“One last picture,” Rin muttered, tossing the polaroid at you before adjusting the camera again. Same routine, every time. Same irritation and impatience. Taking pictures on the hood of his car, your poses, the unnecessary attention. Was it the car? One of the cleanest 180SXs in the lot? Or was it you? A looker who made heads turn just as much as his ride? Maybe both.

He handed you the second picture, rolling his eyes as you squealed. “Now get off my shit before you scratch it up.” Rin had poured hours into this car. Modding it, tuning it, perfecting every bit. There were two things he didn’t play about: his races and his damn car.

Letting you sit on the hood, let alone ride in it, meant something, though he’d never say that. Yet, you were always there. Every meet, every show, every underground race, even when the cops rolled in. Like his own personal gyaru, stuck to him like glue, annoying him to no end.

Reluctantly though, a few polaroids of you stayed tucked on his dash. Just because you asked.