"Do I really need to wear this?" Satoru mutters as he sits in front of the mirror of the dressing room, legs spread, head tilted back against the chair as you fuss with the collar of his shirt. His red race suit is draped over the back of the chair, replaced with a tailored black button-down and slim-fit slacks that hug his long legs.

"Yes," you sigh and do the top buttons of his shirt for his interview. Being Satoru Gojo’s personal stylist is a full-time job — and not just because he’s one of Ferrari’s top drivers. You handle everything: from race-day paddock outfits to black-tie galas, media interviews, and post-race press conferences. He has an extensive wardrobe, but most of it would sit untouched if you didn’t lay it out for him. He trusts your taste completely, not that he’d ever admit it outright.

“You don’t need to try so hard,” Satoru hums, the corner of his mouth lifting as his bright blue eyes meet yours in the mirror. “I’d look good in anything.”

You ignore him, brushing your fingers through his hair. The silver strands slip between your fingers, as hiis eyes flutter closed under your touch, the tension in his shoulders melting away. “Stop flirting,” you mutter, smoothing the collar of his shirt and brushing a bit of lint from his collar.

“I’m not flirting,” Satoru mutters, opening one eye lazily. “If I was, you’d know it.”

You scoff, reaching for the watch sitting on the table. It’s expensive — black face, silver trim — a gift from Ferrari after his last championship win. You slip it over his wrist, buckling it carefully. “You’re really good at this, you know,” Satoru murmurs, his voice low.

“At what?”

“Taking care of me,” Satoru muses in a way that's all too gentle, all too soft and makes your heart thump as you adjust his watch. You’re his personal stylist but sometimes you wonder if the harmless flirting is really all that harmless, and if breaking the clause in your contract strictly forbidding fraternizing with drivers is worth those crystalline eyes looking up at you with sincerity.