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goonforgeto · 4 days ago

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f1 driver!nanami x perfumer!reader

SYNOPSIS — It’s your big break: a private commission from a high-profile client brings you and your small-town French perfumery to gorgeous Monaco in the middle of July, where you’ve just begun setting up your first standalone boutique. But between construction delays, holiday crowds, and the chaos of Grand Prix weekend, peace is hard to come by. And when a handsome stranger stumbles into your unfinished shop—seeking shelter from the paparazzi and asking for a chance to see you again—your careful plans start to unravel in ways you never expected.

CONTENT — mdni, age gap (nanami is 31, reader is 23), takes place in the 1950s, inaccurate f1 history/general history inaccuracies, i cannot stop talking about f1 im sorry, hotel lobby reference wink wink, loss of virginity, nanami has a HUGE dick, semi public sex, public making out, thigh riding, fingering, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected piv sex, floor sex, biting/licking, strangers to lovers, mentions of a character death, fast paced romance, angst, happy ending

PSA — this fic is 22k words, which was too long to post on tumblr, so i had to break off the end, which will be posted soon.

a/n: this fic is for @lily-bisque’s summer bash collab! i meant to have this out so much earlier but ao3 writers curse is real and i could not catch a break. i hope you enjoy my combination of jjk and f1 and i sincerely apologize for the terrible smut i feel so awk writing it.

push to pass | masterlist | divider | part 2

July, 1955

You had a sinking feeling the universe wasn’t on your side the moment you realized your business trip—thinly disguised as a much-needed vacation—coincided with Monaco’s most chaotic weekend of the year: the Grand Prix.

The city had transformed overnight. What should have been a quiet few days by the coast filled with business, dinners, and soaking up the sun was now a blur of revving engines, champagne-soaked balconies, and tourists with more money than sense. Hotels were overbooked, taxis impossible to catch, and every café table already claimed by someone wearing silk and sunglasses worth more than your rent.

Still, you tried to focus on the reason you came. A private commission from a wealthy Italian heiress: she wanted a signature perfume that smelled like danger, like lust.

Something unforgettable, she said, her voice thick with too much wine when she had visited your perfumerie at your hometown in Grasse last spring.

She was ecstatic when she heard you were planning to open your first standalone boutique, and declared that Monaco was the only place worthy of your scent.

That had been two springs ago. Now, in the heat of July, you were standing in the middle of your not-quite-finished shop on Rue de Princess, ankle-deep in linen samples and sawdust, squinting at a half-installed light fixture while your architect bickered with the electrician in rapid-fire French.

The boutique was still more bones than body, but the walls smelled of promise. You’d spent the morning sorting glass vials and raw materials you had shipped from Grasse—vetiver, jasmine, tobacco, bergamot—trying to mix something that felt like heat and adrenaline without sliding into cliché.

You were halfway through dabbing something sharp and citrusy onto your wrist when the front door burst open with a crash loud enough to startle the architect into dropping his tape measure.

A man—tall, blonde, and out of breath—stepped inside. He pushed the door shut behind him with his shoulder and locked it. Then turned around.

“Please,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Just… give me sixty seconds.”

Your first thought wasn’t who he was, or even what he was doing in your boutique. It was that he smelled like engine oil and something sweet beneath it—like burnt sugar clinging to warm skin.

“Pourquoi la porte n’était-elle pas verrouillée ?” you ask your architect in French, barely sparing the intruder a glance as you speak. Why was the door unlocked?

He blinks at you, clearly unprepared for anything other than startled compliance. However, the stranger in the doorway doesn’t move. He just watches you with a calm, measured stillness.

“I was being chased,” he says simply, in broken French with the faintest lilt of something foreign beneath it. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your eyes flick toward the front windows. The sheer curtains ripple just enough to reveal movement outside—shadows pacing, the glint of lenses catching sunlight. You recognize the rhythm of paparazzi on a scent.

The architect mutters something under his breath, likely an excuse, and disappears into the back with the electrician, conveniently, or cowardly. You’re left alone in the room with him. The stranger. The man still standing like this is his safe house.

You cross your arms. “Are you famous?”

That gets a response. The ghost of a smile, subtle and restrained. He steps closer to the counter, eyes scanning the half-finished boutique. There’s paint on the floor, swatches tacked to the walls, and your latest trials scattered across a brass tray. He picks up a small, clear bottle with care, tipping it slightly to catch the light, then rolls it between his fingers like it might whisper secrets.

The scent clings to his skin.

“Depends who you ask,” he says, finally switching to English. “You don’t recognize me?”

You shrug, unbothered. “Should I?”

That smile again, wider now. Real. Not warm, but aware. “Not necessarily,” he says. “Though it does make this hiding place a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You watch as he unbuttons the top of his shirt, just enough to breathe, revealing the fine edge of a scar across his collarbone. There’s a twitch in his fingers, like he wants to sit, but doesn’t know where in your half-finished world he’s allowed to land.

“Do I call the police?” you murmur.

He sets the perfume bottle down with reverence, eyes meeting yours. Steady. Intent.

“I don’t plan to stay long,” he says. “Just needed somewhere to breathe for a minute.”

You hum, leaving behind your samples and making your way toward him. You’re still deciding whether he’s worth the disruption.

“I haven’t apologized,” he says, his voice softer now, stripped of the earlier confidence. “For intruding. I’m sorry, and… thank you for letting me stay.”

You stop just short of him, a careful distance between your body and his heat. Up close, he smells like sun-warmed leather, salt, and the faintest trace of engine smoke. There’s tension still clinging to his frame, like he hasn’t fully unclenched since stepping through the door.

“Don’t thank me yet,” you say lightly, though your gaze sharpens. “I still haven’t decided if I’m going to charge you.”

His mouth twitches again.

“I’m afraid my wallet’s in the car,” he murmurs.

You narrow your eyes, studying him now not as a stranger, but as a puzzle. He had the kind of face designed for magazines and tabloid spreads—angular, golden-skinned, impossibly clean-cut in a way no man really was. Except the scruff on his jaw betrayed a long day, and the fine line of a healing cut beneath his ear whispered of something sharper.

“So,” you say, voice softening but not yielding, “who exactly are you?”

He looks at you for a moment—really looks. There’s something unreadable behind his eyes, something not entirely comfortable with being recognized. But then he exhales, like he’s decided to give you something.

“Kento Nanami,” he says. “Japanese driver for Maserati.”

A beat.

Then, without a hint of ego, he adds, “I fear I’m partly the reason the streets outside sound like a wasps’ nest.”

“I see,” you say slowly, and offer the barest smile. “So you're the reason I’ve been nearly flattened crossing the street all day.”

His mouth lifts at the corner again, but he looks almost sheepish this time. “I’m truly sorry about that.”

You watch him for a beat longer. Most men with a name like his would already be sprawled across your showroom chaise, expecting champagne. But he remains standing, polite hands tucked in his jacket pockets, gaze never dropping below your eyes.

“Come on,” you sigh, and nod toward the high stool near your workbench. “Sit before you put a crease in your spine. You look like you haven’t breathed in an hour.”

He hesitates, just for a second, before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the stool with the kind of quiet control you suspect he applies to everything he does. He rests his forearms on his thighs, eyes roaming over the brass instruments, the scattered vials, the curling paper blotters that still hold ghosts of half-finished perfumes.

“So what’s this?” he asks, nodding toward the environment around him—brass tools glinting in the low light, unlabeled vials catching the sun, fabric swatches hanging like ghosts of decisions not yet made.

You follow his gaze, then glance back at him.

“This,” you say, “is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.”

He hums, low in his throat, like he understands both possibilities intimately.

You lean back against the edge of the workbench, arms folding loosely across your chest. “My boutique. Or it will be. I signed the lease two months ago. It’s not open yet, but somehow the heiresses already know where to find me.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth, but you don’t offer the name of the woman who sent you here. He doesn’t ask.

“I make perfume,” you add. “My great-aunt had a few small shops in Grasse. One in Nice. Mostly small, quiet places. This is the first time I’m doing something on my own.”

Nanami doesn’t say anything at first. He just nods, eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling like he’s trying to picture what the space will look like when it’s finished.

“It suits you.”

You blink. “The boutique?”

He glances at you. “The ambition.”

That earns a quiet breath from you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You don’t even know me.”

He doesn’t look away. “No. But I’ve seen the way you hold your work.” His gaze drops briefly to the vials on the counter. “There’s care in it.”

There’s a pause long enough to shift the air between you.

Then he clears his throat, gently lifting a small bottle from the tray. He holds it between his fingers like it might crack if he moves too fast. “What’s this one?”

You reach out, take the bottle from him carefully, and unstopper it.

“It’s still in progress,” you say. “A commission. Something she wanted for race weekend.” You tilt the wand once. The scent is strong—leather, bergamot, pepper—but the softer notes still haven’t settled right. You haven’t figured out what’s missing yet.

Without thinking, you hold the wand up toward him. “Wrist?”

He hesitates for half a second, then shrugs out of one glove and extends his hand. You dab the perfume lightly on the inside of his wrist, then wait.

The silence stretches a little.

He brings his wrist to his nose slowly, breathing in once, then again.

You watch him. Not the way he moves, but the way he stills.

“…It’s sharp,” he says finally. “First. Like the start of a race.”

You nod. “It’s supposed to be.”

“But there’s heat under it. Something warmer.”

“That’s where I got stuck.”

Nanami lowers his hand. He looks at you, quiet now in a way that feels heavier than the room. “You’re close.”

You huff softly. “I don’t want close. I want the exact moment you lose control and know it.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just holds your gaze a little too long.

You look away first.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “That probably sounded—”

“No,” he says, gentle now. “I know what you meant.”

“So why’re you running from the paparazzi?” you ask, tucking the stopper back into the bottle and setting it aside with the others.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “I had a crash during free practice 2,” he says simply. “Rounded a corner too fast and lost control.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “You okay?”

“I walked away,” he says, which is neither yes nor no. “The car didn’t.”

You nod once, quietly filing that away.

“I don’t usually do interviews or anything,” he continues after a pause, tone dry. “So everyone wants a chance to be the first to shove a mic in my face. Or a camera. Doesn’t matter what they ask. Just that they’re asking it first.”

You hum, moving to your cabinet to shelve the last of the day’s test vials. “Nothing like a little blood in the water.”

“Exactly.”

You hear the scrape of the stool as he shifts, then the low creak of it settling under his weight again.

“I didn’t mean to crash,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t mean to hide here, either. It just… looked quiet.”

You glance at him then.

He’s looking down at his wrist, where the scent still lingers.

You don’t say anything. Just lean back against the cabinet and fold your arms again, softer this time.

“You picked the right door.”

His mouth twitches—an almost-smile, subtle but real. “I’ll try to remember it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Planning on crashing again?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not if I can help it.”

You nod toward the street. “You think they’re still out there?”

He tilts his head, listening. For a second, there’s nothing, just the faint clink of glass in the distance as someone closes up shop down the block.

“Maybe.”

You watch him for another beat. He’s not what you expected when he walked in—less polished, more… human. Tired, maybe. Or just not used to people who don’t immediately want something from him.

“You can stay until they’re gone,” you say. “But only if you promise not to knock anything over.”

He smiles properly now, low, easy, and a little surprising. “I’ll try not to.”

