Summary: The timeline of reader and Lando Norris circling each other for years. Battling his flirtatious lifestyle, her guarded nature, and a connection neither of them can quite walk away from.
Warnings: a little angst as always, poor communication, men being men, quite long I just kept writing and writing!
Written to Something, Somehow, Someday - Role Model
F1 masterlist
2019
The bar is loud, the kind of loud that makes everything feel slightly unreal, music thumping, glasses clinking, laughter spilling over itself.
It’s a celebration. His first full year in F1. And somehow, despite the crowd, he notices her.
Not because she’s trying to be noticed, actually the opposite. She’s leaned against the bar, completely unbothered, sipping her drink like she’s observing the room rather than being part of it.
Lando tilts his head slightly, watching her for a second too long, before walking over.
“Having fun?” he asks, sliding into the space beside her like it was always meant to be his.
She doesn’t even look at him at first. “Oh, absolutely. Nothing says ‘great night’ like being elbowed by strangers every five seconds.”
That gets a laugh out of him, genuine, not the polite kind he’s been giving all night.
“Right. I’ll make sure to apologise on behalf of everyone here.”
Now she looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume you have that authority.”
He grins. “I feel like I do.”
“Of course you do.”
There’s a tension between them she can’t pin. Most people sense her cold tone and give up but not Lando. He persisted and slowly began to knock down the guard that was so firmly in place. They began speaking liked they’d known each other forever.
She’s quick, every teasing comment he throws, she fires one back sharper. She doesn’t fawn over him, doesn’t treat him like he’s anything special, and thats exactly what pulls him in.
“You always this difficult?” he asks at one point, leaning a little closer.
She smirks into her glass. “Only with men who think they’re charming.”
“Ouch.”
“You’ll recover.”
He laughs again, shaking his head. “I don’t know, that one might stick.” He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in more.
She lets her guard slip lower and lower. Her tone softens, her smile lingers a little longer. He made it easy, like he didn’t have to try.
“Lando?”
A hand wraps around his arm. The shift is immediate. Subtle, but there.
He glances over, and his expression changes, not necessarily worse, just different.
“Hey,” he says, almost automatically.
The girl beside him smiles brightly, already tucked into his side like she belongs there. Yn starts to think maybe she does.
He turns back.
“Oh, this is,” he gestures between them, slightly awkward for the first time all night, “this is my girlfriend.”
There’s a pause. Yn smiles.
It’s polite, controlled, and completely unreadable.
“Of course she is.” The words land light, almost playful, but there’s an edge underneath them.
She sets her glass down. “Well, it was entertaining meeting you.”
“Wait, ” he starts, but she’s already stepping back.
“Enjoy your celebration,” she adds, giving him one last look, a mixture between amused and almost proud. As if her preconception was accurate. It was.
2020
Lando had reached out to yn over Instagram. He coincidently broke up with his girlfriend very soon after he had met yn.
They grew close at an unbelievable pace. She’s the type of friend he wished he’d always had around, she kept him grounded and never treated him differently. She completely understood him.
Lando made her laugh in ways no one else had, showed her a softer side that she didn’t know existed.
But now the world has gone quiet. In the thick of the pandemic.
No crowded bars. No noise to hide behind. Just hotel rooms, empty airports, and in all of that they end up talking more than ever.
“Your WiFi is awful,” she says as her screen freezes mid-expression.
“It’s not my WiFi,” Lando replies, shifting his phone. “It’s your face glitching.”
“My face doesn’t glitch.”
“It literally just did.”
She sighs. “You’re stupid.”
“And yet,” he grins, “you keep answering.”
“Lockdown boredom. Don’t read into it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. He always does when she shuts him down like that, like he enjoys it more than if she didn’t.
Different countries, different time zones, but somehow, he’s the last person she talks to most nights.
“I wish you were here,” he says after a pause, voice softer now.
She stills slightly.
“…why?” she asks, not giving him the easy version of that moment.
He shrugs a little. “Just would be better.”
She studies him through the screen, then gives a small, half-smirk.
“Careful. That almost sounded like you were being nice.”
“I was.”
“Mm.”
She doesn’t fully accept it, but she doesn’t dismiss it either.
“Are you seriously still on that call?”
Yn’s eyes flick past him before he even reacts.
A girl steps into frame behind him, completely unbothered about being seen. Arms crossed, expression already annoyed.
“I’m literally waiting for you on your bed and you’re on FaceTime to another girl,” she says, loud enough to make it intentional.
Yn doesn’t flinch. She just looks back at him, slow and deliberate.
“…right.”
He can tell she’s processing it, and she’s not impressed.
“Don’t make it weird,” Lando says quickly. “It’s not,”
She lifts a hand slightly.
“Please don’t start explaining,” she cuts in, tone calm but edged. “I’d actually rather not hear the justification.”
The girl behind him scoffs quietly, shifting her weight, grabbing her bag from the edge of the bed. She calls him numerous names before slamming the hotel door behind her.
Lando runs a hand through his hair. “It was just a one-night thing, she knew that,”
Yn’s expression tightens, not emotionally, but full of distaste.
“Yeah,” she interrupts, dry. “That’s actually not helping your case.”
He frowns. “Why are you acting like I’ve done something,”
“Because it’s weird,” she says plainly.
“You’re sitting there telling me you wish I was there,” she continues, almost conversational, “while someone else is literally in your room. I don’t know what category you think that falls under, but it’s not a great one.”
“It’s not like that,”
She tilts her head slightly. “Then what is it like?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
She gives a small, humourless exhale through her nose, not a laugh, just acknowledgement.
“Look, do whatever you want,” she says, shrugging lightly. “Genuinely. It’s your life.”
Her gaze flicks briefly past him, toward the door the girl had just stormed out of.
“But don’t sit there and say things you clearly don’t mean. It’s a bit,” she pauses, choosing the word carefully, “lazy.”
That stings him.
“And for the record,” she adds, tone still even, “it’s not just disrespectful to me. It’s disrespectful to her too. I’m not interested in being part of whatever this is,” she finishes, gesturing vaguely at the screen. No emotion. Just a boundary.
There’s a silence. He doesn’t have anything to argue with, because she’s not accusing him of anything dramatic. She’s just calling it exactly what it is. She gives a small nod, like she’s wrapped it up in her own head.
“Anyway,” she says, tone lightening just slightly, “I’ll let you get back to your evening.”
“Yn,”
But she’s already reaching forward.
“Night, Lando.”
The call ends. No slammed exit. No visible frustration. She’s always so calm when calling him out. She always reads the situation exactly for what it is, he hates that she’s always right.
2021
2021 is easier.
No missed timing. No girlfriends appearing out of nowhere. No awkward lines being crossed mid-conversation. She shows up to races more often than she ever planned to. Not loudly. Not in a way that invites attention, but people notice. Because somehow, she’s almost always there.
In the background. In the paddock. Laughing with him. And rumours start, of course, when other women show up as he stumbles out of bars or wandered round cities with mystery models.
**
Monaco in the summer feels unreal.
The heat lingers even as the sun dips, the streets buzzing with life. He insists on taking her out, shopping first, then dinner somewhere overlooking the water.
“You don’t need to do that,” she says as he picks something up for her, he noticed how her eyes shot straight to the dress as they walked into the store.
“I know,” Lando Norris shrugs. “I want to.”
She gives him a look. “Dangerous mindset.”
“You’re still getting it.”
She doesn’t argue too hard, but at dinner, when the bill comes, she takes it. He notices her paying for their meals as he returns from the bathroom.
He blinks. “You’re joking.”
She doesn’t even look up as she taps her card. “Nope.”
“I was going to pay.”
“I know.” She smirks slightly. “And now you don’t have to. You’re welcome.”
He leans back in his chair, exhaling a short laugh, but there’s an edge to it.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” she glances at him, satisfied, “you keep inviting me places.”
He shakes his head, he’s smiling, but there is a frustration there. Frustration because she doesn’t quite let him take care of her. To him it feels like another obstacle she puts in the way of them.
By the time they get back to his place, the alcohol has settled in just enough to soften everything.
Not messy or out of control, but everything is gentler at the edges.
They end up on the sofa, some random film playing neither of them are really watching. She shifts closer at some point, barely noticeable. Her head ends up in his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He doesn’t question it. His fingers move through her hair absentmindedly, slow and careful. She hums quietly, eyes already half-closed.
“Don’t stop,” she murmurs.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Her breathing evens out, soft and steady as she drifts off completely.
He looks down at her for a moment, a content feeling settling in his chest. He carefully slides one arm under her, lifting her with ease.
She barely stirs, just a soft sound, her face turning slightly into him.
He carries her to his room, setting her down gently on the bed like she might break if he doesn’t. She sinks into the mattress, already gone again.
He sits beside her on the bed for a second, watching.
There’s something about this version of her, unguarded, asleep, not ready with a comeback or a defensive remark that feels rare.
On her side she’s claimed on his bed. In his space.
He exhales softly, then leans down, pressing a light kiss to her cheek. It’s quick. Careful. Almost nothing.
He starts to pull away, her hand catches his wrist. His breath stutters slightly as she tugs, stronger than he expects.
“Don’t,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep as she pulls him closer to her face.
The kiss isn’t hesitant. It’s soft at first but intentional. Like she’s been thinking about it longer than she’d ever admit.
There’s a split second where he knows, this changes things. He doesn’t stop. He kisses her back. Because it’s easier to blame it on the alcohol later. Easier to pretend this just happened, rather than admitting this is all he thinks about every time she looks at him.
Her hands press against his chest, grounding herself as she shifts, pulling her self up. He moves her gently to straddle his lap.
His lips move against hers slowly, like he’s giving her time to pull away if she wants to, but she doesn’t. If anything, she leans in more, and that’s what changes it. It becomes more certain. Less of a question, more of a quiet decision.
There’s a natural rhythm to it, unhurried, but no longer hesitant. He tilts his head slightly, his hand settling more firmly at her side. She responds without thinking, her grip on him tightening just a little, like she’s anchoring herself too.
It’s warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense, like all the tension and almost-moments they’ve had finally found somewhere to go. Like something that’s been waiting finally found its moment.
She pulls back first, her hand lifting to his face.
Her thumb brushes over his lip, studying him in a way that feels a little too aware for someone who was half asleep minutes ago.
“I just wish you’d get your shit together.” She says, whispered, exhaling softly. It’s not harsh, but painfully honest.
She shifts off him before he can respond, like the moment’s already over in her mind. Like she’s closed whatever door she just opened. She settles beside him, turning onto her side, pulling the covers slightly with her. Unaffected or at least pretending to be.
He stays where he is for a second, staring up at the ceiling. Heart still not quite steady. Because that didn’t feel like nothing.
Not to him.
They don’t talk about it. Not the next morning. Not the day after. Not ever.
It’s almost impressive, really. The way she carries on like nothing happened.
She wakes up in his bed, stretches like she’s done it a hundred times before, mutters something about needing coffee, and that’s it.
No awkwardness. No lingering looks. No mention of the fact that, only hours ago, she kissed him like it meant something.
Lando watches her carefully that morning.
Waiting. For a look, a comment. Anything
He doesn’t get it.
He tries, later.
Not directly, he’s not that brave about it. But he circles it.
“You don’t remember anything from last night?” he asks casually, like it’s a throwaway comment.
She doesn’t even look up from her phone.
“Bits,” she says. “Why? Did I embarrass myself?”
He lets out a short breath through his nose. “Depends what you’d consider embarrassing.”
“Mm,” she hums. “Then probably.”
And that’s it.
End of conversation. She’s shut a door before he even got close to opening it. He knows she remembers, her tone wasn’t confident like it usually is.
He tries again another time. A few days later. A lot more direct.
“You kissed me.” It just slips out.
She pauses mid-step, then turns to look at him, expression unreadable, but calm. Always calm.
“Did I?”
There’s the faintest hint of amusement in her voice. It throws him off more than if she’d denied it.
“Yeah,” he says, frowning slightly. “You did.”
She tilts her head, considering that for a second.
“Hm.”
That’s all she gives him. A non-answer. A deliberate one.
Then she shrugs lightly. “Well. Must’ve been the alcohol.”
And just like that, she dismissed it. But he can tell she’s lying, the way her gaze won’t meet his eyes. But he knows not to fight it, he knows he won’t win this. So that’s it, filed away as meaningless.
That’s what frustrates him. It’s the fact that she won’t let it mean anything at all. He can’t read her. Can’t push her. Every time he gets close, she’s already decided how far he’s allowed in and it’s never far enough.
He stops trying. Not because he understands. Not because he agrees. But because pushing her feels like trying to open a locked door that she’s perfectly happy keeping shut.
She carries on exactly the same. Still showing up. Still sitting next to him like nothing’s changed. Still laughing at him, teasing him, existing in that space that’s somehow more than friendship and less than anything real. Untouchable, even when she’s right there.
It bothers him more than if she’d just admitted it mattered.
2022
Nothing is the same after Monaco. They both feel it.
In the pauses that last a second too long. In the way he looks at her. In the way she doesn’t look at him.
But neither of them say it. They just carry on. Like if they don’t name it, it can’t touch them.
By the start of 2022, it’s still them. But it’s different. She doesn’t stay over anymore, that boundary had returned and she never over stepped it.
So here they stand now, 6 months of ignoring it, bickering about something that really doesn’t matter.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Lando says, laughing as he leans back against the counter.
She scoffs. “I’m unbelievable? You’re the one who just said that like it made sense.”
“It did make sense.”
“It didn’t.”
“It did.”
She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath as she moves past him.
“God, you’re impossible sometimes,” he says, still light, still in that teasing tone.
She smirks slightly. “And yet, here I am. Still your favourite person.”
“Debatable.”
“Oh please.”
“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t kiss you and then pretend it never happened.”
The silence was immediate. Surrounding them, thick and suffocating.
Her expression stills completely, like something just locked into place behind her eyes.
“…don’t,” she says, barely a whisper, but it comes out like a warning.
He frowns slightly, thrown by how quickly the mood shifted.
“What? I’m just saying,”
“No,” she cuts in, sharper now. “You’re not just saying anything.”
There’s no heat in her voice. It’s controlled and almost cold.
“It was a joke,” he insists, though it doesn’t sound like one anymore.
She lets out a small breath through her nose, shaking her head slightly.
“You don’t joke about things you clearly haven’t let go of.”
“I haven’t let it go because you never,” he stops himself, then pushes anyway, frustration slipping in, “you never even acknowledged it.”
Her eyes flick up to his, guarded in a way he hasn’t seen before.
“I didn’t realise it required a formal discussion.”
“It wasn’t nothing, yn.”
The thing they’ve both been avoiding, right between them now.
Her jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t get to decide what it was,” she says.
“I was there,” he shoots back. “I think I get a say.”
“And so was I,” she replies, her tone sharpening just a fraction. “And I chose to leave it where it belonged.”
“And where’s that?”
“A mistake.”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Right. Of course. Just blame the alcohol and move on like it didn’t mean anything.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“No,” she snaps, the first real spike of emotion breaking through, “what I said was I’m not doing this with you.”
He steps closer, frustration fully there now.
“Doing what?”
“This,” she gestures between them. “Whatever version of this you’ve built in your head.”
“I didn’t build anything,”
“You did,” she cuts in. “Because I didn’t give you one.”
That stops him.
“You kissed me,” he says again, quieter now, but heavier.
“And you kissed me back,” she returns immediately, she has lost all softness in her eyes, but she feels like she’s stood there like a deer in headlights. Being forced to acknowledge what she had buried down for good reason.
“You could’ve stopped it,” she adds.
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not the point.”
“It is the point,” she says. “You don’t get to act like that happened to you.”
There’s a pause as she breathes out, trying desperately to get this pressure to elevate from her chest.
“And you definitely don’t get to bring it up like it’s some unresolved thing I owe you an explanation for.”
He looks at her, but he feels like he’s looking through her. It’s not his best friend that he’s looking at, he’s staring straight at this wall that he’s sure now he’ll never be able to break through. But he still tries.
“Why are you so determined to make it mean nothing?” he asks.
“Because I refuse to become one of your girls. I refuse to lose you completely when you inevitably do what you do best in relationship. So yes it means nothing Lando” she says, she snapped and it was mean, but this is why she wanted to let it go.
Neither of them say anything after that.
There’s nothing left to say without breaking something for real.
Nothing is the same since that day. It shifts quietly, in ways that are harder to explain and even harder to fix.
They don’t stop talking. Messages still come through like they always have, memes, sarcastic comments, the occasional check-in that almost feels normal. On the surface, it could pass for the same dynamic they’ve always had. But it isn’t. There’s a delay now, a hesitation that never used to exist. Conversations trail off where they once would’ve stretched for hours. Neither of them says anything about it, but it’s there, sitting between every message.
They barely see each other. Schedules don’t line up, at least that’s the excuse. It sounds reasonable enough, easy to accept without questioning too much. But the truth is quieter than that. Neither of them is trying very hard to change it.
When Lando does see her, which is rare, usually during a mutual friends function , moments that feel more accidental than planned, it’s off. Not uncomfortable, he’s not sure it could ever be uncomfortable between them. But there are still flashes of what they used to be. The easy laughter, the familiar teasing. But it never quite settles. Something underneath it all feels out of place, like they’re both aware of a line they crossed and then tried to pretend didn’t exist. And failed.
He tells himself she ruined it. That day. The way she shut it down, reduced it to nothing, refused to even acknowledge that it might have meant more. Like it was a mistake. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.
But that thought never quite sticks. Because every time he tries to settle on it, something else pushes back.
The hotel rooms. The random girls. The way he never drew a clear line when it came to her. The way he flirted like she was different, like she meant something more, while acting in ways that proved the exact opposite.
He thinks back to that FaceTime call, the girl in the background, the look on yn’s face. Not hurt. Not jealous. Just unimpressed. There were countless moments just like. That’s the part that lingers, the part he can’t shake.
Because if he’s honest, that’s where it started to unravel. Not Monaco. Not the argument. Long before that.
He made it easy for her not to take him seriously. Gave her every reason to believe that whatever he said didn’t carry weight. So when something real did happen, something that could’ve shifted everything, of course she shut it down. Of course she didn’t trust it.
That doesn’t make it any less frustrating. If anything, it makes it worse.
Because now he’s stuck wanting something he never properly showed up for, and she’s not the kind of person who entertains half-effort or uncertainty. She never has been.
And every now and then, usually late at night when everything’s quieter than it should be, he’ll find himself staring at his phone, something reminding him of her. He’ll start typing a message, something real, something that actually says what he means.
Then stop.
Delete it.
Send something safe instead.
Because whatever they had, whatever it almost became, got lost somewhere between bad timing, worse habits, and neither of them being willing to say what they actually wanted.
And now it just exists like this. Not gone just not the same.
2023
By 2023, the change between them isn’t subtle anymore. What used to be constant becomes occasional, and what used to feel effortless now feels like something that has to be remembered, like replying is a task rather than instinct.
The messages are the last thing to go. Once a day turns into every few days, then once a week, and eventually just whenever. A few times a month, short and surface-level, stripped of anything that used to make them them. It’s not that either of them says goodbye. They just stop showing up in the same way, like a conversation that never properly ends, it just fades until there’s nothing left to say.
Yn notices, of course she does. She doesn’t ask him about it. That’s not her style. She doesn’t need confirmation handed to her when she can piece it together herself. At first, she tells herself it’s just life doing what it does. His schedule, the constant travel, the distance that’s always been there finally doing what it was probably always going to do. But the shift feels familiar in a way she can’t ignore. It’s not just distance. It’s intention changing. Conversations that used to come naturally now feel like afterthoughts, replies that come slower, flatter, like he’s somewhere else even when he’s texting her.
A few months later, photos start circulating from the paddock, nothing staged or announced, just moments caught as they happen. Lando walking in, someone beside him. Close enough to say everything without either of them having to. Comfortable, familiar, not hiding it. Yn comes across it the same way everyone else does, scrolling without really paying attention until something makes her stop. She looks at it for a second longer than necessary, just taking it in, letting the pieces fall exactly where she expected them to. So that’s what it was. The distance, the slow replies, the way everything between them had started to feel like it was being phased out instead of ended. It fits. It always does.
She scrolls past it without reacting, without giving it more weight than it deserves. It’s just confirmation, nothing more.
Later that day, her phone buzzes. His name, a message that reads like every other message he’s sent over the past few months, casual, easy, like nothing’s changed and nothing needs to be addressed. She reads it, her expression the same as it’s always been, controlled, unaffected. For a moment, there’s that familiar space where she could respond the way she always has, slip back into that version of them that still technically exists. But she doesn’t. She locks her phone and sets it aside, whatever they were, whatever they almost became, has finally settled, thanks to Lando moving on.
The British Grand Prix comes around like it always does, loud, packed, familiar in a way that feels almost personal even through a screen. Yn watches it from home, half-distracted at first, until she isn’t. It’s his home race. That alone is enough to hold her attention, but then he delivers, clean, sharp, controlled, and crosses the line in P2. A huge result. The kind that sticks.
She smiles without thinking. There’s no hesitation in that part. Pride comes easy when it comes to him, always has since they met.
Her phone is already in her hand before she really decides anything. Her thumb hovers for a second, then she starts typing.
P2 at home race! So proud always. Miss you.
She pauses.
Stares at the last two words.
Deletes them.
Types them again.
Deletes them again.
Her jaw tightens slightly, like she’s annoyed at herself for even debating it. It’s not dramatic, it’s not loaded, it’s just true. Whatever they are now, whatever they’ve become, she does miss him. That part never really went anywhere.
So she adds it again, sending before she can overthink it again.
And that’s it. No follow-up, no second message to soften it. Just something simple. Honest, for once, without filtering it down into something safer.
Hours pass.
At some point she sees it had been opened. No reply.
She doesn’t react straight away. Doesn’t sit there staring at the screen waiting for the typing bubble to appear. She just stops checking.
She already knows what the silence means and doesn’t feel the need to keep confirming it.
Later that evening, her phone buzzes again.
