the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be apart of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
songs that sound like home (lando norris x reader)
🏁 pairing: lando norris x reader.
🏁 word count: 9.4k.
🏁 genres/warnings: (childhood) friends to lovers. mutual pining, literally idiots in love. lots of swearing. bear with the timeline, it fits the plot and reader has questionable music taste. lando norris is so down bad. fluff, romance, happy ending. reader insert with two uses of your name. reader referred to as feminine.
🏁summary: for almost a lifetime, lando has saved a song for every moment that made him love you more. you were never supposed to find the playlist— or realise you've been loving him back all along.
🏁 author notes: someone asked for more lando fluff and that was all i could think about so i wrote this in like 3 days, it's my version of fluff. i really hope you enjoy, i had a lot of fun writing this though i feel like my modern prose is a little rusty now <3
“God, I love this song.”
The sound came blasting through the speakers, crackling over the noise of voices as you pressed your palms flat against the sticky wooden table before you, a soft smile curling at your lips as the synth began to build softly through the crowded bar.
You were currently wedged into the corner booth of a smokey bar, your third drink dripping condensation onto the beer mat below and soaking it through. The London heat had settled over the city like something cruel, clinging to your skin and offering no relief indoors or out.
You looked up to find Lando already watching you.
Not just looking. Watching.
A gleeful grin spread across his face like he’d been waiting for this exact reaction. “Tears for Fears? Really?” he asked, amusement laced through every word as he lifted his lukewarm beer to his lips.
“It’s a classic, the melody is so damn good. You just don’t get it,” you teased, leaning forward over the table and keeping his bright eyes captured in yours. “Some of us have taste, Norris. You don’t need to be so jealous.”
Lando barked out a laugh, his head tipping back as a bead of sweat disappeared beneath the collar of his t-shirt. Your eyes followed before you could stop them. Which felt like something you probably shouldn’t unpack.
“Yeah, because liking eighties tracks means you have taste.”
“You’re just jealous,” you shot back, taking a sip of your vodka cranberry before nodding your head to the rhythm. “I know you don’t get to appreciate music the way I do, you’re too busy being world champion.”
Lando grinned at that and, as always, your own smile widened in response. There had always been something deeply unfair about his smile. Maybe it was how easily it dragged one out of you. Maybe it was because, after all these years, it could still make your pulse skip in a way that felt vaguely concerning.
You chose not to think too hard about either.
Ever since you’d first met back before either of you could properly form a coherent sentence, Lando had been your best friend. You’d met during primary school when he’d accidentally pulled your braid trying to climb to the top of the climbing frame and you’d shoved him off in revenge, fully expecting him to burst into tears.
Instead, he’d looked back up at you from the ground, eyes bright and face split with a grin. He’d pointed right up at you and proudly declared that you were his best friend.
And that had pretty much been it.
Twenty years later and here you still were. Cramped into the corner of a London bar, enduring the first stretch of summer heat after you’d begged him to come out with you before he disappeared back into racing after a short break.
Your other friends had all bailed at the last minute, though that never really bothered you. You loved them, you really did. But no-one got you like Lando did. And, if you were being completely honest, you liked knowing no-one got him quite like you either.
“You and your bloody tunes,” Lando muttered. Before you could ask for another drink, Lando was already sliding your usual towards you after catching the bartender’s eye. “You looked like you wanted another,” he shrugged.
Your chest did that annoying fluttering thing again. You ignored it. Best friends knew each other’s drink orders. That was normal.
Probably.
“I didn’t even know you ordered,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat.
And Lando just shook his head before launching into a story about what he and Max had apparently gotten up to earlier that week, chaos spilling from every word. You listened the way you always did, entirely invested in whatever nonsense left his mouth.
Halfway through the story, he reached across the table and brushed a strand of hair away from where it had stuck to your lip gloss. The movement was absentminded. Casual. Like he’d done it a thousand times before.
Maybe he had. He didn’t pause. Didn’t seem to realise what he’d done.
You, unfortunately, noticed immediately. Along with the warmth crawling up your neck. You blamed the weather.
Then he laughed again at his own story and instinctively looked at you first. Like your reaction was his favourite part. It always was. And that felt dangerous enough that you quickly looked away.
Later, you both stumbled out of the bar and dragged yourselves giggling through warm London streets towards the tube station, your hand wrapped tightly around his as you crossed the road.
It stayed there longer than necessary. Neither of you mentioned it.
You were too busy laughing as he dramatically complained about nearly being recognised by a group of drunk girls outside a kebab shop.
And you didn’t notice when he pulled out his phone. You didn’t notice the soft smile that overtook his face as he looked at you. You didn’t notice him opening a playlist with your name buried in the title.
Or adding the song from the bar carefully alongside years worth of moments he’d never been brave enough to say out loud.
Instead, you kept talking. And Lando kept loving you quietly.
Just as he always had.
You knew surprises weren’t exactly Lando’s thing. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the kind everyone else liked. Surprise parties. Birthday presents. Unexpected wins.
What he hated was being surprised. Which just so happened to be one of your favourite hobbies.
It wasn’t often you managed to sneak up on him. The first time had been after school when he’d invited you over for tea and his mum had cornered you in the living room to show you baby pictures while begging Lando to wash the dishes.
(You ignored the way your twelve-year-old heart had done something embarrassingly dramatic at the sight of his wild curls, chubby cheeks and eyes that somehow looked exactly the same.)
You’d eventually escaped his mum and crept into the kitchen where Lando stood elbow-deep in soap suds. The scream he let out when you grabbed his shoulders had been truly spectacular. You’d laughed so hard you nearly cried.
But what had stuck with you wasn’t the scream. It was how quickly his entire body had relaxed when he realised it was you. How his panic had dissolved into laughter almost instantly.
You’d loved that. Maybe a little too much. And so, naturally, you made it your mission to do it again whenever possible.
Which explained why you’d kicked off your trainers before slipping your key into the door of his Monaco flat. Max had texted to let you know Lando was still in the gym downstairs, giving you plenty of time to execute your masterpiece.
You’d told Lando you couldn’t get time off work to watch him race in Monaco this year. You were still offended he’d believed you so easily.
Your trainers dangled from your fingers as you padded through his flat, your overnight bag heavy against your shoulder as you made your way to the spare room.
Your phone buzzed moments later.
[10:52am] Max F: eagle has left, eta 5 mins.
You bit back a laugh. You quickly shoved your bag and shoes into the wardrobe before making your way into the kitchen, pressing yourself against the wall behind the partition.
He always went straight to the kitchen after the gym. Always. You knew him embarrassingly well.
You heard the key turn in the lock and had to physically stop yourself from laughing. Then came his humming. Soft and absentminded. The sound of shoes being kicked off. Sock-clad footsteps against the floor.
Your stomach fluttered stupidly at how easily you could picture him. Then he appeared.
Sweaty hair. Grey vest clinging to his skin. Back muscles shifting as he bent into the fridge. You stared for slightly too long. And firmly blamed the weather for the sudden heat rushing through your body.
He grabbed a snack before placing his phone on the kitchen counter. Then wandered into the living room.
And suddenly, a truly terrible idea struck you. You slipped from your hiding place and grabbed his phone, unlocking it with the passcode permanently burned into your brain.
His mum’s birthday. Normal best friend information. Entirely normal.
You opened Spotify and searched for the loudest, most obnoxious song you could think of, fully intending to blast it through his headphones. Then your eyes caught something.
A playlist. Your name.
Your breath caught. Before your brain could fully process it, you clicked a heavy metal song and turned the volume all the way up.
A scream erupted from the living room. You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop your laughter as something crashed loudly to the floor.
“I fucking knew Max was being dodgy!” Lando shouted. His footsteps thundered back towards the kitchen.
You darted toward your hiding spot. Too slow.
A hand wrapped around your wrist. His phone was snatched from your hand before your back slammed gently into his chest. You squealed as his arm curled around your waist, locking you against him while you kicked uselessly.
“One day I’m actually going to have a heart attack, you know,” Lando laughed into your ear. “And my death will be entirely your fault.”
The warmth of his chest pressed against your back. The smell of soap and sweat. His breath ghosting your skin. Entirely too much. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t have me any other way, would you?” you laughed, still reaching for his phone.
“What are you doing?” Lando asked as you dug your elbow into his side. He yelped, his arm shooting upward as you jumped for his phone.
“I wanted to be nosey.”
“You’re always nosey,” he murmured, tightening his arm around your waist as you wriggled. Your entire nervous system seemed alarmingly aware of where his hand rested.
Then you said it. “I thought I saw a playlist with my name.”
Everything stopped. His arm loosened. His breathing changed. And when you looked up at him, all the laughter had vanished. You jumped once more and managed to grab his phone. You barely made it two steps before his hand wrapped around your wrist again.
Tighter this time.
“Stop,” you froze. Then quieter: “Please.”
The word hit you like cold water. You turned. Lando looked terrified. Actually terrified. His eyes were wide. Jaw tight. Bottom lip caught between his teeth. Like whatever was on that phone mattered far more than you understood.
And suddenly this didn’t feel like a joke anymore. Your smile faded. “I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I didn’t mean to…” you handed him his phone. “I was just taking the piss, Lan.”
He shoved the phone into his pocket far too quickly. Then forced a grin onto his face. “I know, idiot,” he said too fast. Too rehearsed. “I finally got you back,” he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you. “Now give me a hug and tell me why I shouldn’t rescind your spare key.”
You squealed as his sweaty body crushed into yours while you shoved at him. Everything looked normal again. Everything sounded normal again.
But later that night, curled up in his spare room, your mind kept replaying the same thing.
The playlist with your name. And the look on his face when you almost opened it.
Like you’d come dangerously close to discovering something he wasn’t ready for you to know.
And for the first time in your life, you found yourself wondering if there were parts of Lando you didn’t know at all.
And strangely— the thought made your chest ache.
Weeks had passed since that day in his flat. And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t.
There had been something in Lando’s eyes that day. Fear. Real fear. The kind you’d almost never seen directed at you. And it had lodged itself somewhere beneath your ribs ever since.
Even now, as you stood in the crowd of orange, watching him climb onto the top step at the podium, you couldn’t quite shake it.
His face was split by that blinding smile. His eyes were red with exhaustion and pride. Champagne soaked his race suit. His family stood beside you, screaming themselves hoarse. Your arms were wrapped tightly around one of his sisters as all of you looked up at him like he’d hung the bloody moon. Another home win. Another milestone.
And yet— something still felt wrong.
Lando had never hidden things from you. Never snatched his phone away. Never looked at you like you’d stumbled across something dangerous. You knew his passcode. God, he would regularly throw his phone at you to answer texts when he was driving or too hungover to form a sentence.
So why had a playlist made him panic?
You’d thought about asking him. A hundred times. But every time, you remembered the way his breathing had changed. The way his hand had shaken. The way he’d looked almost cornered.
So you stayed quiet.
You briefly considered asking Max. Then immediately decided that was perhaps the worst idea you’d ever had.
And if you were being honest— this wasn’t even new.
There had been long drives through English countrysides where you’d reached to change whatever painfully generic playlist he had on, only for him to slap your hand away and tell you to stop ruining the vibe.
There was the time at university when you’d asked for his Spotify login while drowning in dissertation stress and he’d told you he refused to become your personal bank account.
At the time, you’d rolled your eyes. Now you wondered if he’d simply panicked.
Your forehead rested against the cool car window as the drive back to the hotel dragged on. Your thoughts were louder than the celebrations happening around you. What was he hiding? And why did it hurt this much?
You knew him. You knew how soft he got at three in the morning. How cruel he could be to himself after bad races. How he always put his family before himself. How much he truly hated fish. How he once admitted, quietly, that if racing hadn’t worked out he thought he might’ve liked photography.
You knew everything. And he knew everything about you. Or at least— you’d always thought he did.
A horrible thought crept in.
What if one day that changed? What if one day you stopped being the first person he called? What if someone else knew him better? What if one day he built a life that didn’t instinctively make space for you?
The thought hit so hard your throat tightened. You’d cried about that exact fear once. Drunk and exhausted and clinging to his shirt while you sobbed that one day he’d outgrow you.
He’d held your face and promised— never.
And yet.
You swallowed hard and forced yourself back into the conversation around you. Celebration plans. Dinner reservations. Afterparties. You nodded where appropriate and prayed you were being ridiculous.
Because you didn’t know how to be anything less than what you were to him. And maybe that was its own problem.
Lando opted for a low-key celebration. Which was how you found yourself dressed up and sitting cross-legged on his hotel bed while he got ready.
He’d locked himself in the bathroom. Not before enduring several minutes of you relentlessly mocking his curl routine until he’d practically slammed the door in your face.
Steam curled beneath the bathroom door. You could hear him humming softly to himself. His suitcase lay half-open on the floor. One of his hoodies was tossed across a chair. His aftershave lingered in the room. Everything felt unbearably him.
You’d been ready for over an hour. He hadn’t even needed to ask before texting you his room number and telling you to wait there so you could leave together.
You were halfway through losing a stupid game on your phone when boredom finally won. With a dramatic sigh, you flung yourself backward onto the bed.
And that was when you saw it. His phone.
Sitting on the bedside table. Left completely unattended.
Your stomach dropped.
Don’t. Your brain screamed at you not to do it. It was invasive. Cruel. Not you. But the ache in your chest had grown too loud to ignore.
Slowly, you sat up. Your hand trembled as you reached for it. Even then, you hesitated. Because if he found out— if this broke whatever existed between you— you weren’t sure you’d survive it.
But you needed to know.
So you unlocked it. Opened Spotify.
And froze. There it was. A playlist.
The cover photo was from his thirteenth birthday party at Laser Quest. You in blue. Him in red. Your hair in ridiculous pigtails. His curls completely feral. Both of you grinning like your lives depended on it. His arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your hand gripping his waist.
Your chest tightened. Then your eyes moved upward.
songs that sound like home
(your name)
Your breath left you in a shaky exhale. Then you noticed the number beneath it. Dozens of songs. Years worth.
And as your trembling finger pressed play— your entire world tilted.
And the memories came rushing back like a flood.
2013 — Little Things.
“I still don’t understand why we have to learn this stuff. Like, when am I ever going to use algebra in real life?” you whined dramatically, lying on your stomach across your bed with your school skirt wrinkled beneath you and your legs kicking lazily in the air.
You’d been staring at the same equation for nearly ten minutes and were no closer to understanding it.
Lando, meanwhile, was absolutely no help. He sat cross-legged on the floor with his back pressed against your bed, sketching absentmindedly in his English textbook that you were almost certain he was supposed to be writing in.
“If you ever want to be my engineer one day, then you really do need to learn it,” he replied, tipping his head back to grin at you.
You rolled your eyes and leaned over the edge of the bed to flick his forehead. “You’re boring, Norris. I thought you said you were just bringing me with you. I didn’t realise I had to earn my place.”
You rolled onto your back, staring dramatically at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling while late afternoon sunlight spilled through your curtains.
“You’re annoying,” Lando shot back. “Why would I keep you around for free?”
“Can’t believe you’d treat your best friend like this,” you snorted. The words came softer this time, your amusement melting into something quieter.
Eventually, the room settled into a comfortable silence. Lando continued doodling in his exercise book while pretending to write something profound. And you stared at your maths worksheet, silently begging it to explain how on earth you were supposed to simplify 4m + 5 + 2m - 1.
Your laptop sat open on your desk, music crackling softly through its poor-quality speakers. Then familiar guitar strings floated through the room. A grin immediately tugged at your lips.
“Oh no,” Lando groaned.
You ignored him entirely and started singing along. Loudly. Slightly off-key. Entirely committed. Lando shook his head, though he was already smiling.
“Oh come on, Lan,” you sang between lyrics. “How can you not love this song?”
“You love every song.”
“I do not,” you gasped dramatically. “I only like the ones with good lyrics.”
“Good?” he scoffed. “I think you mean questionable.”
“Hey,” you leaned over the edge of the bed again and lightly smacked his curls before letting your fingers absentmindedly tangle through them. “You just don’t understand One Direction the way I do.”
Lando let out an exaggerated sigh as the song continued to play. The guitar plucked softly through the room. Your singing gradually became quieter.
Then softer. Then faded completely.
He frowned. The gentle tugging in his hair had stopped. The whispered lyrics had disappeared.
Lando pushed himself up from the floor and turned. You were lying on your back. One hand rested over your chest. The other was still stretched toward where his hair had been moments before.
Your eyes were closed. Your breathing had evened out. Your lips still moved faintly with the lyrics, like your body hadn’t quite realised you were falling asleep yet.
And Lando— stilled. Completely.
The world narrowed to the soft hum of your laptop. The warm afternoon light spilling across your bedroom floor. The rise and fall of your breathing.
He noticed everything. The way the tip of your nose was pink from rubbing at your allergies all afternoon. The tiny crease between your brows that only appeared when you were tired. The way your lips looked impossibly soft as they ghosted the final lyrics.
I’m in love with you and all your little things.
Lando’s breath caught. Because that was it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t one big moment. It was every tiny thing. Every laugh. Every argument. Every song. Every stupid maths worksheet. Every version of you.
And all he could think was— oh fuck.
Later that night, despite loudly maintaining that he hated the song, he still found himself adding it to a playlist. He told himself it was because the song reminded him of that afternoon. Of you singing badly. Of your terrible maths skills. Of your weird obsession with One Direction.
He ignored what it really meant. Even then— he knew he was lying.
2014 — Happy.
You were gripping Lando’s arm hard enough to probably cut off his circulation. Your face was buried firmly in his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as terrifying sounds blasted through the television speakers.
You had absolutely no idea why you’d convinced yourself this was a good idea. It was a rare free Friday night for Lando. Karting had started taking over his life and weekends like this were becoming rarer and rarer.
He’d begged you to come over. You’d tried to be responsible and told him he needed rest. Then thirty minutes later you’d shown up at his house in your comfiest clothes holding a bag of Kinder chocolate, popcorn, and a horror DVD your older cousin had sworn was “more funny than scary.”
Your cousin was a liar.
Lando had protested immediately. You were both pathetic when it came to horror films and always had been.
He’d suggested literally anything else. But all it had taken was one dramatic pout and your best puppy dog eyes before he gave in with an exhausted sigh.
And now— you were both suffering the consequences.
Another horrifying screech echoed from the television. You practically climbed into his lap.
“Jesus Christ,” Lando yelped.
“Don’t say his name right now,” you whispered frantically. “What if that makes it worse?”
Lando stared at you for a long moment. Then burst into laughter. You glared. “This is serious Lan.”
“You’re literally shaking.”
“You are too.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Because annoyingly— you were right.
You were pressed so tightly against him that your legs were half tangled with his, one of your hands clutching the fabric of his t-shirt. And Lando was trying very hard not to think about any of that. Particularly not the way your hair smelled like your shampoo. Or how your heartbeat seemed to sync with his every time you clung tighter. Or how he would quite happily sit through ten thousand terrible horror films if it meant you kept holding onto him like this.
He also tried very hard not to think about how fast his own heart was beating.
By the time the film finally ended, you were scrambling for the remote like your life depended on it.
“I don’t understand why you do this to yourself,” Lando groaned from the sofa, throwing the last piece of chocolate into his mouth. “You hate horror films.”
“Because it gives me an adrenaline rush and I always forget how much I hate being scared.”
“That is genuinely one of the stupidest things you’ve ever said.”
“Thank you.”
You flipped through channels desperately. Anything to erase the images now haunting your brain.
Then— music. Your entire face lit up.
“Oh no,” Lando groaned immediately. The opening beats of Happy filled the room. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Lan,” you launched yourself off the sofa and grabbed both of his wrists. “It’s a happy song. You know you secretly love it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You’re lying.”
You tugged him upright before he could protest further. Soon you were dancing wildly around his living room. Completely off beat. Sliding in socks across the wooden floor. Nearly knocking over a lamp. Laughing so hard neither of you could breathe properly.
Lando tried resisting for approximately twenty seconds. Then, as always— he gave in.
Because he always gave in to you.
You spun beneath his arm. He nearly dropped you. You both collapsed into hysterical laughter. And for the first time since the film ended— you forgot to be scared.
By the time the song ended, you were breathless. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
And when his mum entered the room to politely tell you both to stop screaming lyrics at midnight, you dissolved into fresh laughter.
As she walked away shaking her head, you fell straight into Lando’s arms. Still giggling. Still breathless. Your head rested against his shoulder as your breathing slowly steadied. And for a moment— everything felt warm. Safe. Easy.
Lando looked down at you as you melted into him without hesitation. Trusted him without question. And something in his chest tightened painfully.
Later that night, despite loudly declaring Happy was the most irritating song ever written— he still added it to the playlist. Because now all he could hear when it played was your laughter.
And all he could think about was how much he loved being the person who made you feel safe.
2017 - Feel Good.
You had been quiet the entire car ride. Which was deeply unsettling. You were rarely quiet. Usually your words spilled out faster than your brain could catch them.
But tonight— nothing. Lando kept glancing over at you as he drove through quiet streets with no real destination in mind. He was just driving.
Because when you’d called him sobbing so hard he could barely understand you, all coherent thought had abandoned him. He’d thrown on shoes. Forgotten a jacket. And left his house within thirty seconds.
When he pulled up outside yours, his chest had tightened painfully. You were wearing one of his old hoodies. One he’d left at your house months ago. Your shoulders were slumped. Your usual bounce completely gone.
You looked so heartbreakingly small walking toward his car that Lando had to physically stop himself from getting out and pulling you into his arms.
Instead— he unlocked the door. You climbed in. Offered him the smallest smile imaginable. And absolutely shattered him.
Your eyes were red and swollen. Your lips looked raw from chewing at them. Mascara streaked beneath your eyes. Like you’d been crying long before you called him.
And Lando wanted— desperately— to fix it. He wanted to ask who did this. He wanted names. Addresses. Potentially a shovel.
Instead— he started driving.
An hour passed before you finally spoke.
“He broke up with me,” your voice sounded shredded. Like every word hurt to say. Lando’s stomach dropped. He knew exactly who you meant. The older boy from college you’d spent weeks talking about. The one who made your face light up. The one Lando had smiled politely about while quietly dying inside.
You’d spent weeks gushing about how sweet he was. How thoughtful. How funny. And every single time Lando had wanted to scream— I could love you better than this.
Instead, he’d smiled. Because that’s what best friends did. Even when it killed them.
You let out another broken sob. Your face disappeared into the sleeve of his hoodie. There were dark mascara stains smeared across the fabric. And Lando thought they were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.
Because it meant you came to him. Always him.
His grip tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He wanted to reach for your hand. Wanted to wipe your tears away. Wanted to tell you this boy was an idiot. Wanted to tell you he’d spend the rest of his life proving you deserved better.
Instead— he reached forward and turned on the radio.
A familiar beat blasted through the speakers. You looked at him through wet lashes.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re crying too loudly.”
A watery laugh escaped you. And Lando nearly drove into a lamppost because that sound felt like oxygen returning to his lungs.
By the chorus, your fingers were tapping against your knee. By the second verse, you were quietly singing. By the end— you were smiling. Small. Fragile. But real.
And Lando would’ve replayed that song a thousand times if it meant seeing that smile again. After that— you talked. About how he’d broken up with you over text. About how humiliating it felt. About how stupid you felt for not seeing it coming.
And Lando listened. He said all the right things. Soft things. Steady things. The things best friends were supposed to say. Even while every selfish part of him wanted to ask why you kept choosing boys who would never love you properly.
At some point your words slowed. Then stopped entirely. He glanced over. You’d fallen asleep. Your head resting against his shoulder. One hand loosely tangled with his on the centre console.
Like touching him was instinct. Like it was home.
Lando nearly broke right there.
Instead— he kept driving. Long after he should’ve taken you home. Long after the petrol warning light came on. Because he knew the second he dropped you off— you’d wake up heartbroken again.
And if he could give you one more hour of peace— he would. He always would.
Later that night, after helping you inside, past your concerned parents and making sure you drank water and washed your makeup off— he searched the song just to add it to the playlist.
Because it made you smile through heartbreak. Because your laugh had returned. Because your hand had reached for his without thinking. Because for one brief moment— it had almost felt like you were his.
And he was weak enough to treasure even that.
(You never told him your boyfriend had ended things because he said he couldn’t compete with Lando. That secret stayed buried deep inside you. Right next to the terrifying truth that maybe— you hadn’t wanted him to.)
2018 — Yellow.
You’d been there for almost every version of Lando. You were there when he first discovered karting. When he’d come home after watching races with his dad, eyes bright and voice breathless as he talked about how one day that would be him.
You were there through his years in junior formula. Through impossible schedules. Through wins. Through losses. Through exhausted phone calls and rushed airport goodbyes.
You’d attended enough races with his family that people occasionally assumed you were a Norris too. Neither of you ever corrected them.
When he joined McLaren’s young driver programme, you’d cried so hard his sisters laughed at you. When he became a reserve driver, you sent him embarrassing videos of yourself sobbing at your television.
And when he finally got the call— a Formula One seat. A real one. Next year. Alongside Carlos Sainz. You thought your heart might burst from pride. And maybe break a little too.
It wasn’t technically a going-away party. Everyone knew Lando would be home constantly. Mostly because he physically couldn’t stay away from his mum for very long.
But it was still a celebration. A marker. A before and after. You’d helped plan everything with his mum and sisters.
And now the night had blurred into one long haze of laughter. Fairy lights hanging from the garden fence. Smoke from the barbecue lingering in the summer air. Music drifting from speakers. Too much food. Too many drinks.
Your feet aching from dancing. Your stomach hurting from laughing. And beneath all of it— grief. Quiet. Sharp.
Because everything was changing. And you hated yourself a little for mourning something you should’ve been celebrating.
You were proud. God, you were proud. But you were sad too. And no matter how hard you tried— you couldn’t seem to shake it.
By the time the evening began winding down, most people had retreated inside for warmth. Everyone except you and Lando.
You sat wrapped in a blanket in the garden. Your legs stretched out in front of you. Lando lay beside you with his head in your lap. Your fingers lazily moved through his curls as both of you stared at the sky.
“That one’s definitely Orion.”
You snorted. “That is absolutely not Orion.”
“It is.”
“It’s literally a plane.”
Lando squinted. “That feels unnecessarily embarrassing for me.”
You laughed softly. And he thought again how it was his favourite sound in the world.
Then a song began drifting through the garden speakers. Your entire face lit up.
Lando smiled instantly. “You really love this song.”
“I’m going to get it tattooed one day.”
He tilted his head slightly to look at you. “Oh yeah?”
“Definitely.”
“Where?”
You frowned thoughtfully. “Haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
He laughed quietly. “Of course you haven’t.”
Then— silence. Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just full.
Your fingers slowed in his hair. Your eyes drifted downward.
And suddenly you became painfully aware of how close his face was. How soft his expression looked. How his eyes kept flicking to your mouth.
Your breathing faltered. So did his. Your hand moved from his curls to his jaw. Your thumb brushing softly across his skin. Lando stopped breathing entirely.
For one suspended, impossible moment— you leaned down. And Lando genuinely thought his entire life was about to begin. He wondered if this was it. If every year of waiting had somehow led here.
Your lips parted. His eyes fluttered shut. And then—
“Thank you,” his eyes opened. You were smiling sadly. “For always being there for me,” your fingers still traced his jaw. “I’m really going to miss you, Lan.”
And just like that— the moment shifted.
Lando swallowed the sharp sting of disappointment. Because of course your first instinct was to love him gently. Even when accidentally breaking his heart.
He reached up and covered your hand with his. “I’m not leaving you,” his voice was quiet. Certain. “I could never leave you.”
Your throat tightened. “You promise?”
He sat up slightly. Close enough that your noses almost brushed. “I promise that no matter where I go,” his eyes locked onto yours. “You’ll always have me.”
And maybe that should’ve felt like friendship. Maybe it should’ve felt simple. Instead— it felt like standing too close to something life-changing.
So you did what you always did when things with Lando felt too big. You smiled. He smiled back. And neither of you mentioned how close you’d come to changing everything.
And once again, almost ritualistic, long after you’d gone home, Lando added Yellow to the playlist. Because it sounded like summer. Like promises. Like almosts. Like you.
And if he spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering what would’ve happened if you’d leaned just a little further— well. That stayed between him and the playlist.
2019 - Liability.
You hadn’t even stepped into the hotel room yet and you could already feel his frustration. It clung to the air. Heavy. Sharp.
The race had gone horribly. And you knew him well enough to know exactly what was happening inside his head.
He was brutal with himself. Always had been. He could win and still focus on what went wrong. He could achieve something incredible and immediately tear himself apart over what he should’ve done better. And no matter how many times you reminded him how extraordinary he was— that voice in his head always seemed louder.
You’d spent years trying to quiet it. Tonight was no different. You knocked softly on his hotel door. Then waited. And waited.
Your stomach twisted. Because there was always a chance he wouldn’t let you in. That he’d choose isolation instead. And you’d respect that. Even if it broke your heart.
Then finally— the door opened. Lando stood there in grey sweats and an old t-shirt. His hair was messy. His eyes tired. His jaw tense.
But the second he saw you— something shifted. Not completely. But enough.
You lifted the bag of sweets in your hand like a peace offering. “I come bearing emotional support sweets.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. And he stepped aside.
That tiny movement felt like victory.
You’d learned a long time ago that pushing Lando never worked. He talked when he was ready. Your job was simply to stay.
So that’s what you did. You kicked off your shoes and dramatically launched yourself onto his bed. Sprawling across it like you paid for the room yourself. Lando sat near the headboard, shoulders still rigid with tension.
“Never thought I’d get to see this side of the world,” you said after a while, opening the sweets. “Becoming friends with you was actually a brilliant financial decision.”
A small laugh escaped him. Forced. But present.
You kept going. “You know, I found these bracelets at a market yesterday,” you held yours up proudly. “I was going to get you one but they didn’t have idiot sizes.”
He huffed a real laugh this time. Your chest warmed. Progress. “The dumplings here are incredible by the way. Life-changing, honestly,” he looked at you properly now. “I think I might move here solely for dumplings.”
“That feels dramatic.”
“You know me.”
“I unfortunately do.”
And so it continued. You rambled. About markets. About your flight. About bad tourists. About a waiter who hated you. Anything to pull him out of his own head.
And slowly— his shoulders dropped. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened.
By the time an hour passed— his smile looked real again. And your heart nearly burst with relief.
“Do you want to listen to some music?” you asked softly. You moved beside him at the headboard, slipping beneath his duvet like you belonged there. Maybe you did.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
Your shoulder brushed his. Then stayed there. Neither of you moved away. Your pulse did something strange. You ignored it.
You pulled out your phone and opened a playlist you’d carefully built for nights exactly like this. Songs for when Lando forgot how incredible he was. Songs for when you didn’t have the right words.
Lorde began playing softly.
The room went quiet. Your fingers found his hand beneath the duvet without thinking. Like muscle memory. Like instinct.
Lando looked down at your intertwined hands. Then at you.
Your head rested against his shoulder now. Your breathing slowly evening out. He could feel every inhale. Every exhale. Every place your body touched his felt electrically alive. His heart stuttered painfully against his ribs.
And then— you fell asleep. Typical. But, you were still holding his hand. Still tucked against his side. Still trusting him with every fragile part of yourself.
Lando looked down when you let out the tiniest snore. And he smiled so hard it almost hurt. Because no one knew how to love him like this. Quietly. Patiently. Without asking for anything in return.
And God— he was so hopelessly in love with you it felt terminal.
Later that night, after carefully untangling himself so he wouldn’t wake you— he added more songs to the playlist. Because it reminded him of your hand finding his in the dark. Of your head on his shoulder. Of how your love always arrived in the exact form he needed.
And how terrifying it was that you still didn’t realise you already owned his entire heart.
2024 - cardigan.
The atmosphere was electric. It buzzed through your veins so violently you thought you might explode from it. The screams. The chanting. The tears. The heat.
Everything blurred into one overwhelming moment. And yet somehow— all you could see was him. Standing on the top step. His first win. Finally.
Your face was soaked with tears. Your cheeks hurt. Your chest physically ached from how hard your heart was pounding. You’d watched the entire race barely breathing as he defended against lap after lap.
And when he crossed that finish line— you’d screamed so loudly that his mum had burst into laughter before pulling you into her arms.
Only then had you realised you were sobbing. Properly sobbing. Completely undignified. You didn’t care.
Your best friend had just won his first Formula One race. And the world finally felt correct.
You’d always known he was destined for this. Even before either of you really understood what racing meant. There had always been something extraordinary about him.
You saw it the day he’d looked up at you from the ground after you shoved him off the climbing frame. That ridiculous grin. That spark in his eyes. That certainty.
Maybe that was why you’d agreed to be his best friend so easily. Because some part of you knew your life would always be brighter with him in it.
You watched him disappear into a sea of orange as the celebrations roared around him. His family clung to him. His team cried. Champagne sprayed everywhere.
And you stayed back. Even though every part of you wanted to launch yourself at him. Wanted to kiss his stupid smiling face. Wanted to tell him you loved him.
That thought hit you so suddenly you almost stopped breathing. You blinked it away. Absolutely not. You were emotional. That was all.
Then he stepped onto the podium. And you forgot how to breathe all over again. Because he looked— beautiful.
There was no other word for it. Sunlight caught in his curls. His jaw sharp beneath the spray of champagne. His smile so bright it bordered on blinding.
As the British anthem played, all you could think was: He belongs there. He always had.
Hours later, once the chaos in the garage had calmed slightly— you ran. Straight at him.
Lando barely had time to react before you launched yourself into his arms. He stumbled backward with a startled laugh before his hands locked around your waist. Lifting you effortlessly.
Your legs instinctively wrapped around him. And suddenly— everything else disappeared. The noise. The team. The cameras. The celebration.
Gone.
All you could feel was him. Warm. Sweaty. Sticky with champagne. Real. Your face buried into his neck. His breath hot against your skin.
“I’m so fucking proud of you, Lan,” you whispered brokenly. Your voice cracked. “You were incredible today.”
His grip tightened around your waist. And when he spoke, his voice sounded dangerously soft. “I’m just glad you were here.”
Your entire body went still. Your heart stuttered violently. Because he said it like it mattered. Like you mattered.
And that felt far too dangerous to unpack.
So like always, you didn’t.
Later, exhausted and slightly tipsy, you found yourself in the backseat on the drive to the hotel. Your forehead rested against the cool glass. Your headphones played softly. Your entire body hummed with emotional exhaustion.
Then— his hand landed on your bare knee. You physically jolted. Electricity tore through your body so sharply your breath caught. It felt like every nerve ending you possessed had suddenly become aware of him.
You turned sharply. Lando was already watching you. His curls still damp. His cheeks flushed. His eyes impossibly soft. Golden under the streetlights. He looked unfairly beautiful.
He nodded toward your earphones. You pulled one out slowly.
“What’s on the playlist today?” His voice was quiet. His thumb absentmindedly brushed across your knee. Once. Twice. Your brain completely short-circuited.
You forgot every word you’d ever known. Forgot how breathing worked. Forgot your own name, probably.
“I—” Nothing. Your lips parted uselessly.
Lando’s eyes dropped to your mouth. Then flicked back up. And suddenly the air felt dangerously thin.
So instead— you shoved the earbud toward him. Coward.
He took it. Listened for a moment. Then laughed softly. “Taylor Swift?”
You exhaled shakily. “I like her lyrics.”
His hand finally left your knee. And you hated the loss instantly.
Later that night, drunk and still buzzing from victory, Lando added the song to the playlist. Because your legs had wrapped around him like instinct. Because your body reacted to his touch like it meant something. Because you looked at him like he hung the stars.
And for the first time in years— he allowed himself to believe this might actually have a happy ending.
2025 - Everywhere, Everything.
Lando knew it was a terrible idea. Max had certainly told him it was a terrible idea. His mum probably would’ve agreed.
And yet— when you casually suggested spending two weeks with him in Monaco before pre-season testing began— he said yes before his brain could intervene.
Which was objectively idiotic. Two whole weeks. Just you. Just him. Alone. In his flat. Wandering sun-drenched streets. Getting tipsy in tiny restaurants hidden from tourists. Falling asleep on the sofa during films. Talking until three in the morning about childhood memories.
It was a spectacularly terrible idea for someone hopelessly in love with his best friend. Especially after Miami. After the way you’d looked at him. After how your body reacted to his touch.
He’d almost convinced himself you felt it too.
Then two weeks later— you’d tried setting him up with a girl in a bar. And yelled at him when he turned her down.
So clearly— he was an idiot. And this? This was simply him volunteering for emotional torture.
By day seven, being woken by your singing had become routine. Terrible singing. Loud singing. Entirely confident singing. He usually found it deeply annoying.
He secretly adored it.
Dragging himself from bed, hair a mess and sleep still heavy in his bones, Lando expected to find you singing while doing something normal. Brushing your teeth. Doing laundry. Scrolling your phone.
What he didn’t expect— what stopped him dead in the doorway— was you dancing in his kitchen. Morning sunlight spilled through the windows. Your bare feet slid across the floor. Your phone blasted from the counter.
And you— God. You were wearing his clothes. One of his oversized t-shirts which swallowed your frame. A pair of his shorts hung low on your hips. Your hair was messy from sleep. You were singing lyrics that were definitely incorrect while attempting to cook breakfast.
And Lando forgot how to breathe. Completely. Because it looked— dangerously— like home. Like Sunday mornings ten years from now. Like every future he’d quietly imagined but never let himself fully want.
His chest physically ached from it. Because this was everything he wanted. And none of it was actually his. You were still just his best friend. And that felt unbearably cruel.
He stood there far longer than he should have. Just watching. Watching you dance terribly. Watching you smile to yourself. Watching your hips sway off beat. Committing every second to memory.
Then you spun around. And screamed. “Lando!” You clutched your chest dramatically. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
He laughed softly. “Now you know how it feels.”
You narrowed your eyes. Then turned back toward the stove. “Get out.”
“What?”
“I’m making you breakfast.”
“It smells burnt.”
You gasped. “It is caramelised.”
“It smells like smoke.”
“Get out, Norris!”
Lando raised his hands in surrender, laughing as he retreated. And somehow— he fell even harder.
A few minutes later, you appeared balancing two plates. He watched you set breakfast down with an unnecessarily proud expression.
Shockingly— it was edible.
You talked through breakfast. About a bizarre dream you’d had. About a dog you saw yesterday. About absolutely nothing.
And Lando sat there watching morning light hit your face and thought: This is it. This is everything. This is what people write songs about. This is what forever should feel like.
And it was killing him. Because he couldn’t have it.
“So,” you asked brightly, stabbing your fork into your eggs, “what’s the plan today?”
Lando nearly said: Stay exactly here forever.
Instead, he smiled. And let you plan another day he’d replay for the rest of his life.
After breakfast, he insisted on washing up. You bounded around the table. Then— without thinking— pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thanks, Lan.”
And walked away. Just like that. Like you hadn’t completely altered his molecular structure.
Lando froze. Plate still in hand. Heart pounding so hard it physically hurt. His skin burned where your lips touched him. And for one completely delusional second— he let himself imagine chasing after you.
Pulling you back. Kissing you properly. Telling you everything.
But instead— he stood perfectly still. And accepted the devastating truth. He was going to be in love with you for the rest of his life. Whether you ever loved him back or not.
Once again, after you’d both gone to bed much later than you should have, he added another song to the playlist.
Then lay awake staring at his ceiling until sunrise— wondering how something could feel so much like forever and still not be his.
You couldn’t breathe.
As You Are In Love began to swell through the speakers, it felt like your entire body was shutting down. Your hands trembled violently. Your chest ached. Your face was soaked with tears, mascara dragging down your cheeks as years of memories crashed into you all at once.
Every song. Every moment. Every tiny memory he had treasured enough to save. He had taken the most ordinary moments of your life and turned them into something sacred.
And somehow— every single song had been about you. You felt sick with it. Not disgust. Not fear. Just overwhelming, all-consuming emotion.
Because how had you missed this? How had you missed him?
Before you could gather a coherent thought— the bathroom door opened. Steam spilled into the room.
And there he was.
Lando walked out of the bathroom adjusting the collar of his shirt, curls still damp from his shower. “Before you say anything,” he began lightly, “my mum bought me this shirt and I know it looks slightly divorced dad but—”
He stopped. Completely. His eyes landed on you. Your tear-streaked face. His phone in your trembling hands. The music still quietly filling the room. And all the colour drained from his face so quickly it terrified you.
You watched the exact moment he understood. The exact moment his entire body seemed to lock up.
“Oh,” the word barely existed. His throat bobbed harshly. “It’s not—” He stopped himself. Because what exactly was the lie? That the playlist wasn’t about you? That he hadn’t spent half his life loving you? That every song didn’t belong to a version of you he had adored? His breathing became uneven. “I can explain.”
“Lando—”
“No,” his voice cracked so sharply it made your heart lurch. “Please— please just let me explain before you say anything.”
And suddenly he looked terrified. Not embarrassed. Not awkward. Terrified. Like this was his worst nightmare unfolding in real time. Like he was watching his entire future collapse. He didn’t come closer. Didn’t dare. Because this— this was the moment he had spent years avoiding.
He was twelve years old when he started that playlist. A stupid little coping mechanism. A place to put feelings that felt too enormous for a twelve-year-old boy to understand. And over time— it became everything. Every version of you. Every memory. Every almost. Every moment he loved you so much it felt unbearable.
And now you knew. And he was certain he was about to lose the most important person in his life. “I know it’s pathetic,” he laughed weakly, though it sounded more like he was breaking apart. “I know it’s insane and creepy and I should’ve deleted it years ago but I—”
His voice broke completely. His eyes squeezed shut. “I didn’t know what to do with how much I love you,” your entire body went still. And Lando mistook your silence for devastation. He nodded to himself like he was bracing for impact. “That’s fair.”
