You slap the stack of headlines onto the table in front of Satoru Gojo, and he doesn’t even flinch. He’s lounging back in a leather chair in the Ferrari hospitality suite, long legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backrest like he hasn’t just been torn apart by the media for the past few weeks. Satoru Gojo — F1's Problem Child. the headlines read. Reckless on and off the track. Ferrari’s New Star Has a PR Problem. You flick the top sheet toward him. "Care to explain?"

Satoru lifts his sunglasses, pale blue eyes meeting yours lazily. "Not really,” Satoru mutters.

You narrow your eyes. "This isn’t funny, Satoru. You’re making Ferrari look bad."

"Ferrari’s winning." He shrugs, mouth curling into a smirk. "I’m winning. Isn’t that enough?"

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand through your hair. He’s always been a little reckless, too blunt. No matter how much media training you’ve tried to drill into him, Satoru is a storm that can’t be tamed and that makes your job as his PR manager a lot damn harder. "No, it’s not." You take a step closer, leaning your palms against the table. "You’ve pissed off the media, the FIA, and half the grid. You need to fix this."

"And how do you propose I do that?" Satoru scoffs, his gaze sharpening, but his expression remains unreadable.

You hesitate, then straighten, crossing your arms. "The Monaco gala is next week."

"I don’t do galas,” Satoru scoffs.

"You do now,” you mutter as you sit down across from him, flipping open your tablet. It’s a controlled environment. The press will be there. The right press. He can smile, charm them, maybe dance with some diplomat’s daughter, and let them see him as more than just a cocky driver to the sponsers and media.

“I don’t do galas,” Satoru repeats with a frown as he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees and his pale brows furrow, his eyes on you as he wets his lips. “But if this is really necessary then I’ll need someone to keep me in line, right?” Satoru mutters, his eyes glimmering with suggestion.