Unknown number.
She almost ignores it. But something makes her open it.
Hi, I know we haven’t met and you don’t know me. I’m Lando’s girlfriend and I would appreciate if you didn’t message him anymore. I know you guys used to message a lot and that’s changed since I’ve come along. But we’re in a good place now and he doesn’t need you anymore.
Yn reads it once. Then again. Slowly this time.
Her expression doesn’t change much, no immediate anger, no visible reaction. Just that same stillness she always falls into when something lands harder than expected.
He doesn’t need you anymore.
That part lingers.
Not because it hurts in the way most people would expect, but because of how neatly it tries to define something that was never that simple.
She exhales quietly through her nose, locking her phone for a second before unlocking it again. Not to reply. Not to argue.
Just to look at it one more time.
Because if there’s one thing she’s always been consistent about. It’s knowing when something isn’t worth fighting. This isn’t worth it.
The message sits there, heavier than it should be, glaring at her everytime she glimpses at it.
Not because of who it came from because of who didn’t send anything at all.
2024
2024 doesn’t start the way Lando Norris wanted it to. On track, things feel heavier than they should, like momentum keeps slipping just as he’s trying to build it. Off track is worse. The relationship that once looked like a clean break from everything messy turns out to be exactly that, messy in ways he hadn’t expected, draining in ways he hadn’t noticed until he was already deep in it. By the time it ends, there’s no drama left in him about it. Just relief. Space. The quiet realisation that he’d been carrying something he didn’t need to anymore.
So he resets.
Throws himself into the season properly this time, no distractions, no half-focus. Miami feels like a turning point before it even happens, like something’s about to give.
Yn, on the other hand, has nothing to do with any of that. She’s been focused, locked into her own world, building something steady and hers. The break comes as a reward more than anything else, a chance to breathe, to step away. Miami wasn’t even about the race. It just happened to be where her friends wanted to go.
Of course it was.
She tells herself it doesn’t matter. He’ll be there for the race, then gone again. Their worlds don’t overlap anymore, not really. Not in any way that forces interaction. Her luck has never worked like that though.
She sees the headline on her phone, surrounded by noise and laughter, her friends halfway through cocktails and stories that blur into one another.
His first win. Everything else around her dulls around the edges.
She stares at the screen a fraction too long, her chest tightening in a way she immediately resents. Pride hits first, sharp, immediate, familiar. Of course it does. It always has with him.
Her throat tightens, and she has to suck in a sharp breath through her teeth, forcing it down before it has the chance to become anything more obvious.
“You okay?” one of the girls asks, watching her a little too closely.
Yn smiles, easy, controlled. “Yeah. Course.”
And just like that, it’s gone from the surface. Whatever the feeling is, she doesn’t let it stay long enough to be examined.
Lando, meanwhile, has never felt anything like it.
The win, the noise, the release of it, it hits all at once. Years of almosts, of getting close and missing it, finally breaking into something real. He can’t stop smiling through the interviews, through the chaos of it all. It feels surreal, like he hasn’t quite caught up to what’s just happened.
When he’s told the flight’s been pushed back, that he’s free to stay and celebrate, it feels like everything’s just fallen into place.
And he takes it.
The bar is loud, packed with people riding the same high he is. Teammates, friends, familiar faces, it blurs together in a haze of music and alcohol and adrenaline that hasn’t quite worn off yet.
He’s standing on a chair at one point, laughing, pulled into something he’s not even fully aware of anymore.
He sees her. Everything slows in a way that doesn’t make sense. Like the noise dulls, the movement around him fades just slightly, enough for her to stand out completely.
Still self-assured, still carrying herself like she doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, but there’s something sharper now. Like she’s even more certain of herself than before.
He just moves uncontrollably, like he’s being pulled toward her.
He drops down from where he’s standing, barely registering the people around him as he pushes through the crowd. He doesn’t say anything to anyone, doesn’t explain, he just goes.
Because somehow, after nearly two years of not seeing her and almost one year of not speaking.
Nothing about that pull has changed.
“You’re here.”
She stills for half a second. She’d recognise that voice anywhere.
Yn turns slowly, and there he is, grinning, a little uneven from the alcohol, eyes brighter than she remembers.
She smiles, small but real.
“Well done today.” Simple and polite.
She turns back to the bar before it can become anything else, lifting her hand slightly to catch the bartender’s attention.
“Hey,”
His hand closes gently around her bicep, stopping her. Not tight. Not forceful.
Her eyes drop to where he’s touching her, and it’s immediate, the way it registers, the way it shouldn’t matter and still does. Heat under her skin, that familiar electric feeling sparking where it shouldn’t anymore.
She looks back up at him.
“Is that it?” he says, something almost disbelieving in his tone. “We haven’t seen each other in years and all you can say is well done?”
Her expression barely shifts.
“What do you want me to say?” she replies evenly. “I miss you? Because I said that, Lando. And you ignored me, so.”
He frowns slightly, genuine confusion flickering across his face. “What?”
She almost laughs. Such a good actor, she thinks.
The bartender appears then, cutting through the moment before it can stretch any further. Yn orders quickly, her drink, a few more for the girls, keeping her focus forward, controlled.
“I’ll get it,” Lando cuts in.
“Don’t,” she says immediately, at the same time the bartender looks between them.
“Yes, do,” he insists, already reaching for his card. “Put it on my tab.”
“No!”
“I’ll give you a $300 tip if you charge it to my table,” he adds, glancing at the bartender. “Don’t let her pay for anything tonight.”
That ends it.
The bartender lights up, and yn knows she’s lost before she can even argue further. She exhales quietly, shaking her head.
“Thank you,” she says, glancing at him, tone measured. “But you really should go celebrate.”
“I am celebrating,” he replies, not taking his eyes off her. “Can we talk?”
Her answer doesn’t take a second.
“No. Not now,” she adds, softening it just enough to not make it a scene. “It’s an important day. It’s not about me.”
There’s a pause.
“You should be proud.” And she means that part.
She smiles, small, genuine for a second, before stepping back, picking up the drinks as they’re set down.
And then she walks away. Fast enough that he doesn’t get the chance to stop her again.
She doesn’t hear from him after Miami. Not that she expects to. He’s in the middle of the best season of his career, fighting for something bigger than anything they ever were, and she’s learned by now not to insert herself into spaces where she doesn’t belong anymore. So she lets it be what it is, another almost, another unfinished chapter that never quite found its way back.
By December, it’s settled into something distant and quiet. Locked away and attempting to avoid thinking about everything.
So when there’s a knock at her door one evening, it doesn’t register as anything important at first. She isn’t expecting anyone. She almost ignores it. But something, instinct perhaps, she doesn’t know, makes her get up and answer it.
Standing there, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, is Lando Norris. For a second, neither of them says anything.
She’s not shocked in a dramatic way, there’s no gasp, no immediate reaction. Just a pause, her brain catching up to what she’s seeing, trying to place him in a context that makes sense.
It doesn’t.
“Hi,” he says, like this isn’t completely out of place.
She blinks once, then steps back automatically. “Come in.”
He steps inside, looking around briefly, like he’s grounding himself, like he’s not entirely sure how he got here either.
She closes the door, turning back to him, arms folding loosely across her chest. There’s a look on his face she can’t quite read—something tense, something unsettled.
“Why are you here, Lando?” No softness. No hostility either. Just direct.
He lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Why did you think I’d know you missed me?”
The question lands strangely.
Her brows pull together slightly. “What?”
“I’ve thought about it, thought about what you said in Miami a lot.” he continues, words coming out quicker now, like he’s been holding them in too long. “We haven’t spoken. You clearly resent me for something, and I don’t even know what it is. So, care to fill me in?”
She stares at him for a second, genuinely thrown.
“…Silverstone,” she says slowly.
He frowns. “What about it?”
“I messaged you,” she replies. “After the race.”
“No, you didn’t.”
She almost laughs at that, but there’s no humour in it. “Yes, I did.”
He shakes his head immediately, already pulling his phone out. “Yn, I didn’t get anything from you.”
She watches him unlock it, scroll, turn the screen toward her. Nothing.
No message.
No trace.
Her frown deepens, confusion settling in properly now. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
She grabs her own phone, unlocking it quickly, pulling up the conversation.
There it is. Sent. Delivered. Read. No reply.
She turns the screen to him.
His expression shifts. Because now it doesn’t make sense on his end either.
“I never saw that,” he says, quieter this time.
She exhales slowly, lowering her phone. And then, after a brief pause, she decides to say it.
“Your girlfriend messaged me.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
“After that,” she continues, steady, controlled like always. “Got my number from your phone, I assume. Told me not to message you anymore. Said you didn’t need me. I thought maybe you’d asked her to tell me to leave you alone. Couldn’t face doing it yourself.”
There’s a beat of silence. There’s a shift of irritation in his eyes. Not towards her.
“I never,” he stops himself, jaw tightening, frustration flickering across his face. “I didn’t know about that. I didn’t see your message, and I definitely didn’t know she sent anything to you.”
She watches him carefully, measuring it.
“Okay,” she says simply.
No accusation. Just acknowledgement. It’s enough to make something in him snap.
“Okay?” he repeats, incredulous. “Yn, that’s not just ‘okay.’”
“What do you want me to say?” she asks, her tone still even. “It happened. It explains things. We moved on.”
“I didn’t move on,” he says immediately.
She doesn’t react outwardly, but there’s a shift, small, internal.
He steps closer, not close enough to crowd her, but enough to close the distance that’s been there for far too long.
“Don’t do that,” he adds, quieter now. “Don’t just shut it down like you always do.”
“I’m not shutting anything down,” she replies. “I’m being realistic.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re avoiding it. Again.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “And you’re rewriting it. Again.”
“I’m trying to fix it,” he corrects.
There’s a pause. Then, more honest than he’s been before,
“I need you in my life.”
That’s new. That’s not something he’s ever said like that. Not dressed up in humour. Not softened into something easier to ignore.
She studies him for a moment, searching for the angle, the deflection, the part where he pulls it back. It doesn’t come.
“However you want to be there,” he continues, voice quieter now but steady. “I don’t care what it looks like. I just,” he exhales, frustrated at himself for not phrasing it better, “I don’t want to lose you over something that wasn’t even real.”
Her jaw tightens slightly.
“Everything about it was real,” she says. “The message. The silence. The assumption that you didn’t care enough to respond.”
“I didn’t see it,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “If I had,”
“But you didn’t,” she cuts in, not harsh, just factual. “And I made a decision based on what I had.”
He looks at her like he’s trying to figure out where the line is now, where he’s allowed to stand.
“Please don’t shut me out,” he says finally. “Not this time.”
They agree, quietly, almost cautiously, that friends is safest. It’s the only version of them that hasn’t completely broken under the weight of timing and miscommunication and everything they never quite said properly. So they rebuild something softer, more careful. Messages come back, not constant like before, but intentional. There’s an awareness now, a line they both pretend they won’t cross again.
And for a while, it works.
Until New Year’s.
The room is loud, full of people who are halfway between drunk and sentimental, music thumping just enough to blur the edges of everything. Yn stands with a drink in her hand, her friends scattered around her, but her attention drifts, inevitably, predictably, back to him.
Lando is already looking at her.
He’s smiling in that way he does when he’s not really thinking about it, when it’s just there. Like no time has passed at all.
It catches her off guard for a second. Not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. That’s the problem.
“Ten… nine… eight…”
The countdown starts, voices rising, people turning to each other, grabbing onto whoever’s closest. The energy shifts, anticipation building into something almost tangible. But neither of them looks away.
“Three… two… one.”
“Happy New Year!”
The room erupts.
Yn leans in first, quick and instinctive, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. It’s harmless. Friendly. Exactly what they agreed this would be.
But his reaction isn’t.
His arms come around her, pulling her in closer than necessary, holding her there for just a second too long.
She starts to pull back.
Slowly.
They’re close, closer than they’ve been in a long time. Her hands still resting lightly against him, his grip not quite gone, his face just there.
His breath brushes against her skin. Her eyes flick to his.
She doesn’t overthink it. Doesn’t give herself the chance.
She leans in and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s gentle at first, almost like she’s testing if this is really happening.
He freezes for half a second, caught off guard, just enough for her to notice.
Then his mind catches up. And he kisses her back.
The softness doesn’t disappear, but it deepens. There’s a kind of familiarity to it that shouldn’t still exist, paired with everything they’ve both been holding onto this without realising how much.
It’s not rushed.
There’s want in it. Longing. The kind that doesn’t come from the moment, but from everything that came before it.
Everything they didn’t do. Everything they didn’t say.
Her hand lifts slightly, brushing along his jaw as she leans in just a fraction more, and he responds instantly, like it’s instinct, like he’s not thinking about consequences at all.
She pulls back first, breath just slightly uneven, her forehead almost brushing his for a second before she straightens. Her eyes search his, a small smile forming, soft, but certain.
“Want to get out of here?” she asks.
2025
Morning comes quietly.
Yn wakes slowly, the kind of soft awareness that settles before her eyes even open. For a second, she doesn’t move, just registers warmth, the weight of something steady draped across her waist, the faint familiarity of a space she hasn’t been in for a long time.
Then it hits her. She’s in his bed. Again.
Her eyes open, and nothing about it feels foreign. That’s the dangerous part. The room looks the same, feels the same, like no time has passed, like the distance between then and now doesn’t exist in here. It settles under her skin too easily, like muscle memory.
Lando is still asleep beside her on his stomach, face turned into the pillow, arm heavy across her waist like it belongs there.
For a moment, she sits in it.
Then she exhales quietly and shifts, careful, controlled, lifting his arm just enough to slip out from underneath it without waking him. She moves slowly, deliberately, until she’s sitting up, back resting against the headboard, the duvet pooled around her waist.
Her mind catches up quickly.
Last night replays in fragments, his laugh, the way he looked at her, the kiss, the decision that followed. None of it blurred, none of it softened by alcohol the way she might’ve hoped.
She remembers everything. And that’s exactly the problem.
Her jaw tightens slightly as the thoughts start to spiral, not out of panic, but calculation. What this means now.
Because it does mean something. It always does with them.
She glances over at him again, still asleep, still unaware of the storm quietly building in her head.
And just like that, she decides. She’s leaving. Before it gets complicated. Before it turns into something she can’t control.
She moves carefully, slipping out of bed, she’s wearing hood hoodie and a pair of his boxers she’d claimed at some point in the night. It’s familiar, annoyingly comfortable.
She spots her dress on the floor, bending to pick it up, already mentally planning how quickly she can get out without…
“Don’t just run out.”
Her head snaps around.
He hasn’t moved much, still on his stomach, voice rough with sleep, but his eyes are open, watching her.
Of course he’s caught her.
She straightens slightly, holding her dress a little tighter than necessary.
“I’m not doing anything,” she says, too quick to be convincing.
He huffs softly, pushing himself up onto his elbows, hair a mess, expression still heavy with sleep but sharp enough to read straight through her.
“Looks like you’re planning your great escape.”
She doesn’t respond to that. Doesn’t deny it either.
He sits up fully now, running a hand through his hair before standing, closing the distance between them without hesitation. There’s no tension in the way he moves, no uncertainty, just quiet determination.
“Don’t do this again, Yn,” he says, softer now, but firmer.
She swallows slightly, holding her ground.
“I’m not,”
“Running?” he cuts in gently. “You are.”
He stops in front of her, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him again, close enough that it’s already harder to stay detached.
“Talk to me,” he adds, reaching up to brush a piece of her hair back behind her ear.
The gesture is simple.
She hesitates.
“I remember everything,” she says finally.
Her voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it, her throat feels tighter, she feels more exposed than she’s used to as she lets her emotional side shine through.
He studies her for a second, then nods slightly.
“From last night?” he asks. “Okay. Then tell me, where do you want to go from here?”
The question is simple. The answer isn’t.
She exhales slowly, gaze dropping for just a second before lifting back to his. There’s no deflection this time. No sarcasm to hide behind.
“I’m scared,” she admits.
The words feel unfamiliar in her mouth.
“I’m scared because I want to do what I did last time.”
His expression softens slightly, confusion flickering in. “Why?”
She lets out a quiet breath, shaking her head once, like she’s frustrated with herself for even having to say it.
“Because if we do this,” she says, holding his gaze now, steady despite everything, “then I can lose you.”
For a moment, neither of them moves.
It’s subtle, but everything has shifted and neither of them is quite sure how to handle it without breaking it.
Yn is still holding his gaze, steady in a way that looks like confidence but feels like effort. This, standing here, saying things out loud instead of deflecting, is unfamiliar territory. It doesn’t come naturally, and it shows in the way her fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of her dress, in the way her shoulders hold just a fraction too much tension.
But she doesn’t back down from it. That’s the difference now.
Lando notices all of it. The control, the restraint, the fact that she’s still here when every instinct she has is probably telling her to leave.
So he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overwhelm it. He just stays where he is, close enough to matter, not close enough to push.
“You’re not going to lose me,” he says quietly.
She lets out a small breath, almost like a disbelieving exhale. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he replies, and there’s no hesitation in it this time. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes flicker slightly at that, not softening, not fully, but something considers it.
“That’s easy to say now,” she counters, but there’s less bite to it than before. “It’s always easy at the start.”
“This isn’t the start,” he says.
He’s right.
This isn’t new. It’s not fresh or untouched or built on nothing. It’s years of history, of mistakes, of almosts and missed timing and things that should’ve been handled better.
And somehow, they’re still here.
“You don’t get to ignore everything just because we’re standing in a different place now,” she says, but her voice is quieter.
“I’m not ignoring it,” he answers. “I’m owning it.” He pauses, stepping forward to hold her hands, hoping it’ll ground her not spook her.
“I messed it up before. Not just a bit, properly. I didn’t take you seriously when I should have. I didn’t show up the way I needed to. And yeah I get why you don’t trust that this is different.”
She watches him closely, like she’s looking for the part where he deflects, where he turns it into something lighter. He doesn’t.
“But it is different,” he continues. “Because I am and because I actually know what I’d be losing now.”
She looks away for a second, jaw tightening, trying to hide the emotion creeping up. This is the part she hates. The part where things start to feel real enough to matter.
“You’re asking me to take a risk,” she says finally.
“I know.”
“A big one.”
“I know.”
She lets out a quiet breath, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t do that, Lando. Not without knowing how it ends.”
He almost smiles at that, not because it’s funny, but because it’s so her.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’ve noticed.”
Her eyes flick back to his, a warning in them, but it fades quickly.
“Then you also know I don’t do things halfway,” she adds. “If I stay, I’m in it.”
“I wouldn’t want anything less,” he replies.
There’s no hesitation in him. No room left for doubt in the way he says it.
“And if it goes wrong?” she presses.
“Then we deal with it,” he says simply. “Together. Not by pretending it didn’t happen. Not by walking away before it gets the chance to be something.”
That’s the part she struggles with. Not the idea of being with him. The idea of not having control over how it ends. He can see it in her face, the calculation, the instinct to protect herself kicking in again.
So he softens, just slightly.
“I’m not asking you to be fearless,” he says. “I’m just asking you to not run before we’ve tried. Properly tried.”
Her grip on his hands tightens slightly. Her shoulders drop just a fraction.
“Okay.” It’s quiet.
He doesn’t react immediately. Doesn’t jump on it, doesn’t push further. He just lets it sit, lets her have that moment without turning it into something overwhelming.
“Okay?” he repeats, softer.
She nods once. “Okay.”
There’s still caution in her, still that underlying instinct to keep one step back, but she’s choosing not to act on it. And for her, that’s everything.
He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, something lighter settling in his chest.
“Alright,” he says, a small smile breaking through.
She eyes him for a second, then tilts her head slightly. “Don’t make it a big thing.”
“I’m not,”
“You are,” she cuts in, but there’s the faintest hint of something warmer in her tone now. “I can see it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Can you blame me?”
“Yes,” she says immediately. “Be normal.”
“I am being normal.”
That pulls a small smile out of her, despite herself.
He glances down at what she’s holding, then back at her. “You can stay, you know.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Or I can leave and come back later like a functioning adult.”
“Or,” he counters, stepping just a little closer again, “you don’t overcomplicate it.” Exhaling softly, shaking her head like she’s giving in to something she’s been fighting for a long time.
“You’re very persistent,” she says.
“Only when it matters.”
“I’m not promising anything,” she says, meeting his eyes again.
“You don’t have to.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’m still figuring it out.”
He nods. “We both are.”
What they build after that isn’t instant, and it isn’t easy. It’s deliberate. They don’t fall straight into something romantic and call it fixed. If anything, they move slower than they ever have before, more aware, more careful, like they both understand now that whatever this is, it doesn’t survive on instinct alone.
It takes work. Real work.
For yn, that means learning how to stay, emotionally. Letting things sit instead of shutting them down. Saying what she’s thinking before it turns into distance. It doesn’t come naturally to her, and she doesn’t pretend that it does. There are moments where she almost defaults back into old habits, pulling away, brushing things off, choosing silence over honesty, but now he notices. And more importantly, she lets him notice. That’s the difference.
For Lando, it’s about consistency. About proving, over and over again, that he means what he says. No mixed signals, no half-effort, no leaving things open to interpretation. He shows up when he says he will. He communicates, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s uncomfortable. And slowly, without forcing it, he gives her something she’s never really had with him before, stability.
Trust doesn’t come back all at once. It builds quietly, in small moments that don’t look like much from the outside. A call he doesn’t miss. A message he doesn’t leave hanging. The absence of other distractions, the things that used to make her question where she stood. And she notices all of it, even if she doesn’t always say it out loud.
There are still arguments. Still moments where they clash, because they’re still them, still sharp around the edges, still used to challenging each other. But now it doesn’t feel like something that could break them. It feels like something they move through. Together. And that’s new.
Somewhere along the way, it stops feeling fragile. Stops feeling like something that could disappear if they don’t handle it perfectly. It just becomes part of their lives, natural, steady.
She starts showing up again. Not in the background like before, not something people have to speculate about, but beside him. Comfortable there. Certain. He doesn’t hide it either. There’s no confusion anymore about what she is to him.
