SUMMARY: After losing her first job out of law school, YN tries to hide how badly she is struggling from Nathan. But as the distance between them grows, he begins to realize that she has been carrying far more than she ever let him see.
Requested: Nathan Mackinnon + you hide your struggles because you dont want to be a burden
Dating Nathan had taught you that he noticed more than people gave him credit for.
He noticed when a teammate’s skating was half a second slower than usual. He noticed when someone was forcing a smile after a bad game. He noticed when you changed shampoos, when you were cold but refused to admit it, and when you pretended to understand whatever complicated play he was drawing on the back of a napkin.
Unfortunately, he also noticed when you started pulling away.
It didn’t happen all at once.
At first, you simply stopped suggesting restaurants for date night.
You told him you were tired of eating out and would rather stay in, which Nathan accepted easily. He liked quiet evenings with you—takeout containers spread across the coffee table, your legs resting over his lap while he watched game footage and you complained about whichever legal drama had recently offended you with its inaccuracies.
Then you stopped ordering takeout too. You insisted on cooking, even when your cupboards were nearly empty and dinner consisted of pasta, butter, and the last bit of grated cheese in your refrigerator.
Nathan ate two bowls without complaining.
Then you started declining invitations. Team dinners became overwhelming. Weekend trips were impossible because you had applications to finish. Even grabbing coffee before Nathan left for practice came with an excuse.
“I already made some at home.”
“I’m running late.”
“I’m not really in the mood.”
Each explanation sounded reasonable on its own. Together, they formed a pattern. Nathan noticed patterns.
You had been together for almost a year, but there were still parts of your life you kept carefully separated from his.
Nathan knew you had recently graduated from law school at the University of Denver. He knew you had spent years working toward the degree and that you had been proud—almost painfully proud—when a small Denver firm hired you shortly after graduation.
He had been there when you received the call.
You had thrown your arms around his neck and nearly knocked him backward, crying into his shoulder while repeating that you had done it.
Nathan had taken you to dinner that evening, even though you spent most of the meal talking about student loans, bar fees, and how you were finally going to be able to breathe.
For a little while, you had, then the firm began cutting junior staff. You were one of the first to go.
Nathan knew you had lost the job. What he didn’t know was how quickly everything had fallen apart afterward.
Your severance barely covered a month of expenses. Your student loan payment was withdrawn two days before your final paycheck cleared, leaving your checking account dangerously close to zero. You had paid only part of your electricity bill the previous month, which meant the new statement included the remaining balance, a late fee, and a warning printed in bold red letters.
Your credit card balance climbed each time you used it for groceries, then your landlord slid a notice beneath your door. Your rent would be increasing when your lease renewed. You read it three times while sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by unopened envelopes and a laptop displaying another rejection email.
It felt as though every decision you had made was returning to punish you.
You had gone to school because you wanted stability. You wanted a career that mattered. You wanted to be able to support yourself without relying on anyone else. Instead, you were unemployed, drowning in student debt, and calculating whether a box of cereal could reasonably count as dinner for four nights.
And your boyfriend was Nathan MacKinnon.
Nathan, who could pay your yearly rent without noticing the money had left his account. Nathan, whose idea of treating you was booking flights without checking the price and replacing your winter coat because he had decided the old one wasn’t warm enough.
You loved him.
That was precisely why you couldn’t tell him. You didn’t want him wondering whether you had stayed because of what he could provide. You didn’t want money to become something uneven and ugly between you. You didn’t want him to feel responsible for fixing a life that had been complicated long before he entered it.
Most of all, you didn’t want to become another person who needed something from him.
Nathan already carried enough. The expectations. The team. The city. The constant pressure to be better than he had been the day before.
You refused to add yourself to that list. So you hid it. You smiled whenever he asked how the job search was going, you changed the subject whenever he asked about your apartment. You told him your phone had been on silent when you missed his calls, even though you had watched his name illuminate the screen and hadn’t answered because you were crying too hard to sound normal.
You began wearing oversized sweaters whenever you saw him, you blamed your exhaustion on applications, you blamed your headaches on staring at your laptop. You blamed the way your jeans had started hanging more loosely from your hips on stress.
You thought you were protecting the relationship and Nathan felt like he was losing you.
—
“You coming over tonight?”
You held your phone against your ear with your shoulder while opening the refrigerator. A carton of eggs, half a bottle of ketchup and a container of leftovers you no longer trusted “I don’t think so.”
There was a pause on the other end.
Nathan had called after practice, his voice still slightly breathless, as though he had barely stepped out of the locker room before reaching for his phone “Why not?”
“I have applications to finish.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I had applications yesterday too.” Your tone came out sharper than intended, Nathan went silent. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against the refrigerator door “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m just stressed.”
“I know.” The softness in his voice somehow made it worse.
“I’ll call you later, okay?”
“YN—”
“I really need to finish this.” You hung up before he could respond. For several seconds, you stood motionless in the kitchen, staring at your dark reflection in the refrigerator door.
Then someone knocked.
You frowned. You weren’t expecting anyone, and your building’s security system usually required visitors to be buzzed inside. You walked toward the door cautiously and glanced through the peephole.
Nathan stood in the hallway. Your stomach dropped, you opened the door only wide enough to look at him “What are you doing here?”
His eyebrows pulled together “Nice to see you too.”
“I thought you were still at the arena.”
“I was. Now I’m here.” His hair was damp from a shower, and an Avalanche hoodie was pulled over a plain black T-shirt. He held a paper grocery bag against his chest.
You stared at it “What’s that?”
“Dinner.”
“I told you I had work.”
“And I told you I’d call when I was done with practice.” His gaze moved over your face. “You didn’t answer, so I came here.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just show up.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them. Nathan’s expression changed, not anger.
Hurt.
It was worse “I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?” You tightened your grip on the door. His eyes moved past you into the apartment. The living room lights were off despite the sun having disappeared nearly an hour earlier “Can I come in?”
You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell him you were exhausted and promise to see him tomorrow, when you had cleaned the apartment and hidden the envelopes scattered across your table. But Nathan was already looking at you as though he knew something was wrong.
You stepped aside, he entered without another word and placed the grocery bag on the counter. You folded your arms across your stomach, suddenly conscious of the oversized sweatshirt hanging from your frame. Nathan looked at you for too long.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The answer came too quickly.
You frowned “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His eyes moved down your body before returning to your face “You’ve lost weight.”
Your stomach twisted “No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.” Nathan stepped closer, studying you with a concern that made you want to disappear inside the sweatshirt.
The last time he had seen you properly had been nearly a week earlier. You had spent most of that evening wrapped in a blanket on his couch. Before that, you had worn loose clothes, blamed your exhaustion on job applications, and avoided changing in front of him.
You hadn’t thought the difference was noticeable. Nathan noticed everything “It’s probably stress,” you muttered.
“How much have you been eating?”
“I eat.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
You turned toward the counter “Can we not do this?”
Nathan didn’t answer immediately. Then you heard the quiet rustle of paper behind you. Your entire body went still. The grocery bag had been placed beside a stack of envelopes you had forgotten to move. When Nathan set it down, several letters had slipped onto the floor.
You turned around.
He was holding one of them. The electricity company’s logo was printed in the corner. A red FINAL NOTICE was visible through the plastic window.
“Nate.”
He looked at the envelope, then at you “What is this?”
“Give it to me.” You stepped forward, but he picked up another letter before you could reach him.A late notice from your student loan provider. Then the rent increase.
His expression changed with every page. Concern hardened into disbelief. Disbelief became anger—not explosive, but sharp and controlled “How long has this been going on?”
You reached for the letters, Nathan held them away from you “Give them back.”
“How long?”
“They’re addressed to me.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Because it’s none of your business.” The moment you said it, you knew it was the wrong thing.
Nathan stared at you “None of my business?”
“They’re my bills.”
“You’re my girlfriend.”
“That doesn’t give you permission to go through my mail.”
“I didn’t go through it. It fell on the floor beside a bag of food I brought because I suspected you weren’t eating.”
Your face burned “Lower your voice.”
“I’m not yelling.” He wasn’t, that somehow made it more intense. Nathan placed the letters on the counter, spreading them out as though he needed to see all the evidence at once.
A missed utility payment. An overdue loan installment. A credit card statement. The notice explaining that your rent would rise at the end of your lease. He tapped one of the envelopes “What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Stop saying that.” His voice cracked through the apartment. You flinched, Nathan saw it and closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to calm down.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less firm. “You’ve lost weight. Your fridge is empty. You haven’t wanted to go anywhere for weeks, and now I find final notices all over your apartment.” He looked directly at you. “So don’t stand there and tell me nothing is going on.”
You looked away.
The refrigerator suddenly sounded impossibly loud in the silence, Nathan walked toward it and opened the door. You didn’t try to stop him this time.
He stared at the nearly empty shelves, the carton of eggs, the box of the old leftovers, the almost empty bottle of ketchup and the bottle of water. He shut the door harder than necessary. “When did you last buy groceries?”
“I don’t remember.”
“When did you last eat?”
“I ate today.”
“What?” You said nothing, Nathan’s jaw clenched “What did you eat, YN?”
“Toast.”
He stared at you.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t swear at me.”
“I’m not swearing at you.” His hand dragged through his damp hair. “I’m trying to understand why you’re starving yourself while pretending everything’s fine.”
“I’m not starving myself.”
“You’re thinner.”
“I’ve been stressed.”
“You’re skipping meals because you can’t afford them.”
The words struck with enough force to make your eyes burn. You folded your arms tighter around your body “You don’t know that.”
“I can see it.”
“That doesn’t mean you understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation for every problem in my life.”
“No, but I think I deserve one when you’ve been lying to my face for weeks.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“You told me you were fine.”
“What was I supposed to say?” you snapped. “That I couldn’t afford coffee? That I was avoiding team dinners because I couldn’t keep letting you pay for me? That I stopped coming over because every time you suggested ordering food, I felt like a charity case?”
Nathan recoiled slightly “You think that’s how I see you?”
“I don’t know!” Your voice broke, you turned away from him, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Everything you had worked so hard to hide was sitting between you now, laid across the kitchen counter in white envelopes and red lettering.
Nathan knew, there was no pretending anymore “I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you whispered.
“How did you want me to find out?”
“I didn’t.” The admission filled the room, Nathan became still, you stared at the floor “I was going to handle it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not handling it.”
“I was applying for jobs.”
“And while you waited, what?” His voice sharpened again. “You were going to stop eating? Let them shut off your electricity?”
“I would’ve figured something out.”
“You should have told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s nothing you can do without making it weird!” Nathan blinked. You immediately wished you could take the words back, but everything was spilling out now. “You don’t understand what this feels like,” you said. “You don’t understand checking your account before buying groceries or deciding which bill can be late. You don’t know what it’s like to owe more money than you’ve ever seen because you thought getting an education would guarantee you could support yourself.”
“You’re right.” His answer stopped you, Nathan didn’t move closer, he didn’t argue “You’re right,” he repeated. “I don’t know what that feels like.” Your eyes started burning “That doesn’t mean you get to hide it from me until you’re making yourself sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“You’re barely eating.”
“I ate enough.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“Stop saying that!” Your voice echoed across the apartment. Nathan’s expression softened, but he didn’t take the words back. He looked at you with the same focus he carried onto the ice, except now there was fear beneath it.
“I noticed it as soon as you opened the door,” he said quietly. “Your face is thinner. That sweatshirt used to fit you differently.”
You wrapped your arms around your stomach “You weren’t supposed to notice.”
The confession came out so quietly that Nathan nearly missed it, His entire face changed “YN.”
You shook your head, wiping angrily at your cheeks “I did everything I was supposed to do,” you continued. “I studied. I worked throughout school. I took internships that barely paid me because everyone said the experience would be worth it. Then I graduated and got a job, and I thought I was safe.”
Your voice trembled “And now I can’t even afford this apartment. I’ve applied everywhere, Nate. Firms, nonprofits, assistant positions—jobs that don’t even require a law degree. Half of them never respond, and the other half tell me they went with someone more experienced.”
Nathan took a careful step toward you.
You shook your head. “My loans keep coming out. My bills are higher because I couldn’t make the full payments last month. My landlord is raising the rent, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I can’t ask my parents. They already helped me through school. I can’t ask my friends because they’re struggling too.”
“You can ask me.”
“That’s exactly what I didn’t want.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be your responsibility!” The apartment fell silent.
Nathan stared at you, pain flashing across his face. “You think that’s what you are?” You couldn’t answer. “Do you think every time you have a problem, I see you as something I have to deal with?”
“No, but we’ve only been together a year.”
“Only?”
“It’s not long enough for you to take on all of this.”
“I’m not asking to take over your life.”
“You’d try.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Probably. Because I love you.” Your breath caught, Nathan had told you he loved you before, but never like this. Never with frustration in his voice and his heart completely exposed. He moved closer until only a few inches separated you. “But helping you doesn’t mean I think you’re incapable,” he said. “And you telling me you’re scared doesn’t make you a burden. It makes you my partner.”
“I don’t want you paying my debts.”
“Okay.”
You searched his face through tear-blurred eyes “Okay?”
“I heard you.” His answer was immediate, but something about it felt deliberately careful.
You were too exhausted to question it. Some of the tension left your shoulders. Nathan reached for you, his hands settling gently around your arms. “But I’m also not going to pretend it’s fine that you’re losing weight because you’re too scared to let me buy you dinner.”
“It isn’t your responsibility to feed me.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It sounds like it.”
“I’m saying I love you.” His voice softened. “And watching you make yourself smaller so nobody has to worry about you isn’t something I can ignore.” your lower lip trembled, Nathan glanced toward the grocery bag “I brought enough food to last you more than one dinner.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“Because I lost weight?”
“That and every time we ate together, you barely touched anything unless I put it directly in front of you.”
You hadn’t realized he had noticed that too, Nathan noticed everything.
“I didn’t want you thinking I expected this from you,” you whispered. “The food. Money. Any of it.”
“Did I ever make you feel like you had to prove you weren’t with me for money?”
You looked down “No.”
“Then stop deciding what I’m going to think before giving me a chance.”
“Because it’s humiliating.” The confession escaped in a broken whisper. All the remaining anger disappeared from Nathan’s face. He moved closer and cupped your cheeks “I’m not humiliated by you.”
“You should be.”
“No.”
“I’m a lawyer who can’t pay her electricity bill.”
“You’re a lawyer who lost her job.”
“I should’ve saved more.”
“You did what you could.”
“I should’ve found another job by now.”
“That isn’t how it works.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I know you. You work harder than anyone I’ve met. You’re not lazy, and you’re not waiting for someone to rescue you.”
You swallowed “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Then we make a plan.”
“I don’t want you fixing everything.”
“Then we’ll figure it out without me fixing everything.”
“How?”
“We go through the bills together. You tell me what kind of help you’re comfortable with, and I respect it.”
“You make that sound easy.”
“It won’t be.” His expression softened. “But it’ll be easier than you doing it alone.”
You hesitated before glancing at the rent notice “I might have to move.”
Nathan was quiet for several seconds, then he said, “Move in with me.”mYour head snapped toward him “What?”
“Move in with me.”
“Nathan.”
“I’m serious.”
“We’ve never even talked about living together.”
“We’re talking about it now.”
“I’m not moving into your house because I can’t afford mine.”
“Then don’t move in because of that.”
“What other reason would there be?”
“Because we’ve been together for almost a year, you already spend half your time there, and I hate waking up when you’re not beside me.” The anger inside you faltered, Nathan continued before you could respond “Move in because you steal all the blankets. Move in because your shampoo has been in my shower for six months. Move in because you keep pretending those clothes in my closet aren’t yours.”
“They aren’t mine.”
“There are three dresses in there.”
“They’re emergency dresses.”
“What kind of emergency requires three dresses?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes remained serious “Move in because I love you.”
You shook your head “I can’t make that decision tonight.”
“Then don’t.”
“You’re not going to keep asking?”
“Oh, I’m definitely going to keep asking.”
“Nate.”
“But you don’t have to answer tonight.” He kissed your forehead, “Tonight, you’re going to eat. Tomorrow, we deal with the bills.”
“You mean we look at them.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said deal with them. That sounds suspicious.” Nathan glanced away, You narrowed your eyes “Nathan.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m actually very good at it.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I convinced you the chicken pan was defective.”
“You burned the chicken.”
“Allegedly.” Despite yourself, you laughed. Nathan’s shoulders relaxed at the sound. He pulled you into his chest, holding you tightly enough that you could feel his heartbeat through the hoodie “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be with me anymore.”
Your heart dropped.
“Nate.”
“You stopped coming over. You barely answered me. You wouldn’t let me see you.” His arms tightened. “And the whole time, you were dealing with this alone.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, that worked out great.” You let out a watery laugh, he pressed his lips to your hair “Promise me you’ll tell me next time.”
“I’ll try.”
“No.”
You pulled back “No?”
“Don’t give me ‘I’ll try.’”
“You can’t order me to communicate.”
“I’m not ordering you.”
“You’re using your captain voice.”
“I don’t have a captain voice.”
“You absolutely do.”
He sighed, lowering his forehead to yours “Please tell me next time.”
The quiet plea broke through the last of your resistance “I promise.”
“And you’re eating dinner.”
“Nathan.”
“That one is an order.”
—
You moved into Nathan’s house three weeks later, Not because your landlord had raised the rent. At least, that was what you repeatedly told yourself.
You moved in because Nathan asked you every morning, every evening, and nearly every time he found you staring anxiously at an apartment listing, sometimes he asked seriously, sometimes he slipped it casually into conversation.
“Do we need milk?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to move in and check.”
“Have you seen my black hoodie?”
“Probably packed with the rest of your things for when you move in.”
“Where should we eat tonight?”
“My house. Which could also be your house.”
“You’re very subtle.”
“I’ve never claimed to be subtle.”
At first, you resisted. You didn’t want moving in with Nathan to feel like another form of rescue. You didn’t want to wake up one morning and realize the relationship had accelerated only because you had nowhere else to go.
Nathan listened to every objection, then he countered every one.
He reminded you that you already spent most weekends with him. That half your toiletries lived in his bathroom. That he had bought your favorite tea months before because he was tired of you bringing it back and forth in your purse “I don’t want you moving in because you’re broke,” he told you one night. “I want you moving in because I want you here.”
The distinction mattered, eventually, you gave in. Your name remained on none of the paperwork, and Nathan refused to let you call it his house after the first box crossed the doorway “It’s ours.”
“I don’t own any of it.”
“Neither do i, the bank does, technically.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
He gave you space in every room.
Half the closet became yours. Your law books appeared beside his collection of hockey memorabilia. The spare bedroom became an office where you could complete applications and prepare for interviews.
Nathan even cleared an entire kitchen cabinet for your tea, although he complained that you owned too many kinds that all tasted exactly the same.
For the first time since losing your job, you could breathe.
You still had loan payments. You still carried a balance on your credit card. You insisted on contributing what you could toward groceries and utilities, although Nathan argued with you every time money left your account.
But you were eating again, you were sleeping, your face slowly regained its softness. Nathan never commented directly on the weight returning, but you caught him watching you whenever you finished a full meal.
He tried to hide the relief, he was terrible at it.
You began attending team dinners again. You stopped pretending you weren’t hungry. When you had a bad day, you sat beside him on the couch instead of crying alone in the bathroom.
Not every day was easy, some mornings, a rejection email still ruined your entire mood, some nights, you woke at three in the morning convinced you had made a catastrophic mistake by allowing yourself to depend on him.
Nathan would wake whenever you shifted too much beneath the blankets “You okay?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
You hated his ability to use your own words against you. Eventually, you would tell him. Sometimes you needed him to hold you. Sometimes you only needed him to listen.
He was learning the difference, so were you.
Then, two months after moving in, you logged into your student loan account. The balance read zero.
For several seconds, you assumed the website had failed to load, you refreshed the page.
Zero.
You checked the payment history, a single payment had been made four days earlier. The entire remaining balance. Your stomach dropped, you opened your credit card account next.
Zero.
The overdue utility balance from your old apartment had also been cleared. So had the small private loan you had taken during your final year of law school. Every debt Nathan had seen in those letters was gone.
You sat frozen at the desk, then you heard the front door open downstairs “Nate!”
There must have been something in your voice because his footsteps stopped. A moment later, they started again, quicker this time, Nathan appeared in the doorway of the office, still wearing his practice clothes “What happened?”
You turned the laptop toward him, his eyes flickered toward the screen. That was all you needed to see “You did this.”
Nathan exhaled “YN—”
“You paid them.”
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him “We can talk about it.”
“You told me you wouldn’t.”
“I said I heard you.”
“You said okay!”
“I didn’t technically say I wouldn’t.”
Your mouth fell open “That’s your defense?”
“It’s not a great one.”
“You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You deliberately let me believe you were going to respect what I asked.”
“I did respect it for two months.”
“That doesn’t make this better!”
Nathan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck “I knew you’d be mad.”
“So you did it behind my back?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me do it otherwise.”
“Exactly!” You stood so quickly that the chair rolled backward “You had no right.”
“I know.” The immediate admission threw you off for half a second, then the anger returned “No, you clearly don’t know, because you did it anyway.” Nathan remained near the doorway, watching you pace
“I told you that I didn’t want your money.”
“I know.”
“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”
“I know.”
“I trusted you.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that!” Your voice cracked, Nathan flinched. You hated that his expression made you want to comfort him when you were furious with him “You can’t make decisions about my life simply because you have the money to do it,” you continued. “Those were my debts. My responsibility.”
“They were destroying you.”
“That still didn’t make them yours.”
“They became mine the second they made you think you had to starve yourself.”
Your eyes burned “That isn’t fair.”
“No, none of this was fair.” Nathan finally moved closer “You worked for years. You graduated. You got the job. Then someone else decided to cut positions, and suddenly you were drowning.”
“That happens to people every day.”
“And if they have someone who can help, I hope that person helps them.”
“It wasn’t your decision.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because I could.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“It is to me.” You stared at him, Nathan’s voice became quieter “I could make those numbers disappear without it changing my life. For you, they were changing everything.”
“That doesn’t mean I wanted them to disappear like this.”
“You weren’t sleeping.”
“I was getting better.”
“You still checked your bank account every morning.”
“That was none of your business.”
“You were having panic attacks in the bathroom because you thought I couldn’t hear you.” Your breath caught, Nathan’s jaw tightened “I heard you every time.”
You looked away “I was trying to find another job.”
“And you will.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t.”
You stared at him in disbelief “That’s easy for you to say.”
“I don’t mean you stop trying.” He stepped closer. “I mean your value doesn’t disappear if it takes longer than you expected.”
“That still doesn’t justify what you did.”
“No.” the word was quiet, Nathan stopped in front of you “I know it doesn’t.”
“Then apologize.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I’m sorry I broke your trust.”
“But not for paying them.”
“No.”
You let out an incredulous laugh “You are unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“You’re controlling.”
“Sometimes.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“You don’t get to joke right now.”
“I’m not joking.”
You turned away from him “I need space.”
“No.”
Your head snapped back toward him “No?”
“I’m not letting you walk away thinking I did this because I believe you’re incapable.”
“I don’t care why you did it right now.”
“I do.”
“Nathan—”
“I paid them because I’m going to marry you.” The room went silent, you stared at him. He stared back. Your anger momentarily disappeared beneath complete confusion “What?”
Nathan seemed to realize what had just left his mouth. His eyes widened slightly, then he looked toward the ceiling and muttered something under his breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You said you were going to marry me.”
“I’m aware.”
“You can’t just say that in the middle of an argument.”
“Apparently I can.”
“Nathan.”
He dragged a hand over his face “This wasn’t how I planned it.”
“Planned what?” Nathan didn’t answer, instead, he walked past you toward the closet in the office. You watched as he reached onto the top shelf and pulled down a small black box. Every coherent thought disappeared from your mind “Nate.”
“I’ve had this for three weeks.”
You stared at the box “You bought a ring?”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. A good night. Somewhere nice.” He looked toward the laptop displaying the zero balance. “Definitely not this.”
“You are not proposing to me because I’m mad at you.”
“I’m not.”
“It looks like you are.”
“I was already going to propose.”
“You just happen to have the ring in this room?”
“I moved it after you almost found it in my nightstand.”
“When did I almost find it?”
“When you were looking for a charger.”
“You acted like I was going to find something embarrassing.”
“I panicked.”
“You told me there were vitamins in there.”
“There were vitamins.”
“And an engagement ring.”
“Yeah.”
You stared at him, Nathan looked down at the box in his hand. “This is a disaster.”
“You paid all my debts without permission.”
“I know.”
“You broke your promise.”
“Technically—”
“Do not say technically.”
His mouth closed “You’re still angry,” he observed.
“Very.”
“Should I wait?”
You folded your arms “That would probably be the sensible thing.” Nathan nodded, then he lowered himself onto one knee. Your mouth fell open “Nathan!”
“I’ve never been especially sensible.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“You’re proposing while I’m furious with you.”
“I’d rather know you’ll still say yes when you’re furious.”
“That is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’ve said worse.” He opened the box, the ring inside was simple and beautiful, exactly the kind you would have chosen for yourself. Your eyes immediately filled with tears “That’s not fair.”
“What isn’t?”
“You know I love you.”
“I’m hoping that helps.”
“Nate.”
His expression softened “YN, I know we haven’t been together as long as some people think we should be before doing this.”
“It’s been a little over a year.”
“I know.”
“You paid my debts behind my back.”
“I know.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know that too.”
“You need another sentence.”
A nervous laugh escaped him, he looked more frightened than you had ever seen him before a game “I love you,” Nathan said. “And I don’t love you because you need me. Half the time, you refuse to need anybody.”
You attempted to glare at him through your tears, he continued “I love you because you’re stubborn and brilliant, and because you make fun of every legal show we watch. I love you because you argue with me when I’m wrong, even when I don’t realize I’m wrong yet.”
“That happens a lot.”
“I’m proposing. Be nice.”
“No.”
His smile appeared briefly before his expression became serious again “I love coming home to you. I love that your things are everywhere now. I love that my house finally feels like somewhere I actually want to be because you’re in it.”
Your lower lip trembled “I paid those debts because I couldn’t stand watching them hurt you when I had the ability to stop it. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve found a way to help that didn’t make you feel like I was taking away your choices.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I’m sorry.” You believed him that time, Nathan took a breath “But I’m not sorry that you are going to wake up without that weight on you.”
Your eyes closed briefly.
“I want to be the person you tell when you’re scared,” he continued. “I want to be there when things are good, when they’re terrible, and when you’re yelling at me because I did something stupid.”
“You did something very stupid.”
“I know.”
“And expensive.”
“That part isn’t important.”
“It is to me.”
“We can keep arguing about it for the rest of our lives.” your eyes opened, Nathan held the ring between his fingers “So marry me, and we’ll have plenty of time.”
A laugh broke through your tears “That’s your proposal?”
“I had a better speech planned.”
“What happened to it?”
“You started yelling at me.”
“You deserved it.”
“I did.”
You studied him. The man kneeling in front of you was infuriating, he had ignored your wishes. He had made a major decision without you, convinced that love made it acceptable.
You would not let him forget that.
You would make him sit with you and establish boundaries. You would insist on repaying at least some of the money, even if Nathan argued until both of you were exhausted. You would make sure he understood that being partners meant making decisions together, not protecting each other through secrecy.
But he was also the man who had noticed you disappearing before anyone else did. The man who had filled your empty refrigerator without making you ask.
The man who had given you space in every part of his life long before he placed a ring in front of you. The man you loved.
“Yes.”
Nathan froze “Yes?”
“I’m still angry with you.”
“I understand.”
“And this doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”
“Completely understood.”
“And we are having a very serious conversation about boundaries.”
“As many as you want.”
“And I’m paying you back.”
“We’ll discuss that.”
“Nathan.”
“Fine. We’ll discuss discussing it.”
You narrowed your eyes, he smiled “Is that a yes?”
“Yes.” The word barely left your mouth before Nathan surged to his feet. He slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands and pulled you against him, you laughed through your tears as his arms wrapped tightly around your waist “You’re insane,” you whispered against his neck.
“You’re marrying me.”
“I might reconsider.”
“You already said yes.”
“Engagements can be broken.”
“Don’t joke about that.” The sudden seriousness in his voice softened you, you pulled back and placed both hands against his face “I’m not going anywhere.”
Nathan kissed you. It wasn’t a careful kiss.
It carried all the fear from the night he had found the letters, all the frustration of the argument, and all the relief of finally having the future he had apparently been planning without telling you. When you separated, you looked down at the ring “You really had this for three weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“When were you planning to ask?”
Nathan hesitated “I made a reservation for next weekend.”
“Where?”
“I’m not telling you now.”
“Why?”
“We can still go.”
“As an engaged couple?”
“Yeah.”
You smiled faintly, then you remembered why the argument had started. Your smile disappeared “I’m still mad about the debts.”
“I know.”
“You’re sleeping in the guest room.”
Nathan’s head snapped toward you “The guest room?”
“Yes.”
“After we got engaged?”
“Yes.”
He stared at you as though you had suggested he sleep outside in the snow. Then he gestured helplessly between the two of you “Baby, we i thought that we would fuck tonight.”
You blinked, Nathan appeared completely serious “You did not just say that.”
“I did.”
“You literally proposed to me in the middle of an argument, and now you think that means you’re entitled to engagement sex?”
“I didn’t say entitled.”
“You said we should.”
“Because we should.”
“Nathan.”
“We just got engaged.”
“Because you panicked.”
“I had a ring.”
“That does not make the timing less insane.”
His eyes dropped briefly to the ring now resting on your finger “You said yes.”
“I did.”
“So we should celebrate.”
“We are celebrating.”
“By sending me to the guest room?”
“You should’ve thought about that before paying all my debts behind my back.”
Nathan groaned and dragged both hands over his face “Baby.”
“No.”
“What if I apologize again?”
“You already did.”
“What if I make dinner?”
“You burn chicken.”
“I’ll order dinner.”
“With the money you apparently enjoy spending without permission?”
He pointed a finger at you “That was a low blow.”
“You earned it.”
Nathan pressed his lips together, visibly fighting a smile “I cannot believe I’m engaged and being sentenced to the guest room on the same day.”
“You’re lucky I’m only sentencing you to one night.”
“One night?”
“Keep arguing and I’ll make it two.”
His expression became genuinely offended “That’s cruel.”
“You paid off my entire student loan without telling me.”
“I was trying to help.”
“You were being controlling.”
“I can be helpful and controlling at the same time.”
“That isn’t the defense you think it is.”
He sighed “Can I at least kiss my fiancée before my exile?” You tried to keep your expression serious “One kiss.”
His grin returned instantly “One very long kiss?”
“Nathan.”
“Worth asking.” He stepped forward anyway, cupping your face before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It began gently. Then his hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened.
For several seconds, you forgot you were supposed to be angry.
Nathan seemed to notice, he smiled against your mouth. You immediately pushed a hand against his chest “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
“That’s fair.”
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours “I still don’t regret proposing.”
“I know.”
“I do regret paying the debts without talking to you first.”
You studied him for a moment before nodding “Good.”
“But,” he added, lowering his voice, “I’m still hoping my fiancée changes her mind about the guest room.”
You smiled sweetly “Goodnight, Nathan.”
“You’re really making me sleep there?”
“Yes.”
“After we got engaged?”
“You already used that argument.”
“It’s a good argument.”
“It isn’t.”
“What about the other thing I said?” You stared at him, Nathan’s mouth twitched “Guest room,” you repeated.
He sighed dramatically “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
—
The engagement announcement did not happen that night. Neither did the celebration Nathan had so bluntly suggested. Instead, the two of you spent nearly three hours at the kitchen table with your laptop open between you.
Nathan produced the payment confirmations reluctantly. You wrote down every amount, he complained whenever you added another figure to the spreadsheet.
“You’re not paying me back.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“That isn’t your decision.”
“You’re unemployed.”
“Temporarily.”
“You don’t know when you’ll find another job.”
“That doesn’t mean the debt disappears.”
“It literally did.”
You glared at him “That isn’t funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
“It was not.”
Nathan leaned back in his chair and folded his arms “You’re not paying me back for helping you.”
“You didn’t help me. You ambushed my bank accounts.”
“I didn’t touch your bank account.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I paid creditors.”
“That sounds even worse when you say it like that.”
He reached across the table and rested his hand over yours “YN.” You tried to pull away, he held on “Listen to me.”
“I’ve been listening to you all evening.”
“No, you’ve been preparing your next argument while I’m talking.”
“That’s called being a lawyer.”
“That’s called being impossible.”
“You proposed to me.”
“Yeah. That was probably my first mistake.” You stared at him, Nathan’s face changed immediately “I’m kidding.”
“You’d better be.”
“I am.” He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, his lips brushing against the new ring “I don’t regret this.” your anger softened despite your best efforts. Nathan continued “I understand why you’re upset. I do.”
“You don’t get to make financial decisions for me.”
“I know.”
“Even when you think you’re helping.”
“I know.”
“Even if the amount means nothing to you.”
“I know.”
“You need to stop saying that and actually listen.”
“I am listening.” You watched him carefully.
Nathan wasn’t good at surrendering control. He wasn’t good at accepting that determination couldn’t solve every problem. Most of his life had taught him that if he worked harder, pushed longer, and refused to stop, he could eventually force things into place.
Relationships weren’t hockey.
You couldn’t overpower every obstacle “You made me feel like I had no choice,” you said quietly. “That’s what hurt.”
Nathan’s expression fell “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“I just wanted it gone.”
“I know.”
His fingers tightened around yours “I saw those letters and then I saw you standing there in that sweatshirt.” His voice roughened. “You looked so small.”
Your eyes dropped.
“I kept thinking about how long it had been happening while I didn’t know.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“I should’ve noticed sooner.”
“You did notice.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Nate.”
“I could’ve helped before you stopped eating.”
“You couldn’t help with something I refused to tell you.”
“Exactly.”
You looked back at him “That’s why you can’t solve things by hiding them from me either.”
The realization settled between you. Nathan looked toward the payment confirmations “You’re right.” You waited, he exhaled “I should’ve told you what I wanted to do. I should’ve let you say no.”
“Yes.”
“And then I probably would’ve spent the next month trying to convince you.”
“That would have been annoying.”
“But better.”
“Much better.”
He nodded “I’m sorry.”
This time, the apology felt complete, You squeezed his hand “I’m still making a repayment plan.”
“No.”
“Nathan.”
“What if we compromise?”
You narrowed your eyes “What kind of compromise?”
“When you get another job, you put whatever you planned to repay me into savings.”
“My savings?”
“Our savings.”
Your gaze moved toward the ring “You’re moving very quickly.”
“You moved into my house.”
“Our house,” you corrected automatically. Nathan smiled “Exactly.”
You hated when he used your own words against you “What would the savings be for?” you asked.
“A wedding. A future house if you decide you hate this one. Emergencies, our kids college founds.” His thumb brushed over your ring. “Whatever we decide together.”
Together, the word mattered. You looked down at the spreadsheet “I’m still going to struggle with this.”
“I know.”
“I might feel guilty every time I look at the balance.”
“There is no balance.” You glared “Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“A little.”
You sighed, Nathan tugged gently on your hand until you stood from your chair. He guided you around the table and pulled you between his knees “You’re not a burden,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You hesitated “I’m trying to.”
His hands settled on your hips “That’s enough.”
You rested your hands on his shoulders “For now.”
“For now,” he agreed.
Nathan leaned forward and pressed his face against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist. The position was oddly vulnerable for him. You stroked your fingers through his hair “You’re still sleeping in the guest room.”
His head lifted immediately “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“We just had emotional growth.”
“You still paid my debts behind my back.”
“I apologized.”
“And I accepted your apology.”
“Then why am I still being punished?”
“Consequences.”
Nathan groaned against your stomach “Baby.”
“No.”
“We should fuck tonight.”
You covered your face with one hand “You already said that.”
“And it’s still true.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“You said yes to marrying me.”
“I’m reconsidering every time you open your mouth.” His arms tightened around your waist “No, you’re not.” The confidence in his voice made you smile despite yourself “No,” you admitted. “I’m not.”
—
Nathan lasted twelve minutes in the guest room.
You were lying in bed, staring at the engagement ring beneath the glow of the bedside lamp, when the bedroom door slowly opened. Nathan stood in the doorway holding his pillow.
You raised an eyebrow “What are you doing?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“You haven’t tried.”
“I know I can’t.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
He stepped inside “I won’t touch you.”
“You said you should be having sex with me twenty minutes ago.”
“I’ve adjusted my expectations.”
“How mature.”
“I just want to sleep beside my fiancée.” The word made warmth spread through your chest, you tried not to show it. Nathan noticed anyway, he always noticed “You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“Go back to the guest room.”
“No.”
“Nathan.”
“I’ll sleep on top of the covers.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I’m showing restraint.”
“You’ve never shown restraint in your life.”
“Exactly. This is a big moment for me.”
You stared at him for several seconds, then you lifted the edge of the blanket. Nathan crossed the room so quickly that you almost laughed.
“On your side,” you warned.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And no touching.”
“Understood.”
Nathan climbed into bed and settled flat on his back, both hands folded dramatically over his stomach. You turned off the lamp. Silence filled the room.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then his hand brushed against yours beneath the blanket “Nathan.”
“Accident.”
Another few seconds, his little finger hooked around yours. You turned your head, in the darkness, you could barely make out his profile “You’re terrible at following instructions.”
“I’m trying.”
“You aren’t.”
He turned toward you “Can I hold your hand?” You sighed, but didn’t pull away “Yes.” His fingers threaded through yours, a minute later, he spoke again “Can I kiss you?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Another pause “Can I tell you I love you?”
“You don’t need permission for that.”
“I love you.”
You turned toward him “I love you too.”
Nathan smiled in the dark “Can we—”
“No.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were.”
“I was going to ask if we could cuddle.”
You considered it “Cuddling only.”
“I can do that.”
“You’d better.”
Nathan moved closer, wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you gently against his chest. He remained perfectly still for approximately forty seconds.
Then his lips brushed the back of your neck “Nate.”
“That was affectionate.”
“It was suspicious.”
“Everything I do is suspicious to you now.”
“You earned that.”
“Fair.”
Despite your warning, you relaxed against him, Nathan pressed one final kiss to your shoulder “I really am sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m also really happy you said yes.”
Your fingers brushed over the ring “So am I.” His arm tightened “You’re still not getting engagement sex.”
Lando Norris lives at full speed. In a world of engines and expectation, he has learned to survive on instinct sharpened into precision, to measure life in tenths of a second and hide uncertainty behind control.
Louise moves through louder arenas in quieter manners. Her strength is restraint, her power deliberate and contained. She doesn’t demand attention — she calculates and recalibrate.
This is what happens when speed meets stillness — and two people built for pressure find something steady in each other.
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Dark themes, mentioned (death of family, traumatic past)
Secret not Private
Established relationship (2026 - onwards)
About the fic:
Chapters are organized in timeline form 'roughly' week by week.
Interludes are shorter bits that don't fit the timeline 'perfectly' but show little moments of Lando and Louise's development
Lando gets humiliated on a surf pool, Louise needs to be threatened to finish her lunch, Chinese GP.
Always in frame
A deep dive into Louise and Charlotte's backstory.
Chapter 3
Japanese GP, they meet again, Lando curiosity sparks, He asks for her number, subtly. (Lewis and Carlos cameos)
What she wears
How Louise's nervous system processes clothes, and how Lando notices it.
Chapter 4
Susie Wolff gives Louise a call, Lando x Louise's first texts, Bahrain GP, Louise's training, Jeddah GP. (Daniel and Carlos cameos)
The rant that would not die
Louise's take on Wings of Starlight.
Chapter 5
Miami GP, Louise in F1 Academy, Lando trying hard not to glue himself to her side.
Where she looks
Louise and eye contact, or the lack thereof.
Chapter 6
Zak 'loses' a bet, McLarens private test has a special attendant, Lando's impressed, but he's not the only one.
10 Things I can't live without
Louise films the famous GQ video showing 10 of her favourite items
Chapter 7
Verstappen camp reaches out to Louise, more LandoxLouise texting, Imola GP, Monaco GP, Louise's first race in F3.(George and Carlos cameos)
Sticker Lore
Louise's personality in stickers
Chapter 8
Louise conquering other race series, Barcelona GP, Lando searches her name online, familiar faces meet at a showjumping competition.
I’m melting
After Lando's late night doomscroll, his algorithm knew just how to greet him, or better, with who.
Chapter 9
Canadian GP (emotional damage I know, but Louise makes it less bad), F1 The Movie Premier, Louise's Birthday (Lando being an amazing gift giver), their first flight together.
Full size wonder
Lego's gift to Louise.
Chapter 10
Austria GP, Louise tries to debut in F2, she ends in McLaren's hospitality instead.
Between takes
Louise's first appearances in McLaren's socials
Chapter 11
Silverstone GP, another flight together, another coincidence; neighbors of course,
Training Days
The first time Lando saw Louise survive a training session.
Chapter 12
Two week break from racing; how they kept going up and down a floor in Monaco, how they kept finding each other at the MTC, +the time Lando gave Louise a lift.
The Library of Other Peoples Lines
Lando notices Louise speaks a lot in movie quotes, memes and internet references.
Quiet Orbits
Belgium GP, plane shenanigans, padel in Monaco, Hungary GP, Lando can't look away from Bluey. (Alex and Carlos cameos)
Orbiting Spaces
Neighbors!core; Lando and Louise edition.
Seen not Spoted
Lando gets humbled, summer break arrives, invitations are made; A boat in the middle of nowhere awaits.
Yacht Gate
What Max and Toto were really talking about in that boat.
What it Means to Stay
Summer Break pt.2, more moments in the boat, more feelings unpacked.
Quiet Landing
Lando names some feelings out loud.
Above the Noise
Afterhours at the MTC, Zandvoort GP, Monza GP, Moto GP at San Marino, and why Lando went back to his .jpg vibes
In Sync
Compilation of fluff and fun moments between Lando and Louise.
Measured
Lando's vogue piece drops, Azerbaijan GP, Louise ends up in the Aston Martin garage, Lando brings up the 36 questions 'game'.
Against the Algorithm
How Lando learns about The Summer I Turned Pretty.
36 questions Later
36 answers, a FaceTime call, Louise being a romantic disaster, Lando makes straight forward confessions.
There's This Boy
Louise's turn to process her feelings about Lando.
The First Date
Self explanatory title
A Quiet Kind of Yes
Lando spends a day in LA with her.
Autofill
Louise's brain works like a search tab, Lando notices it and likes it.
The Long Stretch
LA aftermath, COTA GP, Mexico GP, the famous El Diablo pics, Brasil GP.
The Fault Line
Why Louise doesn't cry.
Within Boundaries
Vegas GP, a night in a private club, what starts in Vegas definitely doesn't end there. -first kiss-
Control Theory
Lando's Dom! switch turns on.
The Shape of Momentum
Qatar Gp, Louise thinks on her future in racing, difficult moments on track, clarifying ones outside of it.
Agent of Chaos
Louise being a little agent of chaos
Tethered
Abu Dhabi GP, a week to reset, and Lando's big moment.
Tiny Menace, Big Heart
Mclaren's doesn't let Louise go quietly.
Private, Victories
Lando and Louise process their victories in private, post season obligations; dinners, awards, and tests.
Structural Support
Charlotte's spa day.
Farewell Arc
McLaren decides to give the people what they want.
Open Terrain
Louise offers a place where Lando can find his peace after the season.
Approved
Lando's eyebrow slit.
Jingle Bells
Christmas time amidst changed plans.
The A Talk
Louise's dad gives her a pep talk.
Fireworks
New Year's apart, Louise watches the year end without him and does something about it.
Slowly
A long kiss here... a lingering hand there... How they learned each other...
✶ summary ──── Caught between old wounds and the fear of what lies ahead, she must revisit the love she cannot let go of, while trying to keep close the one who brought light into her life when she needed the most.
✶ pairing ──── Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri x she/her reader
✶ rating ──── explicit
✶ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, action moves between present and fragments of the past, complicated relationship dynamics, teammate’s ex trope (no cheating involved), breakup scenes, swearing, angst, arguing and verbal tension, guilt, internal conflicts, toxic patterns + unhealthy attachment, emotional dependence, mentions of smoking as a coping mechanism, alcohol consumption, conflicted loyalties, character flaws, reader has sex with both love interests (separate timelines), teasing, power dynamics, possessive!Lando, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms.
✶ word count ──── 14.1k
✶ date ──── Jul. 1, 2026
✶ a/n ──── This was originally requested by @biancathecool in December of last year, but by the time I finished writing it (what a ride, I’ll tell you that much), it had sunk somewhere towards the bottom of my inbox. Lovey, I am sooo sorry, hope this was worth the wait. For everybody else, enjoy the tragedy 🩵
📍 Monaco, April 2026
LANDO MADE SURE to disappear before any of his friends noticed.
Downstairs, some of them are singing terribly over the music, causing an eruption of laughter. A glass breaks somewhere near the kitchen and it’s followed by more laughing that only rich, very drunk young people seem capable of producing. In this world, carelessness isn’t followed by consequence because everything can be replaced.
Anyone can be replaced, if anything.
The cigarette trembles faintly between his fingers as he pushes through the balcony door upstairs. Not from the cold, since April has been kind with the weather so far, but from the exhaustion of pretending not to look over his shoulder every few minutes. He had come to the party with every intention of forgetting himself for a few hours. To drink, maybe, to have a good time with his friends, and to finally shake off the pressure that had been clinging to him for months now.
Seeing her there had not been part of the plan, but luckily, she hadn’t noticed him, which gave Lando enough time to swallow the immediate pull of old feelings before they surfaced too obviously on his face. Unfortunately, the fragile balance he’d manage to build up until then, cracked like eggshells the moment he realized she hadn’t arrived alone. Standing beside her, all lean and far too comfortable in her orbit, was his teammate, of all people.
That way, the very mood he’d come here to escape settled back over him, twice as heavy.
His teammate, of all people.
Looking somewhere far in the distance, he presses his forearms against the iron railing and inhales deeply, until the smoke scratches the back of his throat. It feels like punishment, as it should. He’s aware it is a disgusting habit and he keeps meaning to quit, but in the months since December, he has found himself collecting various, ugly little addictions: the occasional nicotine, insomnia, memories.
So many memories.
The balcony door remains slightly cracked open behind him, letting the noise spill out in tiny fragments; the bass is vibrating through the walls, there’s too much shouting, then someone calling for tequila.
He realizes it’s a terrible idea to close his eyes only when her image materializes underneath his eyelids. For the life of him, Lando can’t think of how she was at the end, sad and exhausted, with mascara smudged under her furious eyes. That’d still hurt, but it would be a favor to him, and his mind is crueler than that. It offers him the good versions instead, the ones that he should’ve hold on to more when he stormed out of the conference room, without looking back.
Her, asleep on his chest during a flight to Singapore.
Her hands fixing his crooked collar before every boring event.
Her laugh echoing through hotel hallways at two in the morning.
He takes a couple more absent drags from his cigarette, mostly habit than intention, the smoke dissolving into nothingness in the night air. The same thoughts pull him under too quickly, spiraling in places he’d rather be, until the sting of heat against his fingers jolts him back to reality. He looks down blankly at how it burned nearly to the filter but then, as he decides to go back inside, the door to the room swings open hard enough to rattle in its frame.
Someone stumbles through it in a mess of laughter and half-whispered giggles, their voices disturbing the semi-quiet he’s harvested in the past few minutes.
“Are you sure?” asks the first voice, causing Lando’s entire body to react to the Australian accent he grew to know so well.
His heart starts slamming inside his ribcage, breath caught midway in his lungs. Fuck, no.
“Yes,” her unmistakable voice answers right away. “What, are you afraid?”
“No. Should I be?” Oscar shoots back.
The corner beside the balcony wall is dark enough to hide him as long as neither of them looks too carefully. Which turns to be his only salvation since he cannot move. Although he tells himself he should just walk back in, force the door open wider or make enough noise for them to notice they’re not alone, he simply can’t move. So he stays still, while the hushed sounds land one after another like premeditated blows.
Every kiss and every murmur makes her giggle all over again. It is torturous the way Lando remembers those sounds, but how can he not, considering they once belonged to him?
A rustle of fabric, then the sound of lips meeting fills the silence that follows. Lando presses his back against the nearest wall, thinking that even now, it is still not too late to save himself. He could clear his throat and let them see him. He could step out now.
Right now.
Now!
