i’m not supposed to be working in the emergency department for twelve hours treating patients… i’m supposed to be going on adventures and sleeping under elm trees with ser duncan 😔
somebody sedate me!!!! 🗣️ the hands. the HANDS. THE HANDS. can one of you amazing valarr fic authors take these photos and run with them? i will forever be in your favor.
ser duncan the tall x wife!female reader / smut / domestic dunk / rainstorm / intimacy/ i went absolutely feral when i wrote this so please be mindful of that
word count: 9.2 k 🗡️❤️🔥
POV: Your husband is seven feet of good to the core, and you're the only one who knows how to make his pulse thunder.
A rainy afternoon, a simmering hearth, and a man who would walk through the seven hells just to hear you whisper his name. He thinks he's just a hedge knight with nothing to his name. You’re about to show him he’s a king in your bed.
Author’s Note: i’ll be the first to admit i went feral writing this, but i’m a romantic at heart, i promise. to me, this is just really, really intimate, you’ll see. ♡
p.s. i had to repost it because tumblr index system sent the first one beyond the Wall. sorry guys, i love you ♡♡♡
You wake to the sound of rain hammering against the cottage's thatched roof, a steady, persistent drumming that has merged with your dreams. The air is cool and carries the scent of damp earth and the metallic tang of an approaching storm.
Your fingers curl into the linens, and they are saturated with him; that clean, honest smell of sweat, leather, and the soap he makes himself from wood ash and lavender.
He isn't there. The space beside you is empty, the sheets already cool.
With a groan, you push yourself up. The light filtering through the single window is the soft, pearlescent grey of a day swallowed by clouds. A crack of thunder rattles the windowpane, making you flinch. You've slept past midday, the deep, dreamless sleep of someone who feels safe. Protected.
You can hear him. Not in the cottage with you, but outside. The rhythmic thwack of an axe splitting wood, punctuated by another distant rumble of thunder. Each swing is a testament to the man you married, the power of him. Another sound follows, a softer one, the scrape of a whetstone along steel.
You pull on a simple woolen dress, the fabric rough against your skin. You don't bother with shoes, your bare feet silent on the floor as you make your way to the door. The cottage is small, but it is yours. It is his. A pot of something hearty and meaty, likely rabbit he snared yesterday, is simmering over the dying embers of the hearth.
Your body tingles with the ghost of last night's touch. A deep, pleasant ache settles between your thighs, a sweet reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed you. Your cheeks flush with heat, a warmth that has nothing to do with the wool of your dress. Butterflies, frantic and wild, beat against your ribs. You already miss him, the solid weight of him, the way his large hands, so adept at violence, could map every inch of your body with such tender reverence.
Your Dunk. Your kind, good man, who had seen you stir restlessly in the predawn darkness and had slipped from your bed to let you sleep, taking his toil out into the rain. Good to the very core.
You pull open the heavy oak door. The world explodes in a rush of wind and water. The rain is a solid, silver curtain, and the wind whips it against your face. And there he is.
Duncan.
He stands in the center of the muddy yard, a giant of a man framed by the grey fury of the storm. He's shirtless, his feet planted in the churned mud. The splitting axe, heavy enough that most men would struggle to lift, rests easily on one broad shoulder. His skin is slick with rain, each drop a shimmering jewel as it catches what little light there is.
They trace paths through the dark hair on his chest, down the ridges of his stomach, following the powerful landscape of his body. The muscles of his back and shoulders are bunching and releasing as he turns toward the sound of the door.
When he sees you, he stops. The world seems to hold its breath. The rain continues to fall, the thunder to grumble in the distance, but in that moment, there is only him.
Your eyes catch a flicker of movement near the stables. Chestnut and Thunder, your two beautiful horses, stand sheltered in the overhang, their coats gleaming in the dim light. They are safe, cared for. Just like you.
And then you are moving. There is no thought, only need.
You launch yourself from the doorway, your bare feet slapping against the wet, packed earth, then sinking into the mud. You don't care. You are running towards him, towards your hot, wet man, your husband. You need him with a desperation that eclipses all reason, a need as vital as the air in your lungs.
He's frozen for a heartbeat, a statue of a pagan god in a downpour, and then he's moving too. He drops the axe. It lands with a dull thud in the mud. He takes two long strides to meet you, his powerful legs eating up the distance.
He catches you.
His arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off your feet. The impact is a shock of wet skin against the thin wool of your dress. You gasp, your arms flying around his neck, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder. He smells of rain and sweat and him, and you inhale deeply, greedily, filling your lungs with him.
"You'll catch your death, my love," he rumbles, his voice low. His hands are splayed wide against your back, holding you, and despite the strength in them, his touch is impossibly gentle.
You don't answer with words. You pull back just enough to see his face, to see the way the rain has plastered his hair to his forehead, tracing the strong line of his jaw. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, are alight with a joy so fierce it takes your breath away.
He thinks you're mad. You can see it in the twitch of his lips, the fond exasperation in his gaze. But you don't care.
You surge forward and crash your lips against his.
His lips are cold at first, then warm against yours, and they feel like coming home, like the sun breaking through the clouds. He makes a sound, a low groan of surprise and pleasure that is swallowed by the storm.
He tries to speak, his lips moving against yours. "Seven hells, woman," he mumbles, the words lost in the deluge. "Wha—"
But you silence him with another kiss, deep and wet, pouring every ounce of your longing into it. Your hands knot in his wet hair, holding him to you, and you moan into his mouth, a soft, needy sound that is almost stolen away by the wind.
One of his huge hands slides down your back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake, and comes to rest on your arse. He grips you, possessive and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh through your soaked dress. You press yourself against him, feeling the hard planes of his stomach, the proof of his desire pressing hot against you.
He grunts into your mouth, a raw, animal sound, when you suck on his tongue. It's a filthy kiss, the kind of kiss that would make a whore in a King's Landing tavern blush.
You pull back, gasping for breath, your chest heaving. A thin, delicate string of saliva connects your mouths for a moment before the rain washes it away. Your eyes are locked on his.
"Need you, Dunk," you whisper, your voice hoarse, almost broken with the force of your want. "Need you now."
The dress is a second, sodden skin, clinging to every curve, every dip. The dark wool is rendered translucent by the downpour, leaving little to the imagination. The hardened points of your nipples press against the fabric. The generous swell of your hips and the soft roundness of your thighs are outlined in perfect detail.
His eyes rove over you, a hungry, worshipful gaze that makes your skin feel too tight. He swallows hard, the muscles in his throat working.
"This is madness," he rasps, his voice strained. "You'll be sick, my love."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He shifts you in his arms, one arm banded around your waist, and starts moving towards the stables. He half-carries, half-drags you through the mud, his long strides covering the ground in an instant. The shelter of the stable overhang is a welcome relief from the onslaught of the rain, though the air is still thick with the smell of wet hay, horse, and him.
He sets you down, but doesn't let go. He keeps you pressed against him, framing your face with his hands. "My love," he starts, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and desire. "Look at you, shivering. We need to get you inside, by the fire, get these wet things off you—"
"Mmm-need you, Dunk," you interrupt, your hands coming up to cover his where they cradle your face. You turn your head and press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his palm. "I need my husband right now. Not the knight. Not the hedge knight. Just you."
He looks at you then, and the concern in his eyes is slowly consumed by a fire that makes your breath catch. He sees the need in you, that want that mirrors his own. He sees that this is not a whim, but a necessity.
"Dunk, please," you whisper, and it's a broken, beautiful sound. "Please."
"Seven hells," he breathes, the last of his restraint crumbling to dust. "You'll be the death of me."
His hands move from your face, one tangling in your wet hair, the other fumbling with the ties of your dress at your shoulder.
"I saw you," you pant against his skin as his clumsy fingers work at the wet knot. "I saw you standing there... your axe... the rain... gods be good, Dunk, I am burning up for you."
You lean in, your lips tracing the wet, hard curve of his bicep. The muscle tenses under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along its length, tasting rain and salt and man. Then you bite him, gently at first, then harder, sinking your teeth into the firm flesh. You leave a dark, wet mark, a claim. You do it again, lower down, marking him.
A ragged groan tears from his chest. His hands still on your dress, and he drops his forehead to your shoulder. His entire body is trembling against yours.
"Stop," he begs, but it sounds nothing like a command. It's a prayer. "Gods, my love, stop. I can... I can hardly hold myself." He turns his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of your ear. His breath is hot. "I'll take you right here against the wall, with the horses watching, and I'll not care for aught else. I'll be rough. I'll hurt you."
His confession hangs in the damp air between you. He's not threatening you. He's warning you, pleading with you. And you have never been more aroused in your entire life.
"Then take me," you whisper back, your voice a silken thread of challenge. "Take your wife, Ser Duncan."
The title, the honorific he so rarely uses for himself, is the final push. He growls, a low, feral sound from deep in his chest, and finally rips the ties of your dress. The flimsy wool gives way, and he pushes it down over your shoulders.
The sudden cold of the air makes your nipples tighten into hard, aching points. His eyes devour you, tracing the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips. He looks at you like you're a miracle, a goddess made flesh, and the awe in his face makes your knees weak.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, as if to himself.
You lunge for him again, your lips finding his with a desperate hunger. You press your naked body against the hard, wet wall of his chest, grinding yourself against him, seeking friction, seeking relief. The coarse hair on his chest abrades your sensitive nipples, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.
"Can't get enough of you," you gasp against his lips between frantic kisses. "Dunk, I can't... I need..."
This time, he meets your need with a ferocity of his own. He kisses you back, not just receiving your passion but returning it, matching it. His tongue plunges into your mouth, claiming it, stroking against yours in a rhythm that promises a deeper, more intimate claiming to come. One of his massive hands cups the back of your head, holding you in place while the other roams down your spine, over the curve of your arse, pulling you against him. His arousal is a hard, thick line against your belly, and the knowledge that you have this effect on him, this shy, good man, is a powerful, intoxicating aphrodisiac.
"Gods, me neither," he groans, the words a vibration against your lips. "Woke up this morning and you were still asleep... all soft and warm... all mine. Nearly broke my resolve to let you be."
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, a rare, breathtaking sight. It transforms him from a simple hedge knight into a man of breathtaking beauty. "No more of this," he rumbles, his voice a low growl. "You're not getting fucked against a wall like a tavern whore."
He hooks one arm behind your knees and another around your back, and with a grunt, he lifts you into his arms. You yelp, a half-scream, half-laugh of pure delight, as he turns and starts running.
"Dunk! Dunk, what are you doing!" you shriek, clinging to his neck as he barrels back out into the torrential rain.
"I'm taking my wife to our bed!" he roars back, his laughter booming over the storm.
He moves with an impossible speed, a charging beast carrying its most precious treasure. Mud splashes, the world is a blur of grey water and green, and you are laughing, utterly lost in the glorious madness of him. He's a madman. Your madman. And you have never loved him more.
He bursts through the cottage door, kicking it shut behind him with a thunderous bang. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, crossing the small space in three long strides before unceremoniously dumping you onto your bed. The furs are soft, the mattress a welcome relief, and the fire burning in the hearth bathes the room in a warm, golden glow that makes the rain outside seem a distant memory.
You land with a soft oomph, bouncing slightly on the mattress. He's on you in an instant, a mountain of wet, hot skin and hard muscle. The shock of it is electric. You are both soaked, and the water from his hair and skin drips onto your face, your neck, your breasts, mingling with the heat rising from your own body. He smells of rain and clean earth.
"You are a menace," he growls as he makes quick work of the last remnants of your sodden dress, peeling the wet wool from your legs and tossing it to the floor. Then his hands are on you, everywhere, tracing the curves of your hips, the softness of your thighs. He props himself up on one elbow, his other hand splayed across your stomach, and he just looks. His gaze is so intense, so full and raw, that it makes your breath catch.
"Dunk," you whisper, reaching for him.
You pull him down, needing his weight on you, needing to feel the sheer solid reality of him. He settles over you, a heavy, comforting presence that makes you feel both small and incredibly safe. Your legs part instinctively, making room for him, and he settles into the cradle of your hips. You start to move, a slow, deliberate grind against him. The rough fabric of his breeches is a delicious friction against your most sensitive flesh, and you can't stop the soft moans.
You meet in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss, making love with your mouths. His tongue is a slow, sweet invasion, and you meet it, stroke for stroke. Your hands are everywhere, tangling in his damp hair, now tracing the muscles of his back, feeling the way they flex and bunch under your touch.
"Too many clothes," you pant against his jaw, your fingers fumbling with the laces of his breeches. "Get them off, Dunk. I want to feel all of you."
He groans and pushes himself up, just enough to give you room. Your fingers are clumsy with haste, but you manage to undo the ties. He shoves the wet leather down his hips, kicking them away. And then he is naked, all of him, and he is magnificent.
His body is a map of old scars and new bruises, a testament to the life he leads. A long, thin one on his ribs, a puckered circle on his shoulder from an arrowhead, a web of smaller ones on his forearms. You know them all. You have kissed them all. But it's not the scars that hold your attention now. It's the overwhelming masculinity of him. His chest is broad and covered in a thatch of dark hair that narrows to a line leading down to the powerful V of his hips. And there, heavy and proud, is the part of him that is yours alone.
He is hard, so hard it looks almost painful and already weeping with need. The sheer size of him still takes your breath away, an intimidating reality that you crave with every fiber of your being.
He lowers himself back over you, but this time, his lips find your breast. He doesn't kiss the nipple, not at first. He kisses the soft, sensitive skin on the underside, then the valley between them. His mouth is hot, and his breath is a warm gust against your skin.
"My beautiful wife. My good girl." He nips gently at the swell of your breast. "I think about this, you know. When I'm on the road. I think about your skin, your taste. I think about burying my face right here and never coming up for air."
His other hand, the one not supporting his weight, begins a slow, torturous journey down your body. It skims over your ribs, pauses to trace the curve of your hip, and then slides down the outside of your thigh. His touch is light, almost teasing, a ghost of a caress that makes your skin prickle with awareness. The heat in your belly builds, a slow, coiling fire that spreads through your veins, making you restless, needy.
You arch against him, a silent, pleading motion, and he finally, finally takes your nipple into his mouth. He sucks, hard, and the sensation is a bolt of lightning. You cry out, a sharp, breathy sound, and your hands fly to his head, holding him to you.
"Dunk," you moan, his name a prayer on your lips.
He lifts his head, a possessive fire in his eyes, and claims your lips again. It's deeper, slower, a thorough, claiming exploration. His tongue strokes against yours, and you can taste yourself on him, faint and sweet. The hand on your thigh moves inward, tracing a path up the sensitive skin until his fingers brush against the highest curve of your thighs.
"Is this for me, my love?" he asks, his voice a husky whisper against your lips. "Is all this wetness for me?"
You can only nod, your words lost, your ability to form coherent thoughts shattered by the gentle, circling motion of his thumb. He's not touching you where you need him most. He's just stroking the sensitive skin around it, a maddening, delicious torture.