And the strangest part? It’s easy. Not because nothing ever goes wrong, but because they finally stopped making it harder than it needed to be.
One evening, months into it, they’re back in Monaco. Same city, same warmth in the air, the harbour lit up below them. Yn leans against the balcony railing, drink in hand, watching the reflections ripple across the water. He’s behind her, arms loosely wrapped around her waist, chin resting against her shoulder like he belongs there, because now, he does.
“You’re very quiet,” he murmurs.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
She smiles slightly, tilting her head back just enough to glance at him.
Then, without overthinking it, without dressing it up into something bigger than it needs to be;
“I love you.”
It lands simply, but it carries weight because of who it’s coming from.
He stills for a fraction of a second, like it catches him even though maybe it shouldn’t. Then his arms tighten slightly around her, something warmer settling into his chest.
“Yeah?” he says, softer now.
She turns properly this time, leaning back against the railing, facing him fully. “Yeah.”
He smiles, and it’s not his usual teasing one.
“I love you too.”
There’s a quiet beat where they just look at each other, the kind that used to feel uncertain but now just feels right.
Then he huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head slightly like he’s been holding something in.
“I always knew we’d end up here.”
She narrows her eyes immediately. “Oh, shut up.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, a grin tugging at his lips now. “I knew we’d work.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I did,” he says, stepping a little closer. “I always thought we were meant to be something. I just didn’t know how we’d get here.”
She folds her arms, trying to look unimpressed, but there’s a softness there she can’t quite hide. “That sounds like something you’ve come up with after the fact.”
“No,” he shakes his head, quieter now but still sure. “Even when we were messing it up, even when we weren’t speaking, I knew it would work out somehow.”
That slows her down. Because he’s not joking now. She studies him for a second, like she’s deciding whether to call him out or let it sit. Then she exhales softly, a small shake of her head.
“You’re annoying,” she says, but there’s no bite to it.
He grins. “Yeah, but I’m right.”
She rolls her eyes, but she steps into him anyway, her hands settling lightly against his chest.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Too late,” he murmurs.
And this time, when he leans in and kisses her, there’s nothing uncertain about it. They were meant to be. Once they got their shit together.
Oscar Piastri (polite cat bf) x singer!reader (black cat gf)
Summary: the rumours sometimes spiral when your relationship is private not secret (SMAU!)
warnings: images of smoking/mentions of smoking
fc: pinterest girlies (all creds to image owners)
Written to Horseshoe - Tate McRae
a part two to Sports car
F1 Masterlist
yourusername posted
liked by oscarpiastri, hattie piastri, rebeccadonaldson & 600,579 others
yourusername: summer break with my baby
view comments
user1: oscar sighting!
user2: I love how her aesthetic is turning orange
user 3: queen of the papaya army
user4: so pretty! and he’s there.
yourbsf: take me with you next time
yourusername: I’d love to make oscar our third wheel
hattie piastri: I miss you 🫶🏻
yourusername: you more!
user5: lmao she misses yn and not oscar
user6: piastri is now 3rd place in his own fanbase
oscarpiastri posted:
liked by your username, yourbsf, mclarenf1 & 901,949 others
oscarpiastri: good race & my good luck charm
view comments
user1: with a gap like that, have her at every race
mclarenf1: race of dreams
opeightyone: champion worthy drive
user2: anyone getting sick of constantly seeing celebrities in f1 spaces
user3: she’s literally he’s girlfriend?
user4: yeah but she still has nothing to do with f1
user5: she’s in every post it’s kinda annoying to f1 fans
user6: he’s in everyone of hers, you don’t see us complaining
yourusername: more proud everyday
*liked by author*
yourusername: ps ur so hot
user7: I love watching her thirst over him
user8: favourite driver & favourite wag
user9: I get bad vibes from her
yourusername posted
liked by yourbsf, rebeccadonaldson, alexandramalenaleclerc & 709,987 others
yourusername: cutting out things that are bad for me
view comments
yourbsf: you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for!
*liked by author*
yourusername: couldn’t have done it with you
user1: smoking is bad for you
yourusername: you’d smoke too after the month I’ve had
user2: hope you’re okay
user3: guys no oscar in likes or comments im scared
user4: he’s not been seen in them all month
user 5: mum, where’s dad?
user6: am i about to become a child of divorce?
oscarpiastri posted:
liked by hattie piastri , lando , carlossainz & 998,090 others
oscarpiastri: no luck this weekend. we’ll come back stronger next race.
view comments
user1: rigged
user2: insane penalty decision
user3: no yn again.
user4: no luck because you’ve forgotten your good luck charm
user5: if they’ve broken up he probably doesn’t want you filling his comments about her
ynupdates posted:
ynupdates: yn spotted with friends this evening, reports says she was teary eyes and drinking
view comments
user1: that girl is sad
user2: no don’t say this is breakup confirmation
user3: at least we might get some insane sad songs
yourusernameposted:
liked by hattiepiastri, nicolepiastri, raye & 1.1M others
yourusername: As many of you know I’ve been dropping single after single for years, promising an album ‘soon’. This was a promise also made for me. My label has been a constant at making sure this does not happen. But they are no longer my label. Soon no longer is just a word, no longer a broken promise.
My debut independent album is out August 18th. My lead single ‘Horseshoe’ is now yours.
view comments
yourbsf: so proud of you
hattiepiastri: you’ve done it again. song of the year album of the year.
raye: so brave. you’re talent will always shine through.
user1: omg!
user2: give me the labels names and addresses
user3: this is war
user4: the piastri’s in the comments and likes
user5: still no oscar…
yourusername posted:
liked by yourbsf, oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri & 875,765 others
yourusername: still his lucky charm btw. We’ve just been a little busy. The most beautiful muse.
View comments
oscarpiastri: brave & beautiful.
yourusername: i love you
user1: mom and dad still together! new song and new album. god is real!
Oscar Piastri (polite cat bf) x singer!reader (black cat gf)
Summary: black cat singer gf & polite cat driver bf soft launch their relationship (SMAU!)
warnings: images of smoking/mentions of smoking
fc: pinterest girlies (all creds to image owners)
Written to Sports car - Tate McRae
F1 Masterlist
part two
yourusername posted:
liked by yourbsf, oscarpiastri, alexandramalenaleclerc & 476,000 others
yourusername: from studio to studio
view comments
yourbsf: get a girl who can do both
user1: mother is so back!
user2: debut album on the way?????
oscarpiastri: i know a different kind of motorsport you’d prefer
user3: lmao?! random f1 driver in comments?!!!!!
user4: oscar 😭😭
user5: who is this? yn is my wife!
*comment has been deleted*
user6: @/oscarpiastri we saw that.
user7: such a random pair?
user8: hey’ve been in each others likes for ages
user9: excited for an album omg
alexandramalenaleclerc: the prettiest
*liked by author*
user10: wag spotted in comments
yourusername posted:
liked by yourbsf, oscarpiastri, rebeccadonaldson & 372,928 others
yourusername: working hard, playing harder
yourbsf: girl.
yourusername: yeeessss 😇
user1: he’s in the likes again
user 2: and? why is everyone freaking out. they’ve been pining for each other in the likes for ages
user3: get back in that studio
rebeccadonaldson: I miss you x
*liked by author*
user4: new wag unlocked in comments
yourusername posted a story:
caption: he hates the habit, loves me more
soft launch!!!
omg
new album muse
who is this man mother?
oscarpiastri posted:
liked by mclarenf1, pierregasly, yourusername & 804,000 others
oscarpiastri: nice🏆
opeightyone: 🔥🔥
yourusername: you’re hot. you single?
user1: LMAO
user2: help she’s unhinged.
user3: it must’ve been him in her story yesterday!
user4: goat.
user5: everyone talking about that singer. no one cares about another random wag
user6: another wag? she’s a literally pop princess
user7: he’s lucky to even have her in his likes
mclarenf1: legendary drive
yourusername posted:
liked by oscarpiastri, rebeccadonaldson, magui_corceiro & 492,900 others
yourusername: good music , good people, good life 🧡
user1: drop the album. now.
yourusername: soon. be nice.
user1: stfu i love you
mclarenf1: 🧡
user2: not mclaren basically confirming it
user3: we’ve been knew
rebeccadonaldson: I’m obsessed with you.
yourbsf: I’m so excited for this era
yourbsf: my beautiful lover girl
ynfanupdates posted:
ynfanupdates: rumoured relationship between yn and f1 driver oscar piastri confirmed? they were seen having dinner with teammate lando norris and his girlfriend. they were later seen, just the two of them very close at a concert.
user1: this is why the album is taking so long
user2: our girl deserves some happiness
user3: does anyone else wonder what they actually talk about?
user4: i agree they just have such different vibes
user5: as an f1 and yn fan I’m so here for this
user6: surely they have to hard launch now I want to see yn in the paddock. her fits would eat.
yourusername posted:
liked by mclarenf1, oscarpiastri, lando & 789,900 others
yourusername: musician, model, wag.
user1: THIS IS A HARD LAUNCH
user2: NOBODY PANIC
user3: everyone stop shouting we might scare the polite cat away
oscarpiastri: wag suits you
yourusername: my man my man my man
user4: oh she’s obsessed with him
user5: im obsessed with them
magui_corceiro : finally
yourbsf: worlds hottest couple
user6: literally polite cat and black cat
*liked by author*
user6: omg she liked she deffo agrees
user7: he’s never escaping the polite cat allegations
mclarenf1: always invited 🧡
Yourusername posted:
liked by oscarpiastri, magui_corceiro, lando & 799,000 others
yourusername: sports car out now! music video out now!
oscarpiastri: oh golly gee
user1: this is not very polite cat of you
yourusername: you know what this is
oscarpiastri: stop
user2: the song is out now, no point being shy!
hattiepiastri: you’re so hot. I’ll just pretend it’s not about my brother
*liked by author*
yourusername: leaving him for you as we speak
user3: the better piastri
user4: oh so they’re freaky freaky
user5: yn duh obviously but Oscar is a dark horse
user6: your album is going to kill me
user7: this is so hot I can’t
user8: mum & dad
lando: this is about osc?
NOTE: I actually love the idea of this dynamic. Should I do like a mini series of the black cat x polite cat love story?
Summary: They once felt effortless, like soulmates woven seamlessly into each other’s lives. Love turned silently into missed moments and empty promises, until all that was left felt heavy and out of sync.
Written to Staying - Lizzy McAlpine
Note: Clearing out my drafts, this is short (1k words) might turn this into a series idk , but I love some angst n failing relationships lol!
F1 Masterlist
2:17am
The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows stretch lazily across the walls, and the world outside feels distant, quiet in a way that should be comforting, but isn’t. The silence presses in instead, heavy and suffocating, because her mind refuses to rest.
Lando is asleep beside her, lying on his stomach, face turned into the pillow. One arm is tucked beneath it, the other stretched loosely across the mattress toward her side, like even in sleep he assumes she’ll still be there. His breathing is slow, steady, soft snores slipping past parted lips.
He looks peaceful.
It makes her chest ache. Because everything feels wrong.
She sits upright against the headboard, knees pulled close to her chest, her journal balanced against them. The pen in her hand taps lightly against the page, restless, rhythmic, mirroring the way her thoughts won’t settle. Ink stains the side of her hand, evidence of how long she’s been sitting here, writing, rewriting, trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite have words yet.
Her gaze drifts back to him. The boy who once felt like home.
The boy she built almost an entire album around, every lyric wrapped in devotion, every melody softened by the way she loved him.
Now, as she watches him sleep, something unfamiliar curls in her chest.
Not just sadness.
Resentment.
Her pen presses to the page again.
How can you look so peaceful
When you know I’m gonna leave?
She stills the moment the words are written, her breath catching slightly. Her eyes linger on the ink as if it might rearrange itself into something less honest if she stares long enough.
But it doesn’t.
Because the truth is, it feels inevitable. That’s the part she can’t ignore anymore.
It’s not a fleeting thought. Not a passing feeling born from exhaustion or frustration.
She knows this is nearly the ending.
She can feel it in the way their conversations have thinned out, reduced to small talk and tired exchanges. In the way his touch has become absent-minded, like habit rather than intention. In the way she notices his absence even when he’s right beside her.
And yet, he sleeps like nothing is wrong.
Like she isn’t quietly breaking beside him.
Earlier that night replays in her mind whether she wants it to or not.
The dinner she made, hours carved out of an already exhausting day in the studio. She remembers standing in the kitchen, still in his oversized hoodie, hair pulled back messily, tasting the food and hoping it was good enough.
Hoping she was still enough.
The sound of the front door. The brief glimpse of a flicker of excitement in her chest.
“Baby, I’m so tired,” he had said, barely sparing her a glance as he walked straight past the table, past her, down the hall.
No kiss.
No acknowledgment.
Just the quiet sound of the bedroom door closing behind him.
She had stood there for a moment too long after that. Staring at the untouched plates. Letting the silence settle in around her.
Her grip tightens slightly on the pen now, her jaw tensing.
Because it wasn’t just tonight.
But tonight was the moment she stopped pretending it didn’t matter.
Her eyes flick back to him again, studying his face in the low light. She knows every detail of it, the curve of his lips, the way his lashes rest against his skin, the familiar softness that once made her feel safe.
Now she searches it for a sign. Of guilt, of awareness, of something. Anything that tells her he knows she’s slipping away.
But there’s nothing. Just peace.
“Did he just get too comfortable?” the thought lingers, unspoken but heavy.
Did she make it too easy? She was always the one who showed up.
No matter how packed her schedule was, no matter how exhausted she felt, she made space for him. Rearranged everything so he would never feel like he came second.
She told herself that was love. Choosing someone again and again. But now it feels one-sided.
Now it feels like she’s the only one still choosing.
Her pen moves again, faster this time, the words spilling out before she can stop them.
What happens when you love me dry?
I give myself to help you get by
A tear slips down her cheek, landing softly on the page and smudging the ink. She exhales shakily, brushing it away with her sleeve, but it doesn’t stop the tightness in her chest.
Beside her, he shifts slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. His hand brushes faintly against her leg before settling again.
A part of her wants to lean into him. Wants to close the distance, to pretend none of this is real. To hold onto what they used to be.
But the louder part of her, the honest part, knows better. She can’t keep loving someone who doesn’t notice she’s hurting.
She closes her journal slowly, pressing her hand against the cover as if she can quiet everything inside it, everything inside herself.
Her gaze lingers on him one last time, memorizing the way he looks, soft, peaceful, unaware.
She’s going to leave him. Because love isn’t supposed to feel like this. Their love never used to feel like this. But now, for the first time since she fell for him, she wasn’t scared of losing him, she was scared of staying and losing herself.
Summary : Oscar has always seen her as something delicate, pure, gentle, almost untouchable, and because of that, he’s spent years holding himself back. While he hides behind caution and fear of losing her, she decides to take control, slowly pushing his boundaries and forcing him to confront the truth, until he has no choice but to either let her go or finally give in.
(draft clear out)
Written to Force of Nature - Lizzy McAlpine
F1 Masterlist
Oscar had always treated her like something precious, something delicate, almost breakable. When they first met at school, she almost was. At that age, she barely spoke, shrinking into herself whenever attention found her. Oscar, on the other hand, had a quiet confidence about him. Not loud or overbearing, but steady. He had practically forced his way into her life, deciding they would be friends before she even had the courage to agree. Around others, she stayed small, silent unless spoken to, often recoiling under the weight of unfamiliar voices. But with him, she was different. With him, she laughed, loud and unrestrained, made ridiculous jokes, and let herself exist without fear. Along the way, Oscar became her voice, speaking for her before she could find the words herself. He understood her in a way no one else did, anticipating her thoughts, her needs, her feelings. And she understood him just as deeply.
But as his racing career began to take him further away, she had no choice but to stand on her own. The longer he was gone, the more she had to grow into herself. The shyness that once defined her slowly unraveled, replaced by a quiet strength, then confidence, and eventually something unshakable. She learned to speak without hesitation, to hold her ground, to exist without hiding behind him. Every time Oscar returned, he noticed it, how she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, but to him, she was still that same girl. Stronger, yes, but still someone he handled with care, as if one wrong move might break something irreplaceable.
He worshipped her in a way he didn’t dare put into words. The depth of what he felt for her had long surpassed anything he thought himself capable of, but he kept it buried, locked behind restraint and fear. In his mind, she was still too good, too pure for the thoughts that crossed his own. He would never taint her with them, never risk turning something sacred into something selfish.
She had loved him too, at first in the simple, easy way of childhood, but as she grew, as she came into herself, that love deepened into something undeniable. It was never spoken outright, but it existed in everything between them, in the way they looked at each other, the way they always gravitated back, no matter the distance.
And the distance only grew. The higher he climbed in his career, the harsher the world around him became. The public scrutiny, the criticism, it was relentless. And if they could be that vicious toward him, he knew they would be worse toward her. Protecting her became instinct, another layer added to the wall he kept firmly in place.
“You’re my best friend. Let’s not ruin it.”
He said it every time she got too close to the truth, every time her honesty threatened to unravel the careful balance he maintained. And so that’s what they stayed, best friends. Even when it was so clearly more.
The longest they had ever gone without seeing each other came during his most recent Formula 1 season. She stayed away deliberately, refusing to be another weight on his shoulders during a title fight. No paddock appearances, no public association, just quick FaceTimes and brief conversations squeezed between his obligations. She still saw his family, still felt like she belonged there, but him? Him, she barely got.
By the time the season ended, the distance had become unbearable. She needed to see him.
When she stepped into his Monaco apartment, there was no hesitation. They collided into each other, arms wrapping tight, holding on like they were making up for lost time all at once. It had been torture, months without seeing him and now that he was here, real and solid, she didn’t want to let go. He breathed her in, her familiar scent grounding him in a way nothing else ever could.
When he finally pulled back, his hands came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing softly along her cheek before he caught himself. Even then, he couldn’t help but tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture instinctive, careful.
“I’ve missed you more than you know,” he murmured, his voice low, like the moment itself might shatter if he spoke too loudly.
“Never leave me for that long again, Oscar. Never,” she replied, her voice steady, but her eyes glossy with something deeper.
His gaze flickered between her eyes and her lips, his composure slipping under the weight of everything he had kept buried. For a moment, his head and his heart fought for control.
And then he gave in.
He leaned down, pressing his lips to hers, soft, tentative, everything she had imagined but never experienced. For a second, it felt unreal. Then her hands found his hair, fingers tangling in the slightly longer strands as she pulled him closer.
His arms moved downwards, tightening around her waist, drawing her in, and when she breathed his name against his mouth, something in him snapped back into place.
He pulled away abruptly, his eyes wide, almost startled by his own actions. His gaze dropped to her lips, flushed, slightly swollen, then back to her eyes, where surprise lingered.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, stepping back like distance might undo it.
“No, Oscar, don’t apologise. I wanted it.”
“Y/N, I don’t, I mean, I can’t. I can’t ruin this with you.”
“Nothing’s ruined,” she insisted gently, stepping closer again, her voice softer now, careful. “We both want this.”
“I can’t, Y/N. You know I can’t.”
Her expression shifted then, no longer soft, but firm, hurt threading through her gaze. “What are you trying to protect me from? You? I’m not that shy girl anymore. You can touch me and I’m not going to break.”
His jaw tightened, his resolve snapping back into place. “I can’t do this. You know I can’t.”
She stared at him, something unyielding in her eyes now. She wasn’t that fragile girl anymore, and she refused to be treated like she was. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and she believed, without a doubt, that they were meant to be more than this.
But Oscar couldn’t shake the guilt. To him, she would always be something precious, something untouched by the chaos of his world. Even if she wasn’t fragile anymore, his need to protect her hadn’t faded, it had only grown stronger with time and distance. Every look, every moment, every thought of her made him want more, but it also made him feel like he would never be enough for someone like her.
And that wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have.
So, like every time before, the moment was buried, brushed aside and left unspoken, as if it had never happened at all.
She started to lose patience with him the longer they stayed wrapped up in each other over the winter break. They were inseparable—constantly in the same space, orbiting one another like nothing had changed and yet everything had. It was suffocating in the best and worst way. Because despite the closeness, he still held that line. Still kept that distance where it mattered.
So she decided to do something about it.
Not maliciously, never that, but if Oscar had built this invisible wall between them, brick by brick over the years, then she would take it apart the same way. Slowly. Deliberately. Until there was nothing left for him to hide behind.
It started small.
Late-night walks through Monaco, when the streets were quieter and Oscar could exist without cameras tracking his every move, she would reach for his hand. Casual. Natural. Like it had always been hers to take. He noticed every single time, she could feel it in the slight hesitation before his fingers closed around hers, but he never pulled away. It was one of those boundaries he pretended not to acknowledge, one he quietly let blur.
So she pushed a little more.
Whenever she left the apartment, whether he was mid-call, focused on his sim, or half-distracted by something else, she would press a kiss to his cheek. At first it was innocent, fleeting. But each time, she shifted it slightly closer to his mouth. Millimetres at a time.
He noticed. Of course he did.
Every kiss earned the same reaction, a slow, strained exhale, like he was holding himself together by a thread.
She didn’t overstep. Not yet. She stopped just at the corner of his mouth, letting it linger there like a promise neither of them had spoken out loud.
Until one day, he snapped.
She had just done it again, light, teasing, right at the edge of his lips, before turning to leave, calling out something about meeting friends she’d made in the city. She barely made it two steps before his hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her back.
She stumbled slightly as he spun her toward him. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was intentionally firm.
Her breath caught as she looked up at him. His eyes were darker than usual, something frustrated and unspoken burning behind them. It made her feel exposed. Seen in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
“Oscar…” she whispered, softer than she intended.
“You’re pushing it,” he said, voice low.
She smiled.
That was the point.
And from there, it only escalated.
She brushed past him in the kitchen more often than necessary, her hand grazing his waist like it was accidental. She leaned a little too close when he was sitting on the sofa, her knee pressing into his thigh as she showed him something on her phone. Once, she sat beside him on the balcony, her head resting on his shoulder for longer than usual, her fingers idly tracing patterns against his arm, a gentle kiss pressed to his neck.