The door is still ajar, they haven’t looked out yet, and his legs won’t. Fucking. Move.
“There’s no one else I would trust,” she tells Oscar.
Sick to his stomach, Lando stops breathing.
The confession warns him of what is to come; there is another kiss, deeper than the last, that leaves her breathless and forces him to press the heel of his palms against his eyes. Mortified, he knows that now it’s too late and there will be no version of this in which he keeps his dignity. They will look at him in horror, then pity, and that would kill him faster than anything else ever could.
Punished by timing, he remains in the shadows and, behind him, the girl he once saw spending the rest of his life with, moans softly his teammate’s name.
OSCAR INHALES HER breath like he’s a sick man and it has healing properties. He feels her lips curl against his mouth, all the desire inside him snapping loose at once. He’s already used to the soft contours of her face, the way she looks up at him, right before standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. It’s a silly thought, ridiculous even, but he’s convinced that he would recognize her among billions of stars. All she has to do is stand there, just as she is, and Oscar would still be able to point at the night sky in her direction. Blindfolded.
His hands tighten around her waist as he walks her backward toward the bed, stumbling together in fits of laughter and half-finished kisses until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She falls onto it with a breathless sound, consumed by his sole presence, and he follows right away, bracing himself above.
“Are you sure?” asks Oscar.
The girl nods. “Yes,” she replies, “What, are you afraid?”
He lets out a strained chuckle, his back stiffening in anticipation at the thought. “No. Should I be?” it comes out like a joke meant to lighten the mood, but it still sounds like he’s at least somewhat concerned.
She nods again, then laughs at the way his eyes widen, his pupils so dilated that the ring of his brown irises is barely visible around them anymore.
There is a strange freedom in the way everything panned out for them. It wasn’t out of hatred, revenge, defiance, or even carelessness. The night that brought them close was a different kind of honesty that none of them knew how to handle at the time. It was stripped clean of any trace of hesitation because, for her, there was nothing left to lose. And Oscar didn’t believe there was anything to gain from it either.
After that, they have spent weeks of circling one another carefully. Restrained by timing, encouraged by a new-found friendship and oblivious to the consequences that might catch up with them, they managed to build their own rhythm.
“There’s no one else I would trust,” her words come out quietly, a little heavier than she initially expected.
With Lando in the back of her mind, she’s aware that Oscar would never risk the fracture that a reckless fling could cause, so it has to go deeper than that. It has to. Plus, it’s not in his blood to gamble people’s trust in such way.
In turn, Oscar hears it for what it is: more honesty. And acknowledgement that whatever this is, it already exists on borrowed time. At some point, they will have to speak up. Despite that, neither gives it language but the truth lingers there, always present, and even though no one dares, they both know the fall is inevitable. Tragic in its context, but beautiful in the way it feels in the moment.
With his heart racing, Oscar lowers his head, kissing slowly beneath her jawline while she tangles her fingers in the soft waves at the nape of his neck. It’s different from anything she’s ever known, but finding out how quiet he gets when he wants someone warms every cell in her already heated body. The silence that settles over him doesn’t come from uncertainty, though. It’s too intense for that. It’s rather concentration, every thought focused toward touch.
And gods, his hands.
They move over her in a brush so gentle, as if he had suddenly gone blind and now he must learn a new language through memory alone. His fingers start skimming the line of her neck, thumb caressing the rapid pulse underneath. Pushed by instinct, they curl around it just to make her breath catch, and the muffled sound she lets out through her parted lips is enough to rouse the last of his dormant senses.
“Oscar…” she breathes hot over his cheek, the name surrounded by longing from all directions.
With his hand around her neck, he hums in response but doesn’t give her more, which forces her to melt beneath him with embarrassing ease.
She catches him before his mouth drifts lower, impatient to get rid of his shirt. Quick with the buttons, Oscar shrugs it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor without a second thought. His chest is lean, carved from hours in the gym and the constant stress of forces that aims a driver’s core; she can’t help but run her hands over his skin, his collarbones, down to the dip of his waist.
The moment he kisses her again, minds go quiet. She reciprocates it with a whimper that only deepens the desire. His tongue slides against hers, tasting the last remnants of a classic Shirley Temple and her cherry lip balm. One of his hands moves back to her neck, forcing a gasp from her mouth, then right into his. The other one finds her blouse and the incredibly tiny buttons decide to test his patience, but Oscar allows himself to pull at it a little harder, his knuckles grazing her sternum with each attempt.
It makes her shiver because for one fleeting second, she catches another trace of his being. A sharper side, hidden right under the surface. Although it’s not supposed to be violent in any way, what makes it exciting is the fact that the danger comes from keeping that edge under control at all times. So, he must be aware of it.
Without meaning to, Oscar reveals himself to her over and over again, and she’s able to understand that if someone pushed him far enough, wherever that line truly lives, he could be aggressive with the same terrifying precision he applies to everything else. And somehow, she thinks, that might just be the most intoxicating thing about him.
The air is cool on her skin while he finally parts the fabric, exposing the white lace of her bra. Instead of removing it as she expects him to, Oscar pushes the cups aside with his thumbs, only to tease. Next thing she knows, he kisses a trail across her chest, then lower.
When his mouth closes around her nipple, her fingers go back to threading through his hair, slightly arching her back to push herself more into him. His mouth is warm and wet and sucks just as gently as his touches, tongue circling the peak until it’s tight and aching. His right hand mirrors the motion on her other breast, squeezing and rolling the sensitive flesh between his thumb and index finger. The sensation drivers her right up, lifting on her elbows in order to see what he’s doing to her.
Worship, that’s what it is. His eyes are darker than usual, heavy-lidded and secured entirely on her; she stops breathing just to observe. The defined line of his jaw is still noticeable in the poor light that comes from the balcony windows. It’s the way his shadow almost looks like it’s moving in slow motion that leaves her transfixed, and the fact that Oscar possesses the kind of beauty that is so devastatingly painful, solely because he never seems aware of it.
“What are you staring at?” he asks, studying her. His cheekbones are sprinkled with a pale shade of pink that spreads quickly up to the tip of his ears and down his neck.
She smiles, and Oscar can swear the room just got a little brighter.
“You’re very pretty like this,” the girl admits.
He makes a small noise that sounds like a laugh, but not quite. “Shut up,” he mumbles before adding a in a silky voice, “Please.”
She chuckles when she feels a palm suddenly plastered on her stomach, pushing her back onto the bed. She obeys him with no protest, letting herself fall into the mattress, the skirt she wears bunching around her hips. Oscar follows, crawling over her with an unexpected familiarity, as though he had done it a thousand times before and this is just muscle memory to him.
His body is complete heat and has a foreign weight to it. It’s heavy enough to make her aware of him, to grow attached to the comfort of being held down so effortlessly. When her eyes close shut, somewhere behind her eyelids, the unavoidable thought that she will miss it the moment it’s gone appears in a flash that forces her to open them back up immediately. Just to witness him.
Far too patient, Oscar kisses her neck, her jaw, the hollow behind her ear. At this rate, there won’t be a single inch of skin left that his mouth hasn’t touched. The thought gives her goosebumps that only intensify once his hand slides down her side, over the curve of her hip, then under the skirt.
He grips her waist and lifts her exactly how he needs in order to position himself where she wants him.
Her hands fly to the button of his jeans with a reaction that surprises Oscar. She manages to work it open, pull down the zipper and slide her hand inside in record time, finding him warmer there, semi-hard and heavy against her palm. He hisses once she wraps her fingers around his cock, letting a sharp intake of breath breaking against her neck.
It’s easy for her to learn the shape of him, allowing herself to take in the rigid length and the way he twitches when she squeezes. She does it just as patient as he kissed her earlier, finally understanding Oscar’s need to take his time. Why every touch from him feels unbearably calculated. Now, she gets to watch it happen in reverse; she sees the subtle change in his expression, notices the tension gathering along his jaw and the way pleasure begins to reshape the composure he wears so smoothly. Being at the receiving end of it only leaves her wanting more. And once she starts building a rhythm, his hips roll into her hand like they have a mind of their own.
“Fu…ck,” he sighs, the word half-swallowed at the way she runs her thumb over the head, pressing into the slit to feel the tremor that travels through his entire body.
He buries his mouth further into the crook of her neck and, next time Oscar groans, it comes out on the verge of desperation, which encourages her to do it again, sliding her thumb over the slick tip. He can’t stay passive for long, though. His hand moves between her legs to push her panties aside and, sliding his middle and ring finger through her folds, he finds her already soaked.
The girl gasps, the rhythm faltering once her senses are invaded by a new force. Luckily, Oscar pushes her hands away in order to take the lead. Unable to look away, he fucks his fist once, two times, then three, his eyes glued to hers in a moment of pure connection as he’s gently guiding himself to her entrance.
They both hold their breath while he teases her hole, letting her adjust to the pressure first. But it’s not what she needs, so she bucks her hips in instant reaction, trying to take him in.
A smirk ghosts across his lips. “Tell me,” he begins slowly, “You’re always this eager or just for me?”
Her voice cracks on his name, the only word she seems to have left in her once vast vocabulary, now reduced to just that, plus a small collection of onomatopoeic sounds.
Oscar pushes in on her next inhale, just the head to stretch her. She writhes in his arms with a silent cry caught in her throat that makes him pause. At that, he gives her body a few moments to fine-tune to him then sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried inside all the way.
From there on, pure bliss.
His patience starts slipping away in quiet increments once he’s finally feeling her properly around his length. She’s also aware, noticing it in the way Oscar exhales deeply, in the loss of that measured control and, ultimately, the way she feels him throb inside her, without ever moving. But even with want steadily overtaking him, he’s still able to observe a tiny shiver that runs through her.
“You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” she whispers back, snaking her arms around his neck.
Oscar smiles, then leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. A kiss so small and airy that she barely has time to feel, let alone to process. Instead, she sighs in a failed attempt to say more, the noise able to weaken the knees of the strongest of men.
“All this time…” his voice is huskier when he speaks again. There’s a hesitation in it too, as though he’s weighing the exact moment to admit something he’s already decided. A while ago, actually. “I couldn’t help but wonder how you’d sound like if you were full of me. I thought about it every time I saw your face. And every time I closed my eyes. When I was trying to sleep.”
A shaky laugh escapes through her lips. “That’s a lot of thinking.”
“Right?” he agrees, dipping his head to place more kisses all over her shoulder. She moans in return, her fingers tangling back in the hair at the back of his head. “But I’m glad it’s you.”
Slowly, he begins to retreat, the head of his cock touching tiny euphoric mines inside her on its way out. The stretch is maddening, a fullness that steals her breath when she moves with it. Halfway through, she can still feel him pulsing, a solid presence that makes every cell in her body cry out for more. The slick embrace of her channel tries to cling to him, but the moment it slides out catches them both whimpering at the loss.
Oscar doesn’t waste a second after that. His hand slips down between them to tug at the lace of her panties, working them down her thighs while being careful to steal more not-so-accidental touches on the way. She lifts her hips without being asked, then in the same manner, her legs wrap around his waist, hooking at the ankles to yank him closer.
“Easy there,” he breaths deeply, followed by a satisfied chuckle.
Taking her in, he can’t help but go still: the glistening sheen of her pussy, then the way her body invites him in, promising that it’s ready. His eyes move up to search for hers, needing further reassurance that she wants this and him, specifically him. She can practically see the thoughts moving behind his gaze in real time, she can feel the restraint he’s carried for weeks cracking under relief, the disbelief that this is finally happening.
She can’t name the feeling she catches on his face, but understands how tender it is. Without breaking eye contact, Oscar grips her hip with one hand, the other guiding himself back to her opening. His lips part, a sign of absolute focus, then he drags the tip through her folds to tease her.
She whimpers, impatient to let him fill the void.
“What do you need?” he asks before moving another inch.
“This… you.”
Oscar’s eyebrows arch in a challenging manner. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Need is a curious thing. In their case, it pulls at everything that could complicate their lives, everything Oscar is trying not to acknowledge, especially the shadow of her with a particular curly-haired teammate.
“Then I need your eyes on me the entire time,” his gaze holds hers with intensity. “Can you do that for me?”
“Yes,” she repeats, just as eager.
“Of course you can,” he nods, the hand on her thigh squeezing lightly, knowing that if he can anchor her attention for long enough, nothing else will exist in this room but the two of them.
He pushes forward in one thrust, sinking back into her welcoming heat. The tension she’s carrying is blinding, his girth stretching her as he goes, meeting new spots deep within. The girl lets out a broken whine that’s half pleasure, half relief, legs shaking around Oscar’s waist while struggling to pull him even deeper.
“That’s it,” he praises in a rich accent. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he adds more quietly, stilling for a beat.
Her brain turns to mush at his words and all she can do is clutch at him, nails raking across his back, her breath coming in short gasps. “Please, move,” she barely manages.
Oscar grunts at her sweet demand, then begins to move. Initially, his thrusts are meaning to collect as much information as possible. He uses slow strokes that grind against her walls at the same time he’s studying her face like it’s scripture, registering every reaction: her eyes rolling back when he reaches a certain angle, her mouth falling open when he picks up the pace, her hands squeezing at his shoulders when he circles his hips. Like that, he’s able to learn her body as he goes, making sure to check in with her after every change in movement.
“Right there?” he asks, hitting a spot that makes her whole body arch off the bed.
“Yes, there. Don’t stop,” she begs, bringing one of her hands to cup his cheek.
Leaning into her touch, Oscar fucks her with more life he’s ever felt. The sound of their bodies meeting is wet yet able to keep alive the flames that are threatening to swallow them both as the bedsprings creak in protest. He’s on another level aware of how far he’s sinking into her, how his entire cock disappears into her heat with each thrust, how she sucks him in, deeper with every clench of her inner muscles. She feels too good, so perfect that he knows he won’t last much longer.
But she isn’t far behind either. Her hand clenches somewhere where his jawline meets the carefully sculpted muscles of his neck, breath catching every time he drives inside. Each time with more force than before. It’s so good that she has to bite her lip to keep from screaming at him to fuck her harder.
She closes her eyes instead, so that all she feels is him.
“Stay with me,” Oscar whines, snaking a hand between them, thumb finding her clit to rub tight circles that match his thrusts. “Please,” he breaths, “Eyes on me.”
“Holy shit, Oscar…”
He shifts onto his knees, pulling her with him, and the new angle drives him deeper. In response, her orgasm builds like a wave, cresting and crashing under his relentless touch.
She shatters with a cry, body shuddering through the convulsions. Oscar watches the ecstasy twist her features, urging himself to memorize every second of it in the time that he follows her over the edge. The sensation makes him grunt, derailing his rhythm as he fills her in hot pulses.
He stays inside, collapsing on top and unwilling to break the connection until she pushes him away, if that’s what she needs. Apparently not. His lips brush her temple in a kiss that gives them more time to come back from the high. But after he finally pulls out, she turns her head, a big smile decorating her face. It’s the image of him that causes it. His skin is flushed, changing color from the exertion, from the pleasure. From the peace. She loves how open he looks, how undone and how… relieved.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” she speaks quietly. “I needed to get out of my head for a sec,” the girl explains, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw.
Oscar catches her hand, pressing his lips to her palm, just to keep them there for a moment. “Did you?”
She laughs. “I’m still out, yeah.” She shifts closer to place one last kiss to his lips before she gets up; this one’s tamed, with no urgency left in it.
The absence she leaves behind in his space is immediate, making the bed feel larger without her weight beside him. Looking around, she leans over to gather her panties and Oscar’s shirt from the floor, throwing the latter lightly at his chest.
“Gotta clean up,” she informs him, smoothing her skirt back into place. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”
Oscar is still in a trance, a half-dazed expression still lingering in his sharp features. When he smiles, it softens his whole face. “Okay,” he says.
Her heart grows a little in size at the sight of it and how easy it is for him to simply exist like this, with messy hair falling into his eyes, resting his broad frame on the mattress, half-naked and pants still undone.
He stays seated for a moment, looking down at his shirt as his ears pick up on the sound of her steps fading down the corridor. Only then does he move, pulling the fabric over his shoulders, threading himself back into order, piece by piece. It feels a bit strange, like he has to come back to his body, returning to a version of himself that doesn’t quite fit this world anymore. There is a particularly noticeable before and after her in the air now.
Halfway through buttoning his shirt, Oscar pauses at the sound of someone sneezing outside. The noise is dull enough that he almost dismisses it entirely, until he turns on instinct and sees that the balcony door is slightly ajar. A thin slice of crisp air and lingering smoke is cutting through the room, moving the curtains back and forth.
It is almost absurd how quickly it happens, how the warmth still clinging to his skin seems to evaporate once the instant cold air meets him. It’s just posture at first, but he senses stillness where there should not be stillness. Then, the recognition comes in pieces, the outline of a man he knows too well taking shape right before his eyes.
Oscar’s mouth goes dry at the memory of what he just walked away from.
“Bless you,” he says unsure, the words coming out too polite. And wrong, in every possible way, which is why his jaw clenches at the sound of it.
Lando doesn’t answer. If anything, he looks like he doesn’t want to acknowledge his teammate’s presence yet. Awkwardly, the Aussie positions himself a few paces away, mirroring the posture unconsciously, with forearms resting on the railing, fixing his gaze on the dark horizon as though the void of the night has suddenly become the most interesting thing in existence.
“Looks like I’ve missed quite the chapter,” he finally hears Lando speaking. “Is that normal occurrence now or?”
“It’s not… like that,” replies Oscar, carefully sorting through his brain, yet no matter how hard he tries, what explanation would be appropriate in this situation?
“Aha,” the Brit seems lost in thought, “Piece of advice,” adds Lando, continuing to avoid looking anywhere near his teammate, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Oscar frowns, turning to look at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I know how fucking good it gets with her,” Lando admits. “You think you won’t ever need anything else. But the second it gets bad…” he trails off, but doesn’t finish his sentence. On purpose. Instead, he insists, “Because it will. Get bad, I mean.”
The Aussie listens in silence while Lando talks with infuriating certainty. Behind the warning, he believes history alone gives him permanent insight into the way she loves, breaks, then leaves. A cycle that she’s endlessly repeating, according to his insinuation.
Oscar knows they had years together. He knows their relationship started not long after he and Lando became teammates, therefore long enough for habits and scars and intimate knowledge to root deep into both of them. He understands all of that. But on the other side of the spectrum, he doesn’t think it’s fair to simply assume that whatever he has with her now is somehow lesser, simply because it’s newer.
Lando is only speaking about it like some kind of prophecy, firing his experience like it’s a loaded gun just because he once knew how to survive her worst days. Despite that, Oscar remembers what the last few months with her have looked like, especially the past few weeks. He knows about the softness that she hides from people, the trust she places carefully into his hands, and he definitely feels the way she reaches for him like she means it. And maybe he’s an idiot for believing that matters, but he refuses to let Lando reduce her to a disaster waiting to happen, only because he can’t imagine his ex becoming something entirely different with someone else.
“But maybe you’ll succeed where I failed, who fuckin’ knows, mate,” Lando shrugs, tilting his head and extending his arm to pass Oscar what seems to be a third cigarette, judging by the bits scattered on the ground.
Oscar shakes his head, politely disregarding him. “Yeah, well. She’s not a fucking mission on a video game, mate,” he makes sure to accentuate the last word, which catches Lando’s attention for a brief second. Careful, is what Oscar means with it.
“She’s not,” Lando’s jaw works as he thinks, then continues, “When you fuck up in a video game, they tell you exactly what you did wrong. You get feedback and you can adjust. With her, I was constantly supposed to guess.”
Oscar’s hand curls around the railing, an involuntary gesture he only notices when his knuckles start hurting. “What, you mean she played you?”
Lando’s expression turns shallow, the exhaustion clearly visible behind his eyes. “I’m saying, if she decided that we were going to fight, that’s what we did. She didn’t even need a reason most of the times. Not one worth sharing, at least.”
“Well, I’m not you,” says Oscar almost as if he has to remind himself that.
“Exactly,” Lando points out. “I vividly remember you saying she wasn’t your type.”
“She wasn’t,” the Aussie agrees, half-nodding. He swallows a small lump in his throat, turning his gaze back on the horizon.
Lando laughs, but there’s no amusement behind the noise that comes out. “What changed?”
A good question, that takes Oscar by surprise. He realizes he never actually stopped to ask himself that. It hadn’t feel like a single moment nor a conscious decision. It was simply a slow, apparently irreversible shift that happened while he wasn’t paying attention, until she had become threaded into his routines and thoughts.
Oscar opens his mouth to answer, but finds nothing clean enough to explain it. You fucked up, he thinks to himself.
📍England, December 2025
“DON’T BE FUCKING selfish,” Lando grunts while keeps driving into her, hips snapping forward without pause even as her walls clamp down around his cock in the aftermath of her second orgasm. “So close, come on,” he breathes roughly, tightening his jaw at the way she squeezes him.
Before hands start sliding lower, he grips her waist a little harder from behind and the simple gesture steals the air from his lungs. His wide palms settle against the curve of her hips as though they were made for that exact purpose, making him painfully aware of how naturally she fits there, full of him; the simple visual sends his heart ricing in a wild beat beneath his ribs.
His, his, his.
The girl moans into the pillows, any rational thought long gone, at the same time her body jerks with every brutal push. Her thighs started trembling minutes ago and haven’t stopped yet, overstimulation sparking in quick electric vibrations through her core. She chokes on a gasp when he reaches down to slide two fingers through the mess between her legs, then circles her swollen clit only to see if she’s got one more for him. The sensation is too much, forcing her to twist away even though her body craves that exact touch.
With a restrained whimper and enough force in one hand, Lando manages to hold her steady; it’s the familiar possessiveness that has her voicing his name, the sound breaking in breathless fragments.
“Stay right there,” he orders calm yet commanding, a tone that she could recognize anywhere. “You can take it, see?” he continues rubbing, faster, every new thrust sending a fresh gush of arousal down her thighs that manages to struck her endlessly.
She finds comfort in being known so thoroughly because, in time, Lando has learned how to read her reactions before she fully understands them herself. With that, the same feeling starts building inside once again.
Behind her, Lando’s breathing turns heavier, grumbles punching out of his chest with each drive of his hips. Lately, he’s noticed that it takes more out of him to reach that blissful release, as though his mind insists on holding onto every thought until the very last second. He can’t tell whether he’s prolonging the moment out of greed for a few more beats of it, or whether the destination itself has drifted away because she did.
Questioning himself like that only leaves Lando exhausted in ways he can’t quite explain, wringing him out completely before finally letting him to rest.
The aftermath is worse: he spends long minutes staring at the ceiling, limbs heavy and uncooperative, while a restless energy continues to hum beneath his skin. The perception alone has him suspended somewhere between satisfaction and longing, too drain to move but too awake to truly settle.
“Come on, fuck,” he says out loud, urging himself.
He shifts his angle, dragging the head of his cock over her sensitive spots on every stroke.
“Lan…do,” she pants, voice keep breaking several times more on his name.
He leans over her back to press his lips on the curve of her shoulder. “Gonna come again?” asks Lando, punctuating the words with three hard thrusts in a row. His free hand slides up her body to palm her breast, while the other keeps teasing her clit, never letting the pressure ease.
A third orgasm erupts quickly under the assault, walls fluttering tighter this time.
“Yeah, that’s it. Show me how greedy I’ve made you.”
Lando changes the angle again, keeping her exactly where he wants her, tilting her hips so his cock drags against her front wall with every stroke. He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, grinding deep before repeating the motion, each one forcing another sweet cry from her throat. He manhandles her easily, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades as her body shakes under him, overstimulated and dripping.
“Touch yourself,” his words are followed by panting, and she obeys.
Together they work the swollen nub, and the combined pressure makes her vision blur with tears.
Lando’s thrusts get shorter, harder, more desperate once he nears the edge.
“Baby, please,” she whines in a hoarse voice, her weeping plea enough to make his pace falter.
He drives in deep one more time and stays there, cock throbbing as he spills thick inside her. His final groan is loud and long, hips twitching with each spurt.
When the last wave subsides, he stays buried, tickling the skin of her back with his sharp exhales. Now that he’s taken what he needed, one hand strokes slowly down her spine, then presses a wet kiss between her shoulder blades.
“Lan?” she calls out in a whisper, turning her head slightly.
Lando lets out a heavy sigh that seems to pull from the depths of his chest while his eyes close briefly. “Yeah, baby. Just a bit tired,” he replies, the worn-down cadence of his voice sounding more like he speaks from reflex rather than genuine reflection.
He shifts his weight off her, pulling out in a slow drag that makes her breath catch in her throat one final time. He slips free, half-softened and slick with the evidence of their release, and lets it rest above the curve of her ass before he slaps it against her skin, the wet sound ricocheting against the bedroom walls. A playful smack follows, the flat of his palm connecting with the swell of her ass cheek. It’s a gesture that might have once felt charged with mischief, an invitation for more, but tonight it lands in a strange space between habit and afterthought.
Without another word, Lando swings his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress moving in time with his weight. He doesn’t look at her as he reaches for the bunched-up covers, pulling them back in order to slide underneath. The sheets rustle as he settles, his back pressing against the headboard, his arm already reaching toward the nightstand.
Blindly, his fingers find his phone and the screen blazes to life in a cold glow that cuts through the obscure room like a scalpel. She watches him patiently, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his profile as the light from the screen paints purposeful shadows across his features. His jaw is tight, the muscle there ticking faintly as he scrolls, his thumb moving in a mechanical swipe-swipe-swipe.
Entranced by his figure, the girl pulls the covers over her chest and rolls onto her side to face him better.
The small light catches on the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone and the stubborn lock of hair that keeps falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushes it back. That always happens after he showers, when his curls are much softer than when they’re loaded with hair product.
In the silence, she notices, she can find it deeply unfair of how fond she used to be of these quiet moments. But tonight, more than anything, she wishes he would simply give in to sleep. After all, Lando said he was tired. She can easily imagine him abandoning whatever has captured his attention, setting the phone aside with a sigh before shifting closer until his head comes to rest on her stomach. She would thread her fingers through his curls, slowly untangling it one strand at a time, feeling him grow heavier beneath her touch as exhaustion finally claimed him. It is such a small thing to think of, yet it fills her with a strange nostalgia.
A lump forms in her throat when she realizes she actually misses him, even though Lando is sitting only a few centimeters away from her.
What happened to them?
He has never stopped calling, never stopped reaching for her hand in crowded rooms, never stopped looking for her first after a race. However, she can feel a tiny shift in the tides, almost as if the moon had moved one millimeter farther away and, over time, the distance had grown large enough to violently stir the waters.
Lando used to orbit her naturally, bringing every single one of his thoughts, every frustration, every victory and loss back to her as though she were his true north. Now, there are moments like this when she catches him retreating in places she can’t follow, simply because he won’t invite her there.
The strange thing is that none of it feels like a lack of love or negligence. If anything, those parts remain painfully unchanged. He still looks at her with the exact same expression he wore the first time they met. The same look from the first trembling I love you. Whatever is changing between them, it is not that. She knows it with the same certainty she knows that the sky is blue. So maybe, after almost four years together, the routine of being with each other has finally caught up and this is how it looks like.
Or maybe it’s all in her head.
Lando acknowledges her again the moment the screen finally goes dark, the harsh light replaced by the softer amber glow of the streetlamp filtering shyly through the curtains. He places the phone back on the nightstand, then turns toward her with a tired smile. His hand hovers in the space between them, leaning in to lightly press his lips to her forehead — a perfunctory touch that lands and lifts in the span of a heartbeat; a goodnight kiss; a sacred ritual reduced to muscle memory — then he rolls away, settling on his stomach.
Don’t be fucking selfish, she wants to say, the memory from minutes ago invading her mind. Quietly, she moves closer instead, sliding an arm around his waist to remind herself he is there.
SHE WAKES UP to an empty bed the next day. Vaguely, she remembers that last night Lando had told her there was something he needed to take care of, but promised he’d be back in plenty of time for the Christmas party at the MTC. That’s why she doesn’t think much of it. Still, she instinctively reaches across the sheets anyway, fingertips brushing the cool fabric where his warmth should have been.
With a sleepy sigh, she rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling for what it feels like a small eternity.
The morning stretches into afternoon, and the afternoon slips quietly toward evening. Much to her growing irritation, the apartment remains empty in the meantime. Each passing hour leaves behind a strange residue of unease she can’t and doesn’t want to justify yet. Her stubbornness had often disguised itself as faith whenever it came to Lando. If he’s running late, she’s convinced he has a good reason for it.
It doesn’t make the wait easier, though.
She’s standing in front of the mirror, fastening earrings with increasingly impatient fingers when he finally replies to her texts.
Even though she would have so much more to say, she eventually stops replying. Especially after noticing how her phone screen lights up every few seconds, taunting her, announcing more messages crowding her notifications.
The temptation is there, but the quiet dissonance that settled inside her acts like a STOP sign, preventing her to potentially make things worse when, maybe, it’s not the case.
With every little misunderstanding that accumulated lately, she knows she’s prone to no longer react to the actual situation but to weeks of bottled discomfort. And resentment, she believes, is far more dangerous than anger. At least that burns fast, but resentment roots itself in spaces where love is supposed to live and, without noticing, it could poison them from the inside out. That’s why, despite the growing sense that something has drastically changed right under their noses, the last thing she wants is to become someone who looks at Lando and sees a collection of grievances instead of the man she fell for.
When he finally makes it back home, he doesn’t come in with excuses or explanations ready. He simply stands by the window, waiting, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Under different circumstances, he would have smiled and told her how beautiful she looked. Would have teased her for spending too long getting ready and would have crossed the room just to steal a kiss before they left.
Tonight, the compliments die before they manage to reach his lips, deciding at the last moment to keep them locked in the mental drawers of his brain. On the other side, she’s just as quiet, letting the silence stretch between them, expecting Lando to break it first.
“Can you stop being so difficult?” he asks at last, but it’s not at all the sound of regret she expected to hear from him. “If you have something to say, just say it.”
Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “Oh? I’m difficult?”
“Yes, you are. I said I was sorry, alright? Can’t you just believe me? We won’t be too late if we leave now, so let’s just get this over with.”
The girl shakes her head in disbelief and, with a frustrated exhale, she pushes herself off the bed to turn toward the door, concluding that maybe the distance between them is now a blessing and it’s better than letting the discomfort break into actual anger on both sides.
She barely makes it two steps and Lando’s right there, blocking her path in a heartbeat, close enough that she has to stop.
Letting another breath out, she chews on the inside of her cheek before lifting her gaze to his face. It’s the only way she was always able to find answers. This time is no different: his eyes are slightly unfocused in the same cloudy look he gets after a few drinks. The realization unsettles her more that anger would have because it means that, whatever that foreign feeling might be, he is aware of it too, and at least at some subconscious level, he tries to suppress it because it is just as uncomfortable.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No…” he closes his eyes, then rectifies, “Just a couple of shots, I’m fine. Stay,” Lando insists.
A humorless laugh escapes through her lips. “You’re gone the entire day, you come back late, drunk, then you expect me not to be difficult?”
“I’m not drunk. And I said I was sorry,” he repeats and, before he can continue, she cuts in.
“I genuinely don’t have to put up with any of this,” the girl scoffs, her voice growing louder, “But I’m trying to be here for you, so how about help me a little!”
“Don’t fucking yell at me,” he raises his voice in return. “I get it.”
“Do you?”
She rolls her eyes at how ridiculous the situation is, then instead of shooting more remarks, she walks back into the room with a determination that’s more instinct than a decision per se. She grabs her bag from the chair and starts throwing things inside without any real order. Realistically, she knows that finding a flight this close to Christmas will be nearly impossible, that the airport will be packed and every reasonable option has probably disappeared hours ago. When she was waiting for him.
Suddenly, the thought of staying for another night feels unbearable.
What happened to them?
“I feel so stupid,” she murmurs to herself.
“You’re not, don’t talk like that,” he steps toward her, closing the tiny gap once again. “What are you doing?”
“Going home,” she replies simply, as if ‘home’ is right next door and not over a thousand kilometers away.
Lando’s jaw clenches. “Come on, you’re not serious.”
“I’m afraid I am,” she counters. “I really don’t have the energy to deal with this.”
“Right, me neither,” he agrees. “It’s fine if you don’t want to go, I’ll make something up. But quit this shit, alright? I’m sorry that I wasn’t back sooner. If it were the other way around, I’d be mad too. I’m sorry, baby.”
Against her better judgment, she feels herself soften. In the end, meeting Lando halfway when every instinct tells her to run has kept her exactly where she is now. Loving him has taught her that grace comes easy if it’s the right person. It is second nature to make excuses for him, to extend patience long after it has stopped being returned in equal measure. But somehow, it doesn’t feel like middle ground but compromise.
He takes the opportunity immediately, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “I’m sorry,” he repeats quieter, understanding that this isn’t about being late or unanswered calls but all the little moments that led them here. “I’ll do better. Let’s just go, please.”
She turns to look up at him then, frustration becoming harder to hold onto. There is so much familiarity in his face that holds her back from staying mad for too long. At the same time, she can’t bring herself to look away. Ultimately, the same person that argues with her is also the person who still looks at her like she’s the most precious thing, even when they are falling apart.
Eyes don’t lie.
Glaring back at her, she understands with painful clarity that Lando Norris is, and perhaps will always be the one weakness capable of undoing every defense she has ever built. The one person she has never learned how to protect herself from. What frightens her most is the realization that the foreign, burning feeling that lives now in the pit of her stomach is not temporary. It will not disappear with time or sleep or another difficult conversation. The one person able to put an end to it it’s him. For all her pride, stubbornness and all the promises she makes to herself in moments of anger, she knows she’s not strong enough to walk away from him first. If they were ever to end, the final page will have to be written by Lando himself.
Hesitantly, she closes the remaining space until she’s pressed against him. The girl rises enough to reach him properly, leaving a kiss on his lips. Lando melts into it, his arms tightening around her small frame, but she pulls away before he can chase after more, since there’s no time.
“This isn’t over,” her voice sounds weird in her own ears. “Now go wash your face to sober up.”
“You sobered me up,” he shoots back, the corners of his mouth curling into a boyish smirk.
At last, they manage to leave, but not before snapping some pictures first.
In one of them, Lando stands behind her, his body close enough that she can feel his warmth. The height difference between them is comically obvious as he looks down at her while she tries to keep a straight face.
The second one is a little softer, his hand finding its way around her neck, fingers resting there naturally. She looks up at him this time, smiling.
He’s on his knees in the third one, with arms around her waist while resting his head against her hip. She catches it mid-laugh, capturing a piece of happiness to which she’ll find herself returning to, times and times again in the upcoming weeks.
She takes the last picture outside, while they wait for their car to arrive. Snow has started falling around them. Standing beneath the streetlights, little flakes catch in their hair, melting against their skin.
Everything in the near vicinity feels impossibly quiet despite the endless thoughts that are running at 300kph in her mind.
We’re fine, she tells herself as she captures the two of them kissing, then turns around to wipe the gloss that transferred to his lower lip.
Would they have held on a little longer to that kiss if they had known it was their last?
BY THE TIME they arrive at the MTC, the party is already in full swing, exactly as she expected. The enormous glass-fronted building glows like a star against the darkness outside, every floor illuminated with strings of Christmas lights reflected in the polished surfaces.
She can already hear the hum of conversations from the door, each punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional clink of glasses. Employees from every department are crowding the space, from engineers, mechanics and marketing staff to factory workers and executives. Role is not as important inside a team like McLaren because, at the end of each year, they either mourn or celebrate together. Always together.
Lando slips away the moment they step inside. He’s one of the main characters in pretty much every room he enters and here, more than anywhere else, it’s impossible to keep him glued to one spot; people are greeting him from all directions, lifting their hands in recognition and calling out for him.
Leaning over, he squeezes her hand briefly. “I’ll go say hello to everyone. Stay close, yeah?” he instructs her before he gets trapped in dialogues elsewhere.
She nods and, within seconds, Lando is swallowed by the crowd, disappearing into a cluster of bodies eager to congratulate him for the season he’s had, joke with him, or simply claim a moment of his attention. How she’d love that for herself, too.
Left to her own devices, the girl drifts toward the buffet tables lining on one side of the room, grateful she has an excuse to occupy herself. The spread looks extravagant, laden with festive desserts, canapés and enough alcohol to ensure nobody remembers the end of the night. She picks up a drink, then adds a few snacks to a plate, determined to at least enjoy the food, since she skipped dinner.
For a long while, she simply watches the room around her, taking in the sea of semi-familiar faces. Then, just as she’s reaching for another canapé, a voice she knows well enough to make her turn appears right beside.
“They actually outdid themselves with the food this year.”
“Yeah, they did,” she agrees.
Oscar’s mouth is already curved into a smile when she looks up. Somehow, despite the hundreds of people surrounding them, he manages to make the crowd feel a little less overwhelming with his sole presence.
“Why are you alone? Where’s Lando?” he asks, more conversational than actual interest.
She returns the smile, abandoning her plate on the table, pushing it into a corner. “He’s…” she trails off, looking around to see if she can spot her boyfriend, “Somewhere.”
The Aussie nods, understanding all too well how easily a room like this can consume someone. Being one of the main faces of the team means that a simple greeting rarely remains just that. People will always pull them from one conversation to the next, eager to share a story, to ask questions or reminisce about a particular race weekend. Before they realize, hours can pass. Still, part of him thinks it’s unfair to leave her alone at a party. In this case, the distinction between responsibility and intentionally forgetting is small, perhaps insignificant to her at the moment, but it’s enough to keep Oscar from judging his teammate too harshly.
They exchange a few words after that, falling into an effortless banter, joking and commenting about sports, until he eventually notices the way she keeps glancing around.
“Alright,” he says, stepping back, “I’ll let you enjoy the night. Don’t want to steal you away.”
“You’re not,” she assures him, making room for him to pass. “But thanks for the company.”
Collecting a full glass from the table, Oscar lifts it in her direction. “I’ll see you around, then. And if Lando’s still lost in half an hour, maybe put him on a leash.”
She laughs, nodding. “I’m considering it.”
Later in the night, after wandering around, she finally finds Lando upstairs, tucked away in one of the quieter rooms where the noise isn’t that disturbing. He is surrounded by a small group of work friends and a couple of girls she vaguely recognizes from previous events. They’re all gathered around a table with cards spread between them, completely absorbed in their own small papaya world, arguing over rules, accusing each other of cheating and jumping from debates about golf to cars to video games.
He made space for her in the meantime, and now they’re close enough that their shoulders touch every time he shifts next to her. Somehow, though, she feels further away than she has all night. Lando laughs at something someone says, his unmistakable giggle making it impossible for her not to notice how his attention moves around the room, never quite settling on her.
It makes her wonder: if she quietly disappeared downstairs, would the game continue?
Her mind answers that too fast for her liking, but it’s the way Lando reaches across the table to take the deck of cards, and his hand lingers for a second too long above one of the girls’ fingers that pushes her over the edge of her patience. She’s aware that it’s barely even a moment. However, she tried to overlook everything he did in the past twenty-four hours, maybe even past month, and this is simply the final thread snapping.
“I want to go, I don’t feel well,” she leans closer, lowering her voice so only he can hear.
Lando turns to face her, surprise flickering across his face. “Now?” he asks; there is no accusation in his voice, but he sounds hesitant. She already knows. “We’re in the middle of the game.”
Exactly.
She looks at him for a few seconds, waiting for something she isn’t even sure Lando can give her right now. A sign that he understands. That he notices her, and she’s not helplessly blending somewhere in the background of his busy life.
“I want to go,” she insists.
“Baby, come on…”
Shaking her head and without stopping to explain herself, she gets up and steps away, leaving the room just as she entered it: alone. The door closes behind her, taking with it the last bit of patience she had left. But the peace doesn’t last long enough for her to gather her thoughts. A few moments later, Lando’s footsteps catch up.
The man who appears beside her is nothing like the one who had been laughing earlier, leaning back in his chair and throwing words around like it he had no worries. The warmth has vanished, his expression is tense, with jaw tight and irritation already plaguing his stance.
“What the fuck is wrong with you today?”
His question makes her stop abruptly. “Excuse me?”
Lando exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been in a mood all day. You barely talk to me and now you leave without saying anything.”
“First of all, you were away all day, so it’s impossible for you to know how my mood has been,” she reminds him, then copies his tone, barely holding it together, “And without saying anything? Lando, I said I wanted to go.”
“Yeah, after sitting there looking miserable for like an hour.”
She scoffs. “So you do notice me, after all. Yes, I am miserable.”
Her affirmation makes the corridor suddenly feel too public for the conversation Lando knows they’re going to have in the next few minutes.
“Can you blame me? I’ve been constantly waiting for you,” she tells him, voice shaking a little despite her effort to keep it steady. “I had to wait for you to come home, wait for you to come find me here, wait for you to finish your stupid card game!”
Lando’s eyes sparkle with disbelief. “Don’t put in on my back like that,” he says, tensing his shoulders. “I told you I could have solved this with a phone call. You insisted we come.”
She glances up at the ceiling with a sigh, avoiding to look at him. “Because I didn’t want to ruin your night, and I don’t want to fight with you either. But you’re making it really, really difficult for me right now.”
The silence that follows isn’t as easy to read as it used to be. Lando cannot understand it in a glance, and she’s just too caught up in her side of the story to explain it to him better. Arguing is the last thing he wants to be doing, but from his perspective, every word she throws at him seems to gather every disappointment from the past few weeks and lay it at his feet. As if he alone is responsible for the growing distance neither of them has been brave enough to acknowledge yet.
Perhaps that is what frightens him most: the realization that they are no longer fighting about their current situation but something much larger.
For a heartbeat, Lando looks like he might make it all better — he always do, when he tries to —, but then he steps closer so his voice won’t echo against the walls. “Can we not do this here?”
She shrugs, pressing a hand to her chest. “Why? Because your friends or bosses might hear?”
Deliberately ignoring her question, Lando’s hand reaches out, gently catching her by the elbow. “Come on,” he says.
Her eyes fall straight on the spot where they’re making contact, then back at him. It feels more like a warning, and Lando seems to decipher the message, loosening his grip.
“Please,” he gestures toward the nearby conference room.
It’s not like she has a choice but to do as he says, letting him guiding her inside.
After closing the door behind him, Lando leans against the sleek glass table, his jaw clenched, eyes searching her with a mixture of his earlier frustration and now concern.
“Tell me what this really is about,” he demands, massaging the back of his neck.
There is a bitter smile curling at her lips when she replies, “You’re a smart boy. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Even though her voice drips with sarcasm, her eyes are weary, shadowed with exhaustion.
“Humor me,” argues Lando, exhaling through his nose. “Just… talk. Please, talk to me.”
Her shoulders drop. “Alright, you want the whole list?” the girl asks rhetorically before adding, “You barely look at me anymore unless you’re horny. Last night you came home, fucked me into oblivion, then went straight to your phone like I wasn’t even there. The week before, you canceled dinner twice because ‘work ran late’, but I know what work means to you when you’re with those guys. Plus, last time I checked, you were supposed to be on a break, but what the fuck do I know, right?”
Lando winces, his face draining of color. “You think I’m avoiding you on purpose?”
“I’m not done,” she talks back. “Turns out, you can find time to attend all these superficial events, but I have to beg for your attention. I mean, yeah,” she lets out a laugh, “You’re there, but not really there.”
“You’re so fucking unfair, you know I’ve been drowning in work ever since the season ended,” he explains. “I’ve got millions of deadlines stacking up, a business to run, meetings, then racing, which you know damn well it’s a nonnegotiable to me. Sometimes I’m exhausted, but I still come home to you every night. And every night I still consciously want you. It’s not like we haven’t been through all this already. You know how the pressure gets, so what exactly bothers you so much this time?”
“Pressure,” she parrots, her voice rising an octave. “Is it really pressure or is it just you getting bored? Because I see you don’t even bother lately. I orbit around you to fill a space and that’s about it. You used to text me stupid shit in the middle of the day when I knew you were busy, but you were making an effort because you wanted to. The only time you initiate anything now is when your dick’s hard, and I’m tired of pretending it’s all just in my head. Do you even remember what it’s like to be with me?”
Lando’s eyes darken, hurt flashing through his expression. “Yes, I do. But you’re not the same either. This used to be fun before you started turning every conversation into a fucking interrogation. That when you want to talk, of course. Otherwise, you shut down the second I walk through the door. How the fuck am I supposed to try to fix anything when you already decided I’m the villain?”
“I didn’t say you’re the villain.”
“Well, I’m not the hero, so I’m just assuming, yeah? If you weren’t so distant, I wouldn’t feel like I’m losing you.”
Her eyes flash with surprise. “Losing me? Why would you even go there?”
“You send me there,” Lando accuses her.
She shakes her head, pointing a finger at him. “No, you send yourself there because you feel it too,” her voice is trembling with tears she refuses to shed. “This is not… I love you, but this is not what I want. I don’t like us anymore. Not like this.”
Her admission is enough to silence the argument entirely.
Lando stares at her, anger dissolving into a softer feeling. He never doubted her love, but hearing it now doesn’t feel like reassurance. His mind races through late-night calls, plans cancelled at the last second, conversations spent discussing logistics and how can they make it better without compromising what they have.
But what do they have, really?
He thinks about how often he misses her and how that missing has slowly but surely become the foundation of their relationship. Sure, they knew the costs from the beginning, but loving each other was effortless, therefore inevitable.
Was.
Across from him, she feels the weight of her own words settle like a mountain on top of her chest. It sounds cruel when spoken out loud, but she’s not sure she wants to take it back.
Lando’s breath catches, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions, feeling as though something inside him just fractured. “So… what? You want me to drop everything for you all of a sudden, just so you feel like you have a boyfriend?”
No.
“Yes,” she ends up saying with a frown, “That’s exactly what I want. I want your life to revolve around me.”
The sarcasm is very evident in her voice, yet hearing Lando reduce her feelings to something so simple and selfish forces her to dive in, head first. It hurts that, after all the years they’ve had together, he could look at their relationship and think that poorly of her.
“Tough one there, then,” he replies quickly. “You know exactly what I can and can’t do for you. And every time I feel like I’m doing enough, it turns out I’m not,” his voice looses some of its sharpness. “No matter what, I’m the bad guy. I miss a call, I don’t prioritize you. I’m exhausted after a twelve-hour day, I’m selfish.”
Her jaw tightens in frustration, not understanding how is it possible for them to keep circling around the same point without actually touching it.
“Stop making it about whether you’re a bad person,” she says. “I’m not saying you are, Lando.”
“Then what are you saying?”
She pauses for a heartbeat, then glares at him with teary eyes. “I’m saying I miss you when you’re right next to me. How fucked up is that?”
Lando stays quiet, watching her carefully. Suddenly, he can’t figure out where the line is anymore. Whenever he thinks he has finally understood what she needs, whether it’s space, reassurance, patience or simply showing up, the ground shifts beneath his feet, leaving him uncertain all over again. He isn’t sure if they are changing or if he’s only now beginning to notice all the ways he stopped paying attention.
“I genuinely don’t know what you want from me,” he admits, his eyes dropping to his shoes. “Whatever this bullshit is,” says Lando, vaguely gesticulating at the space that separates them, “It feels like you’re just looking for reasons.”
“Reasons?” she echoes. “You think I want to break up?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, you just don’t know how to ask for it. And you won’t do it because you don’t want to hurt me. So, I guess I have to be the bad guy one last time.”
She takes a small step toward him, voice filling with panic. “Don’t do this, Lando.”
He pushes himself off the table, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
Her face falls, a single tear finally slipping down her cheek.
“Lando,” she calls out, but he’s already at the door, closing it behind him with a force that neither of them expects.
The slam echoes through, her whole body reacting even though she cannot move. She just stares at the door, heart racing, hoping, waiting for him to walk in. In all those instances one of them has left angry before, they always found each other, in the end. But seconds turn into minutes, the hallway remains silent, and it is only then that she understands Lando isn’t coming back this time.
She exhales shakily, then presses the heels of her hands over her eyes, wiping away the tears. Turning her head, she checks herself in the darkened conference room window, pinching the skin beneath her eyes, willing the redness to fade before anyone notices.
She barely reaches the staircase when she nearly walks straight into Oscar. He slows immediately, his expression changing the moment he takes in her features.
“You alright?” he asks, a little hesitant.
Her voice isn’t as convincing when she replies, “Yeah.”
“I just saw Lando… if you’re still looking for him?”
“No, I found him,” she says, letting the words hang between them.
