything. Standing in front of the mirror, smoothing invisible creases from your clothes, tilting your head slightly as if considering some secret detail only you can see. Your fingers ghost over the delicate chain of a necklace, contemplating, before deciding against it, only to pick it up again a moment later. When you put on lipstick, you press your lips together slowly, blotting, then checking again, as if perfection is just a breath away from being achieved.

And food. God, food. The decision is never simple. You scroll through endless options, reading reviews like they hold the weight of fate itself. "What are you in the mood for?" he'll ask, and you'll hum in contemplation, clicking through another menu, then another. He could make a lap around the paddock in the time it takes you to decide.

Your stories are never a straight line. You start with something simple, something that happened at work, something a friend said, and then it unravels into threads of unrelated details, tangents winding in and out like an uncharted road. You laugh at your own distractions, doubling back, adding side notes and explanations. It should be frustrating, the way you lose yourself in the telling. But somehow, it never is.

With anyone else, he’d groan, cross his arms, tell them to hurry the hell up. But with you? He just watches.

Tonight, it’s no different. You still haven’t picked a restaurant, still lost in the endless debate of sushi or pasta or maybe something new, but that’s a problem for later. A problem for exactly seventeen minutes from now, if he’s guessing right. Right now, he just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, observing the quiet ritual of you getting ready.

He watches the way your fingers skim over fabrics, indecisive, how you turn slightly to see different angles in the mirror. You don’t rush. You never do. And somehow, against all logic, he never minds.

When you finally settle on an outfit, you approach him with a delicate chain in hand, turning your back to him in silent expectation. He huffs, but it’s barely a sound—more habit than anything else—as he steps forward.

The clasp is tiny between his fingers, and his movements are careful, deliberate. The softest brush of his knuckles against your skin sends a quiet shiver down your spine. He catches it, of course. Smirks. But instead of teasing, he lets his lips graze the back of your neck, a barely-there kiss, warm and fleeting.

You exhale, just the tiniest sigh, tilting back ever so slightly into him. His hands linger at your shoulders for a moment longer before he pulls away, like the warmth of you is something he wants to commit to memory.

And when you finally turn to him, triumphant in your decision: because yes, you’ve finally picked a place, he just smirks and takes your hand.

"Finally," he teases. But there’s no bite to it. Just fondness. Just you.

Yuki doesn’t share his food.

He’s always been territorial over his meals. A habit born out of necessity, of growing up in a world where survival meant claiming what was his. If it’s on his plate, it’s his. No exceptions. His teammates learned that the hard way: once, when Pierre tried to swipe a piece of sushi, Yuki had smacked his hand away so fast it left a sting. No one tried again after that. His engineers don’t dare reach for his snacks, either. If they’re hungry, they know the rule: get your own.

But then there’s you.

You, who takes an eternity to decide what to eat, scrolling through menu after menu with a furrowed brow, lips pursed like you’re contemplating the meaning of life instead of dinner. When the waiter comes, you wave them off with a sheepish, "Just a second!" only to spend five more minutes debating between two options. In the end, you settle on your well-practiced lie—"I’m not that hungry, I’ll just have a little of yours."

A lie. A blatant, shameless one.

Because it always starts the same way. The first time, you reach over with casual ease, fingers stretching toward his fries like you’ve done it a hundred times before. He’s faster, catches your wrist midair, his grip firm, fork still poised between his fingers. His glare is sharp, warning.

"No."

You blink at him, all wide-eyed innocence, withdrawing your hand like you’ve been gravely wronged. And then, the moment his attention flickers back to his food—

Another attempt.

The second time, he doesn’t just scowl: he shifts his plate closer, an unmistakable barrier between your thieving hands and his perfectly arranged meal. A challenge. You only grin, tapping your nails against the table, waiting.  He eats a fry while looking you dead in the eyes, slow and deliberate, just to make a point. There’s mischief in your gaze, a silent dare, and before he can react—

You strike. Quick. Efficient. A fry, stolen right from the top.

His brow twitches.