Each time, he stilled. Each time, he let it happen.
But the tension in him grew sharper. Tighter. Like a wire being pulled too thin.
And then came the party.
Their friends housewarming was loud, crowded, filled with people neither of them really cared about. She had been pulled into a conversation with a guy, harmless, easy to talk to, and very much not a threat. She knew that. He knew that.
Oscar didn’t.
From across the room, she could feel his eyes on her. Watching. Tracking every movement. The way her hand rested lightly on the guy’s arm when she laughed, the way she leaned in just enough to look interested. It wasn’t even real flirting, but it was more than she had ever given anyone in front of him before.
She saw the exact moment it got to him.
His jaw tightened. His fingers curled around his drink. And then, he set it down, be-lining straight for the front door.
Her stomach dropped, but she excused herself quickly, weaving through the crowd until she caught him in the hallway.
“Oscar? Where are you going?”
“Home.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “I’m not watching that shit. I’ll come pick you up when you’re done.”
Something in her chest twisted. “No, I ’ll come with you.”
He let out a short, humourless breath. “Really? Wouldn’t want to ruin whatever game you’re playing.”
She didn’t answer. Just followed him.
The drive back was silent. Every unspoken word pressing in around them.
By the time they got back to his apartment, the tension had become unbearable.
He didn’t even look at her at first, just dropped onto the sofa, leaning back with his head tilted toward the ceiling like he was trying to find patience that wasn’t there.
“What are you doing, Y/N?”
She frowned slightly, lingering by the door. “What do you mean?”
“This.” His hand gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding through now. “This game. Is it fun for you? Because it sucks for me. You’re playing with my feelings.”
Her breath caught, disbelief flashing across her face.
“Yeah?” she shot back, her voice sharper now. “Doesn’t feel good, does it? Being pulled in and then stopped every time you get close?”
His head dropped forward, eyes finally meeting hers. “That’s what this is? Payback? For what, trying to respect you?”
A hollow laugh left her. “Respecting me?” she repeated, almost incredulous. “Right now, I don’t feel very respected, Oscar.”
His jaw tightened. “Right now, I don’t feel it either.”
“Because you’re too scared,” she said, stepping closer, her voice unwavering now. “Too scared to act on what you feel. At least I’m showing you how I feel.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed bitterly. “Felt great to watch that tonight.”
“That’s what I’m trying to show you!” Her voice cracked slightly, emotion finally spilling through. “This is how I’ve felt for years. God, you’re so,” she cut herself off, shaking her head. “I have been waiting for you. Waiting for years, for you to get over this distance and close the gap you created. And you might think this is you protecting me, but all you’re doing is making me feel like I’m not wanted.”
He was on his feet before he even realised it, crossing the space between them in two strides. “I do want you,” he said, the words sharp, immediate. “I’ve always wanted you. Since before you even knew how to say what you were thinking, I’ve wanted you.”
“Then why,”
“Because what if I ruin it?” he cut in, his voice breaking slightly under the weight of it. “What if I do this, and it goes wrong, and I lose you completely?”
She looked at him, the fear, the conflict, the love he kept trying to bury. And then she stepped closer, her voice softer now, but steadier than ever.
“But what if it goes right, Oscar?”
Silence settled between them after her words, thick and fragile all at once.
Oscar barley moved. He just stood there, staring at her like she’d just said the one thing he had spent years trying not to hear out loud.
She took another step toward him, closing what little space remained, her voice softer but still certain.
“I’ve already fallen for you, Oscar,” she said, her eyes locked onto his, unflinching. “There’s no protecting me from that. It’s already happened.”
His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but she saw it. She always saw him.
“And the only way I’ll break…” she continued, reaching for his hand, placing it over her heart, where it was beating far too fast, “is if you don’t catch me.”
That was the moment everything in him cracked.
All the restraint, all the rules he’d built for himself, every excuse he’d hidden behind, they didn’t stand a chance against her standing there, choosing him so openly, so fearlessly.
His gaze dropped briefly to where her hand held his, feeling her heartbeat against his palm, before lifting back to her face. There was no hesitation in her. No fear. Just trust.
it wasn’t about what could go wrong anymore. It was about what he was already risking by holding back.
Slowly, like he was making a decision he knew would change everything, his free hand came up to her face again, this time not tentative, not fleeting. His thumb brushed over her cheek, but he didn’t pull away.
“I don’t know how to do this without messing it up,” he admitted quietly, his voice rougher than before.
Her lips curved slightly, softer now. “Then don’t do it perfectly. Just do it honestly.”
Oscar let go ofthe fear.
His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, pulling her closer with a kind of quiet certainty that hadn’t been there before. This time when he kissed her, there was no hesitation. No stopping himself halfway through. It wasn’t rushed or overwhelming, it was intentional, grounded, everything he had been holding back poured into something real.
Her hands found him just as easily, like they always had, but now there was nothing in the way. No invisible line to stop at.
When they pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt this time. It was slower, like neither of them quite wanted to let the other go.
His forehead rested against hers, their breaths still uneven, but lighter somehow.
“Okay,” he murmured, almost to himself, like he was testing the word out.
She smiled softly. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he repeated, this time more certain, his thumb brushing against her jaw. “We try.”
It still felt fragile, worth protecting. But this time, it felt like something worth risking everything for.
Summary: when the one night stand should’ve just stayed just that (NSFW!)
Clearing out my drafts so not proof read
Written to Red Lipstick - Rihanna
F1 Masterlist
The dim glow of neon lights flickered across the crowded bar, casting colourful shadows on the faces of strangers seeking escape in laughter and liquor. It was one of those upscale lounges in the heart of the city, where the air hummed with low conversations and the clink of glasses. Y/N perched on a stool at the polished counter, her fingers tracing the rim of her third cocktail, a vibrant mix of something fruity and strong that had already blurred the edges of her stress-filled week. Monday loomed like a shadow: back from her two week holiday, the end of lazy days and spontaneous nights. Tonight, she wanted nothing more than to drown it all in fleeting pleasure, no strings, no regrets.
Across the bar, Max nursed a whiskey on the rocks, his broad shoulders tense under a simple black shirt. The weight of the upcoming race season pressed on him, endless training, media scrutiny, the grind that left no room for anything but victory. This was his last night of anonymity, of freedom before the world narrowed to circuits and cockpits. He scanned the room idly, not hunting, but open to whatever distraction might ease the knot in his chest.
Their eyes met when she laughed at something the bartender said, a genuine, unguarded sound that cut through the noise. He smiled back, raising his glass in a silent toast. She tilted her head, intrigued, and before she knew it, he was sliding onto the stool beside her.
"Rough week?" he asked, his voice carrying a faint Dutch accent, smooth and low.
She turned, taking him in, the sharp jawline, the intense blue eyes, the way his hair fell slightly tousled. He looked like he could handle whatever chaos she threw at him.
"Rough week ahead," she replied, her words slurring just a touch from the alcohol. "How about you?"
"Same. Needed to unwind one last time." His gaze lingered on her lips as she sipped her drink, a spark igniting between them.
From there, it flowed effortlessly. They traded stories without details, no names, no jobs, just the universal gripes of burnout and the thrill of rebellion. She giggled when he mimicked a disastrous meeting, her hand brushing his arm accidentally. He leaned in closer, his knee nudging hers under the bar, the contact sending a warm buzz through her veins that had nothing to do with the booze.
"You could be trouble," she teased, her eyes sparkling as she clinked her glass against his.
"Only the good kind," he shot back, his thumb grazing her wrist when he passed her a napkin. The flirting escalated, playful jabs turning into heated glances, laughter weaving through innuendos. They fit together in conversation like puzzle pieces she hadn't known were missing, the chemistry crackling like static. No need for introductions; their bodies spoke louder, leaning in, touching more boldly with each passing minute.
An hour blurred by, and when her hand lingered on his thigh during a shared joke, he caught it, his fingers intertwining with hers.
"My apartments just a few streets away," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. "If you're up for blowing off more steam."
His eyes darkened with intent. "Lead the way."
The cool night air did little to sober them as they stumbled out, arms linked, giggling like teenagers. The short walk to her apartment was filled with stolen kisses against lampposts, his hands on her waist pulling her close. By the time they reached her floor, sleek and modern, with a king bed dominating the space, the tension was electric.
The door clicked shut, and he was on her, backing her against the wall with a hunger that matched her own. His mouth claimed hers in a deep, messy kiss, tongues tangling as hands roamed. She tasted the whiskey on him, he savored the sweetness of her drink.
Her fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, yanking it open to reveal the defined planes of his chest, muscles honed from discipline. He shrugged it off, then peeled her top away, exposing the lace of her bra.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he breathed, his lips trailing down her neck, nipping at her collarbone. She arched into him, a soft moan escaping as his hands cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her hardening nipples through the lace fabric.
They shed the rest in a haze, her skirt pooling at her feet, his jeans kicked aside, as he picked her up pulling her lingerie clad body into him, skin flushed and heated.
He guided her to the bed, laying her back gently but with purpose. "I want to take my time with you," he said, voice husky, eyes locked on hers. "Tell me what feels good."
She nodded, heart racing, as he kissed his way down her body, over her breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth while pinching the other, drawing gasps from her. Lower still, his tongue dipped into her navel, then traced the line of her hip. When he settled between her thighs, spreading them wide, she felt exposed and thrilled.
"Relax for me," he murmured, his breath hot against her core. "You're already so wet. So perfect." His fingers parted her folds, and he licked a slow, deliberate stripe from her entrance to her clit. She bucked, a whimper slipping out.
He chuckled softly, the vibration sending sparks through her. "Easy. I've got you." His tongue circled her clit with expert precision, flicking, then flattening to lap at her steadily. One finger slid inside her, curling to stroke that sensitive spot, while his free hand held her hip steady.
"Oh, yes, like that," she panted, her hands fisting the sheets. The pleasure built fast, alcohol amplifying every sensation.
"Good girl," he praised, the words slipping out naturally as he felt her walls clench around his finger. Her body responded instantly, thighs trembling, a fresh gush of arousal coating his hand. He noted it, a satisfied hum escaping him. "You like that, don't you? Being my good girl."
She nodded frantically, the praise igniting something deep. "Please. More."
He added a second finger, thrusting them in rhythm with his tongue's assault on her clit. He talked her through it, voice low and encouraging. "That's it, let go. Feel how tight you are around me? You're doing so well, taking my mouth and fingers." The coil wound tighter, her moans growing louder, until she shattered, orgasm crashing over her in waves, pussy pulsing as she cried out, juices flooding his mouth.
He didn't stop, lapping gently through the aftershocks before building her up again.
Satisfied, he kissed his way back up, positioning himself between her legs. His cock was thick and hard, the tip nudging her entrance. "Ready for me?" he asked, rubbing against her slickness.
"Yes," she breathed, wrapping her legs around him.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, groaning at the tight heat enveloping him. "Holy shit, you feel incredible. Like we were made for this."
She gasped at the stretch, the way he filled her completely, no awkward fumbling, just perfect alignment, as if their bodies had mapped each other in some past life.
Once seated deep, he paused, letting her adjust, then began to move, long, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve. "You're taking me so well," he murmured, his forehead against hers. "Good girl, just like that. Relax and feel it."
The praise made her clench around him, drawing a moan from his lips. He set a steady rhythm, hips snapping forward, the bed creaking under them. For strangers, it was insanely intense, the way his cock dragged along her walls, the friction on her clit with every grind. She met his thrusts, nails digging into his back, lost in the sensation of how seamlessly they connected.
"You're like an angel undoing beneath me," he whispered, voice rough with awe, one hand sliding between them to rub her clit. "So beautiful when you fall apart. Cum for me again, let me feel it."
The words, combined with his relentless pace, pushed her over the edge a third time. Her pussy spasmed around him, milking his cock as she shattered, stars bursting behind her eyelids. He followed soon after, thrusts erratic as he buried himself deep, spilling hot cum inside her with a guttural groan. "Fuck, yes, take it all."
They collapsed together, breaths ragged, bodies slick with sweat. For a moment, they lay tangled, the room spinning slightly from the alcohol and exertion. Then, unexpectedly, he stirred, pressing a soft kiss to her temple before slipping from the bed. She watched, dazed, as he grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom, returning to gently clean between her thighs, wiping away the evidence of their passion with careful strokes.
"You deserve this," he said quietly, his touch tender, a stark contrast to the raw intensity moments before. She'd never had aftercare from a hookup; it felt intimate, almost caring, stirring something warm in her chest.
Once done, he dressed quickly, leaning down to brush her hair from her face. "Have a good sleep, angel," he murmured, a soft smile on his lips before he slipped out the door, leaving her in the quiet glow of satisfaction and wonder.
Monday crept up on her. It was like her holiday didn’t even happen.
The studio is chaos.
Assistants rushing back and forth, racks of clothes squeaking across the floor, stylists arguing over shades of black like it’s life or death. The hum of cameras, lighting adjustments, someone calling for coffee that never seems to arrive.
“Oh Max. Come through if you just stand here!” The assistant beams at whoever Max is.
She soon figures it out as his eyes catch her as he walks on set, unlocking the memories of the their one night stand.
He holds her mortified stare, but his face cocky, a smirk drifting onto his lips.
“Hello Angel.” He laughs out.
“Shit,” you whisper under your breath.
His smirk deepens.
Of course he heard that.
“Good to see you too,” he murmurs, walking toward you like he’s not about to ruin your entire sense of composure in the middle of a professional shoot.
Max stops just in front of you, close enough that no one else would notice anything unusual, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him.
“Photographer?” he says quietly, voice teasing. “Didn’t expect that.”
You don’t look at him.
“Didn’t expect to see you again at all,” you shoot back under your breath, adjusting your settings like your hands aren’t suddenly very aware of his presence.
A soft chuckle. “Mm,” he hums. “And here I thought we had a connection.”
The shoot is… difficult. Max refuses to make it easy.
Not once does he look where he’s told, or even at the camera. He’s looking deep into your eyes, into your soul. Like it’s a private game and no one else in the room exists.
“Eyes here,” you snap at one point, gesturing to the lens.
He tilts his head slightly.
“I am looking where I want to,” he replies casually.
A few of the crew laugh, thinking it’s playful. Only you know it’s not.
You step closer, lowering your voice.
“If you don’t cooperate, I will make this shoot drag on for hours.”
His lips twitch.
“You threatening me?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “I like that.”
You pull back immediately, clearing your throat.
“Reset. Wardrobe change.”
Thank God. Anything to put distance between you.
By the time the shoot wraps, you’re exhausted.
Holding yourself together in front of your not so mysterious one night stand feels like trying to keep a glass from cracking under pressure.
People start packing up. The energy loosens. Conversations pick up.
You’re reviewing shots on your camera when you feel him again.
“You’re good,” Max says, voice quieter now, less teasing.
You glance up, caught off guard.
“What?”
He nods toward your camera.
“Photos. They’re…” he pauses, searching for a word he doesn’t use often. “…impressive.”
For a second, the cocky edge drops.
“…Thanks,” you say, softer than you intended.
He pulls out his phone, taps something quickly, then takes your hand before you can react. Your breath catches at the touch, flashes of your night circle your brain.
He presses something into your palm, his phone, open to a contact screen.
“Put your number in,” he says simply.
You hesitate.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably,” he agrees easily.
That shouldn’t make it more tempting. But it does. So you type your digits in.
He takes the phone back, glancing at it briefly before slipping it away.
“I might want you to shoot for me again,” he says, tone light, but there’s something deliberate underneath it. “Private session. Less people. Less… interruptions.”
You roll your eyes slightly, trying to ignore the way your pulse picks up. “Or we can keep it professional.”
Summary: avoidant oscar fighting his feelings & secure reader fighting them harder.
I actually high key love this one. Pat on the back for me.
Written to Rein Me In - Sam Fender With Olivia Dean
F1 Masterlist
Oscar always did this thing where he made loving him feel easy right before he made it impossible.
He’d reach for her hand in public like it was instinct. He’d remember how she took her coffee, how she liked the crusts cut off toast when she was tired, how she always got cold in cinemas and pretended she wasn’t. He’d kiss her forehead absentmindedly, pull her into his side on sofas, send her photos of stupidly shaped clouds and say looks like you.
He’d do all the things a boyfriend did.
And then, as soon as it started to feel too real, too named, too much like something he could lose, he’d go quiet.
Not cruel. Nor mean. That was on of the worst parts.
There were never any slammed doors. No shouting matches. No dramatic endings to pin the blame on. Oscar just retreated. He’d answer texts slower. He’d become impossible to read. He’d act like he was busy, tired, distracted. Like something private had swallowed him whole.
And then a week later, sometimes two, he’d come back with that careful look in his eyes and his hands in his pockets and a soft, “Hi.”
The cycle had continued for the 8 months they’d been seeing each other. Until one day, it was time to break it.
That day had been almost offensively lovely.
The kind of day that made her angry now, in hindsight, because it had been so good she’d let herself believe maybe this time would be different.
They’d stayed in all morning, lazy and laughing, sunlight spilling across Oscar’s kitchen while he attempted pancakes and nearly set off the smoke alarm twice. She’d stood barefoot by the counter stealing strawberries from the bowl and he’d nudged her hip with his, quiet smile tucked into his cheek, eyes softer than he ever let them be for long.
Then he’d let her choose the music. Let her wander around his house like she belonged there. Let her fold the throw blanket over the back of the sofa after they’d used it. Let her rinse out their mugs and line them by the sink. Let her move through his space with a kind of absent domestic ease that felt terrifyingly, beautifully natural.
Like this could be a life and that was exactly the problem.
By evening, she could feel the shift happen.
Oscar was sitting at the kitchen island while she pottered around, talking about something inconsequential, something a friend had texted her, maybe, or a video she’d seen online, and he was barely answering now.
Just humming.
Nodding.
“Mm.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
His eyes were distant. His shoulders too tight. His knee bouncing once under the stool, then stilling when he realised.
She stopped talking. The silence stretched.
He looked up at her, blinked once, like he’d forgotten she was there for a second.
That hurt more than it should have.
She dried her hands slowly on the tea towel and studied him. The set jaw. The blank expression he wore when he was trying not to feel too much. The way his hands were clasped together like he was physically holding himself back from bolting.
The whole day had been warm and romantic and sweet, and now he looked at her like she was a his biggest fear.
Like seeing her in his kitchen, in his home, fitting there so naturally, had made him panic.
And that look, that familiar distant look, finally made her snap.
“Oscar.”
His head lifted. “What?”
She let out a breath through her nose. “You’re doing it again.”
A flicker of guilt crossed his face before he could stop it. “Doing what?”
She gave a short, humourless laugh. “That. Exactly that. Pretending you don’t know.”
He looked down at his hands.
“Today was lovely,” she said, quieter now, which somehow made what was to come harsher. “It was sweet, and romantic, and easy, and I was stupid enough to think maybe you were finally okay with that. But now you’ve gone all quiet on me because I made the mistake of existing in your house like I belong here.”
His brows pulled together. “That’s not,”
“It is.” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “You always do this. You let me get close, you pull me in, you make me feel safe, and then the second it starts looking like something real, you panic and push me away.”
He stood from the stool then, restless, agitated. “I’m not pushing you away.”
She stared at him.
Oscar lasted maybe two seconds under the weight of that look before glancing off to the side.
Her chest ached.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” she asked. “There’s never even a big explosion. No huge fight, no terrible thing either of us did. It’s just what you do. You pull away, disappear into your own head, leave me hanging there, and then come back when you’ve decided you can handle me again.”
His jaw worked. “It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s like.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Because that was the thing with Oscar. When it mattered most, when it came down to the vulnerable, ugly, honest truth of it, he had nowhere to put his feelings. No language for them. Just silence and retreat and the hope that if he waited long enough, the moment would pass.
But she was done letting it pass.
“You’re too proud to let someone in,” she said, voice steady but trembling at the edges. “Too proud to let someone love you properly. You go round acting like love and emotion make you weak, like being vulnerable is something embarrassing, something beneath you.”
He looked at her then, and the pain she could see in his face nearly undid her. But she kept going.
“It’s cowardly, Oscar.”
His expression shifted, like the word had struck bone.
“You’re not brave because you keep everything locked up,” she said. “You’re running away. That’s what this is. You are so afraid of that heart inside your chest that you’d rather ruin something good than risk letting it matter.”
His breathing had gone shallow.
She could see his thoughts racing, a million miles an hour behind eyes that always gave too little away. But she had spent too long translating silence into hope.
“I’m here,” she said, softer now, because despite everything, she still loved him enough to make this gentle. “I have been here. Patiently. Consistently. Loving you in every quiet space you left open for me.”
His face crumpled for a fraction of a second.
“But I won’t be forever,” she finished. “Not if you can’t let me.”
The kitchen felt unbearably still.
Oscar said nothing.
Just looked at her, his face pale and stricken, like she’d reached inside his chest and named every fear he’d spent the past 8 months trying to hide.
“You can’t rein me in,” she whispered, “and then push me away when I get too close.”
His lips parted. No sound came out.
And that was her answer, really.
She nodded once, more to herself than to him, and set the tea towel on the counter.
“Y/n,” he started, but it was weak, too late, more breath than word.
She grabbed her bag from the chair.
He took half a step forward, then stopped. Always stopping.
“I don’t want to love someone who’s scared of my love,” she said.
⸻
The first night without her, felt different from times before. It felt permanent, Oscar didn’t sleep.
The second night, he drove nowhere for an hour and ended up parked outside a closed supermarket, staring blankly at the steering wheel.
By the third day, the apartment was unbearable.
Her absence was everywhere. In the mug she always reached for. In the blanket folded neatly over the sofa. In the playlist still paused on his speaker because he couldn’t bring himself to change it. In the silence, mostly. The awful, oppressive silence where her voice should’ve been.