Your face crumpled further. “Lando—”
“No, it’s okay,” he was crying now. Actually crying. And it looked like it was killing him to keep speaking. “I know you don’t feel the same,” that sentence physically hurt to hear. “I know that,” he inhaled shakily. “But I swear to God I never wanted anything from you.”
His voice cracked again. “I was happy just being your best friend,” he laughed bitterly through tears. “Well— not happy. That feels dramatic. But I could live with it,” he looked at you then. Completely wrecked. Because he had nothing left to hide. “I could survive loving you quietly,” your breathing turned ragged. “But I couldn’t survive losing you.”
That shattered something inside you. Because suddenly— everything made sense.
Every boyfriend you compared to him. Every moment of jealousy you swallowed. Every electric touch. Every almost kiss. Every irrational fear of him falling in love with someone else. Every time your heart had screamed his name while your brain called it friendship. Every version of your future that felt wrong unless he was standing in it.
Oh.
Oh.
You had been in love with him for years. Maybe forever. And you had both wasted so much time being afraid.
A broken laugh escaped through your tears. “You absolute idiot.”
Lando blinked at you. Completely confused. “What?”
And then you moved. Fast enough that he barely had time to react before your hands framed his face. Your thumbs wiped away tears he clearly hadn’t even realised had fallen.
And then— you kissed him.
And the world stopped. Completely. His lips were warm. Soft. Familiar in a way that made no sense and yet felt entirely right. Like your body had been waiting years for this exact moment.
Lando froze for half a second. Then he kissed you back like he’d been starving. One hand buried itself in your hair. The other wrapped around your waist and pulled you impossibly closer. And suddenly there was no space left between either of you.
No room for fear. No room for doubt. Just years of buried love finally spilling free.
The kiss was desperate. Tender. Messy with tears and laughter and disbelief. Every almost. Every longing glance. Every song. Every moment. All of it led here.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless. Foreheads pressed together. Laughing in stunned disbelief.
“How long?” you whispered.
Lando let out a shaky laugh. “Honestly?” His thumb brushed your cheek. “I think I came out of the womb loving you.”
You laughed through tears. “God,” you collapsed into him again, hiding your face in his neck. “We are such idiots,” his arms tightened around you instantly. “I don’t think I’ve ever known what it feels like not to love you, Lan.”
He went completely still. Like he needed to hear it again to believe it. “You love me?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “You made an entire playlist documenting our love story and you’re still asking stupid questions?”
He laughed so hard it broke into a sob. And kissed you again. Softer this time. Reverent.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much it’s actually embarrassing.”
“I’m sorry I looked through your phone.”
“I’m sorry I made a secret psycho playlist.”
You snorted. “It’s disgustingly romantic actually.”
His smile nearly blinded you.
Later that night, after hours of talking and kissing and laughing and saying I love you in increasingly ridiculous ways— you fell asleep wrapped in his arms. Your back pressed to his chest. His lips brushing lazy kisses against your shoulder. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.
At some point during the night— you quietly stole his phone. Opened the playlist. And smiled.
You changed the title.
songs that sound like home
(finally mine)
Then you added one final song.
When Lando found it the next morning— the sound of his laughter woke you. Followed very quickly by him kissing you like he planned on doing it for the rest of his life.
And for the first time— forever didn’t feel frightening.
Oscar narrows his eyes at you, then rolls his shoulders back and nods, having evidently come to a decision. “I bet I can have you swooning like a fan within two weeks,” he declares.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x female reader
GENRE: established relationship, humor (perhaps too much humor sorry i just love to Jest), fluff, romance (they are so in love it's egregious), oscar embracing his full potential as a competitive shit-stirrer
WARNINGS: suggestive content/sexual themes
WORD COUNT: ~5k
A/N: hello hi im insane but im #free. the other day i was thinking of one of the earliest fics i ever read where i was like holy shit this is rly a Craft and that was this fic by November Romeo (yes it's on fanfiction dot net. yes it's a gakuen alice fic. respect ur elders etc.) and then i was like wow i Must put oscar piastri in a similar Situation. all credit where credit is due—the entire premise of the fic u see below, along w/ a few passages of dialogue, are completely inspired by the November Romeo fic! that's all from me. happy reading<33
You’d said it in passing—a casual, offhanded, must-be-the-wind kind of remark. It wasn’t even meant for Oscar’s ears; you’d been joking around with Alex when you said it, during a lull in the annual pre-season F1 photoshoot marathon.
“Really, I guess it’s kind of flattering, in an adjacent kind of way. But to me, he’s just Oscar. And besides, we’ve been together for so long that it hardly registers to me anymore.”
The topic of conversation: a recent upsurge in online adulation for your boyfriend, simply because he’d stepped out in longer hair and pants that fit well. Thirst edits of Oscar had even made their way to Alex’s For You Page; when you look back on this moment, that’s where you’ll pin the blame.
Oscar comes to a cartoonish halt as he’s on his way to the main shoot, limbs frozen mid-gait. “What was that?”
You turn at the sound of his voice and smile warmly at him, a familiar fondness surging through you at the sight of his floppy hair post-helmet fitting. “Oh, hey! All done?”
“Yeah, yeah. What was that? About the, uh, trend in fan interest?” He directs his question at Alex, who looks between the two of you with thinly-veiled amusement before answering.
“They were really into your new look. Hair, pants, you know. But they’re always into you,” Alex allows.
Oscar waves him off good-naturedly. “Cheers, mate. And you said it hardly registers to you anymore?” His attention is now fixed on you, intense and single-minded in a way that makes you squirm a bit—he looks like this whenever he’s set his mind to some new challenge, all steel and sinew.
Still, you laugh, making light of your comment. “That you’re hot? Oh, please. I just meant that I’m used to you, that’s all. I’ve known you for years!”
Oscar spots Lando coming this way and raises his voice slightly to reach the other driver. “Hey, Lando! Do you think I’m hot?”
Lando gives your group a two-fingered salute and replies without even looking up from his phone. “Ask me a serious question.”
Oscar points at him, half triumphant, half accusing. “Lando’s known me for years, too.”
You roll your eyes. “C’mon, Oscar. You were shorter than me when we met, and your sleeves didn’t reach your wrists because your arms were growing faster than your legs. Which was not a deterrent for me, by the way! I had a crush on you even then, way before you had any fans,” you hurry to add.
“But you don’t have a crush on me anymore?” he presses.
“Anymore? What are you talking about—Oscar, we’re dating,” you splutter.
Alex—and Lando, drawn in by his nose for drama and general amusement—watches your exchange like a tennis match.
Oscar narrows his eyes at you, then rolls his shoulders back and nods, having evidently come to a decision. “I bet I can have you swooning like a fan within two weeks,” he declares.
The statement is so absurd and so unlike him that you burst out laughing. “Sorry, what?”
He doesn’t blink. “You heard me. Two weeks, baby. Winner gets to choose what we do for summer break.”
Oh, this is serious. You straighten and put your hands on your hips, projecting a confidence you don’t quite feel. “Deal.”
He winks—winks!—at you before being ushered away to the photoshoot, and you’re left standing there, heat crawling up the back of your neck.
Alex and Lando break, hooting and shrieking with laughter.
“You’re in trouble,” Alex gasps out.
Your jaw drops. “You guys don’t think I can resist swooning for two weeks? When have you ever known me to swoon?”
“I don’t think you can resist a competitive, motivated Oscar for two weeks,” Lando corrects.
As if. You’re a grown woman with a fully developed pre-frontal cortex. You’re made of stronger stuff than that.
As it turns out, you are not made of stronger stuff than that.
“This is ridiculous. This is obscene,” you hiss.
Lily whistles between her teeth. “This is a show, honey. One-man show, sold out just to you.”
The press powers-that-be have decided that the drivers should do individual and group helmet shots this year. Which would be fine, but the photos are being taken in Monaco, on a docked yacht, in full view of the cafe where Oscar had innocently suggested would be good for brunch with the drivers’ partners.
Not so innocent now, you realize, as you’re watching Oscar lift up his goddamn shirt to wipe at the visor of his helmet for a “candid” shot.
His shirt, which can only charitably be called such, because it’s a billowy, practically translucent thing; the kind of white button-down guys wear in the Mediterranean to be allowed to order a drink at the bar, but not much else.
“Where did that shirt even come from? I swear I’ve never seen it in his closet,” you gripe. It’s true—Oscar owns maybe three white button-downs, one-and-a-half of which fit him, all of which are the kind of thick, stiff cotton that needs to be ironed before wear. Nothing approaching the casual elegance of what he’s got now, sea breeze kicking merrily at the hem of his shirt and dancing atop his shoulders.
Alexandra giggles from beside you. “That might be Charles’s fault. Oscar came over last night to borrow a shirt for today’s shoot… and with the way you’re reacting, I’m not sure he’ll want to give it back.”
“I am not reacting—oh my god, Oscar’s going to kill him,” you announce upon seeing Lando douse Oscar thoroughly with a water gun. But instead of grabbing the gun out of Lando’s hands and emptying the whole thing onto his head, as you expect, Oscar just smiles pleasantly and shakes water out of his hair.
You’re instantly suspicious at his lack of put-out, drowned-cat behavior. And your suspicions are proved correct because Oscar makes sure to look directly at you and shrug in an oh, what can you do? kind of way before starting to unbutton his shirt entirely.
Lily and Alexandra are downright cackling now. “I think Oscar’s going to kill you, first,” Lily delights in pointing out.
Her words pretty much go in through one ear and out through another for you. You’re transfixed by the steady, methodical work Oscar’s hands are engaged in now, undoing each button on his (Charles's?) shirt with a dexterity he has no reason to show off for such a menial task. You’re vaguely aware that your jaw is slack and you’re blatantly ogling him, but you can’t help it, not really. A faint smirk graces Oscar’s lips as the last button pops loose; he looks like he was born to do nothing but sit around and be handsome on a yacht, cheeks kissed pink by an obliging sun and your even more obliging attention.
Divine intervention arrives in the form of your waiter, delivering a round of drinks to the table. You thank the waiter far more fervently than is necessary and gulp down half a peach bellini without tasting it.
Lily takes pity on you and offers you a mini fan from her purse, but you wave it away with the grim determination of a soldier heading off to battle. “Oh no,” you insist, “I’m not going down that easy.”
Alexandra muffles a laugh into her drink. “Are you not already down?”
You shoot her a dirty look and refuse to dignify that with an answer.
On the yacht, water drips from Oscar’s hair down the planes of his chest, tracking down terrain you know like gospel. In one smooth movement, he flicks his shirt away from where it’d been sticking to his torso and twists to say something to the photographer, exposing the flex in the obliques along his waist.
Your willpower whimpers.
“Don’t you think you’re laying it on a bit thick?” Lando remarks, eyeing the cafe where the girls are sitting.
Oscar squints at him and resists the urge to put on sunglasses, which he knows would ruin the show he’s putting on for you. “I think there’s a bet on, and all fair’s in love and war.”
Lando tuts sympathetically in your direction. “Poor girl.”
Oscar scoffs. “You’re lucky she’s here; otherwise, I’d have pushed you overboard for that shit with the water gun.”
“Promises, promises. But who knew you had it in you, huh? Where was this energy when we were doing the merch shoot last week?” Lando gestures at Oscar and all of his slick skin and shameless smirking.
“Not like this is my normal state of being. This is the hardest I’ve ever worked for a paycheck.” Even now, Oscar has to resist the urge to hunch into his usual posture.
Charles catches the tail end of his comment and laughs heartily. “Mate, you are so full of it.”
“Sorry, are you seriously talking right now? Guy who’s been voted most handsome on the grid like, every single year?” Oscar grumbles.
Charles clasps a hand to his chest, all aflutter. “Aw, Oscar, I didn’t know you were keeping track like that.”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “Not really much to keep track of if it’s the same every year.”
Charles drops the ingénue act and starts to look at him more thoughtfully. “I thought you didn’t care about stuff like that.”
“I don’t. I care about…” Oscar coughs and refuses to meet anyone’s eyes. “I care about her. What she thinks.”
“Uh, I don’t know if you noticed, but she looks like she wants to jump you.” Lando shades his eyes with his hands to get a better look at you. “Violently or sexually, or both—hard to say.”
“You have such a way with words,” Oscar deadpans, resisting the urge to see for himself. “Anyways, she said she’s used to me.”
Charles shakes his head. “You can’t tell me you actually believe that.”
“Not for a second, but—” Oscar sighs and gives in to the urge to look at you. Even from this distance, he can tell that you’re flustered, and that sends a jolt of self-satisfaction through him. His mouth curls into a grin, boyish and playful as he mouths the words Hi, baby, to you.
You turn away instantly, and he laughs out loud. No, you have never given Oscar a reason to feel insecure in his relationship or in himself. And he’s glad that you like him—love him—for all the right reasons. His ambition, his level head, the way he treats others, and even his dry-ass sense of humor. Still, level as his head may be, he’s also young and in love, and his pre-frontal cortex is not yet fully developed, so yes, he thinks it’d be nice to hear that you like him for all the superficial reasons, too.
“—but this is kinda fun, anyways,” he finishes.
Down at the cafe, your heart is thrumming like a snare drum even as you refuse to look at Oscar. “I cannot believe him,” you say, trying to sound indignant and ending up somewhere near breathy.
Alexandra pats your hand, placating. “Oh, have some mercy. He’s suffering just for you.”
“Suffering? The guy’s on a yacht. In Monaco.”
“Yeah, and do you think he’d ever be caught dead behaving like this for anyone else?” Lily levels you with a knowing look.
“Well… no,” you’re forced to admit. “But that doesn’t excuse his behavior!"
“God forbid your boyfriend tries to seduce you,” Lily agrees archly.
“He doesn’t need to seduce me—he already has me!” you cry.
“Right, so… tell him that.” Alexandra, ever the voice of reason.
You whip around and glare at her. “And lose the bet? Absolutely not.”
She sighs and tosses her hands up. “I give up. You guys are made for each other.”
Inexorably, your gaze swings back to Oscar on the yacht, where he’s leaning back against the railing of the top deck, shirt lifted by the wind. A hum of pure delight escapes you at the welcome sight. Yeah, you’re made for each other, alright. You watch appreciatively as Oscar cocks his head to receive an instruction from the photographer, but then he’s tossing his shirt aside and—oh dear god, he’s diving off the boat, one perfect arc slicing through the glittering Mediterranean sea.
You toss back the rest of your drink and slam it down on the table. “We’re leaving,” you grit out.
In the immediate aftermath of Oscar’s… performance on the yacht, he has wisely chosen to ease his foot off of the drive-my-girlfriend-insane pedal. But he’s only human, and his conscious choices must yield to his unconscious instincts, so when he gets a series of dramatic texts from you about severing all of your blood ties (read: you’re helping plan your sister’s wedding, and both her and your mother are being nightmares about it), it’s instinct that pushes his bottom lip out just slightly (a pout by any other name) for your plight.
It’s instinct that drives him to scour the high-brow Monaco grocery aisles for your favorite boxed mac-and-cheese and tomato soup, it’s instinct (and maybe a bit of his own sweet tooth) that stops him in front of a display of chocolate flowers, and it’s instinct that carries him through sniffing approximately thirty candles to find the one he thinks you’ll like most.
His own desires come into the mix when you arrive home and he kisses you hello, slow and indulgent, but that’s instinct, too; kissing you has always felt like the natural conclusion to where his body should end and yours should begin. And he knows exactly how to kiss you mindless, so he luxuriates in it, draws it out like molasses, a masterclass in heat and sensation.
When he finally pulls himself back from the trembling pulse in your neck, some indeterminate amount of time later, he’s pleased to see that your eyes have gone hazy and heavy-lidded, all thoughts of cake flavors and tablecloth colors purged by his wandering mouth.
“Hi,” you breathe out, slightly hoarse. The problem with being so hopelessly in love with your boyfriend is that it really doesn’t take much to set you off. The kiss—all of the kisses—were spectacular, of course, and he’s managed to take you so completely out of your head that you’re surprised to discover you’re still splayed against the door, purse and keys and shopping bags perilously close to dropping from your suddenly loose limbs.
But it’s really the fact that you’ve caught the scent of some woodsy candle in the air, and you can see a spot of tomato soup at the hem of his shirt and another of cheese powder at the collar, and you can taste chocolate on his tongue—all of that, and the care and devotion it entails, is really what warms your chest and weakens your knees.
“Hi,” he returns, grin lopsided and arms solid around you, so steady and reliable that you have to reconsider your aversion to swooning.
The worst—best?—part is that he won’t hold you against your bet for finding him so unbelievably attractive right now, because he doesn’t even know. He has no idea that he’s doing anything remarkable; to him, all of this is just instinct.
“I love you,” you sigh, awash in contentment.
He hums a tuneless agreement into your hair. “Double it and give it to the next person.”
And then there’s that infamous sense of humor. You pinch his waist lightly in retaliation, but he sees that coming from a mile away and dodges easily to plant a kiss on your forehead instead.
“Silly, you’re the next person,” he tells you, unabashedly fond even as his hand slips up your inner thigh, and yep, that’s it—dinner can wait.
The next time is all premeditated—no instinct, just strategy.
Step 1: Find an event to go to that requires him to wear a suit. This would normally be the opposite of enticing to him, but he knows the cards he can play, and well-fitting formalwear is at the top of the deck.
He tries to be subtle about it, bringing it up one morning when you’re getting ready in the bathroom. He tells you that Hattie’s been bugging him for weeks to take her to this charity gala where one of the K-pop groups she likes will be in attendance. This is all true, but this is also where he makes his first fatal mistake:
“ENHYPEN?!” Your shriek makes him wince.
“Uh, yes, do you know them?”
“Oscar.” You throw him a withering look. “Do I know them? Yes, you idiot. I know them. Honestly, what a question. Of course I’ll go with you! Oh my god, I should text Hattie to see what she’s wearing…” And then you’re bustling away, and he’s left blinking at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Step 2: Acquire aforementioned well-fitting formalwear. This isn’t the kind of thing where he can just go borrow something from Charles, and while Charles would probably still be his first choice for the daunting task of shopping, the man is out of town this weekend.
So, Oscar is left with some knockoff of the Three Musketeers: George, Alex, and Lando. That’s his second fatal mistake.
“I didn’t actually ask you two to come,” Oscar makes a point of saying to Alex and Lando.
Lando sniffs. “I take offense to that.”
“Yeah, you were meant to. I’m not about to show up to this thing in a fluorescent bowtie.”
“Not that I have one, but I’d rock a fluorescent bowtie.”
Alex holds up his hands. “I’m just here because I was with George when you called him. Also, my sister wants Niki’s autograph, so do me a solid, yeah?”
“Once you told me what was going on, I knew I needed to call in reinforcements,” George—the only one Oscar had asked for help—explains.
Although, Oscar is now feeling a bit dubious about George’s judgement. “Alex and Lando are your reinforcements?”
“Not for style. Don’t be ridiculous. Just for this—here, make yourself useful.” George grabs five suits from a rack and dumps them in Lando’s arms.
Lando grunts under the sudden weight. “You know there are employees in this very expensive store who get paid absurd amounts of money to do this?”
George dismisses him with a flick of his wrist. “I made a private styling appointment, without any employees, for a reason.” He grabs Alex’s arm and starts draping ties over it.
“Actually, why did you ask the employees to leave?” Oscar’s curious, too.
George turns to him with utmost seriousness. “Oscar, I’m a good mate. I’m not about to let more strangers know the exact extent of your sad wardrobe.”
Damn. Oscar really should have waited for Charles to come back to town.
Oscar loses the plot somewhere around Step 3, which was probably going to be something like marvel at how hot your girlfriend is when she asks you to pick a dress.
As it is, he expresses his appreciation into the swell of your chest and the cradle of your hips on the morning of the gala, and you’re more than happy to accommodate.
“This doesn’t count for the bet, by the way,” you remind him. But the words come out on a moan, so it’s not your most convincing effort.
Oscar pulls his head up to huff a tiny laugh into your belly button. “You really wanna argue about that now?”
“Well, opportunities multiply as they’re seized."
He laughs fully at that one. “What?”
With no small degree of smugness, you inform him, “Sun Tzu. All’s fair in love and war, right?”
“Oh my god, did Lando snitch?” Miffed, Oscar pushes himself up on his elbows and frowns at you.
“Obviously. And he told me about your shopping trip, too!”
Oscar blows out a breath and collapses back into you. “Turncoat.”
You smooth down the ruffled hair at the top of his head. “If it’s any consolation, he traded me information for a Sunoo autograph for his sister.”
“Believe it or not, that offers me no consolation whatsoever.” Oscar sighs. “This whole gala thing is kind of backfiring on me, isn’t it?”
“A little, but then again, you get to see me in a dress I look killer in. There are worse fates.”
He presses a kiss into your sternum and smirks at the shiver that goes down your spine. Yeah, there are definitely worse fates.
This is something he has to remind himself of, many hours later, when he’s being coaxed through the motions of a 30-second TikTok dance by Jake Sim, who is displaying an admirable level of patience with him. That had been Oscar’s third fatal mistake: abiding by some vague sense of patriotism and Jake’s promise that the dance would be “easy” and “fun!”
“Sorry, dancing’s not really my thing,” Oscar apologizes for the umpteenth time after stepping on Jake’s foot.
Jake waves the apology away easily. “Nah, dude, you’re doing great! And I could never do what you do, trust me. Maybe we can try the dance again, at point-two-five speed this time…”
Halfway across the room, you and Hattie watch with rapt fascination as Oscar attempts some kind of body roll, which sets you both off into hysterics.
“This is like Christmas, my birthday, and every other holiday rolled into one,” Hattie chortles.
“He is never going to live this down,” you wheeze.
Hattie nods sagely. “Many such cases.”
She continues to giggle as she pulls out her phone to film the whole ordeal, which is just as well because your amusement has turned syrupy sweet for your stiff-limbed boyfriend, whose face is bright red but is still trying so hard to do right by his countryman, his sister, and everyone else counting on him as an autograph conduit.
This is what gets to you: he will grit his teeth through public humiliation if he has a promise to keep, and he will complete a task with equal parts dorkiness and sincerity, and he will never be anything less than your favorite person. So, yeah, you aren’t swooning, but your heart goes tender at the sight of him putting in the effort, anyways.
Oscar is appropriately dramatic about his suffering when he returns ten minutes later and drops his head into the crook of your neck. “We should burn down TikTok,” he groans.
You pat the back of his head fondly. “Don’t quit your day job, baby. And don’t make your day job fire you for arson, either.”
“I’m going to play this video at your wedding,” Hattie declares gleefully.
Oscar discreetly points his middle finger at her. “Not if I don’t invite you.”
The unspoken when—not if—of marriage has long been acknowledged between you and Oscar, but it still sends a little jolt through you every time. This is the person you will spend the rest of your life with, and if you are lucky, there will be many people who have equal longevity in your life, but there is only one Oscar. There is only one person who looks at you like you’ve inspired him to dream new dreams, only one person who has rewritten the rhythm of your heart to beat in time with his, only one person whose guiding star trails after the ones he sees in your eyes.
What is the point of swooning when this is the magnitude of what you feel for him, when you know the magnitude of what he feels for you?
It’s a rhetorical question, but it’s one that you answer for yourself an hour later, when he tosses the car keys to Hattie for the drive back home.
She shrieks, “Really? You’ll let me drive?”
“It’s a rental, obviously. But yes, I know you’ve always wanted to drive in Monaco. Don’t tell Mom,” he tacks on at the end, watching her get in the driver's seat with a shake of his head.
“Wow, somebody call the press! Never thought I’d see the day when you give up the keys,” you joke.
He pulls you close and murmurs the next words against your ear, raising goosebumps along your arms. “Would you believe me if I said I had ulterior motives?”
“What kind of ulterior motives—oh.” The breath gets knocked out of you when he pushes you gently into the backseat of the car, a knowing look in his eye.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you’ve been shifting on your feet all night, baby.” He gets down and starts undoing the intricate laces of your heels. “I thought you were going to get rid of these after how much they bothered you at the FIA ceremony.”
You melt into the seat; he’s so fucking dreamy like this, striking in a sharp suit, all clean lines and expensive tailoring. But more than that, it’s the way he dropped to his knees without a second thought, without regard to the gravel and dirt now rubbing against his multi-thousand-dollar pants, all because your feet hurt, and he noticed. He noticed even before the ache in your soles registered to you.
One shoe comes off, and then he’s pressing a kiss into your ankle with a wicked smile. “What’s got you so tongue-tied, hm?”
You release your bottom lip from where you’d been biting it between your teeth, watching him. “Maybe I should keep the shoes, if I get to see you like this.”
The other shoe comes off, punctuated with a kiss to your other ankle. “You know I’d get on my knees for you any time, gorgeous.”
There’s nothing appropriate you can say in response to that, so you just try to trap the whimper in your throat as best as you can.
Your shoes dangle from his fingers when he gets in the car, and then he’s pulling up the privacy divider and kissing you with such intensity that it makes you gasp, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owns it, teeth catching on your bottom lip and digging in right where yours left a mark earlier. It’s over as quickly as it began (he still has some sense of decorum), but he makes it one of the hottest moments of your life, and you think you could live inside of it forever.
When he pulls away, he rubs his thumb over the wet shine of your mouth and grins smugly at the shudder it elicits from you. “Messy girl,” he coos, sucking his thumb into his own mouth just to see you squirm again.
“Oh, god,” you say finally, with feeling. You'd have swooned if you hadn't already been sitting.
“Nah, just Oscar,” he corrects, cheeky.
The coup de grâce comes a week later.
Frankly, you’d kind of forgotten about the bet in that week, because it’s the lead-up to the Australian Grand Prix, and Oscar’s heart has been broken here too many times for you to think about anything else.
He’s a good sport about it and always has been, so you also try to be casual about it throughout the week, like you couldn’t care less how he does on Saturday. In the grand scheme of things, you don’t care; he has been beloved to you long before he ever got into an F1 car, and he will always shine so brightly to you, no matter what he does on track. But you know the enormity of the hunger that hums underneath his skin whenever he’s in Albert Park—the scale of his hope, the reach of his longing.
You want it because he wants it, and even then, you know your want is only a shadow of his. Still, your heart pounds in your ears through all 58 laps, a constant drumbeat of Please, please, please, as if the circuit can hear you. Please be kind to him. Please let me see that once-in-a-lifetime smile again.
The unbelievable, dizzying speed of this sport contradicts itself at the end. When Oscar’s car crosses the finish line in P1, the world goes slow-motion around you as bedlam of the best kind erupts. His sisters are shrieking, jumping up and down, and his parents are crying freely, but all you see is him, getting out of the car and raising his fists to the crowd, which roars its approval back tenfold.
You’re running to him before anyone can stop you, everything other than him fading to background noise. He whoops when you jump into his arms, and though he still has his helmet on, you know there’s that once-in-a-lifetime smile underneath it. And so goes your white flag, waving in defeat. He was right—he’d have you swooning within two weeks.
Really, it was a losing battle from the start. You’d been naive to think otherwise; after all, you’re so goddamn in love with him. Later, you’ll tell him all of this, and more. But for now…
If you’re going down, you’re going down swinging.
“Oscar,” you begin, all bravado and command. “Get ready to catch me.”
He barely has time to splutter out a muffled What? behind his helmet before you’re pitching yourself backwards.
Thank god for racing reflexes; he catches you one-handed, just inches from the ground. You pop a leg up for him to hold by his waist, just for the drama of it all, and then you press a kiss to his helmet.
The moment is picture-perfect; indeed, a thousand camera shutters go off around you. But his world has narrowed just to you, dazzling and breathless, so lovely it makes his chest ache, makes his whole body remember that gravity is tethered to wherever you’re standing.
Oh, he thinks, you are so dear to me.
He has spent two weeks peacocking and preening, putting on airs designed specifically to get under your skin, tempting you with sin and seduction, turning you molten with a flicker of his gaze, a whisper of his touch. Even after all of that, it only takes a few words from you to bring him to his knees.
And the next words out of your mouth are made for him: “Hi there, hometown hero. I’m so proud of you.”
closest to heaven (i'll ever be) ⸻ alex albon x reader.
“it would be unconscionably rude to abandon one's family at the dinner table simply because one's sisters have decided to narrate their entire correspondence in excruciating detail—”
“excruciating!” you exclaim, and you let your eyebrows rise, let a hint of teasing creep into your voice. “how flattering, my lord. i had no idea my letters were such a trial to endure.”
“that is not what i—” he starts, and then he sees your expression and stops, “you are enjoying this.”
“oh, immensely.” you confirm, and you do not bother to hide your smile.
or, the bridgerton au.
word count. 23k
featuring. bridgerton au, the albon family (+ pets), so much yearning, [serena van der woodsen voice] i have to go, surprise logan sargeant cameo, period-accurate views on marriage and courtship, sliiiight nsfw, the sluttiest thing a man can do is have an ethical dilemma over his lust for you.
author's note. i alway say my fics are a behemoth, but this is an entirely different thing. yes, the small gap between employments is the sole reason why i have written over 20,000 words in a fury. i have a long background in writing historical fiction, and it's always my favorite genres to write, so i often wonder why it took me this long to write a historical au. nevertheless, this is a labor of love and also all the tropes of historical rom-coms i have always loved— yearning, horniness, it's got it all !! this is dedicated to kae, eve, a, lily, (@tsunodaradio @spiderbeam @hello-car-fandom + @piastriprincess) and everyone on this account who has ever stuck with me through literally my months of inactivity. will this be a one-off fic? maybe. i have a few more historical aus in mind but that will have to wait. i also forgot until halfway through that there is a youngest brother. please pretend he is just at eton. happy belated birthday, alex albon !! made this 23k words specifically for you. title is from iris by the goo goo dolls.
the band. what is a bridgerton au without an accompanying playlist⸻ entirely curated by me because i have had an obsession with string covers of modern music for forever.
the carriage rattles over cobblestones slick with morning rain, and you press your gloved fingers to the window, watching london unfurl before you.
you had been gone eleven years. eleven years of rolling hills and silence, of your grandfather's library and the slow turn of seasons measured only by which flowers bloomed in the gardens, by which birds returned to nest in the trees outside your bedroom window.
and now you are here.
you smooth your thumb over the letter in your lap, the paper worn soft at the creases from how many times you have folded and unfolded it, traced the elegant loops of lady albon's handwriting. my dearest girl, she had written, it is time you came home.
home. as though you still have one. as though the townhouse where you spent the first twelve years of your life has not been shuttered and sold, as though your mother's name is not still whispered in drawing rooms with that particular tone of half-scandal and half-pity that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.
but lady albon had written, and lady albon had insisted, and when the dowager viscountess of a family as old and respectable as the albons insists that you will stay with them for the season, that you will have your debut under her sponsorship, that she will not hear a single word of refusal… well. you have learned, over the years, that there are some forces of nature one simply does not argue with.
the carriage turns onto a familiar street. familiar, though you have not seen it in over a decade, familiar because you have dreamed of it, because the memory of these townhouses with their white facades and wrought-iron railings has lived behind your eyelids every night since you were torn away. your heart begins to pound so violently you fear the driver must hear it, fear that the whole of london must hear it, this traitorous organ announcing your return with all the subtlety of a herald's trumpet.
there. the albon residence. fourth house from the corner, distinguished by the climbing roses that lady albon has always insisted upon keeping despite the gardener's yearly protestations that the london air is too foul for such delicate blooms. the roses are in full flower now, a riot of pink and cream spilling over the iron fence, and the sight of them makes your eyes sting.
you are not going to cry. you are three-and-twenty years old, a woman grown, and you are not going to cry over roses.
the carriage slows. stops.
and then—
the blue door flies open before your footman has even lowered the steps, and there is a sound like a small stampede, a blur of muslin and ribbons and flying hair, and you hear your name— your christian name, propriety be damned— shrieked across the morning air in three voices at once.
“you're here!”
you barely have time to gather your skirts before the carriage door is wrenched open and there is zoe, zoe who was eleven years old and missing her two front teeth when you left, zoe who is now a woman grown with her dark hair pinned up in a style that is only slightly askew from her sprint down the front steps. she is reaching for you, laughing and crying all at once, and behind her alicia is bouncing on her heels with an expression of barely contained joy, and behind her is chloe— chloe, who was five years old and still in the nursery when you were sent away, who you know only from letters and the miniature portrait zoe sent you three years ago.
“let her breathe, zoe,” alicia says, though she is already shouldering past her sister to grasp your hands the moment your feet touch the pavement, squeezing so tightly you fear for your circulation. “oh, look at you, look at you— you're so tall—”
“i am precisely the same height i was in my last letter,” you manage, “i believe i even specified—”
“letters are not the same,” chloe interrupts, but then zoe pulls you into an embrace so fierce it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs, and you feel chloe's hand on your arm, and alicia is pressed against your side, and you are surrounded, you are held, and oh, oh, you had forgotten what this feels like, to be wanted somewhere, to have people who are so fiercely glad you exist.
“mama is going to be furious that we did not wait for you in the drawing room like civilized ladies,” zoe says into your shoulder, not sounding the least bit concerned about her mother's fury. “but i told her— i said, mama, i have not seen her in eleven years, i am not going to stand about making small talk when she is right there—”
“you wretched thing!” alicia’s voice overlaps her sister’s, finally pulling back to look at you properly. her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed, and she looks so much like the girl you remember, “making us wait so long, do you have any idea how many letters i had mama write to your grandfather? the man is utterly impossible, i cannot believe he kept you from us for so many years—“
“it was not entirely his fault,” you begin, but alicia waves a dismissive hand.
“i don't care whose fault it was. you're here now, that's all that matters.”
“oh, well,” you say, “in that case, i don't know what all the fuss is about.”
zoe laughs, the sound bright and startling and exactly the same as you remember, and she links her arm through yours, steering you toward the house as though you might try to escape.
“come,” she says, “come inside, mama has had cook prepare all your favorites— do you still like lemon biscuits? i told her you did but it has been so long and people's tastes change, apparently, though i cannot imagine giving up lemon biscuits personally—”
“i still like lemon biscuits,” you confirm, and you let yourself be pulled up the steps, alicia on your other side, chloe trailing behind.
the townhouse is exactly as you remember and not at all the same— the wallpaper in the entrance hall is new, a soft green that catches the light, and there are fresh flowers on the side table, and the smell of beeswax and lavender wraps around you like an embrace. you stand there for a moment, breathing it in.
“we put you in the room next to mine,” zoe is saying, already halfway up the stairs, “and chloe is across the hall, and alicia is— well, alicia is in the attic, practically—”
“i am not in the attic,” alicia protests, “i am on the third floor, which is perfectly respectable—”
“mama says she will see you for tea once you've freshened up,” chloe adds.
you smile at her, and you hope it does not look as tremulous as it feels. “i look forward to it,” you say, and you mean every word of it.
the room they have given you is lovely, pale blue walls and white linens and a window that overlooks the garden, and there is a pitcher of fresh water on the washstand and a small vase of forget-me-nots on the bedside table.
the maid lady albon has assigned to you— a cheerful, round-faced girl named martha who chatters amiably as she unpacks your trunks— helps you change out of your traveling clothes and into something more suitable for tea. the gown is one of your better ones, a soft blue muslin that your grandfather's housekeeper had insisted you commission before your departure, and you smooth your hands over the fabric as martha arranges your hair, twisting it into something more fashionable than the simple knot you had worn for the journey.
“there now,” martha says, with evident satisfaction, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “right pretty, you are. the young ladies will be so pleased.”
you manage a smile, though your stomach is tight with nerves that have nothing to do with your appearance.
the thing you have not allowed yourself to dwell upon, the thing you have carefully not mentioned in any of your letters, is that the albons have had their own share of scandal in the years since your departure.
you learned of it through zoe's correspondence, though she had been characteristically circumspect in her telling. something regarding money, she had written, something regarding mama and an investment that went rather badly wrong. you know how these things are. papa has retreated to the countryside to manage his health, and alex has taken over the estate matters. we are quite alright, truly. please do not worry.
do not worry, she had said, as though you could do anything else.
the details had come to you in fragments over the following months, both from gossip and from the girls’ letters. the albons, it had seemed, had come across certain financial decisions… investments that had seemed sound at the time but had ultimately proven disastrous. the loss had not been ruinous, not quite, but it had been significant enough to cause a stir among the ton, significant enough that lord albon had retreated to their northern estate in what everyone understood to be shame, unable to bear the whispers and the knowing looks.
he had passed there, three years later, without ever returning to london.
and lady albon, beautiful, gracious lady albon, who had welcomed you into her home when your own mother was too busy with her affairs to notice you existed, had been left to raise her children alone, her reputation tarnished, her husband gone, her eldest son forced to shoulder the burden of the estate at an age when he should have been enjoying his youth.
perhaps that is why she wrote to you. perhaps that is why she has opened her home to you now, when so many others would have turned you away. she understands, in a way that few others can, what it means to be marked by scandal.
you descend the stairs with your heart in your throat, following the sound of the girls’ laughter to the parlour, and when you step through the doorway, lady albon looks up from her seat with a smile that makes your eyes sting all over again.
“my dear girl,” she says, setting aside her embroidery and rising to take your hands in hers, and her grip is firm and warm and exactly as you remember, the hands of a woman who has weathered storms and come out the other side still standing. “let me look at you. oh, let me look at you. you have your mother's eyes— did you know that? i always told her so, though she never believed me—”
“lady albon—” you begin, but she cuts you off with a sound of pure exasperation.
“it is minky to you,” she says, squeezing your hands once before releasing them, “as it has always been, as it will always be, at least in the privacy of our own home. i did not help your mother plan her wedding and hold you as an infant and watch you grow into this remarkable young woman only to have you lady albon me in my own parlour. sit, sit—zoe, stop hovering and pour the tea—”
you sit, because there is nothing else to do when minky albon gives an order, and zoe rolls her eyes, but does as her mother says anyway.
“you look well,” minky muses, “the country air has agreed with you. though i suspect you are glad to be away from it, yes?”
“i am glad to be here,” you say, and you mean it so fiercely the words come out rough-edged. “i cannot thank you enough— the invitation, the sponsorship, all of it—”
minky waves a hand, “nonsense. you are practically family, and it is high time you were given the season you deserve. besides—” and here her eyes glint with something that might be mischief, “— i have three daughters to marry off, and i find the prospect far less tedious with the addition of a fourth.”
“mama,” zoe protests, but she is grinning as she passes you a cup of tea, “you make it sound as though we are horses at auction.”
“the marriage mart is hardly more dignified,” alicia observes, “but at least we are not expected to trot.”
“give it time,” chloe murmurs, and you nearly choke on your tea.
“you are not even out yet, young lady, so i will thank you to keep your cynicism to yourself.” minky turns back to you, and her expression softens. “now. we must discuss the practicalities. the season is already underway, but we have managed to secure you a presentation— lady norris has been kind enough to host a ball tomorrow evening, and the queen herself will be in attendance. it is not a formal drawing room presentation, but it will serve well enough to introduce you to society properly.”
“the norris ball!” alicia exclaims, “oh, it will be such fun— their eldest, oliver, is terribly serious and thinks himself very important because he is heir to an duchy—”
"he is heir to an duchy,” zoe points out.
“—yes, but he does not have to be so boring about it,” alicia continues, undeterred. "and their second son, lando, is an absolute menace. charming, of course, devastatingly so, but absolutely impossible! he flirts with everyone— everyone!— and never seems to mean a word of it, and he and alex are thick as thieves, which means we are constantly subjected to his presence at family dinners, and—”
“he is one of alex's closest friends,” zoe clarifies, noting your confusion. “they met at eton, i believe. lando is... well. you shall see for yourself tomorrow.”
“oh, speaking of alex!” alicia exclaims, sitting up so suddenly that her tea sloshes dangerously in its cup. “is he not due back from the mercer estate tomorrow? i thought he was meant to arrive just in time for the ball.”
“you will finally meet him,” chloe notes, watching you those wide eyes. “is that not strange? that you have known us so long and never met our brother?”
“i have thought of it,” you admit, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. “he was always— elsewhere. school, i believe. so i have not had the pleasure.”
the pleasure. as though you have not spent years constructing an image of him in your mind from the fragments the girls have shared. as though you did not, as a child of eleven, develop a most embarrassing fascination with the portrait of the young heir that hung in the upstairs hallway, a boy of fifteen in that painting, a slight smile on his lips despite the solemness of the painting. as though you did not write his name in the margins of your journal, once, twice, a hundred times, before tearing out the pages in a fit of mortified practicality.
it had seemed so silly, even then. a childhood infatuation with a boy you had never met, constructed entirely from a painted image and the adoring words of his sisters. you had been eleven years old and desperately lonely, and he had been the romantic hero of every novel you had ever read, distant and mysterious and perfect in the way that only imaginary figures can be.
“he is very good at being elsewhere,” alicia says, “but he is also very good at being present, when he chooses to be. you will like him, i think. everyone does.”
“alicia is biased,” chloe says, “because alex taught her to ride and let her borrow his books and generally spoiled her terribly when we were small—”
“as opposed to you, who he also taught to ride and let borrow his books and generally spoiled terribly?”
“i am not biased,” alicia protests, with tremendous dignity. “i am simply stating facts. alex is— alex. you will see.”
“tomorrow, then,” you say, and from the opposite sofa, zoe grins at you, bright and knowing.
“tomorrow,” she agrees. “and oh, it is going to be wonderful.”
the norris estate blazes with light, every window glowing gold against the darkening sky, and you can hear the music spilling out onto the gravel drive before the carriage has even come to a full stop. by the time you actually do step out of the carriage, your heart is already beating too fast, fluttering against your ribs like a caged bird, and you press your gloved hand flat against your stomach as though you might physically still the tremor of your nerves.