You move back to the workbench without another word, slipping into a rhythm that’s familiar. The room settles with you, still, but not silent. Outside, the street’s gone quieter. Inside, the soft clinks of glass and rustle of paper fill the space.

Nanami doesn’t speak, but you can feel his eyes on you, like he’s watching someone work a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand but wants to.

You pull a small ceramic palette toward you and uncap one of the vials you’d set aside earlier. The scent that rises—sharp, clean, too precise—makes your nose wrinkle.

“This isn’t usually where I mix,” you say after a while, not looking up. “In case I’m not home, I’m building a studio in the back for that. Better ventilation. Fewer distractions.”

You glance his way. His expression stays neutral, but his brows lift just enough to acknowledge the irony.

You give a small shrug. “But the bottle I sent out for the heiress—it didn’t sit right.”

Nanami leans forward slightly on the stool, elbows resting on his thighs again. “So you’re rewriting it?”

“In a way.” You swirl a drop of base oil with a citrus resin, watching it cloud the mixture. “Not from scratch. Just… nudging it toward what it was trying to be.”

He watches you for a moment longer, then nods toward the array of small vials near your right hand.

“What are those?”

“Modifiers. Accents. Most people wouldn’t notice them directly, but they change everything underneath.” You pause. “Wanna help?”

His eyes flick to yours. “Help?”

You gesture to the tray. “Pick one, any one. First instinct. We’ll see what happens.”

He seems skeptical. “You’re letting a stranger play with your formula?”

“Only because you’ve got a good nose,” you say, not entirely teasing. “And I’m curious.”

He leans in slightly, scanning the labels of tiny handwriting in faded ink. He hovers over a few, then finally reaches for one near the back. He holds it up between two fingers.

“Hinoki,” he says.

Your eyes flick to the bottle, then back to him. “…Interesting choice.”

“Good interesting?” he asks, and it sounds sincere.

You smile, just a little. “Let’s find out.”

You draw a small pipette and carefully add a drop to your mixture. The shift is immediate—cooler, woodier. Something cleaner than what was there before, but grounded. You lean in, closing your eyes.

The imbalance that was bothering you? Gone.

You blink, glance at him. “That was… actually good.”

He huffs. “Surprised?”

You tilt your head. “Impressed.”

He looks away, but the edge of his mouth pulls just slightly upward. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

The scent hovers between you, sharp citrus softened by something quiet and green.

“I think you just solved my problems, Kento Nanami,” you smile, glancing at him over the rim of the mixing palette.

He lifts a brow, but there's a quiet satisfaction in his expression—subtle, like everything about him. “Glad to be of use.”

You reach for a clean blotter strip, dip the end into the blend, and wave it gently in the air between you.

“This is it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “It finally… settled.”

Nanami leans forward slightly as you offer the strip, careful not to touch. He inhales once, slow and thoughtful, eyes flicking closed for just a moment.

“It smells… sexy?,” he says softly.

Your chest tightens, just for a second. You blink, caught off guard by the way he said it.

“That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be,” you say after a beat.

He nods, like he understands.

You tuck the blotter away, labeling it neatly in pencil. “You want to name it too, or should I not give you that much power?”

Nanami chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm. “No,” he says. “That part belongs to you.”

You glance toward the windows. The light’s shifted again—softer now, tinged with late afternoon gold. The street outside looks quiet. Whatever crowd had been chasing him earlier seems to have moved on.

You turn back to the bench, reaching for a clean bottle from the box beneath it. The glass is simple. You hold it in one hand while pouring the mixture with the other, steady and precise.

When the vial’s empty, you stoppered the bottle and ran your thumb over the top.

“Formule 11,” you say quietly. “I’ll write the label later.”

Nanami watches you as you cross the room, ducking into the back to grab your bag and coat. When you return, you’re pulling on your gloves, bottle tucked carefully in your side satchel.

“I have to go deliver this,” you say, voice light but not apologetic. “Client’s expecting it before dinner.”

He nods once, sitting up straighter on the stool, like the moment’s shifting and he can feel it too.

You pause at the workbench, then reach across and grab something from a hook by the door—your architect’s hat, soft cotton, well-worn. You step toward him and place it gently in his hands.

“If you sneak out the back,” you murmur, “go straight to the next block and turn right. That’ll take you back to the main road without anyone noticing.”

He looks down at the hat, then up at you again. “You’ve done this before.”

You smile faintly. “Not with race car drivers.”

He holds the hat a little tighter in his lap. “Will I see you again?”

You meet his gaze, quiet for a beat. “Probably not.”

He watches you carefully. Not disappointed exactly, but thoughtful, like he’s working through something he’s not sure he’ll say aloud.

“I’m free tomorrow,” he says, “after noon. Qualifying starts around one. I could get you in. Quietly.”

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “I just want to say thank you. I don’t know what else I have to offer.”

That earns a quiet laugh from you, soft and surprised. You glance at the door, then back at him.

“…I’ll think about it.”

Nanami gives a small nod, like he knows better than to press.

You adjust your coat and put on your sunglasses, hand on the doorknob now.

“Don’t let him see you leave,” you call gently. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I gave you his hat.”

Nanami lifts it in a half-salute. “I won’t.”

You disappear into the dusk, the bell over the door chiming softly behind you.

“KENTO NANAMI WALKS AWAY FROM CRASH, WALKS STRAIGHT INTO RUMORS — AGAIN.” Crowd-favorite refuses interviews for fifth year running as speculation grows ahead of Monaco GP.

Your black coffee has long gone cold, abandoned on the edge of the café table as you scan the paper, fingers leaving faint smudges on the corner of the page. You’ve read the same paragraph three times now—not because it’s well-written, but because your brain keeps circling the same thought like a drain.

How did you not recognize him yesterday?

His face is everywhere. Above the fold, below it. Different expressions, same intensity. Even when caught in motion, mid-step or mid-turn, his gaze is sharp, grounded—impossible to look past. And yet you did. You talked to him like he was just some stranger ducking the press. Let him wear your architect’s hat. Let him touch your work.

The bell above the café door chimes behind you, a burst of cold air brushing against your back as someone steps in. You don’t turn around.

Instead, you flip the page, eyes catching the headline from the day before:

“NANAMI: SILENT BUT DEADLY.” Japan’s golden ghost chases third straight title while giving press the cold shoulder.

You huff, folding the paper in half, trying not to overthink it. But since last night—since a surprise dinner you hadn’t planned to attend (or really been invited to, not that the heiress cared)—you’ve learned three things about Kento Nanami:

He was serious about the no interviews. He doesn’t speak to the press, doesn’t pose for cameras, doesn’t play the game. Every headline printed about him is mostly stitched together from guesswork, gossip, and grainy photos taken when he’s not looking.

He's a three-time world champion. Five years in Formula 1, four of them with Maserati. Two back-to-back wins in the last two seasons. And if he wins this week, it’ll be his third in a row—four in total. That kind of record makes people obsessive.

He's thirty-one, and started racing at six on a dusty little track outside Tokyo. Took a two-year detour through law school, then came back like he had something to prove. And maybe he did. Maybe he still does.

You set the paper down, letting out a slow breath.

The part that gets you most isn’t the stats or the headlines.

It’s that he looked at you like none of it mattered, like he wasn’t the Nanami Kento.

You rub at the corner of your mouth, unsure if you’re smiling or grimacing.

Somewhere in the street behind you, an engine growls to life, unmistakably expensive. You sip your now-cold coffee, eyes lingering on the newspaper one last time, reminded that Qualifying starts in less than two hours.

You stand, brushing down the front of your long dress before placing your fascinator carefully back atop your head. The satchel slips easily across your shoulder, the glass bottle inside tucked snug between a silk scarf and your wallet.

“Merci, Sylvie,” you call toward the barista as you pass the counter.

“À bientôt,” she replies with a smile, already clearing your cup. See you soon.

The café door swings shut behind you, and the city air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of salt from the nearby water. The streets are still buzzing, though not as loud as they’ll be by race time. You tuck your chin deeper into your scarf and raise a hand for a taxi.

It pulls up within minutes and you slide into the backseat, instructing the driver to drop you off at the marina.

As the car pulls away from the curb, you glance once over your shoulder, back toward the café window where you’d been sitting. The paper’s still on the table, folded and forgotten.

You don’t regret leaving it behind.

The familiar scenery of yachts and sailboats quickly replaces the narrow, sun-worn buildings as you near the marina. Sleek white hulls line the docks like teeth, flags fluttering softly in the breeze. The water glints under the late morning sun, a gentle sway rolling through the harbor.

You thank the driver, stepping out with a quiet merci, your heels clicking lightly against the wooden planks as you make your way down the dock. A few workers are already out—coiling ropes, polishing chrome, moving like it’s just another Saturday, even though the city’s thrumming with the pulse of race week.

The docks look nothing like they did the last time you were in Monte-Carlo.

Now, the roads are blocked off with metal barricades and brightly colored signage. Police in vests line the intersections, directing foot traffic while trying not to be bowled over by the swarm of vendors, staff, and spectators crowding the sidewalks.

Where calm seaside paths once stretched quiet and open, now scaffolding rises above the pavement, draped in banners of team logos, tire brands, and champagne ads printed larger than life. Grandstands have been erected where cafes used to spill out onto the street, their tables cleared to make room for race marshals and media crews. The air buzzes with energy and the distant hum of engines tuning in the background.

You pass a section of fencing wrapped in black netting, just opaque enough to keep the view partially obscured. Behind it, glimpses of activity: mechanics moving like clockwork, crew members wheeling carts stacked with equipment, someone in a fire suit stretching quietly against a wall.

Even the sea seems different today, choppier somehow, like it’s reacting to the weight of the city’s breath holding tight in anticipation.

You clutch the strap of your satchel in one hand.

The last time you walked this route in spring, it was lined with yachts and morning joggers. Now it feels like the entire world has been invited to watch something happen. For some reason, you’ve decided to step straight into the middle of it.

You follow the signs toward the entrance checkpoint, your steps slower now, the weight of what you’re doing catching up to you in the space between footfalls.

A security guard stands at the gate, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning everyone who approaches. You offer a small smile as you near.

“Salut, I’m here to see Kento Nanami.”

The man lifts a brow. “Do you have a paddock pass?”

You hesitate. “No. He invited me yesterday, said—he said he’d leave something but…” You trail off, realizing how thin it sounds.

The guard’s expression flattens a little. “I can’t let anyone in without clearance, mademoiselle.”

“It’s not—look, he told me to come. It was last minute. I wasn’t exactly—” You sigh, frustration catching at the back of your throat.

“Name?” he asks, unimpressed.

You’re just about to answer when you catch the flicker of movement beyond the barrier. Kento Nanami, walking out from behind one of the garages, head turned slightly as he listens to something being said beside him.

He’s dressed in a white fire-resistant undershirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the top of his racing overalls tied loosely around his waist. There’s a smudge of something near his jaw—grease, maybe—and a glint of sweat at his collarbone that hasn’t quite dried yet.

The moment he sees you, his steps slow.

The guy beside him says something else but Nanami doesn’t answer. He holds up a hand, eyes locked on you now.

Then he’s moving toward the gate.

“Is she with you?” the guard asks, tone shifting instantly.