“Oh, okay. I thought he looked…” Oscar searches for the right one before settling on, “Upset.”
The girl forces a smile, trying not to make a big deal out of it. “We had a disagreement, it’s nothing.”
Oscar studies her as she walks past him. He has never been particularly intrusive, but he has always been observant and insanely good at noticing things people hope will go unseen. Like the slight tremble in her voice, the shine in her eyes and the way she keeps blinking rapidly, as if trying to push something back.
Instead of insisting that she tells him what’s wrong, he tilts his head toward the stairs leading back downstairs.
“My mother sent me some homemade Christmas cookies,” slightly croaky and uneven, Oscar’s voice catches her off guard.
She turns around reluctantly, finding him standing in the same spot with an expression that she would rather ignore. She considers pretending she didn’t hear, but he holds her gaze. There is no pressure in it, no expectation for her to explain herself or open up or talk about it.
He isn’t trying to pry into a situation that clearly isn’t his to fix, but is simply giving her an option.
Caught between wanting to disappear and a strange relief of not having to be alone, she ends up nodding. “Okay.”
Oscar offers her a quiet smile before falling into step beside her, saying nothing else as they descend the stairs together.
Sometimes, he has learned, silence is far kinder when it is shared. Also, the cookies taste better that way too.
📍 Miami, May 2026
DROPLETS OF WATER are still tracing paths down Oscar’s chest and arms after he steps out of the steaming bathroom with a white towel slung low around his hips. His hotel room carries the scent of his body wash mixed with the evening breeze drifting through the half-open balcony door. The noise coming in is much louder than at home, but it won’t be a problem for him to fall asleep, considering what a busy Sunday he had.
He settles onto the edge of the bed with a sigh and props his phone against a pillow, waiting for the FaceTime call to connect. A couple of beeps later, her face fills the screen, all sleepy yet happy to see him.
“Hey, you,” says Oscar, reciprocating the smile. “I’m sorry it’s late, just got out of the shower. Were you asleep?”
“No,” she replies with a yawn, leaning closer to her own screen. “I was waiting for you to call. Congrats on the podium!”
He chuckles quietly, rubbing a hand over his damp hair. “Thanks, very nice to be up there after the quali I’ve had.”
“Then what are you doing inside? Podium in Miami and you’re choosing room service instead of celebrating?”
Oscar shrugs, shifting to lie back against the headboard. The towel slips a little lower, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. “I’d rather be talking to you, I’m too tired anyway.”
He hears her hum on the other end, the sound landing right between his lungs, stealing the air from his chest.
They talk about anything but racing after that, asking what she ate for lunch and whether her meeting ran late. The screen shows her looking slightly off to the side, fingers tracing the edge of her phone.
He watches her for a long moment, unsure, then clears his throat to ask: “Was I wrong to tell you about it?” Her eyes flick back to the camera once Oscar continues, reluctant but determined to get to the bottom of it. “You’ve seemed a bit in your head when I left and if it’s me, I’d rather know.”
“No, Oscar,” she closes her eyes for a moment, “It’s not you. It’s…”
It’s Lando. Around everyone else, she knows where her boundaries begin and end. She knows when to walk away, when to protect her peace and when to choose reason over emotion — that’s exactly what she did with Oscar all this time. Of course, he told her about the conversation he had with his teammate on the balcony, two weekends ago. About the warning that Lando had fired at him about her.
He was quick to brush it aside, assuring her that nothing about it changes the way he sees her. That she has done nothing to diminish his respect for her. Still, Oscar recognizes the gray cloud that settled above her head, draining the light from moments that should be theirs. He recognizes it because he has seen it before: the same distant look, the same careful smiles that never quite reach her eyes, the same invisible weight pressing on her shoulders. She wore it for weeks after the Christmas party, convinced that if she ignored it long enough, it might eventually go away. But it never truly did.
“I know,” says Oscar at last. “I wish you found me when you weren’t still waiting for him. Would’ve been easier.”
The screen goes black without warning, the call still active, but the video feed cut. Oscar hears the muffled rustle of sheets as she sets the phone face-down on her pillow, so he stays silent for a while, listening to the soft sounds of her breathing.
Placing a palm over her chest, she can’t help but feel the shift inside.
Oscar has never asked her to sail toward him. Just like a lighthouse, he stayed in one place, casting light without demanding that she follow it. He didn’t rescue her from the sea but reminded her that there is still shore beyond it. For a short while, she was lost. Perhaps that is why she was so drawn to him in the first place. But a lighthouse doesn’t chase ships through violent waters, nor does it promise calm seas. Its purpose is not to save, but to guide.
“I’m so sorry,” it’s all she says, picking the phone up again.
Oscar exhales, shoulders loosening for a fraction. “Are you okay? I hate that I can’t be there.”
“I just… I wonder if I’m dragging you into something you don’t deserve.”
“This isn’t about protecting me, you know that,” he says, voice going up just a notch. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
She shifts on the bed, the camera tilting with her.
There is nothing to dispute about that. They are both adults. She and Lando have been over for months and no lines were crossed. But it would be foolish of them to believe their lives could remain untouched forever. They do not exist in a world where relationships stay private for long and, the moment it goes public, they will become a headline.
“Maybe not, but I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” she whispers.
Oscar doesn’t rush to fill the silence after her confession. He knows she needs him to simply exist with her in the same space, to stay. On his screen, he moves around slightly, resting his head back on the pillows.
“I think,” he begins carefully, “You’re still trying to find the exact moment where everything went wrong.”
She lays on her side, facing him. “And?”
“And maybe there isn’t one.”
“There must be,” the girl counters, “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation right now.”
Oscar sighs, suddenly looking uncertain, which is rare enough that it catches her attention. “Look, I’ll be back tomorrow night. Could I come over?”
The question is so gentle it almost breaks her heart. Even now, when she feels like she has spent weeks trying to understand where she truly belongs, Oscar is willing to give her the space she needs, regardless of whether her response might hurt him.
“You’re asking?” she teases.
“Yeah,” the corners of his mouth curve upward a little.
A fondness she cannot hide softens her expression. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Okay,” his smile widens.
Twenty-four hours later, Oscar is sitting on the couch in her living room. The TV plays a show on the background, its volume turned down so low that the sound is barely filling the empty spaces neither of them feels obligated to occupy.
Dinner is simple: takeout, hastily ordered after Oscar arrived from the airport. They speak about inconsequential things like his flight, the race weekend and the last book she read. Only once the last wrapper has been folded in half does reality begin to slowly creep back into the room.
Oscar gathers everything into a neat pile before standing, carrying the empty containers into the kitchen. She picks up the sounds of the cupboard opening, the bin closing, then the tap running for a few seconds, finding an odd comfort in how ordinary all of it is.
When he returns, he doesn’t immediately sit; he feels content to linger behind the couch, one hand resting on the back of it as if deciding whether to disturb the peace they’d managed to build over the last hour. From the moment they ended the call yesterday, his mind started running. He imagined every version of the conversation they’re about to have, every time coming to the same conclusion.
Eventually, he lowers himself beside her.
“How are you feeling?”
She exhales, fixing her eyes on the TV screen where people laugh at jokes neither of them can hear. “I’m not sure.”
She finds it very difficult to make sense of the flood of emotions that overwhelms her. There are too many feelings gathered in the same space inside her to separate one from the other; relief, guilt, love, affection, grief, hope, fear. They all exist together in a knot, so tightly woven that tugging on one only seems to tighten the rest.
Oscar’s thumb absentmindedly brushes over the seam of the cushion beneath his hand. Next time he speaks, his voice is careful which makes him sound disturbingly reserved. “I’m not saying this to put any pressure on you. It’s the last thing I want, and I know that we’re both equally involved, so it’s not that I don’t want to take any blame for it.”
The girl turns to look at him, their knees touching as she shifts.
“But I hope you know,” he pauses, searching for the right words instead of the easy ones, “Us… this only works for as long as you want it to.” Oscar smiles, but she notices the sadness tucked into its corners. “The circumstances won’t ever let me fight for you the way I’d like to,” he continues, gaze dropping to his hands. “Because I know you’ll always love him. I can’t hold that against you, I don’t think anyone could.”
She looks away before she can answer. “Yeah, but all that love… it’s just a burden if I have nowhere to put it.”
“Maybe it’s better if you try, and then you’ll know,” says Oscar, nodding. “You were together for a long time,” he rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know this will probably come back to bite me, but I think you should start putting it somewhere else. Starting with yourself.”
The simplicity of it catches her off guard. So much that it makes her laugh through her emotion, already sensing where their night is going to end.
“Are you breaking up with me too, Piastri?”
There is nothing selfish about what he’s asking of her. Nor can she blame him for refusing to become the person she turns to every time she finds herself running from Lando. If anything, she understands that it is the kindest thing he could have done for her. For himself too, and for whatever this peaceful, unexpected, beautiful thing between them has quietly become.
He chuckles. “It’s really fucking hard. I don’t know how Lando did it.”
It would have been easier for Oscar to ignore that gray cloud. To accept the pieces of her she was able to offer and hope that, one day, they would be enough. But choosing honesty over convenience makes her admire him more. It reminds her that Oscar has never loved by possession. He’s the type of guy that does it by presence, by giving without demanding.
With a sigh, she lets herself drift closer, until the weight of her head comes to rest against his shoulder. Her hand, lying beside on the couch, searches for his instinctively, and Oscar doesn’t hesitate before intertwining his fingers with hers as though they have always known the shape of her hand. A moment later, she feels his body relaxing, his head settling atop hers.
“He’s a good guy,” says Oscar, no bitterness in his voice. “And a constant part of my life for as long as we’re teammates. If…,” he trails off, squeezing her hand for a fraction, “If we keep doing this while you’re not completely here, then eventually every day at work becomes about avoiding each other.”
She nods, thinking back at what he told her the night before. “Maybe I did find you while I was still waiting for him, but I also found you when I needed someone beside me the most. And for that…”
The moment he looks down at her, every conviction he has spent the past twenty-four hours painstakingly assembling begins to crumble. The urge to take it all back is so strong; he wants to tell her that he doesn’t care how complicates it is, that he’ll gladly endure every awkward glance, every impossible circumstance if it means having the chance to choose her anyway. He wants to close the small distance, kiss her and spend however long it takes proving that it can work. Not perfectly, but close enough.
The thought dies before reaching his lips, though. For the first time all night, the words that usually come so effortlessly abandon him completely. He can only look at her in silence, carrying everything he cannot bear to say in the softness of his gaze, hoping she understands that choosing this version of the story is the hardest kindness he has ever offered.
“I don’t regret you,” she adds, reaching to cup his cheek in the palm of her hand.
Gently, she presses a tiny kiss in the corner of his mouth, an expression of gratitude more than affection.
Oscar’s jaw tightens as a new thought starts to take root in his mind right away. Mostly because of what it reveals about him. He thought he understood the boundaries, the risks, the impossible timing of it all and, ultimately, he thought he understood himself. He knew Lando was her Achilles’ heel, but he never, for one second, expected her to become his.
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after one very good night together, oscar piastri finds himself with two problems: he has no way of contacting you, and he can’t stop thinking about you.
genre: rom-com, he falls first and hard, friends with benefits to lovers, idiots in love (per usual).
warnings: fluff to the point of diabetes, oscar piastri being catastrophically down bad, friends with benefits who are very bad at being casual, stolen hoodies, mutual pining and poor decision-making, dry humour, soft kisses, and public yearning, a concerning amount of fond staring, implied sexual content, happy ending, obviously.
word count: 10k
a/n: after throwing away two different versions of this exact story, i’m finally handing this one over to you! this one genuinely fought me every step of the way, but i made it through. this idea actually wasn’t mine in the first place. it came from this request, so thank you so much, anon, for sending it in! there are probably still a few little mistakes here and there, and a million things my perfectionist brain would still love to tweak, but at some point i had to let it go. i had so much fun writing this in the end, and i really hope you have just as much fun reading it ❤️🩹
The first thing Oscar feels when he wakes up is a pleasant ache all over his body.
Which part of him feels the most sore? Hard to say. He’s used to physical exertion, but maybe, for the first time in his life, he’s actually reached his limit. I mean… things really did get a little out of hand. But how could they not have? He had nothing to do yesterday, neither did you, and wow… wow…
A small sleepy smile tugs at his lips as he lets himself sink back into the mattress. Nice. His eyes remain closed, and he’s so close to drifting back to sleep… so close… sleep is already catching up to him again, but—
You jolt upright like you’ve just been struck by lightning, and when you reach for your phone on the nightstand, your next “fuck!” comes out even more desperate.
There’s no time to waste. Your body is running on pure adrenaline as you bend down to grab your panties first, pulling them on with impressive speed, then your bra, your jeans, your shirt… Your movements are frantic, and Oscar has only managed to push himself up in bed enough to rub at his eyes and try to keep up as you whirl around the room like a hurricane, looking for your socks.
“What… what’s happening?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
You don’t even look at him as you finally tug your socks on and jump off the bed, dropping to your knees to reach for the sneakers that somehow ended up underneath it.
“I got a text. I have ten minutes to get to work. Shit. It was supposed to be my day off,” you complain, tying your laces.
Your hoodie. Oh my God. How many layers had you even been wearing last night? Where is it?
Oscar gets up. Calmly, he walks to the other side of the room and picks up his hoodie, which had been hanging over the back of the desk chair.
“Here. Don’t worry about giving it back,” he says, holding it out to you.
Your shoulders relax a little, and your hands close around the fabric before you shrug it on.
“Sorry for rushing out like this. Last night was really good, Oscar. Seriously,” you say, already heading toward the bedroom door. In a second, you’re in the living room, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and then you’re already at the front door, running your hands through your hair. “I loved meeting you. Hope you have a great day. Bye, cutie!”
And you blow him a kiss.
Oscar, naked and slightly bewildered, gives you a lopsided smile and a little wave, watching as you rush out of his house and straight into whatever morning disaster had stolen you from his bed.
From that distance, he can see through the front windows, past the curtains, the moment you reach the curb and wave down your Uber. Once you’re inside that car and it’s pulling away toward whatever address your job requires of you, Oscar finds himself officially alone.
He clears his throat, as if someone might be there to witness his pitiful state, and turns on his heel, heading to the bathroom.
He can say with a certain amount of pride that he left you with something to remember him by. He’s a perfectionist, deliberate by nature, which means the marks he left behind won’t be visible to the world, nothing that would give away exactly what happened inside those four walls to anyone looking from the outside, but you’ll notice them. That’s enough for him. When you look at yourself in the mirror, there they’ll be: two on either side of your waist, four on your stomach, and the faint little trail along the inside of your thighs. Ah, yes. He remembers those. Remembers how his mouth ended up there, making you sigh louder and—
No. Hang on. That’s too much.
Oscar needs to turn on the shower. Cold setting.
The water comes down over him in a steady cascade, doing what it can to freeze those thoughts in his mind before they have the chance to become a far more immediate part of his bloodstream. And once that happens, there’s only one direction they’ll go. Down, down, down. And how humiliating would it be to spend the rest of the day in that condition?
Fuck.
Oscar Piastri is reliving the final moments of his night with an intensity that can’t possibly be healthy.
He presses his wet forehead against the wall and closes his eyes. He’s really trying… but his hand already knows exactly where to go.
The thing about Oscar is that he’s not an impulsive man. If anything, the opposite is true. Everybody knows that. Calm and collected have been the two words trailing after him ever since he became relevant enough for the media to care. It’s his thing. His whole brand, really. Oscar Piastri: Calm & Collected™.
Only once in his life has he taken that particular fact about himself and thrown it straight out the window, consequences be damned. How did that happen?
The night before, in what was a completely justifiable course of action, Oscar had been lingering in the corner of the club, near the bar, a glass of his favorite tropical yellow drink in hand, when your voice cut through the air:
“Is that any good?”
He turns, the rim of the glass still pressed to his lips halfway through a sip. The first thing he notices is the purple and blue light catching on the glitter dusted across your cheeks. It's an interesting look. Artistic, somehow. He finishes the sip and lowers the glass.
The long lashes framing your eyes are still there. So is your gaze. Steady. Unbothered. Fixed on him.
"It's alright," he says, leaning back against the wall.
A hum of approval leaves you as you step a little closer.
"I was thinking about getting a drink too. Got any recommendations?" you ask, using that sweet, faintly distracted tone accompanied by a small smile that seems to be saying far more than the words themselves.
"I'm not sure I'm the best person to be giving that kind of advice," Oscar replies, taking another sip of his drink.
You tilt your head slightly, your smile growing just a little wider.
"I thought you were an expert. You've been standing here for a while."
That gets his attention. Oscar tips his head back slightly, narrowing his eyes as though he’s trying to solve a particularly complicated case.
"You've been watching me," he says at last.
The mischievous smile spreading across your face is answer enough.
"Have I?" you reply, slipping past him to look over the selection of drinks displayed behind the bar.
It takes exactly ten minutes for Oscar to end up at the back of the club, your hands tangled in his hair, both of you kissing like it’s a competition to see who can be more impatient.
His hands are everywhere.
Mostly because he can't seem to decide where he wants to touch you first. Jesus Christ. He's never kissed anyone like this before. There's so much heat, so much urgency, that neither of you notices when his hand slides down to your ass.
You both notice when he squeezes.
And he definitely notices the muffled sound you make against his mouth.
"Did you drive here?" you ask somewhere between kisses.
"Taxi," he murmurs. "Alcohol."
"Hm. Good call."
His mouth finds yours again immediately.
A few seconds later—
"Your place?" you ask.
"Okay.”
So, yeah. Right. It had been a good start to a good night that ended a little too abruptly, but… well, that’s okay. Oscar isn’t even thinking about it. He’s definitely not thinking about how he would’ve liked to bring you into his kitchen for a nice cup of coffee, maybe make you scrambled eggs because it’s simple enough to pull off and still might somehow surprise you, and talk about what the rest of your week was going to look like and all that.
He’d kiss you again.
Well, he’d want to. Obviously. If you wanted to. After breakfast, of course. And then he’d take you to the shower and the two of you could… you know. Again. Yes. Right. He would like that.
As he makes his way over to the simulator, though, he goes back over the morning in his head. Tries to figure out what happened. Because you weren’t upset with him. You weren’t angry at him. God, what kind of massive ego would Oscar have to think that anything about that morning had been his fault? You got called into work on your day off, and even then, you were still sweet enough to blow him a kiss on your way out.
Knowing all of that, why is he still so disappointed?
Oscar turns on the simulator, waits for the screen to light up, and settles into the seat. When he lets out a slow breath, he makes himself a promise: he’s going to let it go.
At some point in the middle of the night, Oscar is sitting on the bed while you’re walking back from the bathroom. The only thing on your body is his t-shirt.
You stop halfway across the room, hands settling on your waist as you look at him with one eyebrow raised and a small smile on your face.
“What?” he asks, squinting at you.
You shrug and shake your head. Don’t say anything. You just climb back onto the bed and make your way over to him.
“I want to kiss you again,” you say, swinging one leg over either side of his lap before wrapping both arms around his neck.
Oscar arches an eyebrow too.
“I think you can kiss me again.”
“You think?” you ask, resting your forehead against his.
“I thought you were tired,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, I lied,” you whisper, leaning in to press your lips to his through your own smile.
His arms wrap around your waist, and then his hands slip beneath the hem of the t-shirt, his fingers gliding slowly upward and sending shivers racing across your skin. And the two of you have touched each other like this so many times since you got there, but Oscar still hasn’t gotten tired of the sound that leaves your mouth when he reaches the middle of your back and pulls you even closer against him.
Maybe Oscar isn’t actually all that good at keeping promises he makes to himself, because it’s already halfway through the next day and you still haven’t texted him. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he does anyway.
That’s not even the worst part.
At some point that morning, while taking out the trash, Oscar realized the two of you never exchanged numbers. Of course you’re not going to text him. But even if you did have his number, would it really be a problem if you didn’t text him? Oscar likes to think not.
He calls Lando.
“Hey, mate!” Lando greets, sounding a little distracted. “You left the club pretty early that night.”
“Hey,” Oscar says back, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can wash his hands at the kitchen sink. “Uh, yeah. I… went home.”
Lando laughs.
“With a girl. I saw,” he says, and Oscar straightens up, clearing his throat.
“Right. Yeah. You… you saw her with me?”
“Of course, mate. You literally waved goodbye to me as a warning, remember?”
Yes, Oscar had forgotten that.
“Do you… Do you think you know who she is?”
“Like, if she’s an influencer or something? Mate, I don’t think so,” Lando says, and Oscar can practically picture him shaking his head. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go deal with something. But good for you, though. Glad you had fun. I know these shiny party things aren’t really your scene.”
A small smile tugs at Oscar’s mouth.
“Yeah. It was fun,” he admits.
“Right. And about the girl, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
“No worries. See you, mate.”
And finally, the call ends.
Oscar locks his phone, slips it into his pocket, and heads into the living room. He drops onto the couch, turns on the TV, and tries, really tries, to focus on the action movie playing in front of him, where some woman is busy throwing herself from one building to the next.
The only problem is that she looks a little too much like you.
You’re sitting on top of him, hands braced against his chest. His own hands rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking over your skin while you look down at him, again and again.
“You’ve got so many freckles,” you say, lifting a finger to touch a few scattered across his chest.
Oscar nods, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.
“I do. I think it’s genetics mixed with sun exposure,” he explains without much thought, because that’s simply what he’s always assumed.
Your head tilts to the side as you reach up to touch the small constellation along his neck. Oscar swallows.
“I once heard this theory that freckles show up in the places where your soulmate used to kiss you most in a past life,” you say, continuing your careful little exploration as your fingertips brush softly over his cheek.
Oscar closes his eyes.
“I didn’t know that,” he murmurs.
You let out a small laugh and lean down to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“I think your soulmate must’ve loved you very much in your past life,” you say.
And just like that, the conversation is over, because Oscar is kissing you again, and you kiss him back without even thinking.
He’s been running for hours now.
Oscar glances at the time and, yes, a full two hours.
His hair is soaked with sweat, and his t-shirt is even worse. Honestly, he’s pretty disgusting, if he stops to think about it. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps running, slipping past people like a guided missile — except he doesn’t actually have anywhere programmed to go.
Oscar just runs.
He called his trainer earlier to say he’d be doing his cardio outside today, which surprised the man enough, but he said it was fine as long as Oscar actually did it. Of course Oscar was going to do it. He just needed to get out for a while.
The pace of his feet only starts to slow when he turns onto a familiar street.
It’s not really a run anymore, just a slow walk along the cobbled street of the shopping district where some of the best clubs in the city are tucked away. Not exactly the kind of place people go for a casual stroll, but no one in Monaco would question it — the country is small enough that any stretch of road can be justified if you try hard enough.
He stops in front of that club.
The one where he met you three days ago.
“Can I help you with something?” the bouncer asks, giving him the flat, unreadable look of someone who’s had to deal with every kind of drunk in Monaco.
Oscar blinks at him, a little thoughtful, because he doesn’t really know how he ended up there, let alone what exactly he wants to ask.
But he has to ask something.
“There’s a girl who comes here. We met a few days ago, and I was wondering if maybe she’d shown up again after that, or if… if she’s a regular. If you remember her,” he says.
The man just raises his eyebrows and waits.
Oscar describes you to him. First name, age, height, job, eye color, what you were wearing, the way your gaze looks, the makeup you had on… everything he knows.
Then he waits.
The bouncer shrugs.
“No clue, mate. A lot of people come through here.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. How could he not recognize you with a description like that? Of course, Oscar doesn’t say any of that. He just nods politely and says,
“Right. Thanks.”
That, apparently, is the end of his walk home. Oscar decides he’d rather take an Uber back.
With one arm wrapped around your waist, Oscar keeps you tucked against him. Your body is still full of little aftershocks, still humming with the kind of pleasure that hasn’t fully faded yet, leaving you with nothing but a deep, sleepy need to stay exactly where you are — warm, boneless, and held against him.
Oscar lets out a very, very satisfied laugh and slides his other hand down to your hip.
“You okay?” he asks, his nose brushing into your hair.
“Hmm… yes,” you mumble, stretching out the word in a soft, sleepy little sound that makes him tighten his arm around you. “I’m slowly coming back to the real world.”
“I’ll wait,” Oscar murmurs, and you nod against him. “We should probably take a shower.”
You snuggle in closer.
“Can we stay like this for a little longer?” you ask in a whisper.
How was Oscar supposed to deny you anything?
“Of course we can,” he replies, and you melt against him.
It’s been two weeks, and Oscar doesn’t think about that night anymore. Or about the fact that, somewhere in the city, you’re out there living your life. Maybe wearing his favorite hoodie — the one he’s probably never getting back. The idea is ridiculous, obviously, and not something he spends any real time dwelling on.
So he carries on as if nothing ever happened, which is how he’s ended up at the supermarket, standing in the pasta aisle with a thoughtful look on his face. He's pretending he has any clue what separates one type of pasta from another, even though he already knows he’s leaving with five boxes of spaghetti either way.
That's when a woman passes by him.
Oscar’s head snaps up, and he turns so quickly it’s almost embarrassing, because for one stupid second, he’s sure that—
Oh.
No.
She doesn’t look anything like… anyone he knows.
Oscar goes still for a moment, then turns back to his cart and drops the boxes of pasta inside, red as a bell pepper as he heads for the checkout.
“Hi… are you Oscar Piastri?”
He blinks, sliding the gas nozzle back into place before turning toward the little girl staring up at him with huge brown eyes.
“Sorry, she… she spotted you from over there and really wanted to come say hi. I hope we’re not bothering you,” her mother says.
The smile that spreads across Oscar’s face is slow, but entirely genuine. He shakes his head and glances down again, this time noticing the orange cap in the little girl’s hands, with the number 81 stitched across the front.
“I don’t actually have a pen on me to sign—”
“Here.” Her mother quickly holds one out.
“Thanks,” Oscar says, taking both the pen and the cap. “Alright, what’s your name?”
“Estelle.”
“Estelle? That’s a beautiful name,” he says, scribbling his autograph across the cap before handing it back to her.
Her mother lifts her phone to take a picture, and Oscar steps closer to the little girl, smiling as he raises a thumbs-up for the camera.
“Did you get it?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you so much, Piastri.”
“Yeah, thanks, Piastri! Hope you actually win next year, at least.”
Her mother looks instantly mortified, but Oscar just laughs as he hands the pen back to her.
“I’m hoping to win too,” he says, giving Estelle a friendly pat on the top of the head. “Soon.”
The two of them wave goodbye and start to turn away, and Oscar lifts his head to watch them go… only to catch sight, all the way across the station, of someone very, very familiar climbing into a car and pulling the door shut.
For one long second, he just stands there in the middle of the gas station.
His McLaren is still parked by the pump. A line is starting to form behind it. Fuck. There’s a line. But—
He blinks.
It’ll be quick. There are other pumps.
He doesn’t think.
Oscar bolts past the two girls in such a sudden rush that even the attendants stop what they’re doing to stare. He keeps going, one step after the other, because Oscar only ever runs like this when he’s training, except now he has somewhere to be, and you’re getting farther and farther away, and if he doesn’t catch you now, maybe he never will.
He needs to know how you are.
And you’re right there.
And he’s almost there. And your engine is already turning over and—
Oscar is completely out of breath.
He comes to a stop beside your car, one hand braced against the hood, the other on his knee. This is so wildly out of character for him that he nearly passes out from the sheer realization of what he’s doing and where he’s doing it. Jesus Christ. One second. Calm down.
Your door swings open. He knows because he hears it.
Oscar shouldn’t be this affected. He has athlete lungs. Twenty-five years on this earth without ever touching a cigarette.
Fuck.
“Oscar?” you say, your brow furrowing as you hurry toward him. “Oh my God. Oscar!”
Finally — and very slowly — Oscar straightens up enough to look at you.
“Are you okay?” you ask, your hands flying to his shoulders, mostly because he still isn’t saying anything and he’s pale as a ghost, which is starting to genuinely scare you.
But he just blinks. Looks down at your hand.
“I am,” he says with a nod. “I’m okay.”
You’re not entirely sure you believe him, but you let your hands fall away anyway. Back at the station, a chorus of car horns starts going off, and the attendants have gathered in a small cluster, all waving impatiently for him to hurry up. Oscar looks mildly horrified.
“Wait here, okay? Don’t leave,” he says, lifting a finger toward you even as he’s already moving. “I need to get my car out of there, but I’ll be right back.”
Your eyes blink once, but you… you nod.
Okay.
Oscar hurries back toward the gas station, murmuring quiet apologies to a few people on the way before finally making it to his car and pulling it out of the way.
Oscar comes back a minute later, shutting the door of his McLaren with a little more force than necessary before making his way toward you.
You’re still standing beside your car, arms folded loosely over your chest now, watching him with a look that lands somewhere between concern and confusion.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
Oscar clears his throat.
“So,” he says, a little breathless still. “Hi.”
You blink at him.
“Hi,” you echo, like you’re not entirely sure this qualifies as a normal greeting after whatever the hell that was two minutes ago.
His mouth twitches.
“Sorry about the…” He gestures vaguely behind him, as if that explains anything. “Running.”
Your eyebrows lift.
“Right,” you say slowly. “I was going to ask.”
Oscar glances away for half a second, then back at you.
“Yeah. No, that’s fair.”
And there it is — the smallest hint of embarrassment settling over his face, enough to make something warm flicker in your chest before you can stop it.
“I just—” He stops, exhales through his nose, and tries again. “I saw you getting into your car and thought if I let you leave without saying anything, I’d probably regret it.”
The way he says it makes you let out a breath.
“You idiot,” you say simply.
Oscar arches an eyebrow.
“You didn’t have to leave half of Monaco annoyed at you because of me,” you say, shaking your head before uncrossing your arms and stepping forward to wrap him in a hug. “This is how you’re supposed to greet someone, see?”
Shaking his head, he lets out a quiet laugh. Oscar isn’t even sure he’s allowed to do this, but he wraps his arms around you too, and the hug is a little awkward, a little clumsy — mostly because the two of you barely know each other and… yeah. You barely know each other. The thought makes him frown.
“How are you?” he asks, pulling away slowly.
You shrug.
“Normal. Fine. I’ve been working on a few new projects for uni this week,” you say, a little dreamily, gathering your hair in one hand as the wind keeps blowing it out of place. “I was actually on my way to get lunch. Do you want to come with me? It’s better than standing out here. My hair’s about two seconds away from sticking to my lip gloss and turning into a complete disaster.”
Oscar blinks because… did he hear you right? Lunch? You just asked him to lunch? As if the past two weeks hadn’t existed at all? As if they hadn’t been their own special little version of hell on earth?
“Yeah,” he says a little too quickly.
Then he clears his throat.
“Yeah. Sure. If you want.”
And because apparently he’s determined to make this worse for himself, he adds, a touch too late to sound normal:
“I mean— yes. I’d like that.”
A quiet laugh slips out of you at that, but all you say is,
“I’ll be right in front of you. No running this time, okay?”
As you walk back to your car, leaving Oscar behind, he rolls his eyes — but he’s smiling so hard it completely ruins the effect.
He drives slowly behind you, following your car through the streets of Monaco toward whatever lunch spot you had in mind. It’s not far, but it gives Oscar more than enough time to think. Or, more accurately, to sit there in a state of mild disbelief. For one brief second, he genuinely considers the possibility that he’s hallucinating. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he hit his head somewhere between the petrol station and the parking spot. Maybe this is one of those bizarre out-of-body experiences people talk about, because up until today, you had been nothing more than a very good memory in his head — and now you’re leading him to lunch. Lunch. A thing you invited him to. With your own mouth.
Despite everything, Oscar really had thought there was a decent chance he’d never see you again.
By the time you pull into a parking space and step out of the car, he’s still sitting behind the wheel of his own, staring at you from that short distance like he’s trying to come up with some logical explanation for why this is happening at all. You walk over after a second, leaning down just enough to tap twice against his window.
“Come on,” you say.
Oscar drags his tongue over his bottom lip and nods, like that somehow makes him look less like a man who’s currently being led around by divine intervention.
As you walk into the restaurant, you head in front first to speak to the host, explaining that the reservation had originally been for one, but that you had a last-minute guest. He looks ready to say that won’t be possible — right up until he catches sight of Oscar and his eyebrows lift. Alright, then. He can come in.
You nod, and the two of you are led to your table, Oscar offering the man a grateful nod of his own while still biting the inside of his cheek, because he still hasn’t quite gotten used to how easily doors open for him.
And then, finally, you’re seated. One across from the other.
Oscar hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.
Your hand goes straight for the menu, and Oscar tries not to look at you too much. Predictably, he fails. Your lashes stay lowered as your eyes move from one option to the next, widening with interest whenever something catches your attention and narrowing again whenever something sounds questionable enough to make you pull a face. Your cheeks are pink, and you tap the edge of one nail against your tooth while you think.
“Do you eat seafood?” you ask after a moment, still scanning the menu.
“Yeah,” Oscar says. “Why?”
Now you finally look up at him.
“Because I kind of want the shrimp bucket,” you say. “But it’s way too much food for one person. Do you want to split it with me?”
A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “I’d like that.”
You smile too and close the menu, then lean forward to rest your cheek against your hand.
Now it’s your turn to look at him. At his hair, his soft face, the freckles scattered across his skin…
“It’s been a little while since that night, hasn’t it?” you say. “If I’d known you were going to be here, I would’ve left your hoodie in the car.”
Oscar shakes his head.
“I told you not to worry about that.”
You smile faintly.
“So how’ve you been?” you ask. “Did you go back to the club? You said Lando likes going there.”
“Not really,” Oscar says. Not in the way you mean. “Lando’s more into that sort of thing than I am.”
You nod.
“Right.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Did you go back?”
“No, no. I haven’t had time,” you say. “Like I said, these projects have completely taken over my life lately—”
A waiter appears beside the table, and you glance up with a quick smile.
“Oh, hi. We’ll get the shrimp bucket, and…” Your eyes flick back to Oscar. “What do you want to drink, Osc?”
Osc.
His smile widens, just a little.
“The berry Italian soda, please,” he says. “Non-alcoholic.”
You nod and turn back to the waiter.
“And mine can just be strawberry, please.”
The waiter writes it down, and you thank him softly before he walks away.
“I love this restaurant,” you say, glancing around before your attention catches on an elderly couple tucked away in the corner. Oscar notices the little smile on your face and follows your gaze.
They’re adorable. The man is holding an analog camera, and his wife is posing like someone who knows, without a doubt, that she’s adored.
“They look happy,” Oscar says, tilting his head slightly.
Your nose scrunches with a smile as you turn back to him.
“They really do. They come here all the time.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“So you’re a regular.”
A tiny smile tugs at your mouth.
“I’m a creature of habit.”
That earns a quiet laugh from Oscar.
“I’ve never been here before,” he says, glancing up at the decorations hanging from the ceiling. Everything about the place feels so… oceanic. A wash of blue and white, starfish painted along the walls, dark wood everywhere.
You grin.
“Yeah, they really commit to the theme.”
Oscar’s mouth twitches.
“I’m a creature of habit too,” he says. “I usually stick to the restaurants in the city centre.”
Your eyes widen.
“The ones that are basically lit entirely by candlelight?”
He shrugs.
“They’re charming.”
That pulls a soft laugh out of you.
“I’ve never been to any of them. People have recommended them to me, but I just never got around to it.”
“Maybe we—” He stops himself, already knowing exactly where that sentence was headed. But Oscar pushes on anyway. “If you ever think it sounds nice, maybe we could go there sometime. I imagine it’s better with company.”
Seeing the look on your face, Oscar realizes with a flicker of nerves that you’re actually considering what he said. And when you nod, all soft expression and soft eyes, he feels his shoulders loosen.
“I’d love that,” you say.
A small smile tugs at the corner of Oscar’s mouth.
“Yeah?” he says, like he just needs to hear it one more time.
Your smile deepens.
“Yeah.”
If Oscar could, he’d probably put this afternoon somewhere near the top of the list of the best days of his life. He can’t quite explain why, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that two weeks of waiting have finally led him here — to the realization that you’re still the same person who laid your head on his chest and asked for five more minutes.
How exactly is anyone supposed to recover from that kind of experience?
Well. Oscar doesn’t have an answer.
The question only gets worse over Italian sodas and fried shrimp, when you point at the sauce on his cheek with a laugh. The table is full of laughter after that, and the two of you talk about everything. And when you lean in to hear his answer to whatever question you’ve just asked, Oscar almost lets himself believe you keep asking and asking and asking just because you like the way he explains things.
Later, when you lead him to the back of the restaurant to show him the view of the sea, you point at a gull gliding back and forth overhead and say,
“That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
But Oscar looks down at you and, for the first time that afternoon, feels the urge to disagree.
The days pass easily.
You don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Work, home, university. University, work, home. Lunch squeezed into whatever break the day happens to give you. The same routine, the same schedule, the same familiar little rush from one place to the next.
But now there’s something extra tucked into the middle of it all — a nice surprise that, if you’re being honest, you really hadn’t seen coming.
Ever since that lunch with Oscar, when you gave him your number so he could actually arrange the dinner the two of you had talked about, things have been… fun.
Which isn’t exactly shocking. He is nice; you already knew that much. You’d spent a night together, after all. A very intense night, actually. Intense enough that every now and then, when the memory sneaks up on you at the worst possible moment, your cheeks go warm because you genuinely don’t know who you were that night. Some insatiable little menace must have taken over your body. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.
You hadn’t meant for any of it to turn into more than that. A handsome guy at a bar, one good night of sex to work the tension out of your system after a string of exhausting days and the thousand things you always seem to have on your plate, and… well. That was supposed to be it. A solid plan. A very reasonable plan.
Then Oscar had quite literally run after you and nearly passed out in the process, leaving you a little stunned and far more charmed than you should probably admit.
So now, apparently, this is your life.
On your way into work, you stop halfway across the courtyard because a gull is circling overhead, and your first thought, naturally, is that Oscar needs to see it. You pull your phone from your pocket, angle the camera upward, and snap a picture before sending it off with the caption:
look. they’re following me now.
He replies two minutes later.
have you considered the possibility that they’re spying on you?
You lift an eyebrow, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you head for the door and type back:
gulls aren’t spies. pigeons are.
His answer comes through almost immediately.
have you ever seen a baby gull?
And honestly, you don’t have a response to that. Not one that matters, anyway. All you can do is laugh under your breath as you pull the door open, because no — now that he’s mentioned it, you’ve never actually seen a baby gull in your life.
“Well, look who’s in a good mood,” Bonnie, the woman at reception, says.
You glance up, still smiling as you make your way toward the staff room.
“Just having a good week,” you reply.
And you’re not lying.
The day goes by nicely. Work is exactly what it’s always been too, nothing's new. The schedule is predictable, your break happens at the same time it always does, but there’s something particularly entertaining about knowing that, at around four in the afternoon, you can pull out your phone and text someone that Susan from finance is cheating on her husband with Robert, the man who delivers the chemicals for the photo developers.
Oscar seems especially horrified by the replies he sends back, and when he says that maybe he should tell Susan’s husband, you let out a laugh so loud that the girls in the booth immediately tell you to keep it down. You nod, covering your mouth with one hand as you text back, you’re getting me into trouble here. He answers almost immediately with a simple okay, sorry, and somehow that’s enough to leave a small smile lingering on your face.
Yes. Yes, things have been nice.
His break is almost over, which means you won’t be in the same city for much longer. Soon enough, he’ll go back to travelling the world in his tight little racing suit — as you so kindly pointed out to him. Oscar had smiled at that one and made sure you knew it by sending back a bright little 😁.
This gives you an idea.
It’s a silly one. Probably a little more compromising than you’re giving it credit for. But you and Oscar are friends now, aren’t you? And you’ve already slept together once. It was good. Very good. So what harm could a second night together really do, when he’s about to spend so much time away? It wouldn’t be anything new. If anything, it might even help. Oscar has an exhausting job. You have an exhausting job.
It takes him fifteen minutes to reply to your suggestion with a simple okay. Then it takes him an hour and a half to show up at your door.
Glancing around before opening it, you suddenly wonder if you might’ve backed yourself into a corner a little. It’s not as though you were trying to be subtle about why Oscar was here, but maybe the low yellow lighting and the slow music are making the whole thing feel a touch more deliberate than you meant it to. A flicker of embarrassment runs through you, and you hurry over to your phone, biting the inside of your cheek as you hit pause.
Okay. Better. Your shoulders loosen, and you head for the door.
“Hi,” you say, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you pull it open.
Oscar looks ridiculous.
Ridiculously attractive, to be specific.
You’re not blind. You knew that from the first time you saw him leaning against that wall at the club, all soft eyes and unfairly pretty mouth. And when he gives you that crooked little smile, whatever lingering doubt you had evaporates on the spot.
This was absolutely the right decision.
God, you’re a genius.
“Hi,” he says back.
Your eyebrows lift, just a little, because suddenly you’re not nervous anymore. Not really. What you don’t know is that Oscar’s heart is beating so fast it might actually give up from exhaustion at any moment.
You tilt your head toward the inside of the house, silently inviting him in.
The door clicks shut behind you as you head for the couch. Oscar follows, glancing around with that curious, slightly charmed look on his face, but in the end, his attention settles back on you. He walks over and sits beside you.
“So…” he says, flicking you a quick glance. “Do you want to talk?”
The little look on your face already answers for you, but you say it anyway.
“We already talk all the time.”
Oscar laughs.
It’s low and warm and quietly melodic, and then he reaches for you, because suddenly he understands that he can. That he’s allowed to. That you want this just as much as he does. Christ, you invited him here.
You shift closer and swing your legs over his hips, and you know he loves that. He told you so that night. He told you so many things and nothing at all, and somehow, you remembered every single one.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, his eyes dropping to your mouth.
“I think you can kiss me,” you reply, repeating the same thing he’d said to you nights and nights ago.
His smile widens.
“You think?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not tired, so I’m not going to keep following the script. I haven’t worn you out yet,” you murmur, lifting your hands to his cheeks.
And Oscar becomes quite certain that he could die right there and still be perfectly happy about it in the afterlife.
He leans in, and he already knows exactly what to do.
You part your lips for him straight away, because this kiss was never supposed to be soft. No. It was always meant to burn.
Fuck. Yes. This is it. This is exactly what Oscar had been looking for for the past two weeks, and when you push his head back against the sofa and take over the kiss with an intensity that makes his grip tighten around your waist, he’s fairly sure he’s just been launched into another dimension.
One that smells like you. Feels like you. Has you everywhere.
This is casual, Oscar reminds himself. Just one more night before he leaves. Normal sex. With someone he trusts. A way to let off steam. Right. Of course. Sure.
Yes. He knows that.
He eases you back against the couch. Oscar is in control now. Or at least, that’s the plan. But the second he presses into you and hears that hungry little sound disappear into his mouth, he forgets what the word control is even supposed to mean.
You’ve just gotten out of the shower. Together.
Now you’re lying on your side, facing Oscar, wearing the hoodie you stole that morning before leaving his place — and he’s quietly losing his mind over the fact that it doesn’t smell like him anymore. Now it’s just you.
He’d love to steal it back, though not because he misses it.
“What are the next few weeks going to look like?” you ask softly, your index finger tracing absent little patterns over the freckles on his chest.
Oscar slips a hand beneath the hem of the hoodie and rests it on your waist, and you immediately pull a face when his fingers meet your skin.
“Your hand is freezing,” you complain.
He just laughs.
“Two races back-to-back,” he says, his thumb stroking over your waist, “and then two weeks without one.”
Your eyes lift to his.
“Two race weekends in a row?”
Oscar nods.
“And you like that?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“The racing part?”
You nod.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s my favourite thing in the world,” he says.
Your fingers pause over his chest.
“What does it feel like?”
You shift a little closer into the bed, settling in as you wait for his answer, your eyes fixed on his. Oscar bites the inside of his cheek for a second, thinking, then blinks up at the ceiling.
“I think…” he says slowly. “I think it’s probably the closest anyone can get to real freedom.”
Your expression softens.
“And maybe a little like flying,” he adds. “If flying came with lower back pain.”
A laugh slips out of you.
“It hurts that much?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods. “Feels like someone stuffed me into a sardine tin and then stretched me out with medieval torture equipment.”
That makes you laugh properly.
“Wow. Sounds lovely.”
“It is,” Oscar says, smiling. “I told you. It’s my favourite.”
Your expression softens again, and without really thinking about it, you nudge your forehead against his shoulder in a quiet little request to be held. Oscar immediately wraps an arm around you.
“Then I think you need to sleep, you sardine-tin masochist,” you murmur, your eyes already drifting shut. “It won’t do for McLaren’s best driver to show up exhausted.”
He goes still for a second, breathing a little mechanically.
“Sleep here?”
“Hm.” You tuck yourself in closer. “I’m not about to kick you out after you gave me some of the best orgasms of my life for the second time. That would just be rude.”
The heat that rushes into his cheeks is so immediate he’s half-convinced there might actually be smoke coming out of his ears.
“Oh my God.”
You burst out laughing and melt further into him.
“You’re so puritanical when you talk. It’s adorable.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Hm. Alright, then. Say something outrageous.”
Oscar thinks. Really thinks.
“Sex.”
You gasp.
“Wow.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, low and helpless, as he pulls you in a little tighter.
“Go to sleep,” he says.
“Okay,” you mumble, already halfway there as your body goes soft against his.
And Oscar can’t quite believe this day is real — that you, of all people, are curled up against his chest, wearing his hoodie while you drift off to sleep.
When he closes his eyes, he already knows exactly what he’ll be dreaming about.
The two race weeks go by fast, but not kindly. Oscar feels every second of them.
Neither of them turns out quite the way he would’ve liked. In one, both he and Lando end up with DNFs. In the other, he drags home a hard-earned P5 in the rain after starting P9, in what had already been one of the worst qualifying sessions imaginable — helped along by three DNFs ahead of him and an overtake dramatic enough to earn its own replay. The whole thing is such complete chaos that Oscar isn’t entirely sure how he makes it out alive.
In the middle of all that, though, even knowing he’s exhausted from briefings, late-night team meetings, and complaints that never seem to go anywhere, Oscar still finds one way or another to reply to you.
He loves the voice notes you send him, especially the ones where you tell him that one wet corner he took nearly sent your heart straight out of your chest. And then, naturally, you decide to drop a bomb in his lap.
A photo.
You’re wearing a McLaren shirt you bought, one exactly like his. His number on the front. His number on the back. Big enough to leave absolutely no room for interpretation. The “fuck” that slips out of Oscar is so loud that half the garage turns to look at him. He actually has to apologise.
And when he finally gets back home, you call him and ask if he wants to celebrate.
“I’d love to,” he says, setting his suitcase down by the wall. “What exactly are we celebrating?”
“Your marriage to P5,” you reply. “I saw people on Twitter saying you’re very attached to that position. Apparently you only cheat on it with the occasional P7.”
Oscar shakes his head, but a helpless laugh escapes him anyway.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “People should mind their own business.”
You hum.
“Rude. Your fans won’t like hearing that you’re this badly behaved.”
“And are you planning to tell them?”
“Only if you don’t agree to go out and celebrate with me,” you say. “I’ve got an idea, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
Oscar goes soft immediately. He still has no idea how to say no to you.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
“Yay.”
With a small smile still tugging at his mouth, he hangs up and goes to get ready.
“When you talked to me for the first time at the club, what was your first thought?” you ask, peering at him over the enormous witch-hat-shaped cotton candy in your hands.
Oscar pretends to think about it, but he already knows the answer. He reaches over to tear off a piece of your cotton candy, and when you immediately protest with an indignant, “Hey!”, he says,
“I thought, who’s this lunatic asking me for drink recommendations?”
“Lunatic?!” you gasp. “My God. You’re so rude.”
A quiet little laugh slips out of him, and by then the two of you are already making your way toward the shooting stall, because apparently that’s the next attraction you’ve decided you need to learn how to play.
Oscar hadn’t even known there was a festival in town with a fairground attached. It had been a long time since he’d been to one of these.
“Do you realise you’ve called me rude twice today?” he asks, clearly amused as he hands the tokens over to the guy at the stall.
You set your cotton candy down on the little ledge, take your toy gun, and shrug.
“Maybe you should reflect on that.”
“Me?” he asks, picking up his own.
“Yes, you. You’re the one being rude.”
Oscar laughs and ducks his head, squinting through the sight. You copy him, bending down a little beside him. When you fire your first shot, one of the bottles topples over immediately. Oscar misses by half an inch.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, straightening up to see what went wrong.
