#yuji fic

But you overheard him a couple times. Denying them with a simple “Huh? We don’t see each other that way.”

And yeah, it did suck a little, but it really wasn’t that bad. You were content with just secretly crushing on him. 

And then high school came around. He had moved away, but stayed in the same area so you still went to the same school. The only difference was that now you didn’t see each other so often. 

And thus, you started to grow apart. 

It didn’t end with a big argument, or a failed love confession, or anything like that. It just slowly faded out until only the ashes of your friendship remained. He’d made a new, larger group of friends, and you’d found your own circle. 

With the boost of maturity high school came with, your feelings slowly died down, and you let them. Deciding it would always just be a fun childhood crush you’d keep stored in the depth of your heart and think back of fondly someday.

Little did you know, the real change would only come after college started. 

Once again, the two of you ended up unknowingly following each other in your academic career. But with college being a much bigger world than high school, you hadn’t taken notice of his presence until the first two weeks of the semester had already gone by. 

You were on your way to your philosophy class, and with the sports department on your way, you’d walked through the halls leading to the various gymnasiums. 

And that’s when you bumped into each other. 

He was walking out of the training room, hair drenched in sweat, t-shirt stained, droplets running down his jaw, as he held a towel against his neck. 

“Oh shit, I’m sorry— Are you okay?” was all you heard before your eyes landed on the most beautiful guy you’d ever seen.

Your hand suddenly stopped rubbing at the side of your head where your bodies collided, and you stared up at him with your lips parted in surprise, and your eyes wide open.

His hair was slightly shorter and you could tell he’d recently had it trimmed, his undercut still fresh. His face was now adorned with two scars, one across his nosebridge and the other on the corner of his mouth. You could’ve sworn his jaw and neck had gotten bigger and sharper too—like the rest of his body. 

Suddenly, you weren’t the mature college student you’d grown to be. No, now you were back to the carefree middle school girl with a fat crush on her childhood best friend. 

It was unfair really, how much of a grip he had on you. And so effortlessly, too. No matter what stage of your life you were at, your heart refused to let him go. 

“Y/N? Is that really you?” His eyebrows raised, mimicking yours. “Wow, I didn’t know you also went here.” he smiled. One of those heart-stopping smiles where his dimples showed. 

Those dimples really would end you one day, you were sure of it.

“I… yeah, I didn’t know you went here either.” you stutter, still too shocked to speak.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but I got offered a scholarship, so…” he shrugged.

“A sports scholarship?” you immediately asked.

“Yeah! How’d you—” he started, bright-eyed, and then froze. “Right. It’s not really hard to guess when I suck at every other subject, huh?” he scratched the back of his neck.

You blink a couple times before letting out a small chuckle. “Yeah…”

He raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “Oh come on—I’m not that bad, am I?” 

You look away, feigning innocence. “Well…”

He only laughs, and you do the same.

It was weird, talking to him like this, as if you hadn’t become strangers in the last couple of years. But you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel nice.

“I should probably go now,” you say, taking a step further from him.

“Oh, okay then.” His smile softened, and he raised a hand to wave as he walked backwards into the locker rooms. “I’ll see you around?”

You nod, before turning around, and walking to your class.

And from that day on, the two of you would not stop bumping into each other. Which was weird because you hadn’t changed your routine or any of your usual routes to class. But you weren’t complaining. Because in all honesty—he kept getting cuter and cuter every time you saw him.

And your conversations also grew longer. 

Eventually the two of you had exchanged numbers to keep contact.

He’d gotten back his habit of randomly facetiming you and spamming you, and you continued to respond just as eagerly.

One day, the two of you met up after school and you had picked up on his bad mood. When you pried for long enough, he’d told you he was at risk of losing his scholarship because of his bad grades. 

Almost immediately, you offered to tutor him.

And that’s when it really started going downhill.

You started seeing each other even more often. Most of the time it was for your tutoring sessions, but sometimes you’d just go to the movies, or hang out at a coffee shop after your classes.

And it wasn’t until the two of you had fallen back into this familiar routine that you’d realized how much you had missed him these past years.

Things were going well. His grades were getting better, you went out on dates (not technically), he’d invite you to his basketball games to support him, and you’d force him to tag along on your book club meetings sometimes. 

Truly, you hadn’t been happier in years. 

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that your friendship wasn’t the only thing that had sprung back to life. 

You’d fallen for him again. This time even harder, somehow.

Except this time you weren’t just a middle schooler going through her awkward phase, content with watching him from afar.

Things had changed. You were both adults now. 

And you couldn’t just be satisfied with crushing on him anymore. 

So you decided you’d tell him how you feel, once and for all.

You weren’t sure what to expect exactly, but you were done with letting opportunities slip from your fingers. 

So on the evening where you’d finished your exams for the semester, you decided to go out and celebrate with a couple of friends at a local restaurant with good food and some drinks.

He’d chosen to sit right next to you—and you had tried not to let it get to your head. Because you had to stay focused and mentally practice how you were going to confess your feelings. 

Tonight was the night, you could feel it. The semester was over, everyone was in a good mood, and you were all dressed up and pretty.

Near the end of the night, after everyone had gone back to their dorms, the two of you remained alone.

You were only a little tipsy, and thankfully, Yuji’s iron stomach had kept him pretty much sober. So here you were, balancing yourself on the curb, with your best friend carefully holding his arms out for you in case you fell. 

“I’m sooo glad I ran into you in the sports block…” you stared at your feet as you took small steps, with your arms held out in a perfect T-pose.

“Me too… hey be careful—” he scolded.

“‘M fine!” you giggled.

He lets out a small sigh, keeping a hand at a painful distance away from your lower back to support you. 

You open your mouth to speak up again, but you take a misstep, and feel your world tilt on its axis. A gasp leaves you, but Yuji’s quick to react.

He catches you immediately, in bridal style. He’s slightly out of breath, not because he’s having a hard time holding you, but because you scared the hell out of him. He readjusts you in his arms, holding you tighter. 

Your eyes widen, and your cheeks flush, as he fills your line of sight. His handsome features only accentuated with the streetlamp’s lighting. 

“You good? I told you to be careful.”

Your eyelids drop again, nearly closing, as you stare up at him with dimmed eyes. A beat of silence passes. 

Now’s your chance. 

“Yuji?”

“... yeah?”

“I’m in love with you.” you blurt out.

He almost loses his grip on you from sheer surprise. 

Another pause.

“You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.” he swallows, and from the angle you’re at, you see his adam’s apple bob clearly. It takes everything in you to stop yourself from burying your face in his neck

“I’m only tipsy.” you pout, the gesture not really helping to prove your point. “I know what I’m saying, Yuji.”

He clears his throat and tears his gaze off of you before he continues walking. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do! Just because I’m tipsy doesn’t mean I’m dumb.” You let out an annoyed whine and hit his chest, albeit weakly. “I’ve always loved you! I just… never told you.” you add, quietly.

His footsteps slow, but he doesn’t stop walking. “... what do you mean ‘always’?”

“I mean ever since we were kids, duh. Are you stupid or something?” you chuckle again.

He swallows again, this time harder. He grows silent once more, but now you’re too preoccupied with what you just confessed to continue talking. A heavy weight settles in your stomach as you slowly come back to your senses. 

“Do you… not feel the same?” you finally look up at him.

You don’t miss the way his lips purse awkwardly, or how his jaw clenches. He keeps quiet, refusing to answer you.

“Yuji, put me down.” 

He looks down at you and hesitates for a moment before setting you back down on your feet. 

His hands rest on his hips as he looks at the ground. 

At the sight of his posture, and the heavy sigh that escapes him, you finally understand. 

“... You don’t feel the same, do you?”

He takes a couple seconds before meeting your eyes with an apologetic look. “... No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

You feel your heart shatter, and you stagger back a couple steps, still feeling a little nauseous and dizzy from the alcohol. 

He moves to steady you again but you stop him. 

Once you regain your balance, you cross your arms. “Right, well… this is awkward.” you clear your throat.

“A little,” He scratches at the back of his head. “Can we still be friends though? I don’t… want to lose my best friend.”

Your heart sinks further down to your stomach at the words “best friend” and you try your best not to let it show. You nod, “Of course, we’ll always be best friends.” you slowly look up at him with a small, tight-lipped and forced smile.

He nods in response, before awkwardly offering you his hand to help you wobble back to your place.

The following days, nothing had really changed, the two of you refusing to mention the elephant in the room. It’s like you had made an unspoken agreement not to speak about that night. 

You continued texting, facetime, hanging out, etc. 

It was now winter break, so you had plenty of time to see each other. 

Except that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t ignore the ache in your heart every time you saw him. So it was after a lot of consideration and reluctance that you slowly started distancing yourself from him. 

By the end of the first week, you’d managed to find excuses to avoid seeing each other in person, but kept calling and texting. By the second week, your 6 hour facetime calls turned into vocal messages, and you’d stopped replying to his stories or the silly videos he sent you. And near the end of that same week, you’d managed to completely cut contact for four consecutive days.

You felt bad for ghosting him, but you needed room to breathe and think. 

Now you had the next two weeks of your break completely Yuji-free.

And it might’ve been hard to believe, but you’d managed to meet someone new in that short amount of time. By the time the new semester started, the two of you had already gone on a couple dates. 

As for Yuji, you hadn’t seen or spoken to him in weeks. And you were finally starting to forget him, little by little. Of course you still weren’t over him, but you weren’t wallowing in self-pity anymore.

Thankfully, none of your classes were near the sports block so the chances of you two running into each other were slim. 

At least you thought so. 

It happened on a random Wednesday as you and your recently official boyfriend waited in line to try out some free cookies for a school event—you weren’t exactly sure what but hey, free cookies.

Tons of students were gathered in the main atrium of your campus. 

And that’s when you spotted a towering head of pink hair in the crowd. You immediately looked away, and hid behind your boyfriend. 

He laughed at your sudden behaviour and asked what was up, but you denied there being anything wrong. Once you’d convinced him, he’d told you he needed to go to the bathroom and that he wouldn’t take long. You reluctantly let him go with a sigh. 

Great. Now who was going to shield you against—

“Y/N?”

Fuck.

Maybe he’ll go away if you ignore him. 

A firm hand plants itself on your shoulder. “Y/N I know it’s you.”

You slowly turn to face him. “Yuji, hi.”

“‘Hi’? Seriously?” his eyebrows furrow.

You look away, awkwardly. Why did he have to be so confrontational? And in a public area too?

As if having read your thoughts, he takes a deep breath, and settles down. His voice is quieter now as he speaks. “Where have you been? What’s going on with you?”

Still refusing to look at him, you sigh and fold your arms over your chest. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? I haven’t heard from you in weeks.” He leans his head down as if trying to catch your gaze. And it works—your body betrays you and your eyes find his immediately.

His gaze softens. “Did I do something wrong?” he mutters with a pleading look. “Just tell me what I did because I can’t lose you again. You’re my best friend.” 

The words make you want to roll your eyes, but you manage to stop yourself. “I don’t want to be your friend, Yuji.” you blurt out, without meaning to.

He winces away from you, eyes wide open in shock. And then it clicks. “Wait… Is this because you like me?”

This time, you can’t hold back, and actually roll your eyes. Could he be any more dense?  Before you can speak again however, a hand finds your waist and rests on your hip. 

“Hey— who is this?” 

You wish the earth could shatter and swallow you whole.  

“This is Yuji, he’s a friend of mine.” you explain. 

The tall pink-haired man stares at the guy beside you with a scrutinizing, almost disgusted look. “Who’s he?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yuji, this is my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” His frown only deepens. “Since when?”

“We met almost three weeks ago… but I asked her out two days ago.” the guy interjects.

You watch the gears turn in Yuji’s head. “... You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Yuji.” you scold, eyebrows knitted together.

“What? I’m just saying.” he shrugs, acting unbothered, when in reality he was anything but.

“We should go now.” You give him one last glance before turning to the man beside you. 

Too conflicted to do anything, Yuji just stands there, watching your retreating figures. 

It isn’t until after at least a minute that he manages to get his feet moving again, deciding to just go back to his dorm.

Things stay the same for the following weeks. 

And Yuji doesn’t understand why he feels an inexplicable rage bubble deep in his gut every time he sees you with him. 

At first he thought the anger was directed at you—for ghosting him, for ending your friendship. 

But after a while he understood that the real person that angered him was your so-called boyfriend. 

Who the fuck even was that? What kind of manwhore asks a girl out after three weeks? How dare he take you away from him? What did he have that Yuji didn’t? He’d be a much better boyfriend to you than that rando ever will be.

Wait, what?

Boyfriend? No, Yuji didn’t see you like that. 

…

Oh. Maybe he did.

Why was he only just now realizing? He’d spent his whole life thinking of you as a good friend—and just that. When did things change? 

Was it when you’d talk his ear off on your walks back home in middle school? Was it when he’d catch glimpses of you talking to your friends in the halls of your old high school? Or was it when you’d unexpectedly barged back into his life like God himself sent you?

Or maybe it was throughout last semester, when you’d lean in just enough for him to smell your perfume while you helped him with homework. Or that time where he’d let you win at an arcade game, unbeknownst to you, and you’d smiled at him while jumping up and down about your victory. 

Or—maybe it was the night where you’d confessed your feelings to him. He was already feeling conflicted and woozy that entire evening just from sitting next to you. The way you’d brush his arm, leaning against his shoulder while laughing every time he told a dumb joke. The way your smell intoxicated him and the warmth radiated from your skin. And that look in your eyes as you’d look up at him while he talked.

All these moments had started to blur together, and he couldn’t tell what exactly had been the turning point for him. The only thing he knew was that he liked you too. 

And now he was stuck with this useless and painful piece of information. Forced to watch you be happy with someone who was smart enough to snatch you up before they lost their chance.

…

you don’t notice it at first, not in any way that feels urgent, because yuji has always been good at carrying things lightly, at making even the worst situations feel manageable just by the way he exists in them.

he moves the same way, talks the same way, smiles like nothing has shifted, and it lets everything else slip by unnoticed, tucked into the spaces between moments where you are not looking closely enough.

but the longer you are around him, the more those small inconsistencies begin to gather, quiet and subtle but persistent, until they start to press at the edge of your awareness.

it is in the way his posture is just slightly more guarded than usual, like he is holding himself together instead of simply being, in the way his hand drifts to his side and lingers there for a second too long before dropping, in the way his laughter feels chosen instead of effortless, arriving a fraction too late to be completely natural.

none of it is enough on its own to stop you, to make you question him outright, and maybe that is why it works, why he gets away with it, why you let yourself believe that if something was actually wrong, he would tell you.

you only realise how wrong that assumption is when someone else says it, offhand, like it is nothing worth thinking about.