“She is,” Nanami replies, not looking at him. “Let her through.”

You exhale, relief blooming in your chest as the gate swings open. He waits just on the other side, arms crossed loosely now, a towel slung over one shoulder, gaze steady as you approach.

“You came,” he says simply.

You try not to look too pleased by the surprise in his voice.

“Well,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair beneath your fascinator, “you did owe me a thank you.”

That gets the faintest pull of a smile from him. Almost too small to catch—but there.

“Come on,” he says, nodding for you to follow. “I’ll show you the paddock.”

And just like that, you're walking beside him.

The air inside the paddock is hotter, tighter, filled with the scent of oil, rubber, and that distinct metallic tang that clings to machines running just a little too close to their limits. The garage is alive with movement—engineers moving with practiced ease, radios crackling, fans humming low in the background.

Nanami walks just ahead of you, offering the occasional nod or clipped instruction to someone passing by. He doesn’t introduce you to anyone until you reach the far side of the garage—where another man is perched half-sideways on a folding chair, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, race suit unzipped to his waist like Nanami’s, but far less neatly.

You know who he is before Nanami even opens his mouth.

Satoru Gojo—Formula 1’s reigning legend, its most magnetic headline, the youngest to ever win a championship, and the only one in history to hold six.

He's lounging like the paddock was built for him. Which, in a way, it probably was.

“Gojo,” Nanami says, voice low but firm. “This is—”

“The perfumer,” Gojo cuts in, turning toward you with a slow grin that’s far too pleased with itself. “From the boutique. Finally.”

You blink. “How do you—?”

“He told me,” Gojo waves vaguely at Nanami. “Which, by the way, is basically the loudest thing he’s ever said about anyone that wasn’t tire pressure or lap data.”

Nanami exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t listen to him.”

“I always listen to me,” Gojo replies, then leans toward you slightly, conspiratorial. “We met once, didn’t we? No—wait. You look like someone I bumped into in a hotel lobby in Tokyo. Summer of ’52?”

You stare at him. “I… don’t think that was me.”

“Shame,” he sighs, settling back with a wink. “That woman smelled amazing.”

Nanami levels him with a look.

Gojo just shrugs. “Anyway. Welcome to the circus.”

He offers a hand, and despite yourself, you take it. His grip is firm, warm.

“She’s staying for the rest of qualifying,” Nanami says, not quite a question.

You glance at him, then back at the chaos of the garage, the speed of everything moving around you.

And then back at him.

“I suppose I am.”

Nanami gestures for you to follow him as Gojo is swept up by a mechanic calling out lap times from a clipboard. You catch Gojo’s parting wave over his shoulder, sunglasses slipping back down his nose.

“Don’t let him scare you,” Nanami says, his voice low as he walks beside you again.

You glance over at him. “He doesn’t scare me.”

“Good,” he replies, eyes flicking ahead. “That’s half the problem with him. Too many people act like he’s untouchable.”

You walk in step with him through the maze of garages, wires coiled along the walls, tires stacked chest-high, crew members brushing past with focused urgency. Every space buzzes with energy, but there’s something methodical in the chaos—every movement part of a larger rhythm.

“Where does all of this go when the race is over?” you ask, sidestepping a cart full of tools.

“Crated up and shipped out. We’re in Spain next week,” he says, barely needing to raise his voice over the din. “Every week, a new city. A new setup. Then we do it all again.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine the weight of that repetition. “It’s a lot.”

“It is.” A pause. “But it doesn’t feel like much when you’re the one in the car.”

You glance at him, curious. “What does it feel like then?”

Nanami’s quiet for a beat. The sounds of the paddock move around the two of you but he doesn’t rush his answer.

“Still,” he says finally. “Everything else gets very quiet.”

You let that settle for a moment as he leads you toward one of the support trucks—open on one side to reveal rows of spare parts, stacks of helmets, and a row of posters outlining engine diagnostics.

Someone calls his name as you step inside—an engineer, tall and lanky, clipboard in hand.

“This is Ino,” Nanami says. “He keeps the car alive.”

Ino nods in greeting, then glances at you with faint curiosity. “You’re not press.”

“No,” you say. “Perfumer.”

He smiles slightly. “Weirdly, that makes more sense.”

Nanami shows you the tire wall next, different compounds lined up in rows, all marked with coded paint. He explains the differences simply, clearly, the way someone does when they’re used to being misunderstood but still want you to get it.

Then it’s on to the telemetry station, the broadcast trailers, a corner of the paddock where someone’s quietly eating lunch beneath a fan. It’s a strange, moving village of its own, temporary, but entirely self-contained.

When he finally circles you back to his garage, the quiet between you has settled into something softer. Familiar, even if it shouldn’t be.

He checks his watch, then glances at you.

“You have about ten minutes before we’re called for briefing,” he says. ��You want to stay?”

You lift a brow. “Would it be strange if I did?”

He considers this.

“No,” he says. “But it would be rare.”

You smile, just a little. “I’m not here to be common.”

That earns the barest flicker of something at the corner of his mouth—close to a smile, but not quite.

He nods toward the back of the garage, where a spare stool sits tucked near the wall.

“You can wait there,” he says.

You settle onto the stool, your bag tucked against your side, the sounds of the paddock humming around you. Nanami moves a few steps away to speak with one of his engineers, his posture instinctively straightening the closer he gets to the car.

And as you sit there—watching him shift from man to machine, you realize you’re not just seeing him differently now.

You’re seeing the whole world he lives in. And you’re not sure yet if you belong in it.

He returns fifteen minutes later, his undershirt now slung casually over one shoulder, his upper body bare beneath the suspenders of his racing overalls.

His skin gleams faintly under the garage lights—golden, lean, traced with the kind of strength built over years, not months. There’s a scar low on his left rib, pale against the skin, and a thin trail of oil smudged near his collarbone, like he’d wiped his hand without thinking.

You look up as he approaches, and he doesn’t say anything right away and just runs a towel across the back of his neck and tosses it over a nearby crate.

“You alright?” he asks, voice quieter now, the edge of work still clinging to him.

You nod. “Warmer here than I expected.”

“Heat’s worse inside the suit,” he mutters, half to himself. “You forget how heavy it is until it’s already on.”

He reaches for a bottle of water, twists the cap off, and takes a long drink. His throat moves with the motion, and for a moment, the rest of the garage noise dulls around you.

There’s something oddly private about it all, this glimpse into a world just behind the curtain.

He catches you looking and offers a small, wry smile. “You’re staring.”

You raise a brow. “You walked in half clothed.”

“I didn’t realize it was a problem.”

“It’s not,” you say simply, and his smile deepens just slightly.

Then someone calls his name again and he sets the bottle down.

“I have about twenty minutes before I’m in the car,” he says, glancing toward the pit lane. “You want to stay and watch?”

Your fingers brush the edge of your satchel.

“Wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”

Nanami nods once, then starts pulling his sleeves up.

And you sit back, quietly, as the man becomes the machine again.

“So what’s this race about?” you ask, your voice low beneath the hum of the garage. “If it’s not the official thing.”

“Qualifiers,” he says, adjusting the strap on his glove without looking up. “We run laps. Fastest time gets pole position for the main race.”

You nod slowly, watching the way his hands move—calm, practiced, every gesture deliberate.

“And you… want to be in front?”

He glances up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. “You always want to be in front. It means clean air. No one kicking dirt up in your face.”

You study him for a beat. “You sound like you’ve done this a few times.”

That earns you a look. Not annoyed—more like amused that you’re still pretending not to know.

“I read the papers,” you admit, softly. “After you left.”

Nanami’s mouth twitches at the corner. “And?”

“And now I know who you are.”

He pauses. “Do you?”

The question lingers between you, but you don't answer. Not right away.

Then someone calls five minutes, sharp and clipped. Nanami gives a short nod in return, then looks back to you.

“You’ll hear the engine before you see anything,” he says. “It’s loud. Stand near the monitors if you want to see times come through.”

“What’s a monitor?” you ask, brows lifting slightly. “Is that like a… television?”

He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder. There’s a brief flicker of something in his expression—half amusement, half recognition that yes, you’re definitely not from this world.

“Sort of,” he says. “It’s a screen that shows lap times and sector data. Mostly numbers. Nothing exciting unless you know what you’re looking at.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it. “Right. Numbers on a screen. Riveting.”

That earns the smallest twitch of a smile from him. “I’ll explain after.”

He turns back toward the car, and you watch as he steps into the flurry of activity—crew moving in sync, tools being passed, someone crouched near the front wing checking tire pressure. There’s an energy that builds as he gets closer to the machine, like the whole space subtly shifts to meet him.

Someone helps him zip up the rest of his suit. He pulls on his gloves, then his helmet, and his goggles go over his eyes. And just like that, the man you’ve been getting to know is replaced by something sharper.

And then the engine starts.

The sound rolls through the garage in a low, thunderous growl. It’s not just loud—it’s alive, rumbling through your ribs, climbing the walls, spilling into your chest like heat.

You take a step back, instinctively.

A mechanic gestures for you to stand near a small viewing station along the wall—a curved screen behind glass, the numbers already flickering in and out as the first cars begin their laps.

You find your spot, heart racing, eyes flicking between the screen and the blur of motion as Nanami’s car pulls out of the garage.

The moment Nanami’s car slips onto the track, something changes.

The garage doesn’t go silent, but the energy shifts. People move with more purpose, eyes fixed on equipment, radios crackling with clipped phrases and calm urgency. One of the engineers stands near the viewing station, arms crossed tight, murmuring lap times under his breath as they roll in.

You stay near the edge, just far enough not to be in the way, watching the monitor like you’re learning a new language in real time.

Sector one: green. Sector two: yellow. Final: green.

You’d asked someone what the sectors meant. They’d explained it simply enough: the course is divided into three parts—sector one, sector two, sector three. Each car is timed in each section. Green means faster than their last run. Purple, fastest overall. Yellow means slower.

“Clean run,” someone mutters. “Grip’s holding better than yesterday.”

You don’t really know what that means, but you watch the screen anyway, Nanami’s name appearing third on the timing list after his first flying lap. Cars continue to cycle through, all streaking past the garage entrance with a high, sharp whine that cuts clean through the air.

Nanami’s back into the pits quickly. The crew swarms the car—adjusting tire pressure, checking suspension, brushing dust from the body with gloved hands. You don’t see his face again, not under the helmet, but you can tell he’s speaking to the team lead—his gestures are quick but calm, head tilted just slightly as he listens.

Then he’s back out again.

The next run is faster.

Sector one: green. Sector two: green. Final: green.

The board updates. He’s holding at P4 now—provisional fourth on the grid. Two tenths off the lead. Half a tenth behind Gojo, who he manages to overtake at the next corner.

“Car’s tighter through the chicane,” the engineer murmurs beside you. “Still losing time on the back straight.”

You squint at the monitor. “That’s… bad?”

“Not bad,” he replies. “Just not pole.”

You glance toward the track again, watching Nanami slice through a corner at full speed, barely a whisper of tire screech. Everything about his driving looks effortless—fluid, precise, like he’s threading a needle at 150 miles an hour.

He finishes his final lap with just two minutes left in the session. The board doesn’t change—still P3.

Someone exhales beside you. “That’s probably it.”