"Please," you finally manage to gasp out. "Dunk, please."
But then you push against his chest, a gentle but firm pressure. He lifts his head, ocean eyes clouded with a confusion that is almost comical. He doesn't understand why you'd stop this, why you'd push away the very thing you've been begging for.
You sit up, pushing yourself to your knees in the center of the bed. You take his massive hands in yours, your small fingers looking impossibly delicate against his calloused, scarred knuckles.
"What is it, my love?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern. "Did I hurt you?"
You shake your head, a soft smile playing on your lips. "No," you whisper, your gaze holding his. "No, you could never." You lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. "I want to taste you," you murmur against his skin. "I want to worship you."
He stares at you, utterly bewildered. Worship him? This hedge knight, with more scars than sense and hands better suited to holding a sword than a woman's touch? He opens his mouth to protest, to say something self-deprecating and utterly, painfully Dunk, but you silence him with a look.
"Let me, Dunk," you say, and it's not a request. It's a command, gentle but firm.
Slowly, hesitantly, he nods. He lets you push him, and he shifts until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the floor. You slide off the bed and sink to your knees in the furs before him. The sight makes him suck in a sharp breath. You, his beautiful wife, on your knees for him. The unbidden eroticism of it is a punch to the gut.
You start at his stomach. Your lips trace the hard ridges of his abdomen, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint, clean taste of the rain. You press open-mouthed kisses to each of the old scars, your tongue darting out to soothe his flesh. His muscles jump and twitch under your touch, and you can feel the tension in him, the effort it's taking him to remain still, to let you lead.
Then you move upwards, your face burying in the thick, dark hair on his chest. You inhale deeply, breathing him in. He smells of life, of strength, of safety. You let your tongue flick out, tasting the hollow at the base of his throat before moving to one of his nipples. You circle it slowly, lazily, before taking it into your mouth and sucking gently.
A choked gasp escapes him. His head falls back, exposing the strong column of his neck, and his eyes roll back in his head. His hands curl into fists, the knuckles white. You are utterly destroying him, and you have never felt more powerful.
You lavish the same attention on the other nipple, giving it the same slow, torturous treatment. His breathing is harsh now, a series of uneven pants. He's muttering something, a stream of incoherent praise and curses that are the most beautiful music you've ever heard.
Then, you begin your descent.
You press kisses down the hard plane of his stomach, following the dark, tempting trail of hair that leads to your ultimate goal. You can feel him trembling, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder that runs through his entire frame. You can hear the desperate quality of his breathing. He is at your mercy.
Finally, you are there.
His beautiful cock.
It stands proud and erect, a magnificent, intimidating thing of flushed skin and throbbing veins. You look at it for a long moment, your gaze reverent. This is the part of him that makes you his wife, that fills you so completely, that brings you such exquisite pleasure. This is the part of him that has given you the sweetest aches and the most blissful sighs.
You lean in and press a soft, almost chaste kiss to the glistening tip. A bead of pearly fluid wells up, and you taste it with the tip of your tongue. It's slightly bitter, and uniquely him. His entire body jerks at the contact, a full-body spasm.
"Gods," he chokes out, his hands flying to your hair. He doesn't force you, doesn't guide you. He just buries his fingers in the strands, holding on as if for dear life. "What are you... oh, gods..."
You smile, a slow, almost secret smile, and then you take him into your mouth.
You start slow, savoring the experience. Your lips stretch wide to accommodate his impressive girth, the hard, velvety skin sliding over your tongue. You take just the head at first, swirling your tongue around the ridge, teasing the sensitive nerves just beneath.
His hand in your hair tightens, not a pull, but a steady, grounding pressure that makes you hum in pleasure. He's so big. So wonderfully, overwhelmingly big.
He throws his head back again. "Seven bloody hells," he grits out, the words a harsh exhale. He's muttering a stream of curses, praise, and your name, incoherent sounds. He hisses when you take him deeper.
"Your mouth... gods, your mouth... so warm... so wet..."
You take more of him, inch by slow, deliberate inch. You feel your jaw begin to ache, a dull, pleasant ache that only adds to the intensity of the moment. Your saliva pools, and you can't stop a single drop from escaping the corner of your mouth, tracing a glistening path down your chin. But your eyes never leave his.
You hold his gaze, watching the array of emotions flicker across his face. Awe, disbelief, unbridled lust. His mouth is open, his chest heaving. He looks at you, at his beautiful wife on her knees, worshipping him with her mouth, and the look in his eyes is one of pure, shattered reverence.
His hips twitch, a tiny, involuntary movement, and he immediately stills them, a groan of frustration torn from his throat. You can see the struggle in every tense line of his body, the way the muscles in his thighs stand out like knotted rope. He is fighting a primal instinct, a battle of will against want, all for you. He is so good, so fundamentally, achingly good, that he will endure this exquisite torture rather than risk causing you a single moment of discomfort.
Then you hear it. A sound so at odds with his massive frame, so full of vulnerability, it makes your heart clench. A whimper. It's a deep sound that rumbles up from his chest, and it is the most erotic thing you have ever heard. You shiver, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the cool air on your bare skin. The sound is a surrender, a confession of his absolute undoing. It makes you want to devour him whole.
You relax your throat, take a deep breath through your nose, and push down, taking him deeper still. You let the head of his cock brush the back of your throat.
The reaction is instantaneous and explosive.
"Oh, fuck!" The word is a roar, torn from his very soul. His control shatters.
Both of his huge hands fly to your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair, gripping you tighter. He doesn't push, he just holds on, grounding himself in you as the world spins out of control. He becomes impossibly vocal, a chorus of grunts, groans, and choked-out curses that fill the small cottage.
You swallow around him, a deliberate, rhythmic contraction of your throat muscles. The sound is wet, obscene, and it drives him wild.
"Gods, f-fuck," he gasps, his hips bucking again, a deeper, more desperate thrust this time. "What are you doing to me? Your... your mouth... ah, seven hells... like sweet, hot honey..."
His praise becomes a torrent of raw, unhinged filth, a beautiful but desperate litany that washes over you.
"You love it, don't you?" he pants, his voice slurred with pleasure. "My beautiful girl... down on her knees... taking me so well. Made for me." He groans, a long, shuddering sound. "Swallow again. Yes, like that. Take it."
His eyes are squeezed shut. He is completely, utterly wrecked by you.
"My Dunk," you manage to moan around him, the words a garbled, vibration that makes him cry out. "My love."
"Yours," he grits out, his eyes flying open to lock with yours. The desperation in them is breathtaking. "All yours. Now... gods…”
He tries to pull away, to be a gentleman even in this, but you hold him fast, your hands gripping his powerful thighs, nails digging into the skin. You take him deeper, humming, a clear, unmistakable signal. You want all of him. You want to taste him, to claim him in the same way he claims you.
"Are you sure?" he asks, the last vestiges of his self-control warring with his primal need. "Are you sure, my love?"
You answer by taking him as deep as you can one last time and swallowing, hard.
"Ah, seven hells!" he roars, but with a speed that belies his size, he firmly disengages, pulling free of your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. He scoops you up, laying you back against the damp sheets and furs. The world is a blur of motion and panting breaths.
He doesn't hesitate. He kneels between your spread legs, his massive body blocking out the warm glow of the fire, casting you in his shadow. He grips himself at the base, guiding the thick, flushed head to your entrance. He pauses for a heartbeat, his eyes burning into yours, asking a silent question.
And then he enters you.
It's a single, slow, inexorable slide. He fills you, stretches you, the slick, tight fit a perfect, exquisite union. You feel your own wetness, the way your body grips him, welcoming him home.
You both moan together, a single, harmonious sound. It's not a sound of pain or pleasure alone, but of rightness, of a key finding its lock after a lifetime of searching.
He doesn't move for a long moment, just holds himself deep inside you, letting you both savor the feeling. His body is damp, your skin is damp, the sheets beneath you are damp, but the only thing that matters is the heat building where you are joined.
The sound that tears from your throat is a soft, breathy "Ahhhh," a drawn-out sigh of absolute surrender. Your eyes flutter closed, and your back arches off the bed, pushing your breasts against the hard wall of his chest. The pleasure is a crushing wave that obliterates all thought, all sensation save for the feeling of him inside you.
Your cunt clenches around him, a greedy, involuntary spasm, and he answers with a deep raspy groan. "Oh, gods," he pants, his forehead dropping to yours. His big hands frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a tenderness that is in stark contrast to the raw, primal way he's claiming you. "So tight. Always so tight for me. Like you were made for me."
Your clit is throbbing, swollen and aching. The pressure of him, the way he's stretching you, is almost enough, but not quite. You need more. You need friction. You need him to move.
“Mmm, Dunk…”
He starts to move, a slow, deliberate retreat followed by an equally slow, deep thrust. The rhythm is hypnotic, a languid dance that stokes the fire in your belly into an inferno. Each stroke drags against your sensitive walls, shooting pleasure through your veins.
"Like that?" he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly murmur against your ear. "Do you like it when I fill you up like this?"
You can't form words. You can only nod, a frantic, desperate motion, your nails digging into the powerful muscles of his back.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice gentle but firm.
Your eyes flutter open, and you're lost in the dark, stormy depths of his. They're burning with a fierce, possessive fire, but underneath it, there's an ocean of love, of worship, that threatens to drown you.
"That's my good girl," he whispers, and the praise, combined with a particularly deep, grinding thrust, makes you cry out, a high, breathy sound. "My beautiful girl. Tell me what you need. Tell your husband how to please you."
"Harder," you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him deeper, trying to urge him on. "Dunk, please... harder... faster..."
He complies, his control shattering bit by bit. His movements become quicker, more forceful, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the small room. He's pounding into you now and it is exactly what you crave. The bed is creaking in protest, the headboard slamming against the wall with each powerful thrust.
"Oh, gods! Dunk! It feels so right... don't stop... please don't stop!" you're crying out, a stream of incoherent pleas and praises that are a perfect echo of his own earlier filth.
He goes faster, harder, just as you begged, but a flicker of something holds him back from unleashing his full, brutal strength. You can feel it in the tensed muscles of his back, the way he holds himself ever so slightly in check. It's because of you.
He can feel your cunt clenching around him, a series of tight, greedy spasms that milk his cock, and the sensation is so overwhelming he's afraid of breaking you. And your moans... gods, your moans. They are high, breathy things, music to his ears, and he loves it, he loves it so much it hurts.
"By the Seven," he grunts, the sound ripped from deep in his chest. "You take it so well. So sweet and tight... a velvet fist around me." His hands are everywhere now. One grips your hip, holding you steady for his thrusts, the other slides up your sweat-slick back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose the long, vulnerable line of your throat. He mouths at your pulse point, his teeth scraping your skin.
You scratch him, your nails leaving trails down the broad expanse of his back. He hisses, a sharp intake of breath, and in response, his other hand moves, grabbing the entirety of your ass in a grip of possession. He squeezes, hard, and uses the leverage to pull you into each thrust, to meet his cock halfway. He's fucking you now, truly fucking you, with a desperate, frantic energy that borders on violence.
"That's it," he pants."Let me hear how much you need this, my love." He pounds into you, the rhythm relentless. "I love the sounds you make. Let all the gods in the heavens hear how well your husband fucks you."
You are a mess of whimpers and pleas, a babbling stream of "yes, Dunk, yes" and "don't stop, please don't stop." He is your man, this great goddamn knight, and he is ruining you for any other. He is your world.
"I love you," he whispers, the words a raw, vulnerable confession against the shell of your ear. He says it again, a mantra, a prayer. "Love you, love you, love you," as he fucks into you, each word punctuated by a powerful thrust.
And then you feel it. The knot in your belly tightening to an impossible degree, the world narrowing to the single, blinding point where you are joined. You're so close, hovering on the very precipice.
He feels it too. He feels the change in your body, the way your inner walls begin to flutter and spasm. And in a move that shatters you completely, he stops.
With a groan of effort, he pulls out of you, leaving you feeling achingly empty. Before you can even form a protest, he's shifting, moving down your body with a speed and grace that is startling in a man of his size. He settles between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them even wider apart.
"Dunk!" you cry out, your voice a ragged, desperate thing. "What are you d-"
Your question is cut off by a gasp as he buries his face in your cunt. There is no teasing, no gentleness. His tongue, flat and wide, strokes through your slick folds, a direct, unerring path to your throbbing clit. He wraps his lips around the sensitive nub and sucks, hard.
Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your throat. Your hands fly to his head, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to you as if you're afraid he might stop. He doesn't. He devours you, his tongue a wicked, swirling torment, his lips a persistent, sucking pressure that is pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Please," you sob, the word a broken, desperate plea. "Oh, gods... Dunk... please..."
His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still for his assault. He slides one long, thick finger inside you, then another, curling them upwards to find that hidden place inside you. He pumps them in and out, in perfect, maddening rhythm with the sucking of his mouth.
That's it. That's all it takes.
The orgasm rips through you, violent and beautiful. A high, thin squeal is torn from your throat, a sound you don't recognize as your own. It's followed by a series of helpless, breathy moans, each one punctuated by a wave of pleasure that is so intense it borders on pain. Your body convulses, your back bowing, your thighs clamping around his head. Your hands tighten in his hair, pulling, grounding yourself in him as the world dissolves into a tapestry of blinding light and roaring sound.
"Dunk! Oh, gods, Dunk!"
He doesn't stop. He lets you ride out the storm against his mouth, drinking down your release as if it's the finest wine. He is the best man you know, the best knight, and he is giving you all of himself.
As the last tremor subsides, a sob of overwhelming emotion escapes your lips. "I love you," you gasp, the words a raw, ragged confession. "I love you so much."
He lifts his head, his face shining with your essence. He licks his lips and the sight of it makes your cunt clench with a renewed, desperate ache.
He rises, moving over you with fluid grace. And then he's back inside you.
This time, it's different. There's no slow, gentle entry. He slams into you, one thrust that almost takes you off the bed. The breath is knocked from your lungs. He's so deep, deeper than ever before, and you can feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against every sensitive inch of you.
Each retreat is a sweet, agonizing emptiness, each return a homecoming that fills you so completely you think you might break apart.
Your response is immediate and uncontrollable. You start to squeal again, a series of high, desperate sounds that you can't hold back.
"Ah! Ah! Dunk! Oh, gods, right there!" Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
He leans down, his massive body blanketing yours, and his hands find your breasts. He cups them, his thumbs flicking over your hard, sensitive nipples, teasing them, tormenting them. The sensations are overwhelming, a perfect, exquisite storm hurtling you, toward another, even more powerful peak.
"Again for me, my love," he whispers, his lips brushing against yours. "I want to feel you cum on me this time. I want to feel you milk me dry."
