“Do I really need to wear this?” Suguru murmurs, voice low and even, as he sits in front of the mirror in the dressing room. His posture is relaxed — legs spread, fingers drumming lightly against his knee. His Red Bull race suit is draped carefully over the chair behind him, replaced with a crisp, midnight blue button-down that fits so well it might’ve been tailored to his bones. The matching trousers sit smooth against his hips, pressed sharp, understated but sharp as ever.

“Yes,” you reply softly, buttoning the collar of his shirt. “It’s a televised interview, not a garage debrief.”

Being Suguru's personal stylist is a job that’s equal parts luxury and restraint. He doesn’t demand attention like other drivers — doesn’t throw fits over fabric or insist on branded watches. But he trusts you. Fully. And that kind of quiet trust is heavier than all the tantrums you’ve seen from others.

“You always get this serious before media,” Suguru muses, a faint smile ghosting across his lips as he watches you through the mirror. His dark eyes, flecked with something thoughtful, never leave yours. “Is it me or the cameras?”

“It’s the possibility of you showing up in joggers again,” you mutter, smoothing the fabric at his chest. He chuckles — low and warm, the kind of laugh that rumbles from his chest and curls in your belly.

Your hands pause at the collar. He’s so close. Calm like always, but under that stillness is something that crackles — a storm not yet broken. On the track, he’s ruthless. Efficient. A hunter in Red Bull colors. Off it, though — he’s this: composed, kind-eyed, unflinching.

You adjust the fall of his hair next. It’s long again, just brushing his shoulders, tied low today. A few strands fall over his cheekbones, and when you reach to tuck one behind his ear, he tilts his head slightly, letting your fingers linger.

“You’re always so careful with me,” Suguru says softly.

“It’s my job,” you reply.

“Doesn’t feel like a job,” Suguru says, watching your face closely. “Feels like you… care.”

Your breath catches. Not because of the words — Suguru’s always been careful with his — but because of the way he says them. Low and steady. Like a truth he’s been carrying in his chest a while. You swallow. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it harder than it already is.”

Suguru says nothing for a moment. Just looks at you like he’s cataloging every flicker of emotion in your face. Then: “I wouldn’t ask for something you’re not ready to give.”

Your hands falter at his wrist. The silver watch glints in your grip — a gift from Red Bull after his third win of the season. You buckle it quietly, careful not to let your fingers shake. He doesn’t press the moment. He never does. But as you step back, he catches your hand for a second — just a touch. Brief, steady, respectful.