The engine sound fades as Nanami pulls back into the garage. The moment the car rolls to a stop, the team moves in again, but it’s calmer now. More routine. The kind of silence that follows a job well done—even if it wasn’t perfect.

He removes his helmet a beat later, raking a hand back through damp hair before he steps down from the car.

His eyes find you immediately.

You don’t say anything—just offer a small nod, not quite a smile.

And he nods back, a quiet kind of understanding passing between you.

Gojo’s name flashes up on the board a few minutes after Nanami’s final lap—P8.

You don’t know much, but even you can tell that’s not where he’s supposed to be.

The garage doors roll open again and Gojo storms in before the car fully stops, tearing off his gloves and helmet in one motion. The second his boots hit the floor, he throws the helmet with a sharp thud across the cement, where it bounces once before spinning to a stop near the tire racks.

“No way Fushiguro got pole,” he snaps, voice loud and sharp, echoing off the concrete. “I was two tenths up before that last sector—two tenths!”

No one responds right away. The air in the garage has shifted again, but not like before. This time it’s thick with heat, frustration hanging like humidity in summer.

Gojo paces in a tight circle, running a hand through his hair, eyes wild behind his sweat-slicked fringe.

Nanami doesn’t flinch. Still suited up, still standing beside his car, he watches Gojo calmly, like this is just part of it. Like he’s seen worse.

“Maybe next time don’t overcook turn six,” Nanami says, evenly.

Gojo whirls around. “I didn’t overcook turn six.”

Nanami raises a brow.

Gojo exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay. I slightly overcooked turn six.”

One of the engineers edges over, muttering something about cooling down the car. Another crew member discreetly retrieves the helmet and sets it back on the bench like it never happened.

You stay quiet in the corner, watching. It’s not tense, not really. Just charged. Like everyone here knows this is what it means to want to win badly enough that losing stings even in practice.

Eventually, Gojo turns and catches your eye, as if just now remembering you’re still there.

He points a finger at you. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”

You blink. “I wasn’t.”

“You were. That was a judgmental blink.”

Nanami sighs. “Satoru.”

Gojo throws his hands up. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Then, grinning despite himself, “I’ll just crash his car tomorrow and sleep better at night.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

Ino, the engineer from earlier, walks over to the two of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, a streak of grease smudged near his jaw like he hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

He nods at Nanami first. “Your second run was tighter. You’re still dropping a little time on the straight, but sector one’s clean now. You hold P3 unless someone pulls something stupid in the next three minutes.”

Nanami gives a small nod, already half-aware.

Ino turns to Gojo next, raising a brow. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

Gojo groans. “Is there any good news?”

“You didn’t blow the engine,” Ino offers dryly.

“Comforting.”

“And the telemetry’s clean. Your brakes were cooking, but not catastrophic. You need to ease off.”

Gojo snatches a water bottle off the table behind him and takes a long drink. “I hate this track.”

“You said that about Imola.”

“And Spa.”

Ino doesn’t even blink. “And Monza.”

“Don’t act like Monaco isn’t cursed,” Gojo snaps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That kid getting pole? That’s not talent, it’s voodoo.”

“Fushiguro is fast,” Nanami says simply, checking his gloves before slipping them off. “He always has been.”

Gojo looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. He just slumps back onto the nearest chair like he’s aged ten years since stepping out of the car.

Ino gives you a brief glance, like he’s reminding himself again that there’s a civilian here, then gestures to the side of the garage. “They’re clearing the lane. Both your cars will be inspected in ten.”

Nanami nods, and Ino disappears back into the chaos, already flipping through the pages on his clipboard.

Gojo leans his head back, eyes shut now, voice low.

“You’re not going to be insufferable if you finish ahead of me again, right?”

Nanami doesn’t answer.

You glance at him. “Is he usually insufferable?”

“Without trying,” Nanami replies, calm as ever.

Gojo lifts a hand and flips him off without opening his eyes.

“We have to go get weighed,” Gojo says after a beat, still sprawled in his chair. “Then we’ve got that fan event on the south side of the track.”

“I’m not going,” Nanami announces, without looking up from where he’s unfastening the top of his suit.

Gojo lifts his head. “You have to. It’s in the contract.”

“I’ll take the fine.”

“You always take the fine.”

Nanami doesn’t respond.

Gojo swings his legs down, sitting upright now, like he’s actually considering arguing. “Nanamin. Come on. Just an hour. You stand there, you sign a few things, you pretend to smile. That’s it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Nanami finally looks up, then glances briefly in your direction. “I have other plans.”

You blink, unsure whether that was for your benefit or Gojo’s.

Gojo raises a brow, follows the look, then slowly leans back again, smirking like he’s solved a puzzle no one else was playing.

“Ah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Other plans.”

Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Fine,” Gojo says, standing up and brushing off his pants. “I’ll just tell the team their golden boy’s brooding in the garage with his perfume girl.”

You open your mouth to say something but Nanami speaks first.

“They already know.”

Gojo grins. “Of course they do. They know everything.”

He points at you as he walks off. “Try not to ruin him. He’s delicate under all that quiet.”

Then he’s gone, whistling to himself as he disappears toward the weighing station.

The garage is quieter now, less crowded. Most of the crew has scattered, radio chatter fading into static, the sharp edge of the session giving way to a lull that feels oddly intimate.

Nanami glances at you again, his suit still half-open at the collar, hair damp, posture loose in a way it hadn’t been when you arrived.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, voice lower now, not quite private, but close to it. “Wait for me?”

You nod. “Alright.”

He watches you for a beat longer, as if making sure you mean it, then gives a quiet nod and turns, heading toward the far end of the garage, where the weigh-in area sits just beyond the barriers.

You watch him go until he’s out of view. Then you settle back on the stool, the noise around you muted now, the space oddly warm despite the open structure of the paddock. The smell of fuel and rubber still clings to the air, but it’s familiar now. Like the room’s adjusting to you as much as you’re adjusting to it.

Outside, the sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows across the asphalt.

He returns when the sky’s gone pink and orange. The energy of the paddock has dipped with the light. There’s less urgency now, more clean-up and conversations echoing faintly from somewhere down the row of garages.

You spot him before he says anything.

His hair is damp, pushed back neatly, still drying at the temples. He’s changed, traded the fireproof suit for a loose linen shirt and khakis, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of worn-in Sperrys on his feet. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen him look, and somehow, the quiet suits him just as much as the control.

He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly.

“My apologies. Medicals took longer than expected.”

You glance up at him, letting your smile show this time. “It’s okay. I told you I would wait.”

He shifts his weight slightly, glancing around the now-sleepy garage. “You’ve been sitting here all afternoon. You hungry?”

You blink. “Are you… asking me to dinner?”

“I’m asking if you’ve eaten,” he corrects, but there’s something dry and just barely amused in his tone. “There’s a place across the water a local recommended to me last summer.”

You pause like you’re considering it, even though you already know your answer.

“Alright,” you say, pushing up from the stool. “But only if you tell me what it felt like out there, while you were driving.”

He looks at you for a moment, unreadable. “Dinner first.”

You fall into step beside him as he leads the way out of the garage, the last of the sunset slipping across the marina, and the rest of Monaco humming quietly in the distance.

He walks you down a narrow path past the quieter edge of the paddock, the fading light stretching long across the concrete. A few lingering crew members nod at him in passing, but no one stops him. He moves like someone used to being observed, but not interrupted.

At the edge of the lot, he unlocks the door to a sleek, low-slung car and drops a duffle bag into the small trunk.

It’s a Maserati A6G/54 Spyder Zagato—all smooth curves and polished chrome, deep navy blue with cream leather seats. Even idle, it looks fast.

You blink at it, then glance at him. “Courtesy of the team?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Technically.”

You trail your fingers lightly along the passenger door before he opens it for you. “It’s beautiful.”

You settle into the seat, the leather soft and warm from the sun, and watch as he slides into the driver’s side—steady hands, relaxed shoulders. He starts the engine, and it purrs to life.

The car winds through Monaco’s narrow streets with a grace that feels effortless, the engine low and smooth beneath the hum of the evening. Streetlights flicker to life as you pass beneath them, casting soft, golden glows across shuttered windows and balconies dripping with summer flowers.

You don’t talk much on the drive, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Nanami drives like he lives: measured, focused, never wasting more than he has to. Every so often, you catch him glancing toward you at red lights, like he’s still not entirely sure you’re real.

You arrive at a small restaurant tucked into the hillside just past the marina, a little hidden terrace overlooking the curve of the coast. No sign out front. Just warm yellow lights strung low and the scent of wood smoke and garlic wafting into the street.

“This doesn’t look like the kind of place they put the drivers,” you murmur as he helps you out of the car.

“That’s the point,” he says simply.

The hostess greets him by name, not even surprised to see him. No fanfare. Just familiarity. You’re shown to a small table near the edge of the terrace, the kind with worn wooden chairs and a view that makes you sit back a little slower. The sea stretches wide and dark below, the harbor glittering quietly behind you.

Nanami orders without looking at the menu, something in practiced French. A bottle of wine, too, and water without ice. You watch him as he leans back slightly in his chair, fingers resting on the rim of his glass. The linen shirt clings slightly to his arms now, still damp from the heat of the day, his collar open just enough to soften the edge of him.

The server disappears, and the quiet settles again.

“So,” you say after a beat. “Is this your idea of recovery?”

His mouth lifts slightly. “Better than the fan event.”

You take a sip of wine. “Still sounds like a fine to me.”

“I’ve paid worse.”

You smile, letting the moment breathe. The food arrives not long after—simple dishes, local and warm, the kind that taste better outside under fading light with someone who isn’t pretending to be anyone else.

For a while, you talk about everything but racing. And perfume. The things in between. Where you grew up. The first time he crashed a kart. How you used to try and match scents to people you passed on the street.

“You still do that?” he asks, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

“Sometimes.”

“And me?”

You pause, considering. “Something sharp, like cut stone. On the cleaner side of things.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That sounds... impersonal.”

You shake your head. “It’s not. You don’t budge for anyone, but you don’t need to.”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. But he doesn’t look away either.

And under the soft clatter of dishes and the far-off hum of the city below, something between you begins to settle into place.

“So,” you ask, taking a bite of your food, letting the wine smooth out the edges of your nerves, “how’d you get into racing in the first place?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going to sell me to the press, are you?” he says. It’s meant to be a joke, but it lands a little flat, like even he knows it’s just a deflection.

You offer a small smile. “I make no promises,” you joke back. “With the kind of money I’d make from that I wouldn’t need to sell another bottle of perfume for years.”

He chuckles, then he reaches for his glass and finally says, “I didn’t mean to. Not really.”

You look at him, waiting.

“My best friend growing up, Yu, he was the one who was obsessed. We started at this little track near his family’s house. Mostly on weekends and summer breaks. He was the one who read all the specs, memorized every pole position, begged his parents for a secondhand kart.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“When we got older, he wanted to go pro, but I went to law school. Thought I’d grow out of it, eventually. And there’s no guarantees in motorsport, I needed something stable.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the space fill in with the hush of cutlery, the low murmur of other tables.

“He was hit by a car,” Nanami says quietly. “Week before his twentieth birthday. Didn’t make it. I wasn’t even in town for his funeral.”

You mouth hangs open, just a bit.

