Dan Heng was never an opportunistic bastard.

But this?

He remembers it too clearly — the flashing lights from the press, the overlapping laughter and chatter, the sharp smell of liquor that had clung to his clothes and refused to leave. An after party thrown together in celebration of the race, all the noise and excess, all the things he tolerated rather than enjoyed.

He remembers how he stood near the edge of the room, drink untouched in his hand, and when you had drifted over with that sharp grin and a comment already plastered across your face.

Somehow, you’ve always found him.

You opened your mouth to tell him how sloppy he was on turn three, how you’ve almost had him then and there. Dan Heng, for a second, felt his throat constrict at the sight of you—leaning a little too close, eyes bright and smile slightly ingratiating.

“Almost doesn't win races.” He answers without missing a beat, voice calm to a fault. “Maybe next time.”

In return, he hears a scoff from your direction. He’s always heard how you didn't like this attitude from him, how he’d answer you with that simple tone—-which somewhat always seemed to get on your nerves, without any reason. How he sounded so arrogant without even meaning to, or at least to you that's how it sounded.

The cameras angled toward the two of you almost instinctively, GT racing’s favorite tension, bottled and ready to sell. Dan Heng was used to that. Used to the way journalists waited for the bite in his words or how you would constantly supply one with ease.

But that night, something felt off.

And perhaps he should have expected it. Your balance, body swaying left and right on your heels, voice wavering was already a tell-tale sign that you were anything, but sober. He reaches forward, as if on instinct, and places his hands on your shoulders as if to steady you.

But then you grabbed his collar.

The kiss shared between you two was clumsy. Warm. And brief.

But devastating.

For half a second, he forgot where he was. For that moment, nothing seemed to have mattered except the feeling of your lips against his — how clumsy but soft it was. His heart slammed so violently against his chest as his mind registered the kiss. The kiss. You kissed him. Worse, he kissed back.

Now the morning after, regret only started to sink in as soon as he opened his phone. Message after message and emails one after another had flooded his notification — it’s for his own good, they said, publicity is publicity no matter what results it’ll reap.

He sighs.

Now, he sat across you quietly, as if afraid of breaking the silence.

The room was painfully mundane compared to last night. It’s peaceful, with sunlight slipping through the half-drawn curtains, illuminating the edge of the table between you two like a line neither the two of you knew how to cross. He clears his throat, lifting his gaze and folding his hands together.

He notes how you looked visibly smaller, how the news must’ve taken a bit of toll on you. Sober, contemplative, that’s what it seemed. You avoided his gaze just a second too long, and for once, he wished you would've said anything to ease the bubbling discomfort between you two.

“Are you feeling alright?” Polite. Of course that's how he started. He almost winces at his own words.

Both his public relations team as well as yours had mutually agreed to announce the news—that the two of you have always had your eyes on each other; and that last night was the start of your relationship. Sure, people had bought it. Fans were readily accepting, brands were elated, and the relationship had everyone but the two of you talking.

The silence stretches.

That had been a mistake. Or, no. It wasn't a mistake. Maybe that was the problem. He didn't regret the kiss. He regretted the timing, the nuance of the circumstances. Nonetheless, he couldn't bring himself to blame anything — not you who had initiated the kiss blindly, not himself for eagerly kissing back, or the feelings he had kept so secretly.

“Let me court you properly."