Work Text:
(inspired by “Ever Seen” by beabadoobee)
Aiah has always believed that Mikha’s eyes tell her story better than any headline could.
They’ve been caught by the flash of a thousand cameras, dissected by slow-motion replays and interview close-ups.
But those people only ever see fragments, fleeting reflections of who Mikha Lim is supposed to be.
Aiah sees everything else.
-
Before a race.
Aiah swears the entire garage holds its breath when Mikha slides into the cockpit. Her eyes sharpen — focus and adrenaline, two shades deeper than usual. There’s a fire there, quiet and searing, like something forged under pressure.
Everyone else sees focus. Aiah sees the girl who once didn’t want to wake up for karting practice, who used to drag her helmet across asphalt because it was too heavy for her small hands. She sees the determination that carried her from local tracks in the Philippines to the heart of Maranello.
When Mikha’s visor comes down, Aiah feels her chest tighten.
Because those eyes are not just chasing victory — they’re chasing the dream that built her.
-
After São Paulo.
Those eyes told a different story that day.
Pained. Frustrated. Hollow in a way that made Aiah’s stomach twist.
Mikha hadn’t said much in the garage. Just a short, clipped “Alright” to Jhoanna, and then silence.
But Aiah had been there, waiting at the back, watching how the girl who was usually composed wince from pain from just taking a single step.
Later, in the hoyel, when Mikha tried to pretend everything was fine, Aiah caught her eyes again — glassy, flickering with all the words she couldn’t say.
They were the same eyes that once burned with confidence, now dulled with the kind of self-anger only perfectionists understood.
Aiah wanted to say something. Anything.
But she only reached out, thumb brushing under Mikha’s eye, and whispered,
“Even now, you’re still everything I’m proud of.”
Mikha’s eyes softened — and that was enough.
-
After a good qualifying session.
The Cameras and the Media loved this version of her — cocky grin, sharp smirk, head slightly tilted. The world saw confidence bordering on arrogance.
But Aiah?
She saw something lighter.
A small glint of disbelief beneath the swagger. A silent, “Did I really just do that?” even if she’d done it several times already.
When Mikha talked to the media, her eyes sparkled — playful, challenging. She had that look that said she wasn’t just here to participate, she was here to win.
Aiah would stand off to the side, pretending to scroll on her phone, but really, she was just watching. Watching the way Mikha’s eyes danced, alive with satisfaction and hunger.
-
During a team briefing.
The room was always tense — engineers speaking in clipped sentences, strategies flashing on screens.
But Mikha?
Her eyes were razor-sharp, dissecting data, reading every graph like it was an extension of her instincts.
Fred would talk, Jhoanna would analyze, and Mikha would sit there with her brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed together — absorbing everything.
Those were the eyes of a leader, of someone who didn’t just drive the car, but commanded it.
Aiah loved those moments. She loved seeing her like that — focused, powerful, completely in her element.
Mikha was art and calculation all at once.
-
On the podium.
Aiah will never forget the first time she saw Mikha’s eyes through champagne spray.
They glistened — relief and disbelief tangled together, laughter breaking through the exhaustion.
She had never seen eyes shine like that before. Not even in her own profession, where cameras captured beauty by design.
This was different.
It was real.
When Mikha looked down from the podium and spotted her in the crowd — Aiah swore the world paused.
It wasn’t a big smile or a dramatic gesture, just a quiet, knowing look that said, “We did it.”
And somehow, that meant more than anything else.
-
At a fashion show.
Aiah’s job was to walk, pose, and embody confidence. But when she looked into the audience and saw Mikha watching — the roles reversed.
Mikha’s eyes followed her like she was seeing sunlight for the first time.
Proud. Unblinking. Completely mesmerized.
Afterward, backstage, when Aiah walked over still in her heels, Mikha just grinned and said,
“Remind me again why you let the rest of the world see you like that?”
And Aiah only laughed — because she knew that underneath the teasing, there was awe.
Mikha Lim, Ferrari’s rockstar driver, had stars in her eyes.
-
With her family.
Aiah saw it again during a rare weekend home in the Philippines.
Mikha’s eyes turned soft in a way they never did on track. Lighter. Kinder.
When her mother touched her cheek, when her father asked about the car, when her siblings teased her — those sharp, focused eyes turned to honey.
It was like watching armor dissolve.
Aiah realized then that those were the same eyes that first made her fall for Mikha — not the fierce racer, not the icon, but the daughter, the sister, the person who carried so much love quietly.
-
And finally, Aiah’s favorite.
Mikha’s eyes at home.
When the race suits are replaced with loose shirts, when her hair smells like Aiah’s conditioner, when the world outside doesn’t exist.
They’re lazy eyes, soft and unfocused, blinking slow against the glow of their lamp.
When Mikha laughs — that real, belly-deep laugh — her eyes crinkle at the corners, brighter than any podium spotlight.
When she’s tired, they droop a little, like she’s finally letting herself rest.
And when Mikha looks at her — really looks at her — Aiah feels the world tilt.
Because those are eyes that love.
Eyes that say, I’ve fought every battle to end up here.
Eyes that hold galaxies, and peace, and everything in between.
Mikha’s eyes are bare here. Soft, sleepy, real.
When she laughs, they crinkle; when she’s tired, they flutter; when she looks at Aiah, they hold something sacred.
And maybe this is what falling in love really means — not fireworks, not trophies, but the quiet awe of seeing someone for who they are, every day.
“Every piece of me holds parts of you
Wish I could see that it feels much better when I’m with you
And when I get too high and I can’t breathe
I can’t lie, she has the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
Aiah has always believed that Mikha’s eyes tell a galaxy of possibilities. She’s seen them in every light — fierce before a race, heavy with heartbreak, gleaming with pride, and soft with love. To her, every version is beautiful. Because no matter the emotion, Mikha’s eyes never lie — they always speak, always burn, always feel.
And maybe that’s why Aiah believes Mikha Lim has the prettiest eyes she’s ever seen — in every shade of her strength, her joy, her vulnerability.