“I dropped out after that. Took every yen I had, moved to Europe, started over. Didn’t really care about the politics or the sponsors. Still don’t. I just… liked the feeling of being behind the wheel. It was the only thing that made sense.”

You set your fork down, gently.

“And the interviews?” you ask, softer now.

He shakes his head. “They never asked about him. Just about me. And I never had anything worth saying if it wasn’t about him.”

You watch him for a long moment, the lights from the harbor casting soft golden arcs across his features.

“You could’ve walked away,” you murmur. “And you didn’t.”

He looks at you, really looks at you then, and there’s something quiet and raw in his expression. Not grief, exactly—but something that lives just beside it.

“I think,” you say carefully, “he’d be proud.”

He doesn’t reply right away. But then he lifts his glass slightly, toward you.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low.

Your hand finds his across the table, your delicate fingers resting atop his larger ones. The touch is light at first, but he doesn’t move. Just lets your warmth settle there, grounding him.

Nanami glances down at the contact, then back at you. His hand shifts, not to pull away, but to turn beneath yours so your palms meet. His fingers curl gently around yours, like he needed that touch just as much.

The noise around you fades into something distant. The clink of glasses, laughter from a nearby table, the sound of the sea brushing against the marina wall—all of it softened beneath the weight of the moment.

“You didn’t have to tell me any of that,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad you did.”

He doesn’t speak. There’s a kind of peace in his stillness now. A quiet that feels less like restraint, and more like understanding.

Outside, the sky is deepening into navy blue, the last hints of color giving way to the shimmer of early night.

Nanami gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You want to go for a walk?”

You nod.

And this time, when you rise from the table, it’s with your fingers still threaded through his.

He walks beside you down the narrow path that winds along the edge of the hill, the restaurant fading behind into soft music and clinking cutlery. The air smells like salt and warm stone, the city lights flickering gently across the bay below.

“How about you?” he asks after a minute. “Why become a perfumer?”

You glance at him, then out toward the water. “My dad was one,” you say delicately. “My dad and my great-aunt. They ran a small lab together in Grasse. I grew up in it. I helped stack blotters in jars, labeled things in terrible handwriting, and got scolded for messing up the oils.”

Nanami doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, eyes on the cobblestone ahead, but tuned completely to your voice.

You pause before continuing.

“But when I was ten, my dad left. Cheated on my mom. Moved to America with his new family.” You exhale, slow and controlled, like you’ve said it before but it still costs you something. “He took the name with him. My mom didn’t want to fight over it. She and my great-aunt started over with what was left.”

His hand tightens around yours—not sharply, just enough that you feel it. Like a presence rather than a reaction.

“They raised me,” you say. “And I guess I always wanted to prove something. That we didn’t need him to keep doing what we loved. That our name wasn’t the only one that meant something in a bottle.”

You look at him then, half expecting pity, but he offers none.

Just understanding.

“You did,” he says softly. “You are.”

For a moment, you’re quiet again, the path ahead lit in gold from a streetlamp clinging to the curve of the road.

Then he adds, a little drier, “Though I’m biased. I helped with your last one.”

That pulls a quiet laugh from you.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Nanami.”

He glances down at you, that same subtle pull at the corner of his mouth.

“Too late.”

You’re mid-laugh, brushing his shoulder as you say something teasing, when the sound of wheels suddenly cuts through the air.

A child rockets down the hill on a bicycle, his laughter echoing off the walls as he barrels past, too unbothered by the curve ahead.

Nanami reacts before you do.

One hand wraps around your waist, the other steadies the small of your back as he pulls you in, tight against him. The bike zips past, barely missing you, the gust of it brushing your skirt.

Your breath catches from the nearness of him.

His chest is firm under your palms, his shirt still faintly warm from the restaurant, smelling of clean linen and the barest trace of something woodsy, something sharp. His hand lingers at your hip, fingers splayed wide like he forgot to let go.

You tilt your head back, eyes meeting his.

He’s close. Closer than before. His brow still slightly furrowed from the reflex, his jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that give him away.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

“I should’ve pulled you sooner,” he says, voice low. “You almost got hurt.”

You shake your head slightly. “No harm done.”

Except your pulse is doing a slow, traitorous thrum beneath your skin. And he still hasn’t let go.

Nanami’s gaze drops, not far. Just to your mouth. Then back up again.

A breath passes between you.

And then, slowly, he steps back. Releases you with the same care he took holding you. His hand brushes along your waist as it slips away, a ghost of contact that lingers longer than it should.

The moment’s over.

“Shall we?” he asks, voice perfectly even.

You nod, heart still a little too loud in your chest. “Yeah. Let’s keep walking.”

You walk for a while without speaking, your footsteps falling in sync as the road curves lower along the coast. The air smells of sea salt and something faintly sweet—maybe someone baking, or citrus trees behind gated villas. The city is quieter now, softened under twilight, Monaco’s usual shine turned more golden than blinding.

You don’t reach for him again, but you’re aware of every inch between your bodies. A distance that feels deliberate. Measured. Like you’re both pretending not to feel the gravity tugging you closer.

“I don’t usually do this,” you say eventually, voice barely above the hush of the waves below.

Nanami glances sideways. “Walks?”

Your mouth quirks. “No. Let strangers pull me into their garages. Let them buy me dinner. Tell them about my father.”

A beat. Then, softly: “I don’t usually tell people about Yu.”

You glance up at him. “So we’re even.”

His eyes catch yours, the quiet understanding still there, but something warmer now underneath it. He nods once.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

You don’t answer right away. The truth is, you’re not sure why you did—at least not in any way that makes sense. You just know that when he looked at you in the garage, oil-smudged and serious, asking if you’d wait… you wanted to.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you admit. “But then I read the papers. Saw your face everywhere.”

He raises a brow. “Recognized me then?”

“No,” you say, teasing. “Still don’t really know who you are.”

That gets a rare smile—something softer, not as carefully managed as the others. “Good.”

You walk in silence again, your shoulder brushing his once, then twice, before either of you adjusts your pace.

“Come on,” he says suddenly, cutting left onto a narrow path that veers uphill. “I want to show you something.”

You hesitate only a second before following. The path is steeper here, lined with ivy-covered stone walls and shuttered doors. You climb higher, the sounds of the street fading below.

When you reach the top, the view opens like a secret—Monaco spread out beneath you, lights glittering against the dark, the sea stretching endless and black beyond the bay.

You breathe in, quiet awe catching in your throat.

“It’s not a podium,” Nanami says beside you. “But it’s close.”

You turn to look at him, but he’s already watching you.

“Step up on that rock,” he says, nodding to a flat stone nestled against the overlook’s edge. “You get a better view.”

You glance at it, then at him.

“You just want an excuse to look at me from below.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “I am nothing but a gentleman.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat crawling up your neck as you step up anyway, the stone cool under your heels. He was right—the extra height shifts the whole scene, widening the scope. The harbor glows below like a spilled string of lights, the sea calm and endless beyond it.

But it’s not the view that keeps your attention.

It’s the way Nanami’s watching you.

His hands are in his pockets now, but his shoulders are relaxed, chin tilted slightly back to keep you in frame. There's something unguarded about the way he looks at you now, like he’s not pretending not to want you anymore.

“You were right,” you murmur, gaze flicking back toward the bay. “It’s beautiful.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel the heat of him through the soft night air.

“So are you,” he says.

Your eyes meet his again, and this time, neither of you looks away.

The silence stretches.

Then his hands are at your waist, steady and warm, guiding you gently back down from the rock like you’re something fragile, like you’re precious.

And when your feet touch the ground, you don’t let go.

His hands are still at your waist, and yours have found their way to the front of his shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric like they’ve been meaning to settle there all evening.

“Forgive me if I’m reading into this wrong,” he murmurs. His face is mere inches from yours, breath warm against your cheek. “But I can think of nothing else other than kissing you.”

Your pulse flickers, your breath catching.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against the collar of his shirt, just above the first button. “You’re not wrong.”

He leans in slowly, giving you space to change your mind.

You don’t.

When his mouth meets yours, it’s careful at first, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to want this.

But you kiss him back, softly at first, then deeper, until the quiet restraint that’s defined every shared glance, every half-smile, finally gives way.

His hand slides up your back, fingers anchoring at your nape, while your body leans into his, instinctive and natural.

The city glitters on, indifferent to your moment.

The kiss deepens with a slow, deliberate ache.

He tilts his head slightly, lips moving against yours with a patience that only makes you want him more. There’s nothing rushed about it—just quiet, measured hunger, like he’s been holding back all day and only now letting it show.

You curl your fingers into the front of his shirt, his chest warm and solid beneath your palm. One of his hands slides to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek as he coaxes your mouth open, like he’s memorizing the way you taste.

A soft sound escapes you, too quiet to echo, but enough that he hears it.

His mouth lingers just a second longer, before pulling back—barely.

And then: “Ahem!”

The sound snaps you both apart like you’ve been caught stealing something.

You glance to your right.

An older man, walking his tiny dog along the path, gives you both a disapproving squint as he continues past, muttering something in French about “young people” and “no shame.”

Nanami clears his throat, one hand falling from your waist, the other smoothing his shirt like it might help him recover the last minute of composure he just lost.

You stifle a laugh behind your fingers, cheeks flushed.

He looks at you again, jaw ticking, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he murmurs. “That was… untimely.”

You nod, still trying not to laugh. “Very.”

But even as you start walking again, your shoulder brushing his—you know neither of you has forgotten the kiss. Or the way you’ll be thinking about it all night.

By the time you make it back to the car, the night has settled in fully—quiet and warm, the scent of the sea curling in through the open passenger window. Nanami opens the door for you without a word, the gentleman in him never missing a beat, and you slide into the passenger seat with a sigh that’s softer than it should be.

He circles around, settling behind the wheel. The engine hums to life beneath his hands, low and sleek, and the Maserati rolls forward like it’s barely touching the ground.

“Where can I drop you?” he asks after a few quiet blocks, his eyes flicking over to you before returning to the road.

You glance at him, then out at the empty streetlights glinting off shuttered windows and balconies. It feels too early to say goodnight, and too late to pretend this was just dinner.

“My boutique,” you say at last, voice gentle.

He nods, shifting gears like he already knew you’d say that.

“I want to know more about you,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The words aren’t dramatic. They don’t land with a crash. But there’s something about the way he says them—calm, intentional—that makes your breath catch a little.

You glance over at him, finding only sincerity in his profile. The strong line of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows, like he’s thinking too hard about something that matters more than he’s willing to admit.

“Like what?” you ask, your voice softer now, quieter with the windows rolled down and the wind lifting strands of your hair.

He takes a beat.

“What your favorite scent is,” he says. “What you dreamed about when you were twelve. If you like mornings or if you hate them. If you’re planning on staying in Monaco after this commission’s done.”

You smile—slow, surprised.

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“I have time.”

“Okay,” you say, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Ask me one by one. But you have to answer too.”

Nanami hums in approval, turning onto a quieter street, where the lamplight stretches long across the pavement. “Let’s start simple.”

You glance over at him, waiting.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Twenty-three,” you reply.

He nods once. There’s a pause, brief but noticeable.

You tilt your head. “Your turn.”

“Thirty-one,” he says, eyes still on the road.

The numbers settle between you like a quiet marker. Not alarming, not awkward—just honest.