“Ha! Okay. Again,” you say, already adjusting your stance for the next shot.
In the end, Oscar gets two strikes, and you only manage one.
You decide immediately that this is so, so unfair and inform him that, as compensation for the absolute tragedy of your performance, he’s going to have to give you the giant dolphin he won. Oscar complains, obviously, but somehow still ends up carrying two absurdly oversized stuffed animals — one enormous heart and, of course, the dolphin you’d already claimed for yourself — while you tug him along by the elbow toward the photo booth.
Oscar loves seeing you like this. All bright-eyed and happy, wandering around the fair like an overexcited little kid.
You slide onto the bench inside the booth, pull the stuffed animals in between the two of you, and then reach for Oscar’s hand to get him to sit down beside you.
“Do a good pose,” you warn him before pressing the start button. “And none of that thumbs-up thing you always do.”
“What’s wrong with—”
“Look!”
You grab his cheek and squish it, forcing his mouth into a pout while you do one of your own.
The next photo catches Oscar mid-laugh, with you wearing the most delightfully mischievous little smile. Then there’s one of both of you looking straight at the camera, and another where each of you is hugging one of the stuffed animals.
In the end, the two of you somehow end up at the top of the Ferris wheel, entirely because it was Oscar’s idea. Nothing could be more cliché than this, he’d thought. But then you were leaning over to look at the city below, pointing off into the distance with a bright little, “I can see my house from here!” and Oscar decided he didn’t care even a little bit.
At some point during the ride, though, things get a little out of hand. Because you turn to him with a look that means absolutely no good, then lean in close to his ear and whisper an idea so scandalous that the only thing Oscar manages in response is biting down on his own lip before kissing you hard and letting his hand drift somewhere very, very dangerous.
Oscar doesn’t do things like this. And, if you’re being honest, neither do you.
But when your mouth falls open and you have to hide your face in the curve of his neck to muffle the sound trying to escape, you find yourself thinking that maybe — yes — you could get used to doing things like this.
Of course you fuck that night. And the night after that. And the one after that, and the one after that too. What started as a one-night thing after the club — no strings, no expectations — turned into a second night with no strings attached, and then into weeks of no strings attached, until suddenly you have no idea what’s going on anymore.
Because now you’re lying in Oscar’s bed, and tomorrow he has to leave for a race week, and all you can think about is how much you don’t want to be here without him.
His eyes are closed, and he looks peaceful in that way only Oscar ever seems to manage. In that way you’ve somehow learned to recognise, and—
Oh, fuck.
You’d rather not think about it, so instead you just close your eyes, curl your arms around him, and breathe in the soft scent of the cologne he wears — the one that, somewhere along the way, became your favourite.
When you wake up, it’s to the sound of Oscar moving around the room, gathering his things and carrying them out to the living room.
And you can tell he’s doing it as slowly as humanly possible so he won’t wake you, because the room is still dark and he’s trying to see everything by the light of his phone torch alone.
“Morning?” you mumble, rubbing one eye with the back of your hand.
Oscar stops mid-step, looks over at you with his head tilted slightly to one side, and smiles.
“Morning,” he says. “Did I wake you?”
There’s a faint note of guilt in his voice.
You shake your head and yawn, reaching out to tug him closer by the hand.
“You’re leaving already?”
He nods and comes back to sit in the empty space beside you. Your hand curls around his forearm.
“And you weren’t even going to say goodbye.”
Oscar wrinkles his nose.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your sleep.”
“You were going to leave me lying here in your bed while you went off travelling,” you say. “Don’t you protect your belongings?”
A quiet laugh slips out of him as he glances down at the fingers absently stroking his arm.
“Of course I do. But half of them are already at your place, so…”
You hum.
“Fair enough.”
Your eyes are still heavy with sleep, and your grip on his arm loosens a little, but you lift a finger and tap your forehead.
“I want a kiss here.”
Oscar smiles like an absolute fool and leans in. Honestly, how can someone be this needy? He presses a kiss right where you pointed.
“Here?” he asks, and then drops one onto your cheek. “I’ll leave one here…” Then the other. “And one here too.” The tip of your nose. “Here.” And finally, your lips. “And one here.”
You’re smiling by then, one hand curled around the back of his neck, and when you open your eyes properly, you tilt your head to the side and nod.
“That’s better,” you say. “Now you can go.”
He leaves one last kiss on your forehead before getting to his feet.
“But I’ll be back,” he says. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”
Oh, but you will. You definitely will.
“Okay,” you murmur.
And when Oscar finally leaves, you let yourself go limp against the bed, staring at nothing as you wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do with your life now that you’ve somehow managed to ruin everything.
He’s absolutely brilliant that weekend.
You watch Oscar cross the finish line from pole position with the giant stuffed dolphin hugged to your chest, and the very first thing you do afterwards is grab your phone and text him:
DIVORCE FROM P5!!!!!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉
Watching the podium celebration is a little harder. Mostly because, honestly, how is he allowed to look like that while the Australian anthem is playing?
Half an hour later, he replies with a simple:
celebration?
And you send back whatever you want! before promptly dropping onto the rug on your back and staring up at the ceiling.
You’ve been doing that a lot lately.
As if the ceiling might suddenly decide to give you some kind of answer. It never does. Not even one.
Outside the restaurant, the one he promised he’d take you to, tucked into the middle of the city and glowing softly with candlelight, Oscar takes your hand.
He’s wearing a suit. He hates suits, but he told you he put one on because, once, you mentioned seeing a photo of him in one and thinking he looked really handsome. So now he’s standing there in a suit he doesn’t even like, his fingers threaded through yours like this is the easiest thing in the world.
Like it doesn’t pull at something deep in your chest.
He reaches for your chair and waits until you sit so he can gently push it in, then takes the seat beside you, not across from you, beside you, and orders for both of you, wine included, because tonight is a real celebration, isn’t it?
“Pole position,” you say, propping your head up on one hand as you look at him. “That deserves a proper celebration.”
Oscar has so much to say about it.
About the race weekend, about the way the team helped him get there, answering every question you ask mostly because you like listening to him explain things. He talks and talks, and all you can think is that you have no idea how people still insist he’s quiet, or reserved, or hard to read, because no one gets this version of him. Not like you do.
And in the end, when he finally runs out of things to say, he just looks down with a small, lovely smile and says,
“Yeah. Pole position. Pretty cool, huh?”
A soft laugh slips out of you as you look at him. Honestly, he’s unbelievable.
“Yeah,” you say, all fondness. “Pole position is very cool.”
He lifts his eyes to you and squints a little.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Am I?” you ask, and he leans in closer.
“I don’t care,” he says, and steals a quick little kiss that makes your stomach turn over.
The food arrives, and the conversation keeps going.
It’s the same easy rhythm that always leaves you warm all over, full of butterflies, the same dry little jokes that make you laugh far more than they probably should, day after day after day, and it’s… perfect. Everything about it is perfect.
Then his hand disappears beneath the table and finds yours again, threading your fingers together like it’s second nature by now, and you look at him as you swallow hard.
Defeated. Ruined. Your heart in pieces.
He looks back at you, and you… You wish that look could stay forever. You wish it meant exactly what yours does.
By the time the two of you step back outside, the whole thing feels almost cinematic: a street in Monaco at night, all soft yellow lights and a couple dressed far too well for their own good.
“Osc?” you call, turning to look at him.
“Hm?” he says, stopping immediately so he can listen.
How are you supposed to say this without making a complete disaster of yourself in the process? Your eyes are already threatening to spill over, and you have to blink hard and tip your chin up just to keep the tears where they are.
“I—I…” you start, your voice already trembling as it fights to stay steady. “I don’t think we can keep doing… this.”
Oscar blinks, and you watch his shoulders drop.
“What?” he asks, patient, waiting.
But you don’t want to explain. You don’t want to talk. Your mouth is already wobbling into a cry, one tear slipping free despite your best efforts, and you’re lifting your fist to wipe at the corner of your eye while Oscar is about two seconds away from panicking.
“This,” you say helplessly. “Casual. I don’t want to force anything, but I can’t… I can’t—” You swallow hard, trying to breathe through it. “I can’t keep doing this casual thing with you. Going to your place, wearing your clothes, walking around holding your hand and seeing you wear… wear something just because you know I like it…” Your voice drops, smaller now, barely holding together. “And keep pretending that…”
His chest rises and falls, quick and shallow. Oscar is still waiting.
You lower your voice until it’s almost a whisper.
“Keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”
Oscar goes completely still, like his whole body is rebooting in real time.
He lifts a hand, asking for a second, and you — who were quite literally crying a moment ago — sniffle and stare at him, suddenly very confused by the reaction. He scratches the top of his head.
“Can you…” he starts, clearing his throat. “Can you say that again?”
Your arms fall uselessly to your sides. You blink once. Then again.
“I…” Your voice comes out small and uncertain. “I can’t keep pretending I’m not… in love with you?”
His eyes widen. He clears his throat again, bites at the tip of his thumb like he’s trying very hard to hide a smile, and says,
“You know, this is actually kind of funny…”
What?
“Because I—” He swallows hard. And then he looks at you, all soft around the edges. “Oh, my God…”
He lets the breath out of him slowly, tucks his hands behind his back because they’re shaking, and then finally…
Finally.
“I’m in love with you too.”
And now it’s your turn to stop functioning entirely.
“W-What?” you ask, blinking at him as you try, and fail, to make sense of any of it.
Oscar just shakes his head.
His hand comes to rest at your waist, and right before he kisses you — right before his mouth finds yours in a way that says far more than either of you has managed all night — he murmurs softly,
“I’m in love with you. Like a complete idiot.”
And somehow, all at once, everything falls into place. You hold onto him as you kiss him back, your knees going weak beneath you.
“Fuck casual,” he whispers when he pulls away just enough to speak.
A soft laugh slips out of you.
“Oscar…”
“My God,” he murmurs, smiling so helplessly it nearly does you in.
You’re grinning by then, all warmth and relief and something so fond it almost hurts, and you kiss him again. And again. And one more time, just because you can.
“My Oscar?” you whisper back.
He rests his forehead against yours, looking for all the world like a man who’s lost a battle and doesn’t mind one bit.
“Your Oscar.”
“OSCAR PIASTRI NEW GIRLFRIEND?”
That’s the giant headline currently making you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. Oscar notices immediately and, naturally, becomes suspicious.
“What are you looking at?” he asks, eyes still on the television as his fingers drift lazily through your hair, now that you’re stretched out with your head in his lap.
You don’t answer. You just turn your phone around so he can see the screen.
Oscar glances at it, lifts an eyebrow in a very poor attempt at pretending not to care, and then — about two seconds later — a little smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
“You like that,” you say, thoroughly entertained.
He looks down at you, still absentmindedly playing with your hair.
“You would too,” he says, far too pleased with himself, “if you had a girlfriend like mine.”
You let out an offended little huff and drop your phone onto the couch before lifting your face to glare at him, though it’s hard to look very irritated when your heart is trying to melt out of your body.
“I can’t make fun of you when you’re being all cute like that.”
A second passes. He doesn’t say anything.
Then another.
“I think we should do a hard launch.”
You go still.
“Since when do you know what a hard launch is?”
Oscar shrugs like this is a perfectly normal thing for him to say.
“Do you want to?” you ask, suddenly a little shy. “Tell everyone, I mean.”
He nods.
Your smile sneaks back immediately, and you hide your face against his stomach before he can see too much of it.
“You get shy too, you know,” he murmurs.
“Shut up.”
Oscar laughs softly and bends down to steal a kiss from you anyway.
synopsis: y/n is a popular influencer who was invited on a brand trip to the miami gp. there, a particular driver catches her eye and she takes to her private account to fangirl a little, where he can't see... right?
pairing: oscar piastri x influencer!y/n
genre: crack & fluff - smau
fc: random pinterest baddies
note: hii first post! was lowkey fighting for my life formatting all of this and it came out super long but i hope you enjoy!! <3
INSTAGRAM
yn.ln
liked by f1 and 830,724 others
yn.ln i love u miami. thank u sm for having me 😚
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user1 you are gorgeous!
f1 Thanks for joining us! ❤️ | liked by yn.ln
user2 queen of the paddock i guess 😛
user3 literally wish i was you omg
user4 yn and lando in the same place????? my worlds are colliding
-> user5 ikr i was gagged 😭😭😭
-> user6 brb reading yn x f1 driver fanfics lol
-> user5 @/user6 real af drop the links
user6 <33
ynupdates
liked by user1 and 143,857 others
ynupdates Y/n spotted at the Miami GP! She posted, confirming she had been gifted the trip by Formula 1.
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user7 ahh this is such a crazy crossover
-> user2 i couldn't believe my eyes bro
-> user5 i hope she got to meet some of the drivers 🤭
-> user2 @/user5 yearning to see their interactions or whatever
user3 this is the content we deserve
user8 they just invite her to anything these days what
-> user1 someone's mad she got the invite and they didn't
user9 drop the hair routine lowkey 🙏
TWITTER
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ynupdates
liked by user2 and 342,826 others
ynupdates Y/n has created a new, private twitter account, which was made public briefly yesterday. We wonder what she's been posting 👀.
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user1 i just missed it 😭😭😭 i wanna see what shes been posting
-> user3 ikk im so annoyed
user2 i saw someone on tiktok saying she was talking about an f1 driver
-> user3 omg no i have to know???
-> user5 wait i saw that too, i wonder which one tho 🫠
-> user6 you are actually feeding my delusions rn omg @/ynupdates pls confirm
-> ynupdates @/user6 While our account has not been accepted by Y/n yet, we do accept submissions from fans so if anyone is on the account, they can send us screenshots.
user4 so all of us are just sitting in her requests fr
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oscarpiastri
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oscarpiastri Another race down. Thank you everyone! 🧡
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user1 Amazing as always
user3 smashing it!!!
user4 the racing gods blessed you fr this time 🥹
-> user3 finallyyy he deserves it
yn.ln congrats!! 😚 | liked by oscarpiastri
-> user6 ariana what are you doing here????
-> user7 HUH
-> user5 giggling to myself because im on her priv so this makes perfect sense
-> user2 this NEEDS to happen.
-> user3 oscar likeddddd 🤭🤭
ynupdates
liked by user1 and 472,973 others
ynupdates It seems Y/n has a little crush on Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri 👀. She has made numerous tweets about him on her private account and even commented on his recent post! (Thank you to those who sent in screenshots).
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user3 THIS IS WHAT I HAVE BEEN MISSING???
user6 nooo whoever sent these is lowkey a snitch
-> user2 girl please y/n made that comment publicly 😐
user1 oscar liked her comment too ... new ship?? 🤭
-> user2 this is actually my dream couple i can't even lie
user6 i don't know if i want to be him or be with him
yn.ln .... 😀
-> user4 GIRL 💀💀💀
-> user5 i love u but u are literally a public figure 😭 it was going to be exposed eventually
-> user2 brb making edits of you and oscar...
-> ynupdates Sorry! I promise we love you!!!
user6 do not let any f1 fanpages hear this im scared
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yn.ln
liked by oscarpiastri and 782,933 others
yn.ln you ain't got no mrs, but you got a sports car.
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user3 THE CAPTION pls
-> user4 in the words of ms tate mcrae herself 😛
-> user1 her acting so nonchalant on the main is sending me lmfao
oscarpiastri I do have a sports car actually | liked by yn.ln
-> user8 WJEBJDUXKDWHSHDJS
-> user5 oh my god. im floored
-> user3 HELPPO WTFFF
-> user7 this is what the people wanna see!!!!!!! holy shit
Summary: Six years ago Toto Wolff’s daughter disappeared from the paddock and from Max’s life. You were once inseparable, the paddock’s favourite duo. Then you vanished without warning. Now with your sudden return all eyes are on you and everyone wants to know: what really happened between you two… and why now? (Part 1/3)
6.3k words / Part 2 / Masterlist
You don’t mean to make an entrance, but you can’t say you’re surprised when you do.
It’s your first time back in the paddock in six years, flanked by a Mercedes comms manager on one side and a very smug-looking Toto Wolff on the other. You knew there would be cameras. You didn’t expect the noise.
Cameras snap like gunfire. Phones lift in unison, a sea of lenses tracking your every step. Someone on TikTok is already livestreaming, their shaky voice breathless: “Wait, is that? Oh my God it’s her. It’s actually her.”
You catch Lewis grinning from across the garage. Alex, mid-interview cuts off his answer and stares like he’s seen a ghost. Mechanics pause. Journalists whisper. Your name ripples through the chaos like an echo breaking water “Is that her?”
Your father just laughs beside you.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he murmurs in your ear. “You’re still remembered around here.”
You scoff, but the flutter in your chest is impossible to ignore. “They only remember me because I set off the fire alarm in the Red Bull motorhome when I was fifteen.”
“Twice,” Toto corrects smoothly, clearly enjoying this far too much.
You roll your eyes, but the grin threatens anyway.
You’ve been gone a long time. University in Vienna. The start-up you built from scratch. Years spent fiercely carving out something that was yours, something that didn’t begin and end with the name Wolff. You stayed away on purpose. Detached yourself from the sport, from the politics, from the way every glance carried expectation.
But now, standing in the middle of the paddock with the sky blindingly blue above you and the scent of hot tarmac in the air, you realise how much you missed this. The adrenaline. The anticipation. The chaos and glamour of Formula 1. It hums in your blood like something ancient and familiar.
And then you see him.
Across the paddock, past the media swarm and team garages and Red Bull hospitality, Max Verstappen is staring at you.
Not discreetly. Not with the professional civility you might expect from a World Champion. No polite nod, no casual sip of water. Just... stillness. Frozen mid-step, Red Bull clutched in his hand, staring like someone had knocked the breath out of him.
You haven’t seen him in six years.
Not since everything fell apart. Not since you walked away without saying goodbye. Still, across the noise and cameras and years your eyes lock like magnets snapping into place.
Your heart stumbles, one hard, clumsy beat against your ribs. You’d half-expected him to turn away. Look past you. Pretend not to notice.
But of course not. This is Max Verstappen. Ever-confident, maddeningly unbothered Max. The boy who turned into a man when you weren’t looking.
You watch disbelief flicker across his face, brief and raw, before it hardens into something more dangerous, a crooked, knowing half-smile. He mutters something to his trainer, who also glances your way, brows raised. Then, with the same intensity he brings to every race, Max begins walking toward you.
You forget how to breathe.
“Uh oh,” Toto says under his breath, gaze still forward. “Here comes trouble.”
You don’t respond. Can’t. Not when Max Verstappen is walking straight toward you like you never left, like no time has passed, like the silence between you wasn’t its own kind of heartbreak. Not when your palms are sweating and every part of you is screaming to run or stay.
You stay.
Because God help you, you want to know what he’ll say.
“Y/N,” Max says when he’s close enough, voice breathless like he might’ve run the last few steps. It’s deeper than you remember, rougher, older, but his eyes… his eyes haven’t changed at all, sharp, stormy blue. Still impossible to look away from.
“Max.” You say his name like it doesn’t still echo in your chest. Like it hasn’t been living in the corners of your mind for years. You fight the warmth crawling up your neck, the way your voice threatens to crack under the weight of history.
For a moment neither of you says anything. You just stare, two people caught between memory and reality, the past pressing in from all sides.
Then—
“You’re back?” he asks, as if he still doesn’t quite believe it.
You raise a brow. “What gave it away?”
He huffs out a laugh, low, surprised, too genuine. It curls in your chest like heat. “Guess you haven’t changed.”
“Would you want me to?”
The smile on his face falters just for a second and something flickers across his expression, brief, unreadable. Pain, maybe. Or regret. Or something else you’re not ready to name.
His voice is softer when he speaks again. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Me neither.”
“You’re working?” He glances at the staff badge around your neck.
You nod. “Yes.”
Another pause. Tighter, heavier. The kind that says the next words will change the air around you.
And then, quieter, the last thing you expected him to admit right now so soon. “I missed you.”
It lands like a punch to the ribs. Your breath catches. Your heart stumbles.
You don’t say I missed you too. You don’t say I thought about calling you all the time, or I hated you a little for letting me walk away. Because there are cameras everywhere. Phones pointed in your direction. Hundreds of ears. Thousands of eyes. This moment is too real to be shared.
So instead you swallow it down and smirk, light, teasing, familiar. The version of you he used to know.
“Well,” you say with a playful tilt of your head, “try not to lose me Verstappen.”
He blinks. Then his brow arches and he smirks back. “So you’re back to distract me?”
You lean in, just slightly. “No. But I am the one writing the new Mercedes strategy protocol, so…”
His expression twists into something between disbelief and awe. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not even a little.”
His mouth opens like he has something more to say, something real, but you’re already turning away leaving him standing there with nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.
The video gets clipped from three different angles.
In one Max sees you across the paddock and actually stops walking. Mid-stride. Like someone pressed pause on him. His gaze locks on you with such intensity that even the camera jolts a little, as if the person filming felt it too.
In another, he's closer, much closer. Biting back a grin as he reaches you, fingers nervously fidgeting with the cap of his drink. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, like his whole body is trying to contain something bigger than it can hold.
In the last you're smiling, bright, carefree, almost like you’ve forgotten you’re being watched. Max leans in, drawn to you instinctively, grinning in a way that makes him look younger. Lighter. Like someone who hasn’t smiled like that in a very long time.
The video goes viral in under ten minutes.
It’s barley a minute-long interaction.
It breaks the internet for seventy-two hours.
SHE’S BACK: Y/N WOLFF’S SURPRISE RETURN TO F1 SENDS SHOCKWAVES THROUGH THE PADDOCK
Verstappen stops in his tracks — insiders say “he didn’t see it coming.”
@formulaaddict:
MAX VERSTAPPEN HAS NOT SMILED LIKE THAT ALL SEASON.
@missedgridmoments:
Y/N Wolff just walked back into the paddock and unlocked core memories for everyone born before 2005.
@redflag:
Max’s whole posture changed when he saw her. Guys. GUYS.
@mercedesstan44:
Let’s not forget that time in 2018 when Toto joked, “Max is practically a son with the amount of time he spends with my daughter.”
Oh to be a fly on that wall now...
@f1gossipgirl:
Why is no one talking about the way Max’s face lit up when he saw her? That wasn’t a hello. That was a memory.
@vettelbaby94:
They were inseparable back in the day. This is my Roman Empire.
@gr63lover:
The grid kids are grown up and together again. We are so back.
@veryapping33:
I need a docuseries on what happened between them. Why did she vanish? Why did they stop talking?? I’m not sleeping until I know.
Then the stories start flooding back like wildfire.
Clips from 2015 resurface: the two of you stealing a golf cart in Monaco, Max laughing so hard he nearly crashes it, you in the passenger seat screaming “LEFT MAX NOT RIGHT!”
An old Sky Sports interview gets dug up where Max, nineteen and bashful, is asked about you. He looks down, shrugs with a crooked smile, and says, “She knows me better than anyone. She always has.”
There’s a video from Brazil, 2019. You and Max sprinting through the rain, hand in hand, drenched and breathless and shrieking with laughter. The camera catches a moment where he pulls you into his jacket, arms wrapped tight, grinning into your soaked hair.
The old fans remember it all, the golden era of Max-and-you moments. The new fans eat it up.
You’re dubbed the grid’s lost love story. A flame that never got to burn properly. The kind of maybe-almost that turns into myth when no one explains why it ended.
Because no one knows.
No one knows what happened in 2019.
No one knows what tore the silence between you wide open and why it never closed.
No one knows why you left. Not even Max himself.
Sky Sports Paddock Walk:
Natalie Pinkham pauses mid-stride, turning toward the camera with a knowing smile as the cameraman instinctively zooms in.
Natalie: “Well, would you look at that. The paddock’s long-lost princess Y/N Wolff has officially returned. Back on Mercedes turf and, we’re hearing, heading up a new performance strategy division. That’s not just a comeback, that’s a statement.”
Cut to footage of you warmly greeting Mercedes mechanics. A few break into grins. One wraps you in a hug. Another says something that makes you laugh, full, unfiltered, radiant.
DAZN Interview – Max Verstappen
Reporter: “What do you think about Mercedes new hire Y/N Wolff?”
Max smiles, faint and guarded, squinting into the sun.
Max: “She surprised everyone didn’t she? It’s been a long time.”
Reporter: “You two were close, weren’t you?”
Max: “We grew up in the same chaos, it’s hard not to be.”
Reporter: “Fans seem to think you two were more than that.”
Max: “Fans think a lot of things.”
Twitter is in flames:
@gridtea:
Max didn’t deny it. I REPEAT. MAX DID NOT DENY IT.
@y/nloremaster:
For anyone confused:
They met as kids at karting events
Would hang out constantly in the paddock from 2015–2019
Multiple hand-holding sightings 2017-2019
Last seen together in Abu Dhabi 2019 arguing near the Red Bull garage
Stopped being seen together after Abu Dhabi 2019
No known fallout
No known romance
Everyone speculated they were together
NOTHING was ever confirmed
@mclaren81:
Please someone dig up that old interview where Y/N says, “Max and I? No, he’d die before admitting he likes me.” PLEASE.
Lando Norris on Twitch:
“I remember thinking they were married at one point. I swear she’s the only person who could shut Max up without saying a word.”
Daniel Riccardo on a podcast:
“We’d all be stuck in meetings and Max would vanish. Then you’d see him down the hall leaning on a wall talking to Y/N. Like clockwork.”
Lewis Hamilton in an interview:
“Told you she’d come back eventually. The paddock’s not half as fun without her.”
The buzz continues through the weekend. Every time you so much as pass Max in the paddock it’s another 50k likes on Instagram.
People zoom in on photos. Highlight lingering stares. The mystery only grows.
Why did you stop showing up after 2019?
Why did he never talk about it?
Why did neither of you?
Sky Sports:
Interviewer: “Max, fans want to know… are we witnessing a rekindling of something?”
Without missing a beat:
Max: “Ask her.”
Thursday - 9:35PM:
By now it’s no longer a question of if something happened between Max and you it’s when and why it ended.
So the fans go digging…
@y/nloremaster (thread):
THE Y/N x MAX TIMELINE – WHAT WE KNOW
2008-2015:
Max and Y/N spotted together constantly at karting events. Their friendship is formed.
Fun fact: Their dads were often interviewed together while they snuck off.
Someone on Tumblr claimed they once raced against each other at a private test and Y/N beat him. Unconfirmed, but delicious.
2016:
Max joins F1. Y/N is at fourteen of the races despite being in school at the time. (their crushing hug after his first win still makes me cry)
Once they were caught on Sky F1 stealing snacks from the hospitality fridge. Ted Kravitz called them “F1’s resident gremlins.”
2017:
Photos emerge of them leaving the paddock his arm wrapped around her shoulders at Spa. Fans start shipping them hard.
Y/N posts a blurry Instagram story of Max driving her in a golf cart with the caption:
no brakes, no rules, no common sense
(Deleted but archived forever along with many Instagram stories.)
2018:
Max does an interview in which he says:
“Y/N’s might be the only person who knows how to calm me down. I don’t know what it is, but it works.”
That same weekend, Toto Wolff says in a press conference:
“If Verstappen crashes again I’ll send my daughter to talk some sense into him.”
2019:
Final year they’re seen consistently together.
They’re caught arguing near the Red Bull garage in Abu Dhabi. Y/N leaves the paddock before the race.
Max is unusually quiet in post-race interviews.
She never returns.
2020–2024:
Radio silence.
No interaction. No mentions. Not a single word.
2025:
She walks back into the paddock.
He beelines for her.
Instagram re-shares of old deleted stories explode:
@gofasterprincess:
Can’t believe we forgot this one.
[Story repost] Y/N’s phone camera panning across the sky, giggling in the background. Max’s voice: “Stop filming me. This is blackmail.
@y/nmax4ever:
June 2018. Max has a wrist wrap on. Y/N posts this.
Caption: Don’t worry, I’ll drive the getaway car.
@fastestlapmemories:
Throwback to Silverstone ‘17.
[Story repost] Max holding a melting ice cream. Y/N behind the camera:
“You said you didn’t want one.”
Max (mouth full): “This isn’t yours anymore.”
@paddockchronicles:
Lowkey forgot how obsessed he was.
[Story repost] Max in sunglasses, sitting on a pit wall, clearly watching someone.
The caption from Y/N: He says he’s not staring... suuuuure.
(This one was deleted in under an hour)
@behindthevisor:
The chaos was unmatched.
[Story repost] A blurry night-time clip from a driver’s party. Y/N shouting, “Don’t let him near the karaoke mic!” just as Max grabs it
@vercedes:
We’re never getting over this one.
[Story repost] Max and Y/N playing table football in the Red Bull hospitality lounge. It’s neck and neck.
Her caption: Loser buys dinner. He lost.
Friday - 11:17AM - Sky Sports Show:
Ted Kravitz
“I’ve been in this paddock for a very long time and Y/N Wolff caused more chaos here at seventeen than most team principals do in a decade.”
David Croft :
“Max always seemed more relaxed around her... that’s not speculation, that’s just an observation.”
Naomi Schiff:
“They were just kids though.”
Crofty (chuckling):
“And now she’s back and not just as Toto’s daughter, but as a strategic lead. If she and Max start hanging out again someone tell Red Bull to double-check their passwords.
Reddit Thread – /r/formula1gossip: “What if they WERE a thing?”
u/oldschoolracingfan:
You’re telling me we had a secret paddock romance under our noses for years and no one figured it out? That’s either master-level privacy or Toto had people scrubbing content.
u/bringthelionout:
They have “unfinished business” energy. You don’t look at someone like that unless you’ve dreamt about it every night for 6 years.
u/hotlaphero:
Max hasn’t looked this relaxed and stressed at the same time in years. This is going to end in tears or a wedding.
u/wolffpackbaby:
I NEED. TO. KNOW. WHAT. HAPPENED
Friday - 5:00PM - Drivers’ Briefing Lounge
It’s a little too quiet when you walk in. Max isn’t here yet which is probably for the best.
The briefing lounge is usually a blur of quiet chatter, but as you step through the door in full Mercedes team gear headset slung around your neck, badge clipped to your belt the air shifts.
You’re not a guest. Not a paddock kid. You’re staff.
George is the first to acknowledge you, grinning as he rises from his seat. “Ladies and gentlemen the prodigal strategist.”
Lewis looks up from his seat near the back and lifts his chin in greeting. “Took you long enough.”
You smile. “Blame your ex-boss.”
“Always,” he replies, voice warm and cheeky.
Then, from across the room, you hear it:
“Finally.”
You turn to see Fernando, arms crossed, watching you with the sort of smile that’s rare for him, soft, restrained, genuine.
“We’ve been waiting.”
You blink, warmth flooding your chest. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“You?” He raises an eyebrow. “I remember when you used to hide under the briefing table and eat all the snack bars.”
You flush. “I was a kid.”
“You were a menace,” he says fondly.
He rests a hand on your shoulder. “It’s good to have you back around here. Really.”
You nod, suddenly and unexpectedly choked up. “It’s good to be back.”
By now more eyes are turning.
Charles notices you next as he arrives, expression lifting in disbelief. “Wait. No way.”
He crosses the room in a few quick strides and wraps you in a hug without hesitation. “You’re actually here?”
You laugh as he pulls you into a tight hug. “I’ve been back for less than 48 hours.”
“And it’s already all anyone’s talking about.”
Carlos follows a step behind, slower but just as warm. “Thought the rumours were exaggerated.”
“Turns out I’m real,” you say lightly. “And on payroll.”
“I thought you disappeared forever.”
“I tried,” you admit. “Didn’t stick.”
Esteban hovers, half-in disbelief. “You’re working for Mercedes now?”
“Full-time. Performance strategy division.”
Charles whistles. “Toto finally gave in huh?”
You grin. “Guess he realised nepotism isn’t so bad when I’m useful.”
The old dynamic falls back into place so quickly it stings, not because it hurts, but because you didn’t realise how much you missed it until now. The conversation melts into the kind of teasing, comfortable rhythm that only comes with years of shared history, Monaco karting weekends, sneaking into hospitality lounges after curfew, late-night races on electric scooters through the paddock. You were never just Toto’s daughter to them.
You were one of them.
You meet Lewis’s eyes once more. He nods subtle, approving, excited.
Welcome home.
Charles Leclerc Interview Snippet:
Interviewer: “Do you think Max and Y/N were a couple back in the day?”
Charles (stone-faced): “No. And I don’t think we should talk about other people’s private lives. That’s not what we’re here for.”
(beat of silence)
Charles: “...but they fought like one. That might be worse.”
Saturday - 12:32PM - Trackside Strategy Room:
You hadn’t expected to see him here.
Technically, this meeting is for staff not drivers, a dry, numbers-heavy debrief to finalise tyre projections for qualifying and prep wet-weather contingencies. Drivers don’t usually attend. They get summaries. Bullet points. Audio files to skim on the bike.
So when Max Verstappen walks into the glass-walled strategy room fireproofs half-unzipped, helmet hair still damp from FP3, water bottle dangling from two fingers, the temperature in the room shifts.
You freeze mid-sentence.
He doesn’t.
His eyes scan the table once, twice, and then they find you tucked in at the far end, Mercedes jacket crisp, data sheets laid out in front of you. His gaze lingers a second too long. You know that look.
He slides into the seat across from you like it was meant for him.
“Didn’t know you’d be here.” he says casually, lips curling into a smirk.
You don’t look up. “It’s my job now, why would I not be?”
A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth but he doesn’t respond. The Red Bull engineer beside him snorts quietly sensing something charged and unspoken.
The meeting starts. But no one’s really watching the slides.
You and Max go back and forth not openly combative, not flirtatious, but something in the middle. A tug-of-war beneath the surface, each technical exchange laced with familiarity neither of you acknowledges.
He questions your wet-temp delta assumptions.
You counter with updated degradation curves and sector drop-off data.
He raises a brow. “You always did have a thing for worst-case scenarios.”
You shrug. “You always did ignore them.”
That earns a grin. Full, sharp. Real.
Someone shifts awkwardly in their seat. A McLaren engineer clears their throat.
Then Max leans forward, elbows on the table. “You still love being right huh?”
You glance up, finally, just enough to meet his gaze. “Only when I am.”
By the end of the debrief, the rain forecast is barely mentioned. But the static between you and Max? Undeniable.
@f1updates:
Y/N Wolff & Max Verstappen in the same strategy briefing this morning. Witnesses described it as “low-key a duel.”
@fastgirlsfasterrumors:
Sources say Max was grinning when Y/N Wolff shut him down with cold, hard data. This is exes-to-lovers coded and I’m not okay.
@livefromthepaddock:
Overheard in the room:
“Do they realise we’re all here?”
No. No, they don’t.
Saturday - 2:28PM - Pre-Quali:
The grid is chaos. Engines rumble. Rain spits from a grey sky in half-hearted warning. Mechanics yell over each other. Camera crews duck and weave. And Martin Brundle is in his element, weaving through the storm like a man on a mission.
Then he stops.
“Oh. There’s someone I haven’t seen in a while. Let’s have a word, Y/N Wolff! You’re back on the grid. Causing trouble already?”
You turn just in time to catch the microphone in your face. The camera crew follows Martin like a shadow.
You smile. Polite. Poised.
“I’m just observing today,” you say smoothly. “No trouble. Yet.”
Martin chuckles. “Yet. Well that’s reassuring. Word around the paddock is you made quite the impression in the strategy meeting this morning. Bit of a face-off with the reigning World Champion eh?”
You glance down the grid not toward Max but you feel his presence like heat on the back of your neck.
Your smirk is subtle. Measured. “Let’s just say some people hate being proven wrong.”
Martin howls with laughter, but you’re already stepping away, slipping through the grid like a ghost with teeth.
2:37pm - Red Bull Garage - Pre-Quali:
Max zips up the top half of his race suit, sweat clings to his hairline, he runs a hand through it, pacing slow, like something’s chewing through his ribs.
GP glances up from his notes. “You good?”
Max doesn’t answer at first. Just leans against the wall, eyes fixed toward the open-air paddock where rain starts to dot the concrete.
“She’s different,” he says finally, quiet and certain. “Sharper.”
GP lifts a brow. “She was always sharp.”
“Not in the same way.”
Max’s voice drops, low and certain.
“She was confident before, sure, but there was always a kind of… shyness to it, a hesitation. Now?”
He exhales slowly.
“Now she’s certain of herself… of where she stands. Of what she’s always been capable of.”
“And that’s a problem?” GP asks carefully.
Max swallows. Shakes his head once.
“No,” he says. “That’s exactly the problem.”
Saturday - 8:32PM - Hotel Rooftop:
The rooftop is glowing.
Soft fairy lights string above, casting golden halos across champagne flutes and white linen napkins. Music hums low jazzy, unobtrusive, expensive. The kind of event sponsors expect you to attend. Somewhere in the distance, the harbour glitters like a spilled bottle of diamonds, and the air is thick with late-summer heat. It clings to your dress, crawls down your spine, settles against the hollow of your throat.
You hadn’t planned to stay long.
Just a polite appearance smile, nod, small talk with engineers, a clink of crystal with Toto. Maybe ten minutes, twenty max. You’ve spent the last hour dodging nostalgia like landmines. Smiling too tightly. Laughing too late. Trying to pretend Max’s stare from that meeting earlier hadn’t followed you all the way up here.
And now he’s here.
You feel him before you see him. The familiar gravity of him, laced with fire and friction and whatever lived between you years ago, pulling your attention like muscle memory.
He’s not in team gear. Not exactly dressed up, either. All black, casual, like he only came because someone higher-up insisted he make an appearance. There’s no champagne in his hand just a bottle of sparkling water, still sealed, fingers tapping the side like he wishes it were something stronger.
He leans against the railing like it’s instinct, like he’s done this a hundred times. Like it’s not the first time you’ve been alone in half a decade.
You tilt your head. “Max? What are you doing here? You know there’s a race tomorrow right?”
Max smirks, easy and unbothered. “I’m not staying long.”
Your eyes flick up to his. “That’s what they all say.”
Silence stretches. Comfortable and taut all at once. The kind of silence that’s familiar and dangerous, because it knows exactly what used to live in the spaces between you.
“You looked good out there today,” Max says, voice quieter now.
You glance at him. “On the pit wall?”
He shakes his head slightly. “On the offensive.”
You huff a laugh. “Still hate being challenged?”
“I don’t hate it when it’s you.”
Your stomach flips. You take a slow sip to hide it.
Time slips away from you as you stand together on the edge of the rooftop.
“People are talking,” you murmur, keeping your eyes on the glittering horizon.
Max shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours. “Let them.”
“You don’t care?”
His gaze drifts to your profile. “Why would I?”
You pause, throat tight.
A gust of wind cuts between you. You feel it in your bones, that old version of yourself, young and burning and unfinished, standing right beside you. Bitter champagne on your tongue. Questions that never found answers. The echo of a goodbye that was never truly said.
“I never asked,” Max says suddenly, barely above a whisper. “Why you left.”
Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass.
“I thought you didn’t care.”
He looks over, stunned and confused. “I did,” he says. His voice doesn’t waver. “Of course I did.”
You meet his eyes. It’s like looking at a memory that never faded, but you don’t tell him what you overheard that night the harsh words said in confidence not meant for your ears. You don’t tell him how that moment broke something in you, how it made you pack up everything and walk away before he could see the crack.
You clear your throat. “The paddock got small.”
“That’s not the real reason.”
You tilt your head. “Is it the one you told yourself?”
He studies you for a long, weighted moment.
“No,” he says finally. “The one I told myself was that maybe I fucked something up and didn’t even realise it.”
You go still.
“Max—”
But he lifts his glass before you can continue like he’s scared to know the truth. There’s something bittersweet curling in the corners of his mouth.
“To what used to be.”
You raise yours slowly. The clink is soft, final. But the way he looks at you afterward?
That’s anything but.
Sunday - 8:43AM:
By morning a photo of you both is everywhere. Instagram. Twitter. TikTok. WhatsApp group chats titled "Grid Gossip” and “Wolff Watch 2025.”
The image is blurry, grainy, backlit, framed hastily from behind a potted plant or maybe a champagne bucket. But it doesn’t matter.
It’s you.
It’s him.
Perched far too close on the rooftop, your bodies tilted inward like gravity couldn’t stand to keep you apart. Your hand mid-gesture. His smile caught half-formed. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be captured but says everything.
The tension in the photo could slice through carbon fiber.
@lightsoutlore:
We are witnessing the slowest of burns.
Friends ➝ Maybe Lovers ➝ Ex-somethings ➝ Radio silence ➝ Rivals➝ Whatever the hell last night was.
@wolffwatchers:
Y’all remember when Jos Verstappen called her “unnecessary drama” live on Dutch TV in 2018??
And now she’s BACK and Max is looking at her like she’s the last lap and he’s down 0.5 seconds. Ohhhh this is F1 Shakespeare.
@maxietaxi1:
They look like exes who never got closure and are about to risk it all.
@f1phantomeditz:
Not me currently breaking down after one blurry photo of Max and Y/N together again.
@GridTea:
Look me in the eye and tell me Max hasn’t been in love with her since 2015.
10:12AM - Mercedes Garage:
Toto is uncharacteristically quiet.
He stands at the back of the garage, phone in one hand, untouched coffee in the other, scrolling slowly through his screen as George reviews sector data with his race engineer. His expression is unreadable, but you can see the tension in the set of his jaw.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“Was he bothering you?”
You glance up from your tablet, blinking. “What?”
“Max,” he says. “Last night.”
You pause. The edges of your screen blur a little. “No,” you reply, evenly. “It wasn’t like that.”
He nods once. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask for more.
But he doesn’t need to.
His knuckles are white against the ceramic of his mug and you recognise the look in his eyes, the one he gives to board members he doesn't trust, to reporters who step too close, to anyone who dares make life harder for the people he loves.
You never told him the full story. Six years ago, when you packed your bags and walked out of the paddock without warning your father never asked why. Never cornered you. Never demanded an explanation.
And yet… as he stares across the garage now, eyes narrowed at something far away, you wonder if he already knew.
5:15PM - Chequered Flag:
It’s loud. Overcast. The air charged with end-of-race adrenaline and the crackle of post-rain humidity. Fireworks scream in the background as mechanics crowd the fences and champagne sprays across the pit lane.
Lando finished first. Max finishes second. George clinches third.
You stand on the pit wall, hands folded, applauding politely as your driver waves to the crowd, but your eyes keep flicking against your better judgment to the figure in the Red Bull suit throwing his gloves into the crowd.
He should be focused on the win he nearly had... but instead?
He’s watching you.
Over and over, his eyes scan the pit wall, flicking toward you like he’s searching for something a sign, an opening, a lifeline. You’re already walking away before he even steps into the cool-down room.
6:47PM - Mercedes Hospitality:
You’re out of your headset, shoes kicked off beneath the debrief table, hair frizzy from the humidity. A half-empty bottle of water sits in front of you and your notes are open, but your mind is miles away.
That rooftop moment hasn’t left you and you hate how easily it found its way back in.
A tap on your shoulder pulls you back. One of the younger Mercedes media liaisons stands beside you, expression sheepish. “Hey, um… Verstappen’s outside. He says he just wants a second.”
Your breath stutters, a quick, involuntary catch. You don’t look at the door. You don’t need to.
You know which one he’s standing behind.
The back entrance. The quiet one.
The one he always used to sneak through during summer nights to visit you, smug grin in place, whispering, “You didn’t see me.”
This time, you don’t move.
You force your voice steady. “Tell him I’m busy.”
Max waits.
Rucksack slung over his shoulder. He bounces one knee not out of restlessness, but frustration. Confusion. He's not used to being ignored. And he's certainly not used to being denied.
He checks his watch.
Then the door opens.
But it’s not you.
It’s Toto.
Immaculate as ever. Calm. Controlled. That unnerving kind of calm that always means trouble.
Max straightens reflexively. “Toto.”
Toto doesn't return the greeting. Just closes the door quietly behind him and walks forward, stopping a measured distance away.
“She’s not coming out,” he says.
Max frowns. “I just want to talk to her.”
“I know,” Toto replies. “But I also know you had six years to do that.”
That lands harder than Max expects.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. The words don’t come easily tonight.
Toto steps closer, voice lower now. “I don’t know what happened between you two,” he says. “But I know what her face looked like when she left. And I know what it looked like this morning. I’m not letting you knock her off balance again.”
“I’m not trying to hurt her.”
“I believe you.” Toto’s voice is calm. But his eyes? Steel. “But the thing is… that doesn’t matter because I think you already did.”
Max’s throat tightens. He forces the words out. “She left without saying a word. I still don’t even know why.”
Toto studies him. And then calmly:
“Maybe you don’t deserve to.”
That one cracks something open. Max exhales slowly, jaw clenched. They stand there for a long moment. Two men with too much history and one woman neither of them can stop protecting. Then Toto steps back, nods once toward the door.
“Not tonight Max.”
With that he turns and disappears inside.
@gridwatch25:
Verstappen was spotted hanging around Mercedes hospitality post-race.
She didn’t come out.
Toto did.
The drama writes itself.
@thewolffden:
Reminder: Y/N didn’t just leave the paddock she vanished. And everyone knows it had something to do with Max. Now she’s back, stone-faced. Yeah. Something went down and none of us know the full story.
@wolffstappen1:
I don’t think this is friends-to-lovers.
I think this is we-could-have-been-everything-but-you-ruined-it-and-I-haven’t-forgiven-you.
Sunday - 11:42PM - Hotel Balcony:
The race is over. The paddock is packed. The last media trucks have rolled away, and even the harbour feels sedated, its reflections calm and silver beneath a full moon.
You’re curled into the balcony chair of your suite barefoot, legs tucked beneath you, robe cinched loosely at the waist, damp hair dripping down your spine. The adrenaline has long since worn off, but something raw still lingers beneath your skin. A hollow ache that no glass of champagne or data debrief could quite erase.
Your phone buzzes soft against the stone table beside you.
Max Verstappen has sent you a photo.
His contact hasn’t changed, but it’s the first message you’ve received from him in years.
No caption. No message. Just… the image.
Your breath stutters.
You tap the screen and it opens instantly.
It’s a photo of a photo.
A Polaroid, creased, slightly sun-faded, edges curled with age.
Spain, 2016.
You remember it before your brain even catches up.
The two of you in the back of a dim garage after curfew, cheeks flushed from smiling too hard. You’re blurry mid-laugh, hand lifted to shield your face. Max is beside you, trophy in hand, his eyes are lit up, hair a mess, grin so wide it takes up half the frame.
At the bottom, scrawled in your tiny unmistakable handwriting:
Nobody makes me laugh like this idiot. He did it!! Couldn’t be prouder!
You blink. Once. Twice.
Your throat closes.
He… kept it.
All this time.
Max is lying on his back in the dark.
Hotel room quiet, ceiling fan humming low. One arm folded behind his head. The other resting on his chest like he’s trying to hold something inside.
He didn’t send it expecting a reply.
Didn’t send it for anything, really.
He just needed you to know that he hasn’t forgotten.
That all the good memories still live in him too.
Japan - 2017:
Torrential sheets of water are turning the paddock into a slipstream of puddles. You and Max are soaked to the bone, shoes squelching with every step, rainwater dripping from your hair and clothes and pooling beneath the upturned crate you’re sitting on.
You’re both out of breath from running, laughing like idiots. The kind of laughter that comes from too much adrenaline and not enough sense. You’ve just narrowly escaped getting caught doing something probably against FIA regulations, definitely against common sense.
You clutch your side, still breathless. “If we get in trouble for this,” you gasp between giggles, “I’m telling everyone it was your idea.”
Max leans back against the wall, drenched and completely unbothered. His grin is lazy and smug. “Worth it.”
And then, softer, so quiet you almost miss it over the echo of distant thunder:
“You make everything more fun.”
Your heart skips. You glance over.
But neither of you says anything else.
The moment stretches and dissolves.
Monza - 2018:
You sneak out of the paddock just past midnight.
The rooftop of the media center is deserted. Max has two stolen Red Bulls in his backpack and a ratty blanket draped over one arm. You lie side by side on the metal roof, the stars blurry above you, your boots hanging over the edge.
“Do you ever think about not racing?” you ask quietly.
Max is silent for a while.
“I don’t know who I am without it.”
You turn your head to look at him. His eyes stay on the sky.
“I do,” you say.
That gets his attention.
He looks over, brows raised. “Yeah?”