“breathe!” alicia whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles your ear. “you look positively green, and green does not complement that gown at all.”
"i am not green," you whisper back, though you cannot say with any certainty that this is true. "i am merely... contemplative."
“she is terrified,” zoe observes from your other side, though not unkindly. “which is perfectly reasonable. alicia was sick in the garden before her first ball. twice.”
”that was the oysters!” alicia protests.
“it was nerves. the oysters were merely… contributory.”
lady albon, resplendent in deep blue silk, fixes all three of you with a look that somehow manages to convey both fondness and warning. “if the three of you are quite finished,” she says, “we do have a queen to greet and a young lady to present. compose yourselves.”
chloe had been left at home, of course, protesting loudly that it was entirely unfair that she should miss your debut when she had been waiting to meet you for practically her whole life. but she was not yet out, and rules were rules, no matter how one might rail against them. you had promised to tell her everything, every last detail, and she had made you swear on your own dowry (which, admittedly, is not much) that you would not leave out a single dance or gown or whispered gossip.
the ballroom, when you finally enter, is a whirlwind of bodies and candlelight and colour: ladies in silks of every shade imaginable, gentlemen in dark coats and crisp cravats, the glitter of jewels at throats and wrists and ears. the queen herself is holding court at the far end of the room, surrounded by a small constellation of ladies-in-waiting, and even from this distance you can see the knowing tilt of her chin, the way the crowd constantly fixes their eyes on her, despite their total unsublety.
your presentation passes in a blur of curtsies and murmured pleasantries, the queen's sharp eyes assessing you for one endless moment before she nods, and you are released, dismissed, folded into the swirl of the evening like a single drop of water into an ocean. you remember very little of what was said. you think you did not embarrass yourself. that will have to be enough.
“well done,” lady albon says quietly, her hand briefly warm on your elbow. “now, enjoy yourself. that is an order.”
and then she is swept away into conversation with a group of ladies her own age, and you are left with zoe and alicia, who immediately steer you toward a relatively quiet corner where you can observe the proceedings without being directly in the fray.
“right,” zoe starts, “allow me to bring you up to speed on the season's developments, as you have missed the first three weeks and quite a lot has happened.”
“is this strictly necessary?” you ask, but you are smiling, still.
“absolutely essential,” alicia confirms.
“very well.” you acquiesce, moving to lean against the wall, “tell me everything.”
zoe takes a breath. "lord acosta’s daughter— you remember the acostas, yes? the house with the pretty garden? well, she has set her cap for the lord hamilton’s eldest ward, which is ambitious to say the least, given that he has shown absolutely no interest in anyone this season and seems to actively flee whenever a young lady approaches him with that particular gleam in her eye."
“the gleam of matrimonial intent!” alicia supplies with glee.
“precisely! meanwhile, the beaumont twins have both decided they are in love with the same gentleman— a mister chen, who is very handsome, very wealthy, very oblivious— and their mother is at her absolute wit's end trying to keep them from coming to blows over who saw him first.”
“this is absurd!” you exclaim, but you are laughing, your eyes following theirs, “are there no straightforward attachments this season? no simple, uncomplicated courtships?”
zoe and alicia exchange a look.
“no!” they say in unison, and zoe adds, “where would be the entertainment in that?”
the music shifts, the first dance of the evening beginning to form, and you watch as couples take their places on the floor. zoe is claimed almost immediately by a gentleman you do not recognize, and alicia is not far behind, swept onto the floor by a friend of the family whose name you have already forgotten.
and you— well, you remain where you are, pressed against the wall, watching.
it is not unexpected. you are new, unknown, the subject of whispers that have followed you since you walked through the door— that is the one, is it not? her mother's daughter, back from wherever they sent her, the albons have taken her in, how very charitable of them. the ton has a long memory, and your family's scandal is not so old that it has been forgotten. perhaps you will be asked to dance later, once curiosity overcomes caution. perhaps you will not. you have prepared yourself for this possibility, have armored yourself with low expectations.
and yet… it still stings, watching your friends laugh and turn in the arms of partners who sought them out, while you stand alone with your punch and your carefully neutral expression.
you let your gaze drift across the room, cataloging faces, looking for… something, though you are not certain what. a friendly countenance, perhaps. someone who might be willing to speak with you, to break the strange isolation that has settled around you.
and then you see him.
he is standing near one of the tall windows, half-turned away from the room as though he would rather be looking at the gardens than the glittering crowd.he is tall, dark-haired, and handsome, incredibly so, with a face that seems made for smiling even though he is not smiling now. his coat is well-cut and clearly expensive, his cravat tied with a kind of careless precision that suggests either great skill or a very good valet, and he is—
he is looking at you.
your breath catches.
he looks away immediately, almost guiltily, fixing his gaze on some point in the middle distance, but you saw. you saw him watching you across the crowded room, saw the flicker of something in his expression before he schooled it into neutrality, and the thing is—
the thing is you know him.
not personally, no. you have never been in the same room with him before this very moment, but, you know the set of his shoulders from years of studying a portrait that hung in the albons' drawing room, know the shape of his jaw from the miniature zoe sent you three christmases ago.
lord alexander albon.
a silly childhood crush, you had called it then, and you had told yourself you had outgrown it, had left it behind with all the other childish things you had been forced to abandon when your world collapsed. you are a woman now, not a girl, and you do not form attachments to men you have never met based on portraits and secondhand stories and a few kind words in fading ink.
and yet.
and yet.
he glances at you again, quick and furtive, and this time when your eyes meet he does not look away immediately— he holds your gaze for one endless, breathless moment, and you see colour rise in his cheeks, see the way his throat moves as he swallows, and something reckless seizes hold of you, something that feels like the girl you used to be.
you set down your glass of punch, smooth your skirts, swallow the heavy feeling in your throat, and you walk across the ballroom floor toward him, weaving through the crowd with a confidence you believe is entirely fabricated, your heart pounding so loudly you are certain the entire room must be able to hear it.
he watches you approach. he does not flee, though he looks for a moment as though he is considering it, his hand tightening briefly on the glass he is holding before he seems to consciously relax his grip. up close he is even more handsome than he was at a distance, and you notice that there is a warmth to him, a softness around his eyes that the portrait never captured, and when you stop before him you can see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, can see the way his lips part slightly as though he means to speak and then thinks better of it.
“lord albon.” you say, giving a brief curtsy, “i believe we have never been formally introduced, though i feel i know you quite well through your sisters' correspondence. i am—”
“i know who you are,” he interrupts, and then immediately looks mortified, colour flooding his face all the way to the tips of his ears. “that is— i meant— my sisters have spoken of you. frequently. at length. i feel as though i have known you for—” he stops, takes a breath, visibly collects himself. “forgive me. it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. a genuine pleasure. i have heard— that is to say—”
he is flustered. this man, who for all intents and purposes is a viscount, this figure who has loomed so large in your imagination for so long, is flustered, and he is standing before you blushing and stammering like a schoolboy. you are incredibly endeared.
“your sisters told me you would be here tonight,” you say, taking pity on him, offering him an easier thread to grasp, “they were beginning to wonder if you had forgotten the way to london.”
he laughs, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “the tenants' drainage issues were rather more complicated than anticipated,” he admits, “though i confess the journey back was… motivated.” he seems to realize what he has said and immediately looks as though he wishes the floor would swallow him whole. “by the season. by the start of the season. my sisters— they would not have forgiven me if i missed—”
the orchestra begins a new piece. around you, couples are pairing off again, moving toward the dance floor, and you watch his gaze flicker to the swirl of silk and candlelight before returning to your face, and you see the question there, the hesitation, the way he opens his mouth and then closes it again as though he cannot find the words.
eleven years, you think. eleven years of waiting, of wondering, of holding the idea of him like a pressed flower between the pages of your heart.
“lord albon,” you say, and you smile, “are you going to ask me to dance?”
his eyes widen. the flush on his cheeks deepens impossibly further. “i was working up to it,” he admits, “i have been working up to it for—” he stops, shakes his head, and when he meets your eyes again there is a steadiness there that was not present before, “would you do me the honor of this dance, my lady?”
he extends his hand, and you take it. his hand is warm through the thin fabric of your gloves, warm and solid and real, and you let him lead you onto the floor with your heart hammering against your ribs like it is trying to escape the confines of your chest.
the other dancers are a mere blur around you, a swirl of colour and movement at the edges of your vision, all because you find you cannot look away from his face, at he way his eyes keep darting to yours and then away again.
“you are very quiet,” you observe, after a full eight bars of the dance have passed in silence. “your sisters led me to believe you were rather more talkative.”
he huffs a laugh, soft and surprised, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. “my sisters,” he says, “have a great deal to answer for. i dread to think what else they have told you.”
"only good things," you assure him,and you cannot help the smile that curves your lips, “well… mostly good things. your sisters are... very thorough in their correspondence.”
something sparks in his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders eases slightly. “they are, aren't they? i shudder to think what they have told you about me. all lies, i assure you.”
“all of it?”
“well.” his mouth twitches, “perhaps not all. but certainly the most embarrassing parts.”
you laugh, “ah, so all of them, then.”
he chuckles, shakes his head, “you are not so inclined towards wit in your letters.”
you raise a brow, “you have read my letters? to your sisters?”
the question slips out before you can stop it, and you watch the colour rise in his cheeks again, that telltale flush that seems to give away every thought in his head.
“not— not all of them,” he says, and he sounds almost defensive now, “only… sometimes they would read passages aloud. at dinner. and i could not exactly leave—”
“of course not,” you nod, fighting to keep your expression serious. “that would be rude.”
“exactly. it would be unconscionably rude to abandon one's family at the dinner table simply because one's sisters have decided to narrate their entire correspondence in excruciating detail—”
“excruciating!” you exclaim, and you let your eyebrows rise, let a hint of teasing creep into your voice. “how flattering, my lord. i had no idea my letters were such a trial to endure.”
“that is not what i—” he starts, and then he sees your expression and stops, “you are enjoying this.”
“oh, immensely.” you confirm, and you do not bother to hide your smile. “you turn the most remarkable shade of red when you are embarrassed, did you know that? it is quite fetching.”
“i–” he begins, but then the music ends. around you, couples are separating, bowing and curtsying, drifting apart to find new partners or refreshments or the relative safety of the room's edges. you should step back. you should curtsy and thank him for the dance and allow him to return you to his sisters like a proper gentleman escorting a proper lady.
you do not move, and neither does he.
“lord albon,” you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intend to, “i find i am rather glad we have finally met.”
“as am i, my lady,” he says, eyes still trained on yours as he bends down to press a kiss to your gloved hand, “as am i.”
the days that follow the norris ball pass in a blur of morning calls and afternoon teas and evening entertainments, a whirlwind of social obligations that leaves you breathless and exhausted and strangely, achingly alive in a way you had forgotten you could feel.
you attend musicales where young ladies of varying talent perform for politely captive audiences, promenades through hyde park where the ton parades itself in all its finery and pretends not to notice who is walking with whom. you smile until your cheeks ache. you make conversation until your voice grows hoarse. you dance with gentlemen whose names you forget almost as soon as they release your hand.
you tell yourself that this is what you came here for, that this is the purpose of the season, this is your one chance to secure a future that does not involve returning to your grandfather's estate, or becoming a governess to a pack of what you assume would be spoiled brats, waiting for the lessons to end so they may cajole around in the sun.
one fact remains, though: alexander albon makes himself scarce.
you see him at breakfast, sometimes, already halfway through his coffee and the morning papers when you come down, and he will look up and nod politely and inquire after your sleep with the distant courtesy of a man addressing a houseguest he barely knows.
you see him in the hallways, passing like ships in the night, and he will murmur good afternoon or pardon me and continue on his way without breaking stride. you see him leaving for the gentlemen’s club or arriving home from some business meeting or another, always in motion, always just out of reach, and you tell yourself it does not matter, you tell yourself you are being foolish, you tell yourself that one dance does not make a courtship and one conversation does not make a connection and you have no claim on his time or his attention or the warmth that had flickered in his eyes when he held you in his arms and told you he was glad to have met you.
very well then. you cannot simply sit around and wait for a man to notice you, no matter how long your infatuation for him might have been. there is a deadline for you, a ticking clock in the back of your head, and you cannot afford to wait. that is the truth of it.
you will just have to be practical.
it is a quiet tuesday afternoon, which should be noted as a rare occasion, given the revolving wheel of suitors and callers that seemingly appear at the albons’ front door, and you are in the parlour with zoe and alicia and chloe, all four of you crammed onto one settee in a way that is entirely improper and entirely comfortable, passing the latest society papers back and forth and reading the most ridiculous passages aloud in increasingly dramatic voices.
“the society papers report that a certain young baron was seen leaving the beaumont residence at an hour most unbecoming of a gentleman caller,” zoe reads from over your shoulder, as you are holding the papers at the moment, her voice dripping with affected scandal, “one can only speculate as to the nature of his business, though this author suspects it had rather more to do with matters of the heart than matters of finance.”
“the beaumont residence!” alicia gasps, her eyes going wide. “that is where the twins live. clara and catherine! the ones fighting over mister chen.”
“do you think he has made his choice?” chloe asks, leaning forward, trying to get a glimpse of the papers.
“if he has any sense, he will flee the country,” you say, and the girls dissolve into giggles, a bright cascade of sound that fills the parlour like sunshine.
then, the laughter cuts abruptly, and you turn to see lord albon standing in the doorway, frozen mid-step as though he had not expected to find the parlour occupied.
“alex,” zoe says, her voice bright with false innocence, “how lovely of you to join us. we were just catching up on the latest gossip.”
he clears his throat. shifts his weight. he does not quite meet your eyes. “so i’ve heard,” he says, voice careful, “i did not mean to interrupt.”
“you are not interrupting,” alicia says sweetly, “we were merely reading the society papers. nothing of consequence.”
“nothing of consequence.” he repeats. “i was not aware that the gossip column qualified as essential reading.”
“it is entertaining reading,” zoe corrects. “there is a difference.”
“is there?” he asks, moving into the room properly now, crossing to the settee opposite yours his eyes flicker to you, once, quickly, and then away again, fixing on some point on the far wall as though it contains information of vital importance.
you lower the paper just enough to peer over its edge, meeting his gaze, “surely,” you say, and you let your voice curl around the words like silk, “it is not a sin to indulge in the society papers, my lord?”
his cheeks flood with colour, and his mouth opens and closes twice before any sound emerges, and when it does it is not words so much as a strangled sort of noise that might be protest or might be surrender or might be something else entirely.
“i— that is not— i did not say it was a sin,” he manages, and his voice has gone slightly higher than usual, slightly breathless. “i merely— i only meant—”
"he is flustered!" chloe exclaims, “look, his ears have gone red!”
“they have not!” he protests.
“they absolutely have,” alicia confirms, grinning. “they always do when he is flustered. it is one of his tells.”
“i do not have tells—”
“you have many tells,” zoe shrugs, “you are, in fact, the least subtle person in this family, which is saying something given that chloe once tried to hide a squirrel in her wardrobe for three weeks.”
“the squirrel was very quiet!” chloe protests.
“the squirrel ate mother's favorite gloves!”
“that was never proven—”
“i believe we were discussing lord albon's tells,” you interrupt, grinning at him with a glint of mischief in your eyes, “please, do continue. i find myself fascinated.”
alexander drops his head into his hands in a gesture of defeat. “you are all impossible,” he says, but there is no heat in it, no real frustration, only warmth, only the exasperated affection of a man who loves his family even when they are determined to torment him, “every last one of you.”
“and yet you keep us!” zoe says, reaching across the space between the settees to pat his knee in a gesture that is more mocking than comforting.
“i keep you,” he agrees, raising his head to meet her eyes, “because i have no choice in the matter. you are, unfortunately, blood relations.”
“and her?” alicia asks, nodding toward you with a sly expression that makes your cheeks warm. “she is not a blood relation. will you keep her too?”
the parlour goes quiet.
“i—” he starts, and then stops, and then looks at his sisters with an expression of profound betrayal. “you are all impossible!”
“you already said that,” chloe points out.
“it bears repeating.”
“but you did not answer the question,” zoe presses, and she is relentless, she has always been relentless, and you want to kiss her and strangle her in equal measure, “will you keep her? we have already decided that we shall, so really it is only a matter of whether you are in agreement—”
“zoe.”
“what? it is a simple question—”
“nothing about this is simple,” he says, and his voice is quieter now, more serious, and when he looks at you again there is something in his expression that makes you acutely aware of every breath you take and every beat of your heart.
“we like her,” alicia adds softly, and the teasing has gone out of her voice, “we have always liked her, alex. and she is here now, finally, after all these years. does that not count for something?”
he does not answer, at least not with words, but his eyes stay on yours.
“i should—” he clears his throat, rises from the settee with a jerky, graceless motion, “i have business to attend to. if you will excuse me.”
and then he is gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, and you are left staring at the space where he was with your heart pounding and your mind racing and the echo of his almost-answer ringing in your ears.
one of the things you have come to learn about the albons, in the weeks since your arrival, is that they are not so much a family who keeps pets as they are a family who has been slowly, persistently taken over by animals.
it had started with frooky, or so zoe had explained during your first bewildering morning when you had come down to breakfast and found a large, frowning cat sitting in the center of the dining table like a furry centerpiece, calmly grooming himself while the family ate around him as though this were perfectly normal behavior.
“once you have one cat,” alicia had said, “you somehow end up with eleven. it is simply the way of things.”
"eleven?" you had repeated, certain you had misheard.
“eleven,” chloe had confirmed, ticking them off on her fingers. "frooky, moomoo, hippo, gigi, blue bear, stan, horsey…” and then she had continued to list them off, all with endearingly ridiculous names.
there are also, you have since learned, a dog and two ponies at the family's countryside estate, a fact that chloe had shared with tremendous enthusiasm and alex had confirmed with the weary resignation of a man who has accepted his fate.
you have met most of the cats by now, though you confess you cannot always tell them apart, and you know there are several grey ones who blur together in your memory, but you have grown fond of them regardless, these soft warm bodies that appear on your bed at night and wind around your ankles at meals and generally make themselves at home in every corner of your borrowed life here in london.
this afternoon, you are in the library.
it is a rare moment of solitude; zoe and alicia have gone calling with their mother, and chloe is practicing her pianoforte under the supervision of her governess. you had intended to spend the time reading, had been eyeing the albons' collection for days, and when you had finally found yourself alone you had made your way here with something approaching reverence.
the library is beautiful, all dark wood and tall windows, and the shelves stretch floor to ceiling, stuffed with volumes in no apparent order: philosophical treatises shelved beside gothic novels, scientific journals mixed in with poetry collections, everything jumbled together in a way that suggests the albons read widely and eclectically and do not much care for organization.
the book you want is on the top shelf. of course it is.
you eye the ladder that leans against the far wall, consider fetching it, and then decide that the step stool tucked into the corner will suffice. after all, the book is not that high, and you are not that short, and surely you can manage without going to the trouble of maneuvering a full ladder across the room.
this, as it turns out, is a miscalculation.
you position the step stool beneath the relevant section of shelving, gather your skirts in one hand to keep them from tangling around your feet, and ascend the two steps with what you feel is a feat of admirable grace. the book, a collection of essays on natural philosophy that you have been longing to read since you spotted it three days ago, is just within reach, your fingertips brushing the spine, and you stretch up onto your toes to get a better grip—
—and something moves in the shadows of the upper shelf.
you have approximately half a second to register a pair of gleaming eyes and a flash of grey fur before the cat launches itself directly at your face.
what follows is not, strictly speaking, dignified.
there is a yowl— from the cat or from you, you genuinely cannot say— and a flailing of limbs, and a desperate grab for the shelf that only succeeds in dislodging approximately a dozen books from their places. the step stool tips, and your balance abandons you entirely. and then you are falling, books raining down around you as you you hit the floor with a thump that knocks the breath from your lungs and sends a sharp bolt of pain through your hip and elbow.
for a moment you simply lie there, stunned, staring up at the ceiling while dust swirls in the afternoon light and somewhere above you a cat makes a sound of profound indignation, as though you are the one who has behaved unreasonably.
“what in god’s name—!”
the voice comes from the doorway, and you turn your head to see alexander albon standing frozen at the threshold with an expression of pure horror on his face, his eyes darting from you to the scattered books to the step stool lying on its side.
“‘m fine,” you say, which is perhaps optimistic given that you have not yet attempted to move, but it seems like the right thing to say, “i'm— there was a cat—”
he is across the room before you finish the sentence, dropping to his knees beside you with a complete disregard for his trousers, his hands hovering over you as though he wants to touch but is not certain he is allowed.
“are you hurt?” he demands, “can you move? should i send for a doctor? what happened—”
“a cat,” you repeat, and despite everything, despite the ache in your hip and the embarrassment burning in your cheeks and the fact that you are lying on the floor of his library surrounded by fallen books like some sort of disaster, you find yourself laughing, “a cat jumped at me. from the shelf. i think— i think it might have been moomoo—”
you both look toward the window at the same moment.
moomoo is sitting on the windowsill, one leg extended toward the ceiling as he attends to his… personal grooming with the focused dedication of a creature who has never done anything wrong in his entire life.
“moomoo,” alexander says, and there is a wealth of exasperation in that single word, a lifetime of similar incidents condensed into two syllables, “of course it was moomoo.”
“he came out of nowhere,” you say, and you are still laughing, you cannot seem to stop, the absurdity of the situation finally catching up with you, “i was just— i wanted a book—”
“let me help you up,” he says, and before you can protest his hand is closing around yours, warm even through both your gloves, and his other hand is at your elbow, steadying you as you struggle into a sitting position, “slowly, now. does anything feel broken? sprained?”
you take a moment to assess, wiggling your fingers and toes, rotating your wrists and ankles. everything seems to be in working order, though you suspect you will have some spectacular bruises by dinner, “i am intact,” you report, “merely… dented.”
“dented,” he echoes, and when you look at him his lips are twitching, almost into a smile, “that is one word for it.”
“i prefer to maintain my dignity wherever possible,” you say, with as much primness as you can muster, “even in circumstances that actively conspire against me.”
“here,” he says, reaching a hand out, “let me—”
you take his hand, let him pull you upright. when you stand, you are unsteady for a moment, and he reaches out, places a hand on your waist to balance you. for a moment you are standing very close to him, close enough to see the individual threads of his cravat, close enough to see the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth and then away again. the hand on your waist sears through like a burn.
“the books,” you say, stepping away from him, from his grasp, because you have to say something, because the silence is becoming unbearable. “we should— i should—”
“yes,” he agrees, and his voice sounds strange, rougher than usual, “yes, we should—”
you both bend down at the same moment, and your fingers close around the spine of a fallen volume at the exact instant his do.
you freeze. he freezes. and then you are both crouched on the library floor with your hands overlapping on a copy of the mysteries of udolpho, your gloved fingers tangled together, your faces inches apart.
“oh,” you breathe.
his eyes meet yours. hold. and you see something flicker behind them, before a shutter seems to fall, some invisible wall slamming into place between one heartbeat and the next.
he pulls his hand back as though burned.
“forgive me,” he says, and his voice has gone strange again, “i should not have— that was—”
“lord albon,” you start, but he is already rising to his feet, already stepping back, already putting distance between you. “lord albon,” you try again, “please, if i have done something to offend—”
“you have done nothing,” he says, though you do not feel any sort of reassurance, “you have been— you are—”
he stops. shakes his head.
“i should go,” he says, more definitively now, “i have— there is business i must attend to. please excuse me.”
“my lord—”
but he is already gone, the library door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds, in the silence that follows, very much like a period at the end of a sentence.
you stand there for a long moment, and you try very hard not to feel as though something precious has just slipped through your fingers.
from the windowsill, moomoo yawns elaborately and resettles himself in his sunbeam.
the day after next dawns bright and clear, and lady albon declares at breakfast that the entire family will be taking a turn about hyde park after luncheon, no exceptions, no excuses, and she does not want to hear a single word of protest from anyone at this table.
she is looking very pointedly at her son when she says this.
alexander, to his credit, does not protest. he merely inclines his head in acknowledgment and returns his attention to his coffee with the studied nonchalance of a man who is very carefully not looking at anyone else at the table, and you tell yourself that the twist in your chest is indigestion, nothing more.
the walk itself is pleasant enough. the weather holds, though it is a bit crowded; it is easy to disappear with the amount of people, easier to slide beneath the rush of the crowd.
lady albon leads the brigade, with zoe and alicia are linked in arms, chattering, while you and chloe enjoy companiable silence behind them. alexander is a half-step behind with his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze fixed on some middle distance that seems to exist only for him.
you steal glances at him when you think he is not looking, cataloging the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way the sunlight catches in his dark hair. he is beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair, and you wish that beauty were enough. that wanting were enough. that you could simply reach out and touch him without the whole complicated machinery of society grinding into motion around you.
but you cannot. and so you walk, and you do not touch, and you try to content yourself with proximity.
ahead of you, zoe lets out a small shriek of delight.
“lottie!” she calls, dropping alicia's arm and gathering her skirts to hurry toward a cluster of young ladies near the serpentine. “charlotte liao, is that you? i did not know you were back from bath—”
and then all three albon sisters are gone, swept up in the unexpected reunion, and you are left standing on the path with alexander, watching them embrace and exclaim and generally behave as though they have not seen each other in years rather than weeks.
“are you not going to join them?” alexander asks, after a moment.
“no,” you say, curtly, “i think not.”
“may i ask why?”
“i am wrought with scandal enough,” you say simply. “miss liao’s family is well-respected, well-connected. the last thing she needs is to be seen associating with the daughter of—” you stop, swallow. “well. you know what they say about my mother.”
he is quiet for a long moment. when you glance at him, his expression is unreadable.
“the ton has a long memory,” he says finally, “they remember what they wish to remember, and they forget what is convenient to forget.”
“your family's troubles seem to have faded more quickly than mine,” you observe, and there is no accusation in it, only a simple statement of fact, “your sisters are received everywhere. your mother is welcomed in the finest drawing rooms. your own prospects are—”
“my own prospects are complicated,” he interrupts, not unkindly, “our debts are paid, yes, and the worst of the whispers have died down, but the ton does not truly forget. they simply… wait.” his mouth twists into something that is not quite a smile. “the albons have survived, but survival is not the same as acceptance. my sisters will make good matches because they are charming and beautiful and will not carry the albon name in marriage, and my mother has worked tirelessly to repair our reputation, but there will always be those who remember.”
“at least they whisper quietly,” you say, and you cannot quite keep the bitterness from your voice, “my family's scandal is still spoken of openly. my mother's choices, my father's—” you break off, shaking your head, “it does not matter. i did not come to london expecting to be embraced by society. i came because your mother was kind enough to offer me a chance, and i intend to make the most of it, whatever that looks like.”
“and what does that look like?” he asks. “to you?”
you consider the question. it is not one you have allowed yourself to examine too closely, the boundaries of your expectations.
“a respectable match,” you say eventually, "a home of my own. children, perhaps. a life that is… quiet. stable, at least. free from the constant reminder of where i came from and what my parents did.” you pause, and then, “i do not expect love. i am not foolish enough to hope for it. but i would like… contentment. someone who does not flinch when they hear my family name.”
he is quiet for so long that you begin to think he will not respond at all. when you look at him, his jaw is tight, his hands still clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the distant figures of his sisters.
“that seems a modest ambition,” he says finally, and his voice is strange, as though something is caught in his throat, “for someone who deserves so much more.”
you have to look away for a moment to collect yourself, to press down the sudden surge of emotion that threatens to spill over. “perhaps,” you say, when you trust your voice again, “but i have learned that deserving and receiving are rarely the same thing. i will take what i can get and be grateful for it.”
“you should not have to—” he starts, and then stops, shaking his head sharply. “forgive me. it is not my place.”
“no,” you agree softly, “it is not.”
“my sisters are returning,” he says, and his voice is neutral again, “we should continue our walk.”
you nod, because there is nothing else to do, and when zoe bounds up to take your arm and demand to know what you and alexander have been discussing in such serious tones, you smile and tell her nothing of consequence, nothing at all.
but later that night, lying in your bed with frooky curled warm and heavy on your feet, you stare at the ceiling and think about the look on his face when he said you deserve so much more, and you allow yourself, just for a moment, just in the privacy of your own mind, to imagine a world in which deserving and receiving might, somehow, impossibly, be the same.
and then you close your eyes and put the thought away, fold it up small and tuck it into the same corner of your heart where you keep all the other things you cannot have, and you tell yourself that friendship is enough. that if alexander albon cannot be a suitor, then you will be content with him as a friend. that wanting more is foolish and futile and will only lead to heartbreak.
you tell yourself many things.
you believe almost none of them.
“you are going to fall.”
alex's voice drifts up from somewhere below you, tinged with concern and what might be amusement. you do not look down—you are balanced on a narrow ledge of the garden wall, reaching for a climbing rose that has wound itself around the upper branches of a nearby trellis, and looking down seems like a poor strategic choice.
“i am not going to fall,” you say, with more confidence than you feel. “i have excellent balance.”
“you have reckless balance. there is a difference.”
“the rose is right there. if i can just—” you stretch further, fingertips brushing the stem, and feel the ledge shift slightly beneath your feet.
“for god's sake—”
and then his hands are at your waist, steadying you, warm and solid through the thin fabric of your dress, and you are suddenly very aware of how close he is standing, how easily he could pull you down from this ridiculous perch, how your heart has begun to beat in an entirely undignified rhythm.
“i had it under control,” you say, slightly breathless.
“you were about to plummet into the rose bushes.” his voice is dry, but his hands remain at your waist, and he has not stepped back. “which would have been difficult to explain to my mother. sorry, lady albon, your houseguest has impaled herself on your prize-winning floribundas.”
“it would have made for excellent gossip, at least.”
“a small comfort when you are being extracted from shrubbery by the gardening staff.” he pauses. “why, exactly, are you attempting to scale the garden wall?”
you point to the rose, a perfect bloom, deep crimson, just out of reach. “for chloe. she mentioned at breakfast that red roses are her favorite, and i noticed this one blooming earlier. i thought—” you shrug, suddenly self-conscious, “i thought it might make her smile. she has been melancholy lately. missing her friend who left for the country.”
his hands tighten almost imperceptibly at your waist.
“you noticed that,” he says quietly, “that she has been melancholy.”
“it is not difficult to notice, when you pay attention,” you risk a glance down at him and find his expression soft, almost wondering, “she tries to hide it, but she has not been herself. i know what it is like to miss someone. to feel left behind.”
for a moment he simply looks at you, and there is something in his eyes that makes your breath catch, something that looks almost like recognition, like seeing.
“come down,” he says finally, finally withdrawing his hands from your waist, “i will get the rose for you.”
“you?”
“i am taller. and i am significantly less likely to end up impaled on shrubbery.” he holds out his hand, waiting. “trust me?”
you look at his outstretched palm, at the steady certainty in his eyes, and you make a decision.
“yes,” you say, and you let him help you down.
he retrieves the rose with considerably more grace than you would have managed— a simple reach, a careful twist to avoid the thorns, and then the bloom is in his hand, perfect and unblemished.
“for you,” he says, presenting it with a small bow, “to give to chloe.”
“thank you,” you take it carefully, mindful of the thorns, “though you have now robbed me of my dramatic garden-scaling narrative. i was planning to tell her i risked life and limb.”
“you can still tell her that. i will corroborate your story.” his eyes crinkle, “i will even add embellishments. a treacherous wind. a near-death experience. perhaps a small fire.”
“a fire seems excessive!” you exclaim, but when you turn to look at him, he is holding back a laugh.
he falls into step beside you as you make your way back toward the house, and the silence between you is comfortable in a way that surprises you. “you are good with them, you know. my sisters. they adore you.”
“they are easy to adore in return.”
“they are terrors,” he corrects, but there is nothing but fondness in his voice, “well-meaning terrors, but terrors nonetheless. the fact that you have survived all these weeks in their company without fleeing speaks highly of your fortitude.”
“i have practice with terrors, you do not know what horrors i’ve endured in the countryside.”
“horrors!”
“oh, yes,” you respond, nodding solemnly, though you cannot hide the smile on your face, “the ghosts, the phantoms—”
“you have too much fun jesting at my expense—” he cuts himself off, almost saying your name, but he clears his throat, corrects himself, “my lady.”
you glance at him, “well, i do not jest entirely. you could say there were other horrors— i mean, it was always lonely, and the draft always did cause a chill, even in the summer months. and my grandfather— oh, when he gets in a mood, he could have such a temper! not that— i mean, he is kind, on most days.”
“he sounds… complicated.”
“he was. is.” you consider how much to share, “he took me in when no one else would. raised me, after everything that happened with my parents. i know he loves me, in his way. but it is a—” you search for the word, “—a distant love. the kind that provides shelter and education and expects gratitude in return. not the kind that—”
you stop, embarrassed by how much you have revealed.
“not the kind that your sisters have,” you finish quietly. “the easy kind. the kind that asks for nothing.”
he is silent for a long moment. when he speaks, his voice is careful.
"my father's love was not the easy kind either," he says. “before the scandal, i thought it was… i thought we were close. but when things fell apart, i realized that what i had mistaken for closeness was actually—” he pauses, “—transaction. he loved me as long as i reflected well on him. as long as i was the son he wanted, rather than the son i was.”
you look at him, and you see something you had not noticed before: a sadness beneath the composure, a loneliness that mirrors your own.
“what kind of son were you?” you ask softly, “the son you were, rather than the one he wanted?”
“i do not know.” he sounds almost surprised by his own answer, “i never had the chance to find out. by the time i was old enough to question it, he was gone. and then i had to become… this. the responsible one. the reliable one.”
“that sounds exhausting.”
“it is.” he laughs, a little ruefully, “but it is also necessary. someone has to do it. and i am the eldest. it falls to me.”
“just because something falls to you does not mean you have to carry it alone.”
he stops walking. turns to look at you.
“no one has ever said that to me before,"”he says quietly, “that i do not have to carry it alone.”
“then the people around you have not been paying attention,” you hold his gaze, refusing to look away, “you are not atlas, albon. the world will not collapse if you set down your burden for a moment. and even atlas… even he had help, in the end. hercules held the sky for him, if only for a little while.”
“are you offering to be my hercules?”
“i am offering to be your friend,” you say. “if you will have me.”
the smile that spreads across his face is slow and wondering, like sunrise creeping over the horizon. “yes,” he says. “i think i would like that very much.”
mr. logan sargeant arrives in your life on a wednesday, during a musicale at the bearman residence that you had been dreading for the better part of a week.
you notice him first because he is standing alone near the refreshment table with the particular expression of a man who has found himself at a party where he knows absolutely no one and is beginning to question every decision that led him to this moment. it is an expression you recognize intimately, having worn it yourself at nearly every social function since your arrival in london, and perhaps that is why you find yourself watching him instead of the young lady currently murdering a sonata at the pianoforte.
he is handsome, clean-cut, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with the kind of face that looks like it smiles easily and often. his coat is well-tailored but not egregious, and there is something about the way he holds himself that seems fundamentally different from the english gentlemen around him, though you cannot quite put your finger on what.
“that,” zoe whispers, leaning close enough that her breath tickles your ear, “is mr. logan sargeant. from the americas.”
she says the words the americas the way one might say the moon, with a mixture of fascination and disbelief, as though she cannot quite credit that such a place exists, let alone that someone from there might find themselves standing in lady bearman’s drawing room looking lost and slightly overwhelmed.
“from the americas?” you repeat, keeping your voice equally low, “what on earth is he doing here?”
“inheriting a barony, apparently,” alicia murmurs from your other side. “it is the most delicious scandal. well, not scandal, precisely, more of a curiosity. he is some sort of distant cousin to the late baron of westbrook, and when the old man died without a direct heir, the title passed to mister sargeant's branch of the family. he arrived in england three months ago to claim the estate and has been trying to establish himself in society ever since.”
“with limited success,” zoe adds, “the ton does not quite know what to make of him. he is a baron now, technically, which means he should be of similar rank to half the men in this room, but he is also american, which means—”
“which means they will never let him forget it,” you finish, understanding settling over you like a familiar weight, “he is an outsider. no matter how legitimate his claim, he will always be the american who stumbled into a title he was never meant to have.”
the sonata ends, thankfully, and the room breaks into polite applause that is perhaps more enthusiastic than the performance warranted, and in the general shuffle that follows you lose sight of mr. sargeant among the crowd. you think nothing more of it until later, when you are standing near the window trying to catch a breath of fresh air and a voice at your side says:
“forgive me– i do not mean to intrude, but you looked as though you might be as desperate to escape as i am, and i thought perhaps we could be desperate together.”
you turn to find mister sargeant standing beside you, his expression apologetic, but also hopeful.
“that is a rather forward introduction.” you observe, but you are smiling despite yourself.
“i apologize,” he says, and he does sound genuinely contrite. “i am still learning the rules here. in america, if you see someone who looks like they might be a kindred spirit, you simply walk up and say hello. i am beginning to understand that things are more complicated in england.”
“everything is more complicated in england,” you agree, nodding, “it is something of a national pastime.”
there is no calculation in him, you realize. no careful assessment of your worth and standing, no subtle cataloging of your family connections and marital prospects. he is simply a man at a party, talking to a woman he hoped might be friendly, and the straightforwardness of it is so refreshing you almost do not know how to respond.
“logan sargeant,” he says, offering a small bow. “baron of westbrook, apparently, though i confess the title still sounds strange when applied to myself. and you are—?”
you give him your name, and you watch his face carefully for the flicker of recognition, the slight tightening around the eyes that usually accompanies the realization of exactly whose daughter you are. but there is nothing, only polite interest and that open, easy smile.
“a pleasure to meet you,” he says, and he sounds as though he means it.
mr. sargeant calls on you the following afternoon.
and the afternoon after that.
and the afternoon after that, until lady albon begins setting an extra place at tea as a matter of course and the servants stop announcing him because everyone already knows who is at the door.
“he likes you,” zoe declares one evening, sprawled across your bed while you attempt to decide between two dinner gowns for the russell ball. “he really likes you. he looks at you like you hung the moon and he cannot quite believe his good fortune in being allowed to stand beneath it.”
“he looks at me like i am the only person in the room who does not make him feel like a complete outsider,” you correct, holding the blue silk up against yourself and frowning at your reflection. “which is not the same thing.”
“it is adjacent to the same thing,” alicia argues from her position by the window. “proximity to the same thing. close enough that the distinction hardly matters.”
“the distinction always matters.”
“does it?” chloe asks, “he makes you laugh. he treats you kindly. he does not care about your family's scandal because he does not know about your family's scandal, and by the time someone bothers to tell him, he will already have formed his own opinion of your character. is that not valuable?”
“it is—” you start, and then stop, because you do not know how to finish the sentence. it is valuable. it is more than i expected. it is not what i want.
but what you want is standing on the other side of a door he refuses to open, and you have spent enough years of your life wanting impossible things. perhaps it is time to accept what is actually being offered.
“mama thinks he would be a good match,” zoe says, more gently now, moving to stand beside you, holding the red dress against your shoulders, “she mentioned it to me this morning. she said that mr. sargeant is new to the ton, which means he needs a wife who understands how society works, how to navigate the complexities of the peerage. and you—”
“and i need a husband who will not hold my family's disgrace against me.” you finish flatly. “yes, i understand the logic.”
“it is not only logic,” alicia protests. “he genuinely seems to enjoy your company. and you seem to enjoy his. would it be so terrible, to build a life with someone who makes you smile?”
no, you think. it would not be terrible. it would be safe, and comfortable, and probably even happy, in its way. it would just not be—
you cut the thought off before it can complete itself.
“the blue,” you say instead, turning back to the mirror. “i will wear the blue.”
you do not mean to discuss mr. sargeant with lord albon. it simply… happens.
you are in the drawing room, reviewing the invitations that have arrived for the coming week, and he is there as well, reading a book though you have not seen him turn a page in the better part of an hour. the fire crackles in the grate. outside, rain streaks the windows in long grey trails. and somehow, in the quiet domesticity of the moment, you find yourself saying:
“your mother believes mister sargeant intends to make an offer.”
the book in alexander's hands goes very still.
“does she…” he says, and his voice is carefully neutral, so carefully neutral that it circles back around to being obvious.
“she thinks it would be a good match,” you continue, watching his profile, trying to read something, anything, in the set of his jaw, the terse line of his shoulders, “he needs someone who understands english society. i need someone who—”
“who what?” alexander interrupts, and there is an edge to his voice now, “who does not know your history? who can be kept ignorant of the truth until it is too late for him to extricate himself?”
the words land like a slap, and you feel the colour drain from your face. “that is unfair,” you say quietly, “and you are being unkind.”
“you are right,” he says. “forgive me, i should not have said that.”
“no,” you agree, your lips pursing into a thin line, “you should not have.”
“mr. sargeant seems a decent man,” he says finally, and each word sounds as though it is being dragged out of him by force, “i am sure he would make you—” he stops, swallows. “i am sure you would be—”
“happy?” you supply, when he does not continue.
“content. i am sure you would be content.”
content. there is that word again, the ceiling of your ambitions, the highest rung of the ladder you are permitted to climb. you remember saying it yourself, that day in the park. i do not expect love. i would settle for contentment. but hearing it from his mouth, in that hollow voice, with that bleak expression… it sounds different. it sounds like a door closing.
“my lord—” you start, but he is already rising to his feet, already setting aside his unread book, already retreating with that familiar efficiency that you have come to recognize as his primary defense mechanism.
