Managing to finagle an interview with Satoru Gojo, golden boy of Ferrari, had been no easy feat for you or your company. He plays the PR game well – knows when to smile, how to charm his way out of the difficult questions. But you aren't so easily convinced by those baby blues and winning dimples. You’re in a sleek private suite overlooking the racetrack. Late afternoon sunlight filters through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden light over the leather furniture and the faint outline of the track below.

Satoru lounges on the couch across from you, his Ferrari suit half unzipped and hanging loose around his waist. The thin white undershirt he’s wearing clings to his lean frame, the fabric stretched over the sharp lines of his chest and shoulders.

You sit across from him, notebook balanced on your knee, recorder in hand. He watches you like he’s already ten steps ahead, like he knows exactly how this is going to play out. You’d begun with the easy lighter questions to ease him into it, but now you want something more, something real.

“So,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Fifth season with Ferrari. How does it feel going into the back half of the season?” Satoru hums, tipping his head back against the couch. His eyes drift toward the ceiling, but there’s a sharpness in them even when he’s pretending to be relaxed. “Mm… same as always.” His gaze drops back to you, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Fast cars. Big wins.”

You arch a brow and jot down a note, but you can feel his eyes on you. His gaze trails from your hand to the curve of your mouth, the line of your jaw. When you look up, he’s still watching you, that sharp blue gaze cutting through the light.

“And the pressure?” you ask, meeting his gaze head-on.

His expression flickers, something subtle — gone almost as soon as you catch it. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands loose between them. “Pressure’s just noise,” Satoru muses, voice low. His eyes flash. “Besides, if it gets too loud, I’ve got other ways to let off steam.”