Dating Han Lue | Tokyo
a/n: I was going to let this rot and die in the drafts but I didn’t want to let the mini story go to waste soooo eat up <3
•Late-night ramen and lingering glances
You start hanging out at the garage more often. You don’t really belong to the racing scene, but Han never makes you feel out of place. One night, he asks if you want food — and instead of bringing you back takeout, he picks you up in his RX-7 and drives you through neon-lit Tokyo just for a tiny, hole-in-the-wall ramen spot.
He doesn’t say much. But when he watches you slurp your noodles, hiding a grin behind his hand?
That’s the first time you feel like maybe he’s not just being nice.
• Teaching you how to drift... sort of
You’re not a racer—not really, but one night Han catches you watching him a little too long during a tune-up session. Without a word, he tosses you the keys to one of the older cars in the garage.
“Let’s see what you got.”
“What?” You said, too slow to understand the implication.
“Garage car. She’s got bite. But she’ll be nice if you treat her right.”
“Wait. You want me to drive?”
“No,” he deadpans. “I want you to try. Let’s see if you’re more than just pretty looks and long stares.”
“I can drive,” you insist.
“Good,” Han replies, leaning back on the hood, arms folded. “Show me.”
You slide into the driver’s seat, heart pounding. The interior smells like dust and old vinyl. You adjust everything like you’ve seen in the movies.
Then stall the engine.
Once.
Twice.
Five times.
Okay, maybe I can’t drive,” you mutter to yourself. Watching how Han looked at you in amusement
Han strolls over and taps the window.
“Mind if I join?” he asks.
“To mock me properly?”
“I mock better up close.”
He slides into the passenger seat, one arm casually resting across the back of yours, and gestures toward the wheel.
“Alright, let’s fix whatever that was.”
“You mean my confidence?”
“That too.”
He reaches for the gearshift, brushing your hand. His fingers are rough, warm, steady.
“Clutch, gas. It’s like dancing,” he says. “You don’t step on your partner’s feet, you listen to the rhythm.”
“I’m more of a freestyle girl.”
“Clearly.”
You try again. The car jerks forward, protesting, but doesn’t stall.
“Hey!” you exclaim, triumphant.
“Don’t celebrate yet. That was beginner’s luck.”
“No faith?”
“I’ve got faith,” Han says, turning toward you with a teasing glint. “But also really good reflexes in case you crash.”
Han teaches you the way he drives — calm, fluid, like he’s got nowhere to be but enjoys getting there. You, on the other hand, learn the hard way. Curbs are hit. Cones are sacrificed.
“You trying to drift or parallel park a tank?”
“Is that tire smoke or your ego burning out?”
“You’re still terrible,” he says one night after a particularly wild turn. “But damn, you make it look fun.”
One night, you finally nail it — a clean, sharp drift that slices through the dockside corner like a knife. You hit the throttle just right, countersteer without overthinking. The tires screech, smoke curls, and when you stop, heart racing, you look over at him.
He’s quiet. For once.
“Speechless?” you ask, breathless, grinning.
“Shocked,” he admits, mouth twitching up. “Thought we’d be in the bay by now.”
“Told you I could drive.”
“Mmm. I’m starting to think you just like me close.”
“You wish.”
He leans in, that lazy grin softening just a touch. There's a pause — full of heat, the hum of the idling engine, the slow rise of something more.
“Y’know,” he says, voice low, “when I gave you those keys… I wasn’t just testing your driving.”
“Oh yeah?” you reply, arching a brow. “Then what were you testing?”
“Whether or not I’d have to keep pretending I wasn’t into you.”
Your breath hitches. He’s so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the smallest curve of his lip.
You smile — smug, playful, yours.
“So how’d I do?”
He grins back, nodding toward the wheel.
“You passed. Now drive.”
• Sleeping in the car — together, unspoken
One night you stay late at the garage. Han’s reclined in the RX-7, and you're too tired to go home. He opens the passenger side, pats the seat like it’s always been yours.
Neither of you talk much — just sit in the silence while Tokyo hums outside. You fall asleep before you realize it. When you wake up, his jacket is over your legs, and he’s still awake, watching the stars through the windshield.
• Han shares his snacks, always
You never ask. He never offers. But his bag of chips? His Pocky? His peach gummies from the vending machine?
He always hands them to you first, wordlessly, like it’s automatic. Like you’re already a part of his rhythm.
Even when you’re arguing. Especially when you’re arguing.
• Tangled legs and parking garage conversations
You’ve started crashing in the RX-7 after late nights — both of you curled up together in the back seat or lying across the hood, legs tangled, listening to music
You talk about nothing. Everything. The quiet in the city. What you'd do if you left Tokyo. Whether drifting is freedom or just a distraction.
He never says "I love you." But he looks at you like the words are too small to fit what he feels.
• Protectiveness that doesn’t look like anger
Han doesn’t raise his voice. Ever. But the one time a drunk bystander gets too close to you, says something slick that lands wrong?
Han’s already in front of you, one hand lightly guiding you back, the other gripping his arm just a little too hard.
He doesn't say much — just leans in and murmurs something to the guy.
Later, when you ask what he said, Han just shrugs and says, “Told him not to get comfortable.”
• You patch him up
He comes back one night, knuckles bruised, a small cut on his cheekbone.
He brushes it off, of course. "Wasn’t a big deal." But he doesn’t stop you when you pull him into the bathroom and clean him up with cotton pads and ointment.
He watches you in the mirror. Quiet. Still.
“You always take care of people like this?” he asks softly.
You don’t answer — you just kiss the corner of his mouth and say, “Just you.”
• Shared routine
Han starts making you part of his rhythm without ever asking.
You start showing up around the same time. He plays the same playlist you two created while you help tidy up the garage. You hand him tools without needing to be asked. He knows your go-to snack and starts stocking it without saying anything.
One night, you ask, “You do this with everyone?”
He pauses. “No.”
leaning down to give your temple a soft kiss
Then, quieter: “Just you.”
And you believe him.