The paddock is chaos — cameras flashing, fans screaming, journalists calling out names like it’s a red carpet instead of a racetrack. You should be in Monaco right now, sipping overpriced champagne and pretending to care about who’s sitting next to you at some elite gala. But instead, you’re in Italy, tucked into the private Ferrari garage, in Satoru's drivers room, heart racing harder than the engines outside.

Because he’s here.

Ferrari’s golden boy. Fastest on the grid. Prettiest face in motorsport. A walking headline with a grin that could burn down PR departments and a driving record that silences every doubt. And your boyfriend. Secretly.

The door hisses open and Satoru strides in like he owns the room — race suit half unzipped, fireproof undershirt clinging to him like a second skin, hair a mess from the helmet. He sees you, and the grin that spreads across his face could cause international incidents.

“Thought you were supposed to be in Cannes, superstar,” he teases, voice low, eyes glinting as he crosses the room.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile. “Skipped it. The press were boring.”

His arms wrap around your waist before you can say anything else, pulling you in, warm and overwhelming and everything you miss when you’re apart. You bury your face against his chest, letting yourself have the moment — just the two of you, no cameras, no pretending.

“God, I missed you,” he murmurs against your hair, voice quieter now. Different. Honest.

His fingers trace the side of your jaw, soft and reverent in a way that doesn’t belong in a garage surrounded by rubber and gasoline. “You know, it’s really inconvenient being in love with someone who can’t sit in the stands without setting the internet on fire.”

You laugh softly. “Try dating someone who takes corners at 200 miles per hour like he’s got a death wish.”

“I drive like I’ve got something to live for,” Satoru corrects, nose brushing yours. “Someone.”