“forgive me. i had forgotten i was to meet mr. russell— george— at the gentleman’s club today,” he says, and he does not meet your eyes. “please excuse me.”
and then he is gone, and you are left alone with the fire and the rain and the growing certainty that something is very, very wrong, something you cannot name and he will not explain and neither of you seems capable of addressing directly.
it is raining again.
london, you have come to understand, exists in a perpetual state of dampness, the sky a low grey ceiling that presses down upon the city like a hand, the cobblestones eternally slick, the air carrying that particular smell of wet stone and coal smoke and something green struggling to grow beneath it all. you have been here long enough now that the rain no longer surprises you, no longer sends you rushing for shelter with the desperate urgency of your first weeks. you have learned to move through it, around it, to accept it as simply another facet of this strange new, temporary life.
this afternoon, the rain has driven everyone indoors, and you have retreated to the small conservatory at the back of the house, a glass-walled room filled with potted ferns and trailing ivy and the particular humid warmth of growing things. it is your favorite space in the albon residence, this little pocket of green amid the grey, and you come here often when you need to think, need to breathe, need to remember that there are living things in the world that do not care about scandal or propriety or the elaborate machinery of the marriage mart.
you are repotting a small orchid, one of of the lady albon’s, slightly neglected, its roots outgrowing their current home, when you hear the door open behind you. you do not turn around.
“i did not realize anyone was in here.” alexander says, and there is a hesitation in his voice, a question beneath the statement: should i leave? do you want me to go?
"”he rain.” you say, by way of explanation, still focused on the orchid, “i find it peaceful, watching it from in here. like being inside a terrarium.”
“a terrarium,” he echoes, and you hear him move further into the room, hear the soft click of the door closing behind him, “i had not thought of it that way.”
“your mother's orchid needed repotting,” you add, “i hope she does not mind. i found it looking rather sad on the windowsill in the morning room, and i thought—”
“she will not mind,” he says. “she will be pleased, actually. she loves that orchid but can never remember to care for it properly. she calls it her 'beautiful failure.'”
“that seems an unkind thing to call a living creature.”
“she means it affectionately. or so she claims.”
you smile despite yourself, and you hear him move close enough now that you can see him from the corner of your eye, leaning against one of the plant stands with his arms crossed over his chest. he is in shirtsleeves, you notice, his coat and waistcoat abandoned somewhere, and the informality of it sends a small shock through your system.
“you are good at that,” he observes, watching your hands work the soil, “the plants. you have a gentle touch.”
“my grandfather's estate had extensive gardens,” you find yourself saying, “i spent a great deal of time in them, growing up. it was—” you pause, considering how much to share, “it was the only place that felt truly mine. the house belonged to my grandfather, and the library belonged to my tutors, and even my own room felt borrowed somehow. but the gardens did not care who my parents were or what they had done. they only cared whether i watered them and gave them enough light.”
“that sounds lonely,” he says quietly.
“it was,” you admit. “but it was also peaceful. i knew what the plants needed from me, and i could provide it, and in return they grew and bloomed and asked nothing more.” you lift one shoulder in a small shrug. “there is something to be said for relationships with clear expectations.”
“i am sorry,” he says, “that you had to learn that lesson so young.”
“we all learn our lessons,” you reply softly, “some of us simply learn them earlier than others.”
you return your attention to the orchid, tamping down the fresh soil around its roots, and for a few minutes there is only the sound of the rain against the glass and the quiet rhythm of your work.
“there,” you say finally, stepping back to survey your work, “she should be much happier now. another few weeks and she may even bloom.”
you reach for the small watering can you had set aside earlier, but your hands are covered in soil, dark earth caught beneath your fingernails and smudged across your palms, and you make a small sound of frustration.
“here,” alex says, and he is beside you suddenly, and he is offering you a handkerchief, plain white cotton, slightly rumpled.
“thank you.” you murmur, and you reach for it without thinking, and your fingers brush against his.
the touch is electric.
you feel it everywhere, sparking up your arm, blooming in your chest. his hand is warm, so warm, and you realize with a start that neither of you are wearing gloves, that this is skin against skin, your soil-stained fingers pressed against his bare palm, and the intimacy of it makes your breath hitch.
you look up. find his eyes already on you.
he is frozen, still as a statue, his lips slightly parted and his pupils blown wide, and you can see the pulse jumping at the base of his throat, can see the way his chest rises and falls with quickened breath. the handkerchief is caught between you, forgotten, and neither of you moves to complete the exchange.
“i—” you start, but you do not know how to finish the sentence, do not know what words could possibly be adequate for this moment.
his thumb moves. just slightly. A barely-there brush against the inside of your wrist, tracing the delicate skin where your pulse beats rapid and frantic, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you actually gasp, a small, soft sound that seems to echo in the humid air of the conservatory.
“forgive me,” he breathes, and his voice is a wreck, raw, barely above a whisper. “i should not— we should not—”
but he does not pull away. and neither do you. you stand there, and you think: this is madness. this is impossible. this is everything i have been trying so hard not to want.
and then a door slams somewhere in the house. voices echo down the corridor, the general commotion of the albon sisters returning from wherever they had been. the spell shatters like glass, reality rushing back in to fill the space between you, and you jerk backward so quickly you nearly knock the freshly potted orchid from its stand.
“i should—” your voice comes out strangled, “i need to— the soil, i should wash—”
“yes,” alex says, and he sounds as shattered as you feel, his hand still extended as though he has forgotten how to lower it. “yes, of course, you should—”
“excuse me,” you manage, and you do not wait for a response, do not look back, simply flee (because there is no other word for it) out of the conservatory and up the stairs and into your room, where you close the door behind you and press your back against it and try very, very hard to remember how to breathe.
your hand is shaking.
you lift it, examine it in the grey afternoon light, the soil still caught beneath your nails, the faint redness where his skin touched yours. you can still feel the ghost of that touch, the warmth of it lingering.
we should not, he had said.
but he had not said i do not want to.
and therein, you think, lies all the difference.
the hamilton ball is a crush.
this is, you have learned, considered a compliment. a crush means the event is successful, well-attended, the sort of gathering that people will speak of for weeks afterward with tones of satisfaction or envy depending on whether they managed to secure an invitation.
you have been at the ball for perhaps an hour, navigating the crowd with zoe and alicia as your guides, making polite conversation with mamas and debutantes, carefully avoiding any corner of the room where alexander might be standing, when mr. sargeant appears at your elbow.
“you look,” he says, and then stops, “forgive me. i had a compliment prepared, something properly poetic, and it has completely fled my mind now that i am actually standing in front of you.”
“that might be the nicest compliment i have ever received,” you tell him honestly, “far better than poetry.”
“then i shall endeavor to remain tongue-tied in your presence,” he says, “may i have the honor of this dance?”
you should hesitate, consider. you should think about what it means, to dance with a man who has been calling on you daily, whose intentions have been made increasingly clear, whose proposal you can feel approaching like a storm on the horizon.
but the music is swelling and his hand is extended and somewhere across the room you can feel alexander's eyes on you like a physical weight, and so you say yes.
you say yes, and you let him lead you onto the floor, and you dance.
and then the dance ends. you curtsy. he bows. and then he looks at you with those clear blue eyes and says: “i know it is forward, and i know it is perhaps more than i should ask, but would you do me the honor of a second dance?”
a second dance?
in the language of the ton, a second dance is not quite a proposal, but close. a second dance says i am serious about you. a second dance says i want everyone in this room to know that my intentions are honorable.
you should refuse. you should demur, claim fatigue, suggest that he partner someone else lest the gossips begin to talk.
“yes,” you say instead, offering your wrist, as he signs your dance card, “i would be honored.”
and so you dance again.
when it ends, he escorts you from the floor with visible reluctance, fetches you a glass of lemonade, and excuses himself to pay his respects to some acquaintance or another with the promise that he will find you again before the evening is out.
you watch him go, and you think: he is going to propose. soon. perhaps even tonight. you do not know how to feel about that.
“that was quite a display.”
the voice comes from behind you, and you do not need to turn around to know who it belongs to.
"lord albon," you say. "i did not see you there."
“evidently not.” alexander says, moving to stand beside you. his jaw is set, his shoulders rigid, and when you glance at him his eyes are fixed on the point in the crowd where mister sargeant has disappeared. “you seemed rather… occupied.”
“i was dancing,” you retort, “that is generally the purpose of a ball.”
“twice.”
very well, then.
“yes,” you agree, because there is no point in pretending otherwise. “twice.”
he is silent for a long moment. when he speaks again, his voice has lost some of its edge, replaced by something that sounds almost like defeat.
“the next dance is a waltz,” he starts, “would you—” he stops, swallows, forces himself to continue. “would you do me the honor?”
you should refuse, should claim that three dances in a row would be too much, claim anything that would allow you to escape this impossible situation without making it worse.
but it seems you have never been good at refusing alexander albon anything.
“yes,” you say softly, “i would.”
the waltz is nothing like your first dance with him, all those weeks ago at the norris ball— this dance is something else entirely, his hand pressing warm and firm against your waist, your bodies closer than they should be, closer than propriety allows.
he does not speak. neither do you. there are no words that would be adequate for this moment, no conversation that could possibly address the tangled mess of wanting and denial and impossible longing that stretches between you like a living thing. so you simply move, let him guide you through the steps, let yourself exist in this single stolen moment where you can pretend that wanting is enough.
his thumb traces a small circle against the curve of your waist, and you feel your breath catch, feel the colour rise in your cheeks.
and then the dance ends, and the world rushes back in, and you are left standing in the middle of the hamiltons’ ballroom with your heart pounding and your hands trembling and the absolute certainty that you are in far, far deeper than you ever intended to be.
mr. sargeant calls the next afternoon.
you know, from the moment you see his face, what he has come to say.
the drawing room feels smaller than usual when he enters, as though the walls have contracted to accommodate the magnitude of what is about to happen. lady albon is seated in her usual chair, her embroidery abandoned in her lap, and the girls are arrayed around the room in various attitudes of forced casualness— zoe by the window, alicia on the settee, chloe curled in the armchair with a book she is very obviously not reading.
alexander is standing by the fireplace.
you do not look at him. you cannot look at him. if you look at him you will lose your nerve entirely, and you cannot afford to lose your nerve right now.
“lady albon,” mr. sargeant says, and his voice is steady despite the slight tremor in his hands, “ladies. lord albon.” he pauses, takes a breath, visibly steels himself, “i wonder if i might have a moment alone with—” he gestures toward you.
the room goes very still.
“of course,” lady albon says, after a moment, “girls, i believe you were planning to review the menus for the house party. alexander, perhaps you could—”
“yes,” alex says, and his voice sounds hollow, scraped clean of emotion, “yes, of course.”
he does not look at you as he leaves.
you do not watch him go.
and then the door closes, and you are alone with mr. sargeant (although lady albon stands as chaperone), and the weight of what is about to happen comes crashing down on you.
“mr. sargeant—”
“logan.” he corrects gently. “please. i think we have moved past formality, you and i.”
you swallow. you nod. “logan.”
“i am asking you to marry me,” logan says, and his voice is steady, certain, the voice of a man who has rehearsed these words a hundred times and means every one of them. “i know i am not what you expected— an american, an outsider, a man still learning what it means to bear a title he never asked for. but i have heard the whispers about your family, and i find that i do not care. i care about you. your kindness, the way you make me feel like i might actually belong in this impossible, impossible country.”
here is everything you should want. and yet…
“mr. sa— logan.” you say, and your voice catches on his name, “i am— i am honored, truly. more than i can say. but i—” you stop, take a breath, try to find words that will not wound him. you glance at lady albon, who has a wary expression on her face, “might i have a few days to consider? this is a significant decision, and i want to be certain that my answer is the right one. for both of us.”
“of course,” he says, “of course you should take time. i would not want you to feel rushed, or pressured. this should be your choice, freely made.”
“thank you for understanding,” you whisper.
“might i ask—” he hesitates, then presses on. “might i ask when i might expect an answer? only so i know whether to hope or—” he attempts a smile, though it does not quite reach his eyes, “or begin preparing my heart for disappointment.”
“the albon ball,” you say. "at mercer hall, in a fortnight. i will give you my answer then.”
his face brightens, “the albon ball,” he repeats, “that is— yes. that is perfect. i will be there. i will be waiting.”
“logan—”
"until mercer hall, then," he says.
"until mercer hall," you agree.
and when you are alone in the drawing room with nothing but your thoughts and the crackle of the fire, you sink onto the settee and press your palms against your eyes and try very, very hard not to think about the other man who left this room without looking at you.
the man whose face you cannot seem to stop seeing, no matter how tightly you close your eyes.
the man who has given you no promises, no declarations, no reason to hope, and yet somehow manages to make every other option feel like settling.
the albon ball, you think.
you have a fortnight to decide the rest of your life.
the first few days in mercer hall pass in a blur of activity.
the ball is to be the event of the season, or so the albon girls have declared. every room in the house is being aired and polished, furniture rearranged, flowers ordered from farther out into the countryside, menus planned and replanned until cook threatens to quit in protest. the girls throw themselves into the preparations with enthusiasm, debating colour schemes and seating arrangements and whether the musicians should be placed in the gallery or the alcove, and you try to help where you can, but—
but they do not necessarily need you. not really. you are a guest here, not a daughter of the house, and there are limits to how much you can contribute to an event that is not yours to host.
so you find yourself with time on your hands, long stretches of afternoon where lady albon and the girls are occupied, and you are left to wander the grounds alone, exploring the gardens and the folly and the library that is indeed three times the size of the one in london.
you are not, strictly speaking, alone.
alexander is everywhere.
or perhaps it only feels that way, perhaps you have simply become so attuned to his presence that you notice him the way sailors notice the north star.
he is in the library when you go to select a book, standing by the window with the light catching in his hair. he is in the garden when you walk the paths, picking rose petals with the focused attention of a man who needs something to do with his hands.
he is at breakfast before you come down and at dinner when you retire, and every time your eyes meet across the table something electric passes between you.
you try to avoid him. you truly do.
but mercer hall is not london, and there are only so many rooms in even a house this size, and somehow you keep finding yourselves in the same spaces at the same times, drawn together by some gravity you cannot name and cannot resist.
you are not prepared for the strawberries.
it is an ordinary tuesday morning, the breakfast room flooded with pale sunlight, the sideboard laden with the usual offerings of eggs and toast and fresh fruit from the hothouse. the girls are bickering amiably about something inconsequential, lady albon is reviewing correspondence, and you are attempting to eat your breakfast like a civilized person.
and then alexander reaches for the bowl of strawberries.
it should not be remarkable. it is not remarkable— just a man selecting fruit from a dish, an action performed by thousands of people every morning across england without incident or comment.
but you watch him lift a strawberry to his lips, and you forget how to breathe.
his fingers are long and elegant, dusted with fine dark hair at the knuckles, and they cradle the fruit with a carefulness that seems almost reverent. he bites into it, and juice glistens on his lower lip, red and obscene against the soft pink of his mouth.
lick it, you think wildly. please, god, lick it—
his tongue darts out to catch the droplet.
you make a sound. a small, strangled noise that you disguise hastily as a cough, reaching for your tea with hands that tremble slightly.
“are you quite all right?” zoe asks, concerned, “you have gone rather flushed.”
“i’m fine!” you manage to choke out, “just… swallowed wrong.”
alexander looks up at you across the table, and for a moment your eyes meet. his expression is innocent, but there is something in the depths of his gaze that makes heat pool low in your belly, something that suggests he knows exactly what effect he is having on you.
he cannot possibly know, you tell yourself. you are being ridiculous. he is simply eating breakfast.
he selects another strawberry. brings it to his lips. bites.
you watch the movement of his jaw as he chews, the way his throat works when he swallows. you watch his tongue sweep across his lower lip, collecting the last traces of sweetness. you watch his fingers— oh god, those long, capable fingers— reach for another piece of fruit, and you imagine them touching other things. touching you.
“the strawberries are excellent this morning,” he says, and his voice is perfectly conversational, perfectly innocent, “would you like one?”
he holds one out toward you across the table.
your hand moves before your brain can intervene, reaching out to accept his offering. your fingers brush against his as you take the fruit (and it is the briefest contact, barely a whisper of skin against skin) but the sensation shoots through you like lightning, making your breath catch audibly.
“thank you,” you manage.
“of course,” his voice is mild, but his eyes are intent on your face, “what are friends for?”
you bite into the strawberry. the sweetness bursts across your tongue, and you are acutely aware of his gaze on your mouth, tracking the movement of your lips, watching you the same way you were watching him moments ago.
friends, you remind yourself desperately. we are friends. this is normal. this is fine.
the strawberry tastes like sin itself.
you find him in the library at midnight.
you had not been able to sleep, and you had crept downstairs in search of a book, something dull enough to bore you into unconsciousness. you had not expected to find the library already occupied, a single lamp burning low in the corner and alexander sprawled in one of the leather armchairs with a glass of something amber in his hand and a look of exhaustion on his face.
“oh,” you say, freezing in the doorway. “i did not realize— i can go—”
“stay.” the word is soft, almost slurred with tiredness, “please. i could use the company.”
you hesitate. it is improper, being alone with him at this hour, in this setting. if anyone found you, the gossip would be catastrophic. but he looks so tired. and there is something in his voice… a loneliness that calls to your own.
“one hour,” you say, moving into the room, “and if anyone asks, i was never here.”
“agreed.” he gestures to the chair across from him. "would you like a drink? the brandy is mediocre, but it does the job."
“i should not.”
“neither should i. and yet—” he raises his glass in a small salute. “desperate times.”
you settle into the offered chair, tucking your feet beneath you, “what has driven you to desperate measures at midnight?”
“estate business. tenant disputes. a letter from my father's former solicitor informing me that there may be additional debts we were not previously aware of,” he takes a long sip of his brandy. “the usual.”
“that sounds overwhelming.”
“it is. but i am learning to manage it,” he sets down his glass, runs a hand through his hair, already disheveled, as though he has been doing this repeatedly, “the worst part is not the problems themselves. it is the constant… aloneness of it. knowing that every decision rests on my shoulders, that there is no one i can turn to for advice or reassurance or even just—” he stops, shakes his head. “forgive me. i should not burden you with this.”
"you are not burdening me." you lean forward slightly. "i asked. i wanted to know."
"why?"
"because i care about you." the words slip out before you can stop them, more honest than you intended. "because you are my friend, and friends do not let friends drink mediocre brandy alone at midnight."
he stares at you for a long moment. then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face—small and tired but genuine.
“friends,” he repeats softly, “yes. i suppose we are.”
“you say that as though it surprises you.”
"it does, a little. i do not—" he pauses, considering. "i do not have many friends. well, i have george and lando, but they are the second sons, they do not… understand. the loneliness of it all. but friends— genuine friends, who understand who i am, who just… know—” he shakes his head. “those are rare.”
“that seems very lonely.”
“it is.” he says it simply, without self-pity. “but i am used to it. i have been alone for a long time, in one way or another.”
“you have your sisters, and luca.”
“i do. and i love them fiercely, desperately. but they are also—” he searches for the word. “—my responsibility. i cannot burden them with my worries. they have already carried enough because of our parents’ choices. i will not add to that weight.”
“so you carry it alone instead.”
“someone has to.”
“that is the second time you have said that. and i am going to tell you again—” you hold his gaze steadily, “—that it is not true. you do not have to carry everything alone. that is not strength, lord albon. that is just stubbornness.”
he laughs, surprised. “did you just call me stubborn?”
“if the shoe fits.”
“it fits,” he admits, “rather well, actually.” he is quiet for a moment, swirling the remaining brandy in his glass, “can i tell you something? something i have never told anyone?”
“of course.”
“sometimes—” he pauses, swallows. “sometimes i am so tired of being the responsible one that i fantasize about simply… walking away. leaving everything behind. getting on a ship and sailing somewhere no one knows my name or my family's history or expects anything of me." another pause. “is that terrible?”
“no,” you say softly. “that is human.”
“it feels like failure, even thinking it.”
“it is not failure to want a different life than the one you were given. it is not failure to feel tired, or overwhelmed, or desperate for something more,” you lean forward, willing him to understand. “my lord, you have spent years holding everything together for other people. you are allowed to want something for yourself.”
"and what would that be?" he asks, and there is something raw in his voice now, something unguarded. “what am i allowed to want?”
you think about the question. really think about it.
“i do not know,” you admit. “but i think—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “i think you are allowed to want to be seen. not as the heir, or the caretaker, or the man holding everything together. just as yourself. whoever that is.”
he sets down his glass. looks at you with an expression you cannot quite read.
“you see me,” he says quietly. "you are the only person who has ever—” he stops, shakes his head. “i do not know how you do it. how you look at me and see past all the– the duty, the weight of expectation. but you do. you see me. and i—” he stops again. swallows hard. “i do not know how to thank you for that,” he finishes, barely above a whisper.
“you do not have to thank me,” your voice is gentle, “you just have to let me keep doing it.”
the silence between you is different now, and it feels a little like understanding. you should leave. you know you should leave. but you cannot seem to make yourself move.
“tell me something,” he says suddenly, “something about you. something no one else knows.”
you consider. there are so many things you keep hidden: fears and hopes and secret shames that you have never shared with anyone. but here, in the dim light of the library, with this man who has just shown you his own hidden places, it feels safe to offer one of your own. “i am afraid,” you say slowly, “that i am fundamentally unlovable.”
his breath catches.
“not in a dramatic way,” you continue quickly. “not in a– a tragic heroine sort of way. but i think—” you pause, forcing yourself to continue, “i think that everyone who has ever been supposed to love me has found me… lacking, somehow. my parents left me. my grandfather tolerates me. and i have spent so long being the girl with the scandal, the girl who is not quite acceptable, the girl who must be grateful for whatever scraps of affection are thrown her way—” your voice breaks slightly, “i do not know how to believe that anyone could love me for myself. without reservation. without condition.”
“that is—” he stops, shakes his head. “that is the saddest thing i have ever heard.”
“it is not sad. it is just,” you huff, “true.”
“it is not true.” his voice is fierce, suddenly. “it is a lie you have been told so many times you have started to believe it. but it is not true.”
“how would you know?”
“because i see you,” he says simply, “and what i see is not unlovable. what i see is brave and kind and funny and stubborn and so desperately deserving of love that it makes my chest hurt to think you have never had it.”
you stare at him. the tears are pricking at your eyes now, hot and unwelcome.
“i– my lord—”
“i am not saying this to– to make a declaration, or to complicate things,” he says quickly. “i am just saying. you asked what i see, when i look past the armor. and i am telling you. i see someone extraordinary. someone who has survived things that would have broken most people, and come out the other side still capable of kindness, still capable of hope.” he holds your gaze. “you are not unlovable. you never were.”
the tears spill over. you cannot stop them. “i should go,” you manage, rising from your chair, “it is late, and i—”
"of course." he rises too, concern flickering across his face. “i did not mean to upset you—”
“you did not upset me.” you wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed, “you just.. well, no one has ever said anything like that to me before. and i do not know how to—”
“you do not have to do anything.” his voice is gentle, “just… remember it. when the voices in your head tell you otherwise. remember that someone sees you. someone thinks you are extraordinary.”
you nod, not trusting yourself to speak.
and when you slip out of the library and make your way back to your room, you carry his words with you like a chant— brave and kind and funny and stubborn and so desperately deserving of love— and for the first time in longer than you can remember, you allow yourself to wonder if they might be true.
it comes to a head the night before the ball.
the whitmores, a family of considerable wealth and considerably less pedigree with a girl around the same age as alicia, had extended an invitation to dinner that the lady albon could not politely refuse. the girls had been delighted, eager for any distraction from the endless preparations that had consumed the household for weeks, and even chloe had been permitted to attend under the watchful eye of her governess, a rare treat that had sent her into raptures of excitement about gowns and hairstyles and whether she might be allowed to stay for the dancing.
you had begged off.
the headache you claimed was not entirely fabricated; your temples had been throbbing for days, a dull persistent ache that you suspected had less to do with physical ailment and more to do with the impossible choice that loomed before you like a cliff edge. tomorrow night, logan sargeant would be waiting for your answer. tomorrow night, you would have to say yes or no, would have to commit yourself to a path that would determine the entire shape of your future.
and you still did not know what to say.
so when zoe had come to your room to help you dress, you had pressed a hand to your forehead and claimed a headache, and she had tutted sympathetically and promised to make your excuses, and you had watched from your window as the carriage pulled away.
the house is quiet now. emptied of its usual chaos, its constant motion.
you cannot bear it any longer.
you rise from your bed, pull a wrapper over your nightgown, and make your way through the darkened corridors toward minky’s chambers. you need to speak with her, need her counsel, her wisdom, her practical perspective on the choice before you. she has been where you are, after all. she married for position and security and built a life from those foundations, and if anyone can tell you whether such a life can also contain happiness, it is her.
you do not realize your mistake until you have already knocked on the door.
the door you knock upon is not the lady albon’s. standing before you, is alexander.
in a robe. and, from what you can tell, very little else.
his hair is damp and disheveled as though he has recently bathed, and you can see the hollow of his throat where the robe gapes open at the chest, the shadow of collarbone, of the old scar there he had said he had gotten on an incident with george on horseback, the suggestion of skin that you have never seen and should not be seeing now.
you make a sound. you are not certain what sound, though you assume it is something between a gasp and a squeak, something deeply undignified that you will be embarrassed about later when you have the capacity for embarrassment, which you currently do not because all of your faculties have been consumed by the sight of alexander albon in a state of undress that you should absolutely not be witnessing.
“i—” you manage, “this is not— i thought this was—”
“my mother's room is two doors down,” he says, and his voice is strangled, “on the other side of the corridor.”
“i was looking for her,” you say lamely, “i needed—” you shake your head, trying to force your thoughts into some semblance of order. “forgive me. i will go—”
“she is not here.”
you pause, halfway through the motion of retreat. “what?”
"my mother. she had decided last minute on chaperoning the girls at the whitmore dinner. she left with them several hours ago."
the implication settles over you slowly. “so there is no one,” you say carefully. “in the house. except—”
“except the servants,” he confirms. “who have retired for the evening. and you. and me.”
you should leave. every instinct you possess, every lesson you have ever been taught about propriety and self-preservation and the dangers that lurk in dark rooms with handsome men, is screaming at you to shut the door in his face and return to your room and pretend this never happened.
you do not leave.
"i could not sleep," you hear yourself say instead, and the words feel distant, as though someone else is speaking them. "i have been— there is something i must decide. tomorrow. and i cannot seem to—"
“sargeant,” alex says, and it is not a question.
you swallow. “he is expecting an answer at the ball. i told him i would give him one.”
“and what answer will you give?”
“yes.” you say, not quite believing yourself, and you watch his expression shatter, “i am going to tell him yes.”
“he is a good man,” you continue, more so trying to convince yourself than anything else, “he will be kind to me. he will give me a home, a life free from—” your voice catches, “free from all of this. the wanting. the not having. the endless, unbearable hoping for something that will never—”
“don’t.” he says.
“don’t what?” you ask, and your own voice sounds foreign to you, thin and trembling.
“don’t marry him,” alexander takes another step toward you, close enough now that you can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the silk, close enough that you can smell him, clean soap and something else, something that makes your head spin, or maybe it’s just him, “do not— you cannot—”
“give me a reason,” you say, and it comes out like like a desperate plea, like the last throw of a gambler who has already lost everything. “give me one reason why i should not accept the only man who has offered me a future. give me anything, my lord, because i am so tired of—”
“because i am in love with you.”
you stare at him. he stares back. somewhere outside an owl calls into the darkness, and the world narrows down to just this: this hallway, this moment, this man standing before you with his heart laid bare and his eyes reflecting the flames.
“what?” you whisper.
“i love you.” he says it again, stronger this time, as though now that the dam has broken he cannot stop the flood, “i have loved you since— god, i do not even know when it started. since that first dance, perhaps. since you looked at me across that ballroom and asked me if i was going to ask you to dance. since every moment after, every conversation, every accidental touch that was not accidental at all—”
“you have been avoiding me,” you say, and your voice is shaking, “you have been— you left, every time we were alone, you—”
“because i am a coward.” he laughs, but it holds no humor, “because i was afraid that if i stayed, i would do exactly this. i would tell you the truth and ruin everything— your prospects, your reputation, any chance you have at the respectable life you deserve—”
you do not know who moves first.
perhaps it is him, closing the final distance, his hands coming up to cradle your face with a desperation that steals your breath.
perhaps it is you, surging forward to meet him, your fingers fisting in the silk of his robe as though you might drown if you let go.
perhaps you both move at once, drawn together by the same irresistible gravity that has been pulling at you since that first dance, that first touch, that first moment when you looked across a crowded ballroom and saw him looking back.
it does not matter.
what matters is that his mouth finds yours, and the world ends.
the kiss is not gentle.
it is hungry and urgent and consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a ferocity that steals your breath and replaces it with fire. he tastes like want, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your knees buckle, and when you make a sound— some desperate whimpering noise that you would be mortified by if you had any capacity left for mortification— he swallows it down and gives you back a groan that vibrates through your entire body.
his hands are everywhere. in your hair, scattering pins across the carpet. at your waist, pulling you against him so tightly you can feel every line of his body through the thin silk of his robe. sliding down to grip your hips, your thighs, lifting you as though you weigh nothing at all.
you wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to him as he walks you further into the hallway, your back hitting the narrow console table that stands against the wall between two portraits of disapproving ancestors. the wood is cold through your wrapper, a sharp contrast to the heat of him pressed against your front, and when he steps between your thighs and pins you there with his body you hear yourself moan, loud and shameless in the empty corridor.
this is not the alexander you thought you knew. the flustered, awkward, blushing man who could barely meet your eyes across the breakfast table has vanished entirely, replaced by someone confident and utterly without hesitation. he kisses you like he is trying to memorize the taste of you, his teeth catching your lower lip, his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth, his breath coming in harsh pants against your skin when he breaks away to trail his lips down your throat.
“alex,” you gasp, and his hips jerk against yours at the sound of his name, a reflexive motion that drags a groan from both of you.
“say it again,” he murmurs against the pulse point beneath your jaw, “god, please, say it again—”
“alex—”
his hand finds the hem of your nightgown. slides beneath it. the touch of his palm against your bare calf makes you shudder, makes your fingers clench in the fabric of his robe, makes you forget every reason why this is madness and remember only the wanting, the endless desperate wanting that has been building in you for months.
his hand drifts higher. past your knee, along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you feel him hesitate there, feel the tremor in his fingers, the sudden tension in his body. he is waiting, you realize. he is waiting for you to stop him, to come to your senses.
you reach down and find his hand where it rests against your thigh.
and you guide it higher.
his breath catches. his forehead drops to rest against yours, his eyes squeezing shut, and when you shift your hips to press yourself more firmly into his touch, arch forward against his fingers, he makes a sound that is as desperate as a sob, the same time another moan is drawn out from your lips.
“please,” you whimper, and you do not entirely know what you are asking for, only that you need more, need him, need this moment to never end—
the front door opens.
voices flood the entrance hall below, the general commotion of arrival and the removal of wraps and the exchange of evening pleasantries. they are back. they are back early, hours before they should be, and you are sitting on a table in the hallway with alexander's hand under your nightgown and his mouth on your throat and absolutely no way to explain any of this.
alex pulls away from you like he has been burned.
he staggers back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and when you see his face in the dim light of the wall sconces his expression is absolutely horrified.
“forgive me,” he says, and his voice is wrecked, shattered into pieces. “god, forgive me, i should not have— i am a gentleman, i should never have—”
“alex—” you start, sliding off the table on legs that shake so badly you have to grip the edge of it for support.
“this was unconscionable!” he is backing away from you, one hand raised as though to ward you off, his robe askew and his hair wild and his chest heaving with uneven breaths. “you are a guest in my home. under my family's protection. and i— i took advantage—”
“you did not take advantage of anything!” you say fiercely, taking a step toward him. “alex, i wanted—”
“it does not matter what you wanted.” his voice cracks on the words. “it matters what i should have done. what i failed to do. a gentleman does not—” he stops, shakes his head violently. “i am sorry. i am so sorry. this was— there is no excuse. none.”
“will you stop apologizing and listen to me—”
“i cannot.” he has reached his door now, his hand fumbling for the handle behind him. “i cannot— if i stay here, if i listen to you, i will—” another violent shake of his head. “i am sorry. forgive me. please, just forgive me.”
“alex.”
"goodnight," he says with finality, and the door closes between you.
the ballroom is magnificent.
the albons have outdone themselves. the room glows with the light of a thousand candles, flowers cascading from every surface, their perfume mixing with the scent of champagne and celebration. the orchestra plays from the gallery above. by all intents and purposes, it is a crush of a ball.
you stand at the edge of it all and feel nothing.
or perhaps you feel too much. so much so that it has circled back around to numbness. you smile when you are supposed to smile, you make conversation when conversation is required. and—
and you watch alexander across the room, handsome in dark evening clothes, his expression carefully pleasant and his posture carefully relaxed, and you note the way his eyes slide past you without ever quite landing, the way he angles his body away whenever you draw near, the way he has constructed a fortress of social obligation around himself that you could not breach even if you tried.
you do not try.
logan sargeant arrives halfway through the evening, his face bright with anticipation, his eyes finding you across the crowd, eager and hopeful. he makes his way toward where you and lady albon are standing, weaving through the press of bodies, and when he reaches your side his smile is so hopeful, so earnest, so completely unaware of what you are about to do to him that you have to look away.
“lady albon,” he says, his voice carefully steady. “might i request a private audience? i believe there is a sitting room nearby—”
“of course.” lady albon nods, her expression composed, eyes knowing, “this way, mr. sargeant.”
the sitting room is small and quiet, the noise of the ball muffled by thick walls and closed doors. lady albon positions herself near the window, and logan stands before you with his hands clasped behind his back and his jaw set and his eyes still, somehow, full of hope.
“i promised you an answer,” you say, because someone has to speak first, because the silence is unbearable.
“you did.” he swallows. “and i promised i would accept it, whatever it was. i meant that. i still mean it.”
you look at him, look at this good man, this kind man, this man who has offered you everything you once thought you wanted, and you feel your heart break for him, for the hope you are about to crush, for the future you might have had if you were capable of wanting what was wise instead of what was impossible.
“i cannot marry you,” you say.
the entire room stills.
logan does not move. does not speak. simply stands there, absorbing the blow, and you watch the hope drain from his eyes, watch it replaced by confusion, by hurt, by the desperate grasping of a man trying to understand where he went wrong.
“may i ask why?” his voice shakes, “if there is something i have done, something i have failed to do—”
“you have done nothing wrong!” the words come out thick, clogged with the tears you are fighting to hold back, “you have been— god, you have been perfect. kind and patient and everything i should want. but i—” your voice breaks, “i cannot give you what you deserve. i cannot give you a wife whose heart is wholly yours. and you deserve that, logan. you deserve someone who loves you, not someone who is settling for safety because she is too afraid to—” you stop. you cannot finish that sentence. you cannot admit, even now, even to him, what you are too afraid to reach for.
“there is someone else.” he says quietly, and it is not a question.
you do not answer. you do not need to.
“i see.” he is silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point past your shoulder. then he takes a breath, squares his shoulders, “then i hope he knows how fortunate he is. and i hope” his voice wavers, “i hope he deserves you. because you deserve the world, and i would hate to think you gave up something good for someone who cannot see that.”
“logan— mr. sargeant—”
“no, please.” he holds up a hand, “do not apologize. you have done nothing wrong. you were honest with me, and that is— that is all i could ask.” he bows, “i wish you every happiness. truly.”
he leaves.
the door closes behind him, and you stand in the silence of the sitting room with your hands shaking and your eyes burning and the weight of what you have done pressing down on your chest like it’s a physical thing.
“my dear,” lady says softly, crossing to your side, “are you—”
“i need a moment,” you manage. “please. i just need— i need air, i need to—”
you do not wait for her response. you turn and flee out of the sitting room and down the corridor, away from the light and noise of the ballroom, toward the quiet darkness of the residential wing where you might find a moment's peace to fall apart.
you make it perhaps twenty steps before you collide with someone.
the impact sends you stumbling backward, and hands come up to catch your arms, to steady you, and you look up into alexander's face and feel something inside you simply snap.
“let go of me!” you say, and your voice comes out sharp.
“are you—” he starts, and then his eyes find the tears tracking down your cheeks and his expression shifts, “what happened? what is wrong?”
“what is wrong?” you repeat, incredulous, and the laugh that escapes you is jagged and bitter. “what is wrong? you are asking me what is wrong? you?”
“i do not understand—”
“i just refused the only man who was willing to marry me!” you spit, wrenching your arms from his grip, “i just destroyed my only prospect, my only chance at a respectable future, because i was foolish enough to think—” you stop, shake your head violently. “and you dare ask me what is wrong?”
understanding dawns in his eyes, “sargeant. you told him no.”
“yes, i told him no!” your voice is rising, you cannot seem to control it, “i told him no because of you, because you kissed me and told me you loved me and then you left, you apologized and retreated and today you could not even look at me—”
“was trying to give you space,” he reasons, “i was trying to make it easier for you to—”
“to what? to accept another man's proposal with the taste of you still on my lips?” the tears are falling freely now, hot and angry on your cheeks, “you are a coward, alexander albon. you tell me you love me and then you run away. you kiss me like i am the only thing that matters and then you apologize for it like it was a mistake, like i was a mistake—”
“you were never a mistake,” he says fiercely, “never, not for a single moment—”
“then why?” you demand, “why do you not want to marry me? if you love me as you claim, if i am not a mistake, then why—”
“because i have never intended to marry!” the words seem to tear themselves from his throat against his will, “i cannot marry, do you not understand? there is too much scandal attached to my name, and even if the whispers have quieted, even if the debts have been paid, there is still too much— i am the heir to a family in disgrace, and anyone i marry will inherit that disgrace alongside me. i could not ask that of anyone. i will not ask it of you.”
you stare at him.
“scandal.” you repeat flatly. “you will not marry me because of scandal?”
“it is not that simple—”
“i have scandal too!” the words explode from you, “does that not register to you? my mother ran off with my father's business partner and left me to bear the weight of her shame. i do not– i do not even know where my father is, or if he is even alive! i was sent away at twelve years old, hidden in the countryside like something shameful, and i have spent the last eleven years being whispered about and pitied and judge, and you stand there and tell me that your scandal is too great to overcome?”
"it is different—”
“it is not different!” you are shouting now, you cannot stop yourself, “it is exactly the same. we are both carrying weights we did not choose, both paying for sins we did not commit, and the only difference is that i was willing to take a chance on something more and you are too frightened to even try.”
he flinches as though you have struck him.
“you are a coward," you say, quieter now, the anger draining out of you and leaving only exhaustion in its wake, “a coward, alexander albon. and i was a fool to think you might be brave enough to—”
you stop. shake your head. there is nothing left to say.
“please,” he says, and he reaches for you, his hand hovering near your face like he wants to wipe away your tears, “please, just let me—”
you pull away before he can touch you.
“goodnight, lord albon,” you say, and your voice sounds dead, hollow, “i hope you find peace with your choices. i am sure i will eventually find peace with mine.”
you leave him standing in the corridor and you do not look back.
you wake the next morning with a fever.
at first you think it is simply the aftermath of too much crying, too little sleep, the accumulated stress of the season finally taking its toll. but when you try to rise from your bed your head spins violently, and when zoe comes to check on you she takes one look at your face and immediately calls for the physician.
what follows is a blur of cold compresses and bitter tonics and the concerned faces of the albon sisters swimming in and out of focus above you. you are vaguely aware of hushed conversations happening just outside your door (“she is very ill, the fever will not break, we must send for—”) but you cannot summon the energy to care. the fever wraps around you like a shroud, hot and suffocating, and you drift in and out of consciousness without any clear sense of how much time is passing.
the albon sisters take turns sitting with you, reading to you, pressing a wet rag to your forehead to alleviate the spinning in your head.
they know, you realize dimly. they know about the proposal, about your refusal. they do not know the whole truth, but they know enough. they know that their brother has done something, or failed to do something, and they know that you are paying the price.
they do not speak of it directly. but you hear it in the careful way they avoid mentioning alexander's name, in the pointed silences that fall whenever he is discussed, in the way zoe's jaw tightens and alicia's eyes go hard and even sweet chloe develops a furrow between her brows that speaks to anger suppressed for the sake of your recovery.
days pass. perhaps a week. perhaps more. time loses meaning when you are trapped in the fog of fever, and you stop trying to track it.
when you finally emerge, pale and shaky and thin in a way that makes the girls cluck with concern, the season is about to end.
the families are beginning to retreat from london, or the early ones at least, those who have already done what they were supposed to do, returning to their country estates or departing for the continent, and the social whirl that consumed your life for the past months is winding down to a quiet close. you have missed balls and dinners and the final flurries of matchmaking, have been absent for the announcements of engagements and the whispered gossip about who succeeded and who failed in the great marriage mart of the season.
you have failed. this is clear without anyone needing to say it.
one season. that was all you had. one chance to secure your future, to find a husband who would give you stability and respectability and a life beyond the confines of your grandfather's countryside estate or a governess position. and you squandered it. refused the one man who offered, and for what? for a declaration of love that came with no proposal attached. for a kiss in a hallway that ended in apology and retreat. for a man who could not even bring himself to fight for you.
the girls are gentle with you, in those final days at mercer hall. they do not press you to talk about what happened, do not ask questions you have no answers for. they simply are present and warm in their support, and you love them for it even as you hate yourself for becoming a burden on their family.
“what will you do?” zoe asks quietly, the night before you are all to depart for london, “after the season ends. where will you go?”
the question you have been dreading.
“my grandfather's estate, i suppose,” you say, and your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears, “for a time. but i cannot stay there forever. i will need to find a position. a governess, perhaps, for some merchant family who does not care about my family's scandal so long as i can teach their children french and etiquette.”
zoe's face crumples. “no,” she says fiercely, “no, you cannot— there must be another way, there must be something—”
“there is nothing.” you take her hand, squeeze it gently, “oh, my darling girl, i had my chance. i made my choice. now i must live with the consequences.”