“You’re just Max,” you say, like it’s obvious. “You’re funny and kind and generous... and annoying and stubborn, and you’re better when you’re not trying to impress anyone.”
He’s quiet. Swallows.
Then, in a whisper you almost don’t catch:
“You know me better than anyone.”
You did.
You always did.
Present Day - 12:03AM - Hotel Balcony:
You set your phone down gently, like it might crack in your hands.
The Polaroid still glows on the screen. A captured second from a different lifetime. And for the first time since returning to the paddock you let yourself miss him.
Not the champion.
Not the headline.
Just Max.
The boy with bruised knuckles and soft sarcasm. The boy who made you laugh until your face hurt. The boy who was the first person to make you feel more than just a last name, who turned racing into something that felt like freedom.
You stare at the screen a little longer.
Then lock your phone.
You don’t reply.
You don’t delete the photo either.
That silence, heavy, loaded, unfinished, might say more than any message could.
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
word count: 35.3k
warnings: cursing and alcohol use
includes: childhood friends to lovers, heavy angst, pining, soulmate!au if you squint, groveling!oscar, journalist!reader, and down bad oscar
summary: when oscar and you reunite after a decade of being apart things are different. yet there’s parts of both of you that cling on to the past and a connection that neither of you can deny that makes things in the present even more difficult. everything in you tells you to not let oscar back in, but all he wants is to have is his other half back. can a bond that was once broken ever be mended? you don't think so, but oscar is determined to prove you wrong.
a/n: hi!! i'm back!! so i started writing this in april and it took me the whole season to finish it...per usual lol. anyways this is my lonest fic i've ever written! so grab a snack and get comfy because this is wild ride. i hope you all enjoy and as always please let me know what you think! comments, reblogs, and asks mean the world to us writers! <3
masterlist
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sometimes there are people that enter your life and you think there’s not a chance that you won’t have them forever. That there isn’t a thing in this world that could separate the two of you, but the universe has its plans set in place the minute that person enters your orbit and there isn’t a thing you can do about it.
Some people you do have in your life forever– while others you only have for a set period of time. And sometimes if you’re lucky the people who leave you come back eventually. The world works in mysterious ways and people drift apart, chapters close and new ones begin. It’s life.
Although you never thought Oscar Piastri would just be a chapter in your life.
Oscar and you had known each other since you two were in diapers. The Piastris were your next door neighbors and your parents had become great friends with them before either of you were in the picture. When both of your Mums fell pregnant around the same time they were ecstatic, the thought of their little bundles of joy having a friend just next door was a match made in heaven. Oscar and you ended up being just around four months apart in age and you never let Oscar forget that you were the older one.
From learning to walk and talk, learning your ABC’s, the arrival of siblings, birthdays, first days of school. If there was something that was to be remembered or commemorated– Oscar and you were side by side for all of it.
There wasn’t anyone you were closer with in the world than Oscar.
Your sister and Oscar’s sisters came a close second, but at the end of the day Oscar and you were each other’s person.
When Oscar started to race RC cars you helped him build a makeshift track in his backyard and when he made the move to actual karting– well it was a surprise to no one. He’d always been a little nerd about cars as a child and somehow had wrangled you into finding an appreciation for it at least. Your younger sister and Oscar’s sisters happily didn’t show as much interest.
The smell of exhaust and the sound of go-kart engines had become things you found comfort in when you were younger. Weekends spent with the Piastri’s at whatever race Oscar had entered into were some of your favorite memories as a child. From the ages of 10 to 14 there wasn’t a summer that wasn’t filled with racing. The unforgiving Australian sun would beat down on the track and you’d still sit there, sunkissed and supportive, your eyes glued to Oscar’s kart the whole time.
As the two of you got older and Oscar really started to take racing seriously your support never wavered, if anything it got stronger. You could tell even from a young age that Oscar Piastri was going to be somebody. And every March when the roar of the Formula 1 cars echoed through what was practically your backyard and you two sat in the grandstands you both knew that someday Oscar would be in one of those twenty cars that flew through Albert Park.
You just didn’t think for him to get there– that it would take him away from you.
The technicalities and culture of single seater racing was something you had no knowledge of. All you knew was that you loved to watch Oscar race, and loved to watch racing in general. So why should you at age fourteen know that racing in Europe would open so many new doors for Oscar and that it was inevitable that he move there to further his career.
Even as a young child Oscar had been attuned to other people’s emotions. He was the calm in most chaos and could read the ones closest to him like a book. Which makes his decision to not tell you about him leaving until the night before the dumbest idea he’s ever had. He should have known how you would react and maybe this dumb decision was also a form of self preservation.
If he didn’t tell you then maybe him leaving wouldn’t be real and if he didn’t tell you till the last minute then none of your shared memories towards the end would be tainted with the dark cloud that is your other half moving across the country. In the end no matter how mature Oscar was for his age– he was still a fourteen year old boy trying to figure out how to tell his favorite person that he was moving 10,000 miles away and that he didn’t know when he would be back.
The old swingset creaked beneath him as his feet lazily dragged through the grass. The sun was beginning to set over the coast and the slight chill in the air let him know that summer was coming to it’s end, just like his life here. He’d texted you to come over ten minutes ago and with each passing minute he was that much closer to not even telling you about him leaving. He can already imagine the look on your face when he tells you and it makes his stomach churn.
He hears the back gate open and then latch as it swings back closed. Your footsteps shouldn’t be making any sound against the plush grass, yet to Oscar it sounds like you're stomping with the force of an elephant as you make your way towards him. His grip on the metal chains were so tight that his knuckles had turned white and when he hears you sit in the empty swing next to him he thinks his heart is going to pound out of his chest.
“Sorry, I had to help Mum with the dishes before I came over.” You’re met with silence and a blank faced Oscar, who isn’t even looking at you. You lean forward slightly in the swing to get a good look at his face and he won’t even make eye contact with you. “What’s wrong?”
Your mind starts going through endless possibilities, it wasn’t like Oscar to not say anything to you and now you feel guilty for not getting here sooner– he clearly has something going on. Did a grandparent die? The family pet? Does he have a terminal illness?
“Oscar what’s going on?” You pry again.
“I’m going to England.” He blurts it out so fast you can barely understand him, but Oscar figured it was like ripping off a bandaid– get it over as quickly as possible.
“What did you say?”
“I said I’m going to England.” He still won’t look at you and he knows it’s cowardly, but he can’t help it.
You give him a strange look, why is he acting so weird about a trip to England? It’s just a vacation before school starts back up– at least that’s what you think he’s implying at first.
“Ok– how long are you guys going to be gone? Do we need to watch Rosie?”
He finally works up the nerve to face you and you can’t believe he seems to be in this much agony over going to England on vacation. Little do you know that in a few seconds you’re going to wish all that was happening was a vacation.
“You guys won’t need to watch Rosie because I’m the only one going to England.” Your eyebrows furrow in confusion and before you can ask a follow up question he goes and rips your heart out. “Y/N– I’m moving to England.”
Your brain can’t seem to process the information and your mouth tries to form words, but all you can focus on is the word moving. Not visiting or going on a holiday– but moving. As in leaving Melbourne and making a new home someplace without you right next door.
He starts to ramble on about how it’s crucial for his racing career and that if he stays in Australia he won’t move up through the feeder series like he needs to. It’s all background noise as you try to come to terms with the fact that your best friend– your other half practically is moving half way across the world. “Dad’s going to stay with me for a couple months until I get settled, but I’ll be back for the summer and Christmas and maybe some other school bre-”
“When are you leaving?”
Oscar pauses for a moment, knowing this is what is really going to hurt you and he hates that he waited so long to tell you. “First thing in the morning.”
You feel your stomach drop and a ringing start in your ears. Not only was he leaving, but he was leaving without giving you any warning. Oscar had given you no time to savor your last moments together– instead he’s tainted them. The two of you lock eyes and you hate how he’s looking at you– like you’re some dog that’s on its last leg and getting ready to be loaded into the car to go get put down. The realization hurts and the lump in your throat only seems to be getting bigger as you really come to terms with the fact that everything is going to change between you two now. He’ll have a new life and you’ll become that girl he grew up with. A memory, pages in a scrapbook, a chapter in his life.
You’re pissed and upset, but Oscar Piastri is not going to get any tears out of you this evening. You’ll wait until you’re back in your room, with your One Direction pillow case to cry into and a Mum who will ask what’s wrong.
“Why’d you wait until now to tell me?”
Oscar shrugs, a lump as equally as big had formed in his throat as he watched you silently process the bomb that he’d dropped. He hated that he had to leave home– leave you, but he loved racing and he wanted to do what was necessary to make his dreams come true. “I thought that maybe if I didn’t tell you our last couple days together wouldn’t be ruined by knowing that I was leaving. I just wanted things to be normal.”
“Well things are never going to be normal again Oscar.” You counter.
And he knows that, but he doesn’t want to admit it. So he chooses to say nothing, instead he just stares back at you, memorizing every detail of your face, down to the last freckle.
On the other hand at age fourteen you feel like a lot of things are the end of the world, but god if this didn’t feel like it to you. You were so mad at him for keeping this from you and you want to be a brat and ice him out, but it’s Oscar.
Your Oscar.
So you hold it all in and try to enjoy what little time you have left with him. “You’re gonna hate England. It rains all the time.”
Oscar smirks a little at your comment, he thinks that maybe this won’t absolutely destroy the both of you. “It rains all the time here too.”
“Yeah, but it’s cloudy and grey there.”
“Then I’ll fit right in.” He’s referring to how he never tans, not even in the Australian sun and when he sees you smile a little the lump in his throat starts to shrink.
He promises to Facetime and text, anything to keep in contact and says that any chance he can get to come home and visit he will and you tell him not to forget about you when he gets his Formula 1 seat. It’s all a formality– the things you say to the other person when they announce their departure from your life.
Eventually the stars make their way into the night sky and Oscar knows he has to be up early for his flight in the morning, but he wants to soak up every last minute with you that he can. “I’m leaving at seven in the morning if you want to come over and say goodbye before I leave.” Oscar states as the two of you stand by the back gate, trying to stay out for as long as possible.
“Yeah I’ll be over.” You state before letting the gate close behind you.
“Goodnight.” Oscar says as the two of you stand separated by the fence.
“Night Osc.” Your voice is soft and gentle and Oscar knows you’re acting like this isn’t killing you, mainly because he’s trying to act like it isn’t killing him either.
He watches you as you cross over into your yard all the way until he sees you disappear through your backdoor. He stands there for a second, trying to capture this moment in his mind. This is one of the last times he’s going to see you for who knows how long and he doesn’t want to forget it.
That night you cry into your Mother’s arms while Oscar packs and repacks his suitcase until he can’t think straight.
Morning arrives in the blink of an eye and before the sun can even make her grand arrival in the morning sky Oscar’s parents are loading up the car with luggage. He’s stalling–his eyes constantly shooting over towards your front door, hoping that any second you’d walk out that door and come give him a hug goodbye. But you don’t come over and Oscar almost misses his flight waiting for you. He starts to go over and knock on your door, but his Mother stops him dead in his tracks. “Let her have her space honey. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”
There’s no hugs or goodbyes exchanged. No texts or calls. Just Oscar standing there facing your house with his suitcase, hoping, praying that you would come out and at least say bye. Time runs out and he ends up watching your houses fade away into the distance from the backseat of the car.
This was the official start of a new chapter in his life and as his Dad turns onto another street and he can no longer see your house or even his own he knows this is the end and beginning. He’s leaving behind his family, his childhood memories, everything he’s ever known to chase his dream.
But most importantly he’s leaving you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar has always been able to adapt to things quickly in life. There was no tantrum thrown when each of his sisters arrived. There was no first day of school meltdown picture to be found. He took to karting like a fish takes to water. And so Oscar really thought that this move to England would be a piece of cake– but he was dead wrong.
He missed home.
He missed you.
England was depressing and not even the prospect of racing could cheer him up, not until you finally reached out to him. Which was a week later.
Oscar swore the sun had never shone so bright in England as it did the day your name popped up on his phone. It was a simple text– how’s England? But Oscar treasured it like it was the winning lottery numbers.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to fall back into your old habits and sometimes it was like you both were just right next door and not across the globe. As the weeks turned into months Oscar slowly started to feel more at ease. Racing and school took up the majority of his time and when he got the chance the two of you would talk, but that would soon come to an end.
His first year away Oscar came home for what seemed like every school break and it was great to be able to see him and you two spent as much time together as you could. It was Oscar and you– just like old times. But even with things seeming like old times, there was still that looming cloud hovering above you, knowing that Oscar would eventually leave again.
Then as those months turned into years, life and the distance between the two of you started to take its natural course. The calls stopped, texts were either unanswered or boiled down to birthdays and holidays, flights home weren’t booked. Oscar was making a life for himself and he’d clearly settled into the English boarding school lifestyle all while pursuing his racing dreams. You on the other hand were also living your life, just 10,000 miles away. You were passionate about your education and had made new friends that as far as you know weren’t going to move across the globe.
To say you still didn’t keep tabs on Oscar as the years passed was a straight up lie. Social media and Oscar’s sister Hattie kept you in the loop even without the communication from Oscar, maybe it was a little sad, but you don’t just get rid of that connection you have with someone overnight– or in your case years.
So when Hattie lets it slip one night that Oscar is bringing home his girlfriend for Christmas in a couple weeks you aren’t the least bit surprised. Oscar may not have been the best social media user, but his private instagram showed a whole different side of him. You’d started to notice the same girl that seemed to be in all his group photos with friends at parties and then eventually they’d be next to each other in group photos, looking more than friendly.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that seventeen year old Oscar had bagged himself his first girlfriend. Her name was Lucy and she was gorgeous and clearly had a brain on her. You may have done some digging on her one night when you were feeling a little depressed, which was a bad idea in general. You hadn’t spoken an actual word to Oscar in lord knows how long and yet you felt this possessive wave wash over you and you hated yourself for being like that. Oscar had his new life and you had yours, yet at times you still felt like you were still fourteen when it came to anything pertaining to Oscar.
You smile at Hattie, plastering on fake enthusiasm towards the fact that Oscar was coming home, but only to show off his new girlfriend. Not to come see you, because god forbid he come see you. The resentment and abandonment issues you’d harbored against Oscar had truly come to light in recent days– since the announcement of his trip home with his girlfriend in tow. It wasn’t fair to his girlfriend and in all honesty it wasn’t fair to Oscar, communication is a two way street and you had stopped reaching out too. There were clearly some deeper feelings that were arising over this, ones you wouldn’t come to realize until years later.
Your Mum is the second person to mention Oscar’s big trip home to you and you once again plaster a fake smile on your face and tell her that you can’t wait to see him- fully knowing that you’ll find an excuse to miss the already planned joint family dinner. In another universe it would be like old times on Christmas, but this is the same universe that ripped your person from you, so the flu would be making an appearance this Christmas alongside Oscar’s girlfriend.
Christmas arrives and so does this stomach bug that you can’t seem to shake. Of course you don’t want to risk getting everyone else sick, so Christmas Eve night is spent alone, in your room. You’re grateful that your Mum doesn’t push you to suck it up and just go. You know deep down she knows you aren’t really sick and the real reason as to why you aren’t going, even though you won’t admit it to yourself either. Cult classic Christmas movies play continuously as you stuff your face with the extra sugar cookies your Mum didn’t take next door. It’s about as depressing as you can get on Christmas Eve, spending it alone out of spite, but you're seventeen and there wasn’t any other logical solution than to play fake sick.
The opening title to Elf starts to play on the TV when your phone dings, the text notification lighting up your phone. You glance at it, not really bothered to reply to whoever is trying to reach you, but the name that illuminates across the screen makes you do a double take. Your hand whips out from under the blanket and grabs your phone.
oscar: you’re missing out on your mum’s sugar cookies. the candy cane one still looks like a penis even after all these years.
Your heart is pounding out of your chest as you read the text over and over, making sure you’re not hallucinating. How dare he just text you out of the blue like that? Text like you two haven’t gone almost two years without speaking regularly. It’s annoying and you hate how much it affects you. How you can’t seem to get your emotions in check when the mere mention of him is brought up.
you: eat an extra one for me. i’ll be puking my guts up if i try and eat one of those tonight.
You take a deep breath and press send, reaching for one of the cookies to occupy you while you wait for the inevitable no reply. He’s probably laughing it up with his girlfriend over your Mum’s horribly shaped, but delicious, cookies. It should be you over there, yet here you are being pathetic and hiding.
oscar: feel better soon.
you: thanks.
You toss your phone back onto your bed, before wiping the excess cookie crumbs from your shirt.
What a shitty Christmas.
Your Mum and Hattie don’t really mention how Oscar’s visit went or how you somehow avoided him like the plague the whole time he was home, considering you live next to each other, and for that you are thankful. When he leaves back for England a few short days later you pretend not to care that it coincides with your birthday. Not that you would be up for celebrating with him if he even offered, but the fact that he didn’t even send a birthday text after texting you out of the blue on Christmas Eve has you wondering if he knew you weren’t sick.
Oscar always could see through your bullshit when you two were younger and you knew he knew that you wouldn’t miss Christmas Eve even if you had the bubonic plague. It was your favorite time of year and he never let you live down the year you had been so sick that you’d practically lost your voice, but still insisted on singing Last Christmas with your froggy voice– thus the Kermit nickname that stuck with you for a year was born.
There wasn’t anyone that you knew everything and nothing about at the same time like Oscar Piastri. To you he’ll always be fourteen and you think that’s why you’ve had such a hard time with this adjustment of him not being in your life even years later. Because to you– the Oscar that you know– wouldn’t have forgotten about you, but the sad part is that is the Oscar you know. The seventeen year old Oscar has every part of fourteen year old Oscar in him and when you finally accepted that and let go of what you once knew life seemed to get easier or you were just getting older. Either way you weren’t going to miss another Christmas because you didn’t want to face the boy who ripped out a piece of yourself and took it with him to England.
The following spring Oscar doesn’t come home for your graduation from high school or even send you a congratulations text and that summer when he comes home to celebrate his graduation you’ve already moved out.
The best decision you ever made was to move out as soon as you could. As much as you loved the Piastri’s, being next to them was a constant reminder of Oscar and once you started University you really wanted a fresh start. You wanted to start this new chapter in your life Oscar free. You’d spent all of your teenage years trying to adjust to not having the person in your life that you thought would be there forever.
It was an adjustment being away from home, but god did you thrive once you got settled. This was the place you were going to become you– to make your mark on the world and plan for the future. You just didn’t think that future would somehow involve you being at the 2025 Australian Grand Prix.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You’d graduated from your University at the top of your class with a degree in journalism and you’d landed a job at one of the top establishments in Melbourne not too long after graduating. You were passionate about journalism and wanted to cover the world’s historical events. The things you see in LIFE magazine or The New York Times. Never in your life did you think you’d be sent to cover the events of the freaking Australian Grand Prix.
When the email came across your laptop first thing in the morning you thought it had been sent to the wrong person and you replied to your boss with a– was this meant to go to me? Only to be met with– Yes. I heard through the grapevine you have connections to the Piastri’s. Give me a one on one with Oscar and coverage of the weekend and we’ll talk about that promotion
You read the reply from your boss about a hundred times before realizing this was real life and not a hallucination. You wanted to die. This felt like a punishment and you were drawing a blank on what you did to deserve it. At this point in your grown life Oscar wasn’t even an afterthought. You were twenty-four years old. You hadn’t thought about him in the way you used to since before you started University. Yet, it makes your stomach twist a little at the thought of seeing him again all these years later.
Of course his face was plastered all over the city the past couple years when Grand Prix time came around, but you’d grown to see his face as some random model that you see in every store advert. Not the boy you once knew everything about. That Christmas Eve six years ago was the last time you had any communication with Oscar and now you’re going to have to show up at his work and act like you were just any other journalist.
Life really was a bitch sometimes, but you were a grown woman and god dammit if you weren’t going to suck it up and get that promotion. You didn’t go through four years of schooling and horrible internships to lose a promotion because of Oscar Piastri.
Your Mum was the one to break the news to you about Oscar finally getting a seat in Formula 1. It was text on a random Tuesday afternoon and you remember feeling genuine happiness for him in the moment. It was something he’d wanted since he was a kid and to see him accomplish his dreams no matter how you felt about him or how you two had fallen out didn’t matter at that point in time. Because all you saw was the two of you as children and weekends spent watching Oscar karting, the yearly paddock adventures during the Grand Prix weekend. It’s bittersweet because you thought you’d be there beside him when he got to that moment in his life, but for him to get there he had to lose you.
For a brief second you think about texting him and congratulating him, but you talk yourself out of, hell you didn’t even know if he still had the same number all these years later. You like his iconic tweet involving Alpine, lost in the thousands of other interactions, and leave it at that.
The week leading up to the race weekend you theorize how this is going to happen, every possible outcome and by Wednesday you think you might start balding from how stressed you’ve made yourself, but you weren’t going to back out at the last minute. You were going to walk into that paddock tomorrow morning with your head held high and give the best damn coverage of the weekend and interview with Oscar that the world has ever seen.
Well that was the plan.
You’d made it to Albert Park without a hitch and triple checked that you had everything you could possibly need before you left your apartment. You made your way to the paddock entrance, trying to blend in as much as possible. That is– until your pass won’t scan. You try holding it at every angle against the scanner and the pillar consistently lights up red, you even go as far as trying a different entry lane and you’re still met with the glaringly red denial of entry. You feel like all eyes are on you and you’re sure everyone thinks you're some freak that’s got a bogus pass and is trying to sneak into the paddock, but your pass couldn’t be more legit.
There’s hundreds of cameras waiting at the entrance to get the first pics of the drivers entering the paddock for the first time this weekend and you’re praying that Oscar doesn’t show up during all of this. A worker starts to come over after watching you struggle for what seemed like forever, but before they can even speak a British accent sounds off behind you and then a burst of McLaren orange shows up in your peripheral vision. You panic for a minute thinking it’s Oscar, but then you realize he’s not British and that it’s his teammate Lando.
He puts his pass up to the scanner and is met with the same fate as you. “Oh my god how have they not fixed these. Start of the new season and it’s not working, once again.” The two of you make eye contact briefly and he notices you’ve been dealt the same cards. “Yours not working either?” He asks, completely ignoring the entourage he has surrounding him trying to get his pass to scan for him and the worker quickly coming to his aide, unlike you who had to wait. You shake your head no at him and try your pass one last time for good measure– no entry once again. “I’m just squeezing past the turnstile. I’d do the same if I were you.”
You watch as the curly haired driver squeezes his way between the metal turnstile and the wall before immediately being swarmed by fans who don’t know what personal space is and photographers trying to get the perfect shot. You decide the chaos of Lando arriving is the perfect opportunity for you to sneak in and so you squeeze through, not as easily as him though, who seemed to have the waist of a Victoria Secret model. You weren’t going to waste anymore time, figuring that if Lando was here then Oscar surely wasn’t far behind.
As you walk through the paddock memories of the last time you were here flash in your mind. A lot had changed since then– in your life and in the paddock. You didn’t think back then that this is how your life would have turned out. Sure you figured Oscar would be here, but you didn’t think you’d be here under these circumstances or that Oscar and you weren’t glued at the hip anymore.
The hustle and bustle of everything starts to get overwhelming and the idea of seeing Oscar again after so long is actually starting to become a reality. The nerves were settling in and you could feel your stomach twisting the closer you got to the media area. There aren’t many other reporters and media personnel when you enter the room so you seize the opportunity to lay claim to the seat in the last row, practically tucked into the back corner by the plastic fern.
Oscar was supposed to be in the second set of drivers that had to do the press conference today and you were praying you could hide back here with this fake plant and that he wouldn’t spot you. There’s only five rows of seats and they aren’t very long rows, so chances are he’ll spot you, but hell he probably doesn’t even know what you look like now. So what did you really have to worry about?
The first round of drivers goes by without a hitch and you actually get some good material for your weekend coverage. You’re also proud of yourself for using the lull between panels to get a head start on your work instead of spiraling over seeing Oscar. That is until the doors open and the new set of drivers trickle into the building.
Your eyes are glued to each driver as they walk in and make the short journey to the couches at the front of the room. Kimi, Charles, Max– they all filter in one after the other and you're left waiting for the final person to make their grand entrance. The creaking of the door opening makes your eyes dart over and when the hint of the McLaren team kit peaks through the door frame you feel your heart rate sky rocket.
The moment your eyes lock onto Oscar you think you might have blacked out for a brief second. He’d changed so much since the last time you actually saw him in person. He was a grown man now. Pictures and videos online didn’t do him justice. He had gotten so big. He had the broadest shoulders, the fabric of his shirt straining against the buff muscles of his upper body. His hair had grown out some, it was the same sandy brown color, but more fluffy than when he was younger. And that neck– Jesus that neck of his. It was so damn thick and made the two moles on his Adam’s apple, something you used to love about him, even more prominent.
You’ve been so distracted taking in Oscar’s grand arrival that you don’t even realize the press conference has officially begun until the reporter next to you stands up and starts asking Oscar of all people a question. Which means all of his attention is focused towards the back of the room, the row you’re sitting in, the person next to you. His eyes are bound to wander to the people on either side of that reporter, but still you try to scoot closer to the fake plant, hoping that either the plant hides you well enough or that if Oscar looks to the left and sees you that he doesn’t realize it’s you. You think that the back row has to be far enough back that Oscar can’t clearly see anybody right?
You were so wrong.
The plant does absolutely nothing to hide you either and the two of you lock eyes for the first time in almost a decade.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar Piastri was a patient man. He’d done his time in the feeder series, spent his childhood karting, dedicated his life to be able to chase his dream and after a tricky rookie season and a rough start to his second season this season seemed to be the one he’d dreamed about. The season he’d patiently been waiting for.
He’d been anxious, ready for the season to start and to show everyone what he was capable of, especially in the beast of a car the team had developed, not to mention the first race of the season being his home race. Oscar was ready to put the first points on the board towards the championship title. There wasn’t anything that could throw him off his game this season. Or at least he didn’t think there was.
The walk into the paddock this morning had Oscar filled with excitement. There was nothing like seeing all the fans, especially hometown fans, so ready to cheer him on when he’s out on the track. Autographs are signed, pictures are taken, it’s all second nature to Oscar now. McLaren’s and his own personal social media person are in tow– camera’s in hand capturing all the good content they can to kick off the season. Even though it’s only media day it’s still a jam packed schedule and his press officer makes haste to fill him in on his day as they sit in McLaren’s hospitality unit.
“You’ve got team content to film first thing this morning, then the press conference at one, and then this afternoon there’s a one on one interview we’ve set up with a local journalist. Sort of like a hometown special thing for your home race. Should be good publicity and a good piece for you to ramp up excitement for the season.” Sophie, his press officer states.
Oscar nods as he shovels another forkfull of eggs into his mouth. Sounds like a normal media day to him– except it’s not.
Content filming is Oscar’s own personal nightmare. Lando makes it easier when they do joint content, but when he has to film solo stuff he wants to jump off a cliff, but nonetheless he powers through and grabs a quick lunch before heading to do the press conference. Oscar is the last driver to arrive and he’s not late by any means, but when he passes through the double doors and sees the room full of press and the other three drivers already on the couch waiting for him he puts a little pep in his step and scurries towards the empty spot next to Charles.
As Oscar gets settled into his spot his eyes scan the room. The front row is filled with some familiar faces, veteran reporters that have been doing this their whole lives and are there to cover every race weekend. The room is pretty full, there’s only about five rows of chairs so there’s quite a few people standing along the sides too. Oscar’s gaze wanders through them as questions are rattled off to the other drivers. He starts to daydream, thinking about what his Mum is going to make for dinner tonight since he’s back home for the weekend when the sound of his name being called out snaps him out of his trance.
“Oscar. We all know it’s the start of the season, but McLaren has been predicted to be the front runners this season. Will there be anymore Papaya Rules or will we get to see a distinct number one and number two driver this year?”
Oscar focuses his vision to the back row where some guy with a big beard and round eyeglasses is standing up, notebook in hand waiting for some headline worthy answer from him. Oscar takes a deep breath, a small smile on his face as he gets ready to recite the pre-rehearsed PR answer that’s been drilled into him.
“Well– it is still very early. We haven’t even got a practice session in yet. But the team of course will assess everything after every race and it’s always been–” Oscar’s eyes wander to the left as he rambles off the textbook answer to the reporter, but who he locks eyes with has him stumbling over his words. He does a double take at first, surely thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him, but no he’d recognize that face anywhere.
Y/N.
Even without seeing you in person for god knows how long he still kept tabs on you through social media, but to see you in person, in the flesh has his mind scrambled. What were you doing here of all places? He feels his heart pounding in his chest and for a moment the two of you are like deer stuck in the headlights of a car. His mouth feels dry and his fingers grip the microphone like it’s about to run away from him.
He feels a light elbow shove from Charles and realizes he hasn’t finished answering the poor reporter's question. “Um sorry.” Oscar states, clearing his throat before continuing. “Yeah it’s always been said that Lando and I are free to race so really we are just going to have to see how the season plays out.” Oscar quickly spits out some bullshit to finish answering the question. He prays no one else has any questions for him– he doesn’t think his brain can focus on anything else right now besides you.
He’s trying to not be creepy and constantly stare at you, but god he hasn’t seen you in forever and you’ve changed so much. He’d always thought you were beautiful, but to see you become this breathtaking woman, to see you grow into yourself is something he never thought he’d get to see in person. He figured he'd be keeping tabs on you through social media for the rest of his life. Although he always had a feeling that you guys would reunite when the universe wanted you to and apparently the 2025 Australian Grand Prix was that moment in time.
The press conference wraps up a few minutes later and Oscar is quick to his feet, hoping to catch you before you leave, but as soon as the cameras stop recording Oscar watches as you scurry out the back door and into the abyss that is a Formula 1 paddock.
Oscar is sure he’s made some fans and photographers upset on his journey through the paddock and back to Mclaren’s hospitality, but he doesn’t have it in him to play good racing driver and act like his whole world hasn’t just been turned upside down. The sound of the door to his driver's room finally closing behind him is the only thing that brings Oscar a small amount of solace at the moment. He needed some time alone to process what had just happened, he felt like he had more adrenaline coursing through his veins than when he stepped out of the car after a grueling race. The cool material of his physio table helps to somewhat ground him and just when he lays his head back on the makeshift towel pillow there's a knock on the door.
He groans at the sound, he couldn’t even get five minutes to himself?
“Yeah?” Oscar hollers as he slowly sits up on the table, his legs now dangling from the side.
The door opens and in comes Lando with a half eaten Kinder bar in his hand only to see a disheveled Oscar in front of him. “God, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Looking a little paler than usual there, Oscar.”
A humorous scoff comes from Oscar towards Lando’s remark. “I think I might’ve.” He doesn’t have it in him to elaborate or even tell Lando that the person he once considered his person randomly showed up at the press conference moments ago after not seeing you for almost a decade. He’s thankful when Lando doesn’t pry to know more and starts going on about something pertaining to their passes.
“Nick has our new passes. I don’t know if yours didn’t work this morning, but mine didn’t. Although seeing a hot reporter while I was stuck this morning did make things a little better.”
For some reason Oscar is curious about this hot reporter that Lando mentions, it was nothing out of the blue for Lando to casually talk about how attractive some women are, but he has an inkling about the identity of this one. “What was she wearing?”
Lando shrugs as he takes a bite of his kinder bar. “Blue shirt, black pants, hair up in a clip. She looked to be around our age. Why did you see her too?” Lando states, a smirk slightly stretching across his face over the idea of Oscar also thinking you were hot.
Oscar immediately knows Lando is talking about you and it goes straight through him. He starts to get defensive, but then he realizes that Lando doesn’t know who you are or that Oscar knows who you are. No use creating an awkward situation over something like this, so Oscar bites his tongue. “I might have.”
Lando nods at his younger teammate, he was awkward sometimes, but this was a new awkward for Oscar. Lando knew there was something more going on than what he let on, but Lando wasn’t going to pry. If Oscar wanted to tell him something he would, so he throws the wrapper of his Kinder bar in the little trash can in the corner and reminds Oscar about the passes one last time before heading back next door to his driver's room.
A deep sigh escapes past Oscar’s lips as the door closes once more. He pulls his phone out of his pants pocket, his body almost moves in autopilot, clicking on your contact and pulling up a new text conversation. His thumbs hover over the keyboard, his brain is fighting with his heart as he types, deletes, and retypes the same message about a million times it seems. He doesn’t even know what to say to you, hell he isn’t even sure if you still have the same number as when you were fourteen, but he’s praying you do as he finally hits send on the most thrilling thing he’s done in a long ass time.
Oscar: hey this is oscar. i’m hoping this is still your number, but i’m almost positive i saw you at the press conference earlier. if that was you i’d love to get some coffee or something and talk. if that wasn’t you then disregard this message lol.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It was a miracle that you had found a secluded place in the paddock, away from all the prying eyes and cameras to have your mental breakdown. You really weren’t sure if you were going to throw up, shit yourself, or maybe do both. The simple connection you felt between Oscar and you just by making eye contact had your head spinning and your gut churning. The ding that sounds off from your phone only makes things worse. Of course you never deleted his contact, even after all these years, but honestly that wasn’t saying much. You still had your Girl Scouts leader’s phone number from when you were twelve.
His name glares from your phone screen as you sit against the back of some building by the dumpster. You don’t want to open it, afraid of the can of worms it will open if you do, but the curious part of you wants to know so badly what he wants. Like ripping off a bandaid you tap the text notification and your eyes quickly scan the screen.
You’d always wondered what would happen when Oscar and you would reconnect, so many nights as a teenager were spent imagining the perfect scenario, the same nights you let yourself miss him and stop putting on the facade that you didn’t care. There were a million scenes that you’d imagined, but you never thought you’d be in your twenties or that it would be at the Australian Grand Prix. You don’t want this to change your life, it’s not fair that Oscar can just seem to come and go from your life when he wants. And you know if he actually wants to reconnect– that part of you that you keep locked away, the part of you that still wants him in your life will overpower every step you’ve taken to move on with your life. You don’t want him to come in and taint everything you’ve accomplished without him by your side.
There isn’t time to respond to his text or even panic call your sister, because when you glance at the time it’s almost three. You should have been getting prepped for the interview fifteen minutes ago and now you are going to be late. Of course, because what else could go wrong today?
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar sits in the stiff chair, listening to Sophie say something to him about what not to say in his interview as they wait for everything to be set up. It goes in one ear and out the other because all he can think about is you at the moment. This will probably be the worst interview he’s been a part of, but he can’t help it, all he wants to do is talk to you right now. Not some forty year old man who thinks he knows him because they are both Australian. The guy is already running late, so that right there tells Oscar this is going to be a wash. He’s about ready to ask Sophie if this can be rescheduled when he hears the door open and the most angelic voice echo through the room.
There is a part of Oscar that thinks he may be dreaming again, that this whole day is just one big elaborate dream. Never in a million years did he think you’d be the one that was interviewing him. His mouth goes dry at the sight of you and he’s sure his jaw has dropped. Your cheeks are flushed, surely from running here and your hair has fallen out of the clip you've previously adorned, soft curls frame your face as you adjust the strap to your bag on your shoulder.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. First time here, I had trouble finding my way around.”
Oscar clocks the lie immediately, sure it was probably the first time being here as an adult, but the two of you were here so many years as children, so no it wasn’t your first time here.
“No problem, I think the cameras and everything just finished getting set up, so we should be good to go. If you want to take the seat across from Oscar. I’ll let you get ready and we will begin.” Sophie states, before grabbing a folder of what you were sure were important press documents, from the table next to Oscar.
You can feel Oscar’s eyes practically burning holes into you as you sit down in the chair opposite of him. You pretend to not notice as you set your bag down gently on the carpeted floor, quickly rummaging through it to find your notebook. It’s like clockwork, the way you set your phone on the small table next to you, the record button is pressed, and your notebook is opened to the correct page in what seems like record time.
There is still a part of you that thinks maybe you can act like you don’t know Oscar, but the moment you look up for the first time since sitting down and see those honey brown eyes that you once knew so well, you know there’s no use in even trying to fake it with him.
“Hi Oscar.”
To hear you say his name after so long should not have Oscar feeling this way.
Have him flustered like a teenage boy.
He hasn’t seen you in forever, he’s lived a whole new life without you, had a long-term girlfriend, done so many things without you in his life. Yet you seem to have this power over him even after all these years.
You two were always just friends, but anyone with two working eyes, hell even one, could see that Oscar had always had a soft spot for you, and deep down the both of you knew, even as kids, that your connection went way deeper than friendship.
Only who would have thought that connection would still be there after almost a decade of no contact.
“Hi Y/N.”
Silence falls between the two of you and Sophie looks on strangely from across the room. Shy– fond smiles creep onto both of your faces and Sophie is beyond confused as to what is going on. “Do you two know each other or?”
“We grew up together.” Oscar replies without taking his eyes off of you.
You aren’t sure what’s come over you– after being in Oscar’s presence for a mere few minutes it’s like the built up resentment you’ve harbored towards him over the years isn’t there. Maybe it’s the initial shock of seeing him again after so long, all the good memories and the hope that you two will reconnect and that maybe it will be like old times may be overpowering all the bad feelings and memories you’ve had.
Sophie slowly nods, the sight in front of her is not one of two old friends, but more like people who were more than friends or at least had some history. The energy between the two of you was charged like a live wire.
“Well that’s nice, but we should get this interview going.”
Hearing Sophie’s words breaks you out of your Oscar trance and has you coming back to reality. You were here to work at the end of the day and your promotion is riding on the quality of this interview.
You start with the basic questions to get both of you warmed up and as the interview progresses you start asking the more hard hitting ones. It’s going great and both Oscar and you are comfortable, laughs are shared and you know this is going to be a hit with your boss and the public. That is until you reach your last question and you know that as soon as the words leave your mouth and process through Oscar’s mind that it was maybe too personal to ask.
“Well Oscar, it’s been a pleasure being able to sit down and have this chat with you. I think we’ve gotten to know a little more about the man from Melbourne, but I have just one more question for you today.”
Oscar nods, “It better be a good one. Best for last as they say.”
You smile, glancing down at your notebook to verify the question before looking back at Oscar. “You’ve clearly come so far in your career and to be a Formula 1 driver is a dream that so many children have, but the smallest percentage of them actually get to fulfill that dream. Obviously everything that has happened in your life happened for a reason– to get you to this point in your career–to be one of twenty. But looking back, if there was one thing you could change that’s happened and still end up where you are today, what would it be?”
Oscar shuffles uncomfortably in his chair as he internalizes your question. You could hear a pin drop. It was so silent in that room, the atmosphere had gone from light and friendly to awkward and tense.
He immediately knows what the answer would be and it brings up every bad memory and emotion he has associated with that time. He clears the slight lump forming in his throat as he tries to figure out how to word this without airing out his and your personal business for everyone and their mother to hear.
“Um– well I’d have to say I wouldn’t have moved to England at such a young age to do Euro karting. I had a whole life that I abandoned. People I abandoned.” He looks you directly in the eye when he says it and he’s trying to say everything he never got to say through these code words, trying to express how he feels through his eyes, but he knows until he gets to actually talk to you it’s not going to make that big of a difference. “If I knew what I knew now and if I knew I could still fulfill my dreams I would have stayed in Australia.”
You don’t even know what to say, your throat is tight and your head is spinning. Oscar was talking directly to you– about you. He wasn’t just answering the question, he was trying to clear the air. Maybe you had indirectly added that question in hopes that he would answer the way he did. That even after all these years your thoughts that he maybe regretted leaving you behind were true and that the pessimistic ones that squashed those ones down were ones of self preservation in case he didn’t regret leaving.
“Well thanks for sitting down with me today Oscar and even getting a little deep here at the end. Wishing you the best luck this weekend and for the rest of the season.”
You quickly wrap up the interview, not even responding to Oscar’s response to your last question. The cameras are turned off and the crew makes quick work to pack everything away. Sophie mentions something to Oscar about a last minute team debrief before everyone leaves the track today before heading out the door.
Oscar makes no effort to get up and leave and you may have been packing up your things at a snail’s speed. Neither of you say anything, waiting for the other to be the first one to speak up. It’s not until the cameramen leave and you grab your bag to also leave that Oscar speaks up.
“Come to my parents for dinner tonight?”
You freeze, stunned at the words that come out of his mouth. The grip on your bag tightens and a tight lipped smile appears on your face. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got so much work to do tonight.” You had barely been able to handle seeing Oscar today, the idea of being back at the Piastri house with everyone again would be pushing yourself beyond your limits.
He knew he was pushing the envelope by asking you that and he knew your first response would be to decline, he can’t necessarily blame you, but he wasn’t going to give up without a fight. “Please. My Mum would love to see you, see both of us back at home for dinner. It would be like old times.”
That’s the problem you think… it would be like old times.
You open your mouth to decline once again, but Oscar beats you to it. “I also think we should talk. Just the two of us.”
There’s a million reasons you can think as to why you should not go to this dinner tonight, but you make the mistake of looking Oscar in the eyes and those damn eyes of his always have worked their magic on you. “Alright. I’ll be there.”
Oscar’s never looked more thrilled and he immediately pulls out his phone. “Great. I’ll text Mum and let her know you’re coming. She’ll be so happy.”
Well there’s no getting out of this now that Nicole has been informed.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The drive back to your apartment takes twice as long as it normally would– gotta love Melbourne this time of year. The only upside to this is that once you do get home you don’t have time to sit and turn yourself into an anxiety induced mess. You have just enough time to change your outfit and freshen up your hair and makeup before heading back out the door. The entire drive to the Piastri household is spent blaring music to try and distract you from how nauseous you feel. It doesn’t work and as you turn onto the street that held so many memories you swallow down the bile threatening to rise.
As you pull into the Piastri’s driveway you notice the lights are off at your childhood home. Which undoubtedly means your family is here too– great.
The five minute pep talk you give yourself as you sit in their driveway does nothing to calm your nerves, in fact the more you talk about not being nervous, the more nervous you get. You know you’ll be getting a text from someone soon asking where you are– that someone more than likely being Oscar and you don’t think you can handle him worrying about where you are at the monument. So you kill the engine, glance at yourself in the rearview mirror, take a deep breath, and force your legs to carry you to the front door.
Years ago you would have just walked right in, but things have changed and so you knock on the solid wood door. Hoping that maybe no one would answer and you could turn around, get back in your car, and be back at home in your pajamas. But of course you can hear the commotion already going on inside and in a few short seconds the door is opening. You don’t even think about the possibility of Oscar being the one to open the door and you pray to any god that’s listening that it isn’t him on the other side.
The sight of Hattie in front of you was proof at least someone was listening and your nerves subside for a moment. Grins adorn both of your faces as she pulls you into a bone crushing hug. The two of you hadn’t seen each other since last Christmas. Once you had moved out your communication with Oscar’s sisters had dwindled. Sure you guys kept in touch through social media and Hattie and you occasionally would text, but you think they all knew because of their brother they’d eventually see less of you. You loved all three of them like your own sisters, but they were all unfortunately victims of association to Oscar.
“Oh my god I’ve missed you!” She exclaims as she’s still holding you hostage in her arms. “Come on– come in. Everyone else is already here.”
The moment you step foot into the Piastri household a wave of nostalgia washes over you. This house held so many childhood memories that you would think it was your own home. The times you all would get yelled at for running around the house. The time you were playing hide and seek and Hattie got locked in the coat closet in the hall somehow. Or when Oscar and you somehow let a stray dog into the house– Nicole was beyond pissed about that.
You take it all in as you follow Hattie down the hall and into the kitchen, not much has changed since the last time you were here years ago.
As you make your grand entrance in the kitchen it feels even more like old times. Nicole and your Mum are sitting at the island– wine glasses in hand as surely chat about the latest neighborhood gossip. Your Dad and Oscar’s Dad Chris, are getting ready to throw something on the grill. Your sister Sam, Edie, and Mae are digging through the pantry, complaining about how long it’s taking for dinner to take. And Oscar– is nowhere to be found?
It’s at that moment that you remember one important detail about Oscar.
His girlfriend.
How could you forget about his girlfriend?
There’s no way she would miss his home race. They are probably up in his room right now.
Before you can spiral and think about how awkward this night is going to be and how you never should have agreed to come you hear your name being called and excited gasps echo through the kitchen.
“Y/N! Darling!” Nicole comes barrelling towards you, arms wide open as she pulls you into a hug. “When Oscar texted me earlier that you were coming for dinner I thought I was dreaming! It’s so nice to have everyone here all together again. Reminds me of old times.”
Mae and Edie are next in line to give you a hug and Chris says hello while chopping up some vegetables.
You move to linger near your Mum, hoping she’ll ease your nerves and of course like the Mother she is, she notices straight away. She wraps her arm around you and presses a light kiss to your temple. “Hi sweetie. I’m glad you came.”
Sam gives you a questioning look from across the kitchen island– a raised eyebrow thrown your way as she munches on some pretzels. You give her one back that says you’ll talk later–you’re sure there will be even more to unpack after tonight.
“Y/N honey would you like a glass of wine?” Nicole offers as she’s already grabbing a spare glass from the cabinet and popping the cork on a fresh bottle. You figure some wine might loosen you up– make this evening a little more bearable. So, you take her up on her offer and take a gulp of the sweet liquid.
A lull in the conversation allows for Sam to start talking about some crazy thing that happened at her job the other day and honestly you’re grateful to be able to just lean against the counter, sipping your wine, and not having all the attention on you.
Three Sam stories and a glass and a half of wine later you’re feeling more than comfortable. The wine and no sign of Oscar for the last hour has your nerves settled and your giggles echoing through the kitchen. Edie had brought up the time that Hattie and you thought it would be a good idea to try and dye her hair pink without Nicole knowing. Long story short the bathtub got stained pink and the dye didn’t even stay in Hattie’s hair.
“Don’t forget that Rosie somehow ended up with dye on her fur and that’s how Mum found out.”
The sound of Oscar’s voice behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin. You slowly turn around to see him standing in the doorway with a smug smile on his face as he stares directly at you.
You almost feel like your feet are cemented to the tile floor– like you’re frozen in place as you make eye contact with Oscar, like there was no one else in the room but the two of you. You pretend not to notice the little bit of relief that washes over you when you don’t see his girlfriend in tow, but you won’t hold your breath, she could show up at any minute.
“Oscar! Nice of you to finally join us now that the hard work is done and it’s time to eat.” Chris’s voice breaks you out of your trance and your eyes quickly flicker down to your glass. Your face feels hot and it’s totally because of the wine and not anything else– right?
You hear Oscar rattle off something about having to stay later at the track– last minute media duties as he helps his Dad carry the food to the table in the dining room.
The speed at which you hurry into the dining room and sandwich yourself between Mae and Sam so you don’t end up having to sit next to Oscar is slightly embarrassing. You watch as the other empty seats get filled one by one, but the one thing you don’t think about is who is going to sit across from you. Of course the final seat open is the one across from you and the one person left to sit down is Oscar.
Honestly you think it would have been better to sit next to him, you weren’t even thinking about him sitting across from you and how you’ll have to look at him the whole duration of the meal.
The beginning of dinner isn’t horrible per say, you focus on eating and trying to not make eye contact with Oscar. Everyone is mostly enjoying their food, not talking much, and you think maybe it might not be as bad as you fear. That is until Nicole asks a question that has everyone’s eyes darting towards you.
“So Y/N. We knew you went to school for journalism, but we didn’t know you were going to do sports journalism. According to Oscar you were at the track today and you guys did a little interview together? Does this mean we’ll be seeing you at all the races?”
You smile softly, embarrassed that the topic of conversation has turned towards you. “Um, yeah I hadn’t planned on doing sports journalism at all. I wanted to be in like war torn countries or reporting on major historical events. But I’m still considered new enough that I basically have to take what my boss gives me.” You push around the green beans on your plate as you talk, your eyes occasionally flickering around the table looking at each person.
“The Australian Grand Prix is a historical event.” Oscar chimes in with a teasing smile painted across his face.
Which makes you want to fling a green bean across the table at him.
Before you can make a smart ass comment back to him Nicole chimes back in. “Well I’d like to personally thank your boss for making you cover the race. I’ve missed having you around Y/N.” Nicole pauses a moment as she looks at you with the most sincere look you’ve seen from her. You watch as her eyes travel across the table and land on her son. “Missed having Oscar here– having both of you here.”