“he took a pretty bad hit earlier.”

the words settle heavily, immediate and cold, and everything you have been ignoring rearranges itself all at once into something impossible to overlook.

your chest tightens before you can even process it properly, before you can decide how to react, because part of you already knows what you are going to find.

when you confront him, he smiles.

not forced, not obviously strained, just easy and familiar in a way that almost makes you second guess yourself for a split second, like maybe you are overreacting, like maybe it really is nothing.

“it’s nothing, i promise,” he says, stepping a little closer, his voice warm, reassuring, the same tone he uses when he wants to calm you down. “i’ve had worse.”

you don’t move, and the fact that you don’t soften, don’t mirror his expression, is enough to make something in him falter, just slightly, just enough that you catch it.

“you lied to me,” you say, your voice quieter than the feeling behind it, but steady, grounded in something that doesn’t waver even as your chest feels tight.

he blinks, caught off guard, like that wasn’t what he expected you to focus on.

“i didn’t lie,” he replies quickly, almost defensively, his shoulders tensing as if he is bracing for something. “i just didn’t think it was a big deal.”

the space between you stretches, thick with everything unsaid, and you hold his gaze, refusing to let him brush past it.

“not a big deal to you,” you say, your arms crossing, not to shut him out but to keep yourself from reaching for him instead. “you didn’t even tell me.”

he looks away then, jaw tightening, and you can see the moment he starts to pull back, to retreat into that quieter, more closed off version of himself that only shows when he feels cornered.

“i didn’t want you to worry.” it lands wrong.

“i worry anyway,” you snap, the words slipping out sharper than you intended, and you take a small step back, putting space between you because staying close suddenly feels like it will make everything blur together in a way you don’t want.

“do you think it feels better finding out from someone else?”

he flinches, barely, but it is there, and it only makes the frustration twist tighter.

“i was trying to help,” he says, softer now, like he already knows he is losing this, like he is trying to salvage something that is slipping.

you shake your head, the motion slow, deliberate.

“no, you were deciding for me,” you say, your voice lowering, steady despite the way your chest feels. “you don’t get to decide for me whether you’re worth staying for.”

the words hang there, heavier than you meant them to be, heavier than you expected, and the effect is immediate.

he goes still, completely still, something in him has locked into place.

you see it in his expression, in the way his shoulders drop just slightly, not in relief, but in something quieter, something that looks a lot like resignation, and for a second you almost take it back, almost reach out and soften it before it settles too deep.

but you are still upset, still caught in the sharp edge of it, and you don’t. so you leave.

not loudly, not dramatically, just turning away and walking out before you can second guess it, before you can undo the distance you just created.

you expect him to follow. he doesn’t.

the silence that follows is not the kind that feels intentional, not the kind that gives you room to breathe and sort through your thoughts.

it lingers, it stretches.

it settles into something heavier than you expected.

he doesn’t come find you, doesn’t hover at the edge of your space, doesn’t send even a simple message, and at first you tell yourself that is fair, that you needed space, that you were the one who walked away.

but the longer it goes on, the more it starts to feel wrong, because this is not space, this is absence.

and the thought creeps in slowly, unwelcome but persistent, that if he was hurt before, if he was already hiding it, then what is he doing now, with no one there to check, no one there to stop him from pushing himself further than he should.

that thought settles deep and refuses to leave, looping quietly until it becomes the only thing you can focus on.

by the time you are standing outside his dorm, your hand raised to knock, the decision has already been made. you knock once, then push the door open before hesitation can catch up with you.

“yuji?”

he is sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand pressed firmly against his side, no longer trying to hide it, and when he looks up at the sound of your voice, the surprise on his face is immediate, unfiltered in a way that makes your chest ache.

“you’re here,” he says, like it is something he hadn’t expected, like he had already convinced himself otherwise.

you step inside, closing the door behind you, the quiet click settling into the space.

“of course i’m here,” you reply, softer now, the earlier edge worn down by the weight of everything that has built up since. “you’re hurt.”

he glances down instinctively, like he forgot it was visible, like he forgot he is not pretending anymore.

“i’m fine,” he says, but it is weaker this time, lacking the easy confidence from before.

you move closer, slow enough to give him time to react, but he doesn’t pull away, he just watches you, something uncertain flickering in his expression.

“stop saying that,” you say quietly, stopping in front of him, close enough to see the tension he is still holding. “i don’t need you to be fine all the time.”

he exhales, the sound soft, almost tired.

“i thought you were mad,” he admits, his voice lower now, careful. “i figured you didn’t want me around.”

the words settle heavily, reshaping everything in an instant, and you feel something in your chest tighten, not with anger this time, but with something closer to regret.

you reach out without thinking, your hand resting gently against his arm, grounding, steady.

“i was mad,” you say, honest, your thumb shifting slightly against his sleeve. “i am mad. but that doesn’t mean i was going to disappear on you.”

he looks at your hand for a moment, like he is still processing the fact that you are here, that you reached out instead of pulling away.

“you ignored me,” he says quietly.

you wince, just slightly.

“yeah,” you admit, your voice softer now. “because i needed a second to not make it worse. not because i wanted you gone.”

the silence that follows is different this time, less sharp, more tentative, like something is being rebuilt slowly instead of breaking apart.

“i didn’t want to worry you,” he says again, but it sounds different now, less like a defense, more like something he genuinely believed.

“you don’t get to protect me by shutting me out,” you reply, your voice gentle but firm, your gaze steady on his. “if you’re hurting, i want to know. even if it scares me.”

he swallows, his gaze dropping briefly before lifting again, more open now.

“i thought if i kept messing up, you’d leave,” he says, quieter, like he is finally saying the part that mattered most.

you step closer, closing the last bit of distance, your other hand coming up to rest lightly against his shoulder.

“i’m still here,” you say.

he searches your face, like he is looking for any sign that you don’t mean it, and when he doesn’t find one, something in him softens in a way that feels almost fragile.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “you are.”

the moment settles between you, quieter now, steadier, and when you lean in, it is slow, deliberate, giving him time to meet you halfway.

“just don’t lie to me again,” you whisper.

he lets out a small breath, something almost like a laugh, softer than before. “i won’t,” he says.

you close the distance then, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that is gentle but certain, something that lingers just long enough to anchor everything that almost slipped away.

he leans into it after a second, careful at first, then a little more sure, like he is letting himself believe this is real, that you are still here.

when you pull back, your foreheads rest together, the contact light but grounding, and this time, the silence that follows feels warm instead of uncertain.

like something held, instead of lost.

[requested by anon]

༯ all right reserved | no ai input. ©unknvhx

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Panic surged through him, right, right..the special grade curse..The tiger..the fight.. aand maybe the admittedly reckless decision to handle it alone. It all came rushing back at once.

Boy you've got to be kidding me..

Yuji scrambled to his paws, only to immediately stumble over them. Turns out four thick legs were a lot harder to coordinate than they'd looked.

He'd barely managed two wobbly steps before a shadow fell over him.. Yuji froze.

"oooh a kitty!" a high pitched voice squealed. ahem, a tiger**

Before he could react, two arms scooped him clean off the ground.

Yuji let out his fiercest growl. I mean, at least, what he intended to be a fierce growl.. Buut it maayy have came out sounding suspiciously more squeaky.

"Aww," a voice cooed. "You're so tinyy"

No-stop he wants to be put back down!

"You look unemployed and aaall by yourself" Yuji Blinked.. Huh? What?

"And homeless, my poor baby"

WHAT?!

The stranger gasped dramatically.

"Oh my God, you've got nowhere to go, do you?"

Yuji began squirming furiously.

"Don't worry!" you said cheerfully, trying to adjust your hold. "I'll take care of you"

No, he dosen't need taking care of!

"You can live with me"

No he can't!

"ugh someone's grumpy"

Yuji could do nothing but stare at the sky as he was being carried away.

This was, without question, the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him.

Maybe excluding last week when nobara tried her makeup haul on him...

....

Several hours later, tigercub!yuji was now sat on a suspiciously pink armchair. Oh things couldn't get any worse now, could they? Aside from the fact that he was wrapped round like a burrito in a fluffy lil blanket..

His paws were currently being held hostage.

"There we go"

Snip!

Yuji watched in horror as another claw was trimmed.

"I can't have my pretty girl scratching herself now"

Pretty girl?.. girl?

He was a sixteen-year-old boy, a sixteen year old with insane potential-oh wrong guy, run it back *clears throat*, But a sixteen year old who happened to currently be a tiger.

There was a difference.. I mean, there was supposed to be one- just apparently not one you recognized.

Yuji slumped dramatically.

By now, Gojo sensei had probably noticed he was missing.. Right? (actually, Gojo might've noticed a tiger cub wandering around campus and just assumed it was somebody else's problem) Yes, definitely, megumi and nobara might be worried searching for him.. Surely! and-

A hand suddenly found the spot behind his ear and Yuji froze. His thoughts derailed instantly.

"Oh? There it is"

The scratching continued and ougghhn yuji was meeltingg, fuusing into all the softness and fluffiness.

His eyes fluttered shut before he could stop them. And a low rumble..? escaped him, your hand instantly paused.

"...Was that a purr?"

Yuji's eyes flew open-no,absolutely not, no way, he's a very much dignified and respected sorcerer, not some fat house cat!-

The scratching resumed, and the rumble returned immediately

Tsk...This means nothing.

....

Three days later, Yuji found himself stretched across a mountain of cushions while eating salmon that probably cost more than his monthly allowance.

Technically, he was still planning to leave. I mean-eventually.. At some point, yes. Maybe after his nap? Ooh after dinner may be better.

The salmon was really good..,I guess,, and the blankets maybe warm, the ear scratches.. well,..

The ear scratches were a compelling argument, very compelling-to say the least.

Yuji was midway through contemplating whether another day would really hurt when something cold settled around his neck.

He looked down, only to immediately regret anything he was starting to consider.

A pink collar, oh and it's not just pink, it's covered in glittering rhinestones-with a tiny heart shaped tag dangling from it.

"eeeeekk" you squealed, your eyes sparkling, as yuji just stared

"hmm should I call you Benjamin tung, lord Fatty McFatterson, or chukalunk?

Girl please stop.

"ooh I'll call you princess bubbles, It suits you!"

Please, he's literally a TIGER cub. What's wrong with you?!

"My precious wittle princess bubbles! "

Yuji buried his face in the nearest cushion. and the cherry on top was that right after, when you reached down to scratch behind his ear again, the purring started before he could even pretend to resist.

He's so smol he only need one popcorn🥺 part 2 --->

How about a part 2 where he turns back to human? 🤭

By 6:20 am, you are in the depths of the sim control bay, having barely spared a moment to dump your heavy coat and bag at your office. The system boots up quickly, the main unit hums to life, and the wall of monitors turns on. The displays are instantly flooded with data: one dedicated to sector deltas, another tracing throttle input variations, and a third split between brake maps and dynamic ride-height variance.

The plan for the morning is simple: clean up the post-race telemetry data, prep the offset sim for the Chinese GP, and pull setup notes to establish the baseline for Yuji’s simulation run later that afternoon.

It doesn’t change the fact that, after an hour and a half, you’re still on the first item of your list because one number still doesn’t make sense. One impossible, stupid, taunting line of telemetry that refuses to resolve.

You sit hunched at the workstation as you meticulously run through every single lap from Australia for the fifth time. Your focus is specifically on Sukuna’s final stint and his fight with Satoru.

The discrepancy appears late in the race but persists across all three sectors, resulting in a narrow yet measurable imbalance in the front axle rotation speeds relative to the established delta targets. The most frustrating part? It simply hasn’t been there in the real-time data feed. Every onboard camera, every live sector overlay, every raw feed showed smooth, perfect compliance.

It only emerges after the post-race export is loaded into the analysis suite. For 50 laps, the data is clean and predictable, and then comes a sharp bump—one sector reading that shows the front-left wheel behaving half a degree too hot. It happens again two laps later, then quickly smooths out and disappears. It is nothing massive and certainly not dangerous, but if your gut feeling is wrong, and the numbers are right, that means the car's balance did shift. And if it shifts without Sukuna feeling it, it could point to a catastrophic failure waiting to happen. Worse still, if he felt it and simply chose to keep it to himself.

You pull up the brake pressure trace on the front-left again, hoping for a clue. It should, logically, show a subtle compensation pattern if the imbalance was just a pedal variance, like a driver instinctively lifting off the pedal or shifting their bias. However, his inputs are clean. If the car had tilted forward during deceleration, it would have triggered a compensatory lift or bias adjustment on the very next corner, but Sukuna hasn’t adjusted. He couldn't have, because he hasn’t felt it.

You exhale hard, pushing back in your chair, and the wheels squeak on the smooth floor. That leaves only two possibilities, both equally grim for your team: the post-race telemetry is flawed, or something failed but didn’t show up in the live feed. Neither answer is comforting.

Your cursor hovers over the comparative plot for Yuji’s car. To your frustration, there’s no deviation in his data, even when comparing the exact same corner, the same lap, and the same setup. His plot just doesn’t have that spike that you now can’t resolve.

That fact eliminates a corrupted analytical model as the culprit, and leaves you with something far more terrifying. Fuck. There has to be something physically wrong with the car, and it happened to your lead driver at race speed.

The ugly possibility grows in the back of your skull: a sensor dropout. If the front-left rotary encoder—the essential piece of hardware that measures wheel rotation—has misfired during the high-speed live data feed and recalibrated itself a fraction of a second too late, you’d never have caught it during the race. If it happens again at the next race? You won’t catch it then, either.

You force yourself to run the entire sequence one more time, up to lap 56, skimming over the closing laps. There are no driver input shifts, but the front-left encoder heat trace wobbles just enough for you to whisper, "Something’s off." You click the trace three times, zooming in on the milliseconds of variance that are now haunting the timestamp. "I don’t like this."

There’s a serious hardware fault hiding in plain sight. If it is a physical fault, you need to strip the entire left-side suspension assembly and run bench tests before the car is allowed anywhere near the tarmac in Shanghai.

You stare at the screen for another second, then add a new task to your internal to-do list:

- Verify front-left rotary encoder logs across all weekend sessions. - Request teardown inspection of FL suspension assembly. - Run pre-sim hardware diagnostics against baseline.

And then, typed just below that, in all caps:

DO NOT TELL SUKUNA YET.

You close the file, stand up, and stretch your back. It has to happen first thing tomorrow, before Yuji’s sim session and before anyone touches the current setup again. You aren’t putting that car on track until you’re absolutely certain there’s no time bomb hiding under the chassis.

Behind you, the control bay doors hiss open. It’s far too early for anyone sane to be clocking in, so you don’t have to look to know the only other person with this level of dedication or lack of social life who might be here.

“I told you,” Nico’s dry voice cuts through the silence, “if you show up before 9 again, I’m calling HR.”

“Please do,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Then I can go home and sleep for a week.”

He chuckles, stepping closer and leaning over the back of your chair. “What are we looking at?”