“the consequences of my brother being a fool—”
“the consequences of my own heart being foolish,” you correct, “i do not blame him, alexander. not entirely. he told me the truth about himself, and i chose to hope for something different. that is not his fault. it is simply—” you pause, searching for the word, “it is simply tragedy.”
zoe pulls you into an embrace so tight it borders on painful, and you let her hold you, let yourself be held, and you try not to think about how few of these moments you have left.
the return to london is subdued.
the carriage ride passes in near-silence, the girls too aware of your fragile state to fill the hours with their usual chatter. you watch the countryside roll past the window, the green fields giving way to the grey sprawl of the city, and you think about endings. about doors closing. about the person you were when you arrived in london all those weeks ago, full of tentative hope and desperate longing, and the person you have become in the aftermath of everything that followed.
you are stronger, perhaps. harder. less willing to believe in fairy tales and happy endings.
you are not sure this is an improvement.
the townhouse feels different now. smaller, somehow, as though it has contracted during your absence to accommodate the diminished scope of your future. you go through the motions of settling back in, unpacking your things, resuming the rhythms of daily life, but everything feels muted, faded.
and you avoid alexander.
this is easier than you expected, because he seems to be avoiding you too. you catch glimpses of him sometimes, a figure disappearing around a corner, a voice in the next room that falls silent when you approach, but you do not seek him out, and he does not seek you. the vast machinery of the albon household continues to turn, and you and he are parallel lines, careful to never collide.
the girls notice. of course they notice. but they do not comment, perhaps sensing that whatever fragile peace you have constructed would shatter at the first pointed question.
the season ends. the announcements are made. and you begin, quietly, to prepare for the life that awaits you— the letters to governesses' agencies, the inquiries about positions, the slow dimming of every dream you once allowed yourself to hold.
this is how it ends, you think.
not with love, but with the memory of love. fading, like everything else, into the grey.
the morning light filters through the glass walls of the conservatory in pale golden streams, catching the dust that drift lazily through the humid air, and you pause in the doorway to breathe it in, the green smell of growing things, the warmth that wraps around you like an embrace, the stillness of it all.
you had not expected to find anyone here.
you had not expected to find him.
alexander stands with his back to you, a watering can in hand, his attention fixed on the orchid that sits on the small table by the window— your orchid, the one you rescued from neglect all those weeks ago, the one whose roots you carefully untangled and repotted and coaxed back toward health. he is pouring water into the pot with a steadiness that might be admirable if it were not so thoroughly, catastrophically wrong.
“stop,” you say, before you can think better of it, “stop, you are drowning it.”
he startles badly enough that water sloshes over the rim of the watering can, and when he turns to face you his expression cycles rapidly through surprise, guilt, and something that looks almost like relief.
“i did not hear you come in,” he says.
“the orchid.” you move into the room despite yourself, despite the voice in your head screaming at you to leave, “you are overwatering it. orchids do not like wet feet. you need to let the soil dry out completely between waterings, or the roots will rot.”
he looks down at the pot, at the water pooling on the surface, and his expression shifts to something almost comically dismayed. “i did not– i was trying to—” he stops, sets down the watering can with exaggerated care, “my mother asked me to tend to the plants while she was out. i thought i was helping.”
“you thought wrong.” you cross to the orchid, assess the damage. it is not too bad, the soil is waterlogged but not yet sour, and if you tip the pot to let the excess drain the roots should survive. “here. tip it gently and let the water run out. then do not touch it again for at least a week.”
he does as instructed, his movements careful, almost reverent, and you watch his hands— those hands that have touched you, held you, mapped the geography of your skin in the darkness of a hallway— and you force yourself to feel nothing.
you have become very good at feeling nothing.
“there,” you say, when the last of the excess water has drained, “it should survive, as long as no one attempts to water it again for at least a week. possibly two.”
“i will inform the household staff,” he says, “perhaps post a sign. do not water the orchid upon pain of death.”
“that seems excessive.”
“you just called me a plant murderer. i feel the punishment should fit the crime.”
something flickers at the corner of your mouth, and it is not quite a smile, but close. you suppress it ruthlessly.
“i should go,” you say, straightening, “i have letters to write.”
“letters?”
“to the governesses' agency,” you say it matter-of-factly, “they have requested references and a list of my accomplishments. apparently there is a merchant family in bristol looking for someone to teach their daughters. the pay is reasonable and the position comes with room and board.”
the silence that follows is so complete you can hear the faint drip of water from the orchid's saucer, the distant tick of a clock somewhere in the house, the soft rustle of leaves in the artificial breeze created by the warmth of the glass walls.
“a governess.” alexander says finally.
“it is respectable work.” you keep your tone light, “and i am not without qualifications. my french is excellent, my italian passable, and i can play the pianoforte well enough to teach the basics. it is not what i imagined for myself, perhaps, but—” you shrug, “one must be practical. the season is ending, and i have no other prospects.”
“because of me.”
“because of circumstances.” you meet his eyes, finally, and you are proud of how steady your gaze remains, “i made my choices, alexander. i do not regret them. i only—” you pause, “i am ready to move forward. that is all. i have made my peace with what happened, and now i would like to begin whatever comes next.”
“and what comes next is… bristol? teaching merchant's daughters to play mozart on the pianoforte?”
“if they will have me. there are other positions, if that one does not work out. i am told there is always demand for governesses with good references.” you smile, and it feels almost natural, “your mother has agreed to write me a letter. she has been very kind throughout all of this. your whole family has been kind.”
“kind.” he repeats.
“yes. kind. generous. more than i had any right to expect, given—” you gesture vaguely, encompassing the conservatory, the house, everything that has passed between you, “given everything.”
another silence. longer this time, weighted with something you cannot name.
“i should go,” you say again, and you turn toward the door.
“wait.” his hand catches your elbow. you go still. “please,” he says, and his voice has changed, become something raw and urgent, “please, just… give me a moment. there is something i need to say, and i have been trying to find the words for days, and if you leave now i am afraid i will never—”
he stops. swallows. his hand falls away from your arm, and when you turn to face him he looks—
he looks wrecked.
there is no other word for it. the careful composure he has worn like armor since mercer hall has cracked, fallen away, leaving something exposed and vulnerable underneath. his eyes are bright, and his hands are trembling slightly at his sides, and he looks at you like you are something irreplaceable, something he is terrified of losing.
“i have been a coward,” he says quietly. “you told me so, the night of the ball, and you were right. i have been a coward my entire life, hiding behind duty and responsibility and the convenient excuse of my family's scandal to avoid ever taking a real risk, ever reaching for something i truly wanted.”
“alexander—”
“let me finish. please.” he pleads, takes a breath, steadies himself, “my father was a coward too. that is the thing i never told you, the thing i have never told anyone. he ran. when things became difficult, when the consequences of bad choices started closing in, he ran to the country and left my mother to face the creditors, the whispers he told himself he was protecting us by staying away, but he was only protecting himself. from shame. from failure. from having to look at the wreckage he had created.”
his voice cracks slightly on the last words, and you see him struggle to compose himself before continuing: “i swore i would never be like him. i swore i would be better, that i would stronger, more reliable, the kind of man who faces his problems instead of fleeing from them. and for years i thought i had succeeded. i managed the estates. i paid the debts. i held our family together through sheer force of will. but then you arrived, and i realized—”
he stops. laughs, a small broken sound, “i realized i had only been brave about things that did not truly matter to me. the estates, the debts, our reputation, those were problems to be solved, challenges to be overcome. i could be strong about them because losing them would not have destroyed me. but you—” his eyes find yours, “the thought of loving you and losing you. the thought of reaching for happiness and watching it slip through my fingers. that terrified me in a way nothing else ever has.”
“so you pushed me away,” you say softly.
“so i pushed you away.” he nods, a jerky motion, “i told myself i was protecting you. from the scandal, from being dragged down into the mess of my life. but i was only protecting myself. from the possibility of not being enough. from the certainty that i would eventually disappoint you, fail you, become the thing you regretted instead of the thing you chose.”
“alex—”
“i watched you dance with sargeant,” he continues, “at the balls. i watched him hold you, look at you, offer you everything i was too frightened to offer myself. and i told myself it was for the best. i told myself you would be happier with him, that he could give you the uncomplicated life you deserved,” his jaw tightens, “and then you refused him. you refused him, and i knew— i knew— it was because of me. because i had made you hope for something i was too cowardly to give.”
“i refused him because i did not love him,” you say quietly, “that is not your fault. that is simply—”
“it is my fault,” he interrupts fiercely, “because if i had been braver, if i had spoken sooner, you would not have had to choose between a man you did not love and a future alone. you would have had a third option.”
“and now?” you ask, “what are you offering now, alex? because i have spent weeks thinking about this. about you, about us, about what might have been, and i cannot do it anymore! i cannot keep hoping for something that you are too afraid to give me!”
“i know,” he moves toward you, “i know, and i am sorry. i am so sorry for every moment of confusion and pain i have caused you. but i am here now, and i am trying to tell you—” he stops, close enough to touch but not touching, “i am trying to tell you that i do not want to be afraid anymore.”
your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. “what does that mean?”
“it means—” he takes a breath “it means that i have spent the last week thinking about my life without you in it. about watching you leave for bristol, knowing that i let you go because i was too frightened to ask you to stay. about growing old in this house, surrounded by my family's ghosts, always wondering what might have been if i had just been brave enough—”
his voice breaks. he closes his eyes for a moment, composing himself, and when he opens them again they are bright with unshed tears.
“i cannot do it,” he says simply, “i cannot let you go. i have tried to talk myself into it, tried to convince myself that it would be better for you, easier for you, that i would only drag you down— but i cannot. because being without you these past days has been—” he shakes his head. “it has been like living in a world without color. like breathing air that does not quite fill my lungs. like being only half alive and not understanding why until i remember that you are not there.”
"alex—"
“i believe i am my best self when i am with you.” the words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other, “my truest self. the person i always hoped i might become but never quite managed to be on my own. you make me want to be better, to be braver, kinder, more open. you make me want to stop hiding behind walls and actually live. and i know i have given you no reason to believe me, i know i have done everything wrong, but if you could just— if you could give me one more chance—”
“what are you saying?” you whisper, and your voice trembles despite your best efforts. “alex, what does this mean?”
he holds your gaze for a long moment. and then, slowly, deliberately, he sinks to one knee. the breath leaves your body in a rush.
“i am asking you to marry me,” he says, and his voice is steady now, clear and certain, “i do not have a ring— i should have a ring, i know that, this should be done properly with flowers and moonlight and all the romantic trappings, but i cannot wait another moment, i cannot let you walk out that door thinking that you are destined for bristol and merchant's daughters when you could be… when you should be—”
he stops. takes a breath. “i am asking you to be my wife,” he says simply. “i am going down on one knee, in this ridiculous conservatory, surrounded by plants i nearly murdered, and i am asking you properly. because i love you. because i have loved you since the first moment i saw you across that ballroom. because i do not want to be afraid anymore, and being with you makes me feel like i might finally be brave enough to reach for what i want.”
the tears are streaming down your face. you cannot seem to stop them. “this is absurd,” you manage, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “you are absurd. this entire situation is—”
“absurd, yes,” he agrees, and there is a hint of his old humor in his voice, that dry self-deprecating wit that you have come to love. “also terrifying. also the most important thing i have ever done.” he reaches up, takes your hand in his, and his fingers are trembling slightly but his grip is sure, “say yes. please. say yes and let me spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.”
you look down at him, at this man who has caused you so much pain and so much joy, who has pushed you away and pulled you close, who has been the source of your greatest hope and your deepest despair. you look at his face, open and vulnerable and desperately, achingly hopeful, and you think about all the reasons you should refuse. the scandal, the uncertainty, the months of heartache that led to this moment…
… and then you think about the alternative. bristol. merchants’ daughters. a life of quiet respectability, safe and stable and utterly devoid of this— this feeling that burns in your chest whenever he is near, this sense that you are finally, finally exactly where you are meant to be.
“yes,” you say, and your voice breaks on the word, “yes, you impossible, infuriating, wonderful man. yes, i will marry you.”
the smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise, it bright and warm and so full of joy that it takes your breath away. he rises in a single fluid motion, pulling you into his arms, and when his mouth finds yours it is not like the desperate, hungry kisses of before. it is soft and tender, the kiss of a man who finally has everything he wants and cannot quite believe his good fortune.
“i love you,” he murmurs against your lips. “i have loved you for so long, and i was too afraid to say it, and i am so sorry.”
“say it again,” you demand, pulling back just far enough to see his face, “say it again, and keep saying it, until i believe you mean it.”
“i love you,” he says obediently. “i love you, i love you, i love you—”
and he keeps saying it, between kisses and laughter and the joyful tears that neither of you can seem to stop shedding, until the words blur together and lose their meaning and become simply a sound, a vibration, a truth that hums beneath your skin like music.
in the corner, the orchid stands silent witness to it all— still damp, still slightly waterlogged, but alive. surviving. reaching toward the light.
It looks like they’re dropping a teaser trailer for the new Harry Potter reboot tomorrow
Just a few important and gentle reminders:
🫶🏻 DO NOT WATCH THIS FUCKING SHOW 🫶🏻
If you claim you support human rights - not just trans rights but human rights in general - yet still plan to watch this show, unfollow me. You’re a fucking hypocrite and I don’t want you following me.
Do not watch it even if you’re hate watching it, it still contributes to streaming revenue and views!
The adults in this reboot of the franchise are FULLY accountable for choosing to do this show and accepting a pay cheque over supporting a minority group. Even if they claim they support trans rights, they’re cowards and don’t actually support them at all.
The kids do NOT deserve abuse or hate, whether it’s because you’re comparing them to Dan/Rupert/Emma or because you’re boycotting due to the author’s views. They are literal CHILDREN.
Your nostalgia over a children’s series about kids going to school is NOT more important than trans people being respected and having rights. As long as JKR is still alive, she profits off of this.
summary: Your response to Oscar's alleged signing with Alpine in 2022 wasn't just a snide comment — it was a prediction
note: we're only two races in and I'm already devasted
this smau is also a peace offering for the delay of tangled constellations pt. 2, so enjoy my lovess ❤️
masterlist
oscarpiastri @oscarpiastri • 02/08/2022
I understand that, without my agreement, Alpine F1 have put out a press release late this afternoon that I am driving for them next year. This is wrong and I have not signed a contract with Alpine for 2023. I will not be driving for Alpine next year.
yourname @yourusername • 02/08/2022
Replying to @oscarpiastri
They must have mistaken me for you as it is my signature on that contract of theirs. Looks like it didn't come with just a seat but a new surname as well! Good to know 😀
alpinef1team
liked by pierregasly, f1, username and 54k others
alpinef1team not the result we wanted but still in a good place to make some moves on Sunday 💪#miamigp
view comments
username that incident at the start was so unprofessional
➥ username tell me ur a piastri fan without telling me ur a piastri fan 🙄
➥ username it doesn't matter if i'm a fan. what Y/N did was a rookie mistake. she shouldn't be making those in her 3rd season just saying
➥ username did u even watch quali? Oscar went for a gap that wasn't there, Y/N did nothing wrong?
➥ username ofc i watched it omg 😐 Oscar was ahead, she served into him. watch it again
➥ username jesus christ.. how can you call yourself a fan when you don't understand the sport??
➥ username even Oscar himself said he was at fault in his post-quali interview and stopped Y/N to apologize. calm ur tits dude
➥ username he took the blame bcs she’s incapable of taking responsibility for her mishaps 😒 she proved that numerous times before
username let's goo 💪💪 1-2 tomorrow
username i can feel the double podium in the air 🙂↕️
username why is it always her who gets hit in quali? 😭
username unlucky day for both of them
➥ username unlucky? they always qualify below P10 that's lack of skill atp
yourusername
liked by logansargeant, f1, username and 60k others
yourusername i might be traumatized but my doppelgänger won so technically i did too 🥰
view comments
username love how you keep the 2022 joke going 😭
username i still don't understand why she stayed with Alpine after that shit show
➥ username i'd pack my bags fr
➥ username maybe because an f1 seat is an f1 seat?
➥ username still. if i were her, i wouldn't tolerate such behavior
username LOGANNN
username our depressed duo 🥹
➥ username 'depressed duo' 😭
➥ username this is their year trust 😌
➥ username i'm manifesting 🙏
logansargeant that's not fair
logansargeant i also want a doppelgänger who'll win races for me ☹️
➥ yourusername that's tough
➥ logansargeant hey! i know him longer so technically i should be the one taking his wins
➥ yourusername what? no! get your own 😠
➥ logansargeant he likes me more than you anyway 😛 right @oscarpiastri?
➥ oscarpiastri i do not
➥ yourusername HA 🤣
➥ logansargeant you know what? fuck you both 🙂
username their trio might just be the IT trio of the paddock sns
➥ username frfr they're so sibling-coded
➥ username who's the oldest? 🤔
➥ username def Oscar, Logan is the middle child and Y/N is the youngest
➥ username OMG I SEE IT 😭
➥ username i always thought of Y/N and Oscar as a married couple and Logan as their child 😂
➥ username same! they do act like one here and there
➥ username siblings or dating final boss 🤣
username i'm still so confused? why does she call Oscar her doppelgänger when they look nothing alike?
➥ username Alpine stated that Oscar would be driving for them in 2023, but it was actually Y/n who signed the contract. She made fun of Alpine for "mistaking" her with Oscar and fans just started calling her his doppelgänger 😂
➥ username oh okayy, thank you 🫶 i'm gonna look into this rn
➥ username for sure do! it's an ongoing joke lol
➥ username it's funny how Oscar just accepted it 😭 he didn't even comment on it
➥ username he was like "i have a doppelgänger? cool" and left it at that 😭
➥ username if i had Y/n as my doppelgänger i'd keep my mouth shut too. i mean have you seen her? holy moly
username i love when hot people befriend even hotter people
➥ username they have me wrapped around their fingers idc
➥ username SAME BABE
➥ username imagine them as a couple 😩
➥ username oh i'd be done for
➥ username who would be the wag? XD
➥ username Oscar no doubt 🤣 that guy has a crush for sure
➥ username RIGHT? FINALLY SOMEONE WHO SEES IT TOO
➥ username the evidence is all over Twitter 😂
➥ username can you guys send me a link or smth? i'm kind of invested now 🫢
➥ username search @ynscarfan either on Twitter or Instagram. that girl has EVERYTHING documented
ynscarfanpage @ynscarfan
you can't tell me that they aren't soulmates LIKE THEY HAVE THE SAME EYES??
💬 10K 🔃 13K ❤️ 686k 🖇️
shipper#1 @username
i'm gonna leave this here for you to freak over like i did 🤗 (i mean who posts their opponent's custom helmet on their socials??)
➥ username @username
he looks so proud to show her the design i can't 😭 he's so cute
➥ username @username
he really looks like a polite cat 😭
➥ username @username
the way he's smiling at herr like c'monn 🤭
shipper#2 @username
it's our time to shine! shippers share your evidence with the world 😌
shipper#3 @username
Remember when Oscar was doing Q&A in the McLaren hospitality and Y/n just casually sneaked in to 'hang out' with him? 😭
She shouldn't be anywhere near the other motorhomes as an ALPINE driver but there she was and Oscar just laughed when he saw her 🥹
also the fact that admin let her stay and even asked her some questions still blows my mind (admin's a y/nscar shipper confirmed)
➥ username @username
what blows my mind is that they let y/n hang around every race week 💀 like guys.. that's your enemy
➥ username @username
i mean.. they say "keep your friends close, but your enemies closer" for a reason right 🤷
➥ username @username
she's def spying like c'mon now
➥ username @username
Y/n spying for Alpine? 🤣 dude there's no wayy she despises that team and just tolerates their bullshit
shipper#4 @username
Mclaren admin is a y/nscar shipper and here are some examples why
When Y/n dnfed in Monaco 2024, she immediately headed over to McLaren where she watched the rest of the race. Admin then let her film Oscar's post-race debrief and titled it: "New employee? 👀"
Then we have Oscar's "My race week routine" vlog in which Y/n pokes her head in just to say hello 🥹(i love them sm it hurts) and admin doesn't edit those little moments out but keeps them instead 😭
shipper#5 @username
can we talk about how snarky he was on the radio this weekend? and his reaction to Pierre pushing Y/n into the fucking wall?
OP: "Almost got hit by an Alpine."
"We saw. Gasly pushed Y/n off the track to avoid Antonelli."
OP: "If he has to avoid another car by crashing into his teammate, then that's a pretty shit job of avoiding."
LIKE YES SIRR CLOCK HIS ASS 👏
➥ username @username
i giggled when he said that 🤭 he don't play about his doppelgänger
➥ username @username
I love how his engineer calls her by her name instead of her surname
➥ username @username
he was more mad than Y/n 😭 that girl just accepted her fate and focused on bringing the fuckass car to the finish line
➥ username @username
they were seen leaving the paddock together today and you could see how unimpressed Oscar was when Pierre caught up to them to apparently "apologize"
➥ username @username
his face spoke volumes 😭 we know Pierre's apology was 100% insincere and forced based on the twist in his mouth
and the stiff nod he gave Pierre afterwards had ME feeling stuff and i usually don't find smth simple like a fucking nod attractive 💀
➥ username @username
same! that's when i realized i needed to get off Twitter and the y/nscar hastag 💀
➥ username @username
OMG REAL 😭
y/nscar race updates @ynscarfanpage
‼️ BREAKING ‼️
With 15 laps remaining, Y/N's Alpine is in the wall of turn 8 due to brake failure! She's out of the car and ok
Oscar continues to fight Russell for podium, currently sitting in P4 but closing the gap quite fast
💬 2K 🔃 3K ❤️ 78k 🖇️
username @username
i feel so bad for Y/N and Logan 🥲 my babies deserve so much better than this and it's pissing me off
And the nerve Y/N's engineer has to ask if the car is ok like DUDE YOUR DRIVER FUCKING CRASHED
➥ username @username
her little voice on the radio broke my heart 💔 that girl chose to crash into the wall instead of Ollie's rear bc her brakes weren't working
and they don't even ask if she's injured or anything ☹️
➥ username @username
the drivers did tho! Oscar and Logan didn't even hesitate
➥ username @username
when i heard Nando ask my heart swelled with joy 🥹🥹
➥ username @username
he always has her back no matter what and i love that for her 🥹
➥ username @username
he said he loves how fiery and confident she gets when it comes to driving last year and i can't get that out of my head 😭
username @username
our girl needs to change teams ASAP 🙏 i'm sure someone would love to have her
➥ username @username
i heard that Mercedes had considered her as an option for the 2025 season when Lewis announced his move to Ferrari
she could've been scoring podiums every weekend 🥲
➥ username @username
DON'T DO THIS TO ME 😭 💔 I LOVE GEORGE AND Y/N'S FRIENDSHIP SM
➥ username @username
SAMEE THEIR INTERVIEWS ALWAYS CRACK ME UP 😭
username @username
you're telling me that we could've had Y/nscar podiums? 🙂 and don't bc of Alpine? 🙂 i'm gonna commit arson 🙂
➥ username @username
take me with you! i watch crime documentaries so i know how to hide a dead body without getting caught 😌
➥ username @username
girl that's not.. 😬
➥ username @username
i'd be heavily concerned rn but if it means freeing Y/N from Alpine, i'm 100% in
➥ username @username
see?? that's the spirit! 💪 💪
y/nscar race updates @ynscarfanpage
‼️ RACE RESULTS ‼️
🥇 Max Verstappen
🥈 Lando Norris
🥉 Oscar Piastri
Charles Leclerc, George Russell, Lewis Hamilton
Logan placed 16th and Y/N DNFed 😢
💬 4K 🔃 9K ❤️ 226k 🖇️
username @username
Y/N won 3rd place wdym?? she didn't DNF, her doppelgänger got 3rd so she did too 😌
➥ username @username
EXACTLYY I KNOW THAT'S RIGHT 🙂↕️
username @username
Oscar chased George DOWN in that McLaren holy shit that was entertaining to watch
➥ username @username
he wanted that podium for Y/N too trust 🤞
username @username
DID NOBODY ELSE SEE WHAT I SAW?!? WAS I IMAGINING THINGS? 😀
➥ username @username
WHAT DID YOU SEE??
➥ username @username
THE FOREHEAD KISS?? DID NOBODY SEE THAT??
➥ username @username
ohh you must be new 🤣 that's normal girliee, Oscar kisses Y/N's forehead / helmet every time he gets a podium
he started that back in 2023 when he got his first and kept on doing it afterwards
➥ username @username
JESUS CHRIST! THAT GAVE ME A HEART ATTACK 😭
➥ username @username
welcome to the club!! 🥳 🥳 y/nscar gives us those almost every weekend
username @username
i'm so ready for Y/N's weekend dump 😋 i know those podium photos are gonna eat down
➥ username @username
i wouldn't blame her if she didn't post anything after today's fuckass shit show
➥ username @username
i know the hate is gonna be bad after this one 😕 there are memes already flooding the internet
yourusername
Autodromo Nazionale Monza
liked by oscarpiastri, f1, mclarenf1 and 408k others
yourusername crashed but ended up on the podium anyway 😌
view comments
username THE MEMES- I CAN'T WITH YOU 😭 😭
username LOGAN THE GOAT 🐐
username DNF WHO??
username EXACTLY MAMA GET THAT P3 🤭
username no podium pic today? ☹️
➥ yourusername not today, i got Osc's bad angle 😬
➥ username LMAOO 🤣
➥ username i didn't know he had one
➥ yourusername he has plenty
➥ oscarpiastri you're gonna lose your doppelgänger privileges
➥ yourusername I MISSPOKE! HE HAS NONE! ❌
lando i hope u saved some for me
➥ yourusername are you gonna pay for my therapy?
➥ lando absolutely not
➥ yourusername no kinder for you then 🙂↔️
mclarenf1 congrats on P3! 👏
➥ yourusername thank you thank you 🙂↕️
➥ username NO WAYY MCLAREN ADMIN KNOWS THE DOPPELGÄNGER LORE
➥ username this is peak 🤣
williamsf1official 🐐 💙
logansargeant thank you for recognizing my real identity
logansargeant that's how my shadow looks like every day
➥ yourusername ok calm down eagle 🤚
➥ username U DID NOT 😭 😭
➥ username WHAT IS HAPPENING TODAY
f1 we're making this our whole personality for the rest of the season 😎
➥ username not you too 😭
haasf1team thank you for sparing our rear 🙏 this won't go unnoticed
➥ username can you offer her a seat next season pls? we're desperate 😭
➥ username save her from Alpine pls Haas we beg you
oscarpiastri what a celebratory weekend 🏆
➥ yourusername we should get a cake
➥ yourtrainer no you definitely shouldn't
➥ yourusername party pooper 🙄
username her humor keeps me going through this shitty season 😭
➥ username as a ferrari fan i can confirm that she makes the weekends somewhat bearable to watch
➥ username ferrari fans 🤝 Y/N fans
username her interviews are so unhinged and i can't get enough of them 🤣
➥ username i just know some journalists hate to see her coming bc of how sarcastic and unbothered she is 😭
TWITTER
ynscarfanpage @ynscarfan
So apparently, Y/N is being held accountable for the brake failure. Because according to Flavio, her driving was reckless and “incorrect”?
She literally pointed out how the brake pedal wasn’t responding to her 2 laps before it gave out completely and they did NOTHING about it??
No call-in, no “we’re looking into it”, no fucking acknowledgment whatsoever and SHE is the one who is to blame??
Not only that, he also told her to stop complaining about the car and start performing better instead
I have nothing nice to say about that man
@yourusername we love you and see how hard-working you are don’t let that old jerk tell you otherwise 🫶
💬 8k 🔃 62k ❤️ 286k 🖇️
username @username
I was waiting for someone to post about it and I agree with you
username @username
how dare he insult her? Did he forget that she’s the reason why they aren’t last in the WCC? She has more points than Pierre and he’s telling HER to improve? Oh hell no 😤
username @username
you want improvement? Give her a functional car then
username @username
who the fuck does he think he is?? I wanna see him drive that piece of junk
username @username
I love how the other team principals are disagreeing with him lmaoo
➥ username @username
Are they really? Which ones?
➥ username @username
Toto, Ayao and James — they dragging his ass REAL good 🤣
➥ username @username
Stella also addressed it briefly this afternoon
username @username
@yourusername girlie leave that fuckass team pls
➥ username @username
Right? This is a good enough reason to quit
username @username
she’s soo mistreated and overlooked it breaks my heart ☹️
➥ username @username
this would be my breaking point she can do so much better than this
➥ username @username
I feel like she’s gonna retire sooner or later and honestly? I wouldn't fucking blame her
INSTAGRAM
f1
liked by alpinef1team, username and 249k others
f1 Y/N is departing from Alpine, giving @francolapinto an opportunity to return
@yourusername it was an honor to have you with us
view comments
username yeah I knew it I’m glad she’s finally free but it hurts to see her go 😢
username NO PLEASE I CAN’T LOSE ANOTHER
username first Danny, now her who am I supposed to watch from now on?
username prepare yourself Franco you’ll probably get the same treatment
➥ username not really I think Flavio hated Y/N just bc she was a woman 😕
➥ username if she was a man, he’d have treated her differently imo
olliebearman 🙁
olliebearman me and my rear are forever grateful
➥ username OLLIE DON’T DO THIS TO MEE 😭
➥ username this is reminding me of Danny hitting the wall instead of Oscar 🥲
➥ username history is repeating itself right before our eyes
➥ username LITERALLY
georgerussell63 my interview bestie is abandoning me
➥ username georgeee take this seriously for a sec pls 🙏😭
➥ username no more unhinged interviews 😕 I’m going to suffer for the rest of my life
haasf1team we owe you @yourusername
➥ username WRAP IT UP EVERYBODY 🚶➡️🚪
➥ username ok and now I’m crying again
williamsf1official our doors are open 24/7, you can visit whenever @yourusername 😊
logansargeant till next time 🩵
➥ username I hope you kissed the brick before you threw it at us 😃
➥ username she’s gonna be missed by some many 😭
maxverstappen1 try Red Bull next year @yourusername
➥ username OH I’D LOVE TO SEE THAT
➥ username what are you implying mister?? 🧐
➥ username WE NEED MAX & Y/N ON THE SAME TEAM
➥ lando don’t tempt her pls she’d talk my ear off
mclarenf1 our favorite doppelgänger ever 🫶
➥ username 😭😭😭
username OKK I’VE DECIDED I’M SUING ALPINE
➥ username let’s write a petition
➥ username send me the link asap
➥ username I’M SIGNING THAT IMMEDIATELY 📝
username everyone is commenting but Oscar ☹️
➥ username I’d say his silence speaks volumes
➥ username it really does but it’d be nice to hear smth from him too
username we’re losing our favorite duo on the grid
➥ username he has nobody to share his podiums / wins with anymore 🙁
➥ username SHUT UP PLS I CAN’T HANDLE IT RN
➥ username do not open twitter then things are 10x worse over there 😭
TWITTER
ynscarfanpage @ynscarfan
Share your favorite Y/N moments in the comments
💬 4,852 🔃 9,603 ❤️ 286k 🖇️
username @username
her first ever interview that was basically just her talking about how excited she was to be there 😭
she was so little and her eyes were lit sparkling (i’m making myself cry)
username @username
I have soo many, get ready:
1. her weekend dumps (I don’t need to elaborate)
2. how bright and full of life she was in 2023 (you can see how she lost herself over the years that followed)
3. her little bounce every time she scores points 🥹
4. her relationship with the rookies (she was so welcoming to every single one of ‘em and it still makes me cry till this day) — seeing her interact with them during the parades makes me emotional every time 🥲
5. her friendship with the 2019 rookies, especially George (“I became very overprotective of her. She’s too pure for this world.” — George in 2024)
And now, the y/nscar moments that keep me up at night:
1. Oscar’s first podium (him kissing her helmet, Y/N finishing in P7, the selfie they took and their big smiles)
2. his reactions to her crashes (you can tell how much he cares about her based on how soft his voice gets on the radio)
3. her interrupting his interviews with Logan
4. how often they mention one another 🥹
5. the fact that she’s one of the first people he looks for when he gets off the podium
6. their celebratory high-fives (those kill me every single weekend)
7. when he got her flowers bc she finished P5 (her personal best)
8. the fact that he shares his accomplishments with her??? 😃
9. him speaking up whenever someone disrespects her (like yess sirr 🤭)
10. Who is your best friend on the grid? “Y/N and Logan.” — mind you, he didn’t even need to think about it
THEY’RE MY ROMAN EMPIREE
username @username
the whole doppelgänger incident
➥ username @username
they were both so sassy about it and I love that
➥ username @username
I think it’s worth mentioning that they didn’t really know each other but clicked right away
➥ username @username
when I saw her reply to his tweet back then, I knew they’d be my favorite right there and then
username @username
their attitudes in press conferences are GOLDEN
➥ username @username
they’re the icons of f1 💅
username @username
I just love how supportive she is toward everyone and the fact that Max likes her speaks for itself
➥ username @username
THISSS not many people talk about that
username @username
I love when she arrives to the paddock with Oscar they look so good next to each other 😩
➥ username @username
it should be illegal really
➥ username @username
they look so powerful it gives me chills every time
username @username
I pray she doesn’t disappear like Danny I need to see her in the paddock 🙏
➥ username @username
imagine she shows up in the McLaren garage and when the camera pins to her it’ll say “F1 driver & Oscar Piastri’s partner” 🫣
➥ username @username
ohh I’d have lost it genuinely
➥ username @username
you’re so delusional girl but hey I’ll give it to you, that would be lowkey epic
TWITTER
f1gossip @gossipf1
‼️BREAKING NEWS‼️
Y/N was spotted in the paddock with a VIP pass around her neck
Which garage is she gonna be in?
Nobody knows 👀
💬 2k 🔃 11k ❤️ 418k 🖇️
username @username
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR 🏃➡️🏃➡️
username @username
yeah so about that.. I think we know now 😬
username @username
EXCUSE ME? WHAT DID THEY PUT UNDER HER NAME? 🤓
➥ username @username
THEY HAD US FOOLED FOR YEARS
➥ username @username
I think I’m gonna be sick
username @username
SHUT THE FUCK UP NO THEY DIDN’T
➥ username @username
but they did and I’m here for it 🤣
➥ username @username
WHAT DID IT SAY?? CAN SOMEBODY FUCKING TELL ME ALREADY??
username @username
I NEED OSCAR TO SPILL THE BEANS THIS INSTANT
FUCK THE RACE
➥ username @username
people are going feral I’m cryinggg 😭
username @username
THE WAY SHE SMILED INTO THE CAMERA MY HEART BURST 😩
➥ username @username
she looked so happy my babyyy 😭❤️
yourusername posted a story!
y/nscar race updates @ynscarfanpage
‼️ ABU DHABI GP RESULTS ‼️
🥇 Max Verstappen
🥈 Oscar Piastri
🥉 Lando Norris
Lando Norris is the 2025 champion!! Congratulations to him 👏👏
💬 3k 🔃 72k ❤️ 986k 🖇️
username @username
I don’t care who won what WE GOT A Y/NSCAR KISS 💃💃
➥ username @username
*double kiss he kissed her forehead too
➥ username @username
this feels like a dream
username @username
I’m so sad that Oscar didn’t win 😕
➥ username @username
next year is his trust 🙏
➥ username @username
he got robbed and I’m going to die on that hill
username @username
Abu Dhabi has destroyed me in so many ways and I can’t fucking grasp either of them
➥ username @username
this is soo real dude
➥ username @username
I’m so heartbroken but happy at the same time it’s confusing af
username @username
I can’t believe they were engaged this whole time
➥ username @username
the forehead / helmet kisses make so much sense now 😭
➥ username @username
everything Oscar did that seemed romantic does
username @username
I’m manifesting Oscar WDC and Y/N’s comeback in 2026 🙌
➥ username @username
girl I’m gonna manifest with ya cuz I need to see Y/N Piastri on my TV
➥ username @username
OMGG IMAGINE THEM ON THE PODIUM
INSTAGRAM
f1
liked by redbullracing, oscarpiastri and 712k others
f1 @yn_piastri is coming back!
She will join Max Verstappen at Red Bull for the 2026 season
view comments
username THIS IS TOO MUCH AT ONCE
username admin the 2025 season JUST ended have mercy on us plss 😭
username @username WE MANIFESTED THIS
➥ username WE DIDD
redbullracing what a combo 💪
➥ username y’all know what you’re doing
➥ username EVERYONE SAY THANK U RED BULL
➥ username they gave us our queen back 🥹
maxverstappen1 @lando
➥ lando don’t even
➥ username he was warning you back then lmaooo
➥ username 😭😭😭
username we had to lose Logan to get Y/N back how cruel is that?
➥ username very cruel I haven’t stopped sobbing since 🥲
➥ username he’s gonna be with them in spirit 🙏
username I can’t wait this fucking long for March
➥ username REALL I NEED THE SEASON TO START ALREADY 😖
username I’m so excitedd
username it’s gonna be weird seeing the name Piastri next to a Red Bull logo lol
➥ username nahh that’s gonna be fucking brilliant
username the Piastris are gonna dominate I can feel it in my bones 💪
➥ username we’re finally going to get a y/nscar podium 🥳
➥ username and they’re gonna eat it downn
username I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that they’re engaged
➥ username same! I hope they’ll talk about their engagement when the season starts
username we’re gonna have 3 engaged drivers on the grid 😭
➥ username this season is gonna be so so epic
TWITTER
f1gossip @gossipf1
Our prayers have been heard! Alex and Oscar spoke about their engagements to their lovely girlfriends!
Here’s what Oscar had to say about his (spoiler alert — he didn’t give us much 💁)
💬 10k 🔃 80k ❤️ 943k 🖇️
username @username
“I proposed to her in August last year” I BEG YOU PARDON 😦😦
➥ username @username
he proposed to her and then went to win the Dutch GP 😂
➥ username @username
and the fact that he dedicated it to her on live TV AND Instagram
➥ username @username
“This one is for you @yourusername” HE WAS DEDICATING IT TO HIS FIANCEÉ I’M GONNA CRY 😭
username @username
I need to hear their love story so bad
username @username
He was smiling so hard when the journalist brought her up MY SHAYLASSS 😭❤️
➥ username @username
imagine how difficult it must have been for them to act like they were just friends
➥ username @username
I could neverr if I had Oscar as my boyfriend, the whole world would know lol
username @username
they value their privacy and I respect that
username @username
I need them on the podium this weekend or I’m going to commit a crime 💀
➥ username @username
they’re gonna be there for sure! Oscar in P1 and Y/N in P2 💪
➥ username @username
No home race curse plss, not this year 🙏🙏
y/nscar race updates @ynscarfanpage
‼️BREAKING‼️
Oscar has gone off on the reconnaissance lap to the grid! :(
The Australian hero won’t be able to race at home.. what a heartbreaking news
💬 6k 🔃 50k ❤️ 282k 🖇️
username @username
OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE
username @username
FREE MY MAN FROM THE HOME RACE CURSE PLSS 😭
username @username
say sike rn 🙂
username @username
that’s it. I’m not watching f1 no more 🙅
username @username
he sounded so broken on the radio I can’t-
username @username
ok Y/N needs to win for him now
➥ username @username
or AT LEAST get a podium so they can share
➥ username @username
the doppelgänger privileges are about to apply the other way around 😌
➥ username @username
she needs to lock in frr
username @username
the fact that it happened before the race even started breaks my heart 💔
he didn’t get to properly race at home..
➥ username @username
I had to turn off my TV bc the commentators were making it worse lowkey
➥ username @username
I did that too! Then I saw the clips of him walking away with his former press officer telling the cameraman to back off
➥ username @username
it’s ironic that it was an Alpine employee who made sure he got some space
where was his current one? McLaren is mistreating him sm but most of you aren’t ready for that conversation 🤷
username @username
“And he has never had a more disappointing crash in his entire motor-racing career.” and “Heartbreak for the home favorite who will not form up on the grid.” from the commentators DESTROYED ME
➥ username @username
GIRL DON’T FUCKING REMIND ME 😭
➥ username @username
and on top of all that, we had Y/N and Lando waving at his grandstand during the anthem bc Oscar couldn’t make it
now THAT’S depressing af
➥ username @username
a tear rolled down my cheek when I saw that 😭 that was so thoughtful of them
➥ username @username
it was and people still have the nerve to say Lando is selfish and rude 🙂
➥ username @username
let ‘em hate your reaction just fuels their immaturity
➥ username @username
👏👏👏
y/nscar race updates @ynscarfanpage
‼️RACE RESULTS‼️
🥇 George Russell
🥈 Kimi Antonelli
🥉 Charles Leclerc
Y/N Piastri, Lando Norris, Max Verstappen
💬 8k 🔃 62k ❤️ 286k 🖇️
username @username
I think we can say congrats to Mercedes on the WDC and WCC
➥ username @username
after the first race? Are you kidding? 😐
➥ username @username
let’s not jump to such conclusions after the first race of the season pls
username @username
Y/N was wrestling with that car oh my lord
➥ username @username
tbh I didn’t expect her to end up ABOVE Max
username @username
she was protecting that P4 from Lando with all her might
➥ username @username
and the way she APOLOGIZED for not getting podium made my heart throb
George was right, she’s too pure for this world 😭
username @username
the post-race interview had me reaching for a tissue
➥ username @username
when I saw Oscar walking up to her I knew I was done for
username @username
HE KISSED HER TEMPLE AND THANKED HER FOR FINISHING FOURTH AHHH 🤸🤸
➥ username @username
not her saying “it’s the least I could do for you” MAMAA YOU DID MORE THAN THAT 😭
➥ username @username
they exchanged the doppelgänger privileges
➥ username @username
and the fact that they held hands during her interviews afterwards 🥹
➥ username @username
he was acting like a lost puppy following her around the media pen 😭
username @username
she’s exactly what he needed I’m so glad that Red Bull offered her a seat
➥ username @username
Great! Now I’m crying AGAIN
username @username
finishing P4 in her first GP with Red Bull is impressive af
➥ username @username
I know Alpine is screaming rn they shouldn’t have dropped her
➥ username @username
THANK GOD they did! We can finally see her full potential
➥ username @username
they didn’t deserve her talent anyway
username @username
as much as I love having Franco back in F1, she was the reason why I kept putting Alpine in my top 3
welp ig I’m a Red Bull girlie this season 🤷
➥ username @username
they were mistreating her so bad and not to mention the way Flavio spoke about her like she was something off-putting and yucky
➥ username @username
I wanna see his reaction when she wins her first GP
CHINESE GP — TWITTER
y/nscar race updates @ynscarfanpage
I don’t even wanna share this update.. I hate the new regulations sm (free my man Oscar pls)
Both McLarens — DNS, but at least Oscar got further this time! That’s progress ig? (I’m coping)
We also have Albon and Bortoleto in the DNS category, both Martins DNFed
Y/N is currently struggling with the car, reported something power-related
Pls God, let her finish the race 🙏
💬 3k 🔃 87k ❤️ 149k 🖇️
username @username
soo.. about that..