You can only whimper, a desperate, needy sound that is all the encouragement he needs. He claims your lips then, and it's a messy, desperate kiss. He's not just kissing you; he's breathing for you, sharing your air, your spit. His tongue plunges into your mouth, a hard, possessive thrust that mimics the rhythm of his hips. You suck on it, greedily, desperately, your tongue dancing with his.
"So beautiful. So wild. My wild little wife." He slows his pace, making each thrust a deliberate, grinding circle that rubs against your clit. "Is this what you wanted? To be fucked like this? Tell me…”
"Yes!" you scream, the word torn from your very soul. "Only you, Dunk! Only ever you!"
"Good girl," he rasps as he buries himself to the hilt and stills.
The words are a choked, raw confession. "Yours," he gasps, the rhythm of the word matching the frantic, uneven beat of his heart against your chest. "All yours, my love. My wife. My... my everything."
Then he pushes himself up, his powerful arms straightening. He's still deep inside you, and the movement shifts him. Then he's grabbing your legs, his hands wrapping around the backs of your knees. He lifts them, pushing them up, up, up, until he can rest them on his broad shoulders. The new angle is devastating, opening you completely to him, allowing him to plunge deeper than ever before, a depth that feels impossible, a divine intrusion.
"Dunk," you whimper, your eyes wide as you stare up at him. The position is vulnerable, exposed, but all you feel is a thrill of power. You are a feast laid out for a god, and you have never felt more beautiful.
He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a fire that threatens to consume you both. And then he starts to move again.
"Mmmhmm," he grunts, the sound deep and guttural, torn from his chest with each powerful thrust. "Ughh... gods... look at you... takin' all of me."
The rhythm is relentless. The headboard is a frantic, percussive beat against the wall, a wild, tribal rhythm for your desperate coupling. Your moans are no longer words, just a series of high, desperate cries.
"Deeper," you sob, your hands fisting in the furs beneath you, your knuckles white. "Dunk, you're so deep... I can feel it... gods, I can feel you everywhere."
"You like that, don't you?" he pants. He's looking down, watching himself disappear into you, and the sight is clearly driving him wild. "You like me buried so deep you can't breathe."
"Yes! Yes, I love it!" you cry out, your back arching off the bed. You look up at him, really look at him, at the sheer, overwhelming size of him. His massive chest is heaving, the muscles in his arms and stomach standing out in sharp relief. His face is a beautiful agony of pleasure and exertion. His goregous blue eyes are locked on yours, and the connection is so intense it's almost painful.
And then, a sudden, shocking tenderness.
He slows, his thrusts becoming long, slow, and deep. He carefully unwraps one of your legs from his shoulder. For a heart-stopping moment, you think he's stopping, that he's done. But he's not. He takes your small, delicate foot in his massive, calloused hand. His thumb strokes the arch, a slow, gentle motion that makes you shiver. He looks at your foot, at the delicate bones and soft skin, with the same awe he looks at your face.
And then he presses it flat against the center of his chest, right over his frantically pounding heart.
The contact is a shock. You can feel the frantic, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat against your sole, a desperate, primal drumbeat. The gesture is so intimate, so possessive, so achingly tender that it steals the breath from your lungs.
"Feel that, m’love?" he asks, his voice a low murmur, barely audible over the sound of your own desperate cries. "That's you. You do that to me. You're the only one... the only one in this whole world who can make my heart beat like this." He starts to move again, a slow, grinding rhythm that is somehow more devastating than the frantic pounding. "The only one who can break my fucking heart."
A sob, raw and ragged, tears from your throat. "Never," you gasp, your other leg wrapping tighter around his waist, trying to pull him closer, to fuse your bodies together. "Never, never, never!" Tears stream from your eyes, tracing paths through the sweat on your temples. You're not just crying from pleasure, but from a love so overwhelming it feels like a physical force.
You look up at him, at this giant of a man, this shy, good-hearted knight who could break you in two without a thought, who is holding your foot to his heart as if it's a sacred relic. He is everything. He is your entire world.
"You're my knight," you sob, the words a sacred vow. "My Dunk. My love."
And with those words, something inside him breaks.
He roars as he releases your leg, letting it fall back to the bed, and then he is on you. He covers you completely, a mountain of hot, hard muscle, his forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his harsh pants hot and ragged against your skin.
"Ughh... gods," he grunts, the words a raw, guttural sound against your ear. "Say it again."
"My Dunk… my love… ‘m yours," you moan, your hands flying to his back, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin, holding on for dear life as he resumes a desperate rhythm. "All yours, my knight. My husband."
"Mmmhmm," he groans. His thrusts are short, sharp, and deep, aimed at that one spot deep inside you that makes your vision go white. Each one is accompanied by a raw, guttural sound from deep in his chest.
His cock is rubbing against your clit with each thrust, a constant, maddening friction that is pushing you, hurtling you, toward a peak so intense you're almost afraid of it. His balls are slapping against your arse, the sound filling up the small room.
You can feel him starting to lose control. The rhythm of his hips becomes erratic, less a dance and more a search for release.
Your hands map the landscape of his back, a frantic exploration of quivering muscle and sweat-slick skin.
"Let go, my love," you whisper, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. You tilt your hips up to meet him, a silent, urgent invitation. "Don't hold back. I want all of you. Spill your seed inside me, Dunk. Give me every last drop."
A shudder wracks his massive frame, a wave that you feel deep in your own bones. He lifts his head, and his eyes are wild, unfocused, a storm of love and lust that threatens to consume you both. And then, he does something that shatters you completely.
He lowers his head. He lifts your thigh, and presses a soft, lingering kiss there. It's a kiss of absolute reverence, a benediction, an act of worship so profound it makes your soul ache.
With a final, guttural groan, he shifts, letting your leg fall to wrap around his powerful waist.
"Ah, gods," you sob, the sound torn from your very soul.
The coil in your belly tightens again to an impossible degree, a white-hot knot of pure sensation. Your entire body is trembling, a fine, uncontrollable quiver that has nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the sheer, overwhelming force of your pleasure. "Dunk…’m close," you gasp, the words a desperate, ragged plea. "I'm so close. Don't stop... please don't stop."
He answers with a series of deep moans.
"Mmmhmm... ughh... my love... my wife..."
His hips are a blur of motion now, a relentless, driving rhythm that pushes you higher and higher.
You meet his gaze, and the connection is pure love and lust that flows between you, binding you together. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, a window into a soul laid bare.
"Fill me," you beg, your voice a husky, desperate whisper that is thick with need. "Dunk, please... I want to feel your hot seed. Give it to me. All of it. Claim me. Make me yours."
"Yes!" you sob, the word a torn, ragged thing. "Yes, gods, Dunk, yes! You're giving it to me so good... so deep... so perfect... Ughh... don't stop..."
"Say it," he demands, his voice a low, possessive growl. "Say that you're mine, beautiful."
"I'm yours!" you cry out, the words a sacred vow. "All yours, Dunk! My knight! My love!"
He takes your face in his hands, forcing you to hold his gaze. "Look at me," he pants, his hips pistoning, a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Look at me when you cum for me, my beautiful girl."
The command is the final push.
A scream is torn from your throat, a high, thin sound of pure. The orgasm rips through you, so violent and beautiful. Your cunt clenches around him, a series of tight, greedy spasms, milking him for all he's worth.
"Ah, gods... yes... you're gripping me so tight," he grunts, the words a choked, admiring gasp. "Mmmhmm... that's it... take it all, my love."
Your body convulses, a series of tremors that rack your frame, helpless in the face of the overwhelming pleasure.
"Dunk! Dunk! Dunk!"
You feel the hot pulse of him, a deep, rhythmic throbbing as he spills himself inside you, filling you with his seed. He pours all of himself into you, not just his body, but his soul, his love, his very life force.
He collapses onto you, a dead weight, a mountain of boneless muscle. You can't breathe, but you don't care. You wrap your arms and legs around him, holding him close, never wanting to let him go. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, a beat that slowly, slowly, begins to return to a normal rhythm.You lie there for a long time, listening to the sound of the rain.
The world slowly comes back into focus. The warmth of the fire on your skin, the scent of rain and damp earth, the rough texture of the furs beneath you. The pounding in your ears subsides, replaced by the crackle of the fire.
Dunk's weight is an anchor, a solid, living shield that pins you to the earth and makes you feel safe, cherished. You rest your cheek on the broad expanse of his chest, right over his heart, feeling the steady, powerful thump-thump against your skin. His arms are banded around you, one splayed across your back, the other cupping the back of your head, his fingers stroking your hair in a slow, soothing rhythm.
You can feel the dampness of his sweat and yours, the slickness of your combined releases between your thighs. The air is thick with the scent of sex, of him, of you. It's a primal, comforting scent, the scent of home.
"I could stay like this forever," you whisper, your voice muffled against his skin. "Right here. With you."
His chest rumbles with a low, contented hum. "Aye," he murmurs, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration that resonates through your entire body. "And the world would likely fall to ruin while we did. The crops would wither, the roof would leak, and Egg would likely burn the keep down." He pauses, and you can feel the smile in his voice. "But by the Seven, it would be a happy ruin."
You smile, a slow, lazy thing, and press a soft kiss to the damp hair on his chest. "I'd rather have a happy ruin with you than a pristine world without."
He shifts slightly, rolling onto his side but keeping you tucked securely against him. He props himself up on an elbow, his free hand coming up to gently trace the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw. His touch is so gentle, it almost breaks your heart. He looks at you, and the love in his eyes is a physical thing, a warmth that spreads through your chest.
"Sometimes," he says, his voice soft, almost hesitant, "I look at you, and I wonder what I did to deserve this. To deserve you."
Your smile fades, replaced by a rush of fierce, protective love. "You deserve this, Dunk. You deserve everything good in this world."
"I'm a hedge knight," he says, a familiar, self-deprecating note in his voice. "I've little more to my name than this horse, this sword, and the clothes on my back. I'm big and clumsy and I've a temper that gets the better of me more than I'd like."
"You're Ser Duncan the Tall," you correct him, your hand coming up to cover his where it rests on your cheek. "You're the kindest, most honorable man I have ever known. You're strong, and you're brave, and you have a good heart. That's worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock."
A slow, deep flush creeps up Dunk's neck, spreading across his face, a stark crimson against the backdrop of his scars. The shy hedge knight is back, abashed by your praise even after the most intimate of acts. He tries to look away, but you hold his gaze, your fingers tightening on his.
"And," you add, a wicked glint in your eye, "you do things with your tongue and your hands that would make a pillowhouse whore weep with envy. So I'd say I've quite the bargain."
A little sound escapes him, a cross between a laugh and a gasp. He buries his face in your hair, his great body shaking with laughter. The vibration is a warm, pleasant rumble against your skin.
"Seven save me, you have a wicked tongue yourself, woman," he mumbles against your shoulder, but he's smiling. You can feel it in the curve of his lips against your skin.
He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. His arms are a fortress around you, an unbreachable wall of muscle and warmth. The rain continues its assault on the cottage roof, a steady, percussive rhythm that is no longer a storm, but a song, a lullaby.
In the safety of his arms, the world outside ceases to exist.
"This is my favorite part," you murmur, your voice sleepy and content.
"Hmm?" he rumbles, already half-lost in the comfortable haze that follows.
"This," you say, softly. "After. When the world is quiet and it's just you and me. When you're not a knight and I'm not... well, whatever I am to the world. We're just... us."
He's quiet for a long moment, and you think he might have drifted off. Then he speaks, his voice so low it's almost a whisper. "This is all I've ever wanted," he confesses, the words carrying the weight of a lifetime of loneliness. "Not glory. Not lands or a title. Just this. A small cottage. A warm fire. And you."
His arms tighten around you, a reflexive, protective gesture. "I'd burn the world down to keep this," he says, his voice suddenly fierce, absolute. "To keep you safe. I'd walk through fire for you, my love. You know that, don't you?"
You lift your head, your eyes finding his in the warm, dim light of the fire. There are no shadows of doubt in them, only a fierce certainty. He means it. Every word. This great, humble, awkward man would face down gods and monsters for you.
You close your eyes, letting the scent of rain and woodsmoke pull you under, knowing that when the sun finally breaks through the clouds tomorrow, you will still be exactly where you belong: safe within the arms of the love of your life, your protector. Your knight of the seven heavens.
pairing: oscar piastri x actress!reader
summary: Oscar watches from afar as you and your co-star make the internet a little crazy during your press tour. He tries to convince himself he's not jealous at all.
tags: jealous oscar, secret relationship, miami gp 25, reader stars in tbosas & has indiacorey and zeglyth levels of chemistry w her costar (iykyk!), tom blyth is here, pr team governs all, the woes of being long-distance, one teensy smut scene. minors dni
wc: 13.8k words :D
a/n: [taps mic] hi... [waves].. tons of actors sharing good chemistry with their costars as of late... wondered how oscar would act in a similar situation... Alas
Oscar could not let go of his phone.
It’s all rather inconvenient when the algorithm has him pegged. How could it not? He’s a simple guy with even simpler interests: sim racing, ESPN highlights, and you.
Hollywood's up and rising. Darling songbird. His long-term girlfriend.
His watch history is a clear smoking gun: Cast Trivia on IMDb. Challenges on Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Behind-the-scenes teasers. A leak of your chemistry read. Press interviews—millions of them. He thinks he’s watched each interview from each country. Interviews with you interviewing the other.
And he thought media day was tedious.
He scrolls past a fan edit and exhales, long and weary; he feels a little hostile.
He thinks it’s jealousy.
The exact genesis of it is a mystery. All he knew was that you were suddenly busier than ever.
Not the usual kind of busy—long shoot days or back-to-back matinees where you barely had time to check your phone. Not the kind where, if he was lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of your day on your story. Maybe a ten-minute call before you dozed off.
This was a different kind of busy. Bigger. Public. Cameras trailed you from presser to presser. Your ensemble roles on Broadway and supporting acts in art house films hadn’t garnered this much scrutiny.
You were everywhere now. He didn’t have to wonder where you were or what you were doing—Lionsgate made sure of it.
They lavished on the ad spend: an international press tour when cross-country would’ve sufficed. Print. Radio. Television. Every feed, every timeline, flooded with the kind of lead-couple chemistry execs prayed would recapture the magic of the originals.
You’re both so rarely on the same televised frequency. Reels of his and Lando’s post-race debriefs bleed into autoplay trailers on TikTok. Even Hattie saw the trailer of your movie play right before lights out on a race weekend. Prime slot, full saturation.
He’s proud of you.
Who can discount your credibility? Raised to be onstage, just enough street cred that intrigues producers and makes you worth defending on Twitter. The same trajectory as the modern greats, really.
You’re headed there. He’s sure. Your fanbase themselves are sure. The world can’t help but pay attention when a star is born. Hold their breath, place their bets. Oscar’s already cast his, and they’re all in your favor.
But he scrolls and reads comments. Gets uncomfortably hot at the chest when he dwells on it for too long.
They’re literally in love.
Just date already.
