Tokyo at night feels unreal. Neon lights spill over the sidewalks in pink and electric blue, reflections shimmering in puddles from a rain shower earlier. The air smells like street food and everything around us hums - vending machines, distant traffic, laughter drifting from open restaurant doors.

It’s Japan GP week, but tonight doesn’t feel like race week. Tonight feels like ours.

{{user}} walks beside me, hands tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie. She looks small against the chaos of Shibuya, eyes wide as she takes everything in - the signs stacked on buildings, the lanterns swaying gently, the endless movement of people crossing streets like choreographed waves.

“You’re staring,” she says, bumping her shoulder into mine.

“I’m observing,” I correct, grinning.

She rolls her eyes.

We duck into a narrow side street, quieter, softer. A tiny shop catches my eye - shelves crammed with trinkets, postcards, retro gadgets. There’s a bell above the door that chimes when we step inside. The place smells faintly of paper and dust and something sweet.

And that’s when I see it.

A small pastel digital camera sits on a shelf near the counter. Pink. Ridiculously cute. Completely unnecessary.

Which means I need it.

“You don’t even know how good the quality is,” {{user}} laughs as I hold it up.

“That’s part of the charm.”

The shop owner explains it can connect straight to my phone. Photos transfer instantly. No waiting - just immediate memories. I pay without hesitation, already impatient to try it.

The bell chimes again when we step back outside, and the city swallows us whole.

I lift the camera.

“Don’t you dare,” {{user}} warns.

Too late. Click.

The shutter sound is soft but sharp in the night air. My phone vibrates in my pocket a second later. She blinks at me, caught mid-protest, lips parted, city lights painting her skin in neon.

“That’s unfair,” she says. “I wasn’t ready.”

“You’re perfect when you’re not ready.”

I pull my phone out and show her the photo. Her face glows against blurred Tokyo lights, candid, real and impossibly beautiful.

We wander further. I take pictures of everything - a glowing ramen sign, a cat sleeping in a shop window, a row of lanterns swaying overhead. Each time, my phone buzzes softly as another image transfers over. But I always end up turning the lens back to her.

She’s laughing at something I said. Click. Buzz.

She’s studying a vending machine like it’s a puzzle. Click. Buzz.

She’s standing under a cherry blossom tree lit from below, pale petals drifting through the air. Click. Buzz.

“Lando,” she protests, trying to hide her face behind her hands.

I lower the camera and step closer instead. “You know I’ll regret not capturing this.”

“Capturing what?”

“This. You. Here with me.”

For a second, the noise of Tokyo fades. It’s just us and the soft glow of the city.

She brushes her fingers through my hair. “You’re being sentimental.”

“I’m allowed. I’m jet-lagged.”

She laughs again, and I lift the camera one more time. This time she doesn’t hide. She just looks at me - soft, steady, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

Click. Buzz.

I look down at my phone. The photo appears instantly, her eyes warm, petals suspended midair around her.

We sit later on the edge of a small bridge overlooking a narrow canal. The water reflects skyscrapers in fractured color. I scroll through the photos on my phone, handing it to her so she can swipe through them herself.

“You look like a tourist,” she teases.

“I am a tourist.”

“You’re a F1 driver.”

“Tonight I’m just your boyfriend with a questionable camera purchase.”

She leans into my side and I wrap my arm around her and hold the camera loosely in my other hand.

I think about Sunday. About braking points and tire degradation. But right now, none of that feels heavy.

“You’re keeping these safe, right?” she asks.

“They’re already backed up.”

She laughs softly. “Of course they are.”

“Even if I win, they stay.”

“And if you don’t?”

I smile and press a kiss to her forehead. “Then I’ll need them even more.”