He’d spent so long convincing himself distance kept him safe that he’d never really considered what it would feel like when it finally cost him something.
He tried to work. Tried to focus. Tried to bury it under work out routines and discipline and all the things that had always made life feel manageable.
It didn’t work.
Because her words kept coming back.
You’re not brave. You’re running away.
Oscar had told himself every version of the lie. That he was protecting her. That he was being sensible. That he just needed space, that things got too intense, that he wasn’t built for loud, consuming love. But the truth was uglier and simpler.
He was scared.
Scared of needing someone. Scared of not being enough once the shine wore off. Scared that if he let her see all of him, every unsure, silent, insufficient part, she’d realise she deserved better and leave anyway.
So he kept leaving first, in little pieces. Not enough to end it. Just enough to stay unclaimed by it.
And now she was gone for real. On her terms. Because of him.
He sat with that for 3 days before finally calling his mum.
It took him three attempts to press the button.
When she answered, cheerful and unsuspecting, his throat nearly closed.
“Hi, darling,” she said. “Everything alright?”
Oscar looked out the window for a long moment. Grey sky. Nothing weather. The kind that made everything feel flatter.
“No,” he said quietly.
There was a pause. Her voice gentled. “What happened?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, one hand pressed to his mouth.
For a minute, he genuinely thought he might not say it. That he’d called just to sit there and breathe and then make some excuse and hang up. But even he was so tired of his own cowardice.
“I messed it up,” he said finally. “With her.”
His mum didn’t rush in. Didn’t fill the silence for him. She knew him too well for that.
So the words came, stilted at first, then in a painful, awkward stream. About the cycle. About how good it had been. About her standing in his kitchen, telling him the truth with tears she refused to let fall. About how he’d just stood there like an idiot while the best thing in his life walked out the door.
When he finished, the line was quiet for a beat.
Then, softly, “Oh, Oscar.”
He shut his eyes.
“She sounds like a good one,” his mum said.
“She is.”
“Then don’t lose this. Don’t be scared of a good thing just because it’s good,” she continued. “And don’t convince yourself you don’t deserve it. You do. But that isn’t really the issue, is it?”
Oscar stared at the floor.
“No.”
“No,” she agreed. “The issue is that you hurt her. And I’m not the one you need to be telling that to.”
He huffed out something that was almost a laugh, except it broke halfway through.
His mum’s voice softened further. “You don’t get to protect yourself at the expense of someone who’s trying to love you, sweetheart.”
The truth of it landed heavy.
“I know.”
“Then go and tell her that.”
The next morning, Oscar spent thirty minutes in a flower shop and somehow felt more out of his depth there than on any grid, in any race, under any pressure.
Every arrangement seemed wrong.
Too much. Too little. Too bright. Too impersonal. Too polished. Too random.
He stood staring at a bucket of white lilies like they’d personally offended him.
The florist, after watching him silently spiral for what was probably an embarrassing amount of time, came over with kind eyes and asked, “What’s the occasion?”
Oscar looked at the flowers, then at her.
“I’ve ruined my life a bit,” he said.
She blinked. “Right.”
“I need… I don’t know. Something that says I’m sorry, but also that I love her, but also that she’s,” He broke off, scrubbed a hand over his face. “She’s everything good, basically.”
The florist’s expression softened into something sympathetic.
They built it together in the end. Not too formal. Not too flashy. Soft cream and pale pink and little wild bits of green that made it look alive rather than perfected. The kind of bouquet that looked like spring had been gathered by hand.
He hoped she’d like it.
He hoped she’d even open the door.
By the time he got to her place, his palms were damp and his heartbeat was ridiculous.
He stood on her doorstep for a full minute, clutching the flowers like a complete freak, trying to gather the courage to knock.
Then the door opened before he could.
She froze. Her eyes went wide.
Oscar, caught mid-spiral with a bouquet in his hands and panic written all over his face, probably looked deranged.
She stared at him for one stunned second, then another. And then, to his immense humiliation, she laughed. Just a short, startled burst of it.
He blinked at her. “What?”
“You’re just standing there,” she said, breathless with disbelief. “Like a weirdo.”
Despite everything, despite the nerves and guilt and the fact his entire chest felt flayed open, something warm flickered at the sound of her laugh.
Then she took in his expression properly. The flowers. His pallor. The way he seemed to be holding himself together by force.
Her smile faded.
“Oscar,” she said, stepping forward a little. “Are you okay? You’re pale.”
He swallowed.
“No,” he said honestly. “Not really.”
Concern creased her face immediately, because of course it did. Because she was her. And God, he loved her.
“I,” He exhaled shakily. “Can I come in? Or… no, that’s fair if not. I just, I need to say this.”
She hesitated before opening the door wider.
He stepped inside like he was entering a church.
She led him into the living room, and he remained standing even when she gestured weakly toward the sofa, because sitting felt impossible. The bouquet trembled slightly in his grip. Annoying.
He held them out to her.
She looked surprised as she took them. “These are beautiful.”
“They’re not as beautiful as you,” he said immediately, then looked faintly horrified at himself.
Her brows lifted.
He pressed his lips together. “Sorry. That was,”
“No,” she said, soft and shocked all at once. “No, keep going. This is a bit unbelievable.”
A laugh escaped her, but it was gentler this time.
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, took one breath, then another.
“I’ve been scared,” he said.
He looked at her, not at the wall, not at the floor, not out the window. He was facing it, facing her head on, like a deer in headlights.
“I’ve been scared for a long time. Of relationships. Of getting it wrong. Of being responsible for someone else’s feelings in that way and not being enough, eventually.” His voice roughened. “Of you realising I’m not enough for you.”
Her expression changed, hurt and tenderness tangling together.
“Oscar,”
“No, let me say it properly.” He shook his head, almost pleading. “Please.”
She nodded.
He drew in a shaky breath.
“When things are easy between us, when it’s just us being us, I feel happy. Calm. Better than calm, actually. Like life makes sense in a way it usually doesn’t.” He swallowed. “And then I notice how much I care, how much room you’ve made inside me without even trying, and I panic. Because if I let myself have it, really have it, then I can lose it. And I think somewhere along the way I decided it would hurt less if I kept one foot out the door.”
“It doesn’t hurt less,” he said quietly. “It just hurts you instead.”
She was very still now, flowers clutched gently to her chest.
Oscar stepped closer.
“I know I’ve made you feel like something to be picked up and put down depending on what I can handle. I know I’ve taken your patience and your understanding and your love and treated them like they’d wait for me forever.” His voice cracked slightly. “That wasn’t fair. It was selfish. And you were right.”
She blinked fast.
“You were right about all of it,” he said. “I was acting like vulnerability made me weak. Like feeling deeply was something shameful. Like shutting you out was somehow me being in control, or protecting myself, or being sensible.” He gave a small, miserable shake of his head. “It wasn’t. It was cowardly.”
Her mouth parted softly on an inhale.
“I was a coward.”
The words sat between them, raw and unadorned.
Oscar had never hated himself more than he had in the days since she left. But saying it now, in front of her, felt less like punishment and more like truth. The necessary kind.
“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “I’m terrified of another relationship going wrong. I’m terrified of disappointing you. I’m terrified that one day you’ll wake up and realise you deserve someone easier, someone warmer, someone who doesn’t need to be dragged out of his own head every time he feels too much.”
Her eyes filled.
He kept going anyway.
“But I’m more terrified of not having you in my life.”
That landed. He saw it land.
“You are,” He stopped, started again. “You are the kindest person I know. The most understanding. The most infuriatingly patient. You’ve loved me with more grace than I ever earned, and you still somehow manage to make everything lighter when you walk into a room.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. He took another step forward, helplessly drawn.
“You’re sunshine personified,” he said, voice softening. “You know that? It sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. You make places feel warm. You make people feel seen. You make my house feel like a home just by existing in it. And instead of being grateful enough to hold onto that, I got scared of how much I wanted it.”
She laughed once through her tears, watery and disbelieving.
He smiled shakily.
“I love the way you fill silence without ruining it. I love the way you call me out when I’m being impossible. I love the way you care for people so naturally, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I love how you laugh at me when I deserve it and how you see right through me when I’m trying to hide.”
“I love you,” he said.
The words changed the air. Simple. Certain. Late, maybe. But true enough to shake him open.
“I love you,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “And I should’ve said it before. I should’ve said it every time I came back instead of expecting you to understand what I couldn’t bring myself to admit. I love you, and I don’t want to keep hurting you because I’m scared of being loved properly.”
He stopped right in front of her now. Close enough to see the tears on her lashes. The way she was breathing carefully, like one wrong move would tip this into something she couldn’t recover from.
“I’m not asking you to forget what I’ve done,” he said softly. “I know an apology doesn’t fix a pattern. And I know I don’t get to show up here with flowers and a speech and expect everything to be magically alright.”
Her grip tightened on the stems.
“But I am asking for a chance to do this differently,” he whispered. “Properly. No one foot out the door. No disappearing when it gets real. No making you pay for my fear.” His voice shook. “I want to be brave enough for this. For you.”
“I want to let you love me,” he said. “And I want to love you loudly, if you’ll still have me. I’m scared, yeah. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”
For a long second, she just looked at him.
Then, very quietly: “You really spent all this time working yourself up to come here and say all that?”
A choked laugh broke out of him. “Yeah.”
“And stood outside my door like a Victorian orphan?”
He covered his eyes briefly with one hand, mortified. “Probably.”
She laughed through her tears again, shaking her head. Then she lowered the bouquet onto the table beside her and stepped into him.
Oscar caught her instinctively, breath leaving him in a broken rush as her arms wrapped around his waist.
He held her like something precious and when she buried her face in his chest he thought, distantly, that this must be what relief felt like.
“I’m still angry with you,” she mumbled into his shirt.
“I know.”
“You really hurt me.”
His throat tightened. “I know.”
She leaned back just enough to look up at him, eyes red-rimmed and devastatingly beautiful. “You don’t get to do that again.”
He nodded immediately. “I won’t.”
Her gaze searched his face, as if checking for cracks in the promise.
Then, softly, “you cant keep pushing me away.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I won’t. I swear.”
She reached up and cupped his face.
And Oscar, who had spent so much of his life flinching from tenderness when it came too close, leaned into her palm like he’d been starved for it.
“I love you too,” she said.
His eyes shut. The sound he made was small and wrecked and full of relief. When he opened them again, she was smiling through tears.
“Bit dramatic, aren’t you?” she whispered.
He huffed a laugh. “Says the one who called me cowardly in my own kitchen.”
“You were being cowardly.”
“I know.”
She studied him for another second, then rose onto her toes and kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t frantic.
It was better than that. It was sure.
Oscar kissed her back like he meant it this time. Like he was done holding the best parts of himself at a distance. One hand came to her waist, the other still cradling her face, and every soft press of his mouth against hers felt like a promise: I’m here. I’m staying. I’m not running.
When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I’m going to be bad at this for a bit,” he admitted quietly. “Not loving you. I’m very good at that, apparently. But the talking, the not retreating, the… not acting like a frightened idiot.”
She smiled. “We’ll work on it.”
“We?” He smiled with a cocky raised eyebrow.
“Don’t make me take it back, Piastri.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She threaded her fingers through his. “For what?”
“For not letting me lose you before I figured out how to stop losing myself.”
Her expression softened completely.
Then she glanced toward the flowers on the table. “You did good, by the way.”
He followed her gaze. “I had help.”
“I assumed.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Bit rude.”
She grinned, the first full grin he’d seen from her since opening the door, and it hit him with all the force of salvation.
God. He really had almost lost this.
Never again.
She squeezed his hand. “Come on, then.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen,” she said. “You’ve made your grand declaration. You may as well stay and help me make breakfast.”
Domestic. Ordinary. Everything he’d once found terrifying.
Now it felt like mercy.
He let her lead him toward the kitchen, their hands linked between them, and for the first time Oscar didn’t feel the instinct to pull away from the shape of something real.
He let himself want it. Let himself keep it.
And when she looked back at him over her shoulder, all soft smile and sunlight, Oscar thought with sudden, quiet certainty being loved by her had never been the frightening thing.
Summary: avoidant oscar fighting his feelings & secure reader fighting them harder.
I actually high key love this one. Pat on the back for me.
Written to Rein Me In - Sam Fender With Olivia Dean
F1 Masterlist
Oscar always did this thing where he made loving him feel easy right before he made it impossible.
He’d reach for her hand in public like it was instinct. He’d remember how she took her coffee, how she liked the crusts cut off toast when she was tired, how she always got cold in cinemas and pretended she wasn’t. He’d kiss her forehead absentmindedly, pull her into his side on sofas, send her photos of stupidly shaped clouds and say looks like you.
He’d do all the things a boyfriend did.
And then, as soon as it started to feel too real, too named, too much like something he could lose, he’d go quiet.
Not cruel. Nor mean. That was on of the worst parts.
There were never any slammed doors. No shouting matches. No dramatic endings to pin the blame on. Oscar just retreated. He’d answer texts slower. He’d become impossible to read. He’d act like he was busy, tired, distracted. Like something private had swallowed him whole.
And then a week later, sometimes two, he’d come back with that careful look in his eyes and his hands in his pockets and a soft, “Hi.”
The cycle had continued for the 8 months they’d been seeing each other. Until one day, it was time to break it.
That day had been almost offensively lovely.
The kind of day that made her angry now, in hindsight, because it had been so good she’d let herself believe maybe this time would be different.
They’d stayed in all morning, lazy and laughing, sunlight spilling across Oscar’s kitchen while he attempted pancakes and nearly set off the smoke alarm twice. She’d stood barefoot by the counter stealing strawberries from the bowl and he’d nudged her hip with his, quiet smile tucked into his cheek, eyes softer than he ever let them be for long.
Then he’d let her choose the music. Let her wander around his house like she belonged there. Let her fold the throw blanket over the back of the sofa after they’d used it. Let her rinse out their mugs and line them by the sink. Let her move through his space with a kind of absent domestic ease that felt terrifyingly, beautifully natural.
Like this could be a life and that was exactly the problem.
By evening, she could feel the shift happen.
Oscar was sitting at the kitchen island while she pottered around, talking about something inconsequential, something a friend had texted her, maybe, or a video she’d seen online, and he was barely answering now.
Just humming.
Nodding.
“Mm.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
His eyes were distant. His shoulders too tight. His knee bouncing once under the stool, then stilling when he realised.
She stopped talking. The silence stretched.
He looked up at her, blinked once, like he’d forgotten she was there for a second.
That hurt more than it should have.
She dried her hands slowly on the tea towel and studied him. The set jaw. The blank expression he wore when he was trying not to feel too much. The way his hands were clasped together like he was physically holding himself back from bolting.
The whole day had been warm and romantic and sweet, and now he looked at her like she was a his biggest fear.
Like seeing her in his kitchen, in his home, fitting there so naturally, had made him panic.
And that look, that familiar distant look, finally made her snap.
“Oscar.”
His head lifted. “What?”
She let out a breath through her nose. “You’re doing it again.”
A flicker of guilt crossed his face before he could stop it. “Doing what?”
She gave a short, humourless laugh. “That. Exactly that. Pretending you don’t know.”
He looked down at his hands.
“Today was lovely,” she said, quieter now, which somehow made what was to come harsher. “It was sweet, and romantic, and easy, and I was stupid enough to think maybe you were finally okay with that. But now you’ve gone all quiet on me because I made the mistake of existing in your house like I belong here.”
His brows pulled together. “That’s not,”
“It is.” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “You always do this. You let me get close, you pull me in, you make me feel safe, and then the second it starts looking like something real, you panic and push me away.”
He stood from the stool then, restless, agitated. “I’m not pushing you away.”
She stared at him.
Oscar lasted maybe two seconds under the weight of that look before glancing off to the side.
Her chest ached.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” she asked. “There’s never even a big explosion. No huge fight, no terrible thing either of us did. It’s just what you do. You pull away, disappear into your own head, leave me hanging there, and then come back when you’ve decided you can handle me again.”
His jaw worked. “It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s like.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Because that was the thing with Oscar. When it mattered most, when it came down to the vulnerable, ugly, honest truth of it, he had nowhere to put his feelings. No language for them. Just silence and retreat and the hope that if he waited long enough, the moment would pass.
But she was done letting it pass.
“You’re too proud to let someone in,” she said, voice steady but trembling at the edges. “Too proud to let someone love you properly. You go round acting like love and emotion make you weak, like being vulnerable is something embarrassing, something beneath you.”
He looked at her then, and the pain she could see in his face nearly undid her. But she kept going.
“It’s cowardly, Oscar.”
His expression shifted, like the word had struck bone.
“You’re not brave because you keep everything locked up,” she said. “You’re running away. That’s what this is. You are so afraid of that heart inside your chest that you’d rather ruin something good than risk letting it matter.”
His breathing had gone shallow.
She could see his thoughts racing, a million miles an hour behind eyes that always gave too little away. But she had spent too long translating silence into hope.
“I’m here,” she said, softer now, because despite everything, she still loved him enough to make this gentle. “I have been here. Patiently. Consistently. Loving you in every quiet space you left open for me.”
His face crumpled for a fraction of a second.
“But I won’t be forever,” she finished. “Not if you can’t let me.”
The kitchen felt unbearably still.
Oscar said nothing.
Just looked at her, his face pale and stricken, like she’d reached inside his chest and named every fear he’d spent the past 8 months trying to hide.
“You can’t rein me in,” she whispered, “and then push me away when I get too close.”
His lips parted. No sound came out.
And that was her answer, really.
She nodded once, more to herself than to him, and set the tea towel on the counter.
“Y/n,” he started, but it was weak, too late, more breath than word.
She grabbed her bag from the chair.
He took half a step forward, then stopped. Always stopping.
“I don’t want to love someone who’s scared of my love,” she said.
⸻
The first night without her, felt different from times before. It felt permanent, Oscar didn’t sleep.
The second night, he drove nowhere for an hour and ended up parked outside a closed supermarket, staring blankly at the steering wheel.
By the third day, the apartment was unbearable.
Her absence was everywhere. In the mug she always reached for. In the blanket folded neatly over the sofa. In the playlist still paused on his speaker because he couldn’t bring himself to change it. In the silence, mostly. The awful, oppressive silence where her voice should’ve been.
He’d spent so long convincing himself distance kept him safe that he’d never really considered what it would feel like when it finally cost him something.
He tried to work. Tried to focus. Tried to bury it under work out routines and discipline and all the things that had always made life feel manageable.
It didn’t work.
Because her words kept coming back.
You’re not brave. You’re running away.
Oscar had told himself every version of the lie. That he was protecting her. That he was being sensible. That he just needed space, that things got too intense, that he wasn’t built for loud, consuming love. But the truth was uglier and simpler.
He was scared.
Scared of needing someone. Scared of not being enough once the shine wore off. Scared that if he let her see all of him, every unsure, silent, insufficient part, she’d realise she deserved better and leave anyway.
So he kept leaving first, in little pieces. Not enough to end it. Just enough to stay unclaimed by it.
And now she was gone for real. On her terms. Because of him.
He sat with that for 3 days before finally calling his mum.
It took him three attempts to press the button.
When she answered, cheerful and unsuspecting, his throat nearly closed.
“Hi, darling,” she said. “Everything alright?”
Oscar looked out the window for a long moment. Grey sky. Nothing weather. The kind that made everything feel flatter.
“No,” he said quietly.
There was a pause. Her voice gentled. “What happened?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, one hand pressed to his mouth.
For a minute, he genuinely thought he might not say it. That he’d called just to sit there and breathe and then make some excuse and hang up. But even he was so tired of his own cowardice.
“I messed it up,” he said finally. “With her.”
His mum didn’t rush in. Didn’t fill the silence for him. She knew him too well for that.
So the words came, stilted at first, then in a painful, awkward stream. About the cycle. About how good it had been. About her standing in his kitchen, telling him the truth with tears she refused to let fall. About how he’d just stood there like an idiot while the best thing in his life walked out the door.
When he finished, the line was quiet for a beat.
Then, softly, “Oh, Oscar.”
He shut his eyes.
“She sounds like a good one,” his mum said.
“She is.”
“Then don’t lose this. Don’t be scared of a good thing just because it’s good,” she continued. “And don’t convince yourself you don’t deserve it. You do. But that isn’t really the issue, is it?”
Oscar stared at the floor.
“No.”
“No,” she agreed. “The issue is that you hurt her. And I’m not the one you need to be telling that to.”
He huffed out something that was almost a laugh, except it broke halfway through.
His mum’s voice softened further. “You don’t get to protect yourself at the expense of someone who’s trying to love you, sweetheart.”
The truth of it landed heavy.
“I know.”
“Then go and tell her that.”
The next morning, Oscar spent thirty minutes in a flower shop and somehow felt more out of his depth there than on any grid, in any race, under any pressure.
Every arrangement seemed wrong.
Too much. Too little. Too bright. Too impersonal. Too polished. Too random.
He stood staring at a bucket of white lilies like they’d personally offended him.
The florist, after watching him silently spiral for what was probably an embarrassing amount of time, came over with kind eyes and asked, “What’s the occasion?”
Oscar looked at the flowers, then at her.
“I’ve ruined my life a bit,” he said.
She blinked. “Right.”
“I need… I don’t know. Something that says I’m sorry, but also that I love her, but also that she’s,” He broke off, scrubbed a hand over his face. “She’s everything good, basically.”
The florist’s expression softened into something sympathetic.
They built it together in the end. Not too formal. Not too flashy. Soft cream and pale pink and little wild bits of green that made it look alive rather than perfected. The kind of bouquet that looked like spring had been gathered by hand.
He hoped she’d like it.
He hoped she’d even open the door.
By the time he got to her place, his palms were damp and his heartbeat was ridiculous.
He stood on her doorstep for a full minute, clutching the flowers like a complete freak, trying to gather the courage to knock.
Then the door opened before he could.
She froze. Her eyes went wide.
Oscar, caught mid-spiral with a bouquet in his hands and panic written all over his face, probably looked deranged.
She stared at him for one stunned second, then another. And then, to his immense humiliation, she laughed. Just a short, startled burst of it.