There it was—a flicker of insecurity.
Your agent had advised you to keep your relationship private. Said it could hurt promotional activity. Poor promo hurts the box office. And box office sales were, more or less, championship points in your world.
He liked the privacy. The secrets? Not so much. The peace was a blessing, especially when he’d heard other drivers complain about the media digging into their partners’ lives against their wishes.
And while he wasn’t blind to the merits of a private relationship, he also saw their bright smiles whenever they get to mention their significant others in interviews, the posts on Instagram. Flirty comments and tags in photo dumps.
God, did he want to hold your hand in public. Bring you to races. Walk into the paddock with you by his side. Wishes you were here now, lounging with him in his driver’s room.
He wants to say your name when interviewers ask him, What drives you, Oscar? Wants to see your face at the barriers of parc fermé after getting P1. He even wouldn’t mind posing for a pap or two, arm around your waist. Unmistakably his.
Instead, you did interviews with your co-star. Talked on and on about how easy it is, how natural the chemistry sparks. The interviewers attest to this in confidence, and journalists call it electrifying and undeniable and incessant even when cameras aren’t rolling!
It’s unfair, honestly, to blame your co-star. Anyone in your immediate orbit, given a few moments with you, would fall headfirst.
You—so considerate, so warm, and so unbelievably easy to love.
After all, it only took him seconds to clock the thought: you might be it for him.
His phone dings.
you
you have NO idea what we did today.
oscar
Nothing dangerous, I hope
you
we did an interview with kittens. KITTENS. one climbed up my shoulder.
I named him Oscat :)
Sent an image
It was a selfie of you cradling the kitten, cheek against its furry head. The corners of his lips tug up. He reacts with a heart.
oscar
What an honor
Any chance I could meet Oscat?
you
Tom said we should adopt it
The mention of your co-star makes him frown a bit, but he brushes it off.
oscar
Do you want to?
you
even if I did
we couldn’t
we’d be terrible parents, away all the time.
He has to bite back a smile at the idea of you two being parents. It’s a welcome image that makes his world tilt a little bit off its axis.
Somebody whacks his head from behind. Lando snickers and sends him a knowing look. “What’s got you looking silly?”
“Piss off,” he laughs. His smile grows a little wider.
oscar
Next time then :)
Sure there are plenty of oscats around the world
Don't you worry
you
💔💔💔💔💔💔
gotta go now
love you raceboy
good luck with FP1 tomorrow!!!!
He wants to ignore the last bit. Really. If it were anyone else, but it was you, so he reluctantly searches for the waving hand emoji and hits send.
“That the leading lady?” Lando asks, plopping down beside him on the couch.
He raises his eyebrows at the nickname. “Yeah.”
“Still keeping it under wraps?”
Oscar sighs. “Yep.”
“That’s unfortunate. They’ve been all over my feed, her and that fellow.”
“Tom’s a nice guy,” Oscar says, though he doesn’t know why he finds the need to defend the dude. “He knows we’re together.”
Lando rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure.”
Oscar has a vague idea of where this conversation is headed and he doesn’t like it. “Is there a problem?”
“The problem is you have no rage.”
If only he knew.
“It’s a contractual relationship,” Oscar says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Like we are,” he adds belatedly, but winces when he realizes the argument is flimsy.
“Oh, absolutely. ‘Cause we are the exemplar of professionalism, yeah?”
Lando sits up and looks at him straight in the eye. “Your girl’s great, don’t get me wrong. I dunno, though. I can’t sit still when some bloke is all over my teammate’s girlfriend.” Lando places a hand over his chest. “I’m an empath.”
Oscar scoffs. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, can I? I’m not a douche, Lan.”
“I’m not asking you to be a douche. Just… don’t be a saint!”
He gets the urge to strangle him. He did not need Lando playing enabler.
“And you can do something about it, actually.”
His words hang in the air like bait. Oscar is no better person than what Lando says he is.
“…What do you mean.”
“I’m just saying. It’s not strange for an F1 driver to be into Hollywood and movies.”
“No clue what you’re trying to say, mate.”
“Just… hit like on a few photos here and there. Fans’ll pick it up, put two and two together, then wrap up their BS.”
And Lando leaves it at that.
It feels like crossing a boundary—breadcrumbing the press without your consent, so he lets Lando’s ill-advised scheming pass without comment.
Until Entertainment Weekly.
It’s a cast feature. The article features close-up portraits with your face squished against Tom’s, your hands pinching his cheeks, both of you mid-laugh as the photographer catches the moment.
They’re gorgeous shots. You’re gorgeous.
If Tom’s face weren’t basically fused to yours, Oscar might’ve made one his lockscreen.
There’s a tantrum bubbling up in his throat. He holds it in just barely. It’s his rest day, but he’s considering calling his trainer to punch it out.
It’s no mystery why the press has you pegged as Hollywood royalty’s next in line.
Then he makes the mistake of clicking the video link in the article.
The title alone slaps him across the face—three reads in, and it still stings.
Classic clickbait: loud, shameless, and almost believable if you’ve ever been online for more than five minutes. Fans will eat it up like it’s a confirmation in and of itself.
Tom Blythe Fell In Love with His Co-Star, YN
Oscar scrolls past clipped film stills and scans the article for where the fuck it says about him falling in love with you.
She’s just so alluring. Have you heard her sing? It pulls you in. I don’t even have to be in character to feel that pull. It’s magnetic, our rehearsals. I’ve worked with many people, and it’s hard to click with someone this easily. She’s—she’s very easy to fall in love with. The first time I met her…
He has to put his phone down. Oscar rolls his eyes so hard he sees the back of his brain.
He attempts to justify this revolting feeling worming through him—surely, Tom must be crossing a line? He’s never paid attention to Hollywood, but onscreen couples can’t be this intimate—this blatant—across the media, can they?
He does a quick Google search.
Hollywood co-stars turned couples.
Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Leighton Meester and Adam Brody. Tom Holland and Zendaya.
It’s a long list of more names he doesn’t recognize, but it’s the last one that drives the hammer home; he recalls you calling them “goals” once. He’s seen all the Spider-Man movies with you, so he gets the hype.
Fine. He is jealous.
Turns out the stifling feeling in his chest is a load of self-righteous anger after all. His jaw clenches. It’s triggering all other emotions he’d rather not be feeling.
The nerve of this man.
Oscar swipes back to the article, scrolls up to a photo of you and Tom in some preview event: you, every bit an angel in that white satin dress, and Tom, tall, blonde, with that princely aura Oscar knows he’ll never quite pull off. His stomach unclenches only when he sees Tom’s arm around your shoulder, not your waist.
He hates imagining himself in the same frame.
Next to Tom, he’s awkward. Pedestrian. Unsure in anything outside a race suit.
He hates imagining himself at all.
Then—like you’re psychic—a message pops up.
you
hi baby
my handsome boy
just letting you know the final trailer drops in three hours 😁
I’m reaaally excited for you to see this one
Guilt punctures him in the gut. This feels worse than jealousy—the fact that he had let doubt creep in. That you’d leave him for someone you, technically, met at work. Foolish. Foolish.
oscar
Are you a ghost?
you
???
oscar
Nothing. Was thinking about you when your message came in
Your contact card pops up. Incoming call. His lips perk up at your photo: it’s a stupid-looking high-angle shot of you frowning, your cheeks between his hand.
“What part about me were you thinking of, baby boy?” Your voice trickles through the speakers, sultry and low. He snorts. He can tell you’re holding back a laugh.
“Oh, you know, just about everything,” he replies. He plays along like it’s breathing.
There’s a pause. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
Your unguarded laugh is a bright thing. “Naughty. I hope you were alone.”
He laughs along until a wave of something washes over and an ache seizes his chest. His grip on his phone tightens. “I miss you,” he murmurs.
“I miss you too, Osc,” you say, quiet yet clear over the line. Somehow, you always sound so surprised. “Switch to FaceTime?”
“You aren’t busy?” He asks. Hates how surprised he sounds.
“I’ve got a couple of hours before a Zoom meeting.”
He waits while you switch on the camera, heart beating unusually fast.
When your face comes up, so does his heart. It’s all caught in his throat. Your hair is loose, and he thinks it’s his old sweater you’re wearing.
“Hi,” you’re smiling, propping your phone on a table.
“Hi,” he gushes, head tilting in fondness. His next words spill out involuntarily. “You’re pretty.”
You go shy. He bites his tongue in a grin when you hide and groan. Your blush triggers a dopamine hit, the kind that rushes in when winning, and he thinks he looks fairly dopey on your end.
“Thank you? I love you. Now—stop deflecting. I want to know why you sound like a sad puppy.”
“Hah. Okay. Uh, don’t get mad?”
“You can’t really decide that for me, but I’ll try.”
Oscar sends a screenshot of his recent Google search. Co-stars turned couples.
You lean in and nod. “Hmmm. I see.”
It takes a few seconds longer than it’s supposed to take. He scoffs lightly, amused. You definitely did not see.
You sigh and give up valiantly. “Babe, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. I’m not mad at your lack of Hollywood knowledge, if that’s the case? I might even prefer it that way.”
“That’s not— Okay, um.” Oscar scratches his jaw. He glances back at you, brows scrunched, and braces himself. “So I might have been feeling a little.. Just a little. Jealous. Of you and Tom. Er… Reasons being Entertainment Weekly.”
You blink.
“Oh.”
“Yup.”
“…Really?”
“Mhm.”
“Like, Tom, my co-star Tom?”
“Are there any other Toms I should be aware of?”
“No?”
“Good.”
“You’re jealous?”
“I’m not keen on repeating that part, but yes. I am.”
“Wow.”
“You sounded just like me.”
“It’s just…” You bite your lip, and Oscar spots the faint divot in your cheek, a telltale sign you were trying terribly hard not to laugh.
Fuck my life. He wants to crawl into a cave. “You can laugh, you know. I know it’s stupid.”
“You’d feel bad if I laughed! And you’re completely entitled to feel that way!” You grin. “But you’re right. It is a little stupid. It’s like me getting jealous of Lando.”
Oscar’s lips form a pout. “Why would you get jealous of Lando?”
“Exactly.”
Not only is he still confused, he’s also feeling an inch worse because your reaction makes it all seem like he’s just overreacting, acting irrational. He can’t help it—his usually sound judgment goes haywire whenever you’re involved.
His skin feels a little tight. Uncomfortable. Admitting it now felt like a terrible idea.
It must be written all over his face, because you lean closer to the camera. “Oscar.”
He’s still too upset to answer. When you call him again, your voice is a little more urgent.
He avoids the camera but hums, a tad grumpily, just to let you know he’s listening.
“I love you, softy. Just you.”
When he looks up, there’s a small smile on your face.
“I mean it. No acting here.”
All he can do is stare—wide-eyed, soft. Starstruck.
Maybe it’s the way you say it. I love you. Said in the same way you always do. All candid confidence. It’s the same I love you before he jets off. The I love you when you end a call. It’s instinct. Easy. The words, all the same, warm and worn like a well-fitted glove.
Or maybe it’s the way you’re staring. Eyes crinkled in mirth. The faintest dimple on your cheek. Incredulity—the gentle kind, the one reserved for lecturing little kids and, apparently, him—is written all over your face because he should’ve known.
I love you. You were so sure.
He forgets that he hasn’t spoken.
So you say it again. Firmer.
“You’re mine, Piastri. Got that?”
He has to clear his throat. Screw being jealous. He was yours—lanky shoulders, awkward grins, and all the uncertainty his confidence couldn’t quite cover.
You take home all.
He leans back on the couch, hides his reddening face behind his hands. “Overkill,” he mutters. “I got it the first time.”
You scoff. “Sure you did.”
“I swear.”
“Pffft.”
Oscar studies your face on his significantly small screen and wishes you were right next to him instead. “I love you.”
The mischief melts from your eyes. “I know.” It turns soft. “And I love you, too. Case it wasn’t clear.”
He laughs. Oh, God. You make it hard for him, sometimes.
And then he goes quiet. Not on purpose. But because there’s a stifling feeling in his chest. Emotions, too much of them. He has to let out a sigh.
You frown at that. “You really okay? And don’t fucking lie. I can tell.”
He rolls his eyes, gets very close to the camera. “I promise, baby. Thank you.”
A message comes through a couple of minutes after.
come to think of it. jealous and territorial thing could work in the bedroom. what say you 😉😇
This time, he really laughs.
He bags two wins from the triple-header. Finally: a week of grace.
By then, there’s another feature of you and Tom. You send him a link to the magazine’s official Instagram.
you
sending you, my dearest boyfriend, another shoot I had with Guy I Work With
oscar
You can call him by his name I’m not that petty 🙄
you
😛
oscar
Oh wow these shots came out well
you
right!! 🥹
Oscar scrolls through the comments, mostly mindless now.
Jealousy was exhausting. Irrational. Oscar Piastri is above such emotions. That’s how they were raised in the Piastri household.
He scrolls daringly.
The ones gushing about your chemistry barely bother him. The ones insinuating you and Tom are dating? Only slightly grating. He believes he’s made progress.
His chest swells at the sheer amount of love you’re getting.
One comment makes his thumb pause
⇢ the way he looks at her BROOO whoever yn’s bf is is better than me
Oscar sits up a little straighter. Grabs a cushion in case he needs to squeeze something.
He opens the reply thread against his better judgment.
⇢ “Whoever her bf is” when it’s literally tom LMAOO
⇢ i'd cheat if i were her #tbh
⇢ idt she’s dating anyone tho so the agenda lives on
⇢ MAYBE respect their private lives and not make this weird for them
⇢ why she would be single is beyond me of course she has a boyfriend
He hmms and huhs through the comments. Somewhat entertained, very much ticked.
It’s only after he gets to the end of the thread that Oscar realizes he’s pressed Like on the original comment.
“Ah shit.”
He immediately unlikes.
Oscar stares at his phone for one, two, three long seconds.
Fuck. Fuck.
Surely, this person wouldn’t know him? Didn’t get a notification for a like he quickly retracted? At least, he thinks he was quick enough.
Not everyone follows Formula One, anyway. There are thousands of other sports in the world, so surely…
Oscar cautiously taps on the commenter’s profile. His heart drops.
There, at the top of the person’s profile, is a dedicated highlight labeled F1 🏁
Okay. So this person is into F1. Cool.
He’s one of the less popular drivers, so it’ll be fine. It’s just his third season. He’s only won stuff just recently. Probably a Leclerc fan. Won’t care about him at all.
But then he scrolls down their profile. There’s a photo of them posing in the middle of the grandstands, pointing to a papaya cap with the number 4 emblazoned on the brim.
Just his luck: A fucking Lando Norris fan blowing his cover.
user: oscar just liked my comment on instagram..?
⇢ WHAT do you mean
⇢ this is the comment he liked
⇢ ????? wtf does he have to do with tbosas or yn or her boyfriend lol
⇢ UNLESS HE’S THE BOYFRIEND?