You glance at him again, thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad.”

He raises an eyebrow, just enough for you to catch it. “Were you expecting it to be?”

“No,” you murmur, smile curling at the edges. “Just… not surprised.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something wry or self-deprecating.

“Your turn,” he says.

You think for a second.

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

He exhales a short laugh, like the memory surprises him. “I think I wanted to be a writer,” he says. “Or maybe a detective. Something quiet.”

You glance at him, slightly amused. “And instead, you chose the fastest, loudest job imaginable.”

His smile finally breaks through. “I was six.”

The car slows as he nears your street, engine humming low beneath your feet.

“Your turn,” he says again, voice quieter now. “What scent do you love most?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you look out the window, eyes tracing the familiar turn toward your boutique.

“Ambergris,” you say eventually. “It’s rare and very expensive, but it smells exactly like the ocean. It just lingers without asking for attention.”

He pulls up in front of the boutique, shifting the car into park. Then looks at you—really looks.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You glance over. “Why?”

He studies you for a moment longer, his voice soft.

“Because you linger, too.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy and neither of you moves to open the door.

"Do you want to come in?" you ask, fingers resting lightly on the strap of your satchel. "I have work to do, but it's only six… and I think I have a bottle of champagne left from when I signed the lease."

His gaze lifts to the windows of your boutique, still dark behind the shutters. Then back to you.

“You’re offering me cheap champagne and the scent of plaster dust,” he says, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips.

You arch a brow. “That’s the offer, yes.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“I’d be an idiot to say no.”

You slide out of the car, footsteps quiet against the cobblestone as you move toward the door. He follows without a word, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen slacks, the evening light soft on his face.

When you unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of wood, resin, and unfinished plaster greets you. You flick on the light—just one lamp near the counter—and the space glows with a quiet, golden warmth.

He steps in behind you, gaze drifting across the shelves still half-stacked, the walls still bare.

“It’s different at night,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You slip off your hat by the door, already moving toward the back room, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself at home. I’ll find the champagne.”

You find the bottle tucked away behind a box of sample vials—still wrapped in the tissue paper the landlord had given you when you signed the lease. A single champagne flute sits in the cabinet above, and you pull out a second, mismatched one from a crate marked “to unpack.”

When you return to the front, Nanami is standing by your workbench again, one hand resting lightly on its edge, eyes scanning the scattered bottles and handwritten notes you’d left from earlier in the day. He hasn’t touched anything, but you can tell he’s paying attention.

You set the glasses down and start working the cork loose.

“It’s not cold,” you warn, tilting the bottle.

“I won’t hold it against you,” he says.

The cork pops a little louder than you meant it to, echoing in the quiet of the boutique. You pour, handing him the less-chipped glass before settling on the stool you’ve claimed as your own over the past few weeks.

Nanami remains standing, sipping carefully, then nods once in approval.

“Not bad.”

You smirk. “You expected worse.”

“I expected something flat. This is… charmingly mediocre.”

You raise your glass. “To mediocrity, then.”

He clinks his against yours.

A quiet stretches between you. He takes another slow sip, then glances around the space again.

“It suits you,” he says.

You swirl your champagne once, letting the bubbles settle. “It’s still a work in progress.”

“So are most things worth doing.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.

Outside, the street is quiet, the world soft with the hush of early night. But in here, there’s something warm building between you—measured, patient, but undeniable.

You take a slow sip and set your glass down. “Do you want to see what I was working on earlier?”

He sets his drink beside yours, stepping closer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Show me.”

You walk him toward the back of the boutique—past boxes of hand-labeled vials, scattered strips of scent blotters, and an old drafting table repurposed into your mixing station. There’s a small amber bottle sitting near the edge, uncapped, waiting.

“I started reworking an old formula after you left,” you explain, reaching for a clean blotter. “I want something I can put on shelves that everyone knows about.”

You hand him the strip, freshly dipped.

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like you’ve offered him something more intimate than a piece of paper.

Then, he brings it to his nose.

The reaction is small, just the soft lift of his brows, the almost imperceptible way his eyes narrow, like the scent has caught him off guard.

“It’s familiar,” he murmurs.

“It should be,” you say, offering a small smile. “You inspire finish it.”

You move beside him, shoulders almost touching as you lean forward to adjust the proportions on a handwritten note. “The base is the different, but I added more of what you picked yesterday. I think it finally feels… real.”

He looks down at the bottle again, but then his eyes are on you.

“And what will you call it?”

You pause.

“I haven’t decided,” you admit. “Names come last.”

He studies you for a long moment, the air between you thick with something that isn’t just perfume.

“I think,” he says, voice quiet now, “you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

You blink, unsure how to respond.

“You have a talent for making things feel like they’ve always existed, like they’ve just been waiting to be found.”

You don’t look at him right away. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, your pulse too loud.

Instead, you move to cap the bottle, fingers steady despite the warmth rising in your chest.

And when you do finally turn back, he’s still watching you, like he’s not in a hurry for you to say anything at all.

“I haven’t known you very long,” he says, voice low, the kind of quiet that draws your attention even before the words fully register. “But I really like you.”

You look up at him, caught between surprise and something warmer that’s been building slowly since the night began. His expression is steady, unreadable in that maddeningly calm way of his—but there’s something in the set of his jaw, the way his hand flexes against the edge of the workbench, that gives him away.

You set the capped bottle down between you. “That’s… honest,” you murmur.

“I don’t see the point in anything less.”

His gaze drops briefly—first to your mouth, then lower, to the exposed sliver of collarbone just visible beneath your blouse. When his eyes rise to meet yours again, they’re darker. Focused.

It sends a subtle wave of heat up the back of your neck.

You don’t step away. Neither does he.

The air between you tightens, thrums.

“What is it you like?” you ask quietly, almost a challenge.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a single step closer, close enough now that the scent of your work mixes with the crisp linen of his shirt, the faint trace of his skin beneath it.

“I like that you don’t fawn over me,” he says, his voice lower now. “That you looked me in the eye before you knew who I was.”

You tilt your chin, breath catching. “And now that you know I know?”

His hand lifts—slowly, deliberately—brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, feather-light against your jaw.

“I like that you still look at me the same way.”

Your pulse flutters beneath his touch. You’re sure he can feel it.

Neither of you moves for a long, suspended second.

Then, barely a whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”

Your breath slips out shakily.

“No,” you say, almost too quickly. “I don’t.”

His hand slides fully to the side of your face now, fingers curling behind your neck—not rough, but sure. His thumb brushes along your jaw as he leans in, eyes flicking to your mouth just before his lips meet yours.

The kiss is warm at first. Controlled.

Measured.

Like everything else he does, it starts with intention.

But then you respond.

Your hand lifts, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt just over his heart, and something in him shifts. The restraint breaks.

He kisses you deeper—his other hand bracing against the workbench behind you, caging you in. His body presses in closer, firm and solid against yours, and you gasp softly into his mouth when his lips part yours with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs.

His mouth moves with purpose like he’s been waiting for permission and now refuses to waste a second.

You pull him in harder, your side hitting the wall. His hands slip to your waist, fingers splayed, gripping you like he needs the anchor, like the scent of your skin is something he’s desperate to memorize.

You’re not sure how long it lasts.

Time loses shape.

There’s only the brush of his mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the quiet sigh that escapes you when his tongue strokes against yours—and the low groan that rumbles from his chest in response.

By the time you break apart, your lips are kiss-swollen and your breath comes in shallow pulls.

His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath still uneven, but his hands steady now—one still on your waist, the other resting just beside you on the bench, giving you space even as he stays close.

“I won’t go farther if you don’t want me to,” he says, voice low, nearly a whisper against your lips. “I really do like you. And I am a patient man. I can wait.”

Your fingers are still curled in his shirt, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He hasn’t pulled away. But he doesn’t press in either.

Just waits.

Your gaze lifts to meet his, and what you find there makes your pulse trip all over again—want, yes, but tempered with something gentler. Something careful.

“I won’t make you wait,” you say, pressing a peck against his jaw. “Not when I want you just as badly.”

You feel the way his breath hitches slightly at your words. His hand at your waist tightens, fingers flexing as if he's grounding himself, resisting the urge to close the space between you again too quickly.

He turns his head, brushing his nose against your cheek, lips ghosting over your skin. “Say it again.”

You tilt your chin, letting your mouth find his ear.

“I want you, Kento.”

This time, he doesn’t hold back.

His mouth finds yours, hungrily, with none of the earlier restraint. His hand slides up your spine as his tongue slips past your lips, tasting, claiming, like he’s been waiting all day for this—like he’d kept it bottled somewhere deep behind his calm exterior until now.

You gasp softly against him, your back arching as his body presses flush to yours, the heat of him making your head spin. The scent of him floods your senses, grounding you even as everything tilts.

His hand cradles the back of your neck, holding you there as he deepens the kiss, slow but intense, lips moving against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, your lips are tingling, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, “since the moment I walked into your shop.”

You smile, dizzy and breathless.

“I knew you were trouble the second you touched that bottle,” you whisper.

His mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your throat—hungry again already. “Then it’s mutual.”

He works his way down, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw, then lower, down the column of your throat, to the soft slope of your collarbone. You tilt your head back to give him space, your breath catching each time his lips meet skin.

His hands are patient, practiced. They find the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one, with the kind of care that feels more intimate than haste. When the last button gives, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind you.

What’s left is your slip—a delicate, lace-trimmed undergarment in soft ivory, the kind worn beneath dresses in the summer, structured yet feminine. It hugs your figure in all the ways that matter, the satin catching the low light of the workbench lamp.

He exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, not in awe, but reverence like the word was made for you.

You reach for him again, tugging him closer by a belt loop on his pants.

“Come here,” you whisper.

His mouth finds yours again. You respond in kind, hands fisting in the linen of his shirt as your back hits the edge of an unfinished cabinet behind you. It’s half-constructed, shelves still bare, wood unpainted, the scent of sawdust lingering in the corners of the boutique.

You stumble back together, tangled in each other, laughter catching in your throat before it’s swallowed by another kiss. His hands slide to your hips, gripping firmly, guiding you up as you shift—half-sitting, half-leaning—against the wooden structure, your legs parting instinctively to let him settle between them.

The hard edge of the shelf presses into your thigh, but the only thing you feel is the heat of him, his palms skating over your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your slip. His lips drag along your jaw, your neck, the place just below your ear where your breath stutters.

You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the room.

“I need to sit,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. His voice is warm with affection, but there’s a touch of gravel in it now—strained, uneven. “Forgive me… my knees are going to give out.”

You smile against his mouth, breathless, lips tingling. “I thought race car drivers had stamina.”

“I do,” he says, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But I also crashed yesterday.”

Fair enough.

He lowers himself onto the stool again, settling with a soft exhale as his back meets the wall. You follow without a word, slipping sideways into his lap, your knees bracketing his thigh, one arm looping around the back of his neck.

He lets out the faintest groan when you settle against him, hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. His palm slides up, slow and steady, until it rests just beneath your ribs, anchoring you in place.

For a moment, you just look at each other, your breath mingling in the space between you, your fingers toying with the buttons near his collar, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath heavy lashes.

“I could stay like this,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear now, rougher with honesty than heat.