You just point a finger at the screen to highlight the problematic trace. He squints at the almost invisible deviation, then lets out a low, drawn-out whistle of both appreciation and concern. “Oh. That’s subtle.”

“It wasn’t in the sim,” you say. “It wasn’t in the baseline, and it’s not in the adjusted model.”

He nods, flipping through the linked telemetry tabs. “You're updating the model for Shanghai?”

“I’m not letting him feel that again without a warning flag in the data.”

“…He didn’t even say anything on the radio,” Nico’s voice drops slightly in acknowledgement of the severity.

“I know,” you say after a long exhale. “That’s what worries me the most.”

In all seriousness, you aren't sure if Sukuna has actually felt the subtle shift in the car’s balance. He isn’t a person who keeps the car’s faults to himself; far from it. He’s loud, demanding, and obnoxious when it comes to telling you and every other engineer that there’s a “problem with the fucking car.” It’s his default state.

If he has felt it, though… he’ll keep this over your head for months.

“Just…” you continue, leaning forward to click on a different dataset. “I’m requesting a full sensor recalibration for Car One before Shanghai. And a physical inspection.”

“You think he’s going to argue?”

“I think if this gets worse next race, Sukuna’s going to ask exactly who missed the initial sign. And I’d rather die than let him be right.”

Nico grins and taps the edge of the monitor. “I’ll help pull the trace, but first? Take a break. Marco should be here with coffee soon; he promised me he’d be early.”

You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment. The underlying problem isn’t solved, but at least now someone else sees the ghost, too.

True to Nico’s prediction, the door handle moves ten minutes later, and the doors swish open, revealing Marco, looking slightly more rested than either of you. He carries three steaming cups of coffee and places them gently on the edge of the desk. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep here.”

“I didn’t,” you say tiredly, reaching for the closest cup, and the heat instantly warms your fingers. “Just didn’t waste time.”

He holds out the third cup towards Nico. “Good that I brought the good stuff then. Figured you’d need it to survive.”

And you end up exactly where you’d been before, but this time, you aren't alone. You're elbow-deep in the raw post-race data dump, cross-referencing sector telemetry, and dissecting every slow-motion replay frame that shows what the numbers didn’t. The setup in Australia wasn’t wrong, but it certainly wasn’t perfect, either.

“Okay, team.” Your voice is louder now, trying to get the attention of every engineer who has begun to filter into the room, while your fingers click on your computer to load the correct data onto the screens. “First Sprint weekend of the season is upon us.”

The three main monitors simultaneously switch to display the Shanghai model in different guises: high-detail aero map overlays on one screen, the tyre life predictor and wear gradient on the next, and a grim-looking spreadsheet on the third, where you’ve already begun carving the baseline setup into something two human beings could actually drive.

You type the critical warning in bold, capital letters at the very top of the run plan: SHANGHAI PUNISHES INCONSISTENCIES, because the room needs to see it as much as you need to drill it into your own head.

Three monitors display the Shanghai model in different disguises: aero map overlays on one, the tyre life predictor and wear gradient on another, and a grim-looking spreadsheet where you’ve started carving a baseline into something two human beings can actually drive.

The last WEC in Shanghai was held way back in 2019, and you weren’t nearly as experienced as you are now. You joined Toyota Gazoo Racing in 2018 as one of the low-level data engineers, but during that two-year period, you learned just how fucked that circuit truly was.

It’s a track designed by a sadist wielding a protractor: the one-kilometre back straight serves only to bait the drivers into impossible top speeds, the ensuing hairpin punishes them mercilessly for taking that bait, and that endless tightening spiral of Turns 1 through 3 waits patiently to laugh at whatever belief in consistency you thought you possessed.

And now, six years since you last set foot on the tarmac there, you have to create baselines that your drivers won't completely tear apart by the end of Free Practice.

The sim bay quickly transforms into a war room as every available engineer tries to pitch their ideas on the first, most crucial point on the list you’ve prepared: the ideal ride-height model.

Albert Park’s patchwork of bumps and varying surfaces allowed the team to cheat slightly with a touch of rear rake and softer heave spring stiffness. You're certain, however, that Shanghai will violently pitch that rake back onto the ground if you carry it over unchanged.

After a heated discussion with the aero and mechanical teams, you make the executive call. You trim the rear ride height two clicks down, stiffen the front heave spring a notch to stop the disconcerting mid-corner teeter in Turns 7 and 8, and rebuild the entire aero balance table from scratch to keep the car inside a narrow, usable window through the long arcs without turning it into a slow, plank-like disaster on the straights.

“Rebound window’s too tight,” you mutter, tapping your stylus against the graph, highlighting the telemetry. “It’s eating rear grip in low-speed compression.”

Marco leans over your shoulder, furrowing his brows in concentration. “Sukuna adapted through aggressive torque modulation.”

“Yuji didn’t,” Nico adds sharply from across the monitors, scrolling through a comparative screen. “Look at Turn 13 entry. He over-rotated the car twice, even with stability control bias.”

You flip open the third overlay and zoom in on the details. The car’s balance is shifting exactly as you had feared—too late in the rotation to save with aero and too early to be counted as a driver error.

“Entry diff opens half a second too late,” you diagnose. “Sukuna forced it in through the rear with an extra load, but the data shows massive stress creeping into the traction window. It’s unsustainable.”

Marco is scribbling notes on his pad. “So you want earlier diff engagement?”

“Earlier,” you nod firmly, “and I want the rebound dampers softened by two notches. Braking bias needs to be moved two clicks back, if it doesn’t rain.” You spare a quick glance at Marco, who has turned his eyes elsewhere, still clearly ashamed of his error in Melbourne. “Power delivery stays aggressive, but I want the torque mapping smoothed. If Shanghai bites, we make sure it bites on our terms.”

The engineers murmur in agreement, and their voices mix with the low whirr of the sim core loading the Shanghai model in the next room. Preparation is already fully underway.

Someone hands you a data pad with the compiled aero load scenarios for both drivers. You sign off on the provisional numbers with a quick swipe, tapping the side of the tablet in your typical habit, but your eyes linger on the corner speed graphs one final time.

“You're sure about S-01?” Nico asks with a hint of caution in his voice. “It’s bold. Very aggressive.”

“It’s raceable,” you reply instantly, not looking away from the screen. “And I’d much rather start from the most aggressive and scale down, than the other way around, especially for Sukuna. You all know he’s walking in there, teeth-first.”

Marco lets out a dry chuckle. “I have worked with him for the past three years, and still don’t know how you’re able to be this calm around him.”

It’s definitely not the time or the place to discuss this, especially with so many other engineers filtering in and out of the room. Even if they weren’t present, you know it isn’t something you feel comfortable talking about with his race engineer. So you simply don’t answer and save the map file: S-01 GP-Base.

You wipe your hands on your trousers and immediately turn your attention to Car Two.

Yuji’s run won't start in the simulator for hours, but the baseline needs to be locked down now. If the Australian weekend has taught you anything, it’s this: don’t let him adapt to Sukuna’s setup. Let him learn from it, but don’t make him fight a car that was built for someone who genuinely drives like the laws of physics are completely optional.

You duplicate the aggressive S-01 map, retitle the copy: Y-01 GP-Base, and begin shaping it for the younger of the two brothers, tailoring it to his specific driving style and comfort. 

“Open the entry diff by another 4%. I want him to feel the car ask before it rotates.” The cursor blinks as Nico makes the change. “And soften the rebound by another step. Let the car settle instead of biting back.”

He hums in acknowledgement, adjusting the damper map.

“Brake bias forward by one click. If he locks up into any of the hairpins, we’re not just wasting a lap, we’re destroying his confidence.”

You leave the torque mapping for last, knowing it is the most critical adjustment. Sukuna’s profile has aggressive power delivery, finely tuned for maximum, violent response. But with Yuji? You need him thinking about his lines and apexes, not fighting the oversteer in third gear.

“Ease the torque ramp. Smooth the application out of slow corners. Give him enough throttle to fight, but not enough to burn himself.”

Looking at the newly adjusted setup, you know it might appear too conservative, but what you’re trying to do here is build him up, even if the map seems like it will slow him down. 

You close the file, send the updated maps to Marco and Nico, and sit back in your chair for a moment, stretching your fingers until they pop.

“We’ll start Yuji in the sim on Sukuna’s S-01,” you tell Nico, scanning through the notes on the data pad. “No offsets yet.”

“Uhh… why? Didn’t we just create a completely separate map for him? You expecting issues?”

“More of… adaptation,” you explain and hover your pen over the final map notes. “If he struggles with rear reapplication of power or snaps mid-corner, we’ll switch him to Y-01 right away. But first, I want to see him fight the base. It’ll teach us more.”

After a brief five-minute break, during which you get a cup of green tea to try and ease your nerves, you’re back at your seat. Your eyes drop to the tyre model as you take a sip of tea, followed by a deep exhale. “Medium degradation looks honest in clean air, but it spikes if they get stuck in the tow. We’ll need aero balance protection in the pack.”

Even though you know Sukuna will attempt to pass through the tow like physics didn’t apply to him, you still diligently copy the dirty-air stability routine to both driver branches.

You then create an offset map, calling it S-02 (hairpin), with the exact same core settings as the S-01 base, but lowering the brake migration one more notch to give Sukuna even more bite on corner entry if he wants to aggressively monster Turn 14. You do the equivalent for Yuji, creating Y-02 (confidence) out of his Y-01 map.

Rubbing your eyes to keep them from closing, you force yourself to stand up and walk a few lengths of the control room, then flick the main display to the Sprint sheet. That’s the real game-changer this weekend. In Australia, you had three full practice sessions. In Shanghai, there will be only one on Friday, after which you're mandated to provide the FIA with the final, locked-in setup sheets for both cars. It’s going to be a bloodbath—so little time to test, so much to lose.

“Add Sprint trims,” you command, and Marco is already sliding the rear-wing library options open on his screen.

You pace slowly behind him, tapping your stylus lightly against your thigh as you consolidate the scenarios in your head.

The main GP baseline is designed for endurance: it’s consistent, stable, and has power deployment smoothed across full race laps and tyre windows. Endurance, after all, is what you and the team excel at. But the Sprint? That is still mostly unknown territory for you, professionally. There’s no tyre management, as tyres are determined in advance by FIA rules. On the other hand, there’s also less time to wait.

“Build two downforce states,” you continue. “Call them SPR-Hi and SPR-Lo.”

Your fingers slide around the edge of your tablet as new scenarios quickly build in your head—what the cars need, and what each driver will inevitably try to do with it. You can already hear Sukuna’s disappointed, cutting voice in your mind if you under-deliver, and you absolutely don’t have the emotional capacity for that today.

SPR-Hi will get a fatter rear wing. More drag, yes, but crucially, more downforce, more grip on entry and exit. It means safety in chaos, in traffic, and on a track that’s not yet rubbered in. 

SPR-Lo, however, is a significant gamble. A slimmed rear wing strips the car to the bone. It’s faster in theory, twitchy and unpredictable in reality, and completely unforgiving in dirty air. You already know exactly who will demand it the moment FP1 ends.

By default, Yuji is assigned Hi, with a conditional note: Lo permitted only if confidence metrics pass threshold after FP. You can't help but smile slightly at your own optimism for the rookie.

“We test both in FP1,” you state. “We only have one hour, so that gives us less than thirty minutes with each wing.”

It sounds like it might be enough, but you know it isn’t. You’d rather conduct thorough testing with different advisory deltas and offsets. In reality, you’ll most likely only be able to test the setup that you and the team agree on after sim testing, with both wing options.

Marco hums as he adds rearward aero for Hi and trims the frontal surface for Lo. You scribble mental notes for the necessary brake migration and torque map adjustments that will follow the wing changes. You rub your knuckles briefly in a conscious effort to ground yourself. The last thing you need is to overthink your own logic before the drivers have even started testing the setup.

The very last task before sending the drivers into the sim is compiling the detailed Run Cards. That, surprisingly, is the easiest part right now.

Sukuna – Block A (11:30)

Out / Push / Push / In — baseline S-01, record pure

Out / Push / Offset / In — repeat lap with advisory deltas enforced

Out / Push / Push / In — SPR-Lo aero, compare DRS gain vs stability Notes: Marco: do NOT argue on radio. If ignored twice, hold him in box and let me speak.

Yuji – Block B (14:15)

Out / Push / In — baseline S-01, record pure, video review

Out / Push / In — baseline Y-01, video review

Out / Offset / Push / In — confidence map, T1 spiral + T14 focus

Out / Push / Push / In — defend/attack scenarios, launch SOC drills Notes: If S-01 gives him too much trouble, change to the second option right away.

You quietly start one more sheet that stresses you the most: Parc Fermé Traps. These are the subtle parts of the setup that will bite hard if your reading on the weekend conditions is wrong, like a front camber that melts the tyre if the track temp spikes, or a rear anti-roll bar that helps in fast arcs but completely kills traction out of Turn 14. Even brake cooling becomes a dangerous gamble if the Sprint turns into a messy safety-car roulette.

Nico leans in, reading over your shoulder. “You're sure about the brake migration for 14?”

“He’s going to send it deep into the braking zone at the end of the back straight,” you say, keeping your eyes fixed on the map. “If the handover from braking to turn-in is lazy, we’ll be facing the wrong grandstand.”

“‘He,’” Nico repeats and chuckles, fully amused. “Singular.”

You ignore that and print the first set of run cards. The printer spits them out with a judder, almost as if it resents your schedule. You slap the bold CAR ONE and CAR TWO headers onto the respective piles and slide them across the desk to Marco and Nico.

“Load S-01 to the sim,” you tell Marco. “Save the old profiles as AUS-Ref, just in case the world ends, and we need to crawl back.”

Marco taps his watch, pacing around the room. “You’ve got exactly thirteen minutes to breathe before he walks through that door.”

“Fantastic.” You drag the Sprint sheet into full view on the main display. “Let’s go over the plan. Car One runs first.” Your pen taps against the column headers as you begin the brief. “Sukuna’s got three stints. First one is baseline, S-01, full attack. I want his pure feedback and absolutely no interference on the radio from your side, Marco. We need to see what he does with the map. Then, repeated laps with the advisory deltas enforced, to see if he actually listens. Final stint, we run the same baseline but swap to the SPR-Lo aero. We’re purely testing the DRS gain versus the mid-corner stability.”

Marco raises an eyebrow. “You're brave.”

“No.” Without a smile, you tap the side of your stylus twice against the table. “I just want to know if we’re about to get punched in the hairpins or not. If he gets squirrelly through 11 to 13, we pull the plug.” And I’d rather it happen in the sim than on a Saturday broadcast with a sponsor logo spinning upside down in the frame.

“Sukuna? Squirrelly? We’re talking about the same guy?” Nico squints at the run card, but when you shoot him a glare, he instantly drops the sarcasm. “What if he ignores the deltas, like he usually does?”