Nothing ever remains a secret for too long in these circles.
He’s surprised it’s gotten this far.
Somewhere, a gossip columnist cracks their knuckles and thinks finally, some good fucking food. It’s a field day for the tabloids and overtime for your PR team.
Not his. McLaren couldn’t care less about who he’s dating. That’s exactly why Oscar feels like crap.
One elaborate Twitter thread becomes the de facto source for every other video uploaded on Tiktok and Youtube—the new bloods of Motorsports and Hollywood, here’s everything you need to know!
Oscar’s slip-up is a drop of blood in shark-infested waters, and they’re quick to catch scent. Fan theories climb up the algorithm. Discourse drives the headlines. Your digital footprints get timestamped, reverse-searched, and stitched into Reddit threads that are exaggeratingly formatted like crime scene dossiers.
It’s easy forensic work when both of you live half your lives in public.
To be fair, you haven’t made it hard, either.
You’ve flirted with exposure more than once: an Australia photo dump, repeated use of the orange heart emoji, that one offhand interview comment about being attracted to “people who chase their dreams at full speed.”
All harmless fun when the whispers didn’t exist.
Now, each breadcrumb’s been turned into ammo against you both.
“What a waste of talent. They could be doing investigative work for fucking Interpol and yet it’s our little lives they choose to pick apart,” You say on speaker as he drives to the MTC for their debriefs.
He knew your little ways of rebelling, the secret joy you get tiptoeing around PR restrictions. “This sucks. I liked playing cryptic.”
He can hear you pouting. “My poor girl,” Oscar coos.
You huff again, glassware clinking faintly in the background. Longing hits him like a spell; it’s been a while since he’s made morning tea by your side.
“I saw a vintage McLaren poster the other day and was tempted to upload a story of it. ”
He makes a turn. “I think you do want to get caught.”
“Ish.”
Oscar snorts. “Well, dearest, you’ve gotten exactly what you wished for.”
“But I wanted it to be without consequence.” You heave a dramatic sigh. “We could’ve watched it slowly unfold, avoid this flashbang in the morning.”
As much as he feels bad that he spoiled your theatrical soft launch, he can’t help but find your moping infinitely endearing. “Yeah, my bad. Slippery fingers.”
You pause to take a sip. “It’s okay. No idea what they’re talking about in the PR meeting they’re having, but— What’s that thing they say? Any press is good press?”
The dip in your tone doesn’t make you sound convincing. This alarms him. “I didn’t make things complicated for you, did I?”
“No, don’t worry,” you say. He hears the lie, and his grip on the wheel tightens a little. He calls your name again. He wasn’t buying it.
You give in. “Fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Isn’t it a sensitive thing, having us Hollywood folks poke around your sport? Fans hate that, right?”
Oscar already knows you’re biting the inside of your cheek. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care about what a few motorsports purists have to say, and neither should you.”
You hum in response. Distant.
“Hey,” he calls. The end of the line is quiet. He has to double-check his phone. “Don’t get too in your head when I’m not there.”
“Hm?”
“I said get out of your head, baby.”
“Oh. Sorry.” You sound sheepish. “I think I’m gonna order in for breakfast. Let me know how the debrief goes, okay? Love you.”
He hums, still worried. “Bye. Love you too.”
The debrief, without any racket, goes. Everyone’s happy with the wins. He shoots a few videos with Lando for marketing, runs a few rounds on the sim. The day was supposed to end there, if not for Zak gesturing him over to the meeting room.
Lando notices and gets the hint way before he does because he asks if he can join in.
“I’ll eavesdrop if you say no.” Zak doesn’t have much of a choice.
It doesn’t take too long for him to piece together this impromptu meeting—not when the only people in the room are from Marketing or PR.
They all look a little confused when Lando walks in with him, but Zak waves them off.
“Hi, everyone. Just here for a good time,” his teammate greets. Everyone settles into their chairs. Lando leans in and whispers, “PR time, baby.”
On the side, someone rolls their eyes and mutters, “We’ll need an extra NDA.”
“Normally, we wouldn’t arrange a PR stunt because of a driver’s love life, but yours is a bit special,” Chrissy, the head of this entire op, says after giving them the rundown.
He nods in understanding. “Yeah. Cause she's a public figure, right?”
She knits her brows. “Yes, but it’s also more of a money thing. Some studio people wanted to mitigate this issue in case it hurts the box office. Crisis into opportunity and whatnot.”
It makes no sense. Oscar widens his eyes for lack of a better reaction. “Wow. Okay, sure. Didn’t know I could bring in such bad press.”
“You are when you’re getting in the way with one of their biggest selling points.”
“I’m in a relationship with one-half of their biggest selling points,” he deadpans.
Lando lets out a low whistle. “A bunch of stodgy Hollywood producers got in contact with McLaren?”
“Just one producer made the call. But yes.”
“Ozzz. You have got to stop messing with PR.” He grins. “You know Alpine still hasn’t recovered to this day?”
“Jesus..” Oscar rubs at his temples. “I will muzzle you.”
“Seriously. I respect the hustle. Why stop at F1? Why not terrorize Hollywood Hills while you’re at it?”
“Mate.”
“Hah. Sorry. Anyhow, I give my full support to Oscar’s second stint at appeasing the media via…” Lando looks over at Chrissy and gestures to the PowerPoint. “What’s this called?”
“Pardon?”
“This thing. This operation. Does it have a name?”
“We don’t really have a name for it.”
“You don’t?” His teammate’s face genuinely drops at this information. “Well. You must.”
“Um. Operation Big Reveal?”
Lando blows a raspberry. “Horrible. Next.”
“Operation Soft Launch?”
“What? No. Boring. Okay. Sit with it for a few minutes.”
Zak and the other company big shots escape while they can.
“Osc?”
“No. Can we go home now.”
“Just one bloody name.”
Someone giggles. “Rob thought of a great name.”
Oscar doesn’t know who Rob is, but he hopes he puts an end to this conversation. Lando urges him on. “Well, spit it out, then.”
“DRS.” A beat. They wait for him to elaborate. The tips of Rob’s ears turn a deep red. “Deploy Romance Strategically.”
“Operation DRS,” Lando grins, nodding. “You absolute genius.”
Oscar is impressed, embarrassed, but mostly relieved that Lando’s been satiated. “You’ve held onto that for a while, have you?”
Chrissy approaches Oscar while Lando chats the team’s ears off. “You can give your girlfriend a heads up that we’ll be in contact with her team soon.”
His cheeks warm at the mention of you, not used to hearing them address you so casually. “Sure, Chrissy. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s been a while since the team’s gotten to do anything on this scale—no offense.”
“None taken. Run through the NDA with Lando again, will you? He’s too loose for my liking.”
The next morning, a WhatsApp group is made.
OPERATION DRS — Miami GP PR Plan
Chrissy: Hi team!! Here’s the game plan for the upcoming race week just so we’re all aligned on tone + handling buzz during and after the GP.
The goal is to soft-launch the relationship of Oscar and YN without making it a spectacle + clear up the rumors between the two leads in a way that still boosts promo for the film.
I’ve already sent tailored briefs to your media reps, so you can direct your questions to them if you have any.
Chrissy sent a file.
Oscar reads the file twice, thrice. He memorizes his talking points and yours for good measure. He usually doesn’t care about the media; the consequences are too intangible in the grand scheme of things. But now, he takes it seriously. Because it concerns you.
Oscar doesn’t take risks with you.
And so he hangs onto every word in this document, places your welfare and your career’s success into the hands of experts. Trusts the process.
Your call is out of the blue.
Weird. He does a quick calculation—It’s 8 AM, and London is five hours ahead of New York, meaning it’s 3 AM right now where you are.
He picks up. “Hi? You having trouble sleeping?”
“Hi. No, I’m okay.”
“Wanna switch to FaceTime?”
“No!” You say abruptly, then catch yourself. “I mean, no. It’s fine.”
Okay, now you were truly acting weird. “O…kay? If you say so. Why’re you still up?”
There’s a sigh at the end of the line. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to check if you were busy today.”
“Oh. Nah, I’ve got a free day today. Some training, but nothing heavy.”
“When do you leave for Miami?”
“Hmm. Not in five days,” he replies, then he remembers the whole media plan, and the corners of his lips turn up. “Can’t wait to see your face then.”
“Yeah?” You ask, a soft quality to your voice. He hears the smile in your answer. “Me too, Osc. Can’t wait to cause some damage.”
He tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the cabinet for something to eat. “You think your fans will hate me?”
You pause, thinking. “Nah. I’ve met some of them, they’re chill.” But then you add lightly, “It’s the shippers we have to worry about. They’re somewhat insane.”
He inwardly sighs when he realizes there’s nothing passably nutritious (an old box of Weetabix, a few cans of Monster).
“I figured.” Then, he hears the distinct sound of a car horn, which makes him pause. “Wait. Are you in a car?”
“Why would I be in a car?” you ask, sounding too blithe for someone awake in the bleak hours of morning.
He shuts the cabinet door. “Well, that sounded really close. You’re not driving, are you? Don’t you live on the twenty-sixth floor?”
“Car horns are really loud, Oscar.”
Hm. If only you were acting in front of a camera and not him, he might have been fooled.
His heart starts to pick up.
He didn’t want to assume, but he thinks he hears a frightfully quaint accent that is very much not of a New York City cab driver.
He holds his breath when he pulls up the Find My app.
He stills. You’ve turned off your location—the flicker of truth in your lie.
His blood begins to hum.
If he wasn’t hearing things, if he wasn’t chasing some daydream… Then you were on your way to him.
“Oscar?” You call out gently. “You there?”
It genuinely takes a gargantuan amount of self-restraint to keep the fondness from his voice. “Sorry, love. Just got a notification.”
You sound relieved when you reply, now that you think he’s off the scent. “Free day my ass. Go answer those emails. I’m getting sleepy.”
“Okay.” He’s never been happier to hear you lie. “Sleep well.”
You blow a kiss into the receiver. “Night. Love you.”
“Love you most.”
When the call ends, he laughs to himself.
He can’t even remember what he was doing before—whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Hunger dissolves into static.
He doesn’t know how far you are, only that you’re in England. And you’re on your way.
Still dazed, he starts tidying up. There’s a stupid grin on his face he can’t quite get rid of.
He puts on one of your pre-show playlists hoping it might settle his heart, which doesn’t know what to do with itself. Chopin trickles through the small speakers.
It’s someone’s dog at the door, tail wagging, thinking: Yes. Yes. Yes. You. Here. Soon.
The playlist is halfway through when the doorbell rings.
His heart gives a little kick. Jump starts his entire nervous system. He sprints to the door and nearly skids on the hardwood.
Oscar peers through the peephole.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He fumbles with the lock.
There you are—luggage in tow, a brown paper bag in hand, the faint smell of butter and dough curling into the air.
“Delivery for Oscar Piastri?”
His brain, operating on the thought of you alone this entire morning, short-circuits completely. You barely utter another sentence before he’s stumbling forward, all limbs and relief. The bag hits the ground before you can save it.
“Ack! Oscar, the food—”
“Later,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder.
He squeezes you until the space between you disappears. No more miles, no more time differences. Just solid, present warmth.
Your body sighs against him. Arms wound tighter around his neck, and he relishes how the pull seems as desperate as his. It’s never easy, the distance. This time took a lot longer than usual.
He inhales a lungful of your scent and nearly whines. It all feels like coming home. Finally.
Too long. Too goddamn long.
“Hi,” you grin when you pull away, grasping onto his hoodie.
Oscar laughs, eyes crinkling, unbelieving. “Hi, pretty girl.” Then he leans in for a kiss.
You breathe into him, and he presses down a little harder. He’s missed this—your taste, the shyness of your lips.
A soft giggle erupts moments before the kiss gets too emotional, too heated. You lean your forehead against his, breathless.
He raises a brow when you bite your lips, holding back another fit of laughter. You’re all childish glee when he mutters ‘brat’ before he pecks you.
“Surprise,” you grin.
He rolls his eyes and smirks. “You can turn your location on, now.”
Your mouth falls open. “You noticed.”
“It’s you,” he shrugs. Something molten glimmers in your eyes. He’s not sure what it is, but he gets an inkling.
You kiss him again.
When you’re home, he makes it a point never to leave your side.
It’s like his heart’s outgrown his chest—stretching into the room, spilling into the kitchen, taking up all the space around you.
He takes the chair beside you rather than the one across. Glues his body to your side. Eats with one hand so the other can rest on your knee while you explain how you nearly missed your flight.
When he’s finished his food, he leans in and buries his head into your neck, sniffing without thinking. You’re in his hoodie, bare legs folded, socks peeking underneath the soft hem.
And it’s this: this specific blend of you, with a whiff of him. Balmy and warm and all-familiar comfort. It shoots up straight to his neural pathways like a drug.
You bring your free hand to stroke the side of his head. Oscar hums lowly, furrowing deeper. “Mm,” he presses a light kiss against your neck. He wants nothing more than to make a home here.
God, it’s like he’s intoxicated. Dipped in honey. He looks at you, struck by the sunlight gliding over your edges like something divine.
He picks out a goddess from memory. Hera. Athena. No—Aphrodite, he decides. There has to be a film about her somewhere. Maybe in that Nolan film you gushed about. Unfortunate, he thinks. They didn’t know the perfect girl for Aphrodite was in his arms.
If he had any creative acumen at all, he’d write a film just to watch you become her.
Alas, he was just Oscar.
“You are not real,” he murmurs.
“I don’t feel real,” you reply, eyes drooping. It must be all the warm food. The timezones catching up. He doesn’t know it’s because of all the attention he’s giving, layering on you lovingly like a weighted blanket.
You yawn, full-bodied and conclusive. He’s already slipping his arms under your knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You let out a yelp. “But we haven’t seen each other in months… I can’t go to sleep now.”
Oscar kisses your forehead and whispers directly into your ear, “I’ll make you sleep. Send you straight into REM.”
He gently lowers you onto the bed.
This is how he takes care of you: with hot licks and wet kisses against your core. It’s slow and lethargic. Nary a destination in mind when he draws out the laps of his tongue like a pastime.
There’s no rush, even when his fingers slip in. Languid, coaxing. A lullaby.
You sigh. Fall apart when he presses into the spot. Enough, you insist with a whine. He pretends not to hear, even when you tug his hair and cry out your thanks.
Everything is soft. Your thighs, the sound of your mewls. He allows himself to be greedy for a minute and sucks.
“Babe—” you gasp.
It’s useless. There’s no casting out the possessed.
He lasts for another round. This time, you don’t call for mercy. Only his name.
Oscar can tell when you’ve tipped over the edge of consciousness—You barely catch his ruined face when he comes to stroke your head.
Aftercare is a diligent affair. Runs the cloth over your skin like a ritual rather than a routine. He’s pleased. Overjoyed, really, over the fact that you’re here, sprawled across his bed, fast asleep.