The third time, he sighs. Defeat, begrudging and inevitable. His fingers tighten around his burger as he watches you pop another fry into your mouth, chewing in smug satisfaction. He should be annoyed. He wants to be. But then you look at him like that: head tilted, eyes twinkling, the kind of look that makes him feel like he’s losing a game he never wanted to play.

And maybe he is.

"Just take them," he mutters, pushing the plate toward you with an exaggerated eye roll.

You hum in satisfaction, plucking another fry. This time, without the theatrics. Your hand lingers on his wrist, fingertips brushing against his skin for just a second too long, leaving warmth in their wake. He feels it even after you pull away.

And then—because you never let a victory go uncelebrated—you lean in, pressing a quick, grease-slicked kiss to his cheek, barely more than a brush of lips.

"Thanks, babe."

He groans, deep and exasperated, but the corner of his mouth betrays him, twitching up despite himself.

He doesn’t take the plate back.

Yuki doesn’t do mornings.

Mornings have always been a battle for him. A fight he rarely wins, especially on days that aren’t marked by the screech of tires or the roar of engines. Those days, race days, adrenaline is enough to slice through his grogginess. The second the sun breaks the horizon, he’s already sharp, his mind a laser focus, every muscle wired for action. He doesn’t even feel it when the day begins, not with the rush of purpose coursing through him.

But on mornings like this—quiet, unhurried, with nothing demanding his attention—Yuki is a creature of blankets. The soft, heavy weight of the covers calls to him, a promise of warmth, the kind that keeps him cocooned in sleep even as daylight spills through the windows. His hand reaches out instinctively to swipe at the alarm, but when he finds it, the screen just mocks him: too early, it says. And he agrees wholeheartedly.

In the dim light, his body feels sluggish, his movements slow and uncoordinated, he could easily fall back into a deep, thick sleep if only the world would allow it.

But then…

There’s you.

You, who never seem to have trouble waking, even in the early mornings. You always stir before him, never in a rush, just the slow, gentle stretching of muscles as you lazily push yourself up from the warmth of the covers. And then, just as effortlessly, you curl back into him, pressing yourself against his side like you belong there. And maybe you do. There’s something about the way you fit into him, the way your body drapes over his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The curve of your cheek presses against his shoulder, and the soft sigh you let out, content and peaceful, lingers in the air, making the early hour a little less unbearable.

Your breath is warm against his skin, and the weight of you, pressed close, becomes an anchor that tethers him to the moment. He doesn’t even try to move, not even to roll over and bury his face in the pillow again. He just... stays there, eyes half-closed, caught somewhere between waking and dreaming.

"It’s early," you mumble, your voice still thick with sleep, like a purring hum that barely reaches his ears.

Yuki grunts in agreement, his body shifting slightly, but only enough to adjust to you, to allow your small movements to nestle into him more comfortably. Not that he’d want you to move away, even if the quiet morning makes him want to pull the covers back over his head and shut out the world.

But then, the quiet settles again, and he feels your fingertips—so soft, so light—tracing lazy patterns over his stomach. Aimless, gentle, like you’re sketching invisible lines in the air, drawing with no particular plan, just because you can. 

And then, when the silence stretches long enough, your voice comes again, quieter this time—a murmur against his chest, laced with hunger.

"’M hungry."

Yuki cracks open one eye, just a slit, enough to catch your profile as you shift slightly, your hair falling messily over your forehead. You’re warm, so warm, radiating comfort. He watches you for a second, his brain half asleep, half awake, still struggling with the very idea of leaving this bed.

"Then go eat," he mutters, the words coming out gruff and unintelligible as he burrows deeper into the pillow, but the sharpness of his tone fades when you simply press your face closer to him.

Your lips brush against his jaw as you speak, muffled by his skin. "Can’t move. Comfy."

A small noise escapes him, a frustrated exhale that blends into a groan, but it's all fondness, the way his arms instinctively tighten around you: enclosing you closer, even though part of him longs to return to the dark, heavy quiet of sleep. But not yet. Not with you here.

"So starve," he grumbles, his words lazy with sleep, but there’s no malice in them. He doesn’t really want you to go hungry, not when you're this close, the quiet thrum of your heartbeat beneath his ear, the rise and fall of your chest so steady, so familiar.