“I already wrote it on the card: Marco holds him in the box.” You both know it’s a hollow joke, as it doesn’t matter in the simulator at all. The only thing you or Marco could do is turn off the sim rig, but that would be utterly pointless given such a tight schedule and no time for any games.

Marco groans dramatically. “I hate being the bad guy.”

“Not my driver, not my problem,” Nico sends him an apologetic look that is, in fact, not apologetic in the slightest. “Can’t help you here.”

You ignore their banter. “Moving on. Car Two. Yuji gets the same three runs, but with small adjustments. He starts on S-01, because I want to see how he handles something that isn’t tailored to him.”

“You’re making him fight Sukuna’s baseline?” Marco questions in confusion.

“We’ll learn more about what kind of driver he is. If he overcorrects or hesitates, we know he’s not ready.”

You swipe to the second sequence. “Then we switch him to Y-01 for the second run. Two final runs are on Y-02, with specific attack/defend scenarios scripted. Most likely, he’s going to be fighting in traffic all Sprint—better to test the edge now.”

Nico nods slowly, absorbing the plan. “Extra cooldown window between each?”

“Already written in. One lap recovery after the first push, then a confidence lap before we go again. Don’t push him too fast, too soon. If he lights up the dash, slow it down.”

You turn toward both engineers. “Final note. We have less than 24 hours before we’re wheels-up to Shanghai. If we run late, we run tired, and I am absolutely not briefing the media on three hours of sleep again.”

Marco snorts in resignation. “He’ll either love this or throw something expensive.”

“Great. Just as long as he doesn’t throw it at me,” you answer without even raising your gaze from your notes.

He mumbles something under his breath, fully aware that if Sukuna actually did throw anything, he would most definitely be the target.

You hit the sync button hard enough that your stylus clicks against the edge of the tablet, then your nail hits the screen twice, sealing the deal. The wall display updates instantly, followed by the soft, mechanical hum of the main sim rig firing up in the next room.

“Let’s go. Block A starts in five minutes.”

And you finally allow yourself to sit back for three whole, precious seconds before the next alarm on your calendar instantly drags you out of the chair, forcing you toward the drivers.

—

A few moments later, the sim bay hums like a jet engine. You stand behind the thick, sound-dampening glass in the control room, wearing a headset and watching the monitors. On the top screen, live telemetry shows the car’s position on the track; the middle panel displays advisory deltas; and at the bottom, the brake and energy overlays. Marco sits to your right, focused on the track map before him as the virtual Car One exits the pits.

“Out lap is yours, Sukuna,” Marco instructs in his usual slightly bored manner. “Baseline S‑01. No offsets, no deltas. Do your thing.”

Ryomen doesn’t reply, but it’s not surprising, because he never really does on the first run, letting the silence be its own cold confirmation.

He’s up to speed by the time he smoothly unwinds the wheel onto the long straight. Mini-sector panels flick from white to purple as the tyres switch on. The car knifes into Turn 1 spiral without any hesitation from the driver, which is clear in the steering trace: he loads the front and rotates through the rear effectively.

He blitzes Sector 2, perfectly executing the Turn 6 hairpin. Through 7 to 8, the traces show a slight looseness you intentionally built, but he corrects once and carries on without complaint. Sector 3 approaches, and you find yourself holding your breath as he throws it into 11 to 12, lets the rear deliberately skate over the camber change, then obligerates the hairpin at 14 with a throttle stab that would spin half the grid into the barrier.

Your breath catches sharply, and the stylus you were using to annotate data stills mid‑air. It’s not a moment of doubt; it’s the realisation that he never does exactly what you expect; he does something simultaneously worse and yet impossibly better. Holy shit. And he did that on the base setup.

Next, he’s asked for two mandatory push laps on the exact same settings. They look even more aggressive and, by extension, impressive, now that he already has a grasp of the map and its limits you provided him after the out-lap.

You can’t stop looking at the trace, genuinely amazed by his driving skills. Of course, you knew how good he was, but every time you watch him drive without the need to focus on multiple data screens, it still makes your brain lag. It all seems so effortless for him. It's no wonder the media and fans keep calling him 'The Devil' and 'King of Curses' when he’s on track.

“Balance?” Marco prompts, breaking the quiet of the room after Sukuna crosses the finish line.

“Front’s alive, rear’s honest. Brake release has a bite.” Sukuna delivers feedback neatly, and your pen moves across the tablet without wasting a precious second. “Diff opens late, but I can drive through it.”

“Good. If you want, do a few more laps on this setup to confirm the feeling,” Marco says through the comms. “Then we’re moving to the next stint.”

Ten laps go by, and even though you genuinely enjoy the show the lead driver is giving, the clock is ticking, and time is a luxury you don't have this week. More importantly, you urgently need his feedback on S-02 offset. You nudge Marco's shoulder, giving him the signal to move on to the second stint.

Marco thumbs the button again. “We’re applying an offset to test advisory deltas in Sector 3, then reset and repeat.”

“I heard the word ‘offset.’” Sukuna’s tone is utterly flat, carrying a well-known edge of annoyance that everyone in the room can sense. “Didn’t like it.”

“It’s just a few laps,” Marco replies calmly, though the slight tightening around his mouth suggests he knows the driver is about to become difficult. “We need the read.”

There’s no answer besides the faintly contemptuous, audible click of a tongue over the radio. You watch Sukuna’s trace on the screen as he completes the out lap, then starts the push lap. Just as he’s approaching the finish line, Marco loads the S-02 offset into the sim computer.

Sukuna ignores the first advisory delta to the millisecond, turning in a hair’s breadth early, just to prove he can do it better. He then leans hard on the power over the crest, where you specifically needed him not to. The warning cell on your screen immediately flashes EXCEEDED in angry red. He repeats it at Turn 12 as if the entire stint is a personal dare, gaining two hundredths in the process, and entirely invalidating the data you wanted.

Marco tries one last time, firmer than before. “Confirm re‑run with offset adhered—”

“What’s the fucking point of running with deltas when I want to drive faster?” The raw frustration in his voice is startling.

“Sukuna, just reset and follow the plan, please,” Marco insists, maintaining his professional tone.

“Already ran it.” Sukuna’s bored, and you really can’t understand the amount of effort he’s putting into this petty refusal. It’s just one lap. “Conclusion: didn’t like it.”

The anger in your chest sparks, and you tap to take over the channel. “Sukuna, run it again. Offset applied, and this time you will follow the deltas.” The rage behind your eyes is less about the ignored plan and more about the infuriating certainty that he knows better and is wasting your time just for fun.

There’s a telling heartbeat of silence on the comms, followed by the kind of arrogant grin you can hear. “Say ‘please’, chief.”

“Run it again. Now.” You sound exasperated, but don’t even care if your frustration is showing. This man annoys you so deeply sometimes, and especially that dismissive fucking title.

A short, breathy huff comes over the comms, and it could be amusement or annoyance—you can't tell which. Then, the green light on the bay turns to track mode.

What’s the point of his endless defiance when he always does exactly what you insisted upon? It pisses you off how needlessly posturing he tends to be. 

Your eyes follow the trace as he goes through Turn 11 exactly as the model asked, doesn't slide on purpose at 12, and does a textbook braking into 14. The lap time magically slows by three hundredths of a second, and finally, the numbers you need log flawlessly.

“In this lap,” you say, before Marco needs to. “Good data.”

“Felt like having training wheels,” Sukuna mutters with resentment, but he complies, coasting the in lap and smoothly docking the car. 

The trace tells a different story than his words: his lines sharpened and margins cleaned. The moment he locked in and adapted, it was clear as day he liked the offset and the bite it provided in hairspins. You flag it and smile to yourself proudly.

Marco glances at you, and you gesture for the third run. “SPR‑Lo next. Same baseline. We’re comparing DRS gain versus stability.”

“Copy,” Marco says, then relays to the driver, “Rear wing trimmed for map SPR‑Lo. Expect a lighter load through 11 to 13. Same plan, two push laps.”

“Finally,” Sukuna snarls, clearly bored again.

The aero change is instantly visible in the out traces, showing his top speed up, but the rear’s reacting slower through the high-speed corners. During the first flyer, he lifts a tad more than you expected into 11, then releases the brake sooner and lets the car run. DRS opens on the straight, and the trap speed spikes by a number that makes Marco let out an impressed whistle under his breath.

“Stability check?” he asks.

“Playable. Rear’s loose, but not annoying,” Sukuna responds. “Hairpin wants more brake migration forward if I’m not lifting until the last board.”

Second push is even tidier; he’s fully adapted, bending the low‑drag state to his will without breaking it. The delta to baseline is faster by two tenths where it matters most, which is amazing.

“Good,” you chip in, loading an unscheduled test onto the sim computer. “Sukuna, one more push lap. I applied the offset you tested before. Ignore advisory delta and show me what you got.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He floors it immediately. With the SPR‑Lo rear wing and the sharper S‑02 map loaded, the car lunges. There’s less drag and more urgency. When he flicks into the long left at Turn 7, the rear stays with him by millimetres. When DRS opens straight after Turn 13, his delta climbs rapidly, and your pen pauses mid-note. The stiffer brake migration you built, combined with a new rear wing, allows him to pounce into the hairpins much later, braking so deeply into 14 that you almost wince.

On screen, the traction graph pulses tighter than before. He’s not fighting the car; he’s dancing with it, and that’s far more than what you had expected.

Marco murmurs with astonishment, “That’s… his personal best. 0.28 second. Holy shit.”

The only thing in the comms is Sukuna’s sharp breathing when you process his race engineer’s words. I… I did it. I built that map and that wing. Your knee bounces with excitement, but you force it to stop, trying desperately to hide it under the veil of professionalism.

Now, the only thing is to test this combination in FP1. You have a strong feeling he won’t even need to test the SPR-Hi after what you’ve just seen. Frankly, after seeing this, you consider even the thought of it to be a massive waste of time. No way you’re gonna say that out loud, though.

After you give Marco the nod, he boxes Sukuna.

You manually log the lap in the session report:

SPR‑Lo + S‑02 - Margin: extended - Driver adaptation: instinctive - Final note: he’ll never admit it, but he likes it.

The door to the sim pod hisses open, and Sukuna steps out like he just finished a morning jog, not a full-throttle stress test of every theoretical limit you’d built into the maps.

He drags the towel slowly across the back of his neck. The red suit’s peeled halfway down, a compression layer clings to his chest, and his hair is damp with sweat. He doesn’t spare a glance for Marco or the engineers still cross-checking data; his eyes trace you immediately across the room. You intentionally keep your eyes on the data screen, even though every cell in your body clocks his approach.

He takes his time wiping his jaw, then slings the towel carelessly over his shoulder. “So,” he drawls in a low, challenging purr, “was that the part where I’m supposed to say ‘thank you’ for the thrill?”

You pointedly ignore him, logging brake temps.

“No?” he continues, closing the distance slowly. “Damn. Here I thought we had a moment.” When you still offer no reply, he huffs a laugh and leans down with elbows resting on the console. He’s close enough that you catch the warm mix of sweat and that expensive tobacco‑and‑cedar he wears like a signature. “What’s the matter, chief? Cat got your tongue?”

Your fingers instinctively tense, clutching the pen you’re holding with white knuckles. “Session’s over, Sukuna.”

“Doesn’t feel over,” he mutters, his voice dropping low enough for only you to hear it. “That offset… that was fun. Was that an accident, or did someone finally grow a backbone in this building?” You turn your head, ready to glare, but he’s already wearing that infuriating, knowing grin, soaking up your anger. He then adds mock-sincerely, “You should speak up more. It suits you.”

“Try showering,” you snap back. “Your ego’s starting to fog up the screens.”

That earns you a deep, genuine laugh that rumbles in his chest. “You do like me.”

“No,” you reply coldly. “I just like clean data.”

“Make sure the car’s sharp for Shanghai, will you?” His voice drops to a whisper now as he speaks straight into your ear, and tickles your skin with his breath. “Would hate to have to do my job and yours.”

The implication hits like a slap, even if his tone is casual. What the hell is this? He knows exactly what you do. He just beat his personal best on the Shanghai Circuit thanks to the solution you engineered and built, and now he’s acting as if it meant absolutely nothing. He’s being a dick on purpose, instead of just being quietly happy for a fucking second. The frustration feels like it’s about to overflow, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of even a flinch. 

“You’ll have two rear‑wing options for FP1,” you say coldly, forcing your focus onto the plan. There’s nothing you want more than to shove him away and yell, but you know that reaction is exactly what he thrives on. “We’ll confirm one for Sprint Quali based on stability through 6 and 14, the SOC recovery in the train, and the tyre behaviour. If the numbers say Lo, you get Lo.”

He watches you up close for a beat too long, then the corner of his mouth tilts up, revealing the sharp point of a canine. “Numbers will say Lo.”

“Then we’ll both be happy,” you deadpan, not entirely sure if anything short of successfully taunting you can bring him true happiness.

He lets out a sound that might be a laugh, or simply an exhale of air, and straightens up. As he finally turns away, Marco shoots you a wide, sidelong look that clearly says you’re terrifying; Nico, who was peeking in from the door, suddenly pretends the control room glass is the most fascinating object in the world.

You log the run with a single, conclusive word in the report: S‑02 + SPR‑Lo — accepted.

Underneath, you add the FP1 note you’d promised him:

FP1 plan: compare rear wing A (Hi) vs B (Lo). Decide by Sprint Quali based on stability/DRS gain/tyre surface temps. If telemetry and driver feedback align, lock for Sprint.

Sukuna disappears quickly down the hallway with the towel draped loose over his shoulder, walking away like he didn’t just drop a lit match on a puddle of gasoline and dare you to light it. You log the session as “acceptable,” grit your teeth together, your pulse stupidly high, knowing full well that’s the closest you’ll ever get to his approval.

You wait until the sound of his footsteps completely vanishes down the corridor before you allow yourself to exhale loudly in an attempt to keep your hands from shaking.

The sim room is quiet once more, but it feels as though he’s still physically in it. The lingering heat of him clings to the walls, heavy with the scent of his cologne and that goddamn smirk. You reach for your tablet, needing something to hold, but even the stylus feels too small in your grip, not enough to ground you.

Don’t let him under your skin. Too late. He’s already there, and he’s made himself comfortable. He liked the setup, even if he’d rather die than say it. Asshole.

You make yourself flip through the session logs — offset lap, SPR‑Lo, throttle trace. It’s sharp. He drove that final lap like he wanted to set the entire building on fire and laugh while it burned down.

You hate that it worked, and worse, you absolutely loved watching him drive like that. Trying to reset something in yourself, you tap your foot hard against the floor. Would it be so incredibly difficult if he just gave you one moment to actually feel good and validated about your own work?