He cleans himself up and crawls under the sheets, pulling you to his chest. This might be the best feeling in the world.
Training can wait.
Operation DRS is divided into three phases.
“Phase one focuses on riding along on fan speculation. So no teasing. On your end, at least. Any hint dropping will be coordinated by your reps.”
It’s mostly social media work: you, keeping up the online banter with Tom and reposting whatever needs to be shared. Tweets. Likes. Comments that make you two seem like a couple to those who didn’t know better.
Would’ve sent Oscar spiraling, too, if your head wasn’t on his lap while you went about it.
Having you around before he had to fly off to Miami is a gift. He likes hearing your voice across the room. Likes blowing kisses behind your camera during an interview, likes the faces you make when Mark’s on speaker, reacting to brand deals and podcast invites.
But you had to leave eventually. Some pop-up event with a brand, you had explained with a sad smile. Just a couple of days before flying to Miami, too. Right before Media Day.
The alarm already went off twice. He didn’t want you to leave.
He was a heavy sleeper, and while often a drawback, it worked to his advantage now. His arms clung to your frame defiantly.
You pat his arms. “I know you’re awake.”
“M’not,” he mumbled against your neck, eyes tightly shut. “I’m asleep. Leave in the morning.”
“It is morning.” There’s another attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. He pulls you impossibly closer. You sigh, “Oscar.”
“This is abandonment.”
“I’ll see you in two days, remember?”
He scoffed and tried taming down his whine. He was no better than a child.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re gone too quickly,” he says. It comes out more serious than expected.
You go still in his arms.
“Can I please face my boyfriend while we have this conversation?”
He lets go—reluctantly. Like he wants to fight it.
You twist around and cup his face in your hands.
His skin is warm, eyes intense. They don’t meet yours.
A light dusting of stubble prickles your palms. You feel his breath, slow and steady, fan across your cheek and try your damnest not to take the easy way out by kissing him instead.
“We’ve talked about this,” you say quietly. He looks up. You search his eyes, trying to gauge if he’s being serious.
His smile looks half-hearted. “I know. It’s just…”
“Yeah?”
“Feels different this time. Next time I see you, I have to pretend. Put up an act. I know it’s just for a while, but—I don’t like pretending,” he huffs. “Don’t think I can.”
You realize, then, how different this must feel for Oscar; You, used to acting, to slipping into another person’s skin, into another world. This was easy. A bit of fun, truly.
You hadn’t thought about how Oscar really thought about it. Not when he broke the news or told you the plan. He’d be playing a part, reciting some lines. Pretend that, for a while, you were just another person in his garage.
It nearly brings you to pieces, how quickly he takes the plunge when you’re in the picture. He hasn’t even said anything until now.
“It won’t be an act. None of it will.” You promise quietly, resting your forehead against his.
“Would be easier if this were about anything else,” he mumbles.
A younger you would’ve taken immediate offense. Not now, though. Because you understand. Because you spent more years arguing with him before being with him. Because of this, you know what he means: This isn’t just anything. It’s you.
You were everything to him.
Warmth simmers in your bones.
“Good thing I’m not easy,” you say, disguising your joy as impudence. Oscar nudges your nose. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He closes in, resting his lips on yours. Not kissing, just to be as close as he can. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I know it’s a little unreasonable.”
A peck. “Never unreasonable. Not with you.”
You show him a little mercy, cuddling and stealing time you don’t have. It’s the nature of your relationship. Trading places, who leaves and who stays. But it helps, just a bit, these short moments sitting in denial.
Your embrace breaks just before dawn does. He sits up, and you feel his eyes tracking you as you get ready.
In the middle of shoving packing cubes into your carry-on and picking which hoodie to steal (“Don’t you have anything that isn’t in damn papaya?!”), you don’t notice Oscar spiraling in the background.
He’s nervous. While he usually doesn’t let voices from the outside get to him, he couldn’t help but think of what—or who—was at stake.
Oscar scrolls through his socials the next day. He stops at a photo of you at the brand pop-up and has to physically stop himself from smiling.
You were dressed in orange—in papaya. Flashing a sweet smile at the camera with no traces of shame for any rumors you would start fanning.
user: wearing that shade of orange at this time was NOT a good move
user: I’m crying did she do this on purpose or is she just blissfully unaware
⇢ I don’t think she cares that some driver liked a comment about her tho
⇢ fr god forbid a guy likes pretty movie stars
⇢ SOME DRIVER????????????
user: Tom liked!!!!!
Your phone pings. Several times.
Nellie (PR)
PR would appreciate a heads up on any easter egg dropping moving forward, but they’ve decided it’s a good call. Said we’re getting enough “healthy speculation” to transition to the next phase.
Oscar
Hi. Cute outfit ☺️🧡 Can’t wait to see you
Tom
You are honestly so obvious
The team plants a tip anticipating your arrival with Tom for FP1 and Sprint Qualifying. It’s officially Phase 2 of Operation DRS.
Sparks fly as Hollywood’s newest stars are seen together trackside in Miami.
It doesn’t take long for the gossip sites to follow, skewing your visit into something entirely different, which is exactly what your team wants them to do.
Stars land in Miami—but which team gave them the paddock pass?
Who is YN really cheering for? Tom, or one lucky driver?
“I’m nervous,” Tom says as you both walk towards the Paddock Club suites. A wave of camera shutters goes off in your direction. You didn’t realize they were so… in your face, even on the paddock.
Both of you are led upstairs into the thick of the Miami Paddock Club. It's considerably crowded, a blur of designer sunglasses and neon-accented lanyards on tailored suits and deep plunge dresses. Laughter bounces off the glass railings. A few heads turn as you and Tom make your way through, towards a more private sitting area tucked behind a velvet rope.
There’s a flat screen streaming the broadcast, and you have one eye on it in case Oscar appears.
You’re grateful for the pocket of peace. You return to Tom. “He’s nice. You’ll be fine. And it’s not like you’re meeting him now. He’s already in the garage,” you say. “We’ll do some real damage tomorrow.”
“Psh. I’ll do some real damage now.” Tom lifts his phone towards you and coos, “Smile!”
You pose with a wink.
Tom’s thumbs fly across the screen and you feel your phone buzz.
Fast times with @ mclaren !
Someone’s stoked to be here @ yourname
You smirk, repost the story with I’ve got good company 🤷♀️
He snorts at your repost. “Now you’re being PR compliant.”
You ignore his comment with a roll of your eyes and raise your phone. “Your turn.”
Tom dons his McLaren cap and poses, pointing at the live feed with a grin.
The comments start flooding in. Your rep sends you a thumbs-up emoji. Everything’s according to plan.
You stare at the stream, willing it to cut to Oscar. This PR fuss is making you sick with longing.
When it cuts to him slipping his balaclava on, your heart lurches. At once, a series of oohs echoes in the room. Chit-chat multiplies. Only incrementally, but it’s noticeable. Some even take their phones out. You realize everyone else is staring at the same person on the screen.
Who wouldn’t? The Championship Leader. Record-breaker. Fastest man on the grid. Number one.
You bite the inside of your cheek and tamp down the sudden, ugly rush of possessiveness. You wish you’d brought his hat. Wish you’d worn his entire team kit, have his number emblazoned on your back.
You’re already opening up your photo gallery.
You scroll and scroll and land on one Hattie had taken in Australia—You on Oscar’s back, arms snug around his neck. Legs hooked between his arms. Smiles wide, skin flushed, lush greenery and trail signs peeking from behind.
It becomes your new wallpaper.
It’s shot a little wide, faces not too visible from afar, but the shot is affectionate enough for a follower to do a double-take. Just innocent enough. But petty. So petty, in fact, but you can’t help but pray someone catches it. Takes a photo, sends it online.
A little oops moment is all it would amount to. Can you blame a girl?
You put your phone aside, appeased.
Jealousy hadn’t thought to spare you either.
Sprint quali goes by similarly. You take photos. Joke around with Tom. Interact with other VIPs. It kills you that you’re obliged to network instead of paying attention to his lap times. You try not to get too upset when Oscar barely loses the sprint pole, knowing there’s a camera somewhere. You weren’t his girlfriend, not publicly, and so you shouldn’t be concerned with whether he places P1 or P20.
Back at the hotel, Tom retreats to his room. And while you have every intention of marching up to Oscar’s suite and making out with him like you’ve been separated for years, you could not wait to wash off the sticky heat of the Miami sun.
You’re in the middle of your skincare routine when you hear a soft knock on your door.
Through the peephole, Oscar stands with his hands in his hoodie, hair mussed, staring right through you. You immediately open the door.
He doesn’t say anything, just steps in to wrap you in his arms with a groan.
“Longest session of my life.”
You don’t even hear him, senses blocked by strong arms and a solid chest.
“Would’ve run through the paddock and tackled you to the ground if I had any say in it,” you mumble, voice muffled by the fabric. Oscar hears it perfectly, though, and you feel the rumble of a laugh erupt deep in his chest.
He gently pushes your body away from his, and you look at him with a raised brow.
He tilts his head to the side, teasing, eyeing you up and down, and you tighten your grip on him. You suspect he’s making fun of you in his head. The flicker in his smile tells you so.
You narrow your eyes. Who knows what else is going on inside that brilliant brain of his? It makes you want to wipe that smirk off his face.
“What?”
“What,” he parrots, mouth twitching upwards.
“Stop that.”
“Hm?” He tilts his head again, like he can’t help it.
“Stop looking at me funny.”
“You’re cute.”
“I’m not a stress toy.”
“You are to me.”
“Ugh,” you shut your eyes in quiet frustration.
Oscar takes the chance to press a soft kiss to your lips.
The contact unspools the tight coil in your stomach that’s wound taut from not seeing his face the entire day. You melt into him.
“Missed you today,” you confess once you’re buried in the sheets. “F1’s so different.”
Oscar props himself up with an elbow. “Yeah?”
“Nothing like your earlier races.” You climb onto his body. He adjusts himself so you can properly rest your chin on his chest. “Everyone’s an Oscar Piastri fan, now.”
His face contorts into something that can only be described as smug. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Comes with winning, baby.”
You continue like this, taking turns recounting the day before sleep claims Oscar, and you have no choice but to follow.
Sprint and Qualifying permit you to fan the flames ever so slightly.
PR had arranged for you and Tom to have garage access during the Sprint and later in Quali, where he’s expected to reach Q3, meaning your boyfriend will be within your line of sight throughout the day.
You aren’t sure he’s aware, so you send him a quick selfie with the headset on. It’s not like he’ll see it, but—just in case.
You wish him luck on the sprint.
Still, no direct interaction is advised.
Soon.
Oscar gets a glimpse of you when he starts getting ready.
Your eyes are already on him, and he immediately lights up. He winks, half-smiling. You bite your cheek and mouth good luck.
The cameras, thankfully, don’t catch the exchange. Nobody does—except for Tom. He pokes your cheek in warning. “Keep it together, lover girl.”
You roll your eyes at him, not knowing that there’s a camera trained on you both this time around. You’ll find out how much the internet eats that up later in the day.
When the lights go off, you and Tom grab each other in a way that would seem overdramatized if you two weren’t genuinely invested in Oscar snatching back the lead. But then he holds the inside line, and race leader becomes his. No longer do you two look out of place with the McLaren garage erupting in fist pumps and shared yelps.
You let out a sigh of relief when his pitstop goes smoothly. Quietly curse at the same time he does when the safety car makes its untimely arrival, costing him the win.
P2 for the sprint. You applaud from where you are, giving your PR team room to breathe; nothing over the top, nothing to fuel the rumors. As discussed, you’re led out of the garage before Oscar returns.
You shoot off a quick text to Oscar, not expecting a reply until after his media obligations and debriefing. Nice P2, baby :)
He replies just an hour later. I’ll come find you once I’m done. Love you.
You and Tom are busy licking your spoons clean of gelato inside the Hard Rock Stadium when a McLaren staff member approaches you.
“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s alright,” you reply, smiling, albeit confused. His face is familiar—you try to pinpoint where, and recall him from one of the Zoom meetings prior to race week.
“Oscar’s looking for you. I can walk you inside—a lot safer than entering yourself, case anyone pries.”
“Oh! Um-” You look at Tom apologetically. He waves you off. “Go on. I’ll go bother my manager while you rendezvous.”
On the way there, you apologize to the staff for having to play middleman to a pair of PR troublemakers, but he insists that it’s fine. Really. Having the opportunity to be photographed next to an actress is one of the more exciting aspects of the job, apparently.
Your escort helps you slip into the motorhome. It’s not as discreet as you’d hoped.
Someone snaps a photo and uploads it to Twitter.
user: yn with a mclaren staff. what goes ONN. i dont think she’s just a rando vip guest…
user: no cause did you see how she was reacting to the sprint fhsdjghsg
user: guys i think she might actually be oscar’s personal guest
⇢ Well now that’s pushing it
user: have we forgotten how she and tom were literally flirting in the garage
He’s lying horizontally on his physio bench when you come in. You snort at the sight of him.
In his shorts. Shirtless.
Oscar gets up with a grunt and automatically wraps his arm around your chest, then shyly thanks his staff for escorting you. They shut the door with a wink.
He pecks your lips in greeting. “I’ve got about ten minutes? Fifteen, max.”
“Nap first. Talk later.”
He kisses your cheek, muttering against it. “Can I lie on your lap?”
Your hand reaches up to pat his face. “Come on,” you say.
It’s cramped in his driver’s room—the floor would be a better option. You sit up against the wall and urge him over.
“And put a shirt on.”
He rolls his eyes at you like the little brat he sometimes is, but listens anyway.
When he’s finally dressed, he comes over and lays his head in your lap. You’re relieved the floor is carpeted.
Your hand finds his hair instinctively, fingers stroking his scalp, pulling gently at the back, knowing he likes the pressure. He sighs, subdued and content.
“All good so far?” he mumbles, half-asleep already.
“Yeah. PR team’s been quiet, so I guess that’s a good thing. Tom’s having fun, too.”
He hums softly. “M’glad to hear.”
And just like that, he’s knocked out. You smile, infinitely endeared.
You pass the time just like that: stroking Oscar’s head, playing with his curls, counting the freckles on his face. You think it’ll please his fans if they learn how feline he is when he’s affectionate.
You’re at twenty-six (twenty-six!) freckles when your phone starts buzzing.
Ten minutes is up.
“Oscar, darling,” you whisper into his ear. “Wake up.”
When he doesn’t stir, you scatter pecks all over his face. His eyes flutter open.
“Quali time,” you say quietly, and it’s enough to pull him out of the post-nap disorientation. He sits up with a groan of a grandpa and leans on you like a sloth.
“Thanks, baby,” he mutters into your hair. You kiss him for good luck and stand up to leave.
“You in the garage later?” He asks while slipping on his fireproofs.
“Only during Q3, if you get there.”
Oscar scoffs. “I think you mean when I get there.”
