It’s late when Satoru shows up at your door. You almost don’t open it. You shouldn’t open it. But there’s something about the way he knocks — loud, persistent — like he knows you’re home and isn’t going to leave until you answer.

And there he is, standing in your doorway, hood pulled up over his bright white hair. His cheeks are hollow under the dim streetlight, his mouth set in that careless, too-pretty curve that somehow still manages to look exhausted.

"Hey," Satoru mutters quietly like he hadn’t sneaked out of his hotel suite to come find you. You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips pressing together. Being confronted with the sight of your ex-boyfriend at 1.27am isn’t exactly what you’d planned for. "You’ve gotta be kidding me."

His lips twitch like he might smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "Long weekend," Satoru mutters.

You scoff. "Yeah, I saw."

The post-race headlines had been brutal. Ferrari disaster. Gojo fumbles a podium. Tensions rise in the paddock He’d been all over the media the past few days — rumors swirling about internal issues with the team, pressure from sponsors, his own head getting in the way.

"I guess you thought losing P1 was a good enough excuse to crawl back here?" you mutter, shaper than you probably should be but its hard to find sympathy for him after that shitshow of a breakup he put you through.

His gaze sharpens, flashing that dangerous, cutting blue beneath the dark shadow of his hood. "I didn’t come here to talk about the race."

"Of course not," you scoff, lips curling back. You know why he’s here – you know he’s crumbling, that hes starting to slip through the cracks of his own mind under the mountaining pressures of the cutthroat sport that chews him out but still has him returning and begging for more every fucking weekend. He wants a familiar face, familiar hands, familiar voice to guide him out from the dark, and you’re the only one who knows how to do that – not his team principal, not his manager, not anybody at fucking Ferrari. Just you.