“Acceptable,” you whisper, staring at the logged run, and then, barely audible, “Barely.”

It’s a complete lie, but the numbers can’t argue. You just need a minute. Just one. 

“Car Two in fifteen,” Nico calls out from the doorway, putting his headset on. You close Sukuna’s file, exhale one last time, and load Yuji’s tab. And at least he doesn’t make the air feel like it’s made of static and bad decisions.

—

“Yuji, confirm driver settings loaded and rear screen synced,” Nico's voice crackles over the comms, with an easy tone that works best with the rookie. He’s been working with the younger driver for a few months and knows exactly how to settle his nerves.

A second later, Yuji’s chipper voice returns. “All green here. Feels like home.”

The entire sim platform rolls forward with a low mechanical whine, snapping into the ready position. You lean back, observing without interrupting their dynamics. He knows you’re here, but he’s pretending not to notice, trying to focus on the wheel as if this were just another Tuesday afternoon test.

“Alright, Yuji,” Nico begins. “Let’s start with S‑01 baseline. Out, Push, In. It’s your stint, no required deltas.”

“Copy,” the driver cheerfully responds. “Let’s see how mean Sukuna’s map really is.”

Your lips twitch, but you quickly press them together to hide the ghost of a smile.

The virtual car materialises on the screen, shadowing the older of brother’s default setup. It takes only three corners of the out-lap for you to identify the familiar pattern: Yuji is too cautious. He’s letting the car do the work, unwilling to wrestle, muscle, or even over-commit. His steering is patient, like he’s waiting for permission before entering the apex. It’s objectively beautiful driving… and completely off the pace. The car twitches once into Turn 8, and he lifts reflexively.

During the push lap, he starts to lean into it, testing the underseer curve that Sukuna’s setup always demands. But again, when the front hesitates, he doesn’t bite down hard enough, and the sector delta immediately slips into the red by four tenths. He finishes the lap without a single error, but also without a single risk.

“Lap complete,” Nico says. “How’s she feel?”

“It’s not horrible?” Yuji’s reply carries hesitation, earning a faint chuckle from Marco in the corner. “Uh… I mean… It’s stable. Front feels a little tight on turn-in, but no drama.”

Tapping the stylus against your chin, you toggle your mic to Nico’s channel only. “He’s letting the car lead. Ask him how much margin he left on corner exit.”

Nico nods slightly and relays the question. A hum comes over the comms before Yuji answers. “Uh… maybe two percent? Wanted to make sure I had the traction.”

“Tell him he has to trust the floor. That margin’s costing him S3.”

Without waiting for confirmation, you log the lap as “clean, under limit, not for Yuji (yet?)” with a sidebar note: ‘Still choosing safety over instinct. Better than chaos, but won’t cut it forever.’

It’s understandable. He’s a completely different person and has a completely different driving style than his older brother. Especially considering that he’s still a rookie in F1, while Sukuna’s in his 7th season.

In the meantime, Nico flips the map to the map tuned to Yuji’s preferred lift-turn-late-brake loop. It won’t get him anywhere near Sukuna’s raw pace, but right now, raw data is the priority. “Okay, now switching to Y‑01. Expect gentler diff. Focus on corners 7 to 8.”

You add softly, half to yourself, “And don’t lift when it twitches.”

There’s a brief silence in your headphones before he asks, “Was that for me?”

Shit. You've accidentally keyed the team channel. Your eyes flick toward the glass booth, but there’s no way to meet his stare from here.

“If the telemetry allows,” you add smoothly, “use it.”

He groans dramatically, but the sound carries warmth. “Busted.”

As soon as he starts driving on a profile tailored for him, the change is immediate and his confidence returns. Entry is still cautious, but throttle pick-up is noticeably sharper and for the first time, the sector two delta on the Shanghai circuit flickers green. What’s more, when the rear twitches out of Turn 10, he holds his line without lifting. Good, he’s learning.

“You’re breathing better,” Nico says cheekily. “Getting any closer to flat in 5?”

“No comment.” Yuji clearly grins under the helmet.

The dynamic between them is entirely unlike that of Sukuna and Marco. Nico and Yuji actually like each other, which allows them to keep the conversation or banter going when they can. Of course, Nico constantly tells his driver to keep the chatter down to a minimum, but when they’re in the sim, he sometimes indulges Yuji.

You watch him restart the lap at the original position, and the overlay shows less than 1% wheel slip on the corner exit and a tighter turn-in line through sectors 2 and 3. Still not perfect, but that’s a control group you need to tweak the map in case you need to.

“Alright, loading the next block. Offset with a lowered brake migration. T1 spiral focus,” Nico informs. “You good?”

Yuji exhales into the mic. “Born ready.”

The moment the car hits Turn 1, it’s obvious he’s overcorrected. The corner entry is too tight, braking too early, and when the offset kicks in on exit, the car simply can't keep its line. He barely saves the slide, and the delta lights up red across the board.

“Try again,” the race engineer says calmly. “You’ve got it.”

The lap restarts. On the second run, he’s still overly cautious, but he doesn't freeze up. Telemetry shows a slight mid-corner correction, and he manages to prevent the rear from stepping out on exit. It’s still red, but by a smaller margin. Before either of you can comment, he restarts the lap on his own, trying again.

You and Nico exchange a surprised look, both quietly proud of him for owning the mistake and immediately trying one more time. He restarts the lap five times, but by the third attempt, the deltas are consistently green. Nice job, Yuji.

Nico is quick to jump in as soon as he finishes the whole stint. “It’s better.”

“You’re trusting the grip. That’s good,” you add, pressing the comms button.

There is a pause, then his voice comes back, noticeably quieter. “You think so?”

The left side of your mouth curls upward. “Data says yes. So do I.”

You hear him mumble over the mic, almost as if he’s forgotten to lift his finger from the comms button. “So did I beat him?”

Both Nico and you blink in confusion. “On deltas? Not even close.”

Yuji clears his throat. “No, not time,” he says. “I mean, like… just on vibes?”

Nico snorts quietly, shaking his head before the driver can even finish the sentence.

You bite your lip, fighting a laugh. “Let’s aim for braking zones first.” A burst of laughter erupts on his side, and though he doesn't reply, you know you’ve got him focused again. They’re both impossible.

Nico leans back in his chair, sporting a huge grin. “You’re creating a monster,” he murmurs toward you, not quite joking.

The final run is a dual push scenario. You’ve preloaded a launch/drain sequence into the battery map to test how well he defends at low SOC and his ability to regenerate power without compromising corner exits. It’s one of the harder test sets, but it’s also, apparently, his favourite. Yuji aces it with a focus so intense he doesn't utter a word for five straight laps. He cleanly toggles between SOC levels mid-corner and even tries to hold a defensive line into Turn 9. It’s messy, but aggressive.

You flag a clean run, mark the SOC target as passed, and tap your nail on the tablet to seal it.

He gets out of the sim, takes off the helmet, and walks over to your station as you’re logging the final lap notes.

“Hey,” he says a little sheepishly. “Will you… watch the reruns with me later? On the plane? You know, uh, give me some more pointers?”

Looking up, you answer without thinking. “Sure.”

Yuji lights up instantly, nodding like he’s just won a minor championship. “Cool. Cool cool cool. No pressure. I mean, unless you’re busy. Then—”

“I said yes,” you cut in softly.

The smile in his voice returns immediately. “Then I’ll—uh—save you a seat.” Then, he disappears down the sim stairs, still trying, and failing, not to grin too obviously.

Shaking your head, you log the session and circle his Turn 1 spiral, adding a final note: ‘Finally trusting the car. Still too soft on re‑entry, but we’re getting there.’

—

You walk into the conference room, sending the composite data and your notes to the main display behind you, and quickly scan the table for any missing personnel.

“Let’s wrap Shanghai,” you say, not waiting for full silence when the head count is correct. “Starting with wings.” 

The display is divided: a table with two columns, Yuji and Sukuna, on the left, and a side-by-side comparison of the SPR‑Hi and SPR‑Lo wing profiles on the right.

“Yuji runs SPR‑Hi by default. Rear wing A. It gives us more drag, yes, but more downforce on entry and exit. This will provide the stability he needs in the Sprint chaos. If his FP1 run is clean, he’ll be permitted to test SPR‑Lo later in the session.” You pause, taking in the room. “Important to remember: we have only one hour of free practice this weekend, so we need to make every minute count. The pit crew will be ready for quick wing changes.”

Nico snorts softly. “You’re optimistic.”

You don’t disagree.

“Now, Sukuna,” you click to the next slide, glancing at the driver. “We already know he wants SPR‑Lo, so we skip the pretence. He tested it in the sim today, and as you can see—” you point to his lap times, “—it looks promising—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at the data but still manages to cut in with his trademark low, dry voice, “Anything else would’ve been embarrassing.”

Marco mutters something under his breath, and you ignore both of them, continuing your thought, “It’s completely unforgiving in dirty air, but based on his sim runs, it seems to be working to his advantage.”

The decision is highlighted in both drivers’ columns. “He’ll do a rear wing comparison during FP1, same as Yuji. A versus B. Final selection for Sprint will be based on driver feedback, tyre surface temps, DRS gain, and telemetry alignment. However, if for any reason we can’t test both configurations during the session, this is our fallback.”

The right side of the screen shifts to Sukuna’s baselines: 

                      S-01     S-02 Diff Entry              40%     40% Rebound Dampers     -2       -2 Braking Migration      -2       -3

“Baselines. Sukuna tested both S-01 and S-02, visible on the screen behind me. Marco, your opinion?”

You give the floor to Sukuna’s engineer, and Marco gathers his notes and looks up. “Based on his lap times and his feedback, I think S-02 is the better option.”

“Agreed. The lap times landed above target with that offset, so S-02 and SPR-Lo is his final run plan. We’ll finalise by Sprint Quali after the FP1 wing test, but I’m fairly positive this setup will stay.” 

Marco nods once, already loading it into files.

Sukuna speaks up again, and the dryness of his voice makes you want to roll your eyes. “So that’s it? No smug little lecture? Not like you to pass up the chance to hear your own voice.” The comment is rich, coming from him, really. Almost funny.

“I still might give you one, since you ask so nicely,” you retort, without glancing his way.

The driver leans over to his race engineer and mutters, “Bet she has it pre-written somewhere.” 

You fucking bet I do.

“Now, Yuji.” The display changes to show his setup maps and the run plans executed before the meeting:

                      Y-01     Y-02 Diff Entry              44%     44% Rebound Dampers     -3       -3 Braking Migration      -1        -2 Torque Map            eased    eased

“He started on S-01 as a test, but as predicted, it was too violent, and his results dropped five percent lap to lap.”

Nico confirms quietly, “He didn’t say it, but it rattled him.”

“It did not,” Yuji objects right away, before backtracking with a quieter, “Okay, yeah, maybe a little.”

“Y‑01 eased it, and lap two was clean,” his race engineer continues calmly, disregarding the driver’s comment, “but he hesitated a few times and overcompensated.”

You point to the offset on the screen. “Then Y‑02. Your thoughts?”

“This was better. Telemetry matched. He liked it and said it felt smoother.”

Yuji nods once, looking toward you. “Yeah, like Nico said. Felt more… like it wanted to work with me. I wasn’t fighting it. And if I’m not fighting the car, I can focus on everything else.”

“Then we’ll keep it that way.” You mark the decision, catching Yuji’s subtle sigh of relief in the corner of your eye. “Baseline locked: Y‑02. He’ll run SPR‑Hi into FP1. If his confidence scores pass, we’ll allow testing of SPR‑Lo, but only under controlled stints. Conditional only.” 

“So, like… no sending it into T1?” Yuji asks.

“Correct,” you say.

“…What if I send it just a little?”

Sukuna laughs under his breath. 

The laugh threatens to escape your own chest, but you exhale, maintaining composure. “Then Nico can explain to the pit crew why they’re working overtime.”

You glance over the finished plan. 

“That means both of our drivers prefer the brake migration on the lower side, but all other settings are completely different. That’s our guideline for future races, too.” The room nods. “Okay, final moment: Any other comments or pointers we should consider before the setups are locked in? Data? Performance?” You look at a group of data and performance engineers, but they seem satisfied with the current plan.

At the same time, Yuji moves closer to Nico. “So I’m on training wheels?”

“Training wings,” his engineer corrects with a genuine smile.

“What the actual fuck,” Sukuna runs his hand over his face to ease the obvious cringe he just felt.

“Marco, Nico,” you begin, bringing the meeting back on track. “Send setup files to be loaded and prep delta overlays for FP1 on both configurations. Diff ramp, brake surface temps, wing DRS thresholds. Lock in stability targets and tyre wear projections.” Both men nod and immediately begin typing as you close the file. “That’s our Shanghai baseline. We’ll revise on Friday. Unless chaos arrives early, which it usually does.”

Sukuna stands without being dismissed, grabbing his water bottle. “Free sim until twenty hundred, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, though you’re not sure if he’ll take it seriously or treat it like an arcade session, but it doesn’t really matter now. “Get your laps in. Plane’s at twenty-one thirty.”

Yuji follows, and his characteristic bounce returns as he nears the door. “Can I run one more?”

The older of the brothers rolls his eyes. “Not if I’m in first.”

“Wanna race me?”

“No,” Sukuna says flatly, walking over and shoving his brother’s shoulder just because he can, causing Yuji to stumble slightly. The rookie quickly straightens up, laughing brightly, completely undeterred.

“Split stations,” Uraume calls over their shoulder. “No fighting.” 

Ryomen pauses at the threshold, glancing back with a cocky smirk curling on his lips. After a moment of silence, he finally turns to leave, casually warning, “Don’t fuck with my setup before Friday.”

You turn the page of your notes, pointedly ignoring him. “Uraume, when’s the next scheduled PR trap?”

“Next week. But if you kill him first, I’ll gladly reschedule.” They’re already halfway out the door, checking their phone. “Sim’s ready. I’ll make sure they don’t kill each other.”

You give them a grateful, weary nod. “Good luck with that.”

As soon as they disappear, Uraume’s voice, though muffled, is clearly heard down the hall. “Sukuna, we’ve talked about not bullying the engineers in meetings.”

“She doesn’t count,” the man answers right away with that dismissive arrogance still thick in his tone.

Of course, she doesn’t.

—

Sukuna kicks open the hallway door with the side of his boot, holding a half-empty bottle in one hand. “I’ll give you three laps before you bin it trying to match my delta.”

Yuji scrunches his nose, groaning in mock frustration. He throws up both hands, walking backwards with his head tilted up in protest, until his heel clips the wall. He recovers with a dramatic spin, finishing with a flourish. “You saw the data! I was, like, fine. It’s just Turn 3. I blinked.”

“So don’t blink,” Sukuna deadpans, taking a slow sip, the movement barely disturbing the intense focus in his gaze, which never leaves Yuji's exaggerated movements. “Problem solved.”