You make a sound that’s something between a whine and a pout, burying your face against him like you’ve decided he’s your pillow now, your human cushion. You’re so damn cute, and it makes something inside him twist in the most uncomfortable way, like he’s helpless to it.

"Rude," you grumble, and he can feel the curve of your lips against his jaw, the ghost of your kiss before you speak again. "Some boyfriend you are."

He smirks despite himself. He can’t fight it, not when you’re this close, not when your warmth fills the spaces between his ribs. He groans again, muffled, but his body betrays him, pulling you in deeper, shifting until your head is tucked into his neck, your body a perfect match to his as you press yourself into him with a slow, deliberate ease.

You shift again, only this time, it’s your lips, soft and warm, brushing against his jaw, leaving a barely-there kiss, so light, so soft, that it makes him shiver. 

"Mm," you hum, the sound full of satisfaction. "Love you."

The words seep into him like honey, slow and thick, and for a long beat, Yuki stays still, his heart pounding in his chest, unable to ignore the sudden rush of warmth filling him from the inside out. His eyelids flutter open, just enough to catch the way you blink up at him, sleepy and impossibly smug, your lips tugging into a smile that’s everything he wants to see.

"Love you too," he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep, the words still coming slow, like he’s trying to hold onto the hazy warmth of sleep for just a second longer. And then, after a beat, he sighs, feeling the weight of the day creeping up on him.

"Now shut up."

You laugh. It’s soft, a little breathy, and it carries all the sweetness of the morning.

And for once, Yuki doesn’t mind the early morning. Doesn’t mind waking up. He doesn’t mind anything at all as long as you’re here.

Yuki doesn’t try new things.

Yuki’s routine is sacred. The familiar, the comfortable, the things he knows will always be there—those are his preferences. When it comes to food, he’s not adventurous. Sure, he’ll put on a show for the cameras: pretend to enjoy some bizarre, experimental dish cooked up by the team for social media content. But that’s because he has to. It’s part of the job. The likes, the shares, the endless promotional content. He’ll grin through it, even if the taste is something straight out of a horror story. But outside of that, when he’s given the choice, when he’s the one in control, he sticks to his tried-and-true favorites.

Which is why, when you walk down the grocery aisle together, Yuki’s hand automatically reaches for the familiar: a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cookies and Cream. He pulls it from the shelf with a satisfied, almost reverent air. The cold carton, the ice cream with those perfect little chunks of cookie—this is his happy place.

But then, just as he’s about to toss it into the cart, you sidle up behind him, a mischievous grin on your face, and hold up something that makes his stomach twist in a very un-Yuki-like way.

"Look what I found!" you say, the gleam in your eyes impossible to ignore. You’re holding a tub of bubblegum ice cream, the bright pink color practically screaming for attention. "I’ve been looking for this forever!"

Yuki’s nose scrunches instantly. His lips curl in disgust as he eyes the ice cream, then shoots you a look like you’ve just committed some grave offense.

"No," he says firmly, shaking his head as if even the idea of it is sacrilege. "That looks gross."

You’re relentless, though, and your pout is lethal. It’s the kind of look that softens his resolve faster than anything else. You lean into him, your face inches from his, and his breath hitches at the closeness, even if it’s just the softness of your eyes that does it.

"Baby," you whine, just enough to make his patience snap like a twig.

Yuki sighs, the sound heavy and full of reluctant affection. He takes the tub from your hand, dropping the one he was holding into the cart and begrudgingly placing the bubblegum ice cream in its place. It’s a silent surrender, but there’s a subtle, almost unnoticeable smile that plays at the corner of his mouth. He still buys his usual, though. He’s not that far gone.

Later that night, when the living room lights are dim and the flickering glow of the TV fills the space, you’re sprawled across the couch beside him, a bowl of the bubblegum ice cream in your hands. It’s become a routine of sorts after qualifying: movie night, couch lounging, just the two of you with a random film playing in the background.

You extend the bowl toward him, holding out the spoon like a challenge. "Want a bite?"

Yuki looks down at your offering, his lips curling in a disinterested, almost condescending way as he raises his own spoonful of real ice cream, his precious Cookies and Cream.