➥ y/nscar race updates @ynscarfanpage
don’t speak to me rn
username @username
WDYM BOTH RED BULLS DNFed??? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED
username @username
what the actual fuck is happening with the cars?
username @username
I’m in denial 🙂
username @username
Y/N killed me when she couldn’t get the car to turn back on 😭
➥ username @username
‘Car went poof. Engine kaput.’ the best way to announce your DNF imo
➥ username @username
I can’t stop fucking laughing omg she hates those new regulations as much as we do 🤣
➥ username @username
her and Max are in pain every time they have to drive these fucking things 💀
username @username
I can’t with Oscar laughing about his DNS in the media pen 😭
➥ username @username
“It’s been a while since I’ve watched two F1 races from the sidelines” DUDE- that’s not funny at all 🥲
➥ username @username
“I got through the grid” he’s stronger than me
➥ username @username
not him telling Lando “fancy seeing you here” I love that man to death 😂
➥ username @username
he doesn’t have a single serious bone in his body this season istg
username @username
no P1ASTRI so far.. I’m starting to lose hope
➥ username @username
we were so excited for a y/nscar podium but all we get is pain and suffering 😔
username @username
I can’t believe last year’s WDC contenders are nowhere near it this time around
everywhere the duke of bristol went, heartbreak trailed behind. (everywhere but here, it seems.)
ꔮ starring: duke of bristol!lando norris x childhood best friend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 3.9k.
ꔮ includes: humor, friendship, romance. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: regency au. childhood best friends, fake dating lite, feelings realization.
ꔮ commentary box: ahaha. so heyyy.. i have nothing to say except that, sometimes, we have to drop the fic nobody asked for in hopes that it will get us back on track. this is a very late celebration for LN1. tumblr is finally no longer banned in my country (long story) and i’m hoping to be around a lot more often again. always & forever, every lando i write is for my darling, dearest @norrisradio. you’re the wdc of my heart, t. love ya.
You slip out of the ballroom just as the applause reaches its most unbearable pitch.
Inside, the Queen has just declared Lando Norris, Duke of Bristol, the diamond of the season.
The diamond.
You still cannot decide whether the court applauds because they are delighted or because they are too shocked to do anything else. Lando—whose reputation for scandal travels faster than most carriages—now stands crowned as the most desirable prize of the London season.
If irony were audible, the ballroom would be deafening.
The corridor outside the ballroom is mercifully quieter. Candlelight flickers along the paneled walls, carrying the faint scent of beeswax and roses from the arrangements inside. The music seeps through the doors in polite, muffled waves. You lean against the window, grateful for the cooler air drifting through the cracked glass. You are granted peace for all of four minutes.
“If you are hiding,” grumbles a voice behind you, “I must congratulate you on your excellent instincts.”
You do not have to turn to know who is speaking so frankly. You’ve heard that voice in your dreams, for better and for worse. You look anyway, and sure enough, there stands Lando—looking as though he has just survived a naval battle rather than a royal announcement.
His cravat is slightly crooked. His curls, which society ladies spend entire evenings praising, appears as though he has run a hand through it repeatedly. There is a wild, haunted look in his eyes that would be deeply concerning if it were not also extremely familiar.
“Your Grace,” you say with a polite incline of your head. “How fortunate. I was just reflecting on the Queen’s decision.”
“Were you,” he says flatly.
“Yes.”
You pause, studying him. “I wondered,” you hum, “whether Her Majesty had perhaps mistaken you for someone else entirely.”
His eyes narrow. Then, he groans and drops his head back against the wall. Gone is the man that half the ton’s mamas regarded a ‘waste’, a ‘rake’. Instead, there is the same boy who used to bitch and gripe to you about trivial, menial things, like the weather ruining his plans to play in the courtyard.
“You see?!” he huffs. “This is exactly what I feared.”
“What, honesty?”
“Betrayal,” he corrects. “From my own childhood ally, no less.”
You fold your arms, unimpressed. “Lando,” you say.
It works instantly. He stills. The dramatics drain from his posture with almost embarrassing speed. He has always been like this; capable of terrifying half of London with his reputation, yet strangely manageable the moment you say his name in that particular tone.
He exhales slowly. His endeavor to be a mature person does not last too long. “I am ruined,” he groans, entirely incapable of shutting up for even a moment.
“You are a duke,” you shoot back. “Your definition of ‘ruin’ lacks credibility.”
“No, truly.” He gestures vaguely toward the ballroom doors. “Do you know what awaits me in there?”
“Adoration,” you say.
“Ambush,” he corrects.
You cannot help the small laugh that escapes you. It startles him into smiling, just briefly.
For a moment, there it is again. The boy who used to appear at your family’s garden gate with mud on his boots and an entirely unreasonable plan for the afternoon. He had been ten the first time he tried to teach you how to climb the old oak behind your house. He fell halfway up, landed in a rose bush, and insisted with great dignity that it had been a descent fit for a king.
He had always possessed a flair for dramatics.
“You should be grateful,” you muse. “Many gentlemen spend entire seasons hoping to be noticed.”
“Yes,” Lando sighs heavily. “But most of them are not me.”
You raise a brow. Before you can call him something deserving of his demeanor—perhaps ‘self-absorbed git,’ if you could get away with it—he barrels on.
“I am not meant to be the diamond,” he says, as though this should be obvious to any reasonable person. “I am meant to be the cautionary tale.”
As if he isn’t already, you bite back from saying. Lando often existed outside the fringes of society despite his title. Some might have even dubbed him as a disgrace, considering all his dalliances. How his bed always stayed warm; how he pranced around without a care in the world.
Everywhere the Duke of Bristol went, heartbreak trailed behind. (Everywhere but here, it seems.)
“How tragic,” you murmur, if only to indulge him.
“Exactly!” He points at you as if you have proven his argument. “Someone understands.”
You study him again. Despite the theatrical despair, he looks... unsettled. Truly unsettled.
The ballroom doors open briefly behind him, spilling a wave of music and laughter into the hall. Several curious faces peer out before the doors close again. Lando watches the doors as though they might lunge for him. Then he glances back at you.
“You always did know where to hide,” he says, affection tinging the lilt of his tone.
“I am not hiding.”
“You slipped out the moment the Queen finished speaking.”
“Pure coincidence.”
“Cowardice,” he amends.
“Self-preservation,” you snap in return.
He gives you a proper laugh this time. The sound warms the corridor like sunlight; it has been years since you heard it so easily.
For a brief moment, he simply observes as you bite back a grin of your own. There is something thoughtful in his expression now, something quieter beneath the humor.
(Unbeknownst to you, he has spiraled into his own nostalgia. He remembers how many evenings ended exactly like this when you were children, both of you escaping gatherings of dull adults to sit on the garden wall and trade observations about the world.
You had always possessed the unnerving ability to see through him immediately. Everyone else saw the future duke, but you saw the boy attempting to impress people he did not particularly like.)
“You are staring,” present-you says, and Lando forces himself out of his memories to sport a grin.
“I am reflecting,” he replies.
“That is a poor excuse for staring.”
“Do you know," he says abruptly, “that you are the only person in London who has not congratulated me tonight?”
“Would you like me to?”
“Absolutely not.” He shudders. “I might expire from embarrassment.”
You smile slightly. “Very well. In that case, I shall offer my condolences instead.”
“And I would thank you for them.”
A silence falls between you then—comfortable, but not entirely simple. From the ballroom, the orchestra begins a waltz. Lando glances toward the doors again. “If I return in there,” he says, morose in a way unbefitting of a twenty-something-year-old, “I will be hunted.”
“You exaggerate, my lord.”
“I do not. I saw three mothers sharpening their smiles the moment the Queen finished speaking.”
“How horrific.”
“Precisely.”
He looks at you again. “You could help me,” he says, as if the idea has just occurred to him.
You have to force yourself not to grimace. He is looking more and more like the boy next door by the second. “That sounds dangerous,” you grunt.
“Only slightly,” he assures you.
“Which means extremely.”
He grins. “Dance with me.”
It is the world’s most foolish idea. You, who so preferred to be on the sidelines of these events, would be in tomorrow’s papers if you were to so much as box step with the season’s diamond. “That will not help you escape,” you point out.
“No. But it will delay the inevitable.” His smile grows sheepish. He adds lightly, “If I must face the entire ton as the Queen’s unfortunate jewel, I would prefer to do so with someone who remembers me falling out of trees.”
How cruel of him to pull out this card. To know that you would do nothing for the sake of capital-s Society, but you are at the beck and call of your childhood friend and his watercolor eyes.
“Your Grace,” you start.
“Lando,” he corrects immediately. “You—I will always be just Lando to you.”
“Very well,” you say benevolently, as if your heart had not done something particularly treacherous amid the abandonment of formalities. “Lando. If this ends in scandal, I shall remind everyone that it was entirely your idea.”
“Naturally.”
He extends his arm; you take it. Gloved hand in calloused one. The contact is brief, proper, and yet somehow startling all the same.
The ballroom swallows you whole the moment the doors open.
Music spills outward in a bright, lilting waltz. Candlelight multiplies across mirrors and polished floors until the room glitters like a jewelry box overturned. Silks whisper, jewels flash, and conversation rises in careful, eager waves.
And then the room sees him.
It happens almost physically. Heads turn. Fans pause mid-flutter. A murmur travels across the floor like wind across water.
The Queen’s diamond has returned.
You feel Lando stiffen beside you. “Ah,” he says quietly. “They have spotted me.”
“Shocking,” you mutter through clenched teeth. “A duke freshly declared the most desirable man in London. Who could have predicted such attention?”
“Your sarcasm is poorly timed,” he hisses.
It begins immediately.
A trio of ambitious mothers pivots in perfect formation across the ballroom. Two debutantes glance in your direction, whisper, and then begin drifting closer with the slow determination of hunting cats.
Lando exhales like a man watching enemy ships approach the harbor.
“Do not panic,” you say calmly.
“I am not panicking,” he says, panicking.
“You look as though someone has informed you of an impending duel.”
“This is worse than a duel,” he says grimly. “In a duel only one person wishes to marry you afterward.”
You laugh under your breath, but the advancing crowd grows noticeably thicker. Names begin to float toward him.
“Your Grace!”
“Duke Norris!”
“My lord, what an honor!”
Fans flutter like startled birds. Smiles settle with frightening efficiency. Lando’s hand tightens slightly around yours before he seems to remember himself and releases it with suspicious haste.
Too late. Three matrons have already noticed.
“Oh,” he says faintly.
“What?”
“They saw that.”
“Saw what?”
“The hand,” he says. “Our hands were visible.”
“Lando,” you say patiently, “holding hands does not constitute a scandal.”
“It does when you are the Queen’s freshly polished jewel,” he grumbles.
The crowd closes in another step. A young lady with very determined curls edges forward, guided by a mother whose smile resembles military strategy. Lando glances at the approaching formation. Then he looks at you.
You recognize that look immediately. It is the same expression he once wore before attempting to ride the vicar’s horse backwards during a summer fair.
“No,” you say, even though he hasn’t said anything yet.
“Yes,” he says, then he tacks on a quick “sorry!” like it might solve whatever he is about to spring on you
“Lando—”
But he has already turned to the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls out, his voice carrying with alarming clarity.
The nearby cluster pauses. You stare at him in horror. He is smiling. It is the sort of charming, reckless smile that has caused half of London’s gossip columns to speculate whether he had illegitimate children.
“I fear,” Lando announces, “that I must beg your indulgence this evening.”
Several hopeful mothers lean forward. In contrast, you contemplate how far away you can bolt.
“You see,” he says, “I have already resolved to begin a courtship.”
The silence that follows is so complete you can hear the violins falter for half a note. You know what is coming; it does not take a scholar to guess where he is heading.
Still, like a fool, you hope he could be wise for once.
Lando gestures directly to you. No wise men here.
“I wish to court my neighbor and oldest friend,” he says cheerfully.
The ballroom explodes. Gasps ripple outward like thrown stones. Fans snap open. Heads turn. Somewhere behind you a glass is dropped with a delicate crash.
You stare at him.
“My lord,” you say through a perfectly pleasant smile.
“Yes?”
“What,” you continue sweetly, “do you think you are doing?”
“Surviving,” he whispers back, the shite-eating grin never leaving his face.
Across the room, several mamas are already recalculating their strategies with visible disappointment. Unfortunately, the rest of the ton appears even more interested now—because nothing delights society quite so much as a surprise romance.
Lando, apparently satisfied with the chaos he has created, offers you his arm once again. “Shall we,” he murmurs, “before someone asks inconvenient questions?”
You do not move. “You just announced a courtship,” you hiss.
“A temporary one,” he assures you.
“You did not say temporary!”
“Details,” he shrugs.
You should have left him for dead when he was being chased by stray dogs way back when. You’re convinced you’re about to blow a fuse when you notice the complicated way his expression has shifted.
For all the dramatics, for all the reckless charm, there is a flicker of something tender in his gaze. It is fond and hopeful all at once, and it is far from the first time you’ve fallen for it.
It is deeply inconvenient.
“You are insufferable,” you inform him.
“I am aware,” he says.
The orchestra, perhaps sensing drama worth encouraging, launches into a brighter waltz. Several onlookers have already begun whispering with gleeful enthusiasm.
Lando leans closer. “Please,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, “tell me you will not abandon me to them.”
You glance toward the watching crowd. You really ought to leave him in the lions’ den. Instead, you find yourself gingerly muttering, “You owe me.”
Lando’s shoulders relax instantly.
“But,” you add, “you will spend the rest of the evening explaining exactly how you intend to escape the consequences of your own stupidity.”
He beams. “I was hoping you would help me think of something.”
You slip your hand through his arm. The orchestra swells as though it has personally been waiting for this show. Which, given the enthusiasm of British musicians, is entirely possible.
Lando leads you onto the dance floor before you can reconsider your life choices. The movement is swift, decisive, and—most irritatingly—perfectly elegant. His hand settles at your waist with practiced ease, warm even through the layers of silk and propriety.
Around you, the ballroom watches. Not casually nor politely. No, the ton watches the way astronomers might observe a comet; certain something dramatic is about to happen and determined not to miss a moment of it.
“Smile,” Lando hums.
“I am smiling,” you reply through perfectly arranged teeth.
“You look as though you are planning my murder.”
“Give me time,” you say, saccharine as always, as the waltz begins.
He spins you smoothly into the first turn. The movement is fluid, graceful, and entirely infuriating given that he declared a courtship less than two minutes ago without consulting you.
“Plead your case,” you challenge mid-sidestep.
“I panicked,” he says simply.
“You announced a lifelong social development to the entire aristocracy.”
“Yes. A momentary lapse in judgment.”
“Momentary,” you repeat, barely resisting the urge to snort.
You glide past a cluster of whispering debutantes. Fans snap open. One lady nearly walks into a pillar while staring.
“They are writing our wedding announcement already,” you mutter.
“Talk about efficiency,” Lando cackles gleefully.
“Lando.”
“Yes, my darling, dearest?”
“You have created a disaster.”
“I prefer the term ‘solution’.”
“And you dragged me into it!”
“You were already there,” he says reasonably. “I simply made it official.”
Was it not the case for most of your lives? The only times you have run into trouble, it has been because of Lando. Before he was considered ‘bad’ for any man or woman who breathed, he was bad for you. Always drawing your parents’ ire, always dragging you into adventures that ruined your skirts and distressed your chaperones.
The dance carries you across the center of the ballroom, where observation becomes unavoidable. The Queen herself sits elevated at the far end, her stern gaze following every step.
“She is staring,” you whisper as Lando expertly twirls you.
“I know,” Lando whispers back.
“You ruined her plans.”
“I suspect I did.”
You complete another turn. His grip tightens slightly—steady, guiding, entirely too natural. The crowd murmurs approvingly.
Unfortunately, the two of you dance very well together. You always have. Another memory flickers through your mind without warning.
You, age thirteen, standing barefoot in the grass while he attempted to teach you a proper waltz before your first local assembly. You stepped on his boots repeatedly and informed him that dancing was a ridiculous social ritual invented by people with too much time.
He had laughed so hard he forgot the steps entirely.
You step neatly through a turn now. You like to think you are not the same teenager who would do anything to make Lando Norris laugh.
The dance ends. Polite applause ripples across the room. It would be flattering if it were not accompanied by intense speculation and three dozen whispered theories about your secret romance.
Before either of you can escape the floor, a royal attendant appears. “Your Grace,” the man says carefully. “Her Majesty requests your presence posthaste.”
You and Lando exchange a look.
The Queen’s private chamber is quieter than the ballroom, and also considerably more dangerous. Her Majesty stands near the window when you enter, hands folded behind her back with the posture of someone restraining significant irritation.
“Your Grace,” she says coolly.
“Your Majesty,” Lando replies with a bow.
You curtsy beside him. The Queen studies the two of you with visible skepticism.
“How convenient,” she muses, “that the diamond of my season has already selected his bride before the festivities have properly begun.”
Lando clears his throat. “Fortunate timing,” he says, his voice cracking ever so slightly in his attempt at light-heartedness.
Her Majesty does not appear amused. “You realize that I had several very thoughtful matches in mind,” she sniffles.
You remain silent, which is perhaps the most prudent thing to do. Lando does not have the same sensibilities.
“Your Majesty,” he says suddenly, “with the greatest respect—”
You glance sideways, raring to reel Lando in. No one who starts a sentence with that actually means to accord respect. You are thoroughly convinced you are about to watch your best friend put his head on a chopping block.
“I assure you this was not an act of defiance,” he continues earnestly.
The Queen arches a brow. Lando draws a breath.
Then, to your complete astonishment, he launches into what can only be described as a speech.
“Your Majesty,” he says, “I have spent years avoiding the expectations of society with every tool available to me. Scandal, poor reputation, dramatic exits—”
“We noticed,” the Queen interjects dryly.
“—but none of that was ever meant as disrespect,” he presses on. “I simply never met a circumstance that felt… right.”
His voice softens. “Until her.”
You freeze. Lando was known for his dramatics, not his honesty. As he goes on, though, a bit of the latter seems to bleed in.
“She has known me since childhood,” he continues. There is a quality to his voice that was not there before. It sounds dangerously like affection. “She has witnessed my worst ideas, my most embarrassing moments, and several ill-advised attempts to impress people I did not even like.”
The Queen watches him carefully. “And still,” Lando says, “she remained.”
He gestures slightly toward you. “Your Majesty, the idea of losing that to some calculated courtship arranged for appearances would be nothing short of agony.”
The word hangs in the air. Agony.
Lando trips over the word as if realizing the gravitas of it, and then he clings to it with the earnestness of a man who had just found what he meant to say.
“It has been agony to restrain my affection all these years,” he says, earnest in a way that makes your chest ache. “It has been agony to pretend I am anything but a helpless, hopeless man who aspires to grovel at her feet. I have agonized, and agonized, and agonized, and I only bear it because it has been for her.”
He takes in a deep, fortifying breath. “If I must be in agony,” Lando exhales, “let it be in her name.”
Silence follows. A long, twisting one. It is so quiet that you fear the chamber might hear the steady thump, thump, thump of your heart that has ticked upwards since Lando started speaking.
His eyes remain on the Queen, while your gaze never wavers from the side of his face.
Her Majesty exhales slowly. “You are either very sincere,” she says, “or very persuasive.”
“I hope for both,” Lando replies breathlessly.
Her gaze shifts to you. “And you?”
And you? You, with your disdain for society and all that it entails? You, whose pulse races every time Lando calls for you?
You, who—perhaps in some alternate universe that were not England’s conniving ton—would have loved to be the object of Lando Norris’ affections?
Alas, these are the cards you have been dealt. A ruse with a friend. Another one of the duke’s infamous pranks, albeit with higher stakes. You manage a composed smile.
“I am still recovering from the announcement, Your Majesty,” you say evenly. “And… er… the duke’s rather shocking revelation.”
For the first time, the Queen almost smiles. “Very well,” she says with a dismissive wave. “If this courtship is genuine, I will not interfere.”
Lando exhales quietly.
“However,” she adds sharply, “I will be watching.”
His shoulders stiffen again. The duke is no stranger to an audience, but to have a royal one is an entirely different tale altogether.
“If I discover this is merely a performance,” the Queen warns, “I shall personally arrange the most inconvenient marriage possible for you both.”
“Understood,” Lando says immediately.
“Best of luck,” the Queen says. She sounds like she very much means it.
The hallway outside feels significantly less threatening.
You and Lando walk in silence for several steps. You are the first to falter in your stride; Lando follows suit, looking over his shoulder before turning to face you completely.
The end of the eventful night is drawing to a close. You can feel it in your bones. Still, your heart races for reasons you dare not speak into existence.
“Well,” you say breathlessly.
Lando offers you half a smile, and says in agreement, “Well.”
You fold your arms over your chest as if it might protect you from some invisible, emotional blow. “That speech,” you say.
“Yes?”
“You were very good at pretending.”
A soft, strangled laugh breaks from the back of Lando’s throat. “Pretending?” he echoes, and oh, the genuine confusion in his tone is the thing of fairytales.
This is not supposed to be a fairytale. This is your life, and in your life, you are meant to be married off to some halfway decent marquess with whom you might live a perfectly boring life.
“The agony,” you sputter. “The childhood loyalty. The heartfelt declarations to the Queen.”
Lando looks at you for a long, long moment. The realization dawns on you both in the very same second.
It is in how his brow furrows, how your breath hitches. You have spent years running from the very truth that is just now catching up to your agonized, oblivious duke.
Solemn as a vow, Lando whispers with awe, “I do not think I was pretending at all.” ⛐
On this international women’s day I want to thank all the wonderful female athletes for staying in an environment that’s often so hostile towards women. Thank you for continuing with your sport when so many young girls stop once they start puberty. Thank you for becoming inspirations for other young girls and giving them someone to look up to, to make them believe in their dreams. Thank you for fighting and staying strong despite all the pushbacks from misogynistic media, constant sexism and overt criticism. Thank you for staying ambitious and celebrating your achievements even if people are belittling them. Thank you to the women of colour for staying strong despite facing twice as many obstacles. Thank you to the queer women for being brave enough to live your truth in an environment that’s strewn with homophobia. Thank you to the non-binary athletes for competing despite being forced into gender binaries and getting hate thrown their way every single day. I love you all, thank you for bringing me so much joy and escape and for letting me be a part of your journey <3
Summary: you don’t realize how much you’ve been shrinking yourself to fit into someone else’s life until you’re forced to look at the pieces. It starts with an Olympic gold medal and a boyfriend who laughs when your entire sport is treated like a political punchline. But it shifts with Sidney Crosby in the Milan cold, pointing out the devastating difference between a boy you have to make excuses for and a man who actually respects you. Sometimes, moving on isn’t just a breakup … it’s an absolute upgrade
Pairing: George Russell x Vivian Dearden (Original Character)
Summary:
Vivian Dearden had two rules:
Never make yourself the story.
Absolutely do not fall in love with the driver you’re assigned to babysit in the press pen.
She’s been very successful at both — right up until the 2025 Canadian Grand Prix, when a worsening stomach ache turns out to be appendicitis, she vomits on Toto Wolff’s very expensive Italian loafers, and George Russell wins the race while asking for hospital updates over team radio.
Warnings and Notes: First George fic! We are trying to level the playing field for every other team not running a Mercedes engine here.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf, who listens to me ramble
Vivian Dearden had learned, over the years, to treat long-haul flights like liminal spaces—necessary, vaguely uncomfortable, best endured rather than experienced.
She had her routine down to a science. Noise-cancelling headphones on before boarding finished. Laptop out, emails cleared. Phone on airplane mode but face-up, just in case. A bottle of water, untouched until they were airborne. A window seat every time, same posture, same mental checklist.
Professional. Composed. In control.
Which was why the dull, unfamiliar twist in her stomach caught her off guard.
It wasn’t pain, exactly. More like a quiet objection. A low-grade unease that flared briefly as she shifted in her seat and then settled again, easy to ignore.
Vivian frowned at it for half a second before mentally filing it under travel nonsense and returning her attention to her inbox.
Across the aisle, George Russell was already half-turned toward her, one long leg stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up. He looked irritatingly relaxed, as if transatlantic flights were a mild inconvenience rather than a logistical ordeal.
“You’re not eating?” he asked, nodding at the untouched tray on her fold-out table.
Vivian glanced down at it. Chicken or pasta or both, she couldn’t tell. Honestly she wasn’t sure if she wanted to tell.
The smell made her stomach roll—not violently but just enough to make her lips press together.
“I am eating,” she said lightly. “I’m just… emotionally preparing.”
George huffed a laugh. “You’ve been emotionally preparing for twenty minutes.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Have you seen airline food lately?”
“Hey,” he said, mock-offended. “This is premium. Very exclusive. Very—”
“—microwaved,” she finished. “Aggressively.”
He grinned, and for a moment she forgot about the nausea entirely. That happened more often than she liked.
George Russell smiled, and Vivan Dearden forgot what she was supposed to be doing.
Or her own name.
Both had happened.
Vivian picked up her fork, stabbed at the tray half-heartedly, then set it down again. The smell hadn’t improved. If anything, it had actively gotten worse.
“Suit yourself,” George said. “More for me.”
He didn’t actually eat it either, but that was beside the point.
Vivian reached into her bag, fingers moving automatically, and popped an antacid from the familiar foil pack. She swallowed it dry, subtle enough that she doubted he noticed.
Still, she felt his eyes on her a second later.
“Everything okay?” he asked, quieter now.
“Yeah,” she said instantly. Too quickly. “Just travel stomach. You know.”
He nodded, accepting it, because George Russell was many things but invasive was not one of them. He turned back to his own tray, rummaging through his backpack a moment later.
“Do you want something else?” he asked. “I’ve got snacks. Proper ones.”
She smiled despite herself. “You say that like you’re about to reveal contraband.”
“I am,” he said solemnly, pulling out a granola bar like it was a prized possession. “Also biscuits. And those weird protein things Alex swears by.”
“That’s incredibly generous,” she said. “But I’m fine. Honestly.”
He studied her for a second longer than necessary, then shrugged. “Offer stands.”
She went back to her laptop, but the words blurred slightly on the screen. The antacid settled things a little, just enough that she could ignore it again. That was fine. Ignoring discomfort was something she was very good at.
She worked for another half hour before George leaned over again, holding out a paper cup.
“Careful,” he said. “Hot.”
Vivian blinked. “What?”
“Tea,” he clarified. “Well. Technically hot water and a tea bag, but still.”
She took it automatically, fingers wrapping around the warmth. “Thanks. I didn’t—”
She stopped.
The tea bag tag was tucked neatly against the rim. The lid was off. There was a small splash of milk already mixed in—just enough to cloud the water, not enough to drown the tea. No sugar. No sweetener.
Exactly how she took it.
Vivian stared at the cup.
George, oblivious to the minor internal earthquake he’d just caused, settled back into his seat. “They were doing drinks. Thought you might want one.”
Her heart kicked, sharp and sudden.
She had spent three years memorizing his world.
His interview schedule. His preferred phrasing. Which journalists needed firmer boundaries, which ones responded better to charm.
The subtle differences between his pre-qualifying nerves and his pre-race focus. The way he got quieter when he was stressed, the way he talked with his hands when he was excited.
She knew how he took his coffee. Black, no sugar, unless it was stupidly early, in which case he pretended to consider milk before rejecting it anyway.
Vivan knew George’s routines because it was her job.
George knew Vivian’s tea order because… because what?
Vivian forced herself to take a sip, partly to prove she could. The warmth settled pleasantly in her chest, a sharp contrast to the cold realization spreading everywhere else.
This was dangerous.
She laughed softly, hoping it sounded casual. “You remembered.”
He glanced at her, faintly puzzled. “Yeah. You always complain if it’s wrong.”
That was true. She did. Lightly. As a joke. Once or twice.
Apparently, it had stuck.
“Oh,” she said. “Right. Of course.”
There was something in his expression then—something searching, tentative. Like he was about to say more.
Vivian closed her laptop with a decisive click.
“I’m actually going to try to sleep,” she said, already reaching for her headphones. “Jet lag mitigation.”
“Already?” he asked.
“Already,” she confirmed. “Early start when we land.”
He nodded, respectful as always, and turned back to his own space. The moment passed. The air shifted back into something neutral, professional.
Vivian slid her headphones on, leaned her head against the window, and closed her eyes.
Her stomach twinged again, sharper this time, but she barely registered it.
All she could think about was the tea.
The milk. The lack of sugar.
The quiet, terrifying realization that somewhere along the line, George Russell had started memorizing her back.
She took a slow breath and did what she always did when something threatened to tip out of control.
She shut it down.
Emotion, attraction, whatever fragile thing had just flared to life—she folded it away neatly, locked it behind professionalism and habit and the unspoken rule she had lived by since the day she took the job.
Drivers were temporary. Careers were not.
The discomfort in her stomach lingered, unresolved.
So did the feeling in her chest.
Vivian ignored both.
***
Text Messages: George Russell & Alex Albon
Alex: You look suspiciously cheerful for someone about to endure a ten hour flight.
George: I am always cheerful.
Alex: No. This is different cheerful.
This is “I’ve made eye contact with someone specific” cheerful.
George: I don’t know what you’re implying.
Alex: Oh, I think you do.
George: I genuinely don’t.
Alex: Vivian is sitting near you.
George: She’s sitting next to me.
Alex: Ah.
George: She is my press officer. We are on the same team. Of course she’s near me.
Alex: You didn’t answer the question.
George: There wasn’t a question.
Alex: You have a crush on her.
George: I absolutely do not.
Alex: George.
George: Alexander.
Alex: You do that thing.
George: What thing.
Alex: Where you pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.
But your ears go red.
George: My ears are not red.
Alex: Did she just smile at you.
George: Why are you monitoring my facial expressions via text.
Alex: Because I know you.
And you get that stupid soft look when she talks to you.
George: I do not have a “soft look.”
Alex: You absolutely do.
It’s the same one you had in 2019 when that barista in Monaco spelled your name correctly.
George: That was impressive penmanship.
Alex: Sure.
George: It’s irrelevant anyway.
Alex: Oh this is good. Go on.
George: She works for the team.
Alex: Yes.
George: I am the driver.
Alex: Correct.
George: It would be unprofessional.
Alex: You’re acting like you’re planning to propose mid-debrief.
George: I’m not planning anything.
Alex: Except staring at her when she isn’t looking.
George: I do not stare at her.
Alex: You do.
Alex: Does she know?
George: No.
Alex: Does she feel the same?
George: I don’t know.
Alex: But you hope she does.
George: …
Alex: Oh my God.
George: It’s complicated.
Alex: No it’s not. You like her.
You’ve liked her for months. Possibly longer.
You talk about her like she’s part of the engineering spec.
George: That is not accurate.
Alex: “Viv prefers early briefings structured with bullet points.”
“Viv doesn’t like when journalists interrupt.”
“Viv hasn’t eaten properly today, I think she’s stressed.”
You have memorized her.
George: That’s called paying attention.
Alex: It’s called being gone.
George: It wouldn’t be fair to put her in that position.
Alex: You mean tell her how you feel?
George: Yes.
Alex: So instead you’re going to pine quietly and hope she reads your mind?
George: I’m not pining.
Alex: You are absolutely pining.
George: I am being respectful.
Alex: You can be respectful and still tell her you like her, mate.
George: It could make things awkward.
Alex: You know what’s more awkward?
When someone else asks her out.
(George doesn’t reply for a full minute.)
Alex: Ah. There it is.
George: That’s not funny.
Alex: It’s a little funny.
George: It’s not.
Alex: You’re jealous.
George: I am not jealous.
Alex: You’re typing very aggressively for someone not jealous.
George: She deserves someone uncomplicated.
Alex: You’re not that complicated.
George: I drive a Formula One car for a living.
Alex: Yes. And?
George: And that tends to complicate things.
Alex: You know what complicates things more?
Pretending you don’t care.
Alex: Just saying.
If you don’t tell her, someone else eventually will.
Alex: And I will absolutely say “I told you so.”
George: You’re insufferable.
Alex: And yet I’m right.
Alex: Go on then.
Offer her one of your weird protein snacks.
Start there.
George: She hates those.
Alex: Exactly. You know that.
You’re doomed.
***
Qualifying days always carried a particular kind of electricity for George.
They were sharp-edged, tightly wound things—adrenaline braided with precision, every lap a negotiation between confidence and restraint. He liked that feeling. Lived for it, even. By the time he climbed out of the car after Q3, helmet coming off, pulse still humming in his ears, he already knew.
Pole.
It hit him in a rush—grins, claps on the shoulder, the brief chaos of mechanics and engineers converging. Someone whooped. Someone else told him it was a monster lap. George laughed, breathless, letting the joy settle into his bones.
And then, instinctively, his eyes searched for Vivian.
She was standing a little apart from the immediate frenzy, tablet tucked against her chest, already halfway into work mode. That was normal. Vivian always gave the celebrations space, swooping in only when the cameras demanded it.
What wasn’t normal was how still she looked.
Even from a distance, he could see it. The paleness beneath her makeup. The way her shoulders sloped forward, like she was conserving energy. She smiled when he caught her eye, lifting a hand in a small, congratulatory wave—but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
George frowned, just slightly.
“Everything okay?” Kimi asked beside him, helmet still perched awkwardly under his arm.
“Yeah,” George said automatically, then hesitated. “I think so.”
Kimi followed his gaze with the blunt curiosity of someone who hadn’t yet learned to mind his own business. “Your press person looks… tired.”
George snorted. “That’s Vivian. She always looks tired on quali days.”
Kimi hummed, unconvinced. “She looks like she might fall over.”
George opened his mouth to argue—and then stopped.
Because Vivian, thinking no one was watching, shifted her weight and pressed her hand briefly to her stomach. Not dramatically. Just a small, instinctive movement. The kind you made when something hurt but you didn’t want to draw attention to it.
The knot in his chest tightened.
By the time the interviews were done and the garage had settled into its post-session rhythm, George made a point of drifting over to her.
Vivian was scrolling through her tablet, fingers moving quickly, but her movements were slower than usual. More deliberate. Like she was forcing herself to keep up.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You alright?”
She looked up, blinked once, then smiled. “Pole Position,” she said instead. “That lap was insane. You should be very pleased with yourself.”
“I am,” he admitted. “But that’s not what I asked.”
For a fraction of a second—so brief he almost missed it—her guard slipped. Something like surprise flickered across her face. Then it was gone, replaced with practiced ease.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just… period cramps. Long travel, different time zones. You know how it is.”
George did know how it was. Enough to know when not to push.
“Oh,” he said immediately, stepping back half a pace. “Right. Sorry.”
She waved a hand. “Don’t be. I’m just being dramatic.”
But she wasn’t dramatic. Vivian Dearden was many things—efficient, sharp, quietly formidable—but dramatic was not one of them.
George nodded, letting the subject drop like a good, respectful adult. He turned back toward the garage, letting her return to her work.
Outwardly, that was the end of it.
Internally, it was anything but.
Because he knew that tone.
He’d heard it before—during media storms, during sponsor disputes, during moments when something was clearly wrong and Vivian decided it was better if nobody else carried the weight of it. She had a way of smoothing things over, of making problems sound smaller than they were. Of lying gently, convincingly, when the truth might cause worry.
She did it to protect people.
Including him.
George caught himself watching her over the next hour, pretending he wasn’t. She missed a cue during a debrief and had to ask someone to repeat a question. She leaned against the worktable longer than necessary. Once, she pressed her lips together and closed her eyes for a second, like she was riding out something unpleasant.
Each small thing, on its own, meant nothing.
Together, they set off a low, persistent alarm in his chest.
Kimi sidled up to him again, peering in Vivian’s direction. “She really doesn’t look good.”
George exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”
“You should make her sit down,” Kimi said, entirely serious.
He almost laughed. “If I try that, she’ll remind me she’s not my responsibility.”
Kimi frowned. “She looks like she should be.”
George startled at that—at the simplicity of it. The unfiltered truth.
He didn’t reply.
Instead, he glanced back at Vivian one more time, watching as she straightened her shoulders and smiled at a passing camera, professionalism snapping back into place like armor.
Pole position should have been all he felt—pride, satisfaction, relief.
And he did feel those things.
But threaded through them now was something else. Something sharper. Something unsettled.
A quiet, creeping fear that Vivian wasn’t nearly as fine as she claimed—and that she wouldn’t tell him when she wasn’t.
George clenched his jaw, forcing his attention back to the present.
Tomorrow was race day.
He told himself he was imagining things.
But he kept watching her anyway.
***
Vivian woke before her alarm.
For a few seconds she didn’t move, suspended in that soft, disoriented space between sleep and consciousness — and then she tried to roll onto her side.
Pain snapped through her abdomen.
She inhaled sharply, the breath catching halfway in her chest as a sharp, precise stab bloomed low on the right side of her stomach. Not the dull, cramping ache from yesterday. Not the vague nausea from the flight.
This was… specific.
She froze, one hand pressing instinctively against the spot. The pressure didn’t help. If anything, it made the sensation brighter, like her body objected to being acknowledged.
“Okay,” she whispered to the empty hotel room, voice thin with sleep. “Alright.”
She sat up slowly.
The world tilted. Not dramatically — just enough to make her pause on the edge of the bed until it steadied again. Her stomach lurched, the kind of rolling nausea that made food feel like a deeply theoretical concept unless she wanted to throw up.
She stared at the complimentary breakfast menu on the desk.
The thought of eating made her throat tighten.
That was… inconvenient.
Vivian pushed herself to her feet and immediately had to straighten carefully, because standing fully upright pulled at the pain in a way that made her teeth clench. She bent forward slightly without thinking, hand still braced against her side.
Period cramps, she decided. Still.
It made sense. Long travel. Time zones. Dehydration. Stress. Race weekend. She probably hadn’t eaten properly in two days and airplane catering alone was a crime against the human body.
That had to be it.
She moved through her routine more slowly than usual — shower, makeup, hair, outfit — pausing once when another sharp wave of pain hit hard enough to make her lean both hands against the bathroom counter. It passed after a moment, leaving behind a faint sheen of sweat across her temples.
“Fine,” she told her reflection firmly. “You are fine.”
She swallowed two over-the-counter painkillers dry, grabbed her tablet and credentials, and left the room.
Because missing a race weekend was not an option.
In five years working in Formula One, Vivian Dearden had never once called in sick during a race. Illness was something that happened in the off-season. Or on Mondays. Or to other people.
Race mornings were sacred.
***
The paddock was already alive when she arrived — generators humming, engineers moving with quiet purpose, the atmosphere crackling with that familiar pre-race tension. The normalcy of it helped. Routine always helped.
She made it almost halfway to the Mercedes hospitality unit before she had to slow, the movement jostling her stomach in a way she deeply resented.
“Viv?”
Hazel’s voice cut through the noise.
Vivian looked up to find her colleague standing by the hospitality entrance, coffee in one hand, radio clipped to her waistband. Hazel took one look at her and frowned.
“…you look awful.”
Vivian managed a small smile. “Good morning to you too.”
“Jet lag,” Vivian said smoothly. “And I think the catering on the flight tried to kill me.”
Hazel didn’t look convinced. “Are you going to faint on live television today? Because if you are, I need warning so I can stand slightly behind you and pretend I don’t know you.”
Vivian huffed a weak laugh — which immediately turned into a tight exhale as another stab of pain flared at her side. She pressed her hand against her stomach before she could stop herself.
Hazel’s eyes sharpened. “Okay. What is that.”
“Nothing,” Vivian said quickly. “Just cramps.”
“Cramps don’t make you look like a Victorian orphan.”
Vivian leaned her shoulder against the wall, trying to look casual and failing. “I’m fine. I just need a minute.”
Hazel stared at her for a long moment, then sighed and dug into her bag. She produced a small packet and held it out.
“Stronger painkillers,” she said. “Take them. And water. Now.”
Vivian hesitated only briefly before accepting them. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“If you die during pre-race prep, I’m telling Toto I tried,” Hazel replied dryly.
Vivian swallowed the pills with a few gulps from Hazel’s water bottle. The nausea churned in protest, but she forced it down.
“Says the woman voluntarily handling live requests from sponsors during a potential podium weekend.”
That earned a grin. “Fair. George looked good yesterday. If he keeps the lead at Turn One, this place is going to lose its mind.”