“You didn’t even watch my sim laps,” Yuji protests, and the bounce in his step is momentarily gone.

“I didn’t need to. I could hear the panic braking through the walls.”

Yuji groans louder and lets his full weight slump against the wall, his cheek pressed dramatically to the cool plaster.

Behind them, unfazed by the sibling squabble, Uraume scrolls through their phone without looking up. “Are we betting again or just recycling last week’s insults?”

The younger driver perks up immediately, forgetting about his brother teasing him. “Betting. If I beat his sector time—”

“You won’t,” Sukuna cuts in, not even bothering to look at him.

“—then he has to say one nice thing about my driving,” Yuji finishes with a wide, challenging grin splitting his face.

Sukuna lets out a sound like a laugh has got caught in his throat, strangled by disbelief, and dies trying to escape. “I’d rather hand in my Super Licence.”

Uraume doesn’t lift their head at first, going over the emails they received from reporters and sponsors today, only glancing up when Sukuna says something especially stupid. “You’re on your fifth disciplinary warning. Please don’t tempt the FIA with early retirement.”

Yuji, completely unfazed by the threat to his brother's career, turns to their PR strategist. “Uraume, can we make that official?”

“I can draft the paperwork,” they say dryly, secretly loving every second of this mess. “But if he loses, I want it on video.”

“No one’s filming anything,” Sukuna mutters, tugging sharply at the velcro on his gloves. One side sticks stubbornly, and he rips it free with a little more force than the other.

“Because you know I’ll win,” Yuji beams, pushing off the wall and bouncing a step ahead like a golden retriever chasing a ball only he can see. He half-skips backwards so he can talk and face them at the same time. “T3 spiral, baby. I feel it this time.”

“You felt it last time, too. Right before the wall,” Sukuna reminds him flatly.

“That was a tactical lift,” he shoots back immediately, stopping in place and pretending to do a steering correction with one hand and a serious, focused look on his face.

“It was a spin.”

Uraume exhales slowly. “Sim bay’s that way, princesses,” they say, stepping aside to let them pass. ”Go make some data.”

Sukuna flips the towel he’s holding at Yuji’s head without turning. “Try not to embarrass us. Or you know what? Actually, do it. I’m bored.”

Yuji fumbles the towel, missing it entirely, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “You love me.”

—

The sim bay doors hiss open and welcome them with the steady hum of high-voltage machinery. Two rigs wait, side by side but partitioned by soundproofing panels. 

Yuji bolts for the right one and already starts peeling the sleeves off his team hoodie. “This one’s mine! Dibs!”

Sukuna stares at him in utter confusion, then at the clearly labelled SIM 2 placard bolted above the pod. “That one’s always yours.”

“Still counts as calling dibs,” Yuji maintains, shrugging. “Anyway, listen. Five-lap runs. No lift through Turn 5, push the limit into the hair—”

“Do that,” Sukuna cuts in, crossing his arms over his chest, “and we’ll be parked in the runoff by lap two.”

“Do that,” Sukuna cuts in, “and we’ll be parked in the runoff by lap two.”

“It’s a simulator.” Yuji grins over his shoulder, throwing his helmet bag on the floor. “Worst case, I bin it and Uraume yells at us again.”

Uraume enters the bay a moment later, holding a tablet and wearing the most exasperated look in all of Europe. “If you two cause system errors again, or trigger the emergency stop for the hydraulics, I’m putting both of your names up for the next mandated FIA presser.’

“That’s not even a punishment—” Yuji starts, only to be sharply cut off.

“Not a joke,” they deadpan, adjusting the bag strap over their shoulder. “I am not calling IT because one of you decided to ‘see if the gravel would catch the spin this time.’”

Sukuna tosses his water bottle onto the bench and starts rotating his wrists, one and then the other, then flexes his fingers. 

“He’s not going to test the gravel,” he says calmly, cracking his neck left then right. “He’s going to try to beat my lap time and cry when he can’t.”

Yuji glares from his position half-in the cockpit. “We haven’t even run yet!”

“Exactly. You’re already losing.” Sukuna yawns into the back of his hand and stretches a few times like he always does before getting into the sim.

The room hisses with a chorus of pneumatic clicks as both sim pods power up in sequence. Monitors blink to life with the outline of the Shanghai International Circuit, weather set to clear, grip level at rubbered-in.

Uraume reaches for a headset and puts the brothers on one shared, open channel. “Gentle reminder: you’re not here to boost your egos.”

Yuji snaps the belt harness into place and calls out, “Why not?” 

“Because only one of us has an ego worth measuring,” Sukuna smirks.

Yuji sticks out his tongue before sliding the helmet down over his balaclava. “Wow. Incredible. Hurtful.”

“Realistic,” Sukuna corrects, adjusting his own black balaclava before he slides to the other side of the bay and into his sim rig.

Yuji fidgets with the seat latch, tapping his foot restlessly against the side panel, then finally side-eyes his brother through the narrow gap in the sim rig and the glass wall. “A’ight,” he mutters. “Whoever finishes with the better sector 2 delta—no matter the lap—gets bragging rights for the flight.”

“I already have those,” Sukuna says, strapping in. “You’re the one playing catch-up, kid.”

Yuji huffs, but he’s smiling when the countdown begins.

“Telemetry’s live,” Uraume says, already logging into their console. “Show me something I can lie about to the sponsors.”

—

It’s 8:10 PM when you finally close the telemetry program with a satisfying click. You finish logging all the data and preparing a draft of the setup sheet you’ll have to hand over to FIA staff when qualifications begin on Saturday. 

You check the time again. Twenty minutes. That’s all the time left before the team gathers, packs into the cars and drive to the airport.

The tablet screen lights up with yet another notification, this one detailing the sim data from the current session. This entire time, you'd managed to stop yourself from peeking at the live data streams, but it was easier when the volume of actual work occupied your full attention. Now, with the work done and the adrenaline starting its slow retreat, the urge to check is too high, and you can’t help it but to reach for the device and unlock it.

You scroll through the detailed reports, and most of the sim data is precisely what you hoped for: useful, clean, and validating the current setup direction. Everything looks good, besides a few outlier laps and a few… crashes? A deep, weary sigh escapes you. Better it happens in the simulator than on the track, you think, running a hand through your hair.

A ping from your phone interrupts your quiet analysis, and you glance down at it.

Uraume: Yuji tried to high-five Sukuna through the glass mid-session. Nearly broke the damn sim rig. Now I get why you only do single sessions.

You're tired, the exhaustion from the last hours of frantic prep pressing down on you. More importantly, there’s absolutely no one else around, meaning it’s pointless to maintain the professional mask you wear like a second skin. And just like that, you burst out laughing loudly and completely unrestrained.

You: Is that why sector 3 went red just now? Uraume: Yes. Uraume: Worth it though. His reaction was priceless. You: I can imagine. Glad they're... having fun. Let me know if they break anything else.

—

By the time you make it to the hangar, the adrenaline from the last thirty-six hours is finally starting to burn off. The sun’s been gone for over an hour, and the edges of your vision are lined with fatigue. The car ride over had been quiet as everyone was equally exhausted. 

The private jet looms on the tarmac, humming softly, lights catching on the Ferrari crest painted beside the entrance. It looks calmer than anything deserves to be right now.

Marco yawns loudly as the steps unfold, muttering something about espresso in Shanghai. Nico follows behind him, shoulders loose now that everything’s been filed and finalised. Yaga’s assistant is already on the phone, directing cargo, while Uraume’s scrolling through their camera roll for anything that can be used to hype the weekend before Friday even starts. 

Yuji, with his characteristic impatience, gets on the plane first, quickly disappearing into the cabin. When it’s your turn to step inside, he turns around. He catches your eye down the length of the aisle, and a bright, almost childlike beam lights up his face. There’s one seat free beside him with a charged tablet resting on the retracted tray table.

“So,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with a slight awkwardness. “I, uh, made sure no one takes that one. Hope that’s okay.” 

You raise an eyebrow, teasing him slightly. “You mean you threatened the photographer for it.”

“Borrowed,” he corrects quickly, emphasising the word. “Politely. I promised him I’d let him use my sim highlights for his TikTok, so…” he trails off, as if the trade-off was entirely justifiable.

You sigh and walk toward the seat, dropping your carry-on bag into the overhead compartment. “Boot it up. Let’s get through the T3 spiral while we have the quiet.” 

Yuji lights up so fast you almost miss it. “Really? Cool. That’s—cool.”

He nearly knocks his elbow into Nico’s shoulder in his haste to move out of the aisle so you can sit down. The race engineer merely shoots you both a look before flopping into the nearest free window seat and putting on noise-cancelling headphones. You drop your own tablet into your lap and start syncing it with Yuji’s screen as he starts narrating the first lap with enthusiastic detail, before you’ve even managed to hit play.

A low voice cuts in. “If he asks for praise, lie.”

You don’t even need to turn around to identify the speaker. The familiar, deep timbre is unmistakable. “Keep talking, and I’ll run FP1 on the 2022 aero package. You know, the one with baked-in understeer. Let’s see if your championship setup still flies.”

Sukuna slides past the row with a water bottle and collapses into the row on the other side of the aisle, facing you and slinging lazily one leg across the empty seat beside him. “Go ahead,” he challenges, leaning his head back against the window. “Rear grip’s for cowards anyway.”

“Then I’ll send Uraume the replay of your Sector 3 lockup.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Yuji, wisely, had stayed out of it, his eyes darting between you and his brother. Until, finally, he couldn’t. “Okay, okay, this is my moment, remember? Educational flight content. Let’s go.” He gestures emphatically at the screen.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, and tap the start button on the tablet. Yuji’s first sector replay comes to life. He was too wide on the turn-in and too early on the throttle, but he’s already watching it with the critical eye of a driver who knows exactly where he went wrong. You point it out anyway.

“There,” you say, tapping the screen near the apex point. “You’re turning in with too much preload. That’s why the slip starts earlier than it should.”

“Ugh,” he groans dramatically, then points at the next frame with a sudden, hopeful gesture. “I caught it here, though, didn’t I?”

You tilt your head. “By accident. Watch your hands.”

He rewinds the moment three times, watching his own adjustments, until finally he grimaces and his shoulders slump. “Oh.”

From the side, there’s a loud, dismissive snort. Sukuna, of course.

You pause the video again and tilt your head just enough to address the driver across the aisle. “You want your reruns analysed too, or just want commentary rights on his?”

“I want to know who let him touch my baseline,” Sukuna snarls, the question directed at you, but without the usual sharp, hostile bite in his tone. You’ve noticed that when he’s talking about his younger brother, so that’s probably it. 

“I did,” you admit simply.

“That tracks.”

Yuji makes a face at his brother’s comment, then leans in closer to your tablet, intentionally blocking Sukuna’s view. “Ignore him. He’s just bitter because I’m prettier under braking.”

A bright smile appears on your face at his words, but you quickly turn back to the screen. “You brake three meters later than the target. You’re lucky it’s sim, and your kidneys are intact.”

Marco leans forward from the row behind you. “They’ll fail if you two don’t shut up soon. I’m trying to nap.”

Uraume’s voice follows from the front row. “I’m filming this. If either of you says anything stupid again, I’m not muting it. Hell, I’ll post it with subtitles so it’s clearer.”

“Don’t you dare,” you and Yuji say at the same time, and the protest earns another stifled laugh from Marco.

Across the aisle, Sukuna looks up from his own screen, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards as he watches Yuji lean in closer to your tablet with eyes full of hope as you move on to go through the next lap.

“Should I move over?” he says dryly. “Or is the tutorial exclusive?”

With all your might, you force your eyes to stay on the screen instead of rolling at yet another of his goading comments. “Unless you need a refresher on how not to crash in sector 3, I’d say you’re good.”

Yuji chuckles wholeheartedly at his brother's expense. Sukuna merely grimaces, but a flicker of genuine annoyance crosses his face. “Good to know you play favourites.” He closes his eyes, clearly over the conversation, but you see the twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrays him.

The lights dim inside the cabin, and the flight crew appears, asking for the drink and food orders. Somewhere overhead, the captain announces ETA to Shanghai, but the sound is distorted to the point you don’t make up the exact time. You glance down at the next lap in the replay, and Yuji’s poised to ask something about torque modulation into the hairpin. You answer him before he finishes.

—

Wednesday, 19th of March 2025 Shanghai International Circuit

The sun hangs low behind the grandstands, giving that beautiful smear of orange and pink in the sky by the time you reach the pit lane. The warmth is slowly bleeding out of the air, leaving a crisp, late-afternoon chill that hints at the cooler temperatures the teams might face over the weekend. The circuit has that last moment of eerie calm before the frenzy of a race weekend fully begins. You flash your official team pass at the security checkpoint and step through the paddock access tunnel, letting the soft sound of your own footsteps carry over the silence. 

You bypass the Ferrari garage without entering, knowing you’ll be back there soon enough to oversee the final assembly of the two SF-25s.

Instead, you walk straight to the pit wall, then down along the length of the pit lane to the pit exit. You just stand there for a few seconds, hands shoved deep into the pockets of your team jacket, breathing in the air. It smells like a rubber dust still clinging to the warm concrete, radiating the last of the day’s heat, and a faint, metallic whiff of fuel. It’s like every race week, but still uniquely Shanghai. 

The pit lane is quiet now, almost deserted. The broadcast media haven’t set up their cameras and lighting yet, and most rival teams are still deep inside their boxes, building their temporary homes.

It’s your ritual, though you’d never call it that aloud. It’s more of… procedure. That’s a more appropriate word, and definitely less emotional than ritual.

You’ve done it at every track you’ve ever been to, ever since you started in WEC and continued it in Melbourne after joining the F1 circus. In your head, the rule is clear: before your drivers touch the tarmac, you walk it first.

The last time you were here was in 2019, an era that feels like a lifetime ago in F1 years, and everything’s changed. The track underwent a full resurface recently, necessitated by years of wear and tear, and the new asphalt layer is smoother than you expected from the pre-event images. It’s sleek, with no grain or old, embedded rubber ground into the edges of the kerbs.

It has some advantages—there’s no visible patchwork in the usual trouble zones, such as the braking area for Turn 6. Turn 1 flows easier now, but it’s deceptive. That long, tightening spiral will offer far less bite than it used to with a surface this smooth and new. The lack of rubber will mean significantly less grip… especially on Friday.

There’s not much to log, but you still pull out your tablet and write down your observations as your boots carry you through Sector 1. A Red Bull junior driver strolls past with earbuds in, and you pass a couple of local marshals checking barrier anchors. You nod to them, offering a professional smile, but don’t stop.

You press your heel into the line just before Turn 6, checking how the density feels underfoot. It’s slick, almost oily in its newness, and you know that in the car, on cold tyres, it’s going to feel loose until the first long stints on the soft compound tyres start laying down real, sticky rubber.