"I'm good," he mutters, lifting the spoon to his mouth. It’s the perfect balance of sweet and cookie, the familiar chill that fills him with a sense of calm. He could eat this every day for the rest of his life and be content.

But you’re still looking at him, your eyes wide and pleading, the kind of gaze that never fails to chip away at his defenses. You stick out your bottom lip in that irresistible pout, and for a moment, it feels like the world narrows down to just the two of you, the silence punctuated only by the soft hum of the movie.

"Please?" you ask, your voice a little teasing, a little desperate in that endearing way you know gets to him. "It's so good, I promise it'll change your life."

Yuki groans, a low sound of defeat. You always know how to make him cave, even if he’ll never admit it. He rolls his eyes, but despite his protests, he leans forward, reluctantly taking the spoon from you.

The first bite hits him cold, and for a moment, all he can focus on is the strange, almost sickly-sweet bubblegum flavor that coats his tongue. It’s too sweet, too artificial; nothing like the comforting richness of his usual choice. His face scrunches, but he swallows anyway, the texture strange and the taste lingering uncomfortably.

He doesn’t say anything right away, as if waiting for his taste buds to process what’s just happened.

You’re watching him closely, your eyes sparkling with mischief, but also a touch of hope.

Yuki looks at you—genuine, unaffected, as if nothing’s changed. He takes another spoonful of his own, shrugging noncommittally.

He still prefers Cookies and Cream. The bubblegum is a novelty, nothing more.

But... sometimes, just sometimes, when you're there beside him with that expectant look in your eyes, Yuki reaches for the bubblegum ice cream instead. Not because it’s better. Not because he’s suddenly a convert. But because, in that small way, he wants to let you win a little.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s not so bad after all.

Yuki doesn’t get nervous.

The track is alive with sound and energy, the roar of engines filling the air like a living thing. Yuki has been in the thick of it more times than he can count, his hands steady on the wheel, his mind sharp, as if every twist of the road was part of a dance he had mastered long ago. He thrives under pressure, welcomes it like an old friend. The chaos of it all—the adrenaline, the need to make split-second decisions that could change everything—only sharpens his focus. Confidence is his armor, polished and unyielding, a constant companion that never wavers.

But today? Today is different.

Today, it’s you.

It’s the first race in a while that you’ve been able to attend. Your work at the hospital always keeps you busy, and Yuki would never dare hold that against you. He knows how hard you work, how many lives you touch with your compassion, and he’s proud of you for it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s missed you at the track, missed the quiet, steady presence you bring, the way your eyes always seem to find him in the chaos of the race.

The car hums beneath him, a low growl of power that makes the world feel like it’s about to shift on its axis. He’s focused. Laser-focused. 

But it’s hard to keep that edge when you’re standing at the edge of the garage, just outside the fence that separates the chaos from the calm. Your arms are wrapped around yourself, your posture a mix of anticipation and quiet calm. The moment your gaze locks with his, it’s like everything else fades away. The world becomes a blur, and it’s just you and him, just the way your eyes fix on him with such intensity that it makes his chest tighten.

He’s seen the look before, but today, it feels different. Today, there’s a weight to it, a softness that makes his stomach twist, makes his heart beat just a little faster. And in that moment, Yuki realizes something that catches him off guard, something that pulls him away from his usual confidence.

It’s not nerves, not doubt. It’s something else, something quieter, something urgent. A need, perhaps. 

To be good. 

To be great. 

To make you proud. 

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and tightens his grip on the wheel, as if the car might feel it, as if it might understand that this time, it’s not just about winning for himself.

It’s about you.

So when the lights go out and he launches forward, he’s not just racing for himself anymore.

Yuki doesn’t do sappy stuff.

Romance movies make him cringe, the kind where someone runs through the rain with their arms wide open, all dramatic and earnest. Grand gestures are reserved for people who don't know how to express themselves with just words. He rolls his eyes when his friends get all soft and sentimental, throwing around sweet nothings like it’s second nature.

Yuki is none of those things.

He’s the guy who prefers bluntness over all the fluff, the one who keeps his affection hidden beneath layers of sarcasm, behind the smirk he wears like armor. It’s simpler that way. Cleaner.