He blinked at her. “What?”
“You’re just standing there,” she said, breathless with disbelief. “Like a weirdo.”
Despite everything, despite the nerves and guilt and the fact his entire chest felt flayed open, something warm flickered at the sound of her laugh.
Then she took in his expression properly. The flowers. His pallor. The way he seemed to be holding himself together by force.
Her smile faded.
“Oscar,” she said, stepping forward a little. “Are you okay? You’re pale.”
He swallowed.
“No,” he said honestly. “Not really.”
Concern creased her face immediately, because of course it did. Because she was her. And God, he loved her.
“I,” He exhaled shakily. “Can I come in? Or… no, that’s fair if not. I just, I need to say this.”
She hesitated before opening the door wider.
He stepped inside like he was entering a church.
She led him into the living room, and he remained standing even when she gestured weakly toward the sofa, because sitting felt impossible. The bouquet trembled slightly in his grip. Annoying.
He held them out to her.
She looked surprised as she took them. “These are beautiful.”
“They’re not as beautiful as you,” he said immediately, then looked faintly horrified at himself.
Her brows lifted.
He pressed his lips together. “Sorry. That was,”
“No,” she said, soft and shocked all at once. “No, keep going. This is a bit unbelievable.”
A laugh escaped her, but it was gentler this time.
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, took one breath, then another.
“I’ve been scared,” he said.
He looked at her, not at the wall, not at the floor, not out the window. He was facing it, facing her head on, like a deer in headlights.
“I’ve been scared for a long time. Of relationships. Of getting it wrong. Of being responsible for someone else’s feelings in that way and not being enough, eventually.” His voice roughened. “Of you realising I’m not enough for you.”
Her expression changed, hurt and tenderness tangling together.
“Oscar,”
“No, let me say it properly.” He shook his head, almost pleading. “Please.”
She nodded.
He drew in a shaky breath.
“When things are easy between us, when it’s just us being us, I feel happy. Calm. Better than calm, actually. Like life makes sense in a way it usually doesn’t.” He swallowed. “And then I notice how much I care, how much room you’ve made inside me without even trying, and I panic. Because if I let myself have it, really have it, then I can lose it. And I think somewhere along the way I decided it would hurt less if I kept one foot out the door.”
“It doesn’t hurt less,” he said quietly. “It just hurts you instead.”
She was very still now, flowers clutched gently to her chest.
Oscar stepped closer.
“I know I’ve made you feel like something to be picked up and put down depending on what I can handle. I know I’ve taken your patience and your understanding and your love and treated them like they’d wait for me forever.” His voice cracked slightly. “That wasn’t fair. It was selfish. And you were right.”
She blinked fast.
“You were right about all of it,” he said. “I was acting like vulnerability made me weak. Like feeling deeply was something shameful. Like shutting you out was somehow me being in control, or protecting myself, or being sensible.” He gave a small, miserable shake of his head. “It wasn’t. It was cowardly.”
Her mouth parted softly on an inhale.
“I was a coward.”
The words sat between them, raw and unadorned.
Oscar had never hated himself more than he had in the days since she left. But saying it now, in front of her, felt less like punishment and more like truth. The necessary kind.
“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “I’m terrified of another relationship going wrong. I’m terrified of disappointing you. I’m terrified that one day you’ll wake up and realise you deserve someone easier, someone warmer, someone who doesn’t need to be dragged out of his own head every time he feels too much.”
Her eyes filled.
He kept going anyway.
“But I’m more terrified of not having you in my life.”
That landed. He saw it land.
“You are,” He stopped, started again. “You are the kindest person I know. The most understanding. The most infuriatingly patient. You’ve loved me with more grace than I ever earned, and you still somehow manage to make everything lighter when you walk into a room.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. He took another step forward, helplessly drawn.
“You’re sunshine personified,” he said, voice softening. “You know that? It sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. You make places feel warm. You make people feel seen. You make my house feel like a home just by existing in it. And instead of being grateful enough to hold onto that, I got scared of how much I wanted it.”
She laughed once through her tears, watery and disbelieving.
He smiled shakily.
“I love the way you fill silence without ruining it. I love the way you call me out when I’m being impossible. I love the way you care for people so naturally, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I love how you laugh at me when I deserve it and how you see right through me when I’m trying to hide.”
“I love you,” he said.
The words changed the air. Simple. Certain. Late, maybe. But true enough to shake him open.
“I love you,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “And I should’ve said it before. I should’ve said it every time I came back instead of expecting you to understand what I couldn’t bring myself to admit. I love you, and I don’t want to keep hurting you because I’m scared of being loved properly.”
He stopped right in front of her now. Close enough to see the tears on her lashes. The way she was breathing carefully, like one wrong move would tip this into something she couldn’t recover from.
“I’m not asking you to forget what I’ve done,” he said softly. “I know an apology doesn’t fix a pattern. And I know I don’t get to show up here with flowers and a speech and expect everything to be magically alright.”
Her grip tightened on the stems.
“But I am asking for a chance to do this differently,” he whispered. “Properly. No one foot out the door. No disappearing when it gets real. No making you pay for my fear.” His voice shook. “I want to be brave enough for this. For you.”
“I want to let you love me,” he said. “And I want to love you loudly, if you’ll still have me. I’m scared, yeah. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”
For a long second, she just looked at him.
Then, very quietly: “You really spent all this time working yourself up to come here and say all that?”
A choked laugh broke out of him. “Yeah.”
“And stood outside my door like a Victorian orphan?”
He covered his eyes briefly with one hand, mortified. “Probably.”
She laughed through her tears again, shaking her head. Then she lowered the bouquet onto the table beside her and stepped into him.
Oscar caught her instinctively, breath leaving him in a broken rush as her arms wrapped around his waist.
He held her like something precious and when she buried her face in his chest he thought, distantly, that this must be what relief felt like.
“I’m still angry with you,” she mumbled into his shirt.
“I know.”
“You really hurt me.”
His throat tightened. “I know.”
She leaned back just enough to look up at him, eyes red-rimmed and devastatingly beautiful. “You don’t get to do that again.”
He nodded immediately. “I won’t.”
Her gaze searched his face, as if checking for cracks in the promise.
Then, softly, “you cant keep pushing me away.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I won’t. I swear.”
She reached up and cupped his face.
And Oscar, who had spent so much of his life flinching from tenderness when it came too close, leaned into her palm like he’d been starved for it.
“I love you too,” she said.
His eyes shut. The sound he made was small and wrecked and full of relief. When he opened them again, she was smiling through tears.
“Bit dramatic, aren’t you?” she whispered.
He huffed a laugh. “Says the one who called me cowardly in my own kitchen.”
“You were being cowardly.”
“I know.”
She studied him for another second, then rose onto her toes and kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t frantic.
It was better than that. It was sure.
Oscar kissed her back like he meant it this time. Like he was done holding the best parts of himself at a distance. One hand came to her waist, the other still cradling her face, and every soft press of his mouth against hers felt like a promise: I’m here. I’m staying. I’m not running.
When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I’m going to be bad at this for a bit,” he admitted quietly. “Not loving you. I’m very good at that, apparently. But the talking, the not retreating, the… not acting like a frightened idiot.”
She smiled. “We’ll work on it.”
“We?” He smiled with a cocky raised eyebrow.
“Don’t make me take it back, Piastri.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She threaded her fingers through his. “For what?”
“For not letting me lose you before I figured out how to stop losing myself.”
Her expression softened completely.
Then she glanced toward the flowers on the table. “You did good, by the way.”
He followed her gaze. “I had help.”
“I assumed.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Bit rude.”
She grinned, the first full grin he’d seen from her since opening the door, and it hit him with all the force of salvation.
God. He really had almost lost this.
Never again.
She squeezed his hand. “Come on, then.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen,” she said. “You’ve made your grand declaration. You may as well stay and help me make breakfast.”
Domestic. Ordinary. Everything he’d once found terrifying.
Now it felt like mercy.
He let her lead him toward the kitchen, their hands linked between them, and for the first time Oscar didn’t feel the instinct to pull away from the shape of something real.
He let himself want it. Let himself keep it.
And when she looked back at him over her shoulder, all soft smile and sunlight, Oscar thought with sudden, quiet certainty being loved by her had never been the frightening thing.
NOTE: I am so bad at warnings. Anything with full throttle smut is always labelled, but suggestive language is not. Most of my writing contains angst/is full on angst. I always appreciate feedback good & bad. Thank you for reading & interacting.
Requests are open. I like to write to a song so if you have a song suggestion feel free to slide in ;)
1. Summary (sports car): black cat singer gf & polite cat driver bf soft launch their relationship (SMAU!)
2. Summary (horseshoe): the rumours sometimes spiral when your relationship is private not secret (SMAU!)
Force of Nature
Oscar Piastri x best friend ! reader
Summary : Oscar has always seen her as something delicate, pure, gentle, almost untouchable, and because of that, he’s spent years holding himself back. While he hides behind caution and fear of losing her, she decides to take control, slowly pushing his boundaries and forcing him to confront the truth, until he has no choice but to either let her go or finally give in.
Rein Me In
Oscar Piastri x reader
Summary: avoidant oscar fighting his feelings & secure reader fighting them harder.
Talk Talk
Oscar Piastri x PR!reader
Summary: Just interviews, schedules, and work. At least, that’s what you both tell everyone, even as the internet starts noticing something more.
Summary: The timeline of reader and Lando Norris circling each other for years. Battling his flirtatious lifestyle, her guarded nature, and a connection neither of them can quite walk away from.
Out of Time
Lando Norris x popstar ! reader
Summary: They once felt effortless, like soulmates woven seamlessly into each other’s lives. Love turned silently into missed moments and empty promises, until all that was left felt heavy and out of sync.
Miss Possessive
Lando Norris x gf!reader
Summary: With their relationship secret, Lando’s girlfriend struggles to hide her insecurity when girls constantly flirt with him.
Slut!
Lando Norris x gf!reader
Summary: Everyone wants him, that was my crime. Loving each other loudly, when everyone else is trying to be noisier.
Vodka Cranberry
Lando Norris x reader
Summary: A drink too sweet. A love too heavy. And a silence neither of them knows how to break.
Hard to Hide
Lando Norris x reader
Summary: A night out meant to celebrate a friend’s birthday turns tense when a flirty bartender’s attention pushes Lando’s patience to the edge. (NSFW!)
Let it Happen
Lando Norris x singer!reader
Summary: dating rumours always followed the pair but despite both of their status’ they liked to keep their private life private… until a certain someone’s private instagram gets hacked
Us.
Lando Norris x ex gf!reader
After your break up you battle with missing him and hating him. You’d always been his secret so why isn’t she?
Give Me Love
part 1 | part 2
Summary: in his previous relationships he couldn’t protect them from the backlash of simply being with him. but will protecting only end up hurting you?
Summary: when the one night stand should’ve just stayed just that (NSFW!)
Homewrecker
part 1 | part 2
Max Verstappen x reader
Summary: Childhood rivals. First love. Bad timing.
Goodnight n Go
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4
Max Verstappen x PR!reader | FWB!reader (NSFW!)
Summary: As part of Max Verstappen's PR team, she's built his image, cleaned up his quotes, and quietly snuck out of his hotel room before morning meetings. It's not complicated. It's not serious. It's just... convenient.
It's really complicated. It's really serious. It's really not convenient.
Summary: Just interviews, schedules, and work. At least, that’s what you both tell everyone, even as the internet starts noticing something more.
AN: this season already has me feeling like a 2025 Hamilton fan so Ive been rewriting my drafts and I’m gonna try and clear them all. i hope this one hits idk. it was my first attempt at a piastri fic!
Written to Talk Talk - Charli XCX
F1 Masterlist
The first thing you notice about working at McLaren is that nothing is ever quiet.
But, in the middle of all of it, you keep finding yourself in quiet little pockets of time with Oscar.
It starts small.
It’s your first full season with McLaren meaning you’re assigned to help coordinate media for one of the drivers. Technically you’re part of the wider PR team, but because schedules overlap and responsibilities get messy during race weekends, you end up shadowing Oscar more than anyone else.
At first, it’s all professional.
You remind him when interviews are starting, guide him through the media pen. You hand him the his requested hat before cameras turn on.
“Sky Sports in two minutes,” you say one morning, stepping into the McLaren hospitality area.
Oscar looks up from his phone. His expression is neutral, polite in the way drivers are trained to be.
“Got it.”
You walk beside him toward the interview zone. He’s quiet, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket.
Just before the cameras switch on, you lean in slightly.
“Try to look like you’re enjoying this,” you murmur.
He glances at you sideways.
A slow smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“I always enjoy being asked the same three questions.”
You snort.
That’s the first time he made you laugh. It’s small. Just a quiet breath of amusement.
But the cameraman across the paddock catches it.
The clips start appearing online a few weeks later.
You don’t notice them at first. Someone from the social team shows you during a race weekend.
“Hey,” they say, holding out their phone. “You’ve got a fanbase.”
You frown.
“What?”
On the screen is a compilation video.
The caption reads:
“Oscar Piastri and his PR girl being secretly in love for 3 minutes straight.”
Your stomach drops. It’s clips of you two.
You and Oscar standing off to the side before interviews, giggling about something. Walking through the paddock in deep conversation, heads tilted toward each other.
Sitting in hospitality while you show him something on your phone. The edits zoom in on the way he looks at you.
You feel your face heat up.
“This is ridiculous,” you say quickly.
But the person showing you the video just laughs.
“Fans notice everything.”
Later that day you bring it up to Oscar while you’re both waiting outside a media room.
“So apparently the internet thinks we’re secretly dating.”
He looks mildly surprised. “Oh?”
You show him the video.
He watches it for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he exhales through his nose.
“That’s… weird.”
“Right?”
“Yeah.” He glances at you, a curious expression on his face.
“They’ve got too much time on their hands.”
Race weekends blur together quickly. Flights. Media sessions. Debriefs.
You spend most of your time making sure Oscar is exactly where he needs to be, exactly when he needs to be there. But in between all of it, you still find those quiet moments.
One afternoon he nudges your arm.
“Look at this.”
You lean closer, on his screen is another fan edit. This one has dramatic music and slow motion clips of you two talking.
You groan.
“They’re relentless.”
Oscar watches the video again.
“They really think we like each other.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s called friendship.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “Just friendship.”
As the season goes on, the workload gets heavier. Sponsors add more appearances. Media commitments double. And Oscar is pushing harder than ever on track as the championship battle tightens and the all around pressure builds.
Your conversations start shrinking almost solely about scheduling.
“You’ve got a press conference in five.”
“Okay.”
“Then a sponsor shoot after qualifying.”
“Got it.”
Sometimes you pass each other in the garage and share a quick smile. But the long conversations disappear. You barely notice it happening. Until suddenly the quiet moments are gone.
The Monaco Grand Prix weekend arrives like a storm. The paddock is louder than usual. Crowds press against barriers. Everything feels more intense.
Oscar’s been pushing hard all weekend.
You can tell from the way he carries himself. Slightly more focused. Slightly more distant.
During the race you stand at the back of the garage, headset around your neck.
Oscar is fighting for position.
The streets of Monaco feel tighter today, like the walls have crept a few inches closer to the track. The cars already look impossibly wide for the ribbon of asphalt that snakes between the barriers, but today it feels worse, every overtake attempt looks like it’s happening in a corridor barely wider than the cars themselves.
Your eyes stay fixed on the timing screen in front of you, the numbers flickering constantly as the race evolves. The headset around your neck crackles occasionally with radio chatter, but most of it is muffled background noise now.
Oscar is P6 after the pit stop.
A decent position considering the chaos Monaco always brings, but it’s fragile. Every position here is fragile.
Behind him, the unpitted Aston Martin is pushing closer with every sector.
The engineers around you speak in quick bursts through their headsets, sector times, tyre temps, gaps. Numbers flying back and forth faster than you can fully process.
Mechanics lean forward in their chairs, eyes glued to the monitors.
Your stomach tightens every time the broadcast cuts to Oscar’s onboard camera.
He’s pushing, hard. You can see it in the way the McLaren moves, aggressive but precise, dancing millimetres from the barriers. The steering corrections are tiny, controlled, but constant.
He’s threading the car through Monaco like he’s trying to bend the track to his will.
“Gap behind is eight tenths,” his engineer says into the mic.
Your fingers tighten slightly against your palm.
The camera cuts to a wide shot as the cars approach the corner.
Oscar moves defensively. The Aston Martin closes quickly behind him. For a split second it looks like he’s got it covered.
Then contact.
His rear wing is clipped by the car behind.
It happens so fast your brain struggles to process it.
A sharp nudge of tyres.
The rear of the McLaren snaps loose instantly.
The car spins sideways across the narrow street, tyres screaming against the asphalt as the steering fights for grip that isn’t there anymore.
A collective groan ripples through the McLaren garage.
You feel it physically, like the tension in the room collapses all at once.
“No!” someone breathes beside you.
The car slides helplessly toward the barrier, carbon fibre slamming against metal. The impact echoes through the speakers, harsh and final.
On the monitors the McLaren sits awkwardly against the barrier, front wing shattered, one tyre angled wrong. The car looks wounded, broken in a way that makes it immediately obvious there’s no continuing from this.
For a moment the garage is silent except for the hum of equipment.
The radio crackles, Oscar’s voice cuts through.
“…Nice.” The word drips with dry sarcasm.
Outside, the race now continues, the roar of engines occasionally echoing down the pit lane, but inside the McLaren garage everything feels strangely muted.
Mechanics move around with practiced calm, already reviewing footage and telemetry data. Engineers lean over screens replaying the crash from different angles.
You stand near the back of the garage, tablet clutched loosely in your hands.
Your eyes keep drifting toward the entrance where drivers usually walk back in after incidents. Oscar steps into the garage from the paddock entrance, still in full race gear.
Helmet on. Visor down.
His shoulders look heavier than usual, posture tight as he walks toward the monitors. He doesn’t acknowledge anyone. Doesn’t even glance around.
He walks straight to the screen replaying the crash.
The garage grows quieter as he approaches.
He stands there watching through his visor. The replay loops again, his car defending the position, the Aston Martin closing, the slight tap that sends the rear around.
Oscar breathes slowly, chest rising and falling beneath the race suit. He lifts his hands and pulls off the helmet.
His hair is damp with sweat, flattened from the padding. His face is flushed, jaw tight as he exhales through his nose. Frustration radiates off him in quiet waves.
You step forward carefully.
“Media pen in twenty minutes,” you say gently.
Oscar doesn’t respond right away.
His eyes stay locked on the screen where the replay freezes on the moment of contact.
Then he exhales slowly.
“Not right now.” His voice isn’t angry. Just slightly off and tight with frustration.
You hesitate.
Looking at him now, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl slightly against the edge of the monitor stand, you know forcing him into a camera right now won’t help anyone. The frustration is still simmering beneath the surface.
So you soften your voice, speaking quieter.
“Do you want to talk?”
That finally makes him glance up.
His eyes meet yours.
A beat passes.
He nods to you, replying just a hushed, “Not about the race.”
You follow him toward his driver room.
Behind you the garage continues its rhythm, tools clinking against metal, engineers murmuring over data screens, the low hum of equipment running constantly.
But once the door closes behind you, the noise fades.
You lean back against the wall opposite him, tablet now resting loosely against your hip.
For the first time all weekend, neither of you are rushing somewhere. Oscar sits down heavily on the bench, elbows resting on his knees. His hands hang loosely between them.
“I hate shit like that,” he mutters. His voice is gentler now.
You tilt your head slightly. “Like what?”
He exhales slowly, then drags both hands down his face. His fingers press briefly against his eyes.
“Shit out of my control.”
You stay quiet, letting him continue. Oscar stares at the floor for a moment before speaking again.
“Sometimes it feels like everything is just…” he searches for the words. “…happening to me.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“Everything I’m working for feels like it’s working against me.” He gestures vaguely toward the outside world beyond the door.
“The driving. The interviews. The sponsors.”
His shoulders lift in a small shrug.
“Like I’m always on display. Just doing stuff for other people. Working on things for other people.”
He huffs quietly. “But never actually doing what I want.”
You understand immediately. That’s half your job. Managing that display. Making sure the cameras see the right reactions, the right answers, the right version of him.
You shift your weight against the wall.
“You’re allowed to hate it sometimes.”
Oscar glances up at you.
There’s something uncertain in his expression.
“Am I?”
You give him a small, reassuring smile.
“Of course.”
His shoulders loosen slightly.
Eventually the conversation drifts away from the crash. Away from the race entirely.
You start telling him about something ridiculous a journalist asked earlier that weekend, dramatically recreating the tone of the question.
Oscar lets out a quiet laugh.
It’s small. But real.
And hearing it again after the heavy tension of the garage feels strangely comforting.
It reminds you of earlier race weekends. The easy conversations waiting outside media rooms. The quiet jokes before interviews. Like the season hasn’t swallowed those moments completely.
Eventually your eyes drift to your watch. Your heart sinks slightly. Reality creeping back in.
“We actually have to go do our jobs.”
Oscar groans under his breath. “Yeah.” He leans back slightly. “Figured that was coming.”
But when he stands up, he looks lighter than when he walked in.
Before you reach the door, he stops in front of you.
You look up. His eyes meet yours.
“After all this shitshow is over,” he says casually, “do you want to go do something?”
You blink. Your brain immediately starts firing off warning signals. Flashes of fear from public perception.
Fans already speculate about the two of you constantly. Being seen somewhere together outside the paddock would only fuel that.
Your hesitation must show on your face because Oscar clearly notices.
“We don’t have to go somewhere public,” he adds quickly.
He shifts slightly, watching your reaction.
“Could just go back to my place.”
You raise an eyebrow instantly.
“A little inappropriate to ask someone working for you, don’t you think?”
Oscar rolls his eyes.
“Not like that. I meant just us. No eyes. No cameras. Just something real for a bit.”
You pretend to think about it dramatically
“I was about to call HR about you making sexual advances.”
Oscar snorts.