A quick note to remind Marco and Nico during the FP1 briefings: Avoid hard conclusions from first long-run stints. Grip curve won’t stabilise until after the first Sprint.

At the apex of Turn 11, you crouch briefly and run your hand over the kerb surface. It’s less punishing than you remember, meaning drivers will be tempted to push harder here if the setup gives them even a fraction of confidence. That, in turn, means the line into 12 and 13, the hairpin, will matter more than ever, as slight errors will amplify down the straight. You jot down to run the tyre surface temperature projections one more time tonight and to adjust the grip modelling for the new asphalt.

Tyre warm-up curves will definitely shift, and sprint quali will be chaos. Sukuna, you think with a sigh, is going to absolutely love it.

Eventually, you reach the final corner and walk half the length of the straight itself. You slow down near the pole position box and step forward, crouching carefully right on the start/finish line.

Your palm presses against the tarmac. The asphalt is faintly warm beneath your skin, holding the afternoon’s residual heat. You close your eyes and breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth, a few times, until the noise from the last few days quiets a fraction.

A muffled chatter makes you turn your head toward the pit wall. Uraume walks past the pit wall and stops, leaning casually over the low barrier to watch you with mild curiosity. Then, they turn slightly, and you notice who is behind them, standing a few steps back. Sukuna.

From where you crouch, you can’t hear them, but he says something to the PR strategist without taking his eyes off you. You guess it’s another one of his insults he thinks are clever.

When he lifts his chin in greeting or challenge, you can’t quite tell; your hand tenses on the tarmac. Then, he turns abruptly and disappears into the garage without a word. That’s enough to throw you off and disrupt the little bit of peace the walk gave you. You should be used to that intense, assessing stare by now, but apparently, you are far from it.

Before you can stand up, Yuji appears. He’s jogging along the pit wall with his usual, restless energy that makes it impossible for him to sit still for long. His eyes go wide in surprise when he spots you crouched on the line.

“Oh—hey!” he calls, slowing to a walk that is still slightly too energetic. “Didn’t think anyone else was out here right now.”

“Track walk,” you say simply, brushing the concrete grit off your hand onto your pants and finally standing up.

“Ritual?” he teases with a broad and goofy grin spreading across his face as he comes to a stop right next to you, mirroring your position on the line.

“Engineering,” you pause, but then explain further, seeing he’s about to ask a question about that. “Checking the track conditions before both of you start. Looking for grip levels, new kerb wear.”

He seems genuinely pleased with your answer and gestures toward the far end of the main straight. “You walked the whole lap?” Seeing the confirming nod you offer him, he whistles, impressed. “Damn. That’s cool. I just… wanted to see the straight, honestly. Got curious about where I binned it in the sim.”

It’s getting harder and harder to maintain composure and that cold professionality you’ve built around him. His bright, open personality reminds you constantly that you’re still human after all. Again, you can’t stop yourself from chuckling at his confession.

“You’ll get it right on Friday,” you assure him, softening your voice slightly. “Just don’t go full Sukuna with the braking.”

Yuji rolls his eyes with a beaming, warm laugh and gestures to the side. “Easier said than done. His ego casts a bigger shadow than this grandstand.”

Your hand covers your mouth as another snicker escapes you. 

“I’m sure Nico and Marco will make both of you go on a track walk with them anyway,” you continue, stepping back into your professional role. “Though you’re probably gonna take electric scooters or bikes. Walking around the track is too time-consuming.”

The driver considers your words for a moment, looking down the long, empty straight. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

You head back toward the garage after that, cutting around the edge of the pit boxes. Sukuna and Uraume disappeared, but the sound of power tools and the intensity of the work confirm the crew is still inside, assembling both cars. You keep your voice low as you lean past the pit divide.

“Front-left rotary encoder?” you ask the lead mechanic.

The mechanic nods immediately, not looking up from his task. “Swapped this afternoon. New unit’s calibrated, seated, and tested. All good.”

You nod once, feeling a little less weight on your shoulders now that one critical issue is confirmed to be handled. “Appreciate it. I’ll be in early tomorrow for the final assembly checks, just wanted to make sure we have that one issue covered before the weekend really kicks off.”

“Copy, Chief. See you then.”

You turn back toward the main paddock walk, the distant noise of another team’s haulier arriving echoing in the background. You’ve got briefings tomorrow, and FP1 is in less than forty-eight hours. The ‘enigma’ issue seems to be fixed, but unfortunately, no amount of stationary tests can provide the necessary data for you to close the case fully. You’ll run the diagnostic and correlation tests on the data from FP1 and Sprint quali on Friday evening, and if no spikes appear there, you’ll finally be able to cross the issue out for good. The work, as always, never truly stops.

post-session debrief: the first few chapters are going to be a bit slow with sukuna, but don't worry, he'll get plenty of screen story time after reader gets more comfortable in her role of chief of engineer.

Ferrari POV - Sukuna storyline: ← Australian GP · Pit Stop · Chinese GP →

Change the car: get into the Mercedes with Gojo for his Pit Stop

Masterlist · Glossary

he’d probably had a crush on you since the moment you met. and now, a year into dating you, he could still hardly believe his luck. he could talk for hours about how beautiful he thinks you are. write novels about the freckles scattered across your cheeks and shoulders like constellations. sonatas on the softness of your skin, especially in late spring when the uniform sleeves rolled up and your skin went golden and red from the sun. you made his heart ache in the most devastating, beautiful way. and he told you that. often.

he liked to joke about how he “tricked” you into falling for him, as if it hadn’t been the most careful, patient, sincere pursuit of his life. it started small—compliments slipped in between classes, during missions, after sparring. he always noticed when you styled your hair differently, or wore a new outfit when you and kugisaki went shopping. he was subtle, at first. quiet about it. you didn’t pick up on his feelings, not right away. you were too practical. too oblivious. you brushed off his compliments. squinted at him suspiciously when he offered to carry your training gear. tilted your head like a confused puppy when he gushed about you to gojo-sensei.

yuuji was nothing if not persistent. fushiguro, predictably, had no patience for any of it. “just tell her how you feel,” he’d grumble, usually while icing some injury he got in sparring. which was rich, coming from fushiguro—who’d been nursing an epic crush on a certain second-year for much longer than he’d ever admit.

but yuuji knew better. you didn’t like surprises. public affection made you uncomfortable. if he told you everything all at once, you’d fold into yourself and pull away. so instead, he built his love for you slowly. brick by brick. invited you to movie nights. asked you to study in his dorm (after cleaning it obsessively first). stayed up just to wait for you to come home from missions and pretend he was “just grabbing a snack,” ramen packet already boiling. he became your shadow. your biggest fan. a lovesick puppy who knew exactly who he wanted. and eventually, something shifted. his compliments didn’t go over your head anymore—they landed. you started to smile at him longer. laugh at his jokes. sit next to him without prompting. share an airpod on walks. choose his dorm to study in, instead of kugisaki’s or your own. you opened up like a sunrise—slow and soft, but radiant.

your dorm became his favorite place on earth. to anyone else, it might’ve looked boring—neutral tones, soft blankets, piles of books. but to yuuji, it was like stepping into your chest and hearing your heart beat. quiet. warm. steady. he saw you in it. the small comforts you clung to in a world that had given you so few. the little signs of a person trying to build something gentle, even when the world kept asking for violence. he wanted to be that place for you. and slowly, you started letting him.  you let him brush your hair from your face after training. let him curl around you like a shield after a long, bruising mission. let him rest his head in your lap while you read to him, your voice soft and low, stumbling over the occasional word, especially when he stared up at you with that look in his eyes.

you never had a moment. no confessions. no breathless declarations in the rain. it just...shifted. somewhere along the way, you stopped pulling away from his affection. started leaning in. started trying. not because you felt like you had to, but because something in your chest cracked open and yuuji had rushed in to fill it like sunlight.

it wasn’t easy. it didn’t come naturally. love never had, not for you. not like it did for him. where yuuji loved in color—bright, bold, full-bodied—you loved in grayscale. yours was a quieter thing. but no less real. it made you feel naked, sometimes, the way he looked at you. the way he touched you without hesitation, like he was sure you wouldn’t break. the way he praised you without wanting anything in return. affection still made your skin prickle some days. made your chest tighten like your body couldn’t quite accept that this was safe. that he was safe.

but you gave it anyway. a hand on his shoulder. a thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. a quiet I missed you when he returned from missions. you couldn’t mirror his joy, his ease with the language of love—but you found your own dialect. one he understood perfectly. you let him into your space. your life. your rituals. he learned to love your quiet. you learned to love his noise. and somewhere in the middle, you fell for him. not in a rush, not in a whirlwind. but in soft, unshakable steps. one foot after the other. you showed up. that was your way of loving. not loud. not immediate. but steady. enduring. the kind of love that doesn't shout—but never leaves. yuuji never asked you to be anyone else. and that’s what made it so easy to try.

now, with the sun climbing higher and the days stretching long and hot, summer has arrived. and for the first time, he won’t be spending it with you. not a week or two apart. a whole summer. you’re headed home to see family. yuuji’s staying in tokyo with gojo and fushiguro. he’ll finally get to see this mansion fushiguro’s always grumbling about. you’ll be on opposite ends of the country. no surprise movie nights. no dorm room reading. no you. last summer, you’d stayed at the school for the summer. your family wasn’t the sentimental type. they’d sent you off to become a better sorcerer. but yaga had set up renovations to take place over the summer. so going home was just the sensible decision. fushiguro had annoyedly claimed the offer was open, but kugisaki wasn’t going. so you politely declined, you didn’t want to impose. 

you seem unbothered, serene as always, just like you are before missions. you promise to call, and he knows you mean it, despite the fact that he knows you don’t like phone calls. but that doesn’t stop the dread in his chest. the hollowness behind his smile. he tries to act like it’s fine. that he’s fine. but god, he’s gonna miss you. 

the train ride out to gojo’s house—sorry, gojo’s mansion—is quick. he lives just on the other side of tokyo, far enough out that everything slows down, quiets, turns rural. but you're taking a bullet train across the country. practically a world away. yuuji knows you’ll be fine. he’s seen you pin grade 1 sorcerers in a matter of seconds. watched you exorcise curses blindfolded and bound just for the challenge. he’s seen you survive things that should’ve left scars, and still come home with that same calm steadiness, as if you’d just run errands instead of dancing with death. but he worries anyway. he can’t help it. he downloads an audiobook on his phone—something dense, something you’d picked. the same one you’re listening to on your train ride. he texts you when something happens in the plot that grabs him, and you respond, just wait. it gets even better.

he asks where you’re sitting. back of the train, you text. he facetimes immediately, hopeful the quiet section means you won’t be overheard. you’ve got earbuds in and you speak soft and low, barely above the hum of the train. he misses you already, and he says so. he tells you about his short trip to gojo’s. how fushiguro ignored him the entire way there. you smile faintly—your relationship with fushiguro is... testy at best. there’s mutual respect, no question. you’re both composed, private, precise. but the difference is: you love yuuji without shame. quiet, but complete. fushiguro... well. he loves like it’s a secret. like it's something to be embarrassed about. you never talk about it. but it's there. yuuji pretends not to notice. you’re his two best friends, and you make it work.

he asks what your plans are when you get home. he wants to know about your family. your town. where you come from. a little coastal village outside of okinawa. you tell him it’s small—fields instead of skyscrapers. you grew up with dirt under your nails and windburn on your cheeks. your family isn’t loud. not physically affectionate. but the love’s there. just in your language. small, quiet, hard to spot unless you know what you're looking for.

your mother makes your favorite dinner the night you return. your sisters insist on sleeping in your room, one on either side. they barely touch you, but they’re close, and that’s enough. they want to hear everything about yuuji. all about him. you show them pictures. tell them about how he leaves little notes in your textbook margins, how he walks you to class even when it’s out of his way. about how he makes you laugh, really laugh. the kind you feel in your ribs. “he sounds so nice,” one of them says. 

“he is,” you reply. you miss him, too. you just don’t say it out loud.

the next morning, you wake to three texts from yuuji. you reply to each one individually. he responds immediately. he’s up early—he knew you’d be awake. your conversations trickle in all day, a stream of consciousness that stretches like a string between you, humming with tension and sweetness. each message is a little love letter to the long, hot summer you’re spending apart. you keep busy—your days are full. chores. catching up with family. reading. card games at the kitchen table. you blink, and a week is gone. one down. twelve to go.

on the final night of the week, you sit at the small desk in your room. you pull out a blank sheet of paper and pick up your pen. and you begin to write. you write about everything. the pink tulips you repotted and set on the windowsill—they reminded me of your hair. the tabby cat you see every morning on your run around the property. the summer storm that rolled through the second night, drenching the ground and leaving everything smelling new. the dumplings you made with your mom, how you got flour in your hair and on your nose and she laughed, really laughed, for the first time in a while. you write about the paintings you did with your little sister—hers a pink unicorn, yours the sky, both ridiculous and beautiful in their own way. the two books you’ve already finished. how you miss him. how you even miss fushiguro’s grumbling. how you miss the taste of his overcooked ramen and the crooked grin he gives you when he tries to flirt and fails spectacularly. the two scars he lets you kiss each night before bed. his beautiful, expressive eyes. you’re not desperate enough to say you miss gojo-sensei. not yet. but you’re getting there.

you print out photos with your polaroid camera. one of the cat. one of the dumplings. the flowers. your paintings. the books. and finally—inevitably—a photo of yourself. you in his favorite red hoodie, the one that’s soft and stretched out and smells like him no matter how many times you wash it. it’s yours now. he saw you in it once and never asked for it back. you slip the pictures and the four-page letter into a thick yellow envelope. the next morning, you stop by the tiny convenience store in town. you find some spicy nori snacks, a box of matcha pocky. add them in. seal it. you drop it off at the post office without ceremony and go on with your day. 

that night, you facetime. you don’t say anything about the package. he tells you how pretty you look. how lovely you are in his hoodie, flushed from a day in the garden. his voice is soft, reverent, like he’s seeing a dream and doesn’t want to wake up. you threaten to hang up the call. he grins and moves on. tells you about the new bruise on his arm—courtesy of gojo’s bright idea to use a basketball during baseball practice. he swung, connected, and got flattened by the rebound. you shake your head. you miss him. but honestly, you're glad you’re not at gojo’s house. a couple of days later, a package arrives on gojo’s doorstep. 

it hits him like summer sun on bare skin—sudden, bright, and a little overwhelming. the package shows up one lazy afternoon, thick air curling through the open windows of gojo’s place. the cicadas are loud. there’s something sweet in the air, like peaches or sun-warmed grass. gojo drops it on the kitchen counter like it weighs nothing, flipping through a magazine as he says, offhandedly, “hey. something came in from okinawa.”