“So stay,” you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “No one’s asking you to go.”

You nip gently at the soft skin of his earlobe, and he exhales sharply through his nose. Your mouth trails from there, slow and unhurried, pressing wet kisses along the strong curve of his jaw.

His skin is warm, still carrying the faint trace of whatever cologne clung to the collar of his shirt.

Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers curling tight for a moment, before you loosen your grip, moving down to the buttons of his linen shirt. One by one, you undo them with quiet precision, the fabric parting beneath your fingers to reveal the hard lines of his chest and the soft rise and fall of his breath.

He watches you closely the entire time, eyes dark, jaw set, but not stopping you.

When the last button gives, you push the shirt open, your hands resting lightly against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat under your palms.

“You’re very quiet,” you murmur, pressing a kiss just below his ear.

He swallows, voice rough when it finally comes. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”

His hand lifts gently to your chin, fingers warm beneath your jaw as he coaxes your gaze away from his chest and back up to his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs—low, steady. There’s a softness in the way he looks at you, like he wants you to feel everything, not just rush past it.

And then his mouth is on yours again.

His lips move against yours with a kind of quiet urgency, like he’s afraid of forgetting how you taste if he stops for even a second.

His hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge gently as your mouth parts for him again, and you feel him sigh—into you, through you—as if kissing you is the only thing anchoring him right now.

You shift in his lap, drawn closer by instinct, and his other hand slides down to grip your thigh, grounding both of you in the middle of the barely-finished boutique, between scent bottles and blueprints and dust.

Your legs bracket his, one tucked between his thighs, the other hooked snugly over his left leg. The position draws you closer, chest to chest, your breath mingling as the kiss deepens.

“Need more,” you murmur, the words slipping out between kisses, barely coherent.

Your hips shift on instinct, a slow, investigative roll against him, and his grip on your waist tightens in response. His breath catches, a stifled sound that makes your stomach twist, and when he breaks the kiss, his forehead drops to yours.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Nanami whispers, voice ragged.

His hands slide down to your hips, fingers firm, guiding your movements as you rock against him. Even through layers of fabric, the friction is electric, every shift sending sparks up your spine. Nanami’s eyes are half-lidded, gaze fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse race.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Just like that. Let me feel you.” His voice is low, rough with restraint, and the way he holds you makes you feel cherished and wanted all at once.

Your breaths come faster, mingling with his as you move together, the press of your bodies and the heat building between you. His thigh flexes beneath you and you can’t help the soft sound that escapes you as the coil tightens in your belly.

Nanami’s hand slips up your back, drawing you closer still. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, and the sincerity in his voice makes your heart flutter.

As pleasure finally begins to rip through you, Nanami’s hands move gently. He brushes his lips along your jaw, then trails them down to your shoulder once again. With a soft question in his eyes, he slides his fingers to the straps of your slip, giving you a moment to nod your consent.

Slowly, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away and leave your upper body bare to the cool air and his admiring gaze. His breath catches, his eyes drinking you in. His hands trace lightly over your skin, his touch feather-light, as if committing every detail to memory.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have had the privilege of seeing,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. He presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, then another to your heart, holding you close as you come down from your high.

His lips find their way back to yours, each kiss a gentle promise. “Let me taste you,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice deep and intent. With surprising strength, he rises, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. He lowers you to the floor with careful precision, his movements both protective and yearning.

As you settle beneath him, Nanami pauses, a rueful smile touching his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.

“I must confess,” he says softly, a hint of dry humor threading through his words, “this isn’t quite how I imagined our first time—on the floor, of all places.”

He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then meets your gaze.

His eyes flash with something you haven’t seen before.

“But I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.”

His hands roam delicately over your skin, exploring as if memorizing every detail. The floor may be hard and the moment unexpected, but the warmth between you is undeniable. He lowers himself, lips trailing along the outline of your breasts.

“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, his voice a gentle invitation. “I want you to feel safe with me, always.”

You nod, your hands coming up to his face, bringing him back down toward you.

Your legs fold under you, allowing space for Nanami’s larger body to fit atop of yours.

Nanami’s gaze searches yours, patient and attentive, as if he’s reading every unspoken word. He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breath.

“I trust you,” you whisper, your voice soft but certain.

His hand lifts off of the ground, cupping your breast, and delicately massaging the underside.

His lips curve into a gentle smile, and he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering with care.

Your head tips back, feeling a warmth blossom in your chest. With every touch, every look, Nanami makes it clear that your comfort comes first. The world outside seems to fade away, replaced by the quiet intimacy you share.

His mouth finds your nipple, latching on and suckling on the bud gently. Your hands are tangled in his hair. Around his neck. On his shoulders, your nails digging into him slightly.

And when he licks his way down your body—your dress and slip discarded somewhere in your boutique—your back arches off of the ground, trying to find more friction. Any friction.

“Lift,” he whispers, a roughness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Two of his fingers tap at your hips, and you comply, pushing your feet into the ground as you raise your hips.

Nanami’s index fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to pool at your ankles. His lips, now wet and swollen, make contact with the skin at your pelvis, trailing open mouthed kisses down toward where you need him most.

Your hand moves slowly, from the ground up toward his head, pushing him down more aggressively than you had initially meant to.

He breaks contact, sitting upright on his knees, and his eyes meeting yours.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he says. “Good things come to girls who wait.”

You groan at the loss of contact. “Please, Kento. I can’t wait much longer.”

Your hips lift again, this time wiggling upward toward him, begging for him to touch you anywhere.

Nanami’s eyes darken with desire as he watches your pleading movements, the air between you thick with anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gaze back to your exposed skin, his breath warm against your sensitive flesh. His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, sending shivers through you, before he finally leans in again.

His thumb glides gently along your center, gathering your arousal with a slow, deliberate touch that sends a shiver through your whole body. He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting you with a quiet, appreciative hum before letting them slip free, glistening in the low light.

His gaze meets yours before he lowers his hand again. With exquisite care, he slips a finger inside you, the movement unhurried and attentive, as if he’s savoring every reaction you give him. He sets a steady rhythm, his touch both patient and purposeful, coaxing pleasure from you with every gentle thrust.

His free hand rests on your hip, grounding you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin. Each sensation is heightened by the way he watches you, utterly focused, as if you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“So wet,” he murmurs.

His lips linger on your skin, each kiss a gentle promise that leaves your nerves tingling. The teasing is exquisite—every touch, every press of his mouth against your knee, stoking the fire building inside you. When his tongue finally traces a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh, your breath catches.

He pauses, teeth grazing the soft curve of your thigh in a playful bite, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The warmth of his breath fans over your most sensitive skin as he peppers kisses closer to where you need him most, each one drawing out a fresh wave of longing.

When his mouth finally finds you, the sensation is overwhelming. He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every gasp and shiver. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, and the way his hands anchor you.

With every caress, he’s not just exploring your body—he’s worshipping it, making you feel cherished and seen. The pleasure builds in slow, steady waves, each one higher than the last, until you’re lost in the rhythm of his devotion, the world beyond the two of you fading away completely

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as waves of pleasure build. The world narrows to the two of you, your breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync. He’s now three fingers deep, stretching out your cunt, showing you just how much he’s captivated by you.

His name tumbles from your lips as you come undone.

Nanami slows, grounding you with gentle touches as you ride out your orgasm.

He withdraws his hand with care, then shifts back, reaching for his belt. The sound of his zipper is quiet but electric, anticipation humming between you as he slides his pants down and off.

His cock springs free— long and thick and angry at the tip. It slaps against his lower stomach with a vulgar noise, precum leaking down his length slowly.

You catch your breath, eyes widening as you take him in. He notices your hesitation, pausing to search your face. “Is this your first time?” he asks quietly.

You nod, cheeks flushed. “I want to… I just— I’ve never—” Your gaze drops, lingering on the space between you.

He moves closer, cupping your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “But if you want this, I’ll go slow. I promise.”

You glance down, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “You’re… bigger than I expected,” you admit, a nervous laugh escaping you.

Nanami smiles, gentle and understanding, a soft laugh escaping his mouth. “We’ll take our time,” he assures you, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Tell me if anything hurts, and I’ll stop. I want this to be good for you—only if you’re ready.”

He leans in, kissing you softly, letting you feel his patience and care with every touch, making sure you know you’re safe, wanted, and never rushed.

Nanami’s hands cradle your thighs, spreading them. He settles between you, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation. You nod, giving him silent permission, and he positions himself at your entrance, the anticipation making your heart race.

You feel the gentle pressure as his tip begins to enter you, your breath catching at the unfamiliar stretch. Instinctively, you tense, a soft wince escaping your lips. Nanami immediately stills, his hands soothing over your hips, his voice calming.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

You bite your lip, nerves and anticipation mingling. “Is it in yet?” you whisper, glancing up at him.

He lets out a low, shaky breath, his restraint evident. “We’re about halfway,” he admits, his voice thick with both concern and desire. “You’re so tight… it’s almost too much.”

A flicker of doubt crosses your face. “It won’t fit,” you say, your nails digging into his arms as you try to anchor yourself.

He meets your gaze, his eyes full of warmth and encouragement. “You can take it,” he assures you, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Just relax for me, yeah? I’ll take care of everything.”

He moves slowly, his hands never leaving your skin, grounding you as he begins to press forward. The stretch is intense, and you tense instinctively, a small gasp escaping you. Nanami pauses, brushing your cheek with his thumb, his voice a soothing anchor. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, waiting for you to relax, his patience unwavering.

You focus on his touch, the warmth of his body, and the trust in his eyes. Gradually, you adjust, your body yielding to him. The discomfort fades, replaced by a new, overwhelming sensation—pleasure blooming where there was once tension.

He moves with care, watching your reactions, letting you set the pace. Soon, the pain is a distant memory, replaced by a deep, rolling pleasure that makes you cling to him, your breaths mingling as you move together.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awe in his voice. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”

Nanami’s head rests near your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, grounding yourself in the overwhelming sensations. The room is filled with the sounds of his grunts and your screams. The world outside fades away and your vision goes white.

If anyone were to look through the window, they’d find you an unclothed, cock-drunk mess on the floor— courtesy of Nanami thrusting deep in places you didn’t know existed inside of you.

“It’s too much,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you shift beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation.

Nanami’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he steadies you. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, his tone gentle and encouraging. “You’re doing so well for me.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. When you instinctively tighten around him, he lets out a shaky laugh, his control wavering. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “If you keep that up, I won’t last much longer.”

You meet his gaze, a flush rising to your cheeks at the vulnerability in his eyes. He slows his movements, giving you time to adjust, his thumb tracing comforting circles on your hip.

“Just focus on me,” he says softly.

Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps as the pleasure builds, overwhelming and all-consuming. “I’m close,” you manage, voice trembling. “I think—I don’t know, it just feels so good.”

Nanami’s grip tightens on your hand, his own restraint slipping as he meets your gaze, eyes dark with longing. “Me too,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Just hold onto me.”

The rhythm between you grows frantic, both of you chasing that final, shattering release. His words—soft, encouraging, reverent—anchor you as the sensation crests, your bodies moving in perfect sync. In one breathless moment, the world falls away, and you both come undone together— his name on your lips, your on his, his arms holding you close as you ride out the aftermath side by side.