Vivian nodded automatically. Thinking about work helped anchor her. “We’ll need post-race mixed zone planning ready for both scenarios — win or podium. Sponsors will want immediate activation if—”
Another wave of nausea cut her off. She pressed her lips together until it passed.
Hazel watched her carefully but didn’t comment this time. Instead she nudged her gently toward the entrance.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get inside before the drivers arrive and the chaos begins.”
Race day.
The familiar phrase settled over Vivian like armor.
She took a steadying breath, straightened her shoulders, and pushed herself upright despite the pull in her abdomen.
It was fine.
Travel fatigue. Dehydration. Hormones. Bad food.
Nothing serious.
She had a job to do.
And she had never missed a race weekend in her career.
Vivian walked into the paddock, ignoring the way each step sent a small, sharp reminder through her side — and ignoring, completely, the warning her body was trying very hard to give her.
***
The morning blurred into motion the way race mornings always did.
Headset chatter. Schedule confirmations. Journalists asking last-minute questions that had been answered three emails ago. Social posts timed to the minute. Grid walk contingencies. Sponsor obligations stacked neatly in her mind like files she could pull instantly.
Routine carried her.
Routine meant Vivian didn’t have to think about the constant, nagging ache in her abdomen that had sharpened into something far less ignorable. Every step jarred it. Standing upright pulled at it. Even breathing too deeply made her stomach tighten in protest.
Vivian compensated without noticing—leaning slightly against tables, bracing her hand briefly against counters, pausing half a second longer than necessary before moving again.
Nobody seemed to notice.
Which was good.
She was reviewing post-race media timing on her tablet when a message came through her radio.
“Vivian? Toto would like a word. Office.”
Of course he did.
She took a steadying breath and headed toward his office inside the hospitality unit, straightening her shoulders as she went. Professional posture. Professional expression. Professional voice.
The door was half open.
Toto stood inside, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled, reading through a printed brief with a pen in his hand. He glanced up as she knocked lightly.
“Ah, Vivian. Come in.”
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The enclosed space was warmer than the paddock and for a moment the shift made her head swim.
“Toto,” she said, polite, composed. “You wanted to go over the IWC activation?”
“Yes.” He gestured to the chair but she remained standing automatically, tablet in hand. “They are requesting additional post-race content if George finishes on the podium. We need to confirm feasibility.”
“Of course,” she said smoothly, pulling up her notes. “We can schedule a controlled media capture immediately after cooldown, I think. I’ll coordinate with broadcast to avoid interference and keep it under ninety seconds?”
The pain flickered, sharper.
She ignored it.
Toto watched her as she spoke, his expression attentive but neutral, the way it always was during work discussions.
“I will also brief George pre-race,” she continued, voice steady. “If he is aware beforehand, it will—”
The sentence stalled as a sudden, stabbing pressure tore across the right side of her abdomen.
Her breath caught.
For a fraction of a second her vision greyed at the edges.
She kept talking.
“—minimize disruption and ensure sponsor satisfaction—”
Her hand pressed flat against the edge of the desk without her permission. She focused on the words. On finishing the explanation. On not making this a problem.
Toto’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Vivian.”
“I’m fine,” she said immediately.
Another wave rose—violent and fast, nausea crashing up her throat with no warning. Her stomach lurched hard enough that she swallowed reflexively, trying to will it down.
She didn’t make it.
The tablet slipped from her hand, clattering softly against the carpet as she turned away instinctively—but not far enough.
She was dimly aware of the sound she made, small and involuntary, and then—
She was sick.
Directly onto Toto’s shoes.
For a second the room went utterly silent.
Vivian froze.
Horror flooded through her faster than the nausea had.
“Oh my God,” she whispered hoarsely, backing away a step, hand over her mouth. “I am so— I am so sorry, I—”
She expected irritation. Shock. At the very least awkwardness.
Instead, Toto moved immediately—not away from her, but closer.
“Sit down,” he said, voice calm but firm, guiding her gently toward the chair she had refused earlier.
“I’m fine,” she tried again weakly. “It’s just— I didn’t— I can clean it, I—”
“Sit.”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry.
It was absolute.
She sat.
The moment she did, the adrenaline drained and the pain surged, sharp enough that she bent forward slightly, fingers pressing into her side.
Toto crouched in front of her, entirely unconcerned about his now-ruined expensive loafers.
“How long?” he asked quietly.
She blinked. “What?”
“How long have you been unwell?”
“Since— just this morning,” she said quickly. “It’s nothing serious. Probably travel stomach. I just need water and—”
“Vivian.”
The single word stopped her.
Toto’s expression was no longer neutral. It was focused. Assessing.
“You are pale,” he said evenly. “You are sweating. You could not remain standing. And you have clearly been in pain before you entered this room.”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“I didn’t want to make it an issue,” she admitted weakly.
“How long?”
“…a couple of days.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any raised voice.
Toto straightened slowly.
“You have been in pain for days,” he said, voice controlled but unmistakably stern, “and nobody told me?”
“I didn’t think it was—”
“You did not think?” His gaze sharpened, not angry, but deeply serious. “You work in a high-pressure environment, you are responsible for critical communication, and you decided severe pain was something to ignore?”
“I didn’t want to disrupt preparations,” she said, quieter now. “It’s race day.”
Toto stared at her for a moment longer, then reached for his phone.
“This is no longer a discussion.”
He dialed quickly, already moving into action.
“You are not working another minute today,” he said, glancing back at her. “I am arranging medical evaluation immediately.”
“I can still—”
“No.”
The word landed like a closed door.
He ended the call and picked up her credentials from the desk where they had fallen.
“I am suspending your paddock access for the day,” he said, not unkindly but with absolute finality. “You are going to a hospital.”
She shook her head weakly. “I can do the pre-race brief. It will only take—”
“You are going to a hospital,” he repeated. “Now.”
For the first time since she’d started working in Formula One, Vivian Dearden had no argument left.
***
The pre-race briefing room was quiet in the way only Formula One rooms ever were — not silent, but contained. Screens glowed along the wall, telemetry traces frozen mid-corner. The low hum of air conditioning filled the gaps between voices. It was familiar, grounding.
George liked this part.
Helmet still off, fireproof top half-unzipped, water bottle in his hand, he leaned over the table while Marcus Dudley ran through opening-lap scenarios.
“Grip level will be higher than yesterday,” Marcus said, tapping the monitor. “Track evolution overnight plus better temperatures. The start is everything. Protect Turn One and we control the race.”
George nodded, focused. “Tyre warm-up felt strong in formation simulations. I should have traction.”
“Brake temps will spike behind traffic,” Bono added calmly from beside the screen. “If you lose the lead, don’t panic into Turn Three. We’ll manage the undercut window.”
Kimi, perched slightly sideways in his chair, listened with an intensity that bordered on suspicious for a rookie. “Safety car probability?”
“Moderate,” Marcus replied. “Wall proximity. Lap one chaos always possible.”
George allowed himself a small smile. He was calm — the good kind of calm. Pole position gave clarity. The plan was clean. Execute the start, manage tyres, build gap.
For a moment, everything was simple.
The door opened.
All four of them looked up.
Toto stepped inside.
He did not usually attend driver briefings this close to race start unless something operational had changed. His expression was composed, but there was a firmness to it that immediately shifted the atmosphere.
George straightened slightly. “Everything okay?”
Toto closed the door behind him.
“George,” he said, measured. “There has been a situation.”
The word situation landed wrong in George’s chest before the explanation even came.
“It concerns Vivian.”
The calm evaporated instantly.
“What happened?” George asked, already standing.
“She became unwell this morning,” Toto said. “Severely unwell.”
The room stilled.
George felt something cold settle under his ribs. “Unwell how?”
“She was in my office,” Toto continued evenly. “She has been in significant abdominal pain for several days and did not report it. She collapsed and was sick. I have sent Hazel with her to the hospital for immediate evaluation.”
For a second, George didn’t understand the words.
Then he did.
Several days.
His mind snapped back to qualifying — pale skin, distracted answers, the way she’d pressed her hand against her side when she thought no one was watching.
The knot in his chest pulled tight.
“She’s been in pain for days?” he said quietly.
“Yes.”
George scrubbed a hand down his face. “Why didn’t she—”
He stopped himself.
Because he knew why.
Vivian never wanted to be a problem.
“Which hospital?” he asked immediately.
Toto hesitated only briefly. “The medical team suspects appendicitis. They are assessing her now.”
The word hit harder than he expected.
Appendicitis.
His stomach dropped.
“I need to go,” George said, already moving toward the door.
Bono stepped forward automatically, not blocking him but grounding him. “George.”
He stopped.
The reality caught up all at once — the suit hanging in the next room, the car prepared on the grid, the formation lap countdown already ticking closer.
Pole position.
A race he could win.
His jaw tightened.
“I can’t just—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Kimi watched him carefully. “They have doctors,” he said quietly, not dismissive, just factual. “You have a race.”
George laughed once under his breath, humorless. “That’s not the point.”
But it was.
He knew it was.
Toto’s voice was steady. “She is receiving medical care. You cannot help her from the hospital waiting room right now. You can help by doing your job.”
George closed his eyes for a second.
Images ran through his head — her on the flight refusing food, her brushing him off after qualifying, her insisting she was fine.
He should have pushed harder.
He opened his eyes again.
“Please,” he said, quieter now. “If you hear anything—anything at all—you tell me immediately.”
“I will,” Toto replied.
George nodded once, sharp, like sealing a decision he hated.
“Alright,” he said to Marcus and Bono, voice steadier than he felt. “Let’s finish the briefing.”
They continued. Strategy, tyre windows, fuel targets. He answered questions, repeated start procedures, confirmed brake settings.
Outwardly, he was composed.
Inside, his focus fractured.
Every few seconds his attention drifted — to his phone on the table, to the door, to the thought of her in a hospital room instead of the paddock where she always was.
He realized, with a clarity that made his chest tighten, that this was the first race weekend since he’d joined Mercedes where Vivian wasn’t managing it beside him.
The absence was louder than the noise outside.
As the briefing ended, Marcus handed him his gloves.
“You good?” his engineer asked quietly.
George nodded automatically.
No.
Not even close.
But he pulled the gloves on anyway.
Because the race was starting whether his world had shifted or not.
And as he walked toward the garage, helmet under his arm, he made a silent promise to himself:
The first thing he would ask when the race ended wouldn’t be about strategy, or tyres, or the win.
It would be about her.
***
The paddock had been noise and motion and urgency — radios crackling, engines screaming in the distance, people moving with purpose. The hospital was the opposite. Quiet in a way that felt almost wrong, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead, everything washed in sterile white and pale blue.
It made the morning feel unreal.
Hazel sat beside her in the emergency room cubicle, still in team kit, headset abandoned somewhere along the way. She hadn’t stopped texting since they’d arrived — short updates to communications staff, carefully neutral messages to Toto, quiet reassurances to people who were very obviously worried.
Vivian clutched the thin hospital blanket in her hands and tried very hard not to move.
Because moving hurt.
Not a dull ache anymore. Not something ignorable. The pain had sharpened into something constant and insistent, radiating across her lower abdomen, every shift of her body making it flare hot enough to steal her breath. Even lying still didn’t fully help. Nausea rolled through her in waves, leaving her exhausted and clammy.
“I feel ridiculous,” she murmured.
Hazel looked up from her phone immediately. “You nearly passed out and threw up on a Toto Wolff, whose shoes cost more than my rent. You’re allowed to stop worrying about dignity for a few hours.”
Vivian closed her eyes briefly. “His loafers.”
“You are not apologizing to him from an operating table,” Hazel said firmly.
“Operating—”
The curtain slid open.
A doctor stepped inside, tablet in hand, expression professional. That alone made Vivian sit a little straighter despite the pain.
“Ms. Dearden,” he said gently. “We have your imaging results.”
Hazel straightened beside her.
Vivian’s fingers tightened on the blanket.
The doctor glanced at the screen once more, then looked at her directly.
“Your appendix is severely inflamed,” he said. “It is very close to rupturing.”
The words didn’t immediately make sense.
“My… appendix?” she repeated.
“Yes,” he said. “You have appendicitis. Given the level of inflammation and the duration of your symptoms, we need to operate immediately.”
Hazel went very still.
Vivian stared at him.
Operate.
Immediately.
“I—” She stopped, her thoughts scrambling for footing. “Today?”
“Yes,” the doctor said calmly. “Soon. We are already preparing a surgical team. A rupture would be dangerous and could lead to serious infection. We need to remove it now.”
For a moment she forgot the pain entirely.
“But—” she said, voice faint. “I have a race weekend.”
The doctor blinked once, clearly not expecting that answer. “I understand you have obligations, but this cannot wait.”
Hazel made a small disbelieving sound. “Viv.”
Vivian’s mind raced uselessly. Grid times. Media sessions. Post-race interviews. Sponsor activations. She pictured the schedule she had finalized last night, the brief she hadn’t delivered yet, the controlled media capture she had promised.
George.
“He has pole today,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “He’ll need— someone has to— the cooldown interview, the mixed zone—”
“Vivian,” Hazel said softly but firmly, taking her hand. “Stop.”
The doctor’s tone remained steady. “Right now your health is the priority. If we delay, your appendix may rupture. That becomes significantly more serious than a communication schedule.”
She looked down at her hospital bracelet, at the IV line now taped to her arm.
It felt surreal.
“I didn’t realize it was that bad,” she whispered.
“You have likely been in pain for several days,” he said gently. “You waited longer than most people would.”
Hazel squeezed her hand. “You idiot,” she murmured, not unkindly.
Vivian swallowed, throat tight. “Did… did someone tell the team?”
“Yes,” Hazel said. “Toto already knows. I messaged the group. They’re aware you’re being treated.”
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her and she closed her eyes, breathing shallowly until it passed.
George will be in the briefing now, she thought.
He’ll ask where I am.
Guilt settled heavily in her chest.
“He’s going to worry,” she said quietly.
Hazel didn’t pretend otherwise. “Yes.”
Vivian pressed her lips together. “I didn’t want to distract George before the race.”
The doctor gave a small, understanding nod. “Right now, the best thing you can do for anyone — including your colleague — is allow us to treat you.”
Footsteps approached outside the curtain. Nurses entered, beginning to prepare equipment with calm efficiency.
The reality finally landed.
Surgery. Now.
Her hands trembled slightly. “Will I… be okay?”
“Yes,” the doctor said reassuringly. “We caught it in time. But we should not wait any longer.”
She nodded slowly.
As they began wheeling her bed out of the cubicle toward the operating area, the hospital ceiling lights passing overhead in slow repetition, her mind clung stubbornly to one last thought.
She wouldn’t see the race.
She wouldn’t be on the pit wall, wouldn’t hand him the post-session notes, wouldn’t be there when he climbed out of the car.
For the first race weekend since she started working with him, George Russell would finish a race without her there to meet him.
Vivian closed her eyes against the sting behind them.
“I hope he gets a good start,” she murmured quietly.
Hazel walked beside the bed, keeping pace as they moved down the corridor.
“He will,” Hazel said gently. “Now you focus on this. He’ll focus on the race.”
Vivian nodded, though the ache in her chest had very little to do with the appendicitis anymore.
Old habits, apparently, were harder to remove than an appendix.
***
The car always simplified things.
That was what George usually loved about it.
Once the visor came down and the engine ignited behind him, the world narrowed to inputs and outputs — brake pressure, throttle modulation, apex speed. No speculation. No ambiguity. You either did the lap or you didn’t.
Today it didn’t quiet his mind.
He sat on the grid, hands steady on the wheel, watching the mechanics clear around him. The grandstands vibrated with noise. Engines echoed up and down the straight. It should have felt familiar.
Instead, his focus kept slipping sideways.
He had already checked his phone twice before climbing into the car even though he knew he wouldn’t have an update yet.
Hazel was with her.
Doctors were with her.
Appendicitis.
He tightened his grip slightly on the steering wheel.
“George, radio check,” Marcus’ voice came through his earpiece.
“Loud and clear.”
“You’re good. Nice and clean into Turn One. Trust the grip.”
“Copy.”
He exhaled slowly as the formation lap began. Tyres warming, brakes building temperature. Muscle memory took over, but his thoughts still drifted — hospital corridors, sterile lights, the way she’d looked yesterday, pale and insisting she was fine.
He should have noticed sooner.
He should have pushed harder.
The lights went out.
The start was clean.
He covered the inside line into Turn One automatically, instinct overriding distraction. Lap one unfolded in sharp, precise movements — defending, managing traction, building a gap. By lap five the rhythm returned, the car responding exactly as he needed.
And still—
“Marcus,” he said on lap nine, voice controlled but quieter than usual. “Any news from… from the hospital?”
A brief pause.
“Nothing yet, George. We’ll tell you as soon as we know.”
“Copy.”
He focused on the braking zone. Hit the apex perfectly.
Three laps later his mind wandered again.
“Still nothing?”
“Still nothing.”
He nodded to himself, even though nobody could see it.
For the first time in years, racing felt secondary.
Every lap was technically flawless — braking points exact, traction consistent, strategy unfolding exactly as planned.
Marcus’s voice came through periodically with gap updates. Competitors. Tyre wear.
George answered, but automatically.
Because every few laps, the same question pressed forward no matter how much he tried to suppress it.
Lap 34.
“Any update?”
“Not yet, George.”
Lap 42.
“Anything?”
“No news yet.”
He hated the phrase no news. It left too much space for his imagination.
The final stint stretched longer than it should have. The laps ticked down. The car remained stable. The gap behind him was comfortable.
He was going to win.
Normally he would feel it building — the anticipation, the controlled adrenaline before the checkered flag.
Instead there was only a strange hollowness.
He pictured pulling into parc fermé and not seeing her waiting near the barrier with a headset and tablet, already organizing the post-race chaos before he even removed his helmet.
He had never noticed how constant she was until she wasn’t.
“Final lap,” Marcus said calmly. “Bring it home.”
George barely heard the crowd.
He crossed the line.
“P1, George! That’s a race win! Brilliant drive!”
Cheers erupted in his ear — mechanics shouting, engineers clapping, relief and excitement flooding the radio.
George exhaled, but the release he expected never came.
Instead his first thought was immediate and singular.
He slowed on the cooldown lap.
“Marcus,” he said, voice tight despite the victory. “Is there any news about Vivian?”
There was a short pause — not operational, not technical.
Personal.
“Yes,” Marcus said gently. “She’s in surgery. It was appendicitis. Doctors caught it in time.”
George closed his eyes briefly behind the visor.
The tension that had been sitting in his chest since the briefing finally loosened just enough for him to breathe properly.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Only then did the win feel real at all.
***
The champagne was still drying in his hair when George left the paddock.
The podium had been a blur — noise, cameras, the weight of the trophy in his hands, Max clapping his shoulder with a grin, Kimi looking equal parts stunned and delighted beside them. He’d smiled, laughed, sprayed champagne when expected.
He couldn’t remember a single thing anyone had said to him.
Because even while standing on the top step, one thought had sat immovably in the center of his mind:
Hospital.
He barely waited for the last media obligation to end. The moment the final required interview wrapped and the PR handlers released him, he handed off the trophy to a mechanic, grabbed the first hoodie he could find, and left.
The drive felt longer than it was.
He checked his phone at every red light, every stop, every moment the car slowed — messages from the team, congratulations flooding in, group chats exploding, Toto confirming surgery had started.
Then, finally:
Hazel: Out of surgery. Stable. Recovery now.
He didn’t remember the last ten minutes of the ride after that.
The hospital lobby was too bright.
George pushed through the doors still in partial race kit — team trousers, fireproof top under the hoodie, damp hair betraying exactly where he’d come from. The receptionist barely had time to look up before he reached the desk.
“Vivian Dearden,” he said. “I— I was told she’s here.”
Before she could answer, a familiar voice called his name.
“George.”
He turned.
Hazel stood from one of the waiting chairs, looking as tired as he felt. Relief crossed her face immediately when she saw him.
“You actually came straight here,” she said softly.
“Of course I did.” The words came out faster than he intended. “Is she—”
“She’s okay,” Hazel reassured quickly. “They got the appendix out before it ruptured.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction for the first time all day.
“Can I see her?”
“They’re moving her to a room now,” Hazel said. “She just got out of recovery.”
George exhaled, hand briefly pressing to the back of his neck. Only then did he realize how tightly wound he’d been since the morning.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
Hazel shook her head. “She’d been in pain for days, George. Proper pain. And she kept insisting it was cramps or jet lag or literally anything else.”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“I knew something was wrong,” he said, voice low. “I just… didn’t push.”
“She wouldn’t have told you,” Hazel replied gently. “She didn’t want to distract you before the race.”
That made something twist sharply in his chest.
He looked down at his hands — faint traces of champagne still sticky across his knuckles.
“I kept asking during the race,” he admitted. “Every few laps.”
Hazel’s expression softened. “She asked about you before they took her into surgery.”
He looked up immediately.
“What?”
“She hoped that you would get a good start.”
George let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, except his throat was too tight for it.
“Of course she did.”
A nurse appeared down the corridor and spoke quietly to Hazel. She nodded, then turned back to him.
“They’re bringing her to her room,” she said. “You can come.”
They walked down the hall together. The sounds were muted — distant monitors, rolling carts, quiet voices behind closed doors. The adrenaline that had carried him through the race drained away with every step, leaving only a nervous anticipation he hadn’t felt before a start in years.
At the end of the corridor, a hospital bed was being wheeled into a room.
Vivian lay under thin white sheets, an IV line taped to her arm, hair slightly mussed, face pale but peaceful in a way he had never seen at the track. Without the headset, the tablet, the purposeful movement — she looked smaller. Younger.
Vulnerable.
George stopped just inside the doorway.
For the first time all day, the tension in his chest finally released completely.
She was here.
She was alive.
And suddenly, the race — the win, the podium, the noise — felt very far away compared to the quiet of that hospital room.
***
Vivian woke like someone surfacing from deep water.
Slowly. Disoriented. One thought at a time, none of them especially helpful.
George was sitting beside the bed when her eyes finally fluttered open.
He’d been trying not to stare at the steady rise and fall of her chest, at the IV line taped to her arm, at the way her face looked softer without the constant focus she wore at the track. He still looked up immediately, instinctive, relief hitting him so hard it almost made him dizzy.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Careful. You just had surgery.”
Her eyes shifted toward the sound of his voice. They didn’t quite focus at first. She squinted at him, head tilting slightly like she was trying to place a face she almost recognized.
“…George?” she said uncertainly.
“Yeah.”
She blinked slowly. Very slowly. Then nodded once, as if confirming a theory to herself.
“That makes sense,” she murmured.
He smiled a little. “Does it?”
“You’re usually near a race car,” she explained seriously. “Hospitals are less on brand, but I suppose schedules evolve.”
George had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“You’re in hospital,” he reminded gently. “You had appendicitis. They operated.”
She absorbed this information for several long seconds.
“…did I die?” she asked.
“No,” he said quickly.
“Okay,” she said, satisfied. “Good. Because I have emails.”
He exhaled a quiet breath that was half relief, half disbelief.
Her gaze drifted again, unfocused, then suddenly sharpened with alarm.
“Oh no.”
Here it comes, he thought.
“What is it?” he asked carefully.
She looked at him with genuine distress.
“I threw up on Toto Wolff.”
George blinked.
“Yes,” he said cautiously.
Her hand twitched weakly under the blanket as if she wanted to cover her face but forgot how halfway there.
“I assaulted management,” she whispered. “HR is going to have a field day.”
“You did not assault management.”
“I remember the shoes,” she continued, voice wobbling. “Very shiny. Italian. Possibly handcrafted. I ruined a luxury item in a leadership environment.”
A tear slid sideways across her temple.
“I am never working in Formula One again.”
George’s chest tightened painfully.
“Vivian,” he said softly, leaning closer. “Toto is not firing you. He sent you to the hospital.”
She sniffed. “He was being polite. That’s what rich people do before lawsuits.”
He couldn’t help it — he laughed quietly, shaking his head.
“You nearly had a ruptured appendix.”
“But the loafers,” she insisted, eyes glassy. “They were suede. That makes stains worse.”
He gently took her hand before she could work herself into a painkiller-fueled spiral.
“You’re okay,” he said. “That’s the important part.”
Her gaze dropped to their hands like she’d only just realized they were touching. She stared at it with intense concentration, as if it were a complicated puzzle.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Then her eyes filled again — not frantic now, just open, unguarded in a way he had never seen.
“I tried not to,” she whispered.
George’s breath caught. “Not to what?”
Her words came slow and unfiltered, drifting out without her usual careful control.
“I tried not to fall in love with you,” she announced.
The words were abrupt, completely unguarded.
George froze.
She blinked slowly, eyes glossy. “It’s not professional. I know the handbook probably covers that. Page… something. I read it.”
“Viv—”
“You matter too much,” she said, voice small and earnest. “You’re important and I’m supposed to make your life easier, not complicated. I was being careful. Very careful. Except today I also threw up on your boss, so clearly I am failing across multiple categories.”
Another tear escaped.
“I’m sorry if I made work weird,” she whispered. “You can ignore this. I’m very medicated. I barely understand gravity right now.”
For a moment he just looked at her, the relief and affection hitting him so suddenly it almost hurt.
Then he laughed — soft, breathless, not at her but at the absurdity of how long they had both carried this.
He squeezed her hand gently.
“We are not ignoring this,” he said warmly.
She frowned, trying to focus. “We’re not?”
“No,” he said. “But we are going to talk about it when you are conscious.”
“…I am conscious.”
“Barely.”
She considered that for a long moment, eyelids drooping.
“…fair.”
Her grip on his fingers slackened as sleep pulled at her again.
“But tell Toto,” she mumbled, already fading, “that I respect him greatly and I apologize to his footwear personally.”
George brushed his thumb lightly over her knuckles.
“I will,” he promised softly.
She was asleep again within seconds, leaving him alone in the quiet room — smiling helplessly at the ceiling and realizing he had never, in his life, won a race that mattered less than this moment right here.
***
The second time Vivian woke, the world was clearer.
Not comfortable — every muscle felt heavy, her abdomen ached in a deep, careful way that made her afraid to breathe too hard — but clearer. The fog that had wrapped around her thoughts earlier was gone, replaced by awareness.
And awareness brought memory.
Her eyes opened slowly.
Hospital ceiling. IV line. Monitors quietly beeping beside her.
And then—
George.
Sitting in the chair beside her bed, elbows resting on his knees, head tipped slightly forward like he’d been watching her long enough to forget to do anything else.
The last few hours hit her all at once.
The office.
Toto.
The hospital.
The… talking.
Her stomach dropped.
“Oh no,” she whispered hoarsely.
George looked up immediately. Relief softened his expression the moment he saw her awake.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Welcome back.”
She stared at him.
“You’re still here.”
He smiled faintly. “Of course.”
Memory sharpened further.
The words she’d said — or thought she might have said — flickered through her mind in humiliating fragments.
She closed her eyes briefly.
“…I need you to be honest with me,” she said carefully. “Did I say anything… unusual earlier?”
George’s mouth twitched.
“Define unusual.”
Her face flushed instantly. “George.”
He leaned back slightly in the chair, far too calm for someone holding this much power over her dignity.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “you were very concerned about Toto’s shoes.”
She covered her face with her hands and immediately regretted it when it pulled at her stitches.
“I’m going to quit my job and move to antarctica,” she muttered into the pillow.
“You’re not quitting your job.”
“I threw up on the Team Principal.”
“You had emergency surgery.”
“I cried about his loafers.”
George laughed softly, not unkindly, and she wanted the hospital bed to open up and swallow her whole.
“I already spoke to Toto,” he said. “He’s more worried about you than his wardrobe.”
She lowered her hands slowly, peeking at him.
“…really?”
“Yes. He also said you are forbidden from attending meetings while actively dying from now on.”
She let out a weak breath that almost resembled a laugh.
Silence settled for a moment — softer now, but charged with something else.
Vivian focused very hard on the blanket.
“You didn’t have to stay,” she said quietly. “You had a race.”
“I know.”
“Did you win?”
“I did.”
“You should be celebrating.”
“I did the podium,” he said simply. “Then I came here.”
Her gaze lifted to his.
“You came straight here?”
He nodded once.
The reality of that landed somewhere deep and unsteady inside her chest.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said softly, though the words lacked conviction.
“I wanted to.”
Her throat tightened.
The silence stretched, no longer awkward — just honest.
Vivian inhaled slowly. “I don’t… remember everything I said earlier.”
George watched her carefully. “You remember some of it.”
It wasn’t a question.
Color crept back into her face.
“I was medicated,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t entirely coherent.”
“You were honest.”
She swallowed. “You don’t have to respond to anything I said. I understand the situation it puts you in and I would never—”
“Viv.”
She stopped.
He leaned forward slightly, voice gentler than she’d ever heard it.
“I didn’t come because I felt obligated.”
Her hands twisted slightly in the blanket.
“I tried very hard not to cross that line,” she admitted quietly. “You’re my driver. My responsibility. And you matter too much to risk making your life complicated.”
His gaze didn’t leave hers.
“You never made it complicated.”
“I did,” she said softly. “I just hid it well.” A small, nervous breath escaped her. “I care about you more than I’m supposed to. I have for a while. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or make work difficult. So I decided it would just… stay my problem.”
He was very quiet for a moment.
Then he said, gently, “It was never just yours.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I came after the race,” he said. “Not because you work for the team. Because it was you.”
Her heart stuttered.
“I kept asking about you during the race,” he admitted. “Every few laps. Winning didn’t feel right when you weren’t there to tell me where I needed to stand for interviews.”
A breath caught in her throat.
“George…”
He smiled softly. “You’ve been important to me for a long time. I just thought you didn’t see me that way.”
“I was trying very hard not to,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“Because if it went wrong,” she said, voice barely audible, “I’d lose more than a crush.”
His expression softened further.
“You won’t.”
The certainty in it made her chest ache.
He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She didn’t.
His hand rested lightly over hers.
“You matter to me,” he said quietly. “Not as a colleague. Not because of the job.”
The last of the fear she’d been holding onto loosened.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He leaned closer, pausing just long enough for her to understand what he was asking.
She met him halfway.
The kiss was gentle — careful of IV lines and stitches and the fragile newness of it — but it settled something that had been unresolved between them for far longer than either wanted to admit.
When they pulled back, her forehead rested lightly against his.
“…I’m still very embarrassed about the shoes,” she murmured.
summary: oscar piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis. oscar piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year. oscar piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.
contains: university au, swimming team captain!reader, pre-med student!reader, cricket team captain!oscar, engineering student!oscar, rivals to lovers, fake dating, a lot of cursing, suggestive themes, slight angst with a happy ending, use of y/n and l/n (sparingly)
word count: 15k!! + social media au.
a/n: I have no idea how university sports actually work in other countries so just bear with me here I just made it up okay. also the BIGGEST thanks to @starry-132173 for reading this first, hearing me yap about this fic for WEEKS and contributing with GREAT ideas <3 lots of love
masterlist!
✶✶✶
"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"
"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend until the season ends."
You're sure he hit his head really hard. He must have a concussion. He must have.
"Piastri, no one's going to believe that."
"Not with that attitude, they won't."
You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year, when both of you joined your respective teams.
Oscar Piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.
What the actual fuck?
"Did you hit your head?" You finally ask, leaning closer to look at him across the cafeteria table, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and a hint of worry. "Are you okay? Are you maybe hallucinating right now?"
He rolls those brown eyes of his as if you're the one suggesting the craziest thing the whole campus has ever heard.
"Look, I just need the guys to get off my back. I need them to stop saying I'm married to cricket, you need the band, why not?"
"Why not?!" You repeat, still checking his face for any concussion signs. "Piastri, if you just need your stupid friends to stop commenting on the fact that you're a virgin, maybe just go ahead and fuck someone," your voice turns bitter as you hiss out the next words, "I'm pretty sure any girl from the stupid band you keep stealing from me would be up for the challenge."
"First of all, I'm not a virgin," he glares at you when you snort, "second of all, I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my degree and on the cricket team. That's the point of getting a fake girlfriend, I don't have to put any effort into it."
You wonder if he'd let you do a quick examination to make sure he's actually not concussed. He must be.
"No one's going to believe that," you shake your head, repeating your words from before, "it makes absolutely no sense for us to start dating out of nowhere. We can barely stand each other."
"Well, why would anyone think we're fake dating in the first place? It's not exactly common."
"Yes, because it's fucking insane," you lean even more towards him, still shaking your head in denial, "and why me, of all people? We're not friends. Why the fuck would you want to fake date me?"
"Because I'll definitely not put any effort into it if it's you, so it's not going to affect my real priorities."
You're not offended.
Okay, maybe a little bit.
"No."
He furrows his eyebrows, and you wonder how the fuck he has the nerve to look confused, "no?"
"For half the band? For one competition? No. That's not worth it."
He blinks.
"Okay. The entire band."
"No," you cross your arms and lean back against your chair, eyebrows rising as you stare at him, unimpressed, "I've done most competitions without them. It'll suck, yes, but still not worth it."
Piastri pauses. The air between the two of you is filled with tension, as it usually is. It feels like a battle, and the two of you bargain like politicians like you always have.
"Every competition for the rest of the season."
That grabs your attention.
"Every competition?" He nods and your eyes narrow with suspicion. "Every competition? Every round through nationals? Every single one?"
He nods again.
"Even if there's an important cricket game on the same day?"
His nose twitches in annoyance at the question. "If we get through the quarter and semifinals and the finals are on the same day, we split the band."
You stare at him. Wonder for the fifth time if he's having some sort of psychological crisis. If he's concussed.
The band for every competition for the rest of the season.
You see, getting the band to play at a game or a competition is a privilege team captais fight tooth and nail for. It boosts morale, hypes up the teams, and usually makes the opponent feel a little more tense.
If there were two games or competitions in the same day, fucking Charles Leclerc, who all the team captains jokingly called band captain, liked to say it was first come, first served.
And you and Oscar Piastri had been fighting over the university band ever since you got into college — and God, was it a losing game for you.
Sure, there's a slight chance other teams may need the band on the same days the two of you did, but it never usually happens. Other sports have games and competitions on other days of the week.
Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
"So we get the entire band for the rest of the season and split the band if you guys get to the finals."
"We will get to the finals, but yes."
There's a quiet beat as you just look at him, thinking, pondering.
"And we just have to date until the season ends?" You uncross your arms slowly.
"Fake date."
"Don't get technical on me now, Piastri."
You think you see a shadow of smile on his lips before it disappears.
"Yes, just for the next two months or so, and then you're rid of me. We can act like none of this ever happened."
"Okay," he perks up at the word, but you shoot his hope down quickly, "I'll think about it," he deflates, "I can give you an answer on Thursday."
He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.
"Charles won't like it if he has to change plans for the band too close to Sunday."
You stand from your chair, already grabbing your backpack from the floor while he watches you. You look down at him.
"That's Leclerc's problem. Thursday, Piastri."
✶✶✶
liked by alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes and 1,478 others
yourusername practice day❤️
tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes
kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux ay ay captain 🫡🫡🫡 ♡ liked by yourusername
freshman1 sooo cool!!
freshman2 YESSSS
pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!
↳ kikagomes darling don't say it like that it sounds weird af ♡ liked by yourusername
francolapinto I leave early ONE DAY and you post pictures without me. I see how it is.
↳ yourusername yes that's exactly how it is!!!!!
liked by landonorris, olliebearman and 3,214 others
oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing
"Okay, so we need to set some ground rules," you tell Piastri later that evening, when you meet at the campus café to discuss the details of this mess you've gotten into. "And we can't be long, because I have to be up at 5 for tomorrow's practice, so try not to waste too much of my time."
"You know, if you're going to be my fake girlfriend, I think you'll need to be a little nicer to me," he raises his eyebrows at you, crossing his arms and watching quietly as you order a cappuccino at the counter.
"Alright, I'll be nicer to you in public," you answer when the barista starts making your order, turning your body away from the counter and towards him, "what else?"
His eyes narrow in suspicion.
"You're serious about setting rules."
"Obviously," you roll your eyes, "I'm not letting you just do and say whatever you want about this fake relationship of ours, Piastri. I don't trust you like that."
He hums in acknowledgement, the quiet whirring of the coffee machine comfortable inside the warm establishment.
"Fine. You can't tell your swimming friends the relationship is fake."
Your eyes widen. "Piastri, I can't keep that from them. This is for your friends, not for mine, and those guys see me basically every day and know me better than everyone, even the freshmen — they're not gonna believe me if I say we just started dating out of nowhere.”
"We’ll make up a love story, I don't know," he shrugs, "but they can't know. Alexandra would tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone, and then my plan would be ruined."
You sigh deeply before nodding, uncertain. You’re not sure how you feel about lying to your swimming friends — your best friends.
… but he is right. Alex would definitely tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone.
"Okay. Alright, okay. I'll figure it out."
The barista calls out your name and you turn to grab your hot drink, smiling at the barista before turning to Piastri again.
"Aren't you gonna get anything?"
He shakes his head. "I don't drink coffee."
"You engineering freak," is your muttered answer, moving towards one of the small tables and immediately sitting down, watching him as he sits across from you. "Anything else?"
He seems to think it over for a second, gaze going from you to the coffee machine behind the counter and then back to you again.
"If any of my game dates don't match yours, you'll have to go watch me play. Supportive girlfriend and all."
"Well, only if you watch my swimming competitions as well," you twitch your nose at him, bringing the mug to your lips, "supportive boyfriend and all."
You don't notice the way his eyes focus on your mouth as you take a long sip. Piastri clears his throat loudly, looking away. You don't notice how a light flush paints his cheeks either.
"Sure, I can do that," he nods, clearing his throat again before his tone takes a condescending turn, "what about you? No rules?"
"Oh, I've got many rules," your smile is so forced even the barista, from the other side of the café, can see through it, "first things first, I want flowers. Once a month, at least."
His eyebrows shoot up.
"I told you I didn't want to put in any effort."
"I literally couldn't give less of a shit," you take another sip, clearly unimpressed, "I told you you're not going to be a deadbeat fake boyfriend. There's only a couple of months until the season ends, you can do flowers."
He sighs loudly, leaning his back against the chair and staring at the ceiling.
"Of course you'd be a high maintenance fake girlfriend."
"Don't piss me off, everyone knows I wouldn't have a disinterested boyfriend," your eyes are filled with amusement, "you have to make me swoon, Piastri. I wouldn't date someone that isn't willing to sweep me off my feet."
"Sweep you off your feet, got it," his eyes lingered on the curve of your smile, "go on."
"Okay," you set the mug down, "you have to pick me up from swimming practice every morning."
"Are you serious?" He all but moans, staring at you in disbelief. "You guys practice at the crack of dawn."
"It's called discipline," you snap back, "yes, I'm serious.”
He groans.
“Fine.”
“And you have to post me somewhat regularly. I'm not willing to be someone's secret fake girlfriend."
He sighs again, but nods in agreement.
"And you can't fuck anyone while we're doing this. I mean, not that I think you're capable of fucking anyone, but I don't want any gossip about getting cheated on."
He scoffs at the insult, but doesn't seem too offended.
"I wouldn't do that to you," he rolls his eyes, "obviously."
Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.
You’re vaguely aware that Piastri isn’t devil on Earth, much less that bad of a guy. Still, you don’t expect the readiness of it — the obviously, the consideration. It sends a tingle through your chest.
You elect to ignore it.
"You have to volunteer at my lab."
"What?"
"We don't have enough volunteers for our current research," you shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, taking another sip from your drink, "I'd clearly make my boyfriend do that for me. It's nothing much, we'll just make you run and do a few exercises. You'll be fine. And, at last — no kissing."
Piastri lifts his eyebrows.
"No kissing?"
"Oh, don't look at me like that," you kick him beneath the table, rolling your eyes when he glares at you, "I don't want to kiss you, period."
"That's gonna ruin our plan," he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "what, I win a game and don't kiss my girlfriend in celebration? That's ridiculous."
You ponder it for a second. A slight breeze comes through the window and you sigh at the feeling. Piastri watches it carefully.
"Okay," you concede, "you can kiss me after the finals, if you win and I'm there."
"That's ridiculous," he repeats. "Just the finals?"
You nod.
"Just the finals."
He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.
"Fine, okay. But you have to be nice and affectionate with me when we're in public, even if we don't kiss. Hold hands, hugs, all that stuff."
"You're really greedy for someone who didn't want to put in effort, you know?" You lean forward slightly, eyes focusing on his.
"Aren't you the one who wants to be wooed?" There's no friendliness in his teasing, and you roll your eyes again.
"Oh, you're not gonna woo me. You'll just act like you can, Piastri."
He scoffs.
"I guess we'll see about that."
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
"You know, you have a pretty nice car."
He does. The seat is cushioned to no end, the drive is almost silent, and, even though the music volume is low, you can tell the sound is insanely good.
You wouldn't be able to say what car it is, but it did make your eyes widen when it stopped by the pool's entrance, and the silence is so awkward you can barely handle it.
Not that you feel any joy in talking to Piastri, of course. Still, the discomfort of it all is getting to you.
"Thanks," his tone is dry, but you can hear the hint of confusion in his voice.
Maybe he's as surprised as you are that you're trying to, what? Start conversation with Oscar Piastri of all people?
"How was practice?"
Your eyebrows shoot up at the question. His furrow. Neither of you expected him to keep the conversation going either.
"It was okay," you answer carefully. It feels weird to talk to him without trying to start a fight. "We're taking a rest day tomorrow so we aren't too tired for the competition on Sunday."
"Cricket takes two rest days before games," he mutters, eyes on the road.
"Are you trying to compete with me over rest days, Piastri? I didn't ask."
Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.
You're not sure why you do it. He's being exceptionally polite, and he got out of the car to open the door for you even though no one could see it, which was, perhaps, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to you.