fushiguro, halfway through slicing into a watermelon, raises an eyebrow. “who do you know from there?” but yuuji’s already moving—no, tripping over the side of the couch like it’s trying to keep him from the counter. a graceless tumble. he doesn’t care. because he knows. you. it’s from you. that’s who he knows in okinawa. that’s who he’s been thinking about every minute of every day since you left.

the package is plain. no stickers, no doodles. you’re not sentimental like that. but yuuji opens it like it’s made of glass, like the contents inside are too precious for fast hands. his fingers shake a little. inside, a few things sit nestled gently together, and suddenly his throat is tight. spicy nori. he’s never had it, but you must’ve remembered that. he’d mentioned it once—months ago, maybe. a craving, a curiosity. you remembered. matcha pocky. his favorite. he stares at it for a moment, like maybe if he looks long enough, it’ll explain how you know him so well it makes his chest ache.

and then photos. they look random. but he knows they’re not. they’re fragments of your days. slivers of moments he wasn’t there for. a garden. a messy dumpling attempt. a painting. a cat. he doesn’t need the stories behind them. it’s enough that you sent them. that you wanted him to see. and then—the one that knocks the wind out of him. you. at your desk. wearing his red hoodie and your pajama pants. your hair down, natural, soft the way he always tells you he loves it. you're making a little face at the camera—cheeky, just barely a smirk. like you knew if you didn’t include a photo of yourself, he’d pout about it for a week. and you were right. he would’ve. but now you’ve gone and outsmarted him again. now he’s staring down at this picture like it holds the answer to every question he’s ever asked about love.

finally—finally—he notices the letter. four pages, all in your handwriting. folded with a kind of neatness that’s distinctly you. he reads it too fast the first time, eyes skipping, hungry for everything. has to go back, start again, slow down. some of it he’s heard before, through facetime. little updates. passing mentions. but there’s so much more here. so much softness. so much you. he laughs out loud when you mention watching human earthworm 3 with your sisters. “they hated it,” you wrote. "I loved every second.” he presses a hand to his chest. god, he wishes he’d been there. you write about listening to his favorite song during one of your runs. you say it felt like he was there with you. and he can’t even handle how his stomach flips at that—like the laws of space and time bend for a second just to let him be close to you.

you mention your hair again. how when you’re not constantly out on missions, you can finally take the time to wash it and let it do its thing. he’d noticed, of course. could tell from the photo. but the fact that you thought to explain it to him? that you wanted him to know? he has to stop reading for a second. his vision’s gone a little blurry. because this letter—it’s not flowery. it’s not full of declarations or clichés. it’s not romantic in the way some people would call romantic. but it’s a love letter. god, it is. it’s so you. attentive. specific. steady. you miss him, and you say so. but more than that—you see him. you know him. and you care. deeply. completely. without needing to shout it. he reads the last line three times over before he can breathe again. "I love you, yuuji ♡”

he presses the letter to his chest and lets his head fall back against the couch. he’s quiet for a long moment. the summer breeze ruffles the corner of the letter. someone says something in the other room—maybe gojo, maybe fushiguro—but yuuji doesn’t hear it. his whole world, right now, is inside that envelope. and you’re not even trying. that’s the thing that wrecks him. you’re just being yourself.

he calls you immediately—eyes still suspiciously glassy, voice slightly too upbeat.

"umm, what is thisss?" he says, holding the opened package up to the camera like you might not recognize it. “you’re way too nice, baby. this is literally the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

you blink at him, chewing a piece of ice absentmindedly. "what is?"

"this!" he rattles the package, then points dramatically to the letter like it’s a handwritten declaration of sainthood.

"oh. that?” you say, frowning. “that was nothing.”

you’d honestly forgotten you sent it.

it had taken you half an hour to throw together. less than 1000 yen. you’d picked up the snacks while buying shampoo. you’d stuck in the letter because the envelope felt too light. you’d printed the picture because you figured he’d whine otherwise. it wasn’t much.

but he’s gushing. twenty whole minutes. you can barely get a word in. he’s complimenting your handwriting like it’s calligraphy. he’s pointing out specific phrases from the letter and repeating them back to you in a dreamy voice. he’s asking if the cat from your run has a name yet.

eventually you settle into your usual facetime routine—quiet, warm, full of long pauses that don’t feel empty. your mother calls you down for dinner. normally, you’d say goodbye and hang up.

but tonight, you don’t.

you just…carry him with you. down the stairs, to the kitchen. your sisters have already eaten. your plate is waiting for you under cling wrap in the fridge. you heat it up, sit at the counter, and start eating with the phone propped against the sugar canister.

you barely say anything for the first five minutes. just the soft clinking of utensils, the occasional sigh.

“do you want me to leave you be?” yuuji asks gently.

you look up, surprised. “no. I don’t want to eat by myself.”

it’s not a big declaration. you say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

but to yuuji, it might as well be a marriage proposal.

because he remembers you two years ago. the girl who used to apologize for having freckles. who stiffened at compliments. who lived curled up in the corners of her dorm like a ghost. and now you want to share your dinner with him across two time zones.

he doesn’t say any of that. he just smiles and goes to grab his own food. he makes fushiguro come eat too, plates already lukewarm from gojo’s microwave. he sets the phone in the center of the table like a centerpiece.

you ask megumi how he’s doing. if he’s ready to kill gojo yet.

"I am always ready to kill gojo,” he deadpans. but it’s half-hearted. you all know the truth.

you talk about what you want to do when you’re back on campus. yuuji lights up.

“let’s add kugisaki to the call!”

you do. she’s annoyed at first, claims she’s busy. but she stays. and suddenly it feels like another night in the dorms. like you're not scattered across japan, separated by obligation and summer heat. for a little while, it just feels like home.

—

the next day, yuuji sets out to write you back. he opens to the first page with the same energy he once reserved for exam questions or curse exorcism strategies. serious business. except…he struggles. a lot. your letter was perfect. it had felt effortless. this? this is like trying to write a poem in a thunderstorm.

but once he stops trying to match you, and starts writing like himself, everything spills out. he writes about the baseball-basketball hybrid gojo invented. (“it’s dumb. I'm obsessed. we play everyday.”) he tells you how he and megumi tried to cook that soup recipe you mentioned. he describes the exact moment the fire alarms went off and how gojo’s first words when walking into the smoky mess were “you guys better not be cooking something healthy.” he tells you about the kyoto girl megumi is clearly in love with, and how you need to help orchestrate something. “maybe he can trick her into dating him. worked for me.” he thanks you for the spicy nori. “it was amazing. buy some more. facetime me when you try it!” he compliments your hair. rants about it, really. summer humidity is a miracle, and your hair is living proof. he asks for pictures of the ocean. says you must be able to see it from your family’s house, or at least on your morning run. says he wants more pictures of your paintings—especially the pink unicorn one your sister did, which he describes as “abstract and terrifying and amazing.” he asks for more pictures of you, too. “one is a total disservice. I deserve at least five. maybe ten.”

and then, because it feels right, he says it. over and over again. I love you. I love you. I love you. the words tumble out. not in some neat little line, but smeared across paragraphs, tucked between snack reviews and bad doodles. they’re everywhere. just like he is. just like you are, in his world. the letter is a mess. his handwriting is a disaster. ink is smudged. words are misspelled. there are crossed-out sentences and strange margin notes. he’s doodled a weird little version of you in his hoodie with stars around your head. he’s drawn a cat that looks more like a potato. he loves it. he knows you’ll love it too.

he doesn’t have a polaroid, which is tragic. he makes a note to buy one. but he still manages to include something tangible—a couple bags of tea from gojo’s pantry that he’s pretty sure you’ll like. (if not, you’ll bully him, and he’s fine with that.) he puts hearts all over the envelope. big ones. lopsided ones. he considers sealing it with a kiss, then decides that’s weird, then does it anyway. he sends it off the next morning. and with it, he sends the part of him that hasn’t stopped missing you since the second you left.

it spirals, gloriously, hilariously, heart-wrenchingly from there. the rest of the summer becomes an exchange of laughter folded into letters, fingerprints smudged onto snack packages, love woven into bubble wrap and twine. you trade days the way people trade baseball cards. one sweet little offering at a time.

yuuji sends you candy bars from the corner store with scribbled notes like “tastes weird. tell me if I'm crazy.” he includes half-baked recipes clipped from magazines, fully aware he’ll never pull them off. you try them. you lie and say they’re amazing. (“don’t worry, I didn’t burn the soup. unlike some people.”) you send him a miniature basketball plushie because he will not shut up about gojo’s cursed frankenstein sport. he opens the package like it’s a sacred relic, then immediately facetimes you to introduce it to the world. “this is mikey. he’s our son now.” he gives it a place of honor on his pillow. fushiguro scoffs and sighs for a full ten minutes. you make matching bracelets. twine and a little metal charm you found at a beach stand. you keep one. mail the other. he acts like he made it, flashing it dramatically on every facetime call. “check out this artisan craftsmanship.” you let him have it.

one afternoon, you call and he’s asleep. megumi answers, caught somewhere between suspicion and resignation. the air between you two is awkward, delicate. you don’t say much. until you grin and say, “go get a permanent marker.” megumi blinks. then smirks. yuuji wakes up to a full mural on his cheek and something profane scrawled across his forehead. he groans, squinting into the camera. but you're cackling. megumi’s barely holding it together. he can’t be mad. not even a little. he receives more pictures from you. candid, sleepy, sunlit. some with your sisters, some with your fingers half-covering the lens. one of you holding a seashell to your ear like a dork. he sets them on his nightstand in the guest room like they’re family heirlooms. sometimes he looks at them before bed and just whispers, “you’re so cool,” like a man cursed by affection.

he makes you explain your hair routine in painstaking detail. wants brand names. ratios. “like, how wet is your hair when you use the curl cream?” he’s convinced that if he studies your methods, his hair will someday be as majestic. you’re losing your mind. he’s so serious about it. it’s infuriating. you love it. he sends you postcards from tokyo with captions like “wish you were here (i mean you practically live here but still)”. you keep them all in a shoebox under your bed. there’s already too many to count. you start watching movies “together.” he’ll call, and you’ll sync up your streaming services like you’re detonating a bomb. “3...2...1...play.” the audio never lines up perfectly. the subtitles sometimes glitch. but it doesn’t matter. you talk through the whole thing anyway.

and it’s...gross. sickening, even. soft and sappy and too gentle for a world that rarely is. but it’s yours. built slowly, lovingly, from nothing more than stamps and signal bars and the occasional haunted snack box. and it matters. because you didn't used to believe in this kind of thing. and yuuji—yuuji believed in you even when you didn't believe in yourself. he made room for you. made space for this. for love. for warmth. for something that doesn’t sting when it touches you.

he still misses you, of course. but it’s different now. not aching and hollow. it’s…sweet. soft around the edges. like the kind of longing you get for a favorite song, or the smell of your mom’s cooking when you’re away. he thinks about you every morning. every night. every time he passes that stupid unicorn drawing or tightens the bracelet on his wrist. he misses you. but he’s grateful to miss you. because missing you means he has you. and that is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

—

he’s jittery. he’s always jittery, sure, but this is different. yuuji’s not just bouncing his leg—he’s halfway to vibrating out of his skin. the entire bullet train ride he’s cracking knuckles, chewing on the corner of his lip, refreshing your last text like it might suddenly change and say “surprise! I'm here early! come get me now!” it doesn’t. you said your train left at 3:00am. brutal. typical you—always the cheap ticket, always the one who makes do without complaint. you don’t mind early mornings or sore backs. he minds for you. his ride is short. unfairly so. which means he gets to be alone in his dorm for a few hours with all this energy and nowhere to put it. he bugs kugisaki within twenty minutes of unpacking. fushiguro? emotionally exhausted, allegedly. but yuuji knows better. fushiguro loved hanging out with him this summer. he’ll never say it, but he’ll miss yuuji’s endless talking, his stupid pool games, his bad movie taste. they’ll both pretend otherwise.

yuuji’s a livewire. can’t sit still. he finally channels it into decorating, if you can call it that. every picture you mailed him gets stuck on the wall in a wild, crooked constellation—no rhyme or reason, just instinct and affection. the letter drawer gets a place of honor in his nightstand, already worn from being opened and reread too many times. then he gets mischievous. he grabs mikey, the plush basketball, and heads to your dorm. he’s plotting. you’ll come in later and find the plush sitting on your pillow, possibly with a dramatic note about “co-parenting.”

he knocks, ready to annoy kugisaki into letting him in. but the door swings open—and it’s you. you, with that sly, soft look on your face, like you know exactly what you’ve done. "I was waiting for you to come up here,” you say. “wasn’t sure you would.” liar. your train hadn’t left at 3:00am. you’d found a late-night deal, and you took it.  you’d been here since last night.

and yuuji? he short-circuits. he doesn’t freeze—yuuji itadori never freezes—but he ignites. he barrels through the doorway like a storm surge, lifts you off your feet, spins you around like some cheesy k-drama protagonist who’s waited thirteen weeks for this moment. (which he has.) he tucks his face into your neck and inhales. he missed this—your perfume, your shampoo, your skin. he missed you. his lips find every freckle like they’re dots on a map he’s finally coming home to. he squishes your cheeks in his palms and baby-talks at you like he’s trying to imprint your face onto his soul. which, to be fair, he probably is.

you endure it with only mild suffering. arms loose around his shoulders. a soft grumble of, “okay, okay, yuuji…” but you don’t pull away. when he finally sets you down, your hands come up—gentle—and you press your lips to the matching scars on either side of his eyes. a habit now. something quiet and reverent, like you’re acknowledging everything he’s been through without saying a word. then you look at him. just…look. wide, steady eyes. hair undone. that calm, quiet sort of smile that he’s never been able to resist. "I missed you too, yuuji.” 

and that’s it. that’s the sentence that breaks the dam. he’s kissing you again, not even properly—just barely-there little pecks over your cheeks, your temple, your hands, your eyelids, whispering things like “you’re so pretty, holy crap,” and “I'm so lucky, I'm so stupid lucky,” and "I love you, I love you, I love you.”

you’re calm. he doesn’t know how. he’s been vibrating with anticipation for thirteen weeks and you’re just…serenely unpacking, like he didn’t just get metaphorically hit by a train. but that’s who you are. steady. quiet. warm in a way that sneaks up on him. he decides, right then, next summer he’s going with you. nakijin or bust. you don’t argue. you just nod. he wraps around you like ivy as you organize your desk. follows you like a puppy while you reset your dorm. it’s not hot—there’s a breeze drifting through the cracked window, and a hint of fall in the air. soon there will be class schedules and curfews and missions and real life.

but for now, it’s this. just this. warmth and laughter and the smell of your perfume on his shirt. and sometimes—just sometimes—when things settle again and days start to pass like normal, yuuji finds himself missing what it felt like to miss you. because even that was beautiful. even that was yours.