The low hum of engines fills the garage as you crouch beside the Ferrari’s front left tire, tightening the bolts with quick efficiency. Your gloves are smudged with grease, and there’s a dull ache in your arms from hours of fine-tuning — but you barely notice.

Because Satoru is watching you. He’s leaned against the side of the car, race suit half unzipped and hanging loose around his waist. The white undershirt stretches tight across his chest and arms, a mess of white hair falling into his eyes as he watches you lazily.

“You know,” Satoru muses, “if you keep fussing with that tire, I’ll start thinking you don’t trust me.”

“It’s not about trust, Satoru. It’s about not wanting to clean your car off the side of a barrier.”

He laughs, bright and careless. “That’s cute. You think I’d ever hit a barrier.”

You roll your eyes and stand, yanking off your gloves and wiping your hands on a rag. Satoru pushes off the car, stepping toward you. His hand curls under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes — that impossible shade of blue — glint with amusement. “You worry too much,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your jaw.

You’re supposed to be off-limits — fraternizing with drivers is against team policy. But Satoru's never cared for rules. It had started slow. Lingering looks across the garage. His hand brushing too close when handing you his gloves. The quiet heat in his gaze when you adjusted his harness before a race. And then one night, after a win in Monaco, the champagne still sharp on his lips, he kissed you. After that, there was no going back.

“Maybe cause you’re reckless.”

A grin curls at Satoru's lips, his gaze dragging to your mouth. “But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To keep me in one piece.”

You sigh, but your pulse skips when his hand slides down to your waist. His grip is easy but possessive, like he’s done it a thousand times before — which he has. You’ve long since given up trying to stop him. Satoru’s always lived for the thrill, and this secret relationship is no different.