He pulls out of you, the sensation leaving you feeling empty. With gentle care, his hand moves between your thighs, rubbing once more at your clit, his touch lingering as he traces the evidence of your shared release. He brings his fingers to your lips, his gaze locked on yours, warm and intent.

“Open for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Taste the mess you’ve made.”

You part your lips, letting him press his fingers gently to your tongue. Afterward, the room is quiet but for the sound of your mingled heartbeats and gentle, contented breaths. Nanami presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back.

“You were perfect,” he whispers, awe and affection in every word.

You rest against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, limbs boneless and warm. He wraps an arm around you carefully, protective without being possessive, the pads of his fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine as your breathing slows.

After a beat, he leans back just enough to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek.

“Are there any towels in the back?” he asks softly, voice low, grounding. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

You nod sleepily, pointing toward the curtained hallway near the rear storage room. “Stack in the cabinet beside the sink.”

He kisses your forehead, then slips away with quiet efficiency, disappearing into the shadows. You hear drawers opening, a tap running briefly, and when he returns, it’s with warm water and soft linen.

He kneels in front of you without a word, gentle and unhurried as he helps you feel like yourself again—caring for you in a way that says more than any compliment ever could.

When it’s done, he helps you slip back into your clothes, fastens the buttons with surprising care, and reaches for the bottle of champagne you’d been drinking earlier.

“You still want that toast?” he asks, raising the bottle slightly, a rare glint of playfulness in his eyes.

You nod, smiling as he pops the cork. He hands you your cup and sits beside you, your bare knees brushing.

“To your boutique,” he says softly, raising his glass.

“To your first place finish tomorrow,” you counter, clinking it against his.

The champagne is warm and flat, but neither of you seem to mind.

You lean your head against his shoulder, and he tips his glass back, his free hand finding yours again.

“Come tomorrow,” he says, quiet but sure, the way everything he says is. “To my race.”

You take a sip of the warm champagne, eyes still on the rim of your glass as you reply, “Can’t,” a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve distracted me far too much, Mr. Nanami.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and almost private, as if he’s not used to being told no—but is strangely delighted by it when it comes from you.

“Is that what I’ve done?” he asks, turning slightly to face you better. “Distracted you?”

You finally meet his gaze. “Completely. And I do have a boutique to finish setting up, you know.”

“Right,” he nods, but the glimmer in his eyes betrays him. “Don’t let me get in the way.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, the gentle clink of glass against wood filling the silence as you tidy up the space around you—folding a stray cloth, straightening a few scattered bottles. Your hands move on autopilot, but your mind’s already slipping ahead, out of this room, out of this night.

He watches you, then breaks the stillness with a question that lands heavier than you expect.

“When do you leave?”

You pause, your fingers brushing over the rim of a glass before curling into your palm.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Soon, I think.”

Nanami shifts on the stool, his eyes following you as you move. “I can extend my stay,” he says, steady and certain in the way only he can be. “I want to see you again.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That’s not the best idea,” you say softly.

His brows furrow, not in anger, but confusion. Maybe even hurt.

“Why not?”

You exhale through your nose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you’ll be gone again in a week. And I’ll be back in Grasse.”

He opens his mouth, like he wants to argue, but you hold up a hand.

“I’ve seen how this works,” you continue. “You live on tracks and in hotel rooms and in front of cameras. I’m simple, and we’re both busy, and you live this fancy life, and we… We don’t exactly… fit.”

There’s a long pause.

“But it felt like we did,” he says, and it’s so quiet, you almost miss it.

You turn away, suddenly too aware of how close he still is. “It’s not that simple, Nanami. You and me—it’s not real. Our lives are too different.”

You hear the stool scrape against the wood floor, then the soft hush of his footsteps crossing the boutique. They stop just a breath away.

“Why won’t you at least try?” he asks, voice low but unmistakably strained. “We can make it work. I can write letters, send postcards. I’ll fly you out for all the European races. Hell, I’ll take the train if you hate flying. Just—don’t walk away from this before it even starts.”

You turn to face him, your mouth already drawn tight with the ache you’ve been trying to swallow since he kissed you the first time.

“It’s not about trains or flights, Nanami,” you snap, sharper than intended. “It’s about reality.”

His brows crease. “Reality is whatever we decide to make of it.”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head, “reality is that you’ll be gone again in two days, and I’ll be here, sweeping dust off the floor and trying to get this place to open before summer ends. While you’re on podiums and avoiding magazine covers, and getting asked to dinner in every country you visit.”

“You think I care about any of that?” he says, incredulous now, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Do you think I want champagne parties and interviews and—being chased down the street? I hate that part of this.”

“Then why do you do it?” you fire back. “If you hate it so much, why not just leave?”

“Because I love racing,” he says, like it costs him something to admit it. “Because I made a promise to someone who never got the chance to chase this dream. And because it’s the only thing that makes sense most days.”

You stare at him, and something inside you twists.

“And I love what I do,” you whisper. “But I don’t expect anyone to wait around while I chase it.”

He steps closer, jaw clenched. “I’m not asking you to wait. I’m asking you to try. That’s all. We met a few days ago, and I already know I’ll regret it if I don’t fight for this.”

Your voice is quiet now, but no less sharp. “And I already know it’ll hurt more if I let myself believe you mean that.”

The silence that follows is thick like the whole room is holding its breath.

Finally, he says, softer, “So that’s it?”

You look at him, and for a moment, it feels like your heart might break under the weight of his gaze.

“I don’t know,” you say. “But I need space to think. And you… you have a really big day tomorrow, so you should go.”

He nods, jaw tight, the muscle ticking as he turns slightly—like he might leave. But then he looks at you one last time.

“I meant it,” he says. “All of it.”

And then, without waiting for a reply, he walks toward the door.

Nanami’s hands are sweaty, his gloves damp despite the leather’s grip. The temperature in the car is really hot.

He rounds turn eleven during Q3, the tires screaming just a little too loud as they catch the edge of the curbing. His jaw tightens.

The engine roars in his ears, but his mind is sharp, steady. There’s only one lap left. One shot.

He calculates it in a heartbeat—Gojo, Fushiguro, and Zenin are ahead. Barely.

He’s P4.

Just tenths of a second separate them, and he knows their driving styles as intimately as his own. Gojo overdrives the straights, Fushiguro’s quick through tight corners but burns tires fast, and Zenin is ruthless, but predictable.

If he plays his cards right—tightens his line through the chicane, keeps the throttle steady through the tunnel, shaves time off in sector three—he can catch up. Maybe not all of them. But at least one.

Maybe two.

And maybe, if the universe doesn’t hate him today, all three.

He exhales once, eyes narrowing beneath the visor. The blur of Monaco’s cityscape whips past him, but all he sees are his marks. His gaps. His openings.

Turn twelve—tight, downhill, dangerous.

He brakes later than he should, later than anyone else would dare. The tires scream, the rear twitches under him, but he holds it. Just enough grip to slip past Zenin, who’s forced wide and loses the line.

P3.

He doesn’t celebrate. No time. He’s already recalculating.

Gojo is ahead, quick as ever, but messy under pressure. Nanami takes the tunnel clean, narrows the gap by half a second. Gojo swings wide, Nanami takes the inside.

P2.

His heart hammers, sweat trailing along his spine. He doesn’t blink.

Sector three now.

Fushiguro’s precise. Even though it’s his first season, he’s almost too perfect. But perfection is brittle under heat.

Nanami pushes the engine harder, clips the apex like muscle memory, tires barely grazing the barrier. He knows this car and it listens to him now like it was made for this moment.

The final corner comes and goes in a blink.

He’s inside. Fushiguro tries to defend, but there’s no room. Not unless he wants contact. Not unless he wants to lose everything.

He lifts.

Nanami’s through.

P1.

The straight opens ahead. The crowd is a blur—flashes of white gloves and waving flags. The checkered flag rises into view.

The engine’s screaming at redline, and Nanami crosses the line with a full car length to spare.

First.

The radios burst to life—his engineer yelling, the garage roaring, someone laughing through static.

But Nanami says nothing.

He exhales again, slower this time.

Under the helmet, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He won.

Mechanics swarm the car before the engine even cools, team radios barking, photographers he’s trying to avoid already jostling for angles.

He unclips the wheel, hands trembling slightly. He’s soaked through, suit clinging to his spine, chest rising and falling under the weight of it all.

He climbs out slowly, methodically—no fist-pumping, no yelling. Just the quiet stillness of a man who doesn’t need to scream to know he earned this.

The cheers roll down from the stands like thunder. But he doesn’t really hear them.

His helmet comes off.

His blond hair is flattened with sweat, face streaked with grit, but his eyes sharp— looking for you.

“Nanami!” a team member shouts, clapping him hard on the back. “You fucking did it!”

He barely nods before being pulled away.

First stop: the weigh-in station. Every driver is weighed post-race to ensure minimum weight requirements. He steps onto the scale, tired but upright, and a steward records the number before waving him off.

Then the media zone. Bright lights, too many microphones. A blur of questions he half-hears, and avoids.

“Nanami, how does it feel—?”

“Three back-to-back wins—what changed this weekend?”

“Talk us through that pass on Fushiguro—”

He waves them off, refusing to answer.

And then he’s moving again—past the cameras, through the tunnel of crew members offering slaps on the back, hugs, champagne flutes shoved into his hands.

There’s a podium ceremony to prep for.

The white Maserati race suit is peeled off and replaced with a clean one, zipped halfway as he walks out into the golden hour light of Monte Carlo, sun dipping toward the sea.

Gojo’s already on the second step, grinning like a lunatic. Fushiguro stands on the third, jaw tight, refusing to look anyone in the eye.

Nanami takes the top step.

The anthem plays. The flags rise. He doesn’t blink.

When the champagne sprays, he lifts the bottle, but barely raises his arm.

The moment protocol lets him breathe, he’s gone, pushing through the maze of garages and crew tents, pace urgent but composed.

He only stops once—at a little flower stall tucked beside the marina. The woman behind the cart recognizes him immediately, mouth agape, but says nothing as he gestures toward the simplest bouquet she has: cream roses, lavender sprigs, something fragrant and soft.

“For someone special?” she asks, eyes twinkling.

He only nods.

He drives fast—quieter roads now, the Grand Prix chaos receding behind him, the Maserati gleaming under the falling sun as it winds through the narrow city streets toward your boutique.

The windows are dark when he gets there. Still half-built, still quiet. But the door is unlocked—just slightly ajar—and that’s when he sees him.

The architect. The same one from that first day. He looks up from a blueprint, blinking at the sound of the bell.

Nanami steps inside, bouquet still in hand.

Your name falls from his lips when he walks in, posed more as a question.

“She’s not here,” the man says gently. “She left this morning. Said she had to return to Grasse to finalize something.”

Nanami’s lips part. “She didn’t—she didn’t say goodbye.”

“She said she’ll be back next weekend,” the man adds, scratching behind his ear. “Didn’t mention much else.”

Nanami stands still for a long beat. The bouquet hangs loosely at his side, the scent of the flowers mixing with faint traces of dust and wood glue still lingering in the air.

Next weekend.

He nods once, quietly and then he leaves, the door closing softly behind him.

By morning, he’s already on a plane to his next race—another country, another city, another track.

But the bouquet?

He leaves it behind on your workbench.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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