The smirk you’re nursing turns into a grin. “Of course I did, raceboy.”
Oscar meets expectations and is up to Q3.
By this time, you and Tom stand at the sidelines of the garage, notably not behind the stanchions where the other VIPs are corralled—a small but indicative freedom. It’s already earned you and Tom a few furtive looks; your paddock pass is, undoubtedly, a personal invitation.
It’s quiet between you and Tom now that Oscar’s on a hot lap. The garage is charged. All eyes are glued to a screen. You are willing everything, down to each pebble on the asphalt, to align for pole.
When he’s back in the garage, your senses snap to attention. The hairs on your skin stand. His bright helmet found at the end of your tunnel vision.
You try not to pay attention. Try.
He’s busy watching his monitors. You bite your lip, eyes trailing his hand when he reaches for his flask. Maybe it’s because you held that same gloved hand an hour earlier, kissed the face under that helmet. Or maybe you’re just down bad, the way watching Oscar in race mode does to you—but every motion in the cockpit makes your belly tie up in very big knots.
The secrecy thrills you more than you could ever admit.
Oscar’s reviewing his onboards when the screen connected to the broadcast cuts to you—eyes glued to the screens, wide and focused. A face that doesn’t resist the camera and makes him stop in his tracks.
The small banner below you reads ‘Actress’—he half-expects ‘Oscar Piastri’s Partner’ to appear right after it. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. His stomach still curdles at its absence.
He realizes he’s been fooling himself this entire time if he thought he could still keep you to himself. Spare you from the scrutiny, at least from his corner of the world.
He realizes belatedly that the camera had cut to him next; it’s a small relief that his entire face is covered. He wonders if these consequent cutaway shots are a pure coincidence or a PR setup.
Either way, he hopes, selfishly, that the fans read into it.
P4 feels like a slap in the face.
The team claps his back and shakes his shoulders, but it’s Lando who’s P2.
But you’re there, and you’re beaming. You’re not supposed to—not with his results. Not with the PR directives in place.
No direct communication. Not even a shared look. It’s too loaded, near incriminating.
The time isn’t now. He knows that you know this.
And yet.
He tempts fate. He’d gamble anything for your touch right now.
It helps that there isn’t a rope fencing you in. He glances at the live feed—they’re busy interviewing the front row. He’s got a minute—maybe half?—before it becomes too risky. Better odds than usual.
Still, there are eyes everywhere.
Restraint. He thinks of the plan. He thinks of P4. He thinks about how a hug from you would blow over the sting of losing pole.
He reads your panic when he starts walking over. You hadn’t expected him to approach.
It’s delicate right now, he knows. He feels a small tug on the invisible thread between you two: Go away.
It makes him smirk a bit, your voice in his head.
Oscar pulls his gloves off.
He’s close enough to brush his knuckles against yours.
He doesn’t have to do more.
The point of contact sets a trail of fire running up his arm. For him, it’s enough.
When you meet back at the hotel, he doesn’t hold back. He’s all over you, and you all over him.
Race day. Ground zero.
Chrissy: It’s race day! Who’s ready to pour gasoline all over these rumors 🔥
It’s rightfully insane—a media team mobilized to ease fans into accepting your relationship. How artificial it reflects in the grand scheme of things.
“Showbiz, baby,” you mutter to yourself.
The groundwork is done. Talks of why you’re here can’t seem to die out in fan circles—too close to simply be a VIP guest. Too seen with Tom that you can’t be explicitly linked to Oscar (yet), yet too affected by race results to be anyone outside his inner circle.
Feedback from socials comes to you in WhatsApp reports: Less hostility towards Oscar from your fans. Shippers continue their steady streak of denial. Ample support from Oscar fans in general.
Your media rep, Nellie, leaves out some of the harsher details. But it doesn’t escape your notice—the bitterness of you and Tom’s supporters, the dissection of the tabloids.
You just hope the balance tips a little more in your favor by the end of it all.
The directive for today is simple: priority is Oscar and his race results. The team loosens the leash a little, gives you space to breathe. Play the docile, supportive girlfriend. Be subtle enough that people can gloss over it during the broadcast, but sincere enough that when the tape rewinds, everyone can go, ‘Ah.’
Not sure about docile, but you suppose the rest is doable.
You’re with Tom, shooting a few Tiktoks just for the joy of it. Out of love for the film and each other and the work you’ve both done. Promoting with no obligations.
At some point, your mind wanders to Oscar—his involvement in all this makes you a little tight-chested.
You wonder if you might have set things up for ruin.
You try not to dwell on it.
Oscar drives like a superhero if you’ve ever seen one.
There’s something supernatural, nearly beyond human comprehension, about the way he drives.
You’ve watched his races before, back when he was in F3 and your names barely registered in the world’s peripheral. Two irrelevant rookies in your fields. Too green, too untested. A lack of experience and appeal.
But for the first time, you’re in the front row. And Formula One doesn’t forgive.
It takes you back to the theatre. Your first love. Live, unedited, no room for mistakes. Equally cruel in its demands. You may star in films now, but nothing beats the high-wire act of live performance.
Oscar flies past the pit straight: the most unyielding protagonist in modern media.
He hits every turn like a cue. Executes instinct like it was written in the script. Delivers well-timed improv when his enemies close in.
You’re fully immersed in the act—headset on, breath held—and all you want is for him to win. So, so badly.
Unbeknownst to you, your team negotiated two cutaways during the broadcast—should Oscar do anything superhuman.
It’s effectively Oscar v Max. Your hands are clasped, eyebrows drawn, caring too deeply for someone supposedly here on a business invite.
If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s undeniable now.
The camera’s timing is nothing short of impeccable. Your distressed face appears mid-broadcast.
Crofty’s commentary escalates. Oscar overtakes Max.
Another cutaway. Zoomed. You’re celebrating—just you, Tom’s out of frame. You’re eyes gleam with pride. The emotion on your face is telling enough.
A move that didn’t need spelling out. That’s a PR win.
Somewhere, there’s a group chat with all your reps. They try not to get ahead of themselves, but are very happy with where this is going. Very happy.
Oscar drives and drives. Builds the gap. Lando catches up behind.
The two cars are flying. It’s a pace advantage sanctioned by the God of Speed himself. No other team stands a chance.
The checkered flag zooms by.
He wins.
🔍 Recent Searches
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yn reaction
user: HELLOO??>!>@#2SKNXND DID EVERYONE SEE THAT
user: just confirm it atp idk why theyre playing with us
user: her eyes ohhh im gonna be SICK you dont look at a friend like that 😭
user: Tom barely shown in the broadcast guess who wasted two hours of their life
user: this obvious wag treatment
user: I FIND THEM CUTE EVERYONE SHUTTTT
⇢ you’re not alone dw
⇢ am i the only one who thinks she suits lando
⇢ ?
⇢ ?
⇢ ? ur sick
user: thread of yn’s reactions during the miami gp 🏎️
Tom is somewhere in the garage, advised to let you have a definitive moment by the barriers. He pouts, but understands.
“Chris!” You spot Oscar’s dad at the barriers. You’d met briefly last night, a quick catch-up in the lobby before his dinner with Oscar. You would’ve as well, but you weren’t exactly “soft-launched” as of yesterday.
“Congratulations,” you smile and hug him. His grin is an echo of Oscar’s. “Goes for both of us, sweetheart.”
“Not a bad win, eh?”
“Not bad at all.” Chris chuckles, teary-eyed. You feel for the man. You’ve never seen him stand as tall as he is now. “Especially in the middle of this media circus.”
You feel sheepish. “Did Oscar say?”
“It was Mark, actually.”
Just then, a celebratory tune starts blasting out on the speakers, and George’s victory clip appears. You both turn your eyes upwards.
George comes out. Then, Lando.
And finally, Oscar. Beautiful, lovely Oscar.
The crowd roars from behind. His team chants his name. You and Chris look at each other and laugh—a vivacious sound.
You look back up at Oscar and something lodges in your throat. It’s too big an emotion.
Whatever it is, you hope it reaches him.
Paps line the paddock like snipers. They’ve received the tip—and they’re waiting.
Meanwhile, you and Tom are on the second floor of McLaren’s motorhome scrolling on Twitter.
“I’ll miss being the internet’s OTP with you,” Tom sighs dramatically.
“Who says we’re stopping?” You show him a screenshot of him during the broadcast, headset on, jaw slack. He’s wearing the Miami cap. “Look at you, you papayahead!”
He grins, not one bit embarrassed. “Please. I’m already holding you onto a paddock pass for the next race. Don’t you dare leave me out. We have the same presser schedule.”
“Bribing my girlfriend for paddock passes now, are we?”
You whip your head around— Oscar’s leaning by the top of the staircase, still in his fireproofs.
His eyes are steady on you, stance unnervingly casual. Like he hadn’t just won his third Grand Prix in a row.
Something violent overcomes you.
You don’t know Oscar to be so suave, but on the rare occasion he is, it’s unintentional. So unbelievably effortless that it makes you want to rip your hair out.
You hound in towards him. There’s a twinkle in his eye; he meets you halfway with his arms wide open and crushes your bones.
“You—!” You crash into his body mid-expletive. His jaw finds your shoulder. Anchors itself. It’s not the most coordinated embrace—one arm’s between your chests and the other’s jutting off to the side—but it’s everything you need.
The skin around his neck is sticky. He reeks of victory.
Three days in. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re here and not a time zone away. That he can just walk across the paddock and have you in his arms. It invigorates him—the immediacy. Of you, of your touch. Feels like crossing the checkered flag ten times over.
Maybe next time you won’t have to hide. It doesn’t feel too impossible, now.
Tom snaps a photo of you both discreetly.
You pull away, eyes gleaming and hair mussed. Emotion clogs your throat.
I should speak. A sentence. Maybe a sound.
A stilted croak trickles out.
Oscar grins—a wild sort of expression. His chest is puffed up. “Wow. That bad?”
When words fail, actions speak. You hit him square in the chest.
Oscar gasps, but his eyes soften. He nudges your chin and says, “I know.”
Something like love spills out in the small smile you cough up. “Some kind of driving.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Supersonic.”
He kisses the back of your hand and finally acknowledges the other presence in the room. “Hey, Tom.”
Your co-star walks over to you both, grinning. “Great to finally meet you, man. Congrats on the win.”
Oscar and Tom dap each other up. You watch with the fondness of a mother seeing her kid making strides in their social life.
“Fancy grabbing dinner with us back at the hotel?” Oscar asks when the small talk passes. You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. Even Tom looks surprised.
“I mean, I’d love to, mate, but don’t you have a victory to celebrate? With the team?”
“Well,” Oscar gestures to the McLaren cap on the table. “You’re pretty much Team Papaya now.”
“Huh!” You react out loud.
“See you at 8?”
“8 it is,” Tom smirks. “Have fun with the paps.”
Realization hits like a bucket of cold water. You and Oscar groan in unison.
There are fewer people on the paddock now that the sun’s begun its descent. Mostly podium teams wrapping up their post-race celebrations, itching to move out to wash off the day’s sweat and grime. The track was still technically their workplace.
“Last time I checked, you were jealous of Tom.” You mutter next to him when you go through the VIP exit. He appreciates the effort of a normal conversation. There’s a hammering in his chest, knowing there’s some freakishly long telephoto lens angled at you both from a vantage point tipped by your team.
“Not my brightest moment, unfortunately.”
Then, a rather loud camera shutter goes off from a nearby building. He shares a look with you, and it’s enough eye contact to trigger a fit of giggles from you both.
“This must be what birds feel like.”
What? Oscar raises his brows. “What?”
“Feels like we’re in a nature documentary,” you stage-whisper. “Caw, caw.”
There’s an intense look in his eyes that you can’t define. He either wants to kiss you or hurl you over his shoulders. You brace yourself.
But suddenly, he’s taking one step back and frames you with his fingers, tilting his head with one eye closed. You raise a brow, wondering what the hell he’s up to.
The accent comes at you like a blow: “Crikey! Ain’t she a beauty.”
You freeze. Glitch.
What in the world—
The snort you let out is gross and loud. Your knees buckle, and you keel over in a full-bodied, silent laugh. You hear Oscar’s groan before you feel his grip.
“Oh my god, get up. You look like you’re having a seizure.”
You’re dying. “Are you supposed Steve Irwin?!” A few side eyes get thrown your way.
He goes fully red. “Tried to make you laugh.”
“W-Wh-” You wheeze. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“By virtue of my nationality, I have the right to impersonate Steve Irwin. No matter how terrible you think it is.”
Oscar’s fully embarrassed, if the pink blush across his face is any indication. You are extremely entertained—and in love.
You are so in love.
‘Small, but definitive,’ had been the directive given to you both. That meant a shared smile or a hand behind your back. Not a boisterous laugh, not something so brazen and without regard for the rest of the world.
It was the opposite of Oscar’s image. A different dynamic compared to how you are with Tom. It could upset your fans, the shippers.
People disliked change. You needed to ease them into it. Into this.
But you can’t help it. It finally feels like this was how you were supposed to love Oscar. Loudly and honestly. The way truths are upheld.
The internet bares its teeth after the photos drop on Monday morning.
user: let’s just say I didn’t peg oscar to be the actress-type lol
user: her vibe is weird idk
user: all this time we’ve been calling yntom the second tomdaya.. we were played
user: the way she’s laughing im afraid we’ve lost her folks
⇢ LIKE CAN SHE GET UPPP
user: yntom is So over
user: Im confused isnt yn dating her costar or
user: Guys they havent confirmed anything yet they could just be really good friends. And yn is pretty funny of course that driver would fold.
⇢ whatever makes you sleep at night
user: what do they even have in common /gen
⇢ i was thinking the same thing 😭 randomizer ahh couple
It’s mean. It comes at you in Instagram comments, Tiktok hot-takes, and WhatsApp updates from Nellie keeping you informed whether you like it or not. F1 WAG accounts pick apart your outfits from the weekend. There’s a fan war on Twitter between Tom’s fans and yours. You haven’t even seen Oscar’s side of the internet yet.
Meet F1’s newest WAG, A Hollywood Upcomer
Another Hollywood Star Dips Her Toes in Sports
Did we get played? YN and Tom — Just Friends?
You’re gorgeous, irrelevant, real, and attention-seeking; vitriol and praise for breakfast.
The chatter squalls at a volume that’s near grating. It feels like static under your skin.
You knew it would be loud. Still, anticipation doesn’t soften the blow.
It’s Tom who becomes the first line of defense.
He uploads a carousel on Instagram the same day: an outfit shot, a couple of candid “boyfriend” photos you helped him take, a tray of paddock appetizers, a selfie with you in the garage, a three-second clip of him cheering with you beside him, and finally—a photo of the dinner you three shared last night. He tags you and Oscar on each dish.
tomblyth Miami GP with one of the best people I know. Made a new friend :)
He uploads it way earlier than advised—you’re supposed to let things simmer. Give it a chance to blow over.
