𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫 │Nishimura Riki

13

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↳ currently playing ;;
[The alchemy] - [Taylor Swift ]

It was starting to feel like Lily had a divine gift for ending up in the most exquisitely awkward situations humanly possible.

Either that, or the universe had a personal vendetta against her, and honestly, at this point, she was considering sending God a lawsuit. Emotional damages, a hefty sum for public embarrassment, and maybe a lifetime supply of stress-relief tea, all included.

Because here she was again, standing in front of the thrumming Red Bull garage, meticulously fixing the collar of her fake boyfriend's race suit like it was some kind of sacred, ancient ritual passed down through generations of devoted significant others.

"I have steady hands. You're welcome," she said coolly, brushing an imaginary speck of lint off his shoulder. Her fingers, delicate and precise, brushed against the rough, technical fabric of his suit.

Their fingers brushed. Cameras clicked. Phones rose like a shimmering sea of neon cases, capturing every angle, every fleeting micro-expression. And somewhere, lost in the clamor, a fan screamed like she'd just witnessed a marriage proposal, or perhaps the second coming of a pop star.

Lily forced herself not to laugh. It wasn't funny. Not really. Except it absolutely was—because despite everything, this intricate dance of public performance felt almost natural now. Effortless, even. Or maybe she was just dangerously good at pretending, a master illusionist of affection.

"I think they liked that," Ni-ki whispered, his voice a low rumble, his gaze flicking over her shoulder at the burgeoning crowd, a hint of genuine satisfaction in his tone.

"You like that," Lily shot back, a playful edge to her voice.

He shrugged, a small, arrogant tilt of his shoulders. "I won't deny it."

She rolled her eyes, but a genuine grin softened her features as she finally stepped back, giving him space. Ni-ki threw her a quick, dazzling wink a flash of pure, unadulterated charm tugged on his gloves with a practiced snap, and disappeared into the vibrant chaos of the garage, the mechanical hum and shouted instructions already claiming him.

That's when the real problem began.

He emerged from the garage a moment later, helmet in hand, radiating that same lazy, self-satisfied smirk that made people fall irrevocably in love or punch a wall. Sometimes, magically, both at the exact same time.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward his car—gloves pulled tight, jaw set with steely determination, eyes focused on an invisible finish line, ready to dominate.