You think that if she could reach both of you she’d have you both wrapped up in her arms and you can see the raw emotion on her face as she keeps looking at both Oscar and you. There’s something inside of you that tells you to look at Oscar and when you work up the courage to direct your line of sight towards him you see those big brown eyes of his already staring into your soul.
Unbestowed to Oscar and you, everyone else at the table is witnessing the thing they knew would happen all along. Your Mum and Nicole share a knowing glance and your siblings try to stifle their giggles at how obvious it is.
When Oscar and you lock eyes it's truly like you both forget there are other people near you. There’s a connection that everyone else can see, but the both of you seem to be blind to it, or you’re just refusing to feel it. It’s been that way with you two for as long as anyone can remember and the fact that you guys haven’t seen each other in almost a decade and it’s still the same has both of your Mothers more than smug about how right they were about the two of you.
“Well dinner was delicious. Thank you for having us over.” You Dad is the one to break the silence and your eyes immediately dart away from Oscar, cheeks flushing as you realize that you’ve just gotten lost in Oscar’s eyes in front of everyone. You stare down at your mostly empty plate, moving around a stray green bean with your fork.
“Thank you, it was a lovely dinner. Like I said, it was just so nice to have us all here together again.” Nicole reiterates as she begins to gather empty plates from the table. “I also made tiramisu, so no one try and skip out early!”
You make quick work to start helping clear the table and even go as far as starting the dishes, anything to not have to face Oscar. Your cheeks are still hot as you scrub the dinner plates, your mind is anywhere but here at the monument and you don’t even realize you’ve been washing the same plate the whole time until you feel the touch of a gentle hand on your shoulder. You jump slightly, dropping the plate into the sink, not realizing how zoned out you really were. Turning slightly you see your Mum standing behind you, a look of concern and understanding painted across her face as she presses a hand towel towards you.
“Honey, why don’t you go out back, get some fresh air. Nicole and I will finish this up.”
Your Mum is a woman that you don’t want to argue with when she tells you to do something. So, you nod, knowing she knows how in your head you are and gladly take the towel from her– wiping the soap suds from your pruned fingers.
The sun is just starting to set as you step onto the back patio, the sliding door closing behind you. There’s a slight breeze in the air and the cooler evening weather is some relief to your rosy cheeks and clouded mind. You’re just about ready to take a seat on some of the patio furniture, when you hear a sound reminiscent of your childhood.
Towards the back of their property you spot a rusty old swing set– the breeze had caused the swings to move– loudly squeaking as they do. The once vibrant red swing now showed signs of weathering, rust peaking through where the paint had come off. It had provided years of entertainment and went through multiple children and even with it showing signs of wear, it still stood strong in their backyard.
A small smile finds its way onto your face as you make your way towards the swingset, memories replaying in your mind as you sit in one of the empty swings. The chains creak as you move your feet, making the swing go higher and higher. You watch as the sun sets and the sky paints a picture of pinks and oranges for you to admire. For a good while you feel a sense of peace wash over you, being out here alone, reconnecting with a part of you that you haven’t felt in a long time.
But all peaceful monuments eventually get ruined.
You hear the sound of the patio door sliding open and then close, you don’t even have to turn your head to know who's come to ruin your alone time. The sound of his footsteps feel like they are shaking the ground as he travels across the patio, down the steps, and onto the grass. You keep your eyes focused on the worn patch of grass below you– your sneakers scraping against the dirt as you slow down.
He passes in front of you and from the corner of your eye you see him sit down in the swing next to you. Silence hangs between the two of you for what seems like forever. The pretty painting in the sky has been replaced by stars and neither of you have spoken a single word– that is until Oscar finally plucks up the courage.
“I still can’t believe you’re a sports journalist now, specifically a F1 reporter. Never thought we’d reunite via interview.”
You scoff, slightly rolling your eyes while you still look at the ground. “Don’t worry this weekend is a one time thing– I won’t be at any of the other races.”
Oscar frowns slightly at your tone and how you’re implying that he wouldn’t love to see you in the media pen every race weekend. He in fact feels quite the opposite about having you around and your sour mood that is heavily radiating off you has him confused. Sure things were bound to be a little awkward between the two of you, how long had it been since you’d seen each other? But this was more than awkward, this was resentment and Oscar wonders how things could have done south so quickly since the interview.
Silence falls between you two again for a brief moment and you hope Oscar just gets the hint and heads back inside, but you should know that Oscar is a persistent man and the inevitable heartwrenching conversation is bound to happen.
“You alright?” Oscar pries, his head tilting towards you slightly, hoping that you’ll look over at him and not the ground for at least two seconds. “Did I do something? You seem a little off from earlier today.”
You want to tell him to fuck off and to just leave you out here– alone. The inevitable is going to happen if he stays out here and you really don’t have it in you tonight to have this conversation, to open that can of worms. You still needed time to process everything and you know if you start talking about the past your emotions are going to take over.
“I’m fine, just tired. Today was a lot.”
Oscar nods– he agrees that today was a lot, but he can’t help but feel like there's something deeper going on with you. Instead of bothering you some more he decides to switch the conversation to something more basic, but oh boy was he wrong to do that.
“God, I’m surprised this swing is still standing. How much time did we spend on this thing as kids? Seems like we were always out here, but I can’t remember the last time it was actually used.” Oscar states as he looks around at the rusty old swing set.
That comment. The nonchalantness in Oscar’s voice. It all makes something switch in you. You finally look up from the ground to find him already staring at you. There’s a blank expression on his face, like he didn’t just crack open your deepest wound. It fills you with even more rage. You knew as soon as you opened your mouth there was no going back and that in the end you might lose Oscar again, but the years of pent up emotions and hurt override every instinct for you to bite your tongue.
“Are you fucking kidding me Oscar?”
Your tone is harsh and cold and it makes Oscar flinch slightly, his hands gripping the chains of the swing tighter. He doesn’t even get the chance to reply before you’re opening your assault on him once again.
“You don’t remember the last time we were out here? When you ripped my heart out. When you told me you were leaving for England the following morning and you didn’t know when you’d be back. Cause I’ll sure as hell never forget it.”
You can feel the anger coursing through your veins, the years of acting like Oscar leaving and ghosting you didn’t absolutely kill you. Sure maybe bombarding him with this probably wasn’t the way to go about it, but you’ve held it in for so long and he unfortunately struck the wrong nerve tonight.
Oscar freezes– he can see how upset you are and he feels like a piece of shit. Never in a million years would he ever forget that night, it haunted him for years, and he realizes he really should have chosen his words more carefully moments ago. But he also wasn’t expecting the conversation to go south so quickly. Sure things were a little awkward between the two of you, but that interview went so well earlier and dinner was great, he never expected for the night to have ended up here.
“Y/N– I could never forget that night. That’s not what I was referring to. I still feel horrible about how I went about telling you that I was leaving. I should have gone about it differently, believe me, the guilt ate me alive over the years.” He was telling the truth, the hurt look on your face all those years ago killed him. He hurt the person that meant the most to him and lost you in the process of his own actions down the line.
And now it seems he’s going to be reliving that night almost ten years later.
Oscar can see the same hurt in your eyes as he did that night and he should have known that if he wanted to have you back in his life, that he was going to have to face what happened between the two of you.
“You say you’ll never forget that night, but you forgot me Oscar. Even that first year when you came back home it wasn’t the same, half of you was with me and the other half was back in England. God, you were everything to me and you just left me behind like I was some old toy.” You can feel the angry tears start to form and you try to blink them back, not wanting Oscar to see you cry.
Oscar feels somewhat cornered, sure he was a stupid fourteen year old and yes he fucked up, but he felt like you also forgot about him at the end of the day.
“I get I fucked up and I’ll own up to that, but the phone works two ways Y/N. You could have reached out to me too. Our falling out isn’t all on me.” He pauses, pondering if he should even say what else he is thinking, but he figures the way this conversation is going, what's a little more fuel to the fire? “I also don’t know where this hostile attitude is coming from either. I get things are going to be awkward between us, but my bad choice of words does not warrant this hostile attitude. I mean everything was great at the track and dinner was good so tell me what happened to that Y/N? Because this Y/N in front of me right now is not the Y/N I remember.”
You can see the anger starting to show on Oscar now too and you’re positive this isn’t going to end well.
“You’ve clearly never seen a reporter do their job before have you? It took every ounce of willpower to actually show up to the track today. To show up to your house and act like me not seeing your or talking to you in almost a decade didn’t fuck with me horribly. I knew seeing you again would bring up all these emotions I’ve pushed down over the years. I mean fuck Oscar the first chance I got to move out I took, I couldn’t even stand being near your family, your house, it all just reminded me of you and how the person who meant everything to me dropped me like an old toy they didn’t want anymore. ”
You pause for a moment, trying to collect yourself, but it’s becoming damn near impossible. “I stopped reaching out when you did. I wasn’t going to waste my time and make myself look desperate when you had stopped responding. You’d clearly made a life for yourself without me and all I was going to be was the girl you grew up with.”
A single tear finally breaks free and Oscar watches as you quickly wipe it away–turning your head away from him.
“And to answer your question–I guess I’m not the same person you remember, but that’s because of you Oscar.”
Oscar feels a pang shoot through his heart– to hear you say these things has his emotions going in every which direction. Never in a million years did he realize you had felt that way or been affected so deeply by him leaving. Sure he had gone through rough patches, especially in the beginning, but he had racing, new people in his life, and a million other things to distract him from the empty part of him that you once called home.
He doesn’t even know what to say to you, he wants to reassure you, to apologize for being such a fuck up all those years ago, but he thinks the thing that sticks with him more than the others is that you think that you’d just be a memory of his, someone he grew up with. Oscar always knew that eventually you two would find your way back to each other, he didn’t know when or where, but he knew what you two had, your connection was one that wasn’t meant to only last for such a small part of your lives. It was a connection that would span lifetimes and universes. Even if it didn’t seem like it right now.
“You know you’ll never just be the girl I grew up with Y/N.” Oscar’s voice is soft as he speaks and it makes even more tears start to fall.
You take a deep breath as you wipe away the tears with the sleeves of your shirt, debating on whether or not to bring up something else that happened when you two were fourteen, but then you figure you might as well just get everything else out in the open tonight.
“Do you remember what happened the week before you left? That night at Hannah Payne’s house?”
Oscar feels his heart skip a beat, he doesn’t even want to talk about this right now, it makes his choice of how he told you about him leaving seem like an even bigger asshole move.
“I do remember it.” Oscar says sheepishly.
You laugh dryly as you replay it all in your mind. “When you kissed me you fully knew you were going to leave that following week.”
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
How Oscar and you ended up at the most popular kid in your grade, Hannah Payne’s house that weekend was beyond both of you, but you were and you were both way out of your limit. A game of seven minutes in heaven gets brought up and you think you’re going to shit yourself. You’d never kissed anyone before and so you start to spiral from that, but then you think what if no one even wants to kiss you, so then you start to spiral even more.
Your mind is spinning as fast as the old coke bottle on the floor and when it’s finally your turn to go you have to stop your hand from shaking as you reach out and twist the bottle. You try to calculate who it might land on as it slows down, hoping it’s not the kid who used to eat his boogers when you were younger, but the person it comes to a halt in front of is somehow worse than the booger eater.
Teasing ohhhs and giggles echo through the basement as your eyes travel up from the bottle and land on Oscar. You see a blush creep onto his cheeks, but even with the teasing he quickly stands up from his spot on the floor and crosses the threshold to stand in front of you– hand outstretched for you to grab onto.
You intertwine your fingers with his as he pulls you up from the floor and you two make your way to the old storage closet in the corner.
If it was anyone else you wouldn’t be feeling like your heart is about ready to beat out of your chest as the closet door closes behind you, but it’s not anyone else, it’s Oscar.
Oscar.
Your person.
No big deal right?
You’ll just tell him that you guys can stand there chest to chest for seven minutes in silence and everything will be totally fine.
Except you never open your mouth– you stand there like an idiot.
Oscar doesn’t say anything either for the first few minutes, but then he breaks the silence. “Do you think anyone else did anything?”
You laugh a little, fully knowing Hannah for sure did with booger boy. “Oh without a doubt.”
Oscar pauses for a second and you can tell something is on the tip of his tongue, even in the dark. “Do you think we should do something?” He finally chokes out, his voice cracking at the end.
If there was ever a time in your life where you thought you were going crazy– it was this moment. You know you didn’t hear him correctly, there was no way he was asking what you thought he was asking. Your response seems to die in your throat every time you go to open your mouth. He was kidding right?
Oscar wasn’t asking to kiss you right?
You feel his hand cup your cheek and you realize this is definitely happening.
“Can I kiss you?”
There’s a brief moment where you think you blacked out, his words going in one ear and out the other. “You want to kiss me?” You barely squeak out.
You can sense the eye roll and smirk on Oscar’s face even in the dark. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want to Y/N.”
The boy in front of you has been your best friend since birth, he’s your other half, he’s your everything. One little kiss won’t drastically alter things will they? You’d be lying if you said there weren’t times where you felt like your connection with Oscar was more than friendly, but you were only fourteen. What the hell did you know?
“Well what are you waiting for?”
That night Oscar and you shared your first kiss with each other. Blushed cheeks and giddy smiles adorned both of your faces as you eventually exit the closet, but the next day the both of you act like nothing ever happened. Like that kiss hadn’t altered so many things for both of you.
You weren’t going to be one to bring it up to Oscar back then, especially if you didn’t know if he felt the same things you did, but then he goes and leaves you the following week. Which confirmed the fear that had been clouding your brain that whole week.
That Oscar really didn’t care about you and that him kissing you meant absolutely nothing– even though it meant everything to you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Oscar had a handful of regrets in life and while some of them were not that big on the regrets scale– the two or he guesses he should say three involving you were the worst.
It’s no secret that he regrets leaving you or at least leaving you the way he did and then basically cutting contact with you after a year, but the one regret he really has is kissing you all those years ago.
He didn’t regret it in the way it sounds because truly he would have kissed you a million times over, but it’s the timing of it that he regrets.
You two were so young back then and he knows a first kiss is special and it eats at him the whole week leading up to him leaving. Knowing that you two had formed this even deeper bond now and that he was going to break it, but at the end of the day he was just a kid, and the consequences of his actions didn’t really resonate with him at that point in time.
“God Y/N we were fourteen– we were kids.” Oscar really doesn’t know what to say, because truly at the end of the day they were just kids back then and he was a kid who had fucked up. He wasn’t saying he didn’t, but he was asking for a little grace.
His response makes you even more angry, yes you understood you guys were young, but at that age when anything like that happens to you– it’s gonna leave a scar. “You were my first kiss Oscar. How do you think that made me feel at fourteen? To have the person who meant the most to you kiss you then leave you for a decade?”
Oscar in a somewhat opposite way has the same scar as you, but his is more self-inflicted, and if he could take it all back he could. If he could go back in time and fix everything then maybe this wouldn’t be happening right now. But he knows that’s not possible and that everything that’s happened to you two has happened for a reason and that you’re both here, in the backyard of his childhood home right now because the universe wants you to be.
Silence falls between the two of you as crickets and the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze fill the void. He doesn’t even know how long you guys have been out here, but he knows it’s been longer than he’d expect. He knows this conversation is just going to continue to go in circles and there would be no resolution worked out tonight.
“Y/N look at me.” He demands with a gentle voice.
Your head raises slowly and his heart breaks at just how wrecked you look. This conversation had clearly taken a toll on you and he hates that in the end it’s him who’s gotten you to this point.
“You know I regret how things turned out between us with every fiber of my being. I said it in the interview earlier and I’ve said it now. I fucked up and I’m owning that, but I don’t know what you want me to do to make this better. We were kids back then and now we’re adults and I get that you’ve been holding on to this for years, but we’ve got to work past this.”
He pauses briefly, trying to gauge how you're taking this. “You don’t understand how happy I was to see you today, to get to talk to you. I’ve got you back or at least I think I do and I’ll do whatever I need to to keep you, but you’ve got to give me some grace. I’m owning up to my fuckups, but if you want us back like old times you’ve got to tell me what you want out of this conversation.”
Your head is pounding and your eyes are still blurry with tears. You sit there and listen as Oscar talks to you and when he mentions old times you want to bash your head against one of the metal poles.
There’s never going to be a point where Oscar and you in any capacity will be together like old times. You can try and replicate it, try and do the same things, but the old times were in the past for a reason. Things change, life progresses, things will never stay the same forever no matter how hard you try to hold onto them.
And no matter what happens– things will never be like old times between Oscar and you.
“I don’t know what I wanted out of this conversation Oscar. I guess for you to finally see how fucked up I’ve been since you left. For you to see how pathetic I am that I can’t get over the kid I grew up with moving away over a decade ago. For you to hear that I’ve held on to this grudge and at times wished I’d never met you because even after all these years you have this hold over me and I hate it. You’ve dictated my life for years without even being in it Oscar and it drives me fucking nuts.”
You take a deep breath, leaning back to look up at the stars in the sky. “I don’t know if there is anything for us after this conversation is over. Do you really think I can get over all this resentment I’ve harbored towards you.” Your eyes glance over at Oscar and you swear you see a single tear roll down his cheek.
“Deep down, if you feel the same way as I do, then yes.”
The sound of the sliding door opening breaks you out of this bubble you’ve been in with Oscar and you hear Nicole holler from the patio. “I’ve saved you two some tiramisu. You better get in here and eat it– I don’t think I can hold Sam off much longer.”
Oscar hollers something back to her so she’ll go back inside and when you hear the door slide close you push yourself up out of the swing. This was your sign to go home– no tiramisu will be consumed tonight. All you wanted to do was crawl in bed and never leave it.
There are no goodbyes exchanged, just Oscar watching you leave, but when you reach the back gate he speaks up.
“I know you feel our connection, even if it’s deep down buried under a hundred other things. What we had or what we have doesn’t just go away Y/N.”
You pause, hand frozen on the latch, but you don’t acknowledge him, no matter how right he is. There’s nothing else left in you for tonight. So the gate latches closed behind you and a wave of deja vu washes over Oscar as he remains glued to the swing.
He hopes you’ll just stay at your old house for the night, thinking it might help for whatever reason, but then he hears your car start out front and sees the headlights light up the street as you leave him behind.
When he finally works up the courage to make his way back inside the get together is still in full swing. No one notices him come in except for your sister who he knows was probably peeking through the window at you two outside alongside his sisters. He acts like he doesn’t see Sam staring him down as he makes haste to head up to his room. The old stairs creak beneath his feet as he begins his ascent and he’s almost halfway up them when his Mum’s voice stops him dead in his tracks.
“Where’s Y/N? Did you guys eat dessert?”
“No–she went home. I’m going to bed.” Oscar’s voice is monotone as he gives his Mum a blunt and straightforward answer. He doesn’t even bother to turn around to look at her as he continues his journey up the stairs. He didn’t have it in him to be bombarded with questions about you right now and he knew his Mum meant well, but all he wanted to do was climb into his bed and sleep on this.
Not only did he have this conflict with you now, but he also had the race this weekend to take into account. He needed to have a clear head for this weekend, but his brain was just clouded with you.
He’s sure he’s tossed and turned in his bed about a million times, but sleep still won’t greet him with open arms. His mind won’t shut off and all he can think about is how broken you looked earlier and how it's his fault. He wants to make things right, wants you to be back in his life permanently, but he’s scared too much damage has been done and that you won’t ever be able to get over how things ended up between the two of you. Hell, he’d get on his knees and beg for you guys to even just have a fresh start, but he knows you’re always going to carry that emotional baggage with you, and that you undoubtedly have abandonment issues now.
Back then Oscar did struggle a lot with not having you around, but he had racing to distract him, new friends, and eventually a girlfriend. There wasn’t anything in England that reminded him of you but his memories, your contact in his phone, an occasional social media post, and the fact that his Mum mentioned you more than what was necessary. There were no ties to you and even the strongest bonds weaken over time. He never thought about how you felt, how everything back home would remind you of him, how almost every aspect of your life he’d somehow tainted. In
Australia he was everywhere without even being there and he realizes that's why you took the move so much harder. You never really could move on with your life when he loomed at every corner. England allowed Oscar to start a whole new chapter in his life– a chapter without you in it. You’ve been stuck in the same chapter ever since he left.
He should have known that Christmas he brought his girlfriend home, when you faked being sick, that things had shifted between the two of you. He knew as soon as his Mum told him that you wouldn’t be joining them because of some stomach bug that you were faking it. He knew you too well. Hell would have to freeze over for you to miss Christmas with everyone. He’d tried to reach out, wanting to see if you’d nibble on his texts, but you only doubled down on the being sick ploy.
It was a weird Christmas that year and it wasn’t that he didn’t love his girlfriend back then, but it felt weird to see her sit in the seat you always sat in at the table, and for them to make fun of the penis looking cookies your Mum would bake every year. It was like you were there, but you weren’t.
And that’s when he realizes after being with his girlfriend for almost five years– that he’d used her to replace you in his life. They’d broken up last year– a mutual break up that ended on decent terms, but it makes his stomach flip to come to terms with this after so long. He’d found someone that could fill the void of you in his life and so yes he missed you and looking back he felt horrible about what he did, but that’s why he didn’t necessarily take the ghosting as much to heart as you. He had someone and as far as he knew you’d never had a boyfriend.
He flips back over on his side, his eyes scanning the shelf along his wall that’s been illuminated by the moonlight. Trinkets from his childhood, racing mementos, and any other thing he thought deserved a home resided on that shelf. A glimmer reflecting from the shelf peaks his curiosity and it wasn’t like he was on the verge of sleep so he swings his legs out from under the covers and walks over to the shelf.
There sitting on the dusty old shelf was something Oscar thought he’d lost years ago.
The summer when Oscar and you were twelve your families went on a trip together to Italy and in some tourist trap shop you two had found some simple red threaded bracelets. You’d always wanted to have matching bracelets with Oscar, but he hated wearing them. Somehow you’d convinced him to get these, it was a simple string, barely anything to it, he probably wouldn’t even feel it on his wrist is what you’d told him. So you both walk up the counter and Oscar hands over some Euros hoping it will be enough to pay for them. The lady behind the counter smiles at the two young kids standing before her and when she sees what they are trying to buy she smiles even more, gently sliding the bracelets back towards the kids.
“Sono gratuiti.”
Oscar and you don’t know a lick worth of Italian besides the basics and so Oscar assumes he owes her more money, he can barely get the bill out of his pocket before the lady shakes her head and speaks in a thick accent.
“Free.”
You both look at each other, eyebrows raised, unsure if she’s actually saying what you think she said. “Free?”
The lady nods, pushing the bracelets even further towards the edge of the counter. Oscar and you decide to grab the bracelets and leave before she changed her mind.
Those bracelets left neither of your wrists for a good two years, but the month before Oscar left for England he’d lost it. He looked for it everywhere, distraught over not knowing what happened to it. He assumed it had broken and just fell off his wrist and he had no idea how he was going to tell you. Luckily for him he was able to keep it hidden, long sleeves were his best friend, and then when he left he assumed you’d eventually stop wearing it. He just never expected to find it sitting on his shelf in his room all these years later.
He grabbed the bracelet from the shelf wiping the dust bunnies from it before sliding it over his hand and tightening it around his wrist. As silly as it seemed, the moment he slipped the bracelet on he felt a sense of calm wash over him, like a piece of him that had been missing was put back into place. He twisted the red piece of thread around his wrist, feeling as it rubs against his skin. How such a simple thing held so much power he didn’t know, but if there was one thing he could take as a good sign from today– it was finding this bracelet.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The morning sun is a harsh wake up call as you peel your face from your desk. Instead of coming home last night and just going to bed you decide to pull an all nighter and work on the content you’d gotten from the day. Sure seeing Oscar’s face was like a punch to the gut everytime, but what went down last night was not going to stop you from doing your job. You were getting this promotion even if it caused you your sanity.
Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you grab your phone and when you see the time you surely think it’s wrong or you’re still half asleep. You rub your eyes even harder, but the time on your phone stays the same.
Fuck.
You should have been at the track thirty minutes ago.
Shit shit shit.
You somehow make yourself look presentable in under fifteen minutes and are out the door and on your way to Albert Park without thinking about having to face Oscar again today.
Traffic is horrendous per usual and by the time you make it to the track FP1 is set to start in about fifteen minutes. You’d missed out on any pre-practice content, but you’d be set for the post practice sessions.
You watch the practice session from one of the viewing areas and it’s surreal to see Oscar actually out there doing what he’d always dreamt of doing. No matter what had gone down last night there's still that part of you that cares about Oscar and you know just how much all of this means to him. You just wish you’d been there to support him through it all.
The practice sessions go by fairly fast and you head towards the media pen ready to face the impending doom of seeing Oscar for the first time since last night. You were confident enough yesterday to act like everything was peachy with him, but after you took off the mask last night you weren’t sure you could put it back on.
The first driver to come up to your spot is Carlos and he’s the perfect driver to help you get warmed up.
“Hi Carlos. So first two practice sessions in the books as Williams driver and you seem to already be in tune with the car. Great sessions from you today– does that make you feel hopeful for qualifying tomorrow?”
There’s not many people in the world who can make you nervous or make you blush just by looking at you, but good lord if Carlos Sainz wasn’t one of them. He definitely knew how to use those big brown eyes to his advantage and you have trouble trying to maintain your professional composure.
“You’re new aren’t you?” He asks– a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
“I am.”
“I was going to say– I definitely would have remembered you from previous seasons.” He pauses for a moment and you honestly don’t even know what to say to that, so you just smile and pray you’re not as red as a tomato right now. “But to answer your question, yes I’m feeling hopeful for quali tomorrow. The team has made some amazing developments over the winter and if I can bring these practice results over to quali and race results then it’s going to be an amazing season. So yeah I can’t wait to get out in the car tomorrow and see what I can do.”
“Thanks for your time Carlos, best of luck tomorrow.”
He nods smiling back at you and as he walks off you wonder if he’s like that with every reporter.
You’d interviewed a handful of other drivers after Carlos and how you’d yet to spot Oscar is beyond you. Maybe he’s avoiding you–which you aren’t complaining about. You got the one on one done yesterday so you weren’t obligated to get anything else from him from this weekend– barring that he wins.
There’s other people wrapping things up near you and you take that as a sign that it’s time to call it a day. You’re packing up your bag when you see a flash of McLaren papaya out of the corner of your eye and you immediately turn your back hoping it’s not Oscar and that it’s either an employee or his teammate. The sound of a British accent and the mention of the name Lando from the person next to you lets you know at least it’s not Oscar, but you don’t want to risk turning around and finding him standing there next to him, so you grab your bag and hightail it out of there.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
That night as you're sitting on the couch in your apartment, scrolling on your phone as some random reality tv show plays in the background, a call from your boss comes through that ultimately changes your life forever.
“Hello?”
“Y/N. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, but I need to talk to you.”
You sit up from your slumped position on the couch as worry washes over you. Are you getting fired? Did the interview with Oscar tank, did your work from today not meet his standards? It was very unlike him to call you, especially this late at night. The idea that this could be a call with good news didn’t even register as a possibility in your mind.
“No, you’re fine. What’s going on?” You reply back timidly.
“Well as you know the interview with Oscar has been posted and all your reports from today as well…”
He’s dragging it along and you already knew your boss was a sadist, but this is just confirming it in your mind. “And?”
“And I know I said if you do well this weekend then you’d be getting that promotion– more traveling, deeper storylines to follow and all that good stuff.”
“There’s a but here isn’t there.” Your tone is already defeated, knowing that even if you had delivered some riveting journalism this weekend he still wasn’t going to give you that promotion.
“But– the weekend isn’t even over and you’ve already blown me away with the pieces you’ve put together. That interview with Oscar is trending worldwide, we’ve never had this much engagement on our socials before. I knew you’d do well with this Y/N, but I never thought you’d give us social media trending interviews. I’m proud of you.”
You sit frozen on the couch, you heard him correctly right? You pull your phone away from your ear and go to Youtube, searching for the interview with Oscar. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head when you see the view count on it.
1.2 million views and it was just posted this morning. You click on the comments and just about every other one is mentioning something about how Oscar is looking at you with heart eyes or how you two get on so well and then there’s one comment that throws you for a loop.
Someone was basically airing all your information and how you grew up with Oscar. People were beyond weird on the internet, but that does explain the amount of new followers you’ve gained on Instagram today. You assumed they were all bots– not Oscar Piastri fans.
“Y/N? Are you still there? Y/N? Hello?” The sound of your boss hollering your name through the speaker breaks you from your scrolling, but you just put him on speaker phone so you can continue reading the comments.
“Yeah, yeah I’m still here. I’m just surprised by how much this has blown up, it was just posted this morning.”
“You did great work kid and it shows. Connections will get you everywhere in life– keep that in mind.”
There’s no response from you– you’re still scrolling endlessly on your phone. Somehow someone had found an old picture Nicole had posted on Twitter and figured out you were the extra unknown person in the picture. You’d been tagged in it what seemed like a hundred times– was this going to be your life now? An extension of Oscar forever?
You were your own person at the end of the day and you weren’t going to let people start the narrative that you got to where you were in life because of Oscar, because that’s one big fat lie.
“Now– I was going to talk to you about this when you came back to the office next week, but I feel like the sooner we do the better– even if it is over the phone.” There is another pause and you swear if this isn’t him telling you you’ve got the promotion, especially after your privacy is currently being heavily invaded in a way because of him, then you might just quit on the spot. “That promotion. It’s yours.”
You feel the air escape your lungs and your heart is nearly beating out of your chest, you’d done everything to get to this moment and it all had finally paid off. That is until your boss continues speaking.
“Although it’s not what you’ve exactly been working towards. You’ll be traveling like you wanted, but not in the way you think. The sports division of the company was so impressed with your work that they are offering you a full time position as their main Formula 1 reporter. Which means you’d be going to every race this season to cover it.” He pauses letting you take this all in.
“It’s a one year contract and listen I know this isn’t what you really wanted, but Y/N you’ve got a real natural talent for this kind of reporting. I think you’d really excel in this division of the company and not to mention the pay increase you’d be getting. I know this isn’t the news you were expecting, but I really think you should take this opportunity.”
At first you’re pissed and rightfully so, you’d worked so hard to get this promotion and the one you’re offered isn’t even the one you wanted. But then the wheels in your brain start turning and you start to weigh your options. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t ever thought about doing sports journalism. It had crossed your mind multiple times during high school and college, but the only sport you’d ever found yourself knowledgeable on was Formula 1.
Sure, you could have done a little broadening of your horizons, but you’d only ever really loved F1 and that stemmed from Oscar, who you were trying to create a life without being reminded of him 24/7 and well look where that’s gotten you in the end. You knew this opportunity was one too good to pass up, but at the same time you were still passionate about the other form of journalism that you’d fallen in love with. If you took this job, would that eradicate the possibility of you ever being taken seriously in other kinds of journalism? You weren’t sure and it made your decision that much harder. Because in the end and Oscar issues aside you had genuinely enjoyed covering the events of the race weekend so far.
There were so many what ifs floating around in your brain you knew you couldn’t give your boss a sure thing answer right now. Could you handle seeing Oscar for however many weekends out of the year after not seeing him for almost a decade? You needed to talk to someone about this and get out of your brain, you just only hoped your boss would give you a couple days.
“Do I have time to think this over or not?”
“They want a decision by the time you come back to the office on Monday. Think it over, it is a big decision, and I’ll see you on Monday alright?”
“Okay thanks.”
The line disconnects and you’re stuck sitting there thinking– what the hell just happened?
You waste no time texting your sister an SOS text which means she’ll be over as soon as she can with a bottle of wine and some snacks.
It shouldn’t take her long to get to your apartment from her University, even with grand prix weekend traffic, but when you hear a knock at your door moments later you think she must have already been on her way over when you sent the text because there was no way she got here that fast.
When you swing open the door you're expecting to see your little sister standing there, wine bottle in hand with a bag full of goodies. Instead you’re met with the complete opposite.
Standing there with a bouquet of flowers in his hands, pink and white tulips to be exact, is Oscar. He’s got a sheepish smile on his face and the apples of his cheeks are flushed. He was the last person you expected to be standing behind that door.
“What are you doing here?” Your tone is harsher than expected, judging from the drop of emotion on Oscar’s face, but genuinely what the hell was he doing here?
His free hand awkwardly rubs the back of his neck as his eyes quickly dart in every direction but you. “Um- well I know last night was a rough night for both of us and I know showing up with flowers doesn’t change anything, but I’m hoping it’s a step in the right direction. I wanted to have a conversation with you, I wanted to talk now that everything from before is out in the open.”
Your grip on the door tightens, part of you wants to slam it in his face for showing up uninvited and thinking that after the night you two had that you’d want to see him so soon. But then there is that part of you that still cares about Oscar, still knows that connection is there deep down no matter how hard you want to push it down.
The two of you stand there for a moment in your doorway and then Oscar gives you that soft smile that’s always given you a funny feeling and slightly pushes the flowers towards you. “Please, just ten minutes and then I’ll leave.”
You grab the flowers from him, admiring them for a moment before looking back up at him. “You remembered?”
Oscar shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I remember everything about you Y/N.”
You want to hate how he’s breaking down your walls and you really do try and resist, but Oscar has always been your weakness. “Ten minutes Piastri that’s it.”
He slowly enters your apartment, glancing around at the various knick knacks placed around. Oscar doesn’t know what adult you is like, but from the little things that catch his eye around your apartment he sees parts of you that he knows. The record player in the corner with a massive music collection below it– you’d always been a music lover and Oscar can’t recall how many playlists you’d made for him on your old ipod.
The two of you would always be sharing a pair of earbuds instead of just playing the music outloud, you claimed it sounded better, even with just one ear hearing the music, while Oscar was just happy to be spending time with you. The snoopy plush sitting on the couch– every holiday season you’d force Oscar to watch the Charlie Brown movies with you and to this day if he sees anything snoopy related he always thinks of you.
Oscar watches as you pull out a vase from one of your cabinets and take the time to meticulously arrange the flowers in it. He’s trying not to stare, but there’s something about seeing you in such a natural state, your hair up and pajamas on, that makes him think you're the most beautiful girl in the world. He doesn’t want to seem like a creep and get caught staring so he sits on the couch next to Snoopy and waits for you to join him.
Meanwhile you’re moving at a snail's pace when it comes to putting these flowers in a vase. You don’t want to sit on the couch with Oscar and talk to him. There’s been no time for you to process anything and now you’ve got this promotion to think about– Oscar showing up tonight was the last thing you needed right now.
There’s a funny feeling you get in your gut when you glance up from the flowers to see Oscar sitting on your couch like he’s been here a million times before. It drives you crazy that even after all these years apart and how much you want to resent him that even if it’s tiny moments like this– there’s still that level of comfort and familiarity between the two of you. It’s something that will be there forever between the two of you. How deeply you’re ingrained into each other and it makes you want to throw up.
You’ve rearranged the flowers a dozen times by now and you know you’ve got to get this over with– you’ve got to be a big girl.
Oscar’s head turns at the sound of your slipper clad feet shuffling across the floor towards him. “Thanks for the flowers by the way. They’re lovely.”
He gives you that polite smile that he always does and tries to ignore the way his heart beats a little faster when you choose to sit next to him on the couch instead of the chair. “Of course. It’s the least I could do.”
Silence fills the space between you two– which is a common occurrence these days. Then you realize that he’s had to have asked someone where you live because you sure as hell didn’t mention it to him in the forty-eight hours since you two have reunited.
“How’d you figure out where I live?” You turn your body to face Oscar, your leg crossing under the other.
“Um I may have asked your Mum” He admits sheepishly.
Of course your Mum told him. You loved her and she understood you more than most people, but she also didn’t know that Oscar and you had gotten into that heated conversation last night or how much he really truly hurt you.
“Oscar, why are you here?” Your tone sounds defeated already and you’re afraid this is going to be a repeat of last night.
Oscar sighs deeply as he now finally turns to face you– mirroring your position on the couch. “I know last night was rough and if we are being honest with each other, it had to happen. We needed to get everything out in the open for us to even have a chance at getting back to how things used to be. And I know I’ve said this a ton, but I am so sorry about how things turned out between us, how I handled me moving away. It wasn’t fair to you. I got to go off and follow my dreams and while I did miss you it was easier for me I didn’t have any connections to anything in England.”
He hopes you’re really taking what he says to heart, but he wouldn’t blame you if you just ignored him either.
“I got to start fresh and build a whole new part of my life. I never thought about how you were stuck back in Australia with the old parts of me, stuck with memories and a life that involved me, but that I wasn’t there for. I abandoned you and I never meant to. But I think Y/N– I really truly think that maybe this was supposed to happen this is the universes fucked up plan for us and that we were meant to reconnect. I’d been thinking about you more this past year than ever since I moved and now this? It can’t be a coincidence. I know it will take some time, but I want you back in my life Y/N. Forever this time.”
A deep emotional breath rattles through your body as you process Oscar’s spiel. He says all this stuff, but does he really mean it? You’ve built up so many walls around yourself when it comes to Oscar you aren’t sure you can ever fully trust him again and if you do let him back in you think you might always be scared he’s going to leave again.
“You know Oscar for a while I had convinced myself that you were dead. It was easier for me to deal with the fact that you had stopped talking to me because your were dead rather than you not talking to me because you’d fucked off to England.”
Oscar can’t lie– that was a real punch to the gut to hear you say that. The more he chips away at you the more he learns just how much he hurt you and it fucking kills him.
The air is thick with tension and Oscar is afraid of what else is going to come out of your mouth. He watches as you chew at your bottom lip, a nervous habit you still haven’t kicked even after all these years. He knows the gears are turning in your head, knows there’s so much you want to say to him, but you’re scared.
You lean your head back, looking up at the ceiling as you try to conceal the emotions you’re feeling. You weren’t going to cry, not already.
“This is a lot Oscar it really is. We just saw each other for the first time in like a decade yesterday and you’re going on this big rant about how I was supposed to be put through some emotional warfare for us to be friends again in the future? I’ve got so much shit to work through when it comes to you and I mean why are you so adamant about me being in your life again? You’ve got everything you wanted without me– you’re a driver for a top team in F1, you’re rich, you’ve got a loving girlfriend–”
“I’m not with her anymore. We broke up last year.” Oscar interjects with a little more enthusiasm than you would think when talking about a break up of a long time partner.
The news of Oscar being a single man should not have much of an effect on your right? The weird feeling coursing through you right now is just surprise and nothing else. At least that’s what you tell yourself. The way he was so eager to tell you that she wasn’t in his life anymore meant nothing really. If anything he’s probably still in love with her, you don’t be with someone for that long and still not have lasting feelings.
“Oh, sorry to hear that.” Slips from your mouth, even though deep down you know you really don’t mean it.
He shrugs it off, acting like it was nothing.
“I’m so adamant about you being in my life again Y/N because I’ve realized there’s no one that compares to you– to the connection that we have. You’re my person and you always have been.”
“Oscar, this connection that you keep talking about, you’re thinking about what we used to have, back when we were kids. I mean you say this stuff but how can you be sure? What if things aren’t the same?”
He knows he’s got a long way to go with you, but he knows what he feels isn’t wrong. He just wishes you’d give him at least an inch to work with here.
“I know how I feel Y/N. What we had when we were kids was something beyond a normal friendship: we were an extension of one another– my other half. That doesn’t go away, no matter what has happened.”
He pauses for a moment as the two of you make eye contact and he can see how you want to trust him. He can see it in your eyes, but the walls you’ve built up are strong.
“I know you feel it too. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it even when you’re mad at me and you’ve got every wall you’ve ever built up, but there’s a little crack that light shines through and that light is the part of you that you’ve kept safe from the hurt. The part of you that is still connected to me.”
The tears that you’ve held back so well start to build up in your eyes and you hate that Oscar can read you so well still to this day. He’s right and you despise how right he is, but no matter how right he is and how you feel about him.
You’ve got to protect yourself at the end of the day.
“I can’t get hurt again Oscar. Say I let you back into my life, how will I know you won’t leave me again? I can’t handle that again. I mean fuck I’d dreamt about how it would be if we ever reconnected when I was younger, but older me has to protect the younger version of herself that’s still inside me. I don’t know what to do. My brain says one thing my heart says another. It’s all too much too fast. I want to believe you, I really do, but the hurt part of me and the fact that we just reconnected yesterday is throwing me all these red flags. You have to understand how I’m feeling Oscar.”
Oscar sees the first tear fall from your eye and without even thinking twice he reaches out and gently wipes it away from your cheek. “Y/N. I’m not going anywhere. I promise. If it takes the rest of my life for you to let me back in or for us to get back to how we used to be. I don’t care– I’ll still be here right by your side.”
Out of the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of something on Oscar’s wrist as he moves his arm back into his personal space. Your breath catches in your throat and your stomach damn near falls out of your ass. You do a double take, thinking there is no way you’re seeing what you think you’re seeing. But you’d recognize that bracelet anywhere. The matching one was just in the other room, tucked away in a box of things from your adolescence. You were a hoarder of things that held memories so it was no surprise to anyone that you still had yours, but for Oscar to still have his and be wearing it? You were beyond shocked.
“You still have that?” You ask timidly, like it’s a weapon that’s going to hurt you, but honestly that bracelet could cause more damage to you than a gun right now.
Oscar’s eyes follow your line of sight and when they land on his bracelet clad wrist he instinctively reaches down to play with the excess string.
“Yeah. Found it in my old room last night, I thought I’d lost it right before I left for England.” He pauses, twisting the thin bracelet on his wrist. “If you ask me, it’s a sign. What are the chances of me finding half of our matching bracelets that I thought I lost years ago on the same day you came back into my life?”
You’re at a loss for words. Those bracelets meant everything to you back then and you’d still wore yours for a good year after Oscar left, even after seeing him not wearing it when he came home to visit. It meant more to you than it should have and to see him sitting here in your apartment with it on is throwing you for a loop.
“Um– am I interrupting something?”
Your little sister's voice snaps you out of whatever bubble Oscar and you had found yourself in and it’s times like this that you regret giving her a key. You quickly stand up acting like Oscar and you had just been caught having sex. “No, you’re not interrupting anything. Oscar was just getting ready to leave.” You ignore the little flash of hurt on his face, he really didn’t expect for you three to hang out did he?
“Um– yeah. I was getting ready to leave.” He stands up awkwardly from the couch, smoothing out his shirt as he heads towards the door. “Thanks for talking to me Y/N.” He looks back at you and you give him a small smile. “See ya Sam.” Oscar nods towards your sister as he walks past her.
The door closes behind him and you plop back down onto the couch with a loud sigh.
“Alright, spill the beans. What the hell is going on?” Sam demands before heading towards the kitchen to grab the wine opener and two glasses.
“Sam everything is so fucked up it’s not even funny.”
The two of you are up till the early morning as you tell your sister everything that had happened in the last 48 hours. There isn’t a detail you leave out and by the end of it you do feel better, but not 100% clear on what you should actually do. Unfortunately you don’t think you’ll ever be completely certain on things when it comes to Oscar or this job promotion, but if there was one thing Sam was good at, it was telling you how it was. She never sugar coated things– it was the little sister in her.
“You’re never going to know until you try. I know it’s scary and I know you don’t want to get hurt again, but I also grew up with Oscar and you’re literally my sister. I know you sometimes more than I think I know myself. You guys have always had this weird thing about you, like some connection that no one else can even compare to. And I think that if you don’t let Oscar back in you’re going to regret it thirty years from now and if you don’t take this job you’re going to regret it. Live a little Y/N. And if it all ends tits up again you can at least say you tried and I’ll be here as a shoulder to cry on before I go beat Piastri’s ass.”
“I’m scared.”
“That means you’re human.” She reaches out for your hand, squeezing it tightly in hers, a sign of reassurance. “Ultimately it’s up to you, but just know I’ll support you no matter what you decide– Oscar wise and job wise.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Probably be stuck in a perpetual 'what if’ that consumes your whole life.”
You roll your eyes at your younger sister. “Alright it’s time for bed.”
Sam crashes in your spare bedroom while you sit and contemplate life in yours. The box at the top of your closet is taunting you as you sit on your bed wide awake. The box that was home to that bracelet and so many other things. You sit and try and talk yourself out of getting it down, but it was no use, seconds later you’re on your tippy toes grabbing the tattered box from the shelf.
The box was practically a time capsule and when you opened it you were hit with a wave of nostalgia. Old pictures, concert tickets, trinkets, souvenirs from trips, and at the bottom of the box was that one thing you were looking for.
The bracelet was definitely looking worse for wear with some fraying thread and a little stain on one spot, but for being over a decade old you couldn’t complain. It held a special place in your heart and so you really didn’t care what it looked like.
You hold it in your hands, your fingers toying with it as you reminisce. Then without even thinking about it you slide it over your wrist. You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you put it on, maybe some giant explosion of feelings? A glowing sign in your mind that would tell you the right thing to do? It really lacked luster when you put it on, but it wasn’t about how it felt when you put it on, it was about knowing that Oscar had his on too. That you two were somehow connected again, even if it just was through a bracelet. It was something just for you two and that’s what made it special. A sign that maybe Oscar was right, maybe he was going to stick around this time.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The morning arrives way faster than you were expecting, but it had been a late night, a very late night. The reflection in the bathroom mirror is a rough one and when you go to try and tame your bed head you catch sight of the red string on your wrist. Your breath catches in your throat once again and everything from last night comes rushing back. Your head was already pounding from the wine you were drinking like juice last night. Then factor in your conversation with Oscar and your boss and it feels like your head is about ready to pop.
By the time you make it to the track your headache has subsided some thanks to tylenol and a greasy breakfast, but you can’t stop replaying the events of last night. You know you’ve got to push it all down and enter your work mode, but God if Oscar’s plan was to get into your head last night, then he had succeeded.
The last free practice session of the weekend has Oscar leading the times and it’s got you filled with hope for qualifying. You know practice sessions don’t mean everything, but you can’t help but feel like he’s going to put it on pole in a few short hours.
You’d never wanted him to come to the media pen in between sessions so badly up until now and of course he doesn’t. You just wanted to wish him good luck, give him a little reassurance, but you knew he was probably busy analysing data with his team and every other thing a Formula 1 driver does.
No matter how many demons you were fighting with right now when it came to Oscar you still cared and you were happy to see him do well.
Qualifying arrives before you know it and by the time the last laps start being ran in Q3 you think you’re not going to have any fingernails left. You want him to get pole so bad, it’s his home race, he’s dreamt about this since a kid. It’s been close between Lando and him the whole session and when Oscar crosses the finish line on his last effort his name goes to the top of the timing board– he’d done an extraordinary lap. But in a matter of seconds it’s taken right from underneath him by his teammate. Lando crosses the finish line and beats Oscar’s time by a hair.
You already know Oscar’s going to be beating himself up about this. You remember how he was in karting, always calm and collected in front of others, but when it was just the two of you or when he was around the people he cared about he’d finally let down his facade. P2 was still such a good spot to be starting from tomorrow, he was on the front row, but even without talking to Oscar for so long you know how badly he’s wanted this and you know he’ll be hurting deep down.
The media pen is in full swing by the time you spot Oscar walking in, race suit hanging low on his hips, cheeks flushed. You try not to stare, as he makes a b-line for you, not wanting him to know you spotted him as soon as he walked in.
You immediately switch into professional mode as he stands in front of the barrier that separates the two of you. “Hi Oscar.”
When Oscar walked into the media pen his eyes immediately scanned the area for you. He wanted you to be the first person he talked to– he needed to see your face. He spots you within seconds and makes haste to head towards you before another driver plants their feet in front of you. He finds it endearing how quickly you switch into your reporter mode and a small smile finds its way onto his face as you greet him. You ask him the expected questions about his quali session and he finds that it doesn’t hurt as bad to talk about losing pole with you than it would with anyone else.
Your right hand reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear as you ask some question about his last sector in Q3 and that’s when Oscar sees it.
The red bracelet– on your wrist.
The question goes in one ear and out the other because all he can focus on is that damn bracelet. To see you wearing it, especially out in public, has Oscar feeling more than hopeful about finally breaking down your walls. He’s not getting too ahead of himself because he knows he still has a long way to go with you, but you deciding to look for that bracelet last night and then deciding to go ahead and wear it speaks volumes about how you are feeling towards him.
The disappointing loss of pole isn’t at the forefront of his brain right now– that’s something to rume about with the team later, right now he had this to enjoy.
“Oscar did you hear me?” Your voice breaks him out of his trance.