But then there’s you.

You, with your quiet way of being. Your softness, like it’s woven into every little thing you do. You curl up next to him, body warm and relaxed against his side. Your fingertips trace absentminded shapes on his palm, slow and gentle, like it's the easiest thing in the world to touch him. It’s simple, effortless. No rush, no expectation—just your hand in his, like it's always been meant to be that way.

The room hums with that quietness, the soft buzz of a late night, with the only sounds the soft rustle of sheets and your steady breathing. It's the kind of silence that feels like home. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of any need to fill it.

Yuki doesn’t need to fill the silence when it’s with you.

He’s never been good at this, at letting himself sit with his emotions without some form of distraction, without running away from the weight of them. But with you, it’s different.

You, with your warmth. You, with your quiet acceptance of him, of all his rough edges, the parts of himself he hides behind teasing words and quick smiles. You make it so easy to just… be.

Then, without any warning, you break the stillness, your voice a soft murmur against his shoulder. "I love you."

It’s not the first time you’ve said it. But this time, this time, it feels different.

The words slip out so easily, like they’ve been waiting for the right moment to escape. Like they’re not something you’ve practiced, something you’ve planned, but something you’ve just… known. Something you’ve been carrying inside of you, and now, here in this quiet, tucked against him in the warm darkness, it just flows from your lips as naturally as breathing.

And suddenly, Yuki’s chest tightens.

He blinks, once, twice, like he’s trying to clear the weight that’s settled behind his ribs. His breath catches in his throat, too surprised by the simplicity of it all, by the sudden way his heart seems to stop beating for just a second.

He turns his head slightly, just enough to catch the gentle curve of your face in the dim light. Your eyes are closed, your lashes resting softly against your skin, as if you’ve said something ordinary. But Yuki? Yuki feels like the ground has shifted beneath him, like he’s teetering on the edge of something he can’t quite explain.

There’s no grand gesture, no need for fireworks or dramatic pauses. Just you, so sure of yourself, so unafraid to offer him something so pure.

He swallows thickly, his throat suddenly feeling tight, heavy with the weight of something he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

His eyes flicker to your hand still resting on his, and for a moment, it’s as though time has stopped. All he can think of is the way you’ve quietly and gently made a place for him in your world, how effortlessly you’ve slipped into his heart.

And in that moment, something in him shifts, something soft, something fragile.

He looks at you again, really looks at you, and his breath comes out in a slow exhale. Your face is calm, content, the way it always is when you’re with him. And maybe it’s the way your touch lingers on his palm, or maybe it’s the quiet trust in your voice, or maybe it’s just the undeniable truth that, with you, he feels like he doesn’t have to hide anymore.

So, maybe, just maybe—his voice is barely a whisper, but it holds more weight than any grand gesture ever could. "I love you too."

It’s simple. Quiet. Almost as if saying it out loud makes it more real, more tangible, than it’s ever been.

And when you open your eyes and meet his gaze, your smile is soft and slow, as if you’ve always known.

And for once, in the silence that follows, Yuki feels like he’s finally where he’s meant to be.

yourusername’s insta story

yourusername

Liked by yukitsunoda0511, pierregasly and 254,016 others

yourusername the story of how yukitsunoda0511 and I tried to make a cake for his birthday and by the second he was away I made a disaster 💀💀

view all comments

yukitsunoda0511 note to self: you won’t be on my restaurant’s opening night

yourusername i deserve it tbh #worstgirlfriend

yukitsunoda0511 NEVER. NEVER call yourself that again. i’ll bite you.

yourusername’s insta story

yukitsunoda0511’s insta story

yourusername’s insta story

yukitsunoda0511’s insta story

yourusername

Liked by yukitsunoda0511, pierregasly and 175,097 others

yourusername homemade cake or not, i’ll always try my best to make you smile. happy birthday cutie, i thank your momma everyday for your birth lol <33 yukitsunoda0511

view all comments

yukitsunoda0511 i love u baby

yourusername love you too dumbass

pierregasly the store cake was very nice tho

yourusername true

pierregasly also yuki looked good

yourusername STAY🤺AWAY🤺FROM🤺MY🤺BOY🤺