He'd actually shown up, as well. Right on time as practice ended. You don't even think you told him what time you'd be done with swimming for the morning.
Maybe you just feel defensive. Maybe you just don't know how to act in this situation, don't know how to talk to him.
His gaze flies towards you for a mere second before focusing on the campus streets again.
"You're insane," his expression doesn't even change when he says it, and somehow that makes it worse.
Well. You started conversation and then immediately shut him out the moment he tried to keep it going.
Maybe you are insane, and you definitely feel a little bad about it, but not enough to apologize or say anything else.
The last minutes of the ride are spent in that same awkward silence. When he stops the car, you move to open the door on the passenger side, but he moves quicker — in a couple of seconds, he gets out the car, around it, and opens the door for you.
You gape at him like a fish out of water as you slowly get out the car, his hand still firmly gripping the handle.
You look around. He drove you back to your dorm building as you had asked, and only a few students walk nearby, most of them not even noticing the two of you. Some stare.
He closes the door as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.
"You don't need to do that everytime," you mutter awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your cheeks, "I can open the door by myself."
Once more, Piastri is quicker than you. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on your warm cheek, ignoring the surprised gasp that leaves your lips.
"You're insane, but you also prohibited me from being a deadbeat fake boyfriend," he shrugs, but you see the way his mouth curves in a smirk at your startled reaction. "Have a good day."
And, in a second, he's back in his car and driving away.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Opening doors and kissing your cheek.
A sophomore you're pretty sure plays in the university band flashes you a smile as she walks by, but you don't acknowledge it nor do you move. You just watch his car get smaller and smaller as he drives it away.
God, you should not have agreed to this.
✶✶✶
You're very particular about competition days.
You joined the swimming team mere months after you started university, and it felt like a much needed outlet for any frustration you felt towards everything else going on in your life. Pre-med was no joke, and you were known for being either at the pool, at the library, or at the PT research lab.
Married to swimming and school work, just like Piastri's friends say he's married to cricket. You try not to dwell on that similarity.
Swimming is where you feel most at ease — it's where you can finally breathe, funnily enough, and mornings feel incomplete without it.
Of course you're passionate about the sport. More than passionate, if your frequent angry outbursts at Charles Leclerc are anything to go by.
You see, it isn't always Piastri's fault that the band doesn't show up to swimming competitions. The cricket and swimming calendars don't always align and, even though they do align enough to annoy the shit out of you, you have to admit Piastri can't take the blame every single time.
Sometimes they have to be somewhere else, sometimes they have their own competitions, and there was even a time or two when the university dean asked them to play at a board event. It all culminates in the fact the band hasn't shown up to any swimming competitions all season, which pisses you off to no end.
The swimming team has never gotten this close to nationals, at least not in recent history. This might be the most important competition day ever since you joined the team, bright-eyed, shy, excited.
You take your breakfast like you always do — not too light to be hungry, not too heavy to vomit into the pool, a lesson freshman you had to learn the hard way. You stretch before you even leave your dorm and you check your backpack a thousand times to be sure you haven't forgotten anything, rechecking for your lucky swimming cap a thousand times more.
When you finally meet the rest of the team at the state pool, your hands are trembling more than a captain's hands should. Alex and Kika are bursting with energy, and Franco all but jumps in his own spot. The new freshmen look ready to throw up.
"Okay," you clear your throat when your voice cracks, nerves fighting to get the best of you, "this is our most important competition to date."
"Damn, no pressure," Franco mutters, shrugging when you glare his way. For a semi-freshman, you're always surprised by how much shit he says.
"If we win, we go to nationals. The band is here," you wave towards the bleachers by the side of the pool, directly next to the other teams, which you suppose is purposeful, "and everyone expects us to do at least somewhat well."
"Again, no pressure," Kika rolls her eyes with amusement and directs a soft smile to the freshmen, "we'll just do our best."
"No," you shake your head, tightening your fists to stop their trembling, looking at each and every person in your team with determination as you take in a deep breath, pushing away your anxiety, even if you still feel it, "we'll do more than our best, and we'll win. We're fast as fuck and the best swimmers in the world and this competition will be a breeze. Leclerc will play trumpets on their ears and they'll be no match for us."
Alex lets out a laugh at that, but some of the freshmen puff out their chests.
"I believe in each and every one of you," you nod. "Don't let me down, and I won't let you down either. Now, let's get ready to win."
The team lets out cheers, clapping as they start moving toward their spots around the pool, some stretching, others sighing and trying to shake out the nervousness.
"That's why she's the captain," you hear someone mumble, and feel almost guilty over how untrue that sounds.
Saying it is one thing, believing it is entirely another.
If there's someone feeling the pressure, it's you. You, who committed to being team captain before you were even a senior. You, who pushed every teammate to their limit during pratice every morning. You, who agreed to fake date your archnemesis to make sure you'd have a supportive audience at this pool.
Minutes later, the whistle sounds.
You can still hear the band with your head underwater.
✶✶✶
liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 9,987 others
swimteam Congratulations to all of our athletes for absolutely DOMINATING all swimming categories on the state competition today and therefore qualifying to NATIONALS!
And shout out to our captain @.yourusername for setting the new state record for the 800m front crawl category ❤️
yourusername FUCKING LOVE YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!! ♡ liked by swimteam
oscarpiastri What a great job from the team! ♡ liked by swimteam
↳ kikagomes 👀
francolapinto first full season and already going to nationals maybe i'm a good luck charm? ♡ liked by swimteam
pierregasly YESSSSSSS ♡ liked by swimteam
charles_leclerc Congratulations to the team! I'm so grateful I was there to witness this ♡ liked by swimteam
↳ alexandrasaintmleux ❤️
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 5,321 others
yourusername feeling actually insane. what a crazy fucking weekend. thank you guys for everything @.swimteam ❤️ WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO NATIONALS
also thank you @.charles_leclerc and the whole band for being there, couldn't have done it without you
kikagomes BEST CAPTAIN THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEEEEEEEEEN ♡ liked by yourusername
freshman1 you are THE GOAT ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux OH HELLO STATE RECORD HOLDER ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri Beautiful work babe ❤️
↳ kikagomes wtf
↳ alexandrasaintmleux hmmm hi?
↳ landonorris mate???
↳ yourusername ❤️
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
When you leave the pool on Tuesday, Alex and Kika walking beside you, Piastri is already waiting outside.
Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.
You stop dead in place at the sight, gaping at him as you hear Alex and Kika gasp.
Not any flowers, either. Pink camellias and a few white gardenias, all wrapped up in brown paper and a nice white bow. He smiles at you so wide when he sees you that you feel your cheeks grow warm.
"There's my girl!" He walks towards you in wide strides, immediately leaning down to kiss your face. You just stare as he puts the delicate flowers into your hands and turns his head toward your friends. "You guys did great on Sunday. Are you excited to go to nationals?"
Alex and Kika can't seem to speak, staring at him in utter shock as you look down at your flowers.
You suppose you did ask for it, yes. You didn't expect him to deliver, though, at least not like this. Perhaps some simple roses. Maybe daisies.
The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.
"Well. Should we... Go?" He looks at you when he asks it, uncertain, but you just look down at the pretty bouquet sitting between your hands.
He says your name quietly and that's what snaps you back into reality.
"Yes. Yes, of course," you shoot a smile to your friends, barely registering their shocked glances to each other, "I'll see you tomorrow, guys!"
The girls watch as he opens the door for you and walks around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat, waving at them before closing his own door.
"So," the car starts to move, "how was practice?"
You blink down at the flowers, and then back up at him.
"You got me flowers."
"Yes, I did," he nods and glances at you, "I didn't know which ones you liked, so I just picked the ones I thought looked nicer. Are they okay?"
You look down at the flowers again. Beautiful, fresh, colorful, staring up at you brightly.
"You could've just gotten roses or something."
"Nah," Piastri shakes his head, eyes focusing on the road, "roses are too basic, and we've already come to the conclusion that you're high maintenance."
"That's..." you open your mouth to speak and find yourself at a loss for words, "thank you?"
"Don't thank me yet," he glances at you again, "I have a favor to ask you."
You groan, setting the flowers down on your lap as your stare at him, grateful for the sudden annoyance that can distract you from how fucking flustered you are.
"Another one, Piastri?"
"Look, Lando is throwing a party this weekend to celebrate our quarter finals, since we couldn't celebrate on Sunday after getting the news that Jack won't be able to play for the rest of the season. I've told him I'm seeing someone, so they said I should bring you."
"Someone? You haven't told them it's me?" Your eyes narrow at him, gripping the flower stems a little tighter.
"No, I thought you'd prefer it if we told people on your terms," he glances at you again, "hence why the party could be a good place for it."
For what feels like the thousandth time during this car ride, you blink at him.
"That's surprisingly considerate."
He rolls his eyes.
"I am considerate, just like I am nice," you watch as he sighs, "you can invite the swimming team if you want."
"I never took you for a party guy," your eyes turn to your flowers again, chest tightening at how lovely they look, at how the colors complement each other.
"I'm not," Piastri agrees, and your focus moves to the way his hands turn the steering wheel, taking a right, "but it'd be awkward if the team captain doesn't go to the team's celebration party, you know? And, again, it'd be a good place for us to make it official."
"Make it fake official," you mutter, forcing yourself to look back at the flowers.
You don't miss the way his lips curl into a teasing smile. You hate the way your face tingles with warmth.
"Don't get technical on me now, L/N."
A chuckle escapes you, and his smile grows wider. He turns a left and you notice you're on your street.
"Fine," you sigh tiredly, "but you're picking me up for that too."
He laughs back and, for some reason, you hate it.
"Of course."
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
"You know, you could've just said we needed to meet to align what story we're telling everyone, you didn't need to scare the crap out of me."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic."
You throw a pillow at Piastri, who sits on your desk on the other side of your room, chair moved so he can look at you. You huff when he catches it.
"Besides, if it was something worth getting worried about, you're not exactly the person I'd be texting. We're not close like that."
You think you see hurt flicker through his expression, but it's gone before you can be sure.
Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.
Your roommate is out for the day, and never in his life did Piastri think he'd ever be alone in your room with you.
The dorm is surprisingly untidy. For all your talk of discipline, there's clothes hanging from the desk chair, a little pile of shoes on the floor. Your desk table is a complete mess — papers everywhere, books on top of each other, your sunglasses too close to the edge. By the desk, there's a duffle bag filled to the top with clothes, a couple of swimming goggles, a clean swimsuit, and an assortment of swimming caps.
"The party is tomorrow night," you remind him, "I won't be able to escape Alex and Kika there. What are we gonna tell them?"
"Well, I don't know," he crosses his arms, not a hint of emotion on his tone, "maybe you just fell for my crazy charm and begged to go out with me?"
You laugh so loudly the sound rings in his ears, and Piastri can't help but smirk.
"No one is going to believe that," you shake your head and he doesn't take it personally, "we need to think of something better."
There's a beat of silence as the two of you try to think of a good story to explain how, miraculously, you got together.
You and Oscar Piastri. Well, that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it? You hadn't liked him for years now, and what could have possibly changed that?
"Maybe we kissed at Gasly's party a month ago," he suggests, and you arch your eyebrow.
"The one where you looked uncomfortable the entire time and left early?"
He tilts his head in surprise. "You noticed?"
"I mean—not like that," you roll your eyes, but there's no denying the warmth on your face, "I just saw you a couple of times, that's all."
There's another beat of silence, and you wonder if you can swallow back your words and choke on them.
"Okay," he nods slowly. "Maybe you saw me leaving, went after me to see if I was okay, and we kissed."
"Why would I check up on you?" You blurt out and immediately wish you could swallow those words, as well.
"Because you're nice to people," he says quietly, looking away from you, "so maybe you were just being nice."
It's stupid, but you feel a pang on the left side of your chest.
"Yeah, okay. That seems fair," you swallow, and your throat hurts, "I was drunk and you looked sad and pitiful, so I kissed you."
There's a slight lilt to his lips. "You kissed me?"
"Obviously," you match his small smile, "I wear the fake pants in this fake relationship, Piastri. I kissed you."
He lets out a snort and your smile widens.
"Sure, okay. What then? You asked me out?"
"No, I didn't," you lean back against your bedrest, head turned to look at him, "I kissed you and you were so overwhelmed with joy that you asked me out on the spot."
Piastri really laughs this time, and you allow yourself to grin at him. He notices and grins back.
"Did you say yes?"
You shrug, but the smile stays on your face. "If you looked pitiful enough, I might have."
"Oh, so you only accepted because I looked pitiful?" The teasing tone to his voice sounds nice. You've never heard it from him, not without any annoyance behind it.
"Obviously," you throw another pillow at him and he catches it again, "I have a soft spot for sad men."
He throws the pillow back and you catch it clumsily. He shakes his head and lets out another chuckle. "Of course you do."
"We hung out in secret for a while," you keep the story going, resting your chin on your hands as you look at him, thoughtful, "I wasn't sure if it was serious or not, and you're married to cricket."
He nods, still smiling. The flowers he gave you on Tuesday are on top of your bedside table, he notices, inside a jar filled with water and still holding up. They bring some color to the space. He feels flattered you actually still have them.
"Maybe—" he hesitates, face falling, and you gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat, "maybe that day when you messaged me about the band, my favor was for you to be my girlfriend officially."
You study him for a second. The deep brown eyes, his strong jaw, his lips no longer forming that smile you were growing to enjoy. He looks a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, just like he had that night at Gasly's party. Some strange part of you wants to see him grin at you again.
"That's a good idea," you nod slowly. "Would make the timeline add up."
"Exactly," he nods back.
That awkward silence settles in again, the one that fills his car when he drives you back to your dorm, the one that swims between your text messages.
You don't know what it is. There are times when you talk and laugh and chat like normal people — acquaintances, at least. Other times, it seems you've never met before, like you just have no idea how to act with each other.
You don't know how to act with each other. It's been years of angry glances, sarcastic answers, underhanded compliments. Mainly from your part, you realize, even though you know for certain that he has gone after his way to get the band when he knew you wanted it for a swimming competition.
Even then, is that sufficient reason for the weird relationship you two have always had?
Piastri seems to be asking himself the same questions, because the next words out of his mouth are, "why do you hate me so much?"
You blink at him, surprised by the question.
"I don't hate you, Piastri."
"I mean, you sort of do," he crosses his arms again, almost as if trying to make himself smaller, "I know you're... Intense, but you don't seem to have this much of a problem with other people."
You think it over for a few seconds. It's true. While you've had issues with almost everyone in the student athletic association and in band, with Piastri it's always been personal — it's not just sports and business like it is with others.
"I mean, you do make it your mission to steal band from me all the time."
He shakes his head, "you know it's more than that. Yes, I do try to steal band from you every Sunday. I know how much you like the band, and in a selfish way I guess I want to upset you in the same way you upset me by— I don't know, just being mad at me all the time."
Your eyebrows furrow and your voice goes a little quieter. "It upsets you?"
"Of course it does."
You look at him closely, his arms still crossed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in your dorm, asking you questions that haunted him since freshman year.
"It's stupid," you murmur, and he immediately leans forward to listen, interested, "you pranked me in freshman year."
Piastri looks at your startled, eyebrows shooting up. "What?"
"When we started university," you start, feeling so embarrassed you wish you could bury yourself in a hole, "I met you at one of those welcome cocktails, do you remember?"
He nods, confused.
"Well, we talked a bunch that night. I had a lot of fun. I thought you were really cute, too," you look away, the embarrassment increasing tenfold as you avoid his gaze, cheeks glowing red, "so I asked for your number, and you gave me a fake one. I tried to text you and it just didn't exist. Never felt that humiliated in my life," you laugh humorlessly, "I know it's stupid, but I just could never really like you after that. It was awful because you were always so nice to everyone, and I didn't understand why you did that. You could've just said no, you know? And then the following year I became more involved with the swimming team and you were just a dick about the band. So yeah, I guess that's how it started."
When you finally gather the courage to glance at Piastri again, you don't think you've ever seen him look this confused in his life. It makes you feel even more embarrassed, the way his eyebrows furrow with no understanding.
"I remember that night," he concedes, and then shakes his head in denial. "We talked, and I gave you my phone number and you never reached out until sophomore year, when we started talking—well, when we started fighting over the band."
It's your turn to look confused.
"No, you didn't give me a real number, Piastri. I had to get your number from someone else later."
"I did not give you a fake number," his voice is solid, firm, and he stares at you with certainty. "Maybe you heard one of the numbers wrong due to the party noise, or I mixed something up, I had just changed numbers at the time. But I did not give you a fake number. I wanted to talk to you."
You stare back at him, unsure on how to answer. You weren't hurt by that anymore — it happened years ago and, at this point, you didn't care. But it was the starting point of your distaste towards him, and it had tainted the first following interactions. The image of him that stuck with you had been that one — smiling Piastri, sweet and polite, giving you hope and butterflies and a fake number, a dead end.
Polite enough to not be cruel to your face, to let you feel the humiliation and embarrassment on your own on the next day, seeing every message refuse to go through.
And to know that that wasn't what had happened? That maybe it had all been a silly misunderstanding, and you held a grudge over nothing?
Well, that was awkward.
"I—well, it doesn't matter," you try to shift the topic, letting out an uneasy chuckle, "it was years ago, and it's not like I'm still upset at you because of that. Nowadays, my only issue with you is the band and the fact that you're always a little shit about it."
"It does matter," he presses, and you notice the way his finger grip the edges of your desk chair so tight his knuckles go white, "it matters to me. I did not give you a fake number. It wasn't a prank."
"Piastri—"
"I promise you I didn't. I wouldn't have done that, even if I didn't want you to have my number, and I did."
"Piastri, it's fine," you insist, still avoiding his gaze, "I can promise you I'm over something that happened when we were 18." You pause. "But it's good to know you didn't do it on purpose. Makes it a little less embarrassing, I think."
He doesn't answer, just studies you quietly. Maybe he's waiting for something. You're not sure what it is. Your heart beats loudly inside your chest. You suppose this shouldn't change anything, but it does.
Not the fact that he didn't mean to give you the wrong number, no, but the fact he cares so much about it. About you knowing he wanted to talk to you, that he gave you the right number, that he waited for you to text him.
"So," you clear your throat, face flaming red, "the party this weekend."
✶✶✶
liked by yourusername, landonorris and 3,215 others
oscarpiastri incredible night out with my girlfriend, the state record holder for 800m front crawl
tagged: yourusername
yourusername LMAOOOO
yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
↳ landonorris dating the guy and still calling him by his last name my man can never win
↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point
francolapinto still can't believe you refused to kiss for the camera i just wanted to capture this monumental moment
↳ yourusername weirdo
username1 can i say that as a fellow colleague i ALWAYS thought you guys would look cute together ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,741 others
yourusername coffee date
tagged: oscarpiastri
kikagomes the hard launch i can't ♡ liked by yourusername
kimiantonelli you guys are like parents to me ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux did you guys go grab coffee immediately after the party 😭😭😭
↳ yourusername perhaps
oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername ❤️❤️❤️
username1 power couple ❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
landonorris i can't believe you guys are really dating we thought he was lying ♡ liked by yourusername
✶✶✶
A week later, Piastri waits for you to get ready for lab after bringing you to your dorm.
"I said I'd volunteer to help with your research," he explains when you stare at him quizzically, shruging as if it's just obvious.
And you guess it is. He did say he'd do it.
Besides, getting a ride to lab does feel quite nice. The awkwardness and silences from that first week seem to be dissipating slowly after you two managed to actually enjoy being together at Lando's party, even if you didn't do much besides dance with your friends and let him put his arm around your back a few times. You ask about cricket, he asks about swimming. He tells you about his engineering degree and how excited he is to get a job in the market, and you tell him all about doing physical therapy as pre-med and about how much work you're putting into it. He listens. He asks questions.
You find yourself enjoying those few minutes between the pool and your dorm more than you ever did. Worst of all, you find yourself looking forward to the way he laughs.
You're not friends, per se. You barely text outside of quick "I'm here" or "waiting for you" messages when he comes to pick you up, and your conversations don't ever stray much from your sports and your classes.
But it's nice to talk to him normally, to talk without feeling like there's a ticking bomb waiting for you to start an argument. You don't even feel angry or irritated at him anymore, not even when he jokes around too much or says something stupid.
When you arrive, your colleagues are absolutely ecstatic that you’ve brought them what is, essentially, a lab rat. Piastri barely introduces himself before they have him hooked up to a bunch of wires, monitoring his body’s responses as they make him jump, run, and do a thousand little exercises, moving his arms this or that way, flexing his legs.
You have to admit his calm demeanor and politeness are somewhat captivating. He’s extremely nice to everyone in your lab, and he asks them for details and information on your research, which, as everyone knows, is enough to make any academic’s heart soar.
Oscar smiles softly at you whenever you’re the one to come check on his wires, tell him to move in a specific manner. He obeys solemnly, calling you “doctor” and chuckling when you roll your eyes at him, unable to mask your grin.
Your colleagues make him promise to come back in the following week. He laughs and agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head and telling you to text him when you get home before leaving.
You still have a smile on your face after he's gone, making notes and studying the data with a lightness on your chest. When your professor clears her throat and your eyes meet hers, your face is bright.
"So, that was your boyfriend, huh?" She smiles knowingly, looking you up and down.
"Yeah," you smile back, glancing back at the numbers and lines on the lab computer, "you know me, I had to force him to volunteer."
She chuckles at your answer, leaning her hip against your work desk.
"I can tell he really likes you," you turn your face towards her again, "just by the way he looks at you. You've got that man hooked, Ms. L/N." She claps your shoulder. "Good luck with that data, let me know when you're done so I can look it over."
You try to smile back, try to take it in stride. She gives you a wink before walking away, asking someone else a question and leaving as if your heart wasn't breaking a little bit.
Oscar must be good at this pretending thing, if even your lab professor thinks he's in love with you. You do nothing but smile a little more at him and actually look him in the eye, while he's the one giving you cheek kisses, opening doors for you, and laughing at every joke you make.
You're not sure why it bothers you, but it does. A lot.
✶✶✶
Another week later, you're preparing for the first round of nationals.
And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.
The first time it happens, it's a Monday. During the ride back from the pool, he asks if it'd be a good day for him to volunteer at the lab again, because he did promise he'd come back and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do it another time. You tell him he can wait for you to get ready inside your dorm instead of outside, in the car. Your roommate is leaving for her morning classes when the two of you arrive and shoots you a knowing look when she closes the door behind her, but doesn't say anything.
You don't say anything either. You just let him into the messy room, let him sit on top of your bed and between your pillows, let him ask questions about some of the books on your desk.
He keeps coming back, starts coming in after swimming practice and driving you from your dorm to the physical therapy building as well. You start asking questions back. What's his favorite book, is his dorm also a little untidy, who's his favorite teacher.
You tell him about your lucky swimming cap — the only one you wear during tournaments, the one you can't compete without, the one you check your duffle bag for a million times before leaving your dorm on competition days.
He tells you he has a lucky pair of socks for cricket games.
"Do you wash them?" You ask him then, wrinkling your nose, a smirk on your lips.
"Only when we lose," an amused grin covers his face, and it opens up with laughter as you gag, throwing a pillow at him that he quickly catches.
"You're nasty," your whole face scrunches up with disgust, shaking your head as if trying to shake the information away.
"Hey!" He objects between chuckles, smile bright. "If it works, it works."
Around the same time, the lingering touches start. You suppose it makes sense, considering the fact you're technically dating.
Oscar starts sitting with you on the cafeteria, holding your hand on top of the table, leaning his shoulder into yours. The tender kisses don't stop, they increase in frequency — on your cheek while he waits for you to get into the car, on your forehead when he leaves you after lunch, on the top of your head while you're hanging out with others.
You don't go out on dates. You don't have to — everyone knows how busy your lives are, so no one questions the way you're never seen out for dinner. Even then, it feels adequate. You're seen together everywhere, and you actually show up to one or two cricket team night practices to watch them play and wait for him before he drives you back to your dorm after a hard day.
Neither of you mention the way his hand sometimes searches for yours while he drives. Neither of you mention the fact he kisses your cheek even when there's no one around.
You're not sure when Oscar Piastri went from your archnemesis to your sort of touchy friend. You're not sure when you started texting him about annoying teachers, boring assignments, muscle aches from swimming. But you do, and he answers every time — he entertains you, makes jokes, asks questions, complains about his own classes.
Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.
And he isn't there during the first round of nationals because the cricket team has a friendly game to practice for the semifinals in the following week, but he texts you a string of four-leaf clover emojis for good luck and asks you to send him a picture wearing your lucky cap, which you do with a big smile on your face.
Oscar is nice, and considerate, and funny, and charming. He's more on the quiet side, yes, but he's so expressive and attentive that you just can't help but think that, if he didn't steal the band so often and you hadn't developed a grudge from a misunderstanding, maybe you could've been friends through the entirety of your graduation years.
Maybe this could've been real.
You try not to dwell on these thoughts, but it's impossible. You can't stop yourself from looking forward to the small kisses, the hand holding, the hugs, the car rides, the lunches, the talking in your dorm. The lines become blurry — how much are you really friends, and how much is it just pretending?
✶✶✶
"So, you and Piastri, huh?"
You look up from your duffle bag, hair still dripping wet with pool water.
Alexandra stares at you from a few feet away inside the locker room, drying herself calmly. Some of the other girls chat, energized from a productive practice and the good results from the first round of nationals, and none of them pay attention to you.
You clear your throat.
"Yeah," you look back down, trying to find the clean shirt you know is somewhere among the mess of your belongings, "Piastri and me."
Alex closes her locker carefully before walking closer to you, tone careful.
"Why didn't you tell me anything? I mean, you're my best friend, and I never thought—" she furrows her eyebrows in something between frustration and confusion, "I guess I just didn't see it coming."
"Oh, come on," you try to smile it off, finally picking up your shirt and standing straight to look back at her again. Your chest clenches for a reason you can't quite explain, "why are you asking me that now? We've been together for, what, a month?"
"I have to admit I thought it was a joke," she crosses her arms, "you've never liked the guy, and you didn't mention it even once."
"Of course it's not a joke. I mean, if it was, why wouldn't I tell you?" You cross your arms again, feeling strangely defensive even though you knew from the start that it would be difficult to hide the truth from Alex and Kika, specially Alex.
They knew everything about you. Why didn't they know you had been apparently seeing Oscar Piastri for an entire month before the two of you were officially dating? You didn't have an answer for that. They would've known if it was real.
"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were going out with him?" Her eyebrows furrow further, asking the exact question you don't kno how to answer. "I just don't understand why you kept it a secret. It's not like I would judge you or tell anyone or anything. You know that, right?"
"Of course I know that," your fingers tighten over the shirt they're holding, "I—it was just complicated. I didn't know if it was just a casual thing, you know?" You lean into the excuse you and Oscar had thought of weeks ago. "And he was too preoccupied with his degree and cricket and everything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it if it wasn't anything serious."
"Oh, please," Alex rolls her eyes, "are you kidding? If you guys have always looked at each other the way you do, there's no way you thought it could be casual."
For a second, your entire body tenses, brain sending out sirens inside your head. You blink, and Alex looks at you expectantly.
"I—hum—what do you mean?" is all you can muster, feeling your face grow warm.
"You're joking, right?" She stares at you like you're stupid. You feel like it. "That man looks at you as if you hung the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. Whenever he has lunch with us, he just has eyes for you the entire time. Even when other people are speaking, he just keeps stealing glances at you. And you may not even notice, but he goes bright red whenever you smile at him. And the door opening? The cheek kisses? You cannot fool me into thinking you ever thought it could be casual when he's clearly head over heels for you."
A beat passes by. You just stare.
"And that's not even mentioning the way you look at him," she continues pointedly, "it's like he's the funniest, most brilliant person in the world, when, come on, he's nice, but he's still just Piastri."
"Oscar doesn't look at me like that," you answer late, mouth not quite catching up with your thoughts.
But did he? You never noticed. Did he look at you like that? Was he looking at you like that the whole time?
Was it even real? Did he look at you like that because he's supposed to be your boyfriend or because he actually couldn't help it?
No, it had to be because of your whole scheme. Oscar—Oscar was just now becoming your friend, he didn't—he couldn't—
Despite her growing irritation, Alex couldn't help but smile softly.
"He's really got you hooked, huh? I didn't think you'd ever be able to actually call him by his name."
Oh.
When did you start calling him Oscar? When did he become Oscar in your thoughts, and not just Piastri?
Did you look at him like that?
As if sensing your trouble, your phone starts to buzz. When you look down at it, laying on top of your open bag, his name pops up.
"He's... waiting for me outside," you stare up at Alex again. "I need to change and go."
"Look, you're my best friend," she repeats, small smile falling, "I just feel like there's something weird in all this, and I want you to know you can count on me, okay? I wanna hear all about this love story of yours. I just—I'm just really confused, honestly. Why didn't you say anything before you two started dating?"
Your phone buzzes again. You lean down to grab your bag, gesturing randomly towards the door.
"I'm gonna go change. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Why are you leaving like this?" She calls out, but you're already moving.
"I'm not," you call back, walking backwards so you can look at her, "I just can't do this right now."
You disappear before you can hear her response.
Ten minutes later, you're inside Oscar's car. He looks you up and down, your hair still dripping wet after running out without properly drying it, your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your mouth a straight line.
"Is everything okay?" He asks as he closes his door and starts the car.
"Alex cornered me to ask why I kept our relationship a secret from her."
You watch the way Oscar tenses.
"What did you say?"
"I didn't say anything," you shrug, looking out the window, "I sort of just ran away and left her at the locker room."
He snorts at that, and even though you still feel tense, you can't help but smile at the sound.
"Why would you run away?" He asks with amusement, shaking his head.
"I didn't know what to say!" You throw your arms up and, despite yourself, you feel the panic and discomfort from the conversation with Alex wash away in his presence, smile lingering on your lips.
"You could just tell her what sounds more believable," he suggests, but the smirk on his lips makes your eyes narrow teasingly, "that you fell for my unbelievable charm."
You laugh and he grins, glancing at you from the driver's seat.
"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."
You move your eyes from the window to his face, finding his own eyes mid-glance towards you. He sees your smile.
For the first time, you notice the way his cheeks turn pink.
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
When Oscar parks his car in front of your dorm building on Saturday, you’re already waiting for him, face warm as you watch him grab his phone to text you, barely aware of your figure standing outside. He’s usually the one who waits for you.
You watch him look towards the sidewalk lazily. You notice that he’s already in his cricket uniform, shoulders straight, ready for the game. His demeanor is calm, but you’ve heard him grumble enough to know how important this is to him — how much he wants to win.
The moment his eyes meet yours, you watch him blank, skin growing impossibly red as he looks you up and down.
You’re wearing his jersey. His number. His name on your back.
The moment Oscar sees you, he’s usually out of the car, opening the passenger door. This time, he stares. You almost feel self-conscious under his wide gaze, his mouth open, expression painted with surprise and something you can’t quite read.
For a moment, you think it’s awe.
You aren’t sure that's not just wishful thinking.
He snaps out of it when you start walking towards the car, stumbling over himself as he climbs out of the driver’s seat to open your door. His fingers touch the small of your back as you turn it to him while you get inside, and it sends an electric current through your spine. He closes the car door and walks over to get into his seat.
Oscar sits down, turns his head to stare at you again, skin bright red, eyes wide. You feel yourself shrink under his intense gaze.
“Do you… not like it?”
His eyes widen even further.
“What? No, I—hum—you—that’s my—hum—” somehow, his face grows even redder, and he clears his throat before speaking again, finally taking his stare away from you. “You look great. I’m—yeah. I love it,” he starts the engine and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, but a feeling akin to amusement starts to crawl up your throat, warmth creeping up your chest. “How—where—”
“I asked Norris if you guys had a spare jersey so I could surprise you,” you answer calmly, watching the way his jaw works, the way he stares straight ahead as the car starts to move. “He told me he had the perfect one.”
He looks flustered.
And, God, you enjoy it. You savor it. It makes your heart soar.
Oscar Piastri is gripping the wheel, deep scarlet, stumbling over his words because of you.
You don’t dwell on what it means. You try not to think too hard about it or about how much you like it. But you notice the way he keeps stealing glances, the way his neck burns red whenever he looks at you, the way he can barely speak the entire drive.
Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.
“Beautiful, loving, and supportive girlfriend, huh?” You tease after a couple of minutes, turning your head to look at him. Somehow, his face turns an even deeper red.
“Shut up,” he mumbles in response, unable to hide his sheepish grin when you cackle at his answer.
And it's at that moment that you realize it, sitting on the passenger seat, watching him grin, wearing his colors, his jersey, his number, wishing he had his hand on your thigh the same way he did when the two of you gave Kika a ride after practice on Wednesday.
That moment while he groans something about annoying swimmer getting on my nerves and glances your way just to find you already studying him, while his fingers flex against the steering wheel, while he looks you up and down and blushes again at the sight.
It hits you hard, makes your breath catch, turns the corners of your vision fuzzy.
You're not sure when it happened, you're not sure how. You could barely stand him and, a month later, he's the one who makes you laugh, who gets you to relax after tense days with a cheek kiss and the sound of his voice as he drives you around. A month ago he was just Piastri.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, who has pissed you off at every given opportunity since freshman year, who stole band every Sunday, who was never anything but annoying.
Oscar Piastri, who sits on the desk chair inside your dorm and catches every pillow you throw at him.
Oscar Piastri, who the colleagues in your lab adore and call their favorite volunteer.
Oscar Piastri, who smiles at you and lets his hand linger on the small of your back and kisses your forehead to say goodbye — never your mouth, because you told him not to. Never your mouth, and he still manages to make the soft kisses against your temple feel more intimate than any make out session you've ever had.
Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.
You're not faking anymore.
✶✶✶
liked by oscarpiastri, kikagomes and 987 others
yourusername MY BOY IS GOING TO FINALS BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (still unsure how this sport works tbh)
tagged: oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri thank you so much for being there ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri literal good luck charm ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri YOUR TURN TOMORROW ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you
kikagomes CUTIESSSS OMG OMG OMG ♡ liked by yourusername
✶✶✶
You're very particular about competition days, and Oscar Piastri being attached to your hip feels like the weirdest and most welcomed disruption in the entire world.
He carries your bag for you while you find the rest of your team, cleans your swimming goggles when you aren't looking, kisses the top of your head softly before you put your lucky cap on, squeezes your hand when he finally has to leave your side.
None of it feels fake and most of it happens when you're sure no one else is looking. None of Oscar's friends are here to take note of how kind and caring he is towards you, except Charles and Pierre, who are both too busy with their own girlfriends.
It makes the soft spot he's been carving for himself inside you bigger.
The band is there, yes, but his cheering is the loudest thing you hear whenever your head comes up for air.
He doesn't need to do all of that. He does it anyway.
You don't dominate — the team does well enough, managing a few podiums, but no wins.
It's not the best prospect for the final round. You know so. The team knows so. You speak briefly about it, tell them it was good enough, that you'll train harder and do better next round.
Even then, Oscar hugs you close when you can finally go up to him, already out of your swimsuit and into warm clothes, pressing a kiss against your temple, and you feel any worry in your body melt away.
"You guys did amazing," he reassures as he holds you close, and you snort.
"You don't know much about swimming," you retort, but there's no bite to it.
"Well, I know the front crawl categories are only in the final round, and that's your specialty, right?"
You smile softly against his shoulder, breathing him in for a second before taking a step back.
"We'll see," you sigh as his hands linger on your arms, thumbs circling slightly, "it's a shame you won't be there. You were almost louder than the band."
Oscar chuckles at your teasing, and you almost miss the way his skin turns pink as he looks away from you, putting his hand on your back and starting to guide you towards the exist.
"About that, there's been talk about bringing the cricket finals forward by a week or so. I'd be—well, I'd be free to come, then."
You blink at him, but his eyes stay straight ahead.
"What? Isn't that really uncommon? Why would they do that? Did something happen?"
He clears his throat.
"I asked."
You blink at him again, stopping right in place. He takes a single step before he notices and turns to you.
"You asked?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing, heartbeat skyrocketing.
"I did," he answers sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I just—I'd like to be there. For the final round. And I'd like you to be there for the cricket finals as well."
You feel the air leave your lungs, heart ramming against your ribcage. He finally meets your gaze, and the look in his eyes is so intense you feel worried your legs might give out underneath you.
"Why?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the word, and his eyes turn impossibly soft. The sight makes your heart flip inside your chest, fingers trembling.
"You know why," is his quiet answer, hand reaching out so his fingertips touch yours, sending an electric current through your body while he keeps looking at you like that — like there's no one else in the entire world, like this is the most important thing ever, like this is real.
You open your mouth to speak when Franco calls your name from a couple of feet away.
The two of you look towards the sound to see Franco, Kimi, Alex, and Charles walking your way. You ignore the way Alex's eyes narrow, try not to remember she can probably read your expression like a book.
"Captain!" Kimi smiles as the four of them come to a halt in front of the two of your, "the band invited us to grab a bite together after this. Do you wanna come? Piastri too, obviously."
"I—yeah, sure, why not," you let out a breathy laugh, chest feeling impossibly tight. You can't get yourself to look at him properly, body tingling at the way you can feel him stare at you. "Oscar?"
He clears his throat again, but his voice comes out raspy. "Yeah, yeah, of course."
If anyone notices the tension between you, they don't mention it. Kimi asks if Oscar could give him and some of the other freshmen a ride, and you don't say anything while your fake boyfriend, who apparently asked the cricket organization to reschedule the final game's date for you, drives you and a bunch of freshmen to a restaurant nearby.
Neither of you mention it afterwards either, when he drives you home and the two of you are quiet for the entire drive.
You don't let him open the door for you when he parks in front of your dorm building — you almost throw yourself out of the car, ignoring the way he calls your name as you grab your duffle bag and speedwalk to your building.
You don't go straight to your dorm. Your mind is racing and you don't want to interact with your roommate right now, so you sit down in the building's empty lobby and breathe.
And then you do something you don't expect yourself to do.
You call Alexandra.
✶✶✶
"Why the fuck would he ask you to fake date him?"
"I don't know!" You throw your hands in the air, hair still sticky with pool water as Alex stares at you from the other side of the screen, shaking her head in disbelief. "He said he wanted his friends to stop annoying him about being married to cricket or something like that."
"I don't buy that for a second," she rolls her eyes, "why would he ask you of all people? No offense, but it's not like you guys had a good relationship or anything."
"I don't know, okay?" You repeat, throwing yourself back on the lobby's couch. "I don't know. I just wanted the damn band, and then he had to—I don't know, open every door for me and kiss my cheek. I don't know."
"Okay," you can hear her breathe deeply, "okay. I guess the reasoning behind it doesn't matter anymore. You're in love with him."
Your cheeks grow warm.
"I think 'love' is too strong a word, Alex."
"Is it now?" She rolls her eyes again. "If it's just a crush or whatever, why are you freaking out?"
"I'm not freaking out."
"Sure."
A quiet beat passes by.
"What are you gonna do?"
You sigh, closing your eyes tightly, hand coming up to your forehead.
What are you going to do?
"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"
"Maybe you should tell him."
Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.
"Are you insane? I can never do that."
You watch her shrug.
"Why not?"
"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."
"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."
"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.
"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."
You sigh again.
"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."
"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."
Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.
“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”
Alex offers you a sad chuckle.
“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”
You sigh back.
“Thank you.”
✶✶✶
You don’t tell him.
You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.
You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.
You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.
You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?
These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.
So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.
And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.
Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.
(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)
What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.
"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.
You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.
He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.
“Ready?”
You swallow dryly before nodding.
Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.
Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.
But, God, he met every requirement and then some.
“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”
You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”
“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”
“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”
“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”
“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.
The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.
When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.
As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.
“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”
He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.
“I’ll see you after the game.”
“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.
The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts.
Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.
When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.
You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.
It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.
And you still cheer.
His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.
As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.
And it flies outside of the oval field.
You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.
You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.
It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.
Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.
His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.
You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.
Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”
The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.
The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.
It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.
When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.
You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.
After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season.
Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.
The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.
He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.
The season is over.
He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”
You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.
“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”
It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”
“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”
An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”
"Can we talk? Upstairs?"
His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.
"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.
You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.
"Okay."
Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.
You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.
"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"
You blink at the question.
"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.
"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."
"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."
Oscar blinks down at you.
"What?"
"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.
In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.
"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"
"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.
"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."
"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.
"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"
You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.
"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."
You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.
He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.
"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"
"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"
"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"
You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.
"Yeah."
He lets out a shaky breath.
"You mean that?"
He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.
And he's holding yours in his.
"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."
He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.
"I don't think I was ever faking it at all," he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."
You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.
"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."
You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.
"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.
This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.
He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.
His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.
"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.
"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.
He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.
You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.
You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.
Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.
Oh, you're in too deep.
✶✶✶
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,024 others
yourusername no but like it's FOR REAL this time
tagged: oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri truly swept you off your feet, huh? ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername shut up
↳ yourusername yeah you did
oscarpiastri ❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux CALL ME RIGHT NOW? ♡ liked by yourusername
landonorris what's that caption about
liked by yourusername, landonorris and 1,101 others
oscarpiastri well to ME it was real all along
tagged: yourusername
kikagomes even his ig posts are looking like yours.... you got him good @.yourusername
↳ oscarpiastri she really does!
kimiantonelli literally my parents please give me more rides after competitions dad ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
yourusername well i DID kiss you first in the end ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
↳ oscarpiastri did i look pitiful at the time?
↳↳ yourusername just a little bit ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
check out my masterlist!
THIS TOOK ME A LIFETIME OMGGGG I'M SO GLAD SHE'S OUT IN THE WORLD <3 really hope you guys enjoyed, likes and reblogs are always appreciated :)