“So… is that a yes?”
You nod. “Yes.”
He smiles.
“Okay.”
You open the door to leave.
Then he adds casually behind you,
“No guarantees about the sexual advances though.”
You spin to face him eyes widened in shock at the very un-Oscar like comment, shaking your head, laughing as you step back into the noise of the garage.
We only ever talk about work.
Today, for the first time, you’ll finally admit to yourself that isn’t true anymore.
AN Ugh this still feels unfinished! Just gotta clear these drafts :,,((((((
Summary: With their relationship secret, Lando’s girlfriend struggles to hide her insecurity when girls constantly flirt with him.
Wrote this short one at 3am when I couldn’t sleep. Not proofread so I fear it could be incoherent!
Written to Miss Possessive - Tate McRae
F1 Masterlist
The bass of the club pulsed through the floor, vibrating up your legs where you sat in the plush corner of the private booth Lando had booked for the night. Neon lights washed the room in purple and blue, bodies moving everywhere, laughter loud and messy as drinks kept appearing.
You swirled the straw in your drink, trying very hard to look unbothered.
Across the small section, Lando was standing near the bar rail, talking to a few people you both knew. That part didn’t bother you.
What did bother you were the girls. Girls always noticed Lando. He was charming, famous, and annoyingly attractive without trying.
One of them leaned into him, hand resting a little too comfortably on his arm as she laughed at something he said. Another one brushed past him, fingers sliding over his shoulder like it was nothing.
You forced yourself to stay still. You trusted him. Completely.
And like clockwork, Lando gently removed the girl’s hand from his arm with an easy smile.
“Careful,” he half smiled lightly, stepping back.
They thought he was joking.
The girl laughed it off, rolling her eyes before drifting away. Lando barely even watched her go before he turned back to his conversation.
You let out a quiet breath. He always handled it. Still the tight feeling in your chest didn’t quite go away.
Later in the night the club had gotten louder, messier. Drinks had definitely been flowing.
You were sitting in the booth again, watching again, you noticed another girl lean close to Lando, practically whispering into his ear. Her hand slid onto his chest this time.
Your jaw tightened.
Lando reacted almost instantly though.
He gently plucked her hand away, stepping sideways with a polite smile.
“Not happening,” he said, shaking his head slightly.
He slipped away before she could try again, weaving through the crowd until he dropped back down into the seat beside you.
You stared into your drink. He noticed immediately, the distance in your eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, nudging your knee with his.
“Yeah,” you said quickly, taking a sip.
Lando tilted his head slightly, studying you.
You didn’t meet his eyes.
“You sure?” He pressed.
“I’m fine.” You almost snap, eyes watching the melting ice swirl on your glass.
“Okay. You’re clearly not fine.”
“Lando,” you muttered. “Just drop it.” Your tone wasn’t angry. Just tight.
He watched you for a moment, confused, but the conversation around you picked up again so he didn’t push it. Not yet. Not in front of everyone.
But he kept glancing at you the rest of the night. Your mood never lifted.
The taxi ride back to his place was quiet.
Your head leaned against the window, watching the streetlights blur past while Lando sat beside you, hands folded in his lap.
He kept looking over. Something was definitely wrong.
When the taxi pulled up outside his house, he paid quickly and followed you inside.
You kicked your shoes off by the door.
“I’m going to bed,” you mumbled.
Lando frowned slightly but nodded. “Alright.”
He watched as you disappeared along the hall.
By the time he came into the bedroom, you were already under the covers, turned away from the door, hiding away in the depths of one of his hoodie.
He changed quickly and slid into bed behind you, instinctively wrapping an arm around your waist.
Except you shifted away. Not dramatically. Just scrunched up slightly, pulling the blanket with you.
Lando stared at the back of your head.
“Right.”
He leaned over and flicked the bedside lamp on. The soft light filled the room.
“Okay,” he said, sitting up slightly. “What’s going on?”
You kept your back to him.
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, no. I’m not buying that.” His voice was calm but firm. “Try again.”
You let out a frustrated breath, but not saying anything hoping he’ll just leave it and go to sleep.
“Seriously,” he continued. “You’ve been weird all night.”
You turned onto your back with an annoyed sigh. “It’s stupid.”
“Tell me anyway.” He rarely pushed like this. He leaned closer, resting on his elbows.
“Something’s bothering you,” he said softly. “And I’m not going to pretend I don’t see it.”
You looked away. The words felt stupid. Petty. But they had been building all night.
Finally you muttered quietly, “Everyone’s always all over you,” you said. “I hate it.”
Lando blinked.
You sat up suddenly, frustration spilling out now. “Girls are constantly touching you or whispering in your ear or trying to get your attention and I just,” you stopped, shaking your head. “I hate it.”
“That’s what this is about?”
You immediately regretted saying it.
“See? It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid if it’s making you feel this way.” he said softly.
You rubbed your face.
“I trust you, Lando. I do. You shut it down every time. It’s just, ” you struggled to explain it. “It makes me feel weird. I’ve never felt like that before and I don’t even know why.”
He reached forward and gently pulled you closer, ignoring your half-hearted resistance.
“Hey,” he murmured.
You tried to look away but he tipped your chin back.
“You seriously think any of them matter to me? I don’t see them half the time. And the ones I do, I shut down, straight away.”
“They’re all over you,” you muttered.
You frowned slightly as he brushed a piece of hair away from your face.
“You know what I see?”
Your eyes flickered up to his.
“You.”
His voice was soft now.
“Every room I walk into, the first thing I do is look for you. I don’t want them touching me. I only want to touch you. And be touched by you.”
The tension in your chest loosened slightly. His thumb brushed your cheek, then your forehead, it’s like his touch is loosening the tension in your mind.
“Only you know me,” he added. “The real me. That’s how it’s always been and that’s how it’s always going to be.”
He leaned closer, kissing you softly. Gentle and slow as he know how fragile this moment was, he had to build you back up, like that was his given purpose.
Your hands instinctively slid into his hair as he pulled you into his lap. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
Summary: Childhood rivals. First love. Bad timing.
Warning: angst (obvs), toxic boyfriend (not max)
\\PART ONE//
November 2025
You weren’t searching for it.
That’s the lie you told yourself.
You had only opened the group chat because it buzzed while you were making tea, the kettle still hissing softly in the background of your dim apartment.
Your thumb hovered over the preview longer than necessary.
You knew you shouldn’t open it. Max Verstappen trending on X.
But curiosity, that old, familiar ache that always followed his name, got the better of you.
You pressed play.
The video was grainy, filmed on someone’s phone in a crowded nightclub. Music thundered through the clip, distorted and loud. Strobe lights cut through the darkness in violent flashes of blue and white.
Max stood near the bar. Relaxed and laughing.
A girl leaned into him, her hand resting lightly on his chest as she said something close to his ear. He bent down to hear her better, the corner of his mouth lifting in that crooked half-smile you knew too well.
Your chest tightened instantly. It wasn’t even that intimate. There was no kiss. No lingering touch.
Just the unmistakable ease of someone enjoying the moment.
You paused the video. The still image glowed against your face in the dim room.
The apartment around you was quiet, the only light coming from the kitchen lamp you’d forgotten to turn off earlier. Shadows stretched across the walls. The curtains were still drawn from the night before.
You hadn’t opened them today.
You stared at the frozen image of him laughing. Your stomach twisted painfully.
You have a boyfriend. The thought arrived quickly, like your mind rushing to defend itself. You were the one who ended it.
You were the one who said you needed space, independence, your own identity outside of him.
You were the one who moved on.
You locked your phone and placed it face down on the table. The quiet apartment swallowed the sound.
For a long time you just stood there, the kettle cooling beside you, staring at nothing.
Stood, feeling stupid and embarrassed, if somewhere deep down you had expected him to stay frozen in the same emotional place as you.
Waiting.
After that, you started pulling away. Quietly.
When Max texted you a few days later:
Race in Qatar this week. Want to come?
You read the message three times. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Finally you typed; Busy with work, sorry.
A few days later he tried again.
Could fly you out for Abu Dhabi for the final race? The fights still on. Could use my good luck charm.
You stared at the message late at night in your dark bedroom, Zack already asleep beside you.
It’s okay, you replied. I’ll watch from home.
Calls became shorter and messages took longer to answer.
Sometimes you ignored them entirely. Each time you told yourself it was the right thing to do. You were trying to make your life work. Trying to make something real with Zack.
Trying to stop orbiting a man you’d loved for most of your life.
Eventually, the silence settled in. It felt empty, but it stuck.
December 2025
The final race arrived. You watched it alone, in your bedroom, Zack in the lounge watching TV, loud. He didn’t like that you kept up with Max’s career.
The room was dim, curtains half drawn, the glow of the laptop casting pale light across the room.
The commentary murmured softly as Max drove.
He was still incredible. Precise. Aggressive.
Even in defeat he looked untouchable.
The commentators spoke endlessly about the championship slipping through his fingers that season.
But all you could think about was how extraordinary he still was. How the entire sport bent around him whether he won or lost.
Your chest tightened watching him. He looked so far away now. So untouchable.
When the race ended, you sat there long after the broadcast cut to commercials.
The quiet in the room felt heavier than usual. The noise from Zack fading into a hum.
You picked up your phone slowly.
Opened your chat. Your fingers hovered before typing, deleting and then retyping.
I’m forever in awe of your talent. You deserved the championship this year. But I know you’ll come back stronger than ever next season. You always do.
The little delivered notification appeared.
You waited. Minutes passing. Then it changed to read.
You watched the screen, your heartbeat slow and heavy in your chest. Nothing came back. No typing dots.
No reply.
Just silence.
Christmas 2025
Christmas used to be on of your favourite times of year.
Not because of presents or decorations.Because it meant people.
Noise. Chaos. Friends crowded into living rooms with too many drinks and too many opinions about Christmas movies.
Max arguing passionately about why Die Hard counted as a holiday film.
Someone always burning something in the kitchen.
Laughter echoing through rooms until late in the night. This year it was just you and Zack.
Your apartment looked festive enough on the surface. A small tree stood near the window, decorated with mismatched ornaments you’d collected over the years.
A string of fairy lights hung loosely along the wall. But the room felt strangely hollow.
The lights reflected dimly off the windows, making the apartment seem smaller. Suffocating almost.
Zack stretched out across the sofa beside you, watching something mindless on television while scrolling through his phone.
You sat curled into the opposite corner.
A mug of tea rested cold in your hands.
The TV flickered blue shadows across the room.
“Thought you liked Christmas,” Zack said after a while. His eyes still on his phone.
You forced a faint smile. “I do.”
But not like this.
You missed the energy. The feeling of belonging somewhere loud and warm and chaotic. Instead the apartment felt quiet in a way that made the air feel heavy.
You caught your reflection faintly in the dark window as you got up to place your mug in the kitchen. The girl staring back looked pale.
Your eyes seemed duller than you remembered. Your hair hung loose around your shoulders but looked lifeless somehow. T brightness had slowly drained out of you without you noticing until it was completely gone.
You didn’t recognize yourself.
This felt like waiting.
You glanced at Zack.
Being with him felt like slowly disappearing. Like every day a small piece of yourself faded into the background.
Later that night Zack went to shower. The bathroom door closed. The sound of water filled the apartment.
You reached slowly for your phone.
Max’s name sat buried halfway down your messages now.
Your message after the final race still sat there unanswered. You stared at it for a long time.
Then typed; Happy Christmas.
The message felt small. Almost pathetic. But you pressed send anyway.
The phone screen glowed softly in the dim living room. Minutes passed.
Then the notification appeared. Read.
You waited.
Merry Christmas y/n.
And then silence again.
Eventually you placed the phone face down on the coffee table. Zack coming out of the bathroom hair soaked. You shot him a small smile to distract from the glassiness of the tears forming in your eyes.
New Years Eve 2025
Max almost didn’t go.
But their friends insisted. New Year’s Eve had always been a tradition.
Same group every year. Same house. Same chaotic countdown.
When he arrived the house was already buzzing. Music filled the rooms. Laughter bounced off the walls. Someone had started opening champagne far too early.
But Max noticed immediately. You weren’t there.
His eyes scanned the room again instinctively. Still nothing.
You loved New Year’s Eve. More than anyone.
You always said it was your favourite holiday. Better than Christmas.
“New Year’s is about hope,” you used to say. “It’s the one night everyone believes next year might be better.”
You loved welcoming the year surrounded by people you loved. Which meant you should have been here. But you weren’t.
Max spotted Clara near the kitchen.
“Where’s Y/N?” he asked casually.
Clara hesitated for just a second. Max caught it immediately.
“What?” he pressed. “What’s wrong?”
She sighed softly.
“You haven’t spoken to her much lately, have you?”
His jaw tightened. “No.”
Clara leaned against the counter.
“She barely sees anyone now. She’s… she’s just not herself.”
The noise of the party faded slightly in his ears.
“You can see it in her eyes,” Clara continued quietly. “She’s lost.”
Max swallowed hard.
“And Zack?” he asked.
Clara looked away. “She’s miserable with him.”
The words landed like a punch to the ribs. Miserable.
Suddenly the room felt too small, he didn’t know what to say. He watched as Clara got pulled away.
Max stepped outside onto the porch. A sudden urge to get fresh air into his tightening lungs.
He pulled out his phone.
Your chat still sat there. Still unfinished and unresolved.
“Five minutes to midnight!” Someone shouted. People started gathering inside, the music growing louder.
Max started typing. Happy New Year.
He deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted that too.
Three dots appeared.
You were typing.
His heart jumped unexpectedly. He waited.
The dots stayed for several seconds. Then vanished.
No message came through. Max stared at the empty screen.
Slowly he erased the words he had been writing. Locked his phone. And slipped it back into his pocket.
Inside the house the countdown erupted.
“THREE! TWO! ONE!”
“Happy New Year!”
Cheers exploded.
Kisses shared.
But Max barely heard it over the pounding of his heart.
Across the city you sat curled on your sofa.
The apartment was dim except for the soft glow of fireworks reflecting through the windows.
Zack’s head rested heavily in your lap. He’d fallen asleep nearly an hour earlier. You hated that.
You always loved the exact moment midnight struck. The feeling of possibility. Tonight everything felt still. You felt alone.
You were wearing a plain deep blue jumper, oversized, the sleeves slightly too long for your arms. To Zack it was just another comfortable sweater.
But you knew exactly where it came from.
You’d taken it years ago during a cold race weekend, slipping it on when the paddock wind had cut straight through your jacket. You’d never given it back. Somehow it had followed you through every move, every up, every down, every year.
And lately it had become something else. A quiet comfort. Something familiar to wrap yourself in when the loneliness crept too close. The fabric smelled faintly of detergent now, any trace of him long washed away. Only the memory of him lingered in it.
Your phone rested in your hand. Max’s chat open.
Your message typed but unsent.
Happy New Year.
You watched as three dots suddenly appeared. Your heart stopped.
He was typing.
You waited.
The dots blinked once. Then disappeared. Nothing arrived.
The hope drained slowly from your chest.
You erased your message, locking your phone, setting it down on the arm of the sofa.
Leaning your head back against the cushions, you stared at the ceiling. Your apartment felt quiet despite the crack of the fireworks exploding across the sky. Welcoming a brand new year.
All you felt was the same hollow ache spreading through your chest. Your fingers curled slightly into the sleeves of the jumper. Holding onto it without realizing. You had never felt more alone.
February 2026
Your apartment had slowly become smaller over the past few months. Not physically. But in the way quiet spaces can start to feel like they’re closing in around you.
The curtains were half drawn even though it was mid-afternoon. Late afternoon grey winter light filtered through the crack in thin fabric, casting a dull glow across the room.
You sat curled in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled close to your chest.
The deep blue jumper hung loosely around you, the sleeves covering half your hands as you wrapped your arms around yourself. Your hair was tied into a loose knot that had mostly fallen out, strands slipping around your face.
The apartment looked lived in but not alive.
A mug sat abandoned on the coffee table beside a book you hadn’t actually read in weeks. The fairy lights from Christmas were still strung along the wall, though half of them had burnt out now.
You hadn’t bothered fixing them.
The door buzzed.
You blinked, momentarily disoriented before slowly standing, grafting yourself to answer the door.
When you opened it, Clara stood there.
She looked bright compared to the dim hallway behind you, bundled in a coat, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes already searching your face carefully, an expression that was far too determined for a casual visit.
“Hi,” she said gently.
She stepped aside automatically before you spoke.
Clara paused as she looked around the apartment. Not judging. Just noticing. She had always been perceptive like that.
“You’ve still got the Christmas lights up,” she said quietly.
You shrugged.
“Haven’t got around to taking them down.”
Clara set the bag down on the counter, walking to the windows, pulling the curtains open letting some light into the dull apartments, she turned toward you.
“You busy this weekend? You didn’t reply to my messages.”
Your stomach sank slightly. You already knew where this was going.
“I don’t know Clara… I’m not really in a people mood lately.”
Clara crossed the room toward you slowly.
“I noticed.”
Her tone wasn’t accusing. It was worried.
You shifted awkwardly where you stood, pulling the sleeves of the jumper further over your hands.
Clara stopped right in front of you and gently grabbed your hands. The warmth of her touch surprised you.
“You’ve disappeared,” she said softly.
Your eyes dropped to the floor. “I haven’t disappeared.”
“You have.”
Her grip tightened slightly. “You never come out. You never see anyone. Every time we ask you to do something you say you’re tired or busy.”
You didn’t know what to say to that. Because she was right.
Clara squeezed your hands again.
“Saturday is my birthday.”
You blinked.
“I know.”
“I rented a big house out near the lake,” she continued. “Just a party with all my favourite people.”
Your stomach twisted.
“I don’t know Clara…”
“I know,” she interrupted gently. “But that’s why I’m here.”
She stepped closer, her voice firm now.
“You’ve lost yourself and I’m worried.”
The words hit harder than you expected. Your throat tightened.
“We’re all worried,” she continued quietly. “But you’re not alone. Ever.”
Your eyes burned suddenly. You swallowed hard. Clara’s thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles.
“Please just come for a little while.”
You shook your head slightly. “I don’t think I can.”
“Yes you can.”
The certainty in her voice startled you.
“If you don’t enjoy yourself after one hour,” she said carefully, “you can leave.”
You looked up at her slowly.
“One hour?”
“That’s all I’m asking. But you have to try.”
You felt tears starting to pool in your eyes. You hated how fragile you’d become. You used to be fearless. The girl who used to march up to Max in karting paddocks and argue with him in front of entire crowds. You used to fight for everything. Now even the idea of walking into a room full of friends made your chest tighten.
“I just…” your voice cracked slightly. “I feel…”
You couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Clara understood anyway.
“Trapped?” she offered gently.
Your lips pressed together. You nodded faintly.
“I know, angel, I know,” she said softly. Her expression softened. “But hiding isn’t helping you.”
Your eyes dropped again. The floor blurred slightly as tears finally fell.
You knew she was right. You could feel it every day.
That dull heavy feeling in your chest. Like you were living someone else’s life.
“One hour?” you asked again, your voice smaller now.
Clara’s face brightened slightly. “That’s it. But no Zack.”
Your eyes flicked up instantly. A small crease of worry formed between your brows.
“What do I tell him?”
Clara sighed lightly. “I’ll talk to him if I have to.”
You looked uncertain. “He’s going to think it’s weird.”
“Let him.” Her voice turned slightly sharper. “You need a break.”
Your fingers twisted nervously in the oversized sleeves of the jumper.
“A break from what?”
Clara looked at you carefully. “From thinking you’re just that meathead’s girlfriend. You need time to just be you.”
The bluntness almost made you laugh. Almost.
“You deserve to be yourself again,” she added softly.The words landed somewhere deep in your chest.
You missed that girl. The one who laughed too loudly. The one who loved crowded rooms and late nights and chaos. The one who didn’t feel scared all the time.
You slowly nodded.
Clara’s shoulders relaxed instantly. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you said quietly.
She smiled warmly and pulled you into a tight hug.
You felt it, small crack of light. A small escape.
She squeezes you in the hug once more. “I’ll see you Saturday, okay angel?”
Clara’s Birthday
The argument had started before you’d even finished putting your shoes on.
Zack was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded tightly across his chest, his jaw tense in the way it always got when something irritated him.
His phone sat in his hand between you.
The message Clara had sent this morning, open and waving in your face.
Hey Zack! Just letting you know tonight is kinda inner circle only. Friends from when we were kids. Hope you understand!
It had been polite. Careful. Zack hadn’t taken it that way.
“Inner circle?” he repeated bitterly.
You avoided his eyes, focusing instead on pulling your coat over your shoulders.
“I think she just means,”
“I am inner circle,” he interrupted angrily.
You paused. He pushed himself off the counter, stepping closer.
“I’m your boyfriend, we’re together,” he continued. “That makes me inner circle.”
You didn’t answer immediately. The truth sat uncomfortably in your chest.
You didn’t feel like you and Zack were an anything anymore.
You felt like you were orbiting around him because you were worried what would happen if you stopped.
You didn’t feel like you were together. Not really. Not in the way couples were supposed to feel. The words stayed trapped behind your teeth.
Saying that out loud would require a strength you didn’t have tonight.
So instead you defended Clara.
“I think she just wanted friends from when we were kids,” you said quietly. “The people she grew up with.”
Zack scoffed.
“I bet Max will be there.”
The bitterness in his voice made your chest tighten.
“I’m not sure,” you replied.
Zack stared at you like you’d said something ridiculous.
“Don’t be dumb.” The words came out sharper than you expected.
“If you’re there,” he continued, “he’ll show up.”
You swallowed, exhaling slowly. A familiar argument.
“Well… he’s Clara’s friend,” you said carefully. “So maybe he will be.”
Zack laughed under his breath, but there was no humour in it.
“He’s your ex,” he snapped. “That’s how he became close with Clara.”
You stayed quiet.
“God,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re so fucking stupid and naive.”
The words hung in the air between you. Naive, stupid, dumb.
You stared down at the floor. To tired to fight him, too drained to defend yourself.