He smiles, cheeks getting red from embarrassment now rather than the exhausting quali session. “Sorry, yeah. It was a great last sector, just couldn’t extract that little extra bit that Lando did in the car. But I’m ready for tomorrow and see what I can do out on the track.”
That evening you get a text from Oscar that simply reads– nice bracelet.
It’s just a text that contains literally two words, you shouldn’t be smiling at your phone the way you are. Especially over something Oscar sent you, but you can’t help it. He’s being his old charming self and the walls you’ve built up are coming down like they’ve been built out of paper. It scares the shit out of you– how fast he’s worming his way back in and how you really aren’t putting up a fight. Although you guess those walls really never stood a chance when the person you’d built them against was the one who would always know how to break them down– no matter how long you’d been apart.
You consider not responding, but your fingers are typing before you even decide what to do.
Just something I found from ages ago.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The following day brings heartbreak.
You should have known that when you awoke to the sound of rain pelting against your windows that it was a bad sign, but you tried to remain positive, knowing that it would probably clear up by race time.
You were wrong.
The race had been going well for Oscar, considering the track conditions, and he was in the hunt for the win. You’d never been so anxious watching him race before and you knew it was because of your knowledge on how much winning his home race meant to Oscar. To start off the season with a win and it be his home race would be such a good start to what you knew was going to be an amazing season for him.
That is until lap 44.
The rain had started to come down faster and you could see the puddles starting to form on parts of the track. You can hear the murmurs of the other reporters around you questioning if race control is going to intervene or let fate decide the outcome of this race.
It’s not even ten seconds later that you hear hollers from the crowd and you know in your gut what’s happened before you even look up at the screen. The sight of Oscar’s McLaren stuck in the grass makes your stomach drop. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go for him. You can only imagine how his family is feeling right now and you wished you were with them right now instead of being stuck working.
The yellow flag graphic flashes on the screen where he’s gone off the track and you know it’s a matter of time before a safety car comes out. You aren’t even sure what to think at the moment, things were so weird right now between Oscar and you and hell you weren’t even really sure if there would be an Oscar and you again after this weekend was done. But right now you’re hurting for the little boy you once knew. The one who would drag you alongside him to the Grand Prix every year and when the winner would take the top step on the podium he’d always say that was going to be him one day. And now when he’s so close to making that dream a reality– it’s been ripped out of his hands.
The sound of the crowd is deafening and when the stream finally shows you what is happening you aren’t the least bit surprised. Oscar’s giving it everything he has to get that car out of the grass and after a few attempts he’s back on the track.
He wasn’t going down without a fight.
That was the Oscar you’d always known. Determined. Strongwilled.
Even if he’d place P20 he could at least say he finished the race and you knew he’d use this as fuel for the remainder of the season.
Your fingernails are practically gone by the time the checkered flag flies and Oscar has somehow finished in the points. It’s not the outcome anyone who supported him wanted, but given the circumstances he’d turned this shit situation into at least one with some points.
The media pen post race is of course in a frenzy, but there’s only one driver you want to talk to.
You spot him as soon as he walks in– looking disheveled and defeated. His PR training is already on display as soon as he knows the cameras are on him. He’s allowed to be upset, but not too upset. Don’t talk badly about the team or try to blame anyone else, but don’t be too self-depreciative. It’s been ingrained in him since his early days in Formula 1.
That all goes to shit as soon as he locks eyes with you.
His demeanor instantly softens when he sees you standing there. He’d just lost out on winning his home race, surely already getting slammed online and he knows there’s a handful of reporters waiting to rip into him, but none of that matters when he’s got you here, looking at him like it doesn’t matter that he spun out at his home race and almost had to retire, you’ll be here no matter what.
The moment you start speaking he goes on autopilot– the PR trained side of him taking over, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still here. Still seeing the way your eyes soften towards him or the way you’ve been saying nothing but positive things to him. Even after all these years of being apart you still know how to console Oscar after a shit race. Even if you’re limited with your words and actions.
Your free hand had been resting on the barrier between Oscar and you for the duration of the interview and you pretend not to notice Oscar’s hands that are also on the barrier and how his pinky finger keeps brushing against yours ever so often. The little sparks that radiate through you every time the tiniest square inch of your skin meets his is embarrassing.
What the hell was going on with you?
You should be prioritizing getting the most out of this interview with Oscar because at the end of the day you were here to work and your career came before anything that had to do with him. Yet you find yourself stumbling over your words when he hooks his pinky finger around yours, like he’s trying to find comfort in you while still remaining professional.
Oscar doesn’t even really realize he’s practically enveloping your hand until he’s finally being ushered on by Sophie to the next interview and he almost has to remove his hand from on top of yours. It’s something he’d always done with you, found comfort in physical contact. Oscar was never big on physical affection growing up, sure he hugged his family, but with you it was different. It was almost like second nature for the two of you to be in contact somehow.
Sure your parents joked about the two of you being attached at the hip, but sometimes it was like you really were. Personal space was not a word that Oscar and you were familiar with and it really resonated with how the two of you at one point in time felt like home to the other. That you were so in tune with each other that a simple touch could bring you a sense of comfort that nothing else in the world could.
As Oscar walks over to the next interview he realizes that apparently old habits do die hard.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It’s a busy afternoon as you finish up your work and send off everything to your boss for it to be finalized. You can’t believe the race weekend is over or that you reported on the whole weekend to begin with. Never in a million years would you think you would have ended up here in your career, yet here you are.
The promotion is still weighing heavy on your mind and honestly you had fun this weekend, but that doesn’t mean you’d enjoy doing this for every race right? You wouldn’t enjoy traveling the world on your employer's dime and having a career that thousands probably dream about having right? You’d have to see Oscar all the time and that’s certainly something you’re not sure you can handle– at least that’s what you’re telling yourself.
You decide to push the debating on the promotion to the back of your mind, you had until the morning to decide, and honestly you think you just might flip a coin to decide. Although sitting in your apartment just lets your brain think about it more so you decide to go for a drive, get some fresh air, and listen to some music. Sure the traffic will be horrendous, but you think anything will help you calm your brain more than just sitting in your apartment.
The Melbourne roads decide your journey for the night and you finally start to feel a little at ease as the fresh air billows through your car and your playlist fills your ears. Somehow you end up in your childhood neighborhood and your car somehow parks itself in your old driveway. You want to act like your car drove you here against your will, but you were turning the wheel, subconsciously wanting to come and see him.
He’s in the exact place you expect him to be when you glance into their backyard, the rusty swing giving away his location just from the sound alone. Your feet carry you up the driveway into your backyard, through the shared gate and into the Piastri’s backyard before you can talk yourself out of it. Deep down you knew he’d need you and even if you weren’t going to admit it you needed him just as badly.
His head is hung low as he sluggishly swings back and forth. It’s a sight to see really– a grown man on a swingset, but you join him looking as equally as ridiculous. Oscar’s head perks up at the sound of someone sitting in the swing next to him, but he already knew who it was before he looked up. He wasn’t trying to be out here throwing himself a pity party, but damn did today hurt. He knew he had it in him to win today, luck just wasn’t on his side.
“Hey.” You’re the first to speak up.
Oscar glances over at you and gives you a small smile. “Hey.”
You know he probably doesn’t want to talk about what happened today. He’s had to talk about it a million times, but on a personal level you want to check in with him.
“If you just want to put today behind you I get it, but if you want to vent, I’m here.”
Oscar shrugs, he doesn’t really know what else there is to say about what had happened. He wants to scream and say how unfair racing is, but that’s not going to do any good. He’s just got to channel how he’s feeling into the rest of this season, use this as fuel as what he's working towards. “It fucking sucks I’m not going to lie, but I’ve just got to move on and look forward to the rest of the season. Can’t change anything now. Even if I would have given anything to win today, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”
You nod in an understanding way. “One bad race, really means nothing right now. Which I really wouldn’t even say was that bad of a race. You went from almost being out to getting the car back onto the track and getting into the points. I know it wasn’t a win, but you still had a hell of a drive today Oscar. I’m still proud no matter what because I still remember the little boy who wanted to achieve this dream more than anything and look at where you are now.”
A brief moment of silence falls between the two of you as Oscar internalizes your words. It means more to him than you would think to hear you say that you’re proud of him. Even after how bad things ended up to hear you say that and for him to know you’re being sincere means more than a win to him at this point.
“You being here tonight with me means more than you’ll ever know. I know things are still a little weird between us, but sometimes I still need my best friend Y/N.”
This conversation was quickly turning away from the race today and into one about the two of you, which is how all of your conversations with Oscar seemed to end up these past couple of days. You feel the early stages of tears starting to well up in your eyes and you hate how emotional you can get.
All those years that you just needed your best friend start to replay in your mind. You needed him when you were fourteen and he’d just left for England. When you were sixteen with no date to homecoming. When you were eighteen and had just graduated. When you were twenty and feeling more than lost at University. And now at twenty-four you need him more than you’ll let yourself realize. Except this time he’s here and you don’t know how to fully let him back in. To dive back in without a life jacket.
“I needed my best friend I don’t know how many times Oscar and you weren’t there. I’m scared because I’m getting that feeling again like I need you and I’m so used to just dealing with things and experiencing things without you, but you’re here this time, and I don’t know what to do.”
Oscar frowns at your response, to hear you vocalize just how much hurt you’ve been dealing with kills him everytime. He wishes he could snap his fingers and everything would be alright, but he knows that can’t happen.
“This time I’m staying for good.” He wants to reach over and take your hand in his, intertwine your fingers and never let go, but he knows that would be too much. “What’s going on? Let me in Y/N– please.”
You want to trust him you really do, but god the trust issues you have are ridiculous. You don’t respond, you just look at him and he knows what you’re thinking. He knows this is going to take time.
The two of you sit in silence for a good while, staring up at the stars, until you finally bring up the thing that’s been drowning your thoughts since Friday night.
“My work is offering me a promotion.”
Oscar’s eyes light up for the first time tonight. “That’s amazing Y/N.”
You shake your head at his response, your eyes trained on your hands that have found a home in your lap. “It’s not the promotion I was expecting.” Osar furrows his eyebrows in confusion and you take his silence as a sign to continue. “I’ve always wanted to do high intensity journalism– war torn countries, national geographic stuff like that. But my boss called me the other night and said that our interview had gone so well and that my other content was so good that the sports division of the company is offering me the position to be their full time F1 journalist.”
Right off the bat Oscar’s first thought is for you to take the promotion. It’s selfish reasoning, but if you did he’d be able to see you so much more and that’s something he’s never going to say no to. But the rational side of him knows you’re probably at war with your mind right now and his selfish wants are not what you need to hear right now.
Although there isn’t a doubt in Oscar’s mind that you wouldn’t absolutely dominate this promotion if you accepted it. You were a pure natural this weekend and handled the hectic weekend better than some seasoned journalists. He knows deep down though that he’s one of the big reasons as to why you’re so hesitant to accept the offer and it kills him.
“I still think it’s amazing Y/N. It might not be exactly what you wanted, but I think it’s a good sign that you’re getting offered this after just one weekend. Imagine what your life could be like a year from now.”
You knew Oscar would be nothing but supportive of the idea of you taking this promotion, maybe you shouldn’t have come to him with this. “It’s not what I wanted though. I mean this weekend was great and everything just felt natural like I’d been doing this for years, but what if this is a one off thing. Like what if I get to the next race and it’s just a shit weekend for me?”
Oscar stifles a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’ve just described the life of a race car driver.”
An irritated eye roll is thrown in Oscar’s direction at his comment. “No but seriously Osc, I can’t deal with the what-ifs. I mean what if taking this eliminates my chances of doing other kinds of journalism?”
Oscar acts like hearing you call him Osc for the first time in over a decade doesn’t make his heart race. It was a slip of the tongue he’s sure– falling back into old habits. But he can’t help but feel like it’s a win for him, to have you reverting back to old nicknames so quickly. He’ll always be your Osc even when you're both old and grey.
He quickly brings himself back to reality and out of his dreamland, you needed him right now and he was going to be here to listen and tell you what you needed to hear. “But what if you don’t take it and you lose out on the opportunity of a lifetime?”
You don’t give an answer to his hypothetical scenario, choosing to anxiously pick at your fingernails instead.
“I honestly think you’ve already made up your mind Y/N. How many times did you mull over things as a child and make a big deal out of it? You’d have Sam and I going through every possible outcome and the whole time you’ve had your mind made up since the beginning. Go with your gut– take the risk or don’t. You always took what Sam and I said into consideration, but at the end of the day it’s your choice.”
Your front teeth tug at your bottom lip as you take in what Oscar’s told you. He wasn’t wrong. You’d been so caught up in the Oscar aspect of all of this that you were letting it cloud what this opportunity could do for you instead of take away. Deep down you knew you were leaning more towards taking the job.
The feeling you had this weekend was indescribable and to be that excited to do your job should be a good sign– at least you think it is. Oscar had just made everything more conflicting for you and you were able to find other things to pile on to not make it seem like it was just Oscar preventing you from taking this job.
How your life had been practically turned upside down in a matter of four days was beyond you, but you think maybe what Oscar has said the other night might have had a little truth to it. Maybe this all was meant to happen in the way it has. Maybe Oscar was supposed to come back to you and this was the plan for you two all along. Maybe it’s your way of coping with how fast everything seems to be moving or how you can’t seem to stop Oscar from just climbing back into his home behind your ribs no matter how hard you try.
You’re still hurt and mad at him from how things went down between the two of you, but god how you’ve missed having him around. You know there’s so much now that you don’t know about him, but there’s parts of him that are never going to change, the parts of him that you kept to yourself, the parts you held onto for safe keeping as the years without him passed.
You don’t want to get hurt again– you never want to feel the way you did all those years ago. And if you take this job you know it also means that you’re willing to fully let Oscar back in, maybe not right away, but you know you have a weakness when it comes to him and it’ll happen eventually. But you think you won’t ever find the connection you have with Oscar in someone else and if the universe is giving you guys another chance, then you’d be a fool not to take it.
“When do you think you’ll be back in Australia?” Your hands grip the metal chains of the swing tighter, scared of what his answer is going to be.
“Depends on if I get to see you or not. If I get to see you I’ll be home after China. If I don’t then probably not until the season’s summer break.” He’s teasing and you want to slap that stupid smirk that you secretly love off of his face.
“Well who knows if I’ll be around during your break so guess it’ll probably be a year from now until we see each other again.”
Oscar rolls his eyes at your dramatics before getting up from the swing and extending his hand out for you to take. “Come on, miss dramatic. It’s late and you’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow. You’re gonna need all the sleep you can get now, trust me the jet lag is killer.”
You take his hand and he pulls you up out of the swing. “I never said I was taking that promotion Oscar so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
An amused expression paints itself across Oscsar’s face as the two of you slowly walk back towards your car. You aren’t quite ready to leave and Oscar isn’t ready to go inside so the both of you linger by your car. It’s like a scene out of a movie– Oscar’s got his hands stuffed into his pockets while you lean against your car. The only thing that fills the air is the sound of a dog barking in the distance and the gentle night breeze. There’s a giddy feeling that radiates through you, that any normal person would call butterflies, but that’s totally not what you’re feeling right now– right?
Oscar gives you that shy little smile and you can sense him moving closer ever so often. The energy between the two of you is charged like a live wire and you can feel your heart beating in your ears. You know what’s about to happen, but this can’t be happening right now– it can’t be. This is your best friend that yes you kissed when you were fourteen but you were kids and this is way more serious this time around. Yet with all the panicking you find your heart overriding your mind and when Oscar cups your cheek with his hand you lean into his touch.
“Osc-”
He shakes his head not wanting to hear your protests. “Have you ever thought about what things might be like if I had never moved to England? Or maybe if I would have pulled my head out of my ass and kept in touch with you?” His voice is almost a whisper. His free hand lands gently on your hip and he’s practically got you caged against your car.
Oscar was so close you could count every individual eyelash that adorned his eyes. “All the time.”
“I’d like to think things would be different.”
You shake your head at him, there was no use dwelling on what could have been. “We’ll never know Oscar.”
“You never thought about what things would be like between us?”
You notice how his eyes flicker from your eyes then back down to your lips ever so often and it causes a shiver to run down your spine. “Us?”
Oscar nods and you can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows, nervous to hear your answer.
“Maybe when I was younger, especially after you kissed me at Hannah’s house, but Oscar we’re grown now. Any little feeling I’d had disappeared the moment you got with Lucy and god Oscar you were with her for so long. Those feelings don’t just go away just because you’ve broken up.”
“She never meant as much to me as you.”
You scoff and Oscar’s hand drops from your face, but moves to mirror the other on your hips. “Don’t say that. You were with her for five years, Oscar. Don’t put her down to try and suck up to me. If I really meant that much to you then you would have never gotten with her.”
“You know you’ve always been my person– my other half. There’s always been that connection between us Y/N.” Oscar knows he’s being pathetic and more than likely making a fool of himself, but in the heat of the moment he just turns feral and thinks that after four days of reuniting that it's a good idea to try and make a move on you.
“You’re talking about me like I’m your ex or the one that got away. Oscar, I'm your best friend. We’ve never been anything more and if this is the time you decide to tell me you’ve got feelings for me this is one hell of a time. I just got you back– don’t try and rush into something over all these heightened emotions.”
You push Oscar away as you come back to reality and realize this is not how you want this new chapter with Oscar to begin. You aren’t sure how you exactly feel about him, if it’s romantic or lust or just seeing someone you used to call home after so long. Everything is heightened at the moment and it’s like you’ve been running on adrenaline all weekend.
“You’re telling me you don’t feel the connection between the two of us?” Oscar asks, desperation laced in his voice.
The adrenaline you’ve been surviving off of is starting to wear off and you can feel the tiredness setting in, your brain is fried. “I don’t know how I feel Oscar. A couple weeks ago I would have never thought I’d be here right now with you. I was living my life without you and I was fine. Now I guess the universe thought we needed to reunite and you’ve come crashing back in head first. I can’t differentiate my mind from my heart half the time and I want to hate you so bad sometimes, but then I’m around you and things just feel right. So god forbid a girl wants some time to process things.”
Oscar can see how everything is really taking its toll on you and the regret starts to set in. He never meant to make things harder for you. He’d gotten way too ahead of himself and took things a little too far too fast. He’s just so scared to lose you again that he doesn’t realize he’s being a little overbearing. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve just gotten too wrapped up in having you back and trying to process how I’m also feeling.”
You can see the regret in his eyes and you never wanted Oscar to feel bad for expressing his feelings, but it’s too much for you right now. You’re still trying to work through trusting him on a friendship level and you hate to say it, but if he actually did have feelings for you romantically you think you might doubt that too.
Seeing a familiar person, a person you were once so comfortable with after so long and then add on that fact that he’s probably still not over Lucy. To you the only logical explanation is that he’s using you as a rebound. And that is not something you could handle on top of everything else. It’s best to nip that in the bud before you find yourself stumbling down that dark path that will eventually hurt you more than anything in the end.
You move to stand by your car door, initiating the end of this conversation for the night. “I care about you so deeply Oscar, even after all that’s happened, don’t think I don’t. I’ve just got shit I’ve got to work through. If the universe is giving us this second chance to have each other back in our lives, let’s try to not fuck it up again. I need my best friend first and if it ever gets to something beyond friends then okay, but we can’t rush into something we both aren’t ready for. Don’t ruin everything because we were caught up in the moment.”
He knows you’re right and he wants to kick himself for turning a decent night with you into this, but he guesses if he hadn’t then he would never know how you felt. “So much has happened I keep forgetting it’s only been four days since we reconnected.”
You just want to move on from this conversation, if you don’t it’s going to just keep going around in circles. “Well this season is gonna seem like an eternity if we keep the same timeline going.”
Oscar’s eyes widen and he cocks an eyebrow at you in question.
You open your car door, hesitating slightly before getting in. “I’ll see you in China, Piastri.”
Even with the news of you practically being with him for the whole year he’s still reeling from making a damn fool of himself moments ago. You can tell he’s in his head and maybe you were a little harsh with him, but he needed to know how you felt and if there was one thing you were going to be with Oscar it was honest.
“We’re gonna be okay. We’ve just gotta give each other time.” You reassure him before you leave Oscar standing in the driveway.
Oscar watches you the whole time and when he finally can’t see your car he then treks back inside.
God help him.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
As the season progresses you start to get into the groove of your new job and by the time summer break rolls around you’d never been happier that you made the decision to take that promotion. It just comes naturally to you and you’ve quickly made a name for yourself in the sports journalism world. Your work is thrilled with the pieces and content you’ve been turning out and you only wish you could have been doing this sooner.
As for Oscar and you– it’s been a journey. The first couple race weekends after Australia were a little weird considering the fact that the two of you almost kissed, but you two eventually got over it. As much as you wanted to keep those walls up, it was genuinely no use. The more you were around him the more you just opened up and at times it was like old times with Oscar. It was nice to just have your best friend back.
Although sometimes at night you’d dream of that moment in Australia when Oscar had you pressed up against your car. You’d wake up flushed and confused, wishing your mind would just let you be for five seconds. It made things harder for you because you wanted to focus on your friendship with him, but you couldn’t help but feel the ache in your chest when he’d look at you a certain way or your hands would brush against his as you walked side by side.
It didn’t help the stuff you’d see online about Oscar and you, people who knew nothing about either of you making outrageous claims. Sometimes though you can’t lie– you’d self indulge in the comment sections of posts.
It was particularly bad after Oscar and you teamed up to do a hot lap video during the Belgium Grand Prix. Of course you two shared your usual banter, but Oscar had decided to be a little shit at the beginning of the video. You’d begged him to not put the pedal to the floor right off the bat, but he’d just looked at you with that sly smirk of his, claiming all he knew how to do was go fast. His eyes never left you as he pressed on the gas, causing the car to go flying and you to let out a scream.
user1: god the way he looks at her when he presses on the gas…. I NEED THAT
user2: can’t lie i’m starting to see what people have been saying about these two. the childhood friends to lovers trope is so strong between them.
user3: heart eyes piastri strikes again and dare i say heart eyes y/n?
user4: i think oscar looked more at her than the road the whole video. he’s down bad fr
The comments have you blushing and you physically have to put your phone down on your hotel bed to calm yourself.
You might be fucked.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
If you would have asked yourself six months ago how do you feel about going on a trip with Oscar to Saint-Tropez and it just being the two of you— you would have said what the fuck why would I be doing that?
Flash forward to now and you find yourself sunbathing on a yacht in the French Riviera with Oscar next to you.
When he asked you a couple weeks ago if you wanted to go with him you’d hesitated– unsure if that was the right thing to do. Things were going well between the two of you, but going on vacation with just him was a whole different story. It was definitely way too soon for you guys to be doing stuff like this, but on the other hand there was a part of you that was giddy at the idea of having some one on one time with Oscar.
So against your better judgment you tell him yes.
Your days are spent lounging around on a yacht, enjoying decadent food, and most importantly realizing you’re in love with Oscar Piastri.
You know it seems fast to say you’re in love with him after only having him back in your life for half a year, and how resistant you were about letting him back in, but the thing is you’ve never not been in love with Oscar.
It’s something you come to terms with three days into the trip and it scares the shit out of you.
You’re out for dinner, some quaint place by the water that only seems to serve meals that you would call a snack, but nonetheless it's beautiful. The sun is setting along the coast and it’s a picturesque scene that Oscar insists you must pose in front of. His phone is pointed in your direction as you smile in front of the sherbert swirled sky.
“Beautiful.” He states as he swipes through the various photos he’d taken.
“Let me see!” You demand, trying to distract yourself from how a single word from Oscar has your cheeks heating up. If he asks at least you can blame it on the wine.
He locks his phone and sets it in his lap, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “No can do, these are for my eyes only.”
“Osc!”
A shake of the head and a smirk is all you get in response from him before the waitress comes over to the table. She’d been a little more friendly than necessary with Oscar all evening, while you’d been treated like dirt under her shoe
“Can I interest you in any dessert tonight?” She asks, looking directly at Oscar, not even bothering to shift her glance towards you. On the surface you're calm and collected, but deep down you want to kick the bitch in the shin. You’d been sitting here the whole evening and the only time she acknowledged you was when she came to the table the first time, after that she was laser focused on Oscar. The batting of the eyelashes, the giggling when all Oscar did was ask what she recommended, and the unnecessary reach across him to fill his wine glass you’d been able to just brush off, but the blatant rudeness of acting like you weren’t even sitting at the table with him about sent you over the edge.
Oscar looks at you from across the table, an eyebrow raised in question. He already knew what you wanted, but still gave you the option to choose.
“We’ll have the tiramisu.” You stick out the menu towards the waitress, tone more than shitty, but you didn’t care, she was being rude.
Her head swivels in your direction when she hears you speak and she almost looks stunned like she didn’t even know you could speak. She grabs the menus from you, but still has the nerve to hyper focus back on Oscar.
“Great. That’s my favorite– I’ll have that right out for you.”
A laugh escapes past your lips as she leaves, you just can’t help it, you’re dumbfounded at the lengths some people will go to try and get someone’s attention. You glance up at Oscar and see him staring back at you, a smirk splayed across his face.
“What?” You ask, suddenly defensive.
Oscar leans back in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest with that same shit eating grin on his face. “Oh nothing. I just think someone is a little jealous.”
“Jealous?!”
He nods, clearly amused at this whole situation. “Yes, don’t act like you haven’t been throwing the waitress daggers with your eyes all evening.”
You scoff as you mess with the edge of the linen table cloth, it was clearly more interesting than this conversation. “I have nothing to be jealous about Oscar so I don’t even know what you are talking about.”
Seconds later the waitress comes back with the dessert, making sure to set the plate directly in front of Oscar instead of in the middle of the table. ‘Let me know if you need anything else.”
Your grip on your spoon is so tight that it’s sure to leave an impression. How fucking rude could she be?
“We’ll just take the check.” Oscar states as he pushes the plate towards the middle of the table.
“Be right back!” She brushes her hand against Oscar’s shoulder as she leaves and you wish she’d never come back.
Oscar grabs his spoon and dives into the tiramisu with a smile never leaving his face. He can’t lie and say he wasn’t enjoying seeing you get so worked up over this. To see you so openly expressing your distaste for anyone to try and make a move on him. Even if you weren’t going to admit it– anyone with two working eyes could see it.
Your friendship while it was clearly back, it was still mending. Things had changed between the two of you and you both knew everything wasn’t going to be the same, but the gaps that existed in your friendship had allowed for another form of connection to flourish. The seedlings had always been there, buried deep from years of memories and the universe's divine intervention. The feelings had always peeked out at certain moments in your lives, but were never there long enough to alter your timelines. That is until now.
Oscar had somewhat always assumed that in the end you were going to be the one he’d eventually end up with. If not out of love, but perhaps out of convenience. Like if you were both thirty and still single then you’d get married kind of deal. You were always special to him– his person as he liked to say. And as horrible as it sounds, all the years he was with Lucy, he knew she wasn’t going to be the one he’d grow old and grey with.
So many people especially in the last year of their relationship had asked when he was going to pop the question and maybe he really should have broken it off way before it got to that point, but Lucy and him did make each other happy. And even though the two of you had no contact the whole time Lucy and him were together, there were parts of him that would always belong to you no matter what, and unfortunately Lucy just wasn’t you.
He’d thought about reaching out so many times, but it was never the right time. Racing was his whole life and it was the thing that took him away from you. So until he knew he’d be able to balance both you and racing he kept to himself. He knew you’d eventually come back to him, it was destined to happen. And when he saw you in that press conference in March he knew this was it. This was the universe putting the puzzle pieces together, but when he saw you there was something that came to light. That feeling he’d had many times before that he never could put a finger on, one that bloomed in his chest and traveled all the way throughout his body.
Love.
He was certain and there was absolutely nothing that could change his mind.
Oscar Piastri was in love with you.
He knew it would take you much longer than him to come to that realization, he’d put you through a lot, and he hated himself for it, but this time was different. He was here to stay and with time he knew you’d heal and the next chapter in the book of Y/N and Oscar could begin.
As the months passed he could see the little peaks of light breaking through, the little signs that you felt the same way as him, but he wasn’t going to press, when your heart was ready you’d let him know.
He just never thought the biggest crack would show over some waitress flirting with him.
To see someone angrily eat tiramisu is a sight to see, but Oscar thinks you still look breathtaking regardless of how hard you dig your spoon into it.
“I’m yours Y/N. Don’t worry.” His free hand reaches across the table to softly envelope yours, his fingers slightly toying with the red bracelet that still adorned your wrist. He sees how the blush on your cheeks deepens and how you seem to relax under his touch. Your actions only add fire to the fuel that is Oscar’s desire for you and he prays you come to your senses soon because he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold back how he truly feels.
The waitress comes back shortly after with the check and Oscar knows he’s got to put her in her place. He’d tried to be polite, but the blatant disrespect she had shown towards you was unacceptable in his book. Oscar hands her his card and when she goes to take it from him he holds onto it. She thinks he’s flirting and starts to laugh, but Oscar doesn’t find it funny one bit.
“I hope you don’t treat all of your customers like this– the amount of disrespect you’ve shown her.” Oscar points across the table at you. “The person I care very deeply about, it’s disgusting. You’ve dismissed her all evening and acted like she wasn’t even sitting at the table. She’s the most important person in my life and to see her get treated like that just does not fly with me. So if we could just get the receipt, we will be on our way.”
The waitress truly seems unaffected by Oscar’s reprimanding, you on the other hand are feeling more than flustered. To see him coming to your defense so publically has you hot all over. Oscar’s defended you before, especially when you were kids, but nothing to this extent. Nothing close to the language he had used just now. He was laying claim to you in multiple ways and you loved it.
Before you even work up the courage to look Oscar in the eye again the waitress is back with the receipt. “Have a lovely night.” Is all she says before moving along to one of her other tables.
Oscar scoffs as he tosses the receipt aimlessly onto the table. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, reaching for it to see what the reaction was for. The moment your eyes land on it you audibly laugh.
Call me 123-456-7890 ;)
“The fucking nerve.” You state as the two of you get up to leave. Oscar just leaves the receipt on the table before grabbing your hand in his to lead you out of the restaurant.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The walk back to the villa is slow and…. intimate?
Somehow you’ve got your arm wrapped around Oscar’s as you walk through the streets, the town is winding down for the night, but your mind is still going a hundred miles an hour. You can’t seem to get over that waitress. You don’t know why it bothered you so much. In fact, the majority of the time you enjoyed not being seen, you liked to blend in with the crowd, but the way she was acting towards Oscar, that is what really bothered you.
You realize that you actually may have been jealous.
When you were younger you really never had to share Oscar with anyone else– it was you two always. Sure your siblings were there, but that didn’t count. You both had other friends, but in all honesty you think everyone back then knew they had no chance in competing with what Oscar and you had. Everyone knew their place and it worked.
Then when Lucy came along Oscar wasn’t in your life at that point. You’d built up so many walls that any ill feelings you had were masked by your issues with Oscar leaving, not the fact that there was someone else in his life. You do guess there was that first Christmas he brought her home that you faked being sick, but you could also blame that on your Oscar issues at the time.
But now that you finally have him back, you’ve realized you don’t ever want to lose him again. You don’t like the idea of someone else being his person, of someone else possibly taking him away from you. The realization scares you, mainly because you’d been fighting how you really felt about Oscar since this past March.
You had wanted to kiss him so badly that night, but you didn’t, and you’re glad you didn’t because it was truly too soon, but you wished maybe you would have come to terms with everything a little sooner instead of pushing them down. Because now as you're walking the streets of Southern France on the arm of Oscar Piastri you’ve realized that you don’t want anyone else to be with him because you’re the one that wants to be with him.
You want Oscar all to yourself.
You wanted him on his worst days and his best days. You wanted to walk down any street with him and know that he’s yours and only yours.
You glance up at him, studying his side profile, his prominent jaw, the moles on his neck, his fluffy brown hair that’s tousled from the wind coming off water. He’s everything you’ve ever wanted. There is no one in this world that could compare to Oscar or the connection that you have with him. When you’re with him you feel at home– like he’s your missing puzzle piece.
Oscar can sense your eyes on him and when he glances down at you with his adoring big brown eyes. The same eyes that can bring you calm in the worst cases of chaos. Or the ones that sparkle like diamonds after a big win and you’re the first person he sees. The eyes that look at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars in the sky above.
The realization hits you like a freight train and you can feel the air escape your lungs. This feeling it’s been there all along, deep within your soul, interwoven in your DNA.
You’re in love with Oscar.
Your grip on his arm is a little tighter as you continue your walk, but your eyes never glance back up at him, afraid that if he looked at you again you’d confess your feelings right there in the middle of Saint-Tropez.
Oscar is oblivious to the mental turmoil you’re going through right now and he only finds comfort in the feeling of you pulling him closer. He wasn’t going to complain, any chance to be close to you Oscar was never going to pass up. So he smiles to himself as the two of you continue your stroll back to the villa, only hoping that soon enough you’d accept what the universe had placed in front of you. That you’d feel the same about him as he does you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
When Oscar decides to take a shower as soon as you get back to the villa you’re beyond grateful. As soon as the door clicks shut and you hear the water turn on you’re immediately running to your room and calling Sam.
“Hello?”
“Sam I am so fucked. Like fucked beyond belief.” Your whisper yelling, not wanting Oscar to hear, but wanting Sam to know it’s urgent.
“What’s wrong, are you in trouble? Do I need to come get you?”
You rub your forehead, you don’t even know if you can say this outloud. “No, no. It’s nothing like that.”
“Then what is going on?”
You decide to just rip the bandaid off. “I’m in love with Oscar.”
There’s silence on the line for a moment and you pull the phone away from your ear to make sure the line didn’t disconnect. Then you hear a laugh echo through the speaker.
“Yeah, no shit.”
“I just told you that I’m in love with Oscar and that’s all you can say? What the fuck Sam!”
You hear her sigh and that irritates you even more for a moment. “Y/N, you’ve always been in love with Oscar. It just took you twenty-four years to come to terms with it.”
“I haven’t always been in love with him.” You immediately protest.
“Yes you have. I know my big sister better than anyone. I mean you both have been in love with each other for as long as I can remember. Maybe when we were kids it wasn’t necessarily romantic love, but there’s always been something different about the two of you. How many times did you two get pretend married when we were little? Talk about predicting the future.”
“I said I had feelings for him, not that I was marrying him!”
“You actually said you were in love with him, not that you had feelings for him. That’s a big difference.”
“Sam! I’m spiraling right now and you are not helping me whatsoever!” You’re trying not to raise your voice, scared that Oscar would be able to hear you from the room over, but your little sister was being a pain in the ass right now.
“If I didn’t want to help you I wouldn’t have answered the phone at seven in the morning. Thank you very much.”
A grimace finds its way onto your face– you’d forgotten all about the time difference in your hectic frenzy to call her. “Sorry, I forgot about the time difference.”
You hear her sigh and then the sound of rustling, meaning she was probably getting up out of bed. “I know you’re freaking out, but Y/N this and I’m not even exaggerating when I saw this, your soulmate we are talking about. I mean fuck you’re literally on vacation with just him in the south of France– talk about romantic. Tell him how you feel, because I know he feels the same if not even more crazy about you. You deserve to be happy and as much as I wanted to kill Oscar all those years ago when he left, the progress the two of you have made to rekindle your connection in such a short amount of time, tells me that maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder. He looks at you like you're the center of his universe, put the poor guy out of his misery and tell him that you love him back. I know it’s scary to come to terms with all of this, especially after everything, but babe those feelings have been there the whole time. It’s always been Oscar and Y/N in this lifetime and everyone after that.”
Sam’s words weigh heavy on your mind as you pick at the frayed stitch on the duvet. “I guess I should tell you that we almost kissed back in March.”
“You guys almost kissed and you’re just now realizing you’ve got feelings for him?!”
“I don’t know! I thought back then it was because of just reuniting with him and emotions were heavy. We were caught up in the moment.” You pause briefly, that night replaying in your mind. “But thinking back to then, in his own way he did kind of admit to wanting to be with me, but we’d just met again a couple days before that and I just brushed it off as heightened emotions.”
Sam groans loudly. “I love you, but you’re literally the dumbest person I know right now. If you don’t go tell Oscar how you feel right now I’m gonna get on the earliest flight to you and force you two to admit your feelings.”
A sudden knock at your door causes you to jump, a small yelp escaping past your lips. “Sam I’ve got to go, I'll talk to you later!” You don’t even give her time to hang up, just ending the call and tossing your phone on the bed.
“Come in!” You holler with an unsteady voice and rapid heartbeat. God you pray Oscar hadn’t been eavesdropping the whole time.
The door slowly creaks open and Oscar peaks his head in. “Hey I was going to watch a movie, but the tv in my room isn’t working, and the couch in the living room was clearly not made for comfort. Do you want to watch one in here?”
Of course he’d want to watch a movie in your room, meaning it would be just the two of you, in your bed.
“Sure.” You barely croak out.
Oscar walks in and you have to hold back the groan that almost escapes past your lips. His hair is messy, not pushed back like normal and slightly down in his eyes. He’s got on a plain black t-shirt that’s so snug on his biceps you think it might bust and some grey sweatpants that are hanging dangerously low on his hips.
When he slides onto the bed next to you it’s like you’re frozen in place. His aftershave is drowning your senses and you know there is no way you can sit through a whole movie with him right next to you like this.
“What do you want to watch?” Oscar asks, grabbing the remote from the nightstand.
“I don’t care.” You lean back against the headboard, eyes straight ahead at the TV, not daring to look over at him.
Oscar eventually decides on some random Marvel movie and you’re too in your head to even know what’s going on, even though your eyes haven’t left the screen.
You haven’t dared to move an inch, you could feel the heat radiating off of him, hear his breathing. Hell if you tried hard enough you’d probably be able to hear his heart beat. Just the other day this wouldn’t have been a big deal, but things have clearly changed.
“Everything alright?” Oscar asks, his knee slightly bumping yours to get your attention.
“Just peachy. Why?” You reply, eyes still glued to the TV, body stiff as a board.
He furrows his eyebrows at you, he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye the whole time. You’d been acting like he was some stranger and he wondered if he’d done something wrong. He had you wrapped around his arm on the way home and now you were acting like he had the plague or something.
“You’re acting strange. You’re sitting here like a statue, like I’m some stranger. Did I do something wrong or?”
You shake your head, eyes still forward. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Osc.”
He’s not buying it one bit, he can see straight through your lies, you’ve never been a good liar. He reaches over– his hand settling on your thigh. The simple action makes every nerve in your body feel alive.
“Well something is wrong. You wouldn’t be acting like this if there wasn’t. Talk to me.”
He’s not going to drop it– you know Oscar too well. He’s going to sit here and bother you until you finally break down and talk to him, except this time your issue is him.
“It’s fine Oscar, I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now.”
The movie is paused before you know it and Oscar is scooching closer to you on the bed. If there was something going on he wanted to be here for you. “You know you’ll feel better if we talk about it.”
In any other situation he would be right, but this isn’t any other situation. You feel his fingers gently toying with the frayed strings of your bracelet and it makes your situation that much harder. Every little action of his is clouding your mind and you really need time to process everything without him right next to you, touching you, his warmth radiating around you.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath– trying to ground yourself. If you tell him how you feel this is going to change everything. You think that’s what scares you the most, the idea that maybe you’ve been reading everything wrong with Oscar and that he doesn’t feel the same way. That if you tell him that you’re in love with him he’s going to turn you down and you’re going to lose him again.
Or what if you guys do give it a shot and things don’t work out and you can’t even reconcile a friendship at the end? Everyone around you says you’re meant to be together, but only the universe can decide that, and leaving things up to fate makes your stomach churn.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” His voice is soft and you feel his fingers hook under your chin, forcing you to look at him.
The moment you lock eyes with his big brown ones you know you’re a goner. Any instinct you had to wait and think on how you actually feel has vanished. You can’t help it, he makes you feel comfortable, he’s like home to you. You know there is no going back from this, but like Sam has told you, you’ll never know if you don’t try.
“You.”
Oscar feels his heart rate speed up a little, was this a good or bad response? He’s almost too afraid to ask.
“Did I do something? Was it dinner? I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner. I should have requested a new waitress.” He’s panicking slightly, worried that he’d fucked things up.
You gently shake your head at him, he thinks he’s fucked everything up, but it’s you that’s about to drop a bomb. “It was dinner, and the walk back from dinner, that night after the race in Australia, the tulips you gave me, that party at Hannah Payne’s house. “You pause, reaching out and looping your finger around the excess string of Oscar’s bracelet. “These bracelets that have withstood time, and god Oscar the way you look at me like I’m the center of your universe, how you’ve made these last six months the best months of my life. That's all I can think about. You’re all I can think about.”
He thinks he knows what you're alluding to, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself, he wants to hear you say it. Wants to hear you vocalize how he’s felt for what seems like an eternity.
His hand slowly reaches up to cup your face, his thumb gently rubbing across the apple of your cheek. “Say it– please say it.” His voice is laced with desperation, desire, everything he’s ever wanted is in the palm of his hand, but he’s got to hear you say it.
You close your eyes, leaning into Oscar’s touch. Blindly you reach for his free hand, lacing your fingers with his, and it’s like your hand is made to fit perfectly with his. When you open your eyes and see him looking at you with nothing but pure adoration, like he’d worship the ground you walk on, you know what you’re about to do is right. This is what is meant to happen. Oscar is yours and this time you’re not going to let him get away.
“I’m in love with you Oscar.”
If Oscar hadn’t known any better he would have thought he died and gone to heaven. To hear you say those words to him was like music to his ears. To get the confirmation that what he felt was mutual, but also that his inkling that you felt the same was true was a feeling he’d never felt before.
“Say it again.” Oscar asks, high on the feeling in his chest.
You smile, laughing a little at how giddy he was. “I love you.”
If Oscar could overdose on hearing you say that he might have to go to rehab, but for right now he’s going to savor this moment. He looks at you, hair still tousled from the wind at dinner, rosy cheeks, and a glimmer in your eye that Oscar thinks could make even the sourest man swoon. You were breathtaking in every way and he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.
“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his voice filled with desire.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
In a split second Oscar’s lips are on yours and you waste no time in kissing him back. You two were clearly making up for lost time. It was passionate and loving, like you both were trying to convey how you’d felt over the years. His hands cupped your jaw, deepening the kiss. If there was one thing you knew to be true it was that kissing Oscar Piastri was like nothing you’d experienced before. It was nothing like that night in that cramped closet. This kiss was real and filled with unspoken words.
You pull away reluctantly, your forehead resting against his as you both try to catch your breath. “I love you.” Oscar breaths out, a giddy smile on his face.
There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he didn’t feel the same now, but to hear him actually say it to you had your heart feeling like it was about ready to burst out of your chest. “Well I’d like to hope so.” You joke, smiling back equally as big at him.
Oscar lays down on the bed, his arms open as an invite, which you gladly accept. It’s crazy how it seems like Oscar and you were made for each other, how you just fit into his side like a missing puzzle piece, but you do and nothing in the world feels better than being in his arms. You can hear his heartbeat beating against his chest. It’s strong and steady, grounding you, bringing you back down from this la-la land of love you’re in.
You glance up at him and find him already looking at you. “Promise me you aren’t going to leave me again. I can’t go through that again Oscar, especially not now.” Even after all of this the fear of him leaving is still a demon you have to deal with.
He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I promise. You’re stuck with me forever now.”
“Forever?”
Oscar reaches for your left hand, his fingers gently toying with your ring finger. “Forever.”
three years later
The Piastri household looks like a house straight out of a Christmas movie. Everyone has gathered for the yearly celebrations and after a delicious dinner and some gift giving the evening has started to wind down. Oscar and you are cuddled up on the couch, eating some of your Mum’s sugar cookies, penis shaped and all. You two have been waiting for everyone to gather in the living room for a game of pictionary, you’ve got something you’ve been wanting to announce, but Nicole is taking forever in the kitchen. After what seems like an eternity you see her walk in and you glance over at Oscar, who takes the hint to get everyone’s attention.
“Hey everyone!” The chatter stops and all eyes are focused on him. “So Y/N and I have been waiting until we were all together to tell you guys-” He looks back at you, his hand reaching out for you as you stand beside him. You’d taken the split second that all the attention was on Oscar to slip the ring that had been in your pocket all evening onto your ring finger. Both of your families are on the edge of their seats, the anticipation killing them. You look over at Oscar, who’s only smiling back at you with the biggest grin on his face.
You take a deep breath before quickly raising up your left hand and wiggling your ring finger towards everyone.
“Oh my god! You’re engaged?!” Sam yells, nearly breaking the sound barrier.
The room erupts into squeals and gasps, happy energy radiating all around.
“Well actually…” Oscar trails off.
“We’ve been married for a couple months.” You state, laughter lacing your words.
Even more gasps fill the room and Oscar and you just can’t help but laugh. It happened on a whim a couple months ago. There was a break in the racing schedule and Oscar and you took a trip to Lake Como. You know both of you knew you’d eventually get married, that was established pretty early on, but when you two have one of your late night deep conversations and the topic of why wait to get married got brought up, you both thought why are we waiting?
So the next day you got married in some little chapel and the rest was history. You had decided to keep it a little secret for a while, it was just something for Oscar and you to enjoy, but you knew you couldn’t hide it forever. So you both decided Christmas would be the best time to announce it.
Your Mum and sister are the first to come attack you with a hug, tears are streaming down your Mum’s face and all you can do is comfort her. “My baby, I can’t believe you’re married!”
“Don’t worry Mum, we’re going to have an actual wedding this summer.” You knew your family, well actually both of your families would want you guys to have an actual wedding. It was something Oscar and you had discussed beforehand. Deep down you wanted a wedding too, but you wanted to have that special moment that only Oscar and you shared also.
Sam hugs you tighter than you think is even humanly possible. “Told you you’ll never know until you try.”
“I know, thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
One by one everyone comes to congratulate you and you can feel the tears starting to well up from the pure joy you’re feeling. To have not just your family love you, but also Oscar’s is the biggest blessing you could ever ask for. Nicole is the last person to come see Oscar and you and you can tell by the look on her face that she’s holding back tears. “I hope you know I always knew Oscar and you were going to end up together. Call it Mother’s intuition, but there’s no one else I could imagine my Oscar with. You’ve always been like a daughter to me, but now I get to actually call you one.”
You look over at the man you love– your husband and you feel nothing but pure adoration. He’s everything you could have asked for and more. It took some time and rough patches to get where you are, but you wouldn’t change it for the world. This is how your life is supposed to be and if you tried to change it, you don’t think you’d be standing here next to him right now, with this rock on your finger. Oscar has always been your person and now he always will be.
And you realize that Oscar Piastri was never just a chapter in your life– he’s the whole book.
Berlin!Harry x Girlfriend!Reader x German Sex Worker!Conner Storrie
Summary: "It had started as a tease, something small and suggestive to pull his attention away from the notebook in front of him, but knowing you, one touch had turned into two, which turned into you grinding against your hand, until you needed more."
A/N: This is a check-in for the Pleasing Yourself couple, a story I wrote when the pleasing vibrator came out. Read HERE <- if you're curious where they started!! This is also kind of request. Sorry it took so long. Hope you love it ANON!!!
Also, shout-out to @zclhes for graciously walking me through a quick lesson in German. Your patience is beautiful!! And to the anon who also helped you rock!!
Word Count: 11.2k 🤭
Warning: SMUT HEAVY w/some plot!!!
Threesome-> in order of how it plays out in the story:
—>MxF—>MxFxM—>MxM(blowjob)
So really, the whole conversation started while Harry was working your slick, sticky fingers in and out of his mouth. You had just been buried knuckle-deep inside yourself, and already his tongue was pressing into your wet fingers. Hell, your legs had barely closed before he was claiming what he wanted.
It had started as a tease, something small and suggestive to pull his attention away from the notebook in front of him, but knowing you, one touch had turned into two, which turned into you grinding against your hand, until you needed more. Then your fingers were inside, gliding slick against the spots that made your toes curl. Before long, you were coming, calling out his name on a breathless moan, and when you opened your eyes, his jaw was slack, eyes watching you.
Of course, you weren't new to this. You had put on plenty of shows for him, had learned your angles, knew which ones would make his eyes go dark and his pen drop. This was far from your first time of pleasing yourself—always ready to fall apart for him, no matter what form or shape that came in—and sitting on the edge of the bed now, watching the way he worked his mouth around your fingers, trying to taste every last second of it, you knew it would definitely not be your last.