“I don’t have time for this,” you said finally, your voice quieter.
You grabbed your bag from the chair beside the door.
“I said I’d go for an hour or so,” you continued. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself.
“The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back.”
Zack watched you carefully. Then he reached for his car keys. “I’ll give you a lift.”
Your head snapped up. “No.” The answer came too quickly.
He frowned.
You forced a calmer tone. “No, it’s okay,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag. “If I want to leave earlier…” or later, you added silently in your head. “…I can get myself back without having to call you.”
Zack studied you for a moment longer. “Fine,” he muttered. You left before the conversation could spiral further.
-
The engine had been off long enough that the windshield had started to fog faintly along the edges. Your breath left soft clouds in the cool air as you leaned back into the seat, staring through the glass at the warm glow of Clara’s rented house. Hands still clasping the steering wheel. You hadn’t moved since you arrived.
The house in front of you glowed warmly with light. Music spilled faintly through the walls, muffled laughter drifting out each time the front door opened.
The porch was decorated with balloons and banners that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY CLARA in bright gold letters. A cluster of fairy lights wrapped around the railing.
From the outside it looked inviting. But you couldn’t bring yourself to open the car door yet.
Zack’s words replayed in your head. Don’t be dumb. Fucking naive. Stupid.
You stared at the porch decorations, your chest tightening slowly.
Naive. The word echoed again. Maybe you were. Maybe everyone else could see things clearly except you.
You thought about the past year. How easily you had drifted away from yourself. How small your world had become. Your throat tightened. Through the windshield you could see shadows moving inside the house. People laughing. Dancing. Living.
For a moment you almost started the car again. Almost drove home. Back to the quiet apartment. Your hands gripping the steering wheel as your head fell upon them.
The car door suddenly opened. Cold air rushed in.
You startled, your head snapping toward the movement to see Max stood there, leaning slightly against the open door like he’d been there longer than you realized.
Your brain took a second to catch up.
His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His hair was slightly messy from the wind, cheeks faintly flushed from the cold night air.
His eyes studied you carefully.
“Clara will be pissed if you don’t give her her present.”
Your heart stuttered. For a moment you just stared at him. It felt like he had walked straight into your thoughts, like he had known exactly what you had been considering doing.
Leaving. Running. Avoiding everything.
He extended his hand toward you. Casually. “Come on.”
You looked at his hand. Then back at his face.
“You have insane timing, you know that?” you said softly.
There was the faintest edge of a laugh in your voice. It felt strange. You hadn’t felt like this in a while.
Max shrugged lightly.
“Yeah,” he said. “So I’ve been told.”
You placed your hand in his. The contact sent a small spark of familiarity through your chest as he helped you out of your car.
You reached back into the car to grab the small gift bag sitting in the passenger seat. Max took it from your hand almost instantly.
“I’ve got it.”
You watched him for a second. Something about the small gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You didn’t protest. Instead you fell into step beside him as you both walked toward the house.
The gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes. The porch lights cast warm gold across the driveway. You could feel your nerves starting to return the closer you got.
Max seemed to notice. He slowed his pace slightly without saying anything. Matching your steps. Not rushing you.
The music inside grew louder as you approached the door. Someone shouted something from inside followed by a burst of laughter.
Max pushed the door open, allowing you to step in first.
The warmth of the house hit you immediately.
“Y/N!” Clara’s voice cut through the noise like a siren. She appeared from across the room, already holding a drink, beaming at the sight of you.
“OH MY GOD!” She shrieked loudly enough that half the room turned. Every head seemed to swivel toward the doorway at once, allowing eyes on you.
Your chest tightened instantly. You felt yourself shrink slightly under the attention. Your body reacting before your brain could stop it as you took an involuntary step backward.
Right into the wall of Max’s chest. His hands came up automatically, steadying your arms lightly. He leaned down slightly so only you could hear him.
“You’re okay.” His voice was quiet, low and reassuring, grounding you almost immediately. You hadn’t realized how tense you’d been until that moment.
You inhaled slowly, trying to settle the sudden rush of nerves.
You wondered briefly what Clara had told him. Because he was being careful, more careful than usual. Max had always been gentle with you. But tonight it felt different. More tentative. Like he was aware of something fragile sitting just beneath your skin.
Or perhaps the absence of that feeling for so long had made the familiar gestures feel stronger. More intense.
Clara stumbled closer through the crowd. Already a little unsteady.
“Well if it isn’t my favourite coupl…” She stopped mid-word. Her eyes widened suddenly. The alcohol hadn’t dulled her awareness enough to miss what she had almost said.
Your stomach dropped.
“…my favourite people!” she corrected quickly. Her voice jumped an octave higher as she tried to recover.
A few of your friends nearby exchanged awkward glances, before laughing at her drunken slip up.
Clara clapped her hands suddenly, forcing energy back into the moment.
“YOU CAME!” She grabbed you into a hug before you could react. “You actually came!”
You laughed weakly against her shoulder. “I said I would.”
Clara pulled back, eyes sparkling as she looked between you and Max.
Then down at the gift bag he was holding.
“Oh my god you brought me something!”
“That’s from Y/N.” Max handed it over casually.
“Yeah! I assumed that you being here is what you got me.” Clara giggled, walking toward where all her presents sat upon a long table. Max gave your hip a squeeze before walking towards the group of his friends in the living room.
You made your way to the kitchen. Bottle and cups littered across the counter. You poured a drinking finishing it as quickly as it arrived in your cup.
The room buzzed with conversation and music, warm yellow lights reflecting off the countertops and glasses scattered around the island. People sat around in the room before you, laughing loudly, voices overlapping in comfortable chaos.
Across the room Clara drifted from person to person like she was made of light.
She hugged everyone. Giggled at every joke. Spun dramatically when someone complimented the decorations. Watching her made something in your chest loosen slightly.
You felt… lighter.
There was still a faint distance inside you, like you were observing the room through a thin layer of glass. The noise and energy felt wonderful but overwhelming at the same time. But it was better than the silence of your apartment. Better than the constant heaviness.
You took a slow sip of your drink the liquid burned warmly down your throat.
“You need to relax.”
You nearly jumped out of your skin. Your hand flew up to your chest instinctively as you spun toward the voice.
Max stood beside you. Close enough that you hadn’t even noticed him approaching.
“Jesus,” you exhaled, pressing your palm against your chest. “Noise, Max. Please make some noise when you approach people.”
He laughed quietly at your startled expression. Your cheeks had flushed slightly from both the drink and the shock.
“I did make noise.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I walked.”
“That’s not noise.”
He grinned as you shook your head, but a small smile tugged at your mouth.
“Why are you so on edge?” he asked more gently. “We know all these people. They’re our friends.”
You looked around the room again. Everyone here had known you for years.
Karting tracks.
School breaks.
Birthdays and holidays and endless late nights growing up.
“I’ve just been a little out of the loop,” you admitted quietly. “I’m… adjusting, I suppose.”
Max watched you carefully. “So I heard.”
The words carried weight. You looked at him sharply. There was an empathetic look on his face, a frown of concern between his eyebrows.
It made something defensive spark in your chest. “Don’t pity me,” you shot back.
“It’s not pity, Y/N.”
“It looks like pity.”
“It’s worry,” he corrected gently. “Clara said you’re not yourself lately. I can see it now too,” he continued. “For myself.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your glass.
“I thought it was strange when you rejected all my offers for the races”
You let out a slow breath through your lips.
“Hmm,” you hummed sarcastically. “You’ve been very quick to respond to all my messages.”
Max huffed a quiet laugh. “You started it.”
He nudged your shoulder lightly with his own. The movement was casual. It disrupted the tension that had been forming between you.
He knew exactly what he was doing. You rolled your eyes slightly. The argument dissipated before it could grow.
Across the room Clara suddenly shouted loudly.
“EVERYONE! Come play a game!” Groans and cheers erupted simultaneously.
Someone dragged chairs toward the dining table. Another person brought a bottle of tequila. Within minutes the entire group had gathered around the table in chaotic excitement. The hour blurred beautifully into the next.
Clara introduced some ridiculous drinking game that no one fully understood but everyone enthusiastically participated in anyway.
“Cheater,” you accused, elbowing Max beside you as he slid a card back into the deck suspiciously fast.
“I did not cheat.”
“You absolutely did.”
“You’re just losing.”
The two of you bickered back and forth, your voices light and playful. Your friends laughed around you. Someone shoved another drink into your hand. At one point you leaned back in your chair laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
You had missed this. This version of yourself. The one who felt loud and alive and unapologetically present. For a little while the heaviness faded. You almost forgot the tightness that had been living inside your chest for months.
Almost.
The door slammed open.
The sound cracked through the room like thunder. Everyone froze. Your head snapped toward the doorway.
Zack stood there.
His chest rose heavily as if he’d rushed inside. His face flushed red. His jaw tight. Anger radiated from him so strongly the room went completely silent.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
You pushed your chair back and stood up. Every single pair of eyes in the room turned toward you. The sudden attention made your chest tighten painfully.
You felt exposed, too seen, too vulnerable.
“One hour,” Zack said sharply his voice cutting through the room.
“That’s what you said.”
Your heart started pounding.
“And you’ve been here for hours.”
Your mouth opened slightly.
“Without a message. Without any communication.”
He gestured vaguely toward the table.
“Getting drunk obviously. Embarrassing yourself I bet.”
“No,” you said quickly. “No, I’m sorry. I lost track of time. I’m so sorry.” Your voice came out softer than you intended.
Across the table Clara and Max both stared at each other in disbelief. They had never seen you react like that before. Never seen you apologize to someone speaking to you like that. It didn’t look like you. It didn’t sound like you.
“Come on,” Zack said sharply. “We’re going home.”
The command sat heavily in the air.
You bent down quickly to grab your bag from beside your chair. Your fingers fumbled slightly as you lifted it.
“I’m so sorry, Clara,” you whispered quietly as you stepped away from the table.
Clara’s face fell.
As you moved to walk around the table a hand gently caught your wrist. You spun around, Max now stood before you.
Your eyes met his your expression held something raw. He hated the way you looked in that moment.
Small. Fragile. Like someone who had forgotten how to fight back. He could swear he saw fear flash briefly in your eyes.
“No,” he said quietly. “Y/N.”
“I just don’t want an argument, Max.”
Your fingers tried to slip from his grip.
“Let me go, please.”
Clara spoke up loudly now too.
“Come on, Zack,” she said, forcing a light tone. “It’s my birthday. You can stay too. But I want Y/N here.”
Zack’s expression darkened.
“Y/N is my girlfriend.” The way he said it sounded more like a claim than a statement. “And we want to go home.”
Max’s jaw tightened.
For months he had watched you distance yourself from him. Heard stories of how you had lost yourself, cut everyone from your life. Saw the worry on Clara’s face at New Years. He had told himself it wasn’t his place anymore.
But the way you stood there, looking smaller with every word Zack spoke, something inside him finally snapped.
“You’re the only one here who thinks she belongs to you.”
The room went dead silent. Zack’s head whipped toward him. Max’s voice stayed calm, scarily so.
“She clearly doesn’t want to go with you.”
The tension in the room exploded instantly.
“What the hell did you just say?” Zack barked.
Max stepped forward slightly. “Did I stutter?”
Zack scoffed harshly. “Stay out of it.”
Max laughed coldly. “Hard to do when you’re dragging her out of a room full of her friends like she’s done something wrong.”
“She has done something wrong,” Zack snapped. “She said an hour.”
“And you showed up here to monitor her like she’s a child.”
“That’s none of your business.”
Max’s eyes flashed.
“It is when you’re standing here talking to her like that.”
Zack stepped closer.
“Oh I get it,” he said bitterly. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”
Max didn’t move.
“Waiting for her to come running back.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Stop,” you tried to interrupt weakly, your eyes on Max. Pleading. You knew Zack wouldn’t listen to you. You hoped Max would.
Neither of them listened.
“You think she’s yours?” Zack continued harshly.
“I don’t think she’s anyone’s.” Max said his jaw clenching.
The words landed heavily in the room.
“She’s my girlfriend and she’s happy.”
Max glanced briefly at you. Your eyes looked panicked, exhausted.
Then he looked back at Zack. “Is she?” he said quietly.
The room had gone completely silent.
The music still played faintly in the background somewhere behind you, but it sounded far away now, muffled beneath the heavy tension filling the house. The laughter that had filled the room minutes earlier had disappeared, replaced by the kind of quiet that made every movement feel loud.
You could feel every pair of eyes on you.
Friends you had known since you were children. People who had seen you at your loudest, your fiercest, your happiest. Now they watched you stand there, frozen between the two men whose anger crackled in the air like electricity.
Your heart pounded painfully in your chest.
Max stood just a step away from you, his posture still and controlled, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. Zack stood across the room, chest puffed out, jaw tight with barely contained frustration.
And you stood between them.
Max’s eyes searched yours once more
“Y/N… do you actually want to go?”
Your throat tightened instantly.
No.
You didn’t want to go.
Not back to the apartment. Not back to the silence that hung between you and Zack like a constant storm waiting to break. Not back to the quiet arguments and the slow, suffocating feeling that you were shrinking more and more every day.
But the thought of the scene growing bigger, louder, more explosive in front of everyone felt unbearable too.
You saw the anger in Zack’s posture. The way his shoulders squared. The way his jaw clenched. You knew exactly how this would escalate. You’d seen it too many times.
“Max…” your voice came out small. “Please let me go.” The quiet fear sitting behind your eyes.
You used to argue with him over stupid karting incidents with more fire than this. You used to stand toe-to-toe with anyone who pushed you. Now you looked like you were trying to disappear.
Your gaze dropped briefly before you turned toward Zack.
“Zack,” you said quietly. “Let’s just go.”
Max’s head turned sharply. Your eyes met his. The disappointment there hurt worse than the argument itself.
“I’m sorry,” you said softly to Clara, your voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to ruin your birthday.”
Clara’s face fell immediately.
“You didn’t ruin anything.”
you were already grabbing your coat and your bag from the chair. Zack moved toward the door instantly. Satisfied.
You walked past Max slowly. The weight in your chest almost unbearable. As you passed him, your eyes lifted for just a second. Tears had already begun forming. “I’m sorry.” You mouthed to him.
Max’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing slightly at his sides like he was fighting the instinct to stop you.
The front door closed behind you. And the warmth of the house disappeared instantly.
The drive home felt suffocating. Zack didn’t say much. But the silence between you was loud enough on its own. Streetlights passed across the windshield in quiet intervals. Your hands rested in your lap, fingers twisting slowly.
Neither of you spoke.
When the apartment door shut behind you, the quiet shattered.
“What the hell was that?”
His voice was sharp, cutting through the room. You placed your bag down slowly near the door.
“I said I was sorry.” Your voice came out soft, but empty.
“Sorry?” he snapped.
“You embarrassed me in front of everyone.”
You didn’t respond. You walked slowly toward the couch and sat down. Your hands folded together in your lap.
Your eyes fixed somewhere on the floor.
Zack paced the room like a storm looking for somewhere to land.
“You think I don’t see what’s going on?” he continued.
“You think I’m stupid?”
The words hit, yet a omething inside you had already switched off. You had spent months listening to this tone. Months learning to shrink your reactions so arguments wouldn’t escalate further. Now his voice blurred into background noise. Like rain against a window.
Eventually he dragged a frustrated hand through his hair.
“I’m going to the gym,” he snapped. “I need to blow off steam.”
The door slammed. The apartment fell quiet. The silence that followed was heavier than the yelling.
You sat there for a long moment. Your chest rising and falling unevenly. Your hands began to shake. The room felt too big. Too empty.
Your phone sat there in front of you on the coffee table.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you pressed call.
Max arrived so quickly it almost felt impossible.
You barely had time to grab your bag and step outside before his car pulled up.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Your breathing was uneven. Your cheeks still damp from tears.
Max started the engine quietly. The car pulled away from the curb. Streetlights slid across the windshield in long quiet lines.
His hand moved slowly across the center console until his fingers found yours. You held onto him instantly.
Your fingers tightening around his like something solid in the middle of a storm.
Neither of you said a word.
You just cried quietly beside him while the city passed in soft blurs of light.
And Max held your hand the entire drive.
The moment the door shut behind you in his apartment, the tension in your chest shifted slightly. The familiar space wrapped around you like a memory.
Max didn’t ask questions.
He just kept hold of your hand, guiding you gently down the hallway toward his bedroom.
His touch was careful.
Like he was afraid you might break.
The room was softly lit, quiet and warm.
You stood near the edge of the bed while he stepped toward his dresser.
He pulled out one of his oversized jumpers.
“Here,” he said quietly. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
He looked at you as you looked lost and hurt before him. He lifted up your arms sliding the jumper over your head.
His scent lingered faintly in the fabric.
“Better?”
You nodded quietly. The word didn’t feel necessary. And in truth you didn’t just your voice just yet.
You removed your jeans and climbed slowly into his bed, pulling the covers around you.
Max disappeared briefly into the bathroom before returning a minute later in sweatpants, his shirt gone. He slid into the bed beside you.
Your phone buzzed almost immediately on the bedside table.
Zack.
Again.
And again.
You stared at the screen for a moment. Then you turned the phone off completely and placed it face down on the nightstand.
Max didn’t comment. He simply opened his arm slightly. An unspoken invitation. You moved closer without hesitation resting your head against his chest his arm wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you into the warmth of him.
His fingers slid gently beneath the hem of the jumper, tracing slow lines along your back. Back and forth.
The quiet movement slowly eased the tightness in your chest. Your breathing began to slow.
After a long moment, he spoke softly. “You know you don’t deserve this sadness.”
Your eyes stayed closed against him.
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Maybe I’m being punished for something.”
His hand stilled.
You swallowed softly.
“I think I got so low… that I started believing maybe I deserved it.”
Max gently lifted your chin until you had to look at him.
“You’re one of the most incredible people I’ve ever known. You changed my life. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you.”
His thumb brushed away a tear that had slipped down your cheek.
“You believed in me before anyone else did. When we were just kids screaming in a kart.”
His expression softened again. “You made me better.” His voice lowered. “You don’t deserve a single thing that’s happened to you.”
“I promise you,” he said quietly. “That kind of sadness will never happen again.”
His forehead rested gently against yours.
“You’re safe with me now.” Max pressed a soft kiss to your forehead then pulled you gently back against his chest. His fingers resumed tracing slow comforting lines along your back.
“We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “Together.”
AN ugh I think I hate this but it took me so long to write that I feel like it’s a waste not to post 😭
AN: This is an idea I have drafted up. It’ll be a multi part series but idk if it’s any good. If you would read this plz interact!
Blackridge hadn’t changed.
It still wore the rain like a confession.
Water battered against her windshield in violent sheets, blurring neon signs and old brick buildings into bleeding streaks of red and gold. The wipers screeched across the glass, tired, protesting, barely keeping up with the storm.
Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
Familiar streets slid past. The corner store that used to close early after a shooting. The alley she was told never to cut through. The bus stop where she once waited too long and learned what it felt like to be watched.
Blackridge didn’t forget. And neither did she.
Her chest tightened as she turned onto Hawthorne. She used to walk this road home at eighteen, keys laced between her fingers, heart racing at every shadow. Her dad’s warnings echoing in her ears.
Don’t be late. Don’t trust anyone.
The digital clock on her dashboard flicked to 9:00 AM as she swung into the police station lot.
Late.
She killed the engine and practically launched herself out of the car, rain instantly soaking through her blouse. She didn’t even glance at the crooked parking job, not her problem right now. Her jacket hung halfway off one arm as she sprinted toward the building, fighting the other sleeve as she climbed the stairs two at a time.
Organised Crime Unit. First day.
And she was already making an impression.
She shoved open the door marked 15A and every head snapped toward her, the room falling silent.
Her breath came in sharp, ragged pulls, the aftermath of sprinting several flights. The air smelled like burnt coffee and tension.
“You’re late.”
The man at the front of the room didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His glare did enough.
“Sorry, sir.”
She straightened despite her pulse hammering in her ears. She refused to shrink. Refused to cower under the weight of those brutal eyes.
He looked her up and down, assessing. Not quite disdain, but close.
“Name?”
“Y/n, sir.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before he turned back to the board.
“We’re going after a gang called Red Horn.”
A photo clicked onto the projector, a dimly lit bar sign glowing crimson against the night.
“They’ve been quietly rebuilding,” he continued. “Drugs. Distribution networks. Aggressive protection deals with smaller crews. They operate under the legal front of this bar, The Crimson Vault.”
Murmurs circled the room.
“They offer protection through force. Anyone who refuses tends to disappear.”
The next slide clicked.
A shadowed photo. Tall. Broad shoulders. Head slightly tilted down. A sharp jawline barely visible under dim light.
“What we really want,” the captain said, voice turning colder, “is their leader. He’s smart. Fast. Calculated.”
The image sharpened just enough to make his eyes prominent, pointed green eyes. Even in a grainy surveillance photo, they looked lethal.
“We need to get close to him. He’s a closed book. Doesn’t party publicly. Doesn’t flaunt. Doesn’t talk unless necessary.”
The captain clasped his hands behind his back.
“But once we’re in? We bleed him dry. Build a case. Take them all down.”
A low hum of agreement filled the room, filled with excitement and hunger.
She raised her hand. Silence again.
“Yes, y/n?” The word sounded deliberate.
“Why this gang?” she asked. “Why not the four others running Blackridge?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. The man’s eyes hardened.
“Personal ties,” he said shortly. “Let’s say.” Not an answer.
“Now,” he continued, scanning the room. “Is everyone in?”
A chorus of nods. She didn’t nod immediately.
She studied the screen again. Those eyes. Predatory. Controlled. Almost familiar.
The captain’s lips curled slightly.
“Perfect,” he said.
The slide changed. Clearer image this time.
Sharp features. Cocky tilt of his mouth. The kind of man who looked like he knew more than everyone else in the room.
“Let’s take down Max Verstappen.”
(Debating whether to do this about Max or another driver?? Idk?)
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