You guys had been in Berlin for the past few months, diligently searching for inspo for Harry’s new album. With each passing day, Harry sank deeper into the workflow, but this time, things were different. Harry wanted to put himself in the clutches of life’s hands, letting every experience unfold as authentically as possible for someone like him. He wanted to feel everything he laid down on every track. He wanted to live each moment until they felt true to who he was, to what he wanted to bring to the table after all this time away—
“Mmm… babe. The way you’re working your tongue against my fingers is turning me on all over again,” you told him, looking down at him on his knees, feeling the vibration of his pleased hum vibrate to the bones of your fingers.
He rolled his tongue over your fingers again, massaging the smooth underside, then dragged it back up the length of your fingers. You closed your eyes, focusing on the bumpy texture of his velvety tongue as it worked you in and out of his mouth. “Do you think you could take them deeper? Yeah—just like that… so good with that tongue—the way you’re taking me.”
His hand was on your wrist, in complete control of every movement, pushing your fingers deeper and deeper. He had been warming up, nearly taking you all the way back. “Fuck—baby. I bet you would be good at giving head. I can imagine it now—a nice, yummy cock in that perfect mouth of yours—” His gaze widened, smiling with his eyes before it reached his mouth as he gasped with a laugh, gagging slightly when the tips of your fingers snagged the back of his throat.
He pulled your fingers from his mouth with a smirk, “What, really? Does that turn you on?” He laughed again, his lips glistening in the dim glow of the bedside lamp as he brought his thumb up to wipe away the spit gathering there. “You think I’d be good at it because I’m sucking your fingers? I’m just trying to get every drop of you I can. Can’t let anything go to waste.”
“Well—yes, and that for sure is turning me on. I’m standing by my statement, though. I’ve given plenty of blowjobs to have a say.” You answered with a playful laugh, and he silently nodded in agreement, brows lifting like he was recalling every single one. “I mean—I’ve definitely practiced with my fingers before—you know, those curious pre-blowjob days—”
“Yeah—But with your fingers?” he asked. “I pictured girls using, like, bananas or something—”
You sat up then, loving where this conversation was heading. “Well, yes—bananas, cucumbers—”
“So—anything shaped like a dick, I’m guessing…” he finished for you, interrupting your list, which you were more than happy to come clean about, because that was definitely a little object-fetish phase, but now you could chalk it up to curiosity. But in all honesty, that craving had never gone away—it’s just that now your objects were a little more sophisticated and costly, compared to the clean end of your brush handle in the desperate, inconspicuous exploratory days of your youth.
He cleared his throat, sitting back on his heels. “I would do it,” he said simply, hands resting on the tops of his bare thighs. “Maybe we can make a night of it. We don’t really have any plans this weekend… How serious are you feeling about this?
“Babe—what kind of question is that? When am I not serious about having a little fun?”
He smiled, then came up to his knees again, planting a hand on either side of your thighs, waiting for your answer. “I’m serious, but are you serious?” You added.
You parted your legs, making more room for him, wanting him closer. “Oh, I’m completely serious, my love.” And you could tell by the way his eyes dropped from your face to your bare pussy, still wet and glistening before him, that he would have given you anything you asked for. “Give me some time, and I’ll have everything planned out for us.” His voice was low and certain, serious in the way you knew he would keep his word. “Want to do this right.”
Then he was moving, pushing you back onto the bed with one hand while shoving his running shorts down with the other. His cock was already hard and hungry for you. Then he was fucking you deep, his thick dick effortlessly sliding past your slick entrance, moving until each stroke was unrelenting, until your voice was breaking into a desperate, slur of nonsense as your nails raked down his back and he was wringing every last coherent thought from your fucking brain.
That had been Monday. Now it was Saturday night, and true to his word, Harry had you in a private car, pussy throbbing while your mind was running wild with everything he might have planned. You knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t half-ass it—the setting, the privacy—you knew every last detail would be accounted for. Still, he hadn’t told you a thing beyond the words, “you’re going to get what you want, just wait, love.” The car slowed to a stop in a dark alleyway somewhere on the outskirts of Berlin, and when you looked over at him, the corner of his mouth was already pulling into a grin.
“Listen, love, before we go in there, I want you to know that whatever you want—it’s yours, okay…” he started, and god, you loved this part. This was the thing that made you so willing to lay every filthy, curious thought at his feet—because he got it. He understood you.
Because in the chaos of it all, your trust in each other was unwavering. These little check-ins had always been a sense of foreplay, his consensual words working you up before he even laid a single hand on you. Your pussy was already clenching just listening to him talk, slow and sure like he had all the time in the world. You already knew everything he was going to say. You had heard it before. But you weren’t about to cut him off. You needed to hear it. Needed the warmth of it settling over you like honey before he was tearing you apart.
“You know we can stop at any time, and if you just want it to be us, that’s fine too. I’m feeling open to anything right now. That’s where my mind is at, and if that changes, I promise I’ll let you know. Just know there’s no shame or guilt in whatever you want to explore tonight, yeah?”
Excitement was coursing through you, your heart hammering so loud you could feel it in your throat. You were feeling everything all at once—the nerves, the anticipation, the want—but mostly when you got like this, you just wanted to come. “I’m open to pretty much everything,” you started, “except I don’t want anyone else’s dick inside me. Just you. I know we talked about DP a few times, but I don’t think I’m feeling that tonight—what we talked about the other day is more than enough. I’m already so horny, babe.”
“Good—whatever you want.” His hand slid to your thigh as he said it, digging into your plush flesh and squeezing. When he leaned in and kissed you, it was slow, lingering just long enough to make your breath catch as your body canted toward him.
Then he pulled back just barely, his forehead tipping toward yours. “And if you change your mind about anything, just say the words. I’m game for all of it.”
His thumb was drawing small circles against your skin, already making you spread your legs, knowing he could easily reach his hand under the short hem of your dress. That’s when he leaned back enough to look at you, something dark and wanting sitting behind his eyes. “By the way—” he said, pressing another kiss to your lips, “you really know how to feed a man’s ego.”
A breathy laugh ghosted over his lips as you returned the kiss, your hand sliding down his stomach before he could think to stop you, fingers curling at the button of his jeans. “Baby,” you whined against his mouth, “it’s more for me than for you, trust me. I’m selfish with that cock. It’s mine. I’m greedy—” Before you could work the button loose, his hand closed over yours gently, drawing it up to his mouth with a low throaty groan, and pressed your knuckles to his lips instead.
“Not yet,” he said quietly, and the way he said it, patient, like he was already on the edge, was making it worse.
You watched his pupils widen as his lips pushed into your skin, feeling his hot breath as he exhaled slowly. “Side note—real fast,” you said, trying not to fumble over your words. Because when he looked at you like that, it made you fucking stupid.
As he pulled back to reach for the door handle, he let go of your hand, and you shifted toward him, your conversation not missing a beat even though you knew it was time. “So if we ever do DP—like we’ll do DP for sure—But let’s just use the toy you made me. It’s the perfect replica. That seems completely kosher—don’t you think?”
“Such a greedy girl,” he taunted in a low voice as he slid out first and turned back to offer you his hand. The driver was already holding the door open, eyes politely fixed ahead, and Harry’s hand found your waist as you stepped out, steadying you—or that’s how he wanted it to look.
A breeze caught the hem of your dress the moment your feet hit the pavement, and his free hand moved fast, smoothing the fabric back down with an intuitive ease. Except his palm didn’t quite leave after. It lingered, curved just enough to cup your ass, his hand warm, squeezing hard, and then it was gone before anyone could notice. He tucked you against his side and leaned down close to your ear. “Good thing I packed it before Berlin. I love when one of me isn’t enough—more for the both of us that way.”
As you drew back to look him in the eye, he said, “You know how I get when I’m greedy,” only loud enough for you to hear. Just as you were about to speak, the back door swung open, casting a golden light across the ground near your feet. “Still okay?” Harry asked, grabbing your hand as the driver shut the door behind you.
“Yeah—more than okay. I’m so ready,” you told him, and you meant every word, even though you didn’t know what you were walking into. Because Harry had that look—the one that told you everything and nothing at all—and your stomach flipped as the thrill of it shot up your spine.
Before you stepped through the door, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a matte-black card with no markings, and handed it to the man waiting without a word. Then you guys stepped through the ominous door, and as soon as it shut, the silent man closed it behind you without another pause.
The hallway was dim and quiet, still not giving anything away. Silent, Harry’s hand settled at the small of your back as you both watched the man turn a key in a heavy metal door, locking you both in. At the end of the corridor was another door; you didn’t know what was waiting on the other side. But you didn’t ask. You just went with him.
After a series of doors and hallways, and one elevator ride to the top of whatever building you were in, the doors opened to a bright white corridor, and you had to squint against the harsh light reflecting off the clinical wash of the walls.
Right before you stepped out, Harry caught your eye and leaned in close. “I’ve already checked everything out,” he rasped. “This is a legitimate business.” Which, in that moment, was either really reassuring or the least reassuring thing he could have said, depending on how you looked at it. But you stepped out anyway, falling back into step behind the man who still hadn’t spoken a single word since he collected you downstairs.
Every door you passed looked the same, except for the simple number hand-painted on each one. When he stopped in front of door ‘605,’ you squeezed Harry’s hand, your thighs clenching as adrenaline surged through you, knowing this was it. The man flashed the matte black card above the handle, and you grabbed onto Harry’s arm, pressing your nose into his bicep and breathing in his scent to calm the nerves fluttering in your belly as the door sounded with a loud beep.
“Baby…” you breathed, tugging gently at his arm, and his ear moved to your mouth. “I don’t think I’m going to last long…” You told him as the man reached for the door handle and turned. Your eyes flicked from Harry’s to the door, watching it click open with a creak.
Harry smiled down at you, “Good, babe, because you won’t have to—promise,” he reassured you, turning away.
“Thank you,” Harry told the man, already moving toward the door. The man nodded once, then stepped away, and you held onto Harry’s arm tighter as he led you into the dim room.
“Go find the bed. I’ll take care of this part,” Harry forced into your ear as he pulled you past him, grabbing your ass as he pushed you further into the room.
It was definitely a suite, a luxury hotel room with all the bells and whistles, but you didn’t linger on the details. You went straight through the French doors into a bedroom and started taking off your clothes. You knew you weren’t going to be shy about this. You had been thinking about this moment since it left your mouth, and now that he was delivering, you weren’t going to waste any time.
Your dress was over your head before you were even through the doors, your bra unhooked and gone seconds later. You were already wet—had been since the car, if you were being honest. By the time your panties hit the floor, you could feel how slick your inner thighs were, your clit throbbing with a dull, insistent ache that had been building all night, and your body was officially running out of patience.
You kicked your underwear aside and climbed onto the bed, single-mindedly moving to relieve the growing tension. “Wow, love, not wasting a moment, are we?” Harry said from somewhere behind you, amusement lacing through his tone, sending a fresh pulse straight between your legs. You smiled and kept going, because you knew he could catch up.
“Are you wet for me already, love? Think I could get a little dip between those thighs before you put me to work?”
As you turned and sank back against the pillows, Harry was already out of his shirt, moving with the same momentum as you had. You watched his abs shift and flex as he unbuttoned his pants, then hooked his thumbs into the waist of both his jeans and boxers and brought them down together, making your mouth go dry.
He was already hard as his cock sprang free, and he took himself in hand, dragging his grip slowly from base to tip, licking his lips as his eyes moved over you. That was all you needed. Then your hand was sliding down your body, to your pussy, and you spread your legs wider, granting him a better view.
He smiled, eyes fixed on your hand as you smoothed your fingers along your slick slit. But you were watching too, eyes trained on his hand as he kicked his jeans toward the pile you created, then started for the bed. “Fuck—baby—you’re so fucking hot when you’re needy for me like this,” you said as your gaze followed his to your fingers. You were moving slow circles on your clit, getting yourself ready for him, and you smoothed your wetness through your folds, more than ready for his cock to fill your greedy pussy up.
“Who’s the needy one here?” He paused on the bed, dick swinging as he came up to his knees, grabbed hold of his hard cock, and stroked down the length slower this time. “I could see your pussy glistening from over there, love. I think you might be the needy one.”
“Harry, shut up—right now, all I need is for you to shove that big cock inside me before I make myself come without you,” you demanded, reaching for his arm. He followed with a laugh, as both of you crashed back into the pillows when he lost his balance.
He pushed himself up on one arm, moving in to press a sweet kiss to your lips. With his other hand, he grabbed hold of his dick, while you adjusted under him. This was another thing you liked most about your relationship—that you were always this horny for each other. As he lined his cock up with your entrance, you spread your legs enough to give him room. When you felt his head graze your threshold, you looked up with a gasp, the two of you smiling from ear to ear.
Without warning, he was pushing in, forcing a loud whimper past your lips as he stretched you open. In seconds, he was burying himself to the fucking hilt with one solid thrust, his thick cock pulsing when he paused, letting you adjust. “Oh my god—Harry—fuck— that’s already so good.”
“God—so good,” he parroted, his mouth falling to your neck. “I’m so turned on right now. I might need a second—think I could come just like this.”
As you shifted your hips, adjusting your angle, he groaned against your skin, his lips peppering kisses up your neck. “Maybe—” you breathed through a nerve of ecstasy, “we just get the first round over—” you suggested, tilting your hips with a slow rock as the quick burn of his first thrust ebbed into the sweet delight of that familiar pleasure you had known for years.
“Wait—baby.” Harry forced with a groan, breath catching, “Maybe we shouldn’t jump the gun. Maybe we should just bring him in. It might make for a better orgasm.”
Without stilling your movements to tease, you asked, “Do you think so?”
“Yeah—” he said with a small thrust, and you both moaned with a laugh. When you nodded your head, he nodded back and pulled out with a wet gush, and you cupped a hand over your mouth, stifling any further sound.
Harry’s forehead dropped to yours, letting out a hard breath as his mouth moved to your temple, pressing a kiss to your dampening hair. “Fuck—I just almost came—that was close. Should I call for him?” he questioned, pulling back to see your face.
When you smiled up at him, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, and nodded, that was answer enough. He climbed off you and reached for the phone on the bedside table. For a long moment, it was silent. Then Harry said, “This is room 605. We’re ready for him,” and then he hung up. The whole call was ominous yet thrilling, making your pussy ache to be filled again.
To kill time, you both made out, your bodies pressing together as the tension built, both of you buzzing with the same anticipation. It was sexy, the sexiest thing you guys had done in a long time. It’s not like you guys did this a lot or even wanted to. But on this trip, you had been giving in to the curiosity more, an “anything goes” kind of energy.
When you first got to Berlin, you had brought a girl back to the hotel one night, both of you rolling your asses off on x. It had been more your idea than his. It kind of threw you when Harry decided to watch more than “touch,” which turned out to be its own kind of thing entirely. There was no ownership placed in those moments—you had been entirely free to explore. At times, there were even moments when you found yourself completely lost, in your own world somewhere, without a single tether.
Then you would find his eyes, and there was something about the way he looked at you when you were falling apart under someone else’s hands that you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since, as if you were the greatest gift brought to this fucking earth. That’s what you wanted to give him in return—to be completely and utterly the man he wanted to be at his core, with or without you.
These were the thoughts running through your mind when two knocks sounded from the other room. You both paused with a gasping laugh, caught up in something Harry had said between your last kiss. “I’ll be right back,” he said, already climbing for the edge of the bed. On the bathroom door, there were two silk robes, and when you saw Harry moving toward them, you followed.
“You’re going to freak when you see how hot this guy is…” he told you, handing you one, then shimmying into the other and tying it loosely around his waist, just tight enough to hold, the fabric slightly tenting where his cock was still semi-hard.
Feeling antsy, you suddenly slid into the sleek material as quickly as Harry, then sat at the edge of the bed with your hands folded in your lap, taking in the gorgeous details of the room for the first time. It wasn’t until you heard the door open and the low timber of Harry’s voice carry that you actually felt yourself getting genuinely nervous, or maybe it was because you had to pee. “My love—” Harry called out.
As he came into view, the man was still a shadowy figure behind him, and Harry said, “This is Conner.” Then you saw him, eyes going wide at the sight of him, “Conner, this is my lovely partner in crime…” Harry continued, and you silently lifted your hand and waved, suddenly tongue-tied.
Harry laughed as he walked over to the bed and grabbed your hand. “See, I told you. You have that look on your face. He’s hot, right?”
For a second, you didn’t know what to make of any of it, but when Conner’s mouth tilted, eyes roaming down your body, all you could say was, “Definitely,” your own eyes surveying him from top to bottom. He looked like a movie star. Someone you pictured on a screen somewhere, not in a brothel somewhere in Berlin, if that’s what this was. Harry had outdone himself, and you laughed as you went in to shake his hand.
“I didn’t picture you picking someone so pretty,” you added, your words intended for Harry, but your eyes were still fixed on Connor.
Connor flashed you a full smile, seeming just as taken with you both, his eyes not afraid to wander from you to Harry. The chemistry was already building when you saw how excited Harry was. He seemed loose, with not an ounce of nervousness, and as Connor gently dropped your hand, Harry moved behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You tilted your head to give him access to your neck, but didn’t let him linger for long. When you moved away, you left the two of them facing each other. Then you said, “I’m going to freshen up in the bathroom, and maybe you guys can set whatever mood you want or whatever. Just pretend I’m not here.”
Harry sent you a soft smile, nodding, the two of them moving closer, and you turned away, heading for the bathroom. You had barely made it to the door when fingers wrapped around your wrist, gently tugging to get your attention.
“Hey.” Harry whispered, mouth moving to your ear, “You still okay?”
You smiled, glancing back at him. “Yeah,” you assured him, meaning it. “I’m good. I’ll be back soon.”
He held your gaze for a brief second, searching your eyes to see if there was any doubt, then let go, pressing a kiss to your temple, breathing the words, “I love you” into your hairline.
The bathroom was smaller than you had pictured, but the tub was decent. You used the toilet, washed your hands twice, then stared at yourself in the mirror, searching for any hint of a question, though you knew you felt none. After a while, music was bleeding through the door—an easy tempo that could fit any rhythm of movement. As you pressed your ear to the door, the sharp pop of a champagne cork sounded, making you flinch.
You were stalling, wasting time trying to make out voices, but you couldn’t get much. Just the low hum of the song and the occasional shuffle of movement. Before long, you were counting the tiles on the floor, walking back and forth in front of the mirror, wishing you had brought some Chapstick or anything at all. When the music cut out, and the room went quiet, you figured that was probably your cue.
Timidly, you eased the door open and slipped back in. Conner was stretched out on the bed in his robe, looking completely unbothered, like this was nothing to him. Harry was over by the speaker, scrolling through his phone, swapping the song out for something else without so much as looking up. Neither of them made a thing of you walking back in, which somehow made it easier.
As you drifted closer to the bed, Conner swung his legs over the side, reaching for the bottle sweating in the ice bucket on the nightstand, and poured you a glass without being asked. When he handed it to you, his face was calm, stoic, all sharp angles like it should have been plastered on the cover of a magazine, and you giggled out a silly little, “Thank you,” then shook your head, feeling like an idiot. Your eyes darted to Harry, who was crawling onto the bed with his glass of champagne, totally chill, his arm bending behind his head as he relaxed into the pillow behind him.
By the time you guys were halfway through the third bottle, you had stopped yourself. The mood was shifting entirely, you could tell—everyone was loosening up, all smiles as the alcohol crept in. Harry and Conner had been making easy conversation from the start. At some point, you learned that Conner had been briefed, which made everything else that much easier, and as the conversation flowed, so did the sexy tension growing between all of you—
“Tell me—why Leon?” Conner asked, his thick accent only making him that much cuter. Harry looked to you, smiling big and easy, his bubbles kicking in, and you felt it too.
“I told him the safe word,” he told you, and you laughed, downing the rest of your drink you had been milking since the second bottle, then stood to set it on the nightstand.
Your eyes swept to Conner, whose gaze had moved to your bare shoulder, where the sleeve of your silk robe had slipped as you climbed back onto the bed. “Leon is a ‘70s porn star. Known for his big dick—” you started.
“One of the first pornos we ever watched together. We kind of went through a phase when we first started dating,” Harry added.
You watched Conner take Harry in, his gaze moving from his eyes to his lips, then down his body, landing on the champagne glass in his hand. “What made him special besides his big dick?” Then Conner’s eyes flitted back to Harry’s.
“The way he used it,” Harry told him, licking his lips, “The way he would fuck his costars so hard that they would scream his name, but sometimes when he was fucking them really good—and you could tell they were into it—when they yelled his name, it felt more like they were screaming ‘Mercy’ —not Leon even though his name kept falling from their mouth—”
“Granted, it was ‘70s porn, and everything always seemed over-dramatized, but you could tell they were all into it,” you told him, adding your own bit.
Conner’s eyes drifted from Harry’s mouth to your face. “And you have used it?” he asked, his accent thick, as he surveyed your body stretched across the foot of the bed.
“Yeah—a couple of times…” You answered with a wide grin, eyes moving to Harry, who was biting his lower lip—Conner’s curiosity was making you shy, but the look on Harry’s face was making you giddy.
The bed shifted, and Conner reached over to the sash of Harry’s robe and pulled it slowly until it opened enough to expose the butterfly tattoo at the center of his chest. You watched Harry’s dick jump slightly, and you swallowed hard at the sight of them, your clit pulsing with the thrill rising up your spine.
It was smooth, Conner’s nonchalance only adding to the effect of his casual pass, “I can watch?” he asked like a statement, an interrogative inversion error,but you knew exactly what he meant. You watched him drag a finger down Harry’s chest, parting the rest of his robe open. Harry was getting aroused, and as you watched his cock stir, inching taller, the silky fabric slipped down his sides, fully exposing him, bringing you to your knees slowly.
Harry’s legs were outstretched before him, his cock bouncing to life as Conner’s finger rested right in the middle of the trailing hair leading to his dick. He leaned in and kissed Harry then, catching him off guard slightly. But Harry was quick to lean into the kiss, the sight of them both making your heart pick up as saliva pulled in your mouth, throat suddenly dry as if you hadn’t had water for days as you watched Conner’s hand move to Harry’s face.
You undid your robe, then crawled forward toward Harry’s hard dick that was standing hard against his lower belly. Their kiss had picked up, and as you got closer, Conner’s hand dropped back down, halting you in place as it wrapped around Harry’s girth. Harry gasped, and you fell back on your heels, closer now, front row at a show you never thought you would witness. It was fucking hot, the way Conner’s hand grazed down the length of Harry’s cock with a taunting pace that had even you begging for more.
Your eyes moved to their mouth just in time to see Harry catch the swell of Conner’s bottom lip in his teeth. A groan drifted up from Conner’s throat, and you ran a finger over your lips, imagining the humming vibration Harry must have felt. As the pace of his hand picked up, you watched more intently, fingers teasing the tips of your hard nipples as you tried to restrain yourself from jutting forward to lick the bead of precum pulling at the tip of Harry’s cock. But then Conner’s hand swiped over the salty morsel, drawing a moan from Harry’s mouth, and you knew you needed to join in.
In a few short motions, your hands were on the tops of Harry’s thighs, stealing his focus as he broke the kiss. Their eyes were on you in seconds, Conner’s hand pausing in place. Harry reached for your arm, pulling enough to motion you forward, and you began to climb into his lap. As you moved up his body, Conner’s hand slipped away, and you nestled your slick pussy against the heated length of Harry’s hard cock, drawing a sharp breath as the weight of you settled against him.
You grabbed his face, catching his breath with your mouth as he exhaled. Your mouth crashed against his, his lips wet from Conner’s mouth, the taste washing over your tongue as soon as you trailed it across his swollen lips. You were already so turned on, hips dragging forward, your pulsing clit snagging on the meat of his rock-hard dick. You both moaned, the sound drifting up between you, as the heat of your breath warmed over your faces.
Again, your hips were moving, finding a rhythm that would have his dick soaked for you in no time, but you couldn’t be patient. You lifted, pressing your mouth hard to his as your hand reached between you and guided the head of his cock to your slick entrance, and pushed him in. This time, your moans were louder, echoing in the room around you. Slowly, you eased down his length, pulling back enough to see the plea in his eyes as you took your time.
When you hit the hilt, he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, and they sank into his bottom lip. This was dangerous, this look, the look he always gave when he was about to ruin you. As a grin spread across his beautiful face, without warning, his hands were reaching forward, grabbing hold of your hips hard and jerking you forward on his cock—the motion was sharp and mean, but sexy and just what you needed.
A harsh whimper left your mouth, and he did it again, abs flexing as he leaned up to suck the bud of your nipple into his mouth. “Fuck—” you bit out, trying to match his rhythm.
As you began to ride him, Harry fell back on the bed, letting you set your own pace. That’s when his eyes flicked to Conner’s, who was watching the glide of your hips on Harry’s cock. “Du stehst auf Große.…” Conner spoke with his German tongue, licking his lips, then his eyes flicked to you. “The size…” He continued.
“You like big things.”
“Yeah—my sexy Size Queen…” Harry added with a crooked grin, making you laugh. “…That’s what they’re saying these days.”
You shook your head, slowing as a surge of pleasure whipped down your spine. “Okay—old man…” You laughed out, “I would say—more like practiced… when I want something I take it…” And fuck, you barely got that last line out before you felt the crest of an orgasm begin to coil deep in your belly.
When you stopped, trying to take control of the wave threatening to hit, Harry said, “Take what you want then… I can feel you gripping me. Are you already close? Can feel you, love.”
You nodded, sucking in a sharp breath and holding it. He had that look in his eyes, that knowing look, like he knew that he could steal it if he wanted to, could rut his hips, and shove his juicy cock inside you deeper and take it. That would be all it took, and you would be falling forward, body shuddering while the walls of your pussy quivered with the orgasm that was so fucking close you were gritting your teeth.
For a long burning breath, you held his gaze, his smile growing wider by the second. He had you in a holding war, and you weren’t about to let him win. Just as your pussy began to grip tighter, a desperate wave inched up the base of your spine, and you popped off his dick with a wet, wicked pop of victory, stealing the breath from his lungs. As he gasped out, he reached for you, trying to pull you back onto him, but you were already too far from his grasp.
Conner laughed, and you pushed Harry back, reaching for the tie of Conner’s robe. The thick cotton was tenting, his dick trying to press through, turned on by what he was seeing. He helped, easing out of it before you could even ask. His body was hard, muscles thick and sculpted in a way that was entirely different from Harry’s. If you thought he was pretty before, fuck, he was fucking gorgeous now. The contrast of his milky skin and the dark moles that littered his body was breathtaking. He looked like a sculpture, like a fucking calvin cline model, every hard line cutting into his body, enticing not even you, but Harry, whose eyes were feasting just as heartily as you.
Harry was propped up on his elbows now, his breathing slowing after your shared burst of pleasure. “I want to watch you guys kiss,” Harry said with a smile, tilting his chin from you to Conner.
You drew in a silent breath, nodded, then started moving toward him. Conner followed the order, rising to his knees to meet you. “Is this good for you?” he asked as your bodies moved closer. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, feel the pulse of your curiosity throbbing between your thighs.
“Yeah…” you whispered, staring up into the misty sage green of his eyes. “This is good…”
At first, you were hesitant, your mouth moving timidly against his. It had been a long time since you kissed another man. It was different from the softness of a woman’s touch, the last lips you had kissed other than Harry’s. The energy was distinct in your mind. Where Harry was fluid, Conner felt solid and anchored in his masculine energy. It wasn’t good or bad, just different, a rhythm that hummed at the surface, one you were quickly catching up to.
When he groaned softly against your lips, he exhaled a slow, agitated breath into your mouth, like he was fighting back the urge to pick up the pace. Your hands were on his face, controlling the kiss. As you tilted into the kiss, your belly pressing against his, his teeth nipped your bottom lip, making you smile as he pressed forward slightly, your nipples peaking and grazing his body. The tips of his fingers were barely pressed to your skin; he was being polite, and now you wanted more.
Your hand moved to his wrist, guiding it to the curve of your hip, and when you pressed a knee closer, the dip in the mattress pushed him flush to your body. His dick was pressing into your lower belly, and you slung an arm around his shoulders to catch yourself from falling as you lost your balance. But he didn’t miss a step, and instead of breaking the kiss, both his hands grasped your ass and held you up, drawing you closer. The kiss was good, growing better by the second now that you two were finding your rhythm, his mouth becoming more and more familiar.
In the background, you felt Harry stirring, and felt the bed indenting behind you. Conner’s grip tightened on your ass, keeping you secure while Harry settled behind you. You reached for Conner’s jaw, cupping it as you deepened the kiss, and then Harry’s hands joined, grazing the sides of your ribs before hugging your waist. You realized what was happening just before it did—Harry wanted the three of you together, not in sequence but in a current, all hands and mouths in tandem, overlapping as you moved.
A hand—Harry’s—skimmed over your spine, pushing your body closer, your lips parting, giving Conner’s tongue the opportunity to press into your mouth, his hunger finally getting the best of him. You moaned, the sound stifled by his lips, and closed your eyes, feeling one of his hands move and slip beneath the spill of your hair, tilting your head back as the possession of both men took you. You were trying to imagine this from the outside, as a spectator, watching Harry give in wholeheartedly to something he had never really considered, but inside the vortex, the feeling was nothing short of narcotic as the slow of alcohol swept through you.
You reached behind you, blindly searching for Harry’s cock, and when you started stroking him, he gasped into your neck, biting and sucking the flesh of your skin between his teeth before licking. Conner’s mouth had moved, his tongue out and dragging across your collar bone as his hand slid down your body, pinching at your nipple, then drifted to your lower belly, whispering, “You’re wet—want to feel…”
Harry let out a breathy laugh against your cheek, your head resting in the crook of his shoulder. Your hand was still working his cock, his dick hard and pressing, smearing his wet precum across your ass cheek. You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut, body already trembling with the energy spilling into you. Their hands and mouths were ravenous, groping and biting, each new touch a shock of thrill thickening the pulse of your needy clit.
When you hadn’t answered right away, Conner’s hand had moved back up your body. Now his large palm was skimming broad and warm over your skin, gliding slowly down your side, grazing the convex of your hip where Harry’s fingers splayed, and then lower, settling in the pliant dip between your hip and thigh. The hush of his knuckles tracing your skin was setting your body on fire, thumb circling the sensitive inside like he was teasing each trembling muscle. His fingers feathered the crease, hovering, then taunted you further, giving you that patient anticipation that made the pit of your stomach feel bottomless.
But he didn’t just touch, he was mapping his route. His whole hand cupped you, pressed the heel against the bone as his index finger, long and sure, rested for one moment at the top of your slit, feeling the heat rise before dipping at a slow agonizing pace, parting your pussy lips. Your eyes opened as a high whimper filled your chest. Above you, Conner grinned, gaze flicking up to Harry’s, and then Harry kissed him hard, mouths open, their hunger evident in the way their tongues moved slick and wet above your head.
In the haze between them, Conner’s finger circled and pressed, his pace the perfect tempo to keep you gasping. At some point, your hand had moved away from Harry’s cock to Conner’s, soliciting a new wave of sounds filling the space. You were so turned on, your head spinning, all of your mouths everywhere. It was all a motion-blur of noise and breath—your eyes closing and opening to a new scene taking shape every time your vision sharpened into focus.
When Conner’s thick fingers slid past your entrance, you bucked your hips into the touch, voice cutting through the air. Harry’s mouth found Conner’s again, licking into him with no pause, then grabbed a fistful of his blonde hair and pulled him closer. Below, Conner was slowly working you open, gently at first, then with more pressure, pressing his fingers into you with more promise. Your grip tightened on his dick, the other blindly grasping for anything, but found Harry’s wrist, already feeling the ripple of your orgasm building right at the surface.
“God—fuck—wait—” you gasped, half-laughing on a dizzying wave of pleasure. As everyone stilled, you sucked in a sharp breath, dropping Conner’s cock to pull his hand away from your pussy. “I’m not ready to come yet… Let me watch you guys for a little bit,” you offered, sliding from the narrow space between their hard bodies and settling onto the pillows.
Harry and Conner stared at each other, something heated picking back up and taking shape in the air between them. You watched as Harry’s gaze darted downward, his attention snagging on Conner’s fingers, on the wetness glistening across the skin that had just been inside you. Harry’s tongue flicked over his lips, chest heaving with a wanting so primal you felt it flood the space between them. They both knew what the next move was. You saw Conner’s lips twitch, the corner turning upward, but it was Harry who finally broke the silence—
“Do you want to taste her?” he asked, voice low, the question as easy as asking—Do you want more champagne?
Conner nodded, body relaxed, his tight abs hardening as he took a breath. “Badly,” he said, unflinching, and that single word landed like a match about to strike a room full of gasoline.
For a second, they just looked at each other. Then, with a patient intensity, Conner knowingly brought his wet fingers to his own mouth, extending his tongue to catch the first taste. His eyes closed, lashes fluttering as he sucked the slickness from his fingertips, slowly drawing his fingers all the way back— tasting them as if he had never tasted anything more decadent. The sight of it made you shudder, the room suddenly spiraling with the mutual hunger as you brought your knees to your chest, making room for whatever was about to take way.
Harry watched every second. Then he inched forward, crowding into Conner’s space, a hand reaching for his waist to draw him closer as a silent question stormed between them. With his free hand, Harry reached for Conner’s hand, and Conner let him, unreadable except for the stoic way he held himself. In Harry’s hand, Conner’s fingers were still slick, still sticky, and for a moment, they just held eye contact, both so fucking turned on you could practically see the waves shimmering off their bodies. You watched Harry’s face soften, eyes half-lidded as he brought Conner’s hand up to his heart-shaped lips. Without another pause, his tongue darted out, an eager pink snake, lapping first at Conner’s knuckle. Then he closed his mouth over Conner’s fingers, and the sound Harry made—fuck, you wanted to bottle it, you wanted to crawl inside it.
He sucked in gradual licks at first, drawing in your taste from Conner’s hand, lazily lapping to make a show of it, lips plush and sucking, cheeks hollowing as he worked Conner’s fingers to the back of his throat. Your toes curled, the idea of your arousal being passed from man to man was short-circuiting your fucking brain—their mouths, their bodies. This was the only logical thought you needed in that moment; this was your new fucking gospel. Both of them seemed to feel it, the shared, greedy joy of savoring you together. Conner was barely breathing as Harry held his gaze unblinking, his wet fingers still in his mouth. Harry let his gaze flick to you, almost as if to say, “This is for you. Are you watching?”
You were, obviously. Your breathing was ragged, knees pulled up so your thighs mashed to your breasts, hands gripping your knees so tight you were almost cutting off your oxygen supply. As you watched Harry drag Conner’s fingers free, lips catching on the tips, a long string of saliva trailed with them, making your mouth run dry at the thought of catching it with your tongue. Harry leaned in and kissed Conner, their mouth greedy as they clashed and pressed together. One of Conner’s hands reached for Harry’s hard cock, then Harry reached for his. For a while, you watched as they jerked each other off, the two of them passing their labored breath back and forth as the sounds of their pleasure flooded the space.
Your hand had moved to your pussy, moving the wetness gathering up and down, not really trying to get off, just touching yourself enough to satiate the ache. When Harry pulled back, choking in a breath, stopping Conner’s hand, he turned to you, “Smear yourself on his cock, I’m ready to give you what you want.” You smiled as Conner crawled onto the bed next to you, and as he adjusted, his hard cock in his hand, you came up to your knees.
As he settled, Harry pulled you in for a quick kiss, whispering, “Just knowing you’re watching has me so fucking turned on…” You felt nervous, but also something about it made you feel sexy—his words only solidifying that no matter what the situation, you would always be safe.
When you looked back at Conner, he had an arm propped behind his head, the tips of his fingers lightly grazing the head of his dick, standing tall. He and Harry were close to the same size, both of them donning beautiful cocks that felt like a feast. You already knew you weren’t going to put his dick inside you, and as you climbed toward him, his teeth sank into his bottom lip, trying to suppress his smile. Behind you, Harry smacked your ass as you moved away, the sharp sound making you jump, and you licked your lips as the sting seared into your ass cheek.
You were going to rub your pussy all over Conner’s thick dick. You were going to straddle yourself over him, and press the warm, wet center of your cunt against him and ride. So that’s exactly what you did, your eyes never leaving his as you climbed on top of him. When you grabbed hold of his cock he groaned, shoving his other arm behind his head, your space free of his hands, his body at your full control. As you adjusted him beneath you, your clit settled against the center of his meaty length, and you knew this was going to be easy. You were so fucking wet, and when you slid forward to the tip, you closed your eyes, letting your head fall back as a small whine left your mouth.
You started slow, moving your hips with a cautious roll that made your clit catch and drag up the thick, velvet length of him, your own heat adding to the sensation, making your hollow pussy clench on nothing, already ready to come. Under you, Conner let out a long exhale, his pale stomach tensing and shading his abs in stripes of shadow, jaw ticking with the effort to keep his hands planted behind his head as you worked yourself against him. The head of his cock was pulsing under the weight of your slick pussy, luring each grind forward, each stroke getting him slicker than the last.
His gaze was fixed and direct, so intense that your tongue was numb from biting it, nerves sparking at the base of your skull, and you rocked forward, your wet folds split open and dragging from the thick base to the leaking tip and back again. There was a hunger in his eyes, a want, a need so thickset and constricted it made you want to put him in your mouth just to see if you could pull the noise you were craving to hear from his chest. You rutted forward again, and this time the head slipped just under your clit and caught just above your entrance, the friction so sharp your body curled in on itself, one hand planted on his chest for balance as the sensation spiked through you.
“Holy fuck—you’re going to make me come,” you blurted, the admission a little embarrassing, especially with Conner’s mouth smiling up at you, the edges of his lips wet and parted.
“For me, I hope you do,” he said, his low voice curling through you. “You’re even better than I imagined.”
Behind you, Harry’s hands had moved to your hips, thumbs pressed in like anchors, bracing you as you rubbed easy fluid streaks up and down Conner’s cock. Your clit was so engorged and sensitive that every forward pitch flashed across your vision, whiting out the room until only the heating sensation of his cock remained. You swayed back and forth, greedy for more, letting Conner’s shaft smash you and spread you, the glide so smooth it felt sinful to stop for even a second. The noise of your pussy filled the gaps of sound moving around you—wet and eager. Each lap of your cunt over his dick was being punctuated by a choked gasp from you or the low, gravelly “Fuck, that’s good,” from Conner beneath you.
You wanted to stay perched just like this forever, nerves shimmering, Conner’s abs flexing under your free hand, his cock pulsing and shiny as you glossed over him. But Harry’s grip was coaxing you faster, and because it felt so good, you found yourself giving in. Each grind down was getting harder, needier, your clit catching on every perfect groove and vein, until the ache coiling deep inside you broke from urgent to unbearable, like you were finally going to let yourself come.
You didn’t stop, though. It was becoming a test. This little game you and Conner were playing. You wanted to see his composure snap, wanted to see his face while you came. You wanted to know the exact shape his mouth would make, to see his pupils widen when your pussy bowed around him. So you ground down harder, pain and pleasure surging through your sore cunt, and that’s when you felt it, the head of his fat cock catching at your entrance, just the tip, just slightly, and then—oh fuck—then the tip was inside you.
It was just a breach, a hot nudge, but it was cleaving your fucking world in half. Conner’s fingers flew to your waist and clamped down, his body going rigid under you; Harry was there too, securing your shoulders, his chin hooked over your collar. When you looked up, Harry’s eyes were hungry and transfixed—watching as you opened yourself to the head of another man’s cock, two worlds colliding, making your world tilt, making your body clamp, every muscle going hot with the shock and thrill of it all.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your whole body arching up, every centimeter of sensation collapsing to that pinched edge where Conner’s cock was stretching your entrance. Yet you held yourself suspended there—just the head, just a whisper of intrusion, the rest of him hot and slick, pressing the length of your slit. You had said, out loud and with certainty, that you didn’t want anyone else inside you tonight, just wanted the game, the fun, the push and pull of everything else. And yet, here was your cunt squeezing around the blunt, beautiful head of Conner’s cock. That’s when you felt the pulse of surrender twitch through your thighs, a wicked contradiction of consent and want—the awareness of crossing the boundary of your own expectations made you seize, made you open up, made you want him deeper.
But you had the control, or at least enough of it, but you stayed straddled like that, taking only as much as you wanted, squeezing down in slow, testing pulses, your thighs gripping him like a vice. There was a strange transfer happening in the trust of letting him in, even the smallest part of him. You barely knew this man—yet here you were, giving up the most intimate, most private part of yourself to the strange bulge of him, letting his solid body stretch you, letting his hands squeeze you as you started to fuck yourself on the tip of his cock.
“Do you want it?” Conner breathed, his eyes wide, voice strangled, his accent burning with the need in his question.
You nodded, not trusting your mouth but feeling your body open wider as you rocked down again. Just the head. Just enough for your pussy to shudder with the stretch. You whimpered, the pressure needling every nerve, the feeling pure and electric, as Harry’s hands carved up your ribs, pinning your arms, and in the crossfire of their hands and mouths, you felt fully owned, fully held.
“Fuck, she’s so tight,” Conner slurred, and you watched Harry’s jaw clench with a strange edge of desire or excitement, a look you had never seen. His mouth moved to your ear, begging you to take it as Conner’s grip tightened. You took their praise as a dare and ground down again, letting more of Conner’s cock slip inside.
You braced yourself, unsure how much of him you really wanted to take as your pussy walls clenched tight, fighting to keep him out. You were still contemplating your choices, torn between the urge of him inside you and what you had told Harry earlier that night. But the animal in you wanted everything. When Harry’s mouth met your neck, his hands were encouraging you further, as Conner’s grip on your hips stilled you, and for a shuddering heartbeat, all three of you were hanging by a thread—then he was pulling down with a gentle but unyielding insistence. With the motion, his cock dove further, bringing with it a volcanic stretch, and your cunt opened, responding like it already belonged to him. For one sharp second, you flinched at the intrusion, the heat of him splitting you, as your vision starbursted into a thousand points of white.
You started to say his name, both their names, wanted to shout and sob, but all that came out was—shit and fuck—scrambling in a mess of pleasure. The stretch, the pressure, the relief of being filled—it was a mind-fuck, an all-consuming shock that was stealing your breath. It was so much. He was so much. Beneath you, he was groaning, the wet slap of his hips echoing as he bucked up, and you realized you were taking him all the way, every inch. You pressed down, spearing yourself on him, until your ass met the roughness of his pubic hair and your clit mashed hard against the firmness at the base.
You felt yourself contracting, milking him, your pussy so greedy it was still trying to drag him deeper. Your orgasm hit in seconds, sweeping through your body as the energy of their push and pull amplified the pleasure. It was a fucking supernova, exploding into the inside of your thighs and shooting up through your core, the contractions so strong you almost folded backward. You screamed, you were sure of it, but couldn’t hear anything besides the rush of blood swelling in your ears.
Crumpling forward, every muscle was spasming, ass still locked into the saddle of Conner’s hips, while your body arched up and every inch of you clamped around him in a series of relentless, heated aftershocks. It was more intense than you had even thought possible; you were wrung out and helpless, taking and giving in ways that felt completely new and unsteady.
When your chest finally collapsed flush to his body, the tension draining out like an open faucet, you whimpered and tried to pull away, but Conner’s hands kept you there, steady and safe, letting you ride out the last few spasms. You shuddered, a little whine leaking from your lips as you forced yourself upright, then reached a hand behind to feel for Harry—who was already there, fingertips tenderly tracing along your spine, then moving down to the seam where your body met Conner’s cock.
Conner’s length was pulsing inside you while Harry kissed you, his mouth hungry as his hands roamed. You broke away and popped off Conner’s dick, pulling a loaded moan from his mouth, his first real moan that night. When you looked down, his throbbing cock was glistening. Your eyes flitted to Harry, his mouth already parting, then his tongue came out and smoothed over his bottom lip. Without hesitation, he leaned forward, grabbing the base of Conner’s dick with the same hunger they had just had for your body.
His mouth dove, tongue coming out as he made contact, Conner’s dick sliding in his hand as he tried to maneuver it to his open mouth. Already his tongue was there, flicking over the angry-red tip, greedy not even for Conner’s taste but for everything you left behind. He licked and sucked, eyes half-lidded, lips shining before he even got them around the shaft. You watched the way his fist braced against the base, and how Conner’s cock, painted in your slick, throbbed against the hollow of Harry’s cheek on the first slow draw inside his mouth. There was no time wasted, no fear—Harry had taken the head, and all the mess you left smeared across his tongue in one filthy, wet gulp.
If you had thought watching them kiss was hot, this was heat beyond bearing. Harry nursed at the cockhead like he was going for a record, lips cinched, cheeks sinking with each suck, and when he pulled off, the shaft glistened even more. Harry’s hand was already stroking, finding a rhythm that had Conner curling up and resting his hands on Harry’s head while he gritted his teeth. You watched, slack-jawed and chest fluttering, as Harry owned Conner’s cock with a manic focus, like he had something to prove, like he had been thinking about tasting this one specific dick for a lifetime and now he had it. You knew he wasn’t going to let a single drop of you go to waste.
He was insatiable, yes, but there was adoration in the way his tongue swirled under the crown, collecting every bit of slick you had left behind, working the glans until the head shone pearly in the lamplight. His lips pressed tight, pulling at the shaft as if he could pump your wetness from every vein inside it. You stared, mesmerized, following the bob of his head and the play of muscles in his neck as he deep-throated, taking the cock in one messy slide and holding there. Every time his dick hit the back of his throat, his nose would bury in the dark blonde thatch at the base, his nostrils flaring as he breathed in the raw, animal tang of you and Conner mixing.
Harry never blinked, never faltered, every muscle in his jaw and throat flexing. Every sound he made was quiet and guttural, animalistic in the way his eyes found you. Each time the cockhead punched at the back of his throat, the noise was wet and messy, and every time, your mouth would fill with saliva. Conner had transformed in the pleasure, his hand now gripping the back of Harry’s head, tangling in the dark curls as he muttered something low, his English going out the window as his breathless German filled the space. His face was twisted, every muscle tight, as if he was pained. Every time Harry slowed, his eyes would flutter shut, Harry’s syrupy suck taking him under. Then they would open just to catch yours and hold it, like he wanted to let you see him fall apart for you.
You were so wet watching it that your thighs were sticky. It felt like you were living outside your own skin, every nerve ending strung tight and aching, like maybe if you came again, your own orgasm would just loop in the background, never quite fading but always right up against the edge. Harry’s hands were mirroring each other, Conner up on one elbow, watching. When Harry took him deep, the hand that was resting on his head pushed him deeper, Harry letting out a gasp but taking it. You thought he would suffocate him, the way Conner’s hips were slightly rutting up into his throat. It was the hottest thing you had ever seen, not even sure if you could get throat fucked like that yourself, but Harry was a fucking pro.
When Harry tapped out, Conner released him. Harry came up for a gasping breath, a hand still stroking, and he smirked. They were in their own world, and when Harry’s eyes cut to Conner, he nodded, then dove back down. This time, Conner didn’t hold back as they repeated the move, and you knew Conner was close, could tell by his surrender, the way he muttered, “fuck—” and fell back on the bed, eyes squeezing shut, letting the pleasure take him completely. Harry opened his mouth, tongue out to hollow out more space at the back of his throat. He moved his hands away, and both of Conner’s hands rested on his head. “I’m close—” Conner bit out, making Harry grunt, and Conner moaned again, the sound clipped short as he lifted his head to peek at Harry.
Chest heaving, his head fell back against the bed again, and he pushed Harry’s head back down, then bucked into his throat harder this time. Your hands were white-knuckling the blankets as a storm of emotion hit—terror and excitement—the wonder of everything happening all at once before your eyes, making your whole body go numb. Then Conner’s hips stuttered to a stop, pumping slightly as he came. All that filled the room was the grunting force of Conner’s orgasm, and the sharp inhale that Harry was dragging through his nose fast, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed the salty cum hitting the back of his throat.
As every muscle in Conner’s body tightened, you took him in, wishing you had dragged your tongue over every rigid plane of his sculpted body. When he released Harry this time, Harry’s eyes were wild, his animal drive still coming down as he wiped his mouth with his forearm, his gaze trained on you. That’s when you leaned forward and closed the distance between you and Harry, Conner below you both, as your mouths crashed together. His mouth was sloppy and wet, all of your tastes mixing. You licked across his mouth, then pushed it past his parting lips, moaning, ready to have his dick inside you again. That’s when you pulled back and said—