It’s then you realize he’s done this of his own accord. No publicist whispering in his ear. Just a friend running interference.
Tom
Sent an image
You're welcome
Have you seen my post? 😝
It’s a photo of you and Oscar in the motorhome; You, squished in his arms, torso curved into yours. His number splashed across his back.
You bite your cheek. It’s a lovely, candid shot. You stare at it longer than you need to.
You weigh the consequences.
You’re supposed to upload something, too. “Own the narrative.” A soft confirmation. Something that won’t hurt.
This, however. It’s quite blatant. Harder for fans to swallow.
You trust your work. You trust the production. You trust the characters you and Tom gave life to, the chemistry that doesn’t require showmanship. That’s what audiences will remember.
The bathroom door is wide open. Oscar, hair utterly untamed, is brushing his teeth half-asleep.
Most of all, you trust Oscar—so why does this still feel so impossible? Like a freefall with no harness.
You shake your head. It’s good. And it will sell good. This PR stuff shouldn’t matter. You repeat it until it rings true.
“Hey,” he calls out, eyes squinting at you. “It doesn’t have to be scary.”
You sigh. “Didn’t realize I was thinking too loud.”
He makes a rough sound of assent.
You let out a soft ‘fuck it’ and start tapping away. Oscar hums.
The carousel goes like this: Outfit check. Paddock club hors d’oeuvres. A silly photo of Tom. A beautiful photo of Tom, so he doesn’t kill you. Racetrack views. Confetti during the podium.
The hospitality photo that looks like your heart. Better fit in between journal pages than an Instagram grid.
You type out a caption. Pick out a song.
Your thumb hesitates. Apprehension seizes your stomach. Go back. Back. Delete the last photo from the carousel.
You can’t—you can’t do this.
It was too resolute. A piece of you and Oscar you didn’t want the world to get hold of.
You wondered if you could do this. Without the games, the coy breadcrumbing. Escape the limbo hanging between confirmation and denial.
Instead, you scroll through Nellie’s folder and pick out one of her approved shots—a harmless, breezy shot of you walking in, all casual sweetness and your lanyard slung around your purse.
The pass on your bag was perfectly clear. Visible enough for a fan to zoom in and read it: Oscar Piastri – Guest. “That should say enough,” Nellie had texted earlier.
Confirmation without the brazenness. Tame. Safe.
Playing safe never hurt anyone.
yourname Lights, camera, a… and away we go?
You send it for checking and are given a green light.
Even then, you’re double-checking the post, triple-guessing the life you’d chosen before hitting upload and throwing your phone across the bed, muffling a scream with your hands.
Oscar picks it up. “It’s live.” You don’t notice him fiddling around with it while you’ve given yourself a timeout for being dramatic.
When you’re done, you flop onto the bed next to your boyfriend.
“Posted mine,” Oscar says, nudging you with his foot.
You see the notification.
oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.
What?
You stare at him. His face remains focused on his phone. “Were we allowed to tag each other?”
oscarpiastri liked your post.
oscarpiastri commented on your post: ☺️
oscarpiastri tagged you in a story.
“What the fuck are you doing.” You sit up, heart beating terribly fast. “It’s supposed to be a soft launch, Osc.”
You swipe through his post.
oscarpiastri All my favourites in one weekend
His fist pump on his car. The bottle of champagne raised high on the podium. Him clutching the trophy. The griddy in parc fermé.
The pap shot of you two leaving the paddock, grinning at each other like two damn idiots. It’s brazen. It’s defiant.
But still, it’s not the one you’re tagged in.
You swipe to the last photo: Oscar’s looking out of the stadium, Miami trophy between his legs, and you’re tagged right there—on his chest. Your name appears just above where his heart is.
A soft hiccup erupts from your chest. You can feel his eyes on you.
It’s the kind of non-compliance that should have repercussions. Especially on a PR campaign mandated to ease fans into accepting change.
Instead, Oscar hard launches you into oblivion.
You’re biting down hard on your jaw. You open the story next and your breath catches.
Thanks for the shot @ tomblyth
Kept it quiet long enough :)
It’s on all his socials. Twitter and Instagram and freaking Tiktok.
You close your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “You absolute reckless piece of shit—”
He kisses you flat on the lips.
“First. I’m sorry. Also, Tom sent me the photo, too.”
“Still a piece of shit-”
“Who you still love?”
“I do,” you reply grumpily. “Were you two scheming behind me this whole time?”
He gives a sheepish smile. “He said, quote ‘Let’s just get this over with, man.’ End quote. His words, not mine.”
It still doesn’t pacify the clamor in your stomach.
“But to answer your question, no. It was all my doing. Tom’s just, uh, gonna help me soften the blow.”
Despite everything, this makes your mouth twitch. “And you’re qualified to call the shots how?”
“I’m internet savvy enough.”
“Right.” You tug on the drawstrings of your hoodie and retreat further into the bed. He wraps his arm around you.
He continues spewing out nonsense. You watch him doomscroll on his phone. He skims through his playlist and asks for help picking a song for his next post, though they all sound the same to you.
Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. The air feels warmer. You feel safe. Somewhere in between you forget the part where you were spiraling.
“Won’t McLaren PR tell you off or something?”
He scrunches his face. “Nah. They don’t care for my personal life. If anything, Sophie’s keen on letting me post you more. Think she might be a fan.”
You roll your eyes. “I doubt.”
“I’m serious! She’s probably following you.”
You’re tempted to open Instagram and check, but the thought of looking at your socials right now makes you want to barf.
Suddenly, you start talking like all along this was the topic of conversation. “You don’t get it. If I post it, it’s like the final nail in the coffin—and for a moment, I had some resolve. I was going to post the photo, Osc, I was. But I got scared. I thought of the fucking internet and then I—”
“Got cold feet,” he finishes for you, like it’s the most forgivable thing in the world.
“Internet’s plenty terrifying,” he says, turning to level his eyes with yours. He moves to sit before you, propping his legs up on either side of you so there’s no escaping. His eyes are big and honeyed and still sleepy at the edges.
“Fuck ‘em,” Oscar says. He cradles your face, thumb pressing softly into your jaw so you look at him. He says it again when you don’t respond. “Hey, hey. Fuck. Them.”
The message gets across. You nod. “Fuck them.”
He smirks and nudges your nose. “S’my girl,” he mumbles. Oscar leans in and rests his chin on your head. “And for the record, I would post you every day until you stop caring.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He grins. “Try me.”
Oscar doesn’t tell you how pleased he is now that it’s public. A silent “mine” in every post he’d have of you from now on.
The jealousy never really went away.
Tom, as promised, replies to Oscar’s comment on your post. Even reposts the story.
tomblyth replies: 🤨
tomblyth reposts: Couldn’t stop her from running off with a racecar driver
yourname reposts: skill issue
Crazily enough, it works. The narrative shifts, and suddenly, Tom is the relatable third wheel the internet never knew it needed. He takes the brunt of the joke like a champ.
Oscar, for the most part, stays the same. And so do you. If not a little more comfortable now.
Oscar
Sent a link.
“F1 driver”
I have a name you know 🙁
Oscar
Also. Been informed that you and Tom have some chemistry test challenge or whatever.
How is it your co-star tells me before you do
Oscar
Hey so
Your lockscreen is making rounds on Twitter :)
Sneak.
Round 2 this summer break?
Hattie told me she wanted to try out this new trail
Oscar
Have you booked flights for Monaco yet?
I got Tom a pass if he wants to come
Missing you a little extra tonight
Oscar is on his phone.
He sees the tweets, the comments, the tags. Sometimes, they get things right. How he does have heart eyes for you, how they can tell you’re sickeningly in love when either name comes up in interviews.
But.
It’s easy to get things wrong, too. They can never quite discern the full picture.
He finds peace in that.
He taps on the replay of your premiere’s livestream. Finds the playback of you and Tom entering the red carpet.
His thumb stops. There. You’re radiant.
The camera zooms in on you and Tom sharing a bit of banter before posing for the cameras. Does it annoy him? Only marginally.
He still gets jealous of the co-stars. All of them—Tom not excluded. Past, present, and future. That they get to be near you. That they get to know the sound of your laugh and have access to the contours of your face. Your lips, too, if they’re lucky enough.
1 new message.
You
booked tickets! see you in monaco baby <3
Even then.
They didn’t get to have you. No one did.
Though by some miracle, you let him.
They loved you. But he had you.
It’s something.
Something he has no plans to give up. Even when you’re both past your prime. Even when the world doesn’t want you two anymore. When the podiums and stages find new occupants and there’s no one left to fight you for.
(This, he doubts. You’re striking—there’s something godlike, beyond human comprehension, about the way you perform. There will always be someone to fight.)
It’s commitment, he realizes.
He feels a smile tugging at his lips. There’s peace in that, too.
Oscar knows he’ll outlast them all. Competition was barely worth mentioning.
Besides, he made sure the world understood it the first time—that he was yours.
whew! if you enjoyed operation drs, please do let me know or drop any in the tags!! like every other author here, i live for comments :)
summary: being oscar piastri's pr manager is... uneventful, to say the least. that is, until your most recent ex winds up the mclaren garage. in an attempt to prove him something, the arm you end up grabbing is oscar's. now the word is spreading around the paddock that you're his (fake) girlfriend and it turns into a beneficial pr opportunity for him and a perfect cover up for you. except oscar gets a little too good at it, and all the reminders in the world are not enough for you to keep in mind that this is fake.
F1 MASTERLIST | OP81 MASTERLIST
pairing: oscar piastri x pr manager!fake gf!reader
wc: 19.2k
cw: not proofread, past toxic relationship, annoyances/colleagues to lovers, fake dating, he falls first, sort of third act breakup, oscar is slightly ooc, very light angst, season timeline is fucked but who cares! romance! clichés! drama!
note: requested here, i know nothing about pr, this was supposed to be short but i couldn't stop myself so you have this monster of a fic! i kinda hate this. anyways, enjoy!
WHEN YOU FOUND out you’d aced your interview, you thought to yourself, the sleepless nights carrying group projects every other member had procrastinated were worth it. The number of social events you passed on to finish top of your class─valedictorian, Communications major with a Journalism minor─had paid off because you had just landed a job as PR manager in Formula One. Not just in any team, either: McLaren. You were ready to dive into the glamour, the glitz, and the hardships of the sport. To thrive in the pressure, the politics, the media storms. You were ready to shine.
Except you were managing Oscar ‘No Emotions’ Piastri, and nobody thought about telling you that.
Oscar Piastri, a quiet semi-rookie when you first crossed the headquarters’ threshold, who gave you five words max per interview, had a sarcastic comment to every command the team social media manager threw his way, and disappeared at every media opportunity like a ghost, deadpanning instead of showing enthusiasm. Needless to say, there wasn’t much for you to manage.
It’s not like you didn’t try. You nudged him gently at first: helpful suggestions, friendly reminders to loosen up a little. Be more engaging. Play the game. But every time you did, he looked at you as if you'd sprouted a second head and proceeded to swiftly ignore you. The first time it happened, you were offended, and maybe a little concerned. You complained to Charlotte, Lando’s PR manager at the time, and she gave you the wisdom of a woman who had seen some things: “Assert yourself,” she’d said.
It was your first month on the job. You were fresh out of university. You didn’t even know where the best coffee machine was. How were you even supposed to do that?
Still, you decided to try again.
During a long and taxing car drive to the McLarens’ HQ, one you were sharing with Oscar after a last-minute driver swap and a logistical disaster, you figured it was now or never. Assert yourself, Charlotte had said. Be firm. Be confident.
You went for humor instead. A joke.
Terrible idea, in hindsight.
“You know,” you said lightly, breaking the silence that had stretched across three roundabouts, “you’re kind of boring.”
Oscar simply glanced at you, expressionless, so you clarified. “I mean, you’re not even letting me do my job. Throw me a bone here.”
And it was supposed to be playful. Oscar was supposed to quietly snort, asking how he could finally help you, and boom, you’d finally get to apply all that polished knowledge you’d studied for years.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, puzzled, as if you’d just spoken in Morse code aloud, and said, “Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.”
“What?” You blinked. Saying you’d been taken aback would have been a euphemism.
He didn’t even look away from the road.
“You talk in your sleep. Don’t nap in the common room again.”
Silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t peaceful. It was personal.
That was the moment you decided, with startling clarity, that you very much disliked Oscar Piastri.
You didn’t know you talked in your sleep. You didn’t even know he’d stumbled upon you squeezing a thirty-minute nap in the common room of McLaren’s headquarters. And you certainly didn’t remember the dream you’d had─ or why exactly it had featured your ex out of all people. All you knew was that, no matter what he heard, it was a low blow.
Especially when it came to the one man who somehow slithered his way into your heart just to shatter it from the inside out.
Disliking the person you were assigned to manage wasn’t unheard of in the world of public relations. It was practically a rite of passage. Most of the time, it came with celebrities who were a walking headline: strippers, drugs, arrests, rumors of twins with three different people. That, you could’ve handled.
Oscar wasn’t like that at all. Oscar was just… rude.
Not loud rude, or messy rude. Just… quietly, unbotheredly rude. He was unreadable, dry, and too clever. Not a PR nightmare, just a PR black hole. Just to you.
And if there was one thing you happened to be very good at─besides the job you weren’t even getting the chance to do─it was holding a grudge.
After that episode, you kept your interactions with Oscar to the bare minimum, or as much as you could without being fired. The paycheck was just too good, especially as a fresh grad still recovering from student debt.
Any advice or directions you had for him came during team meetings, always surrounded by enough people that he couldn’t hit you with his usual blank stare. When he messed up during interviews, which was sometimes inevitable, and you followed up with a politely scathing email, bullet points and all. Face-to-face convos were reserved strictly for emergencies… or if you happened to be seated beside him, in which case you communicated via foot. Strategic, silent, and sharp. You’d step on his sneaker under the eyes of all, and he’d keep smiling at the camera like nothing happened. Except for the tiny, throbbing vein on his temple─ oh, you lived for it.
It was a perfect arrangement. Passive-aggressive peace, mutually tolerated detachment. It worked for both of you.
Sometimes, you caught him glancing your way, wondering why you were still here. But you didn’t care. You had a system, and it was stable. It would’ve stayed that way for a long time, until your or his contract expired, whichever came first.
But then your ex decided to show up, and that messed everything up.
It was a very nice Thursday, dare you say. The kind of morning that made you think the season wouldn't be so bad.
You’d expected Bahrain to be hotter, considering the furnace it had been last year during the start of your first season with McLaren. But today, the air was warm without being unbearable, a soft breeze threading through the paddock and playing with the loose strands of your hair. Your cardigan slipped off one shoulder, but it didn’t cling or suffocate─ just draped like it was meant to be styled that way.
Oscar had just rolled out of the garage, off to log laps and data and whatever mysterious things drivers did during testing, which meant you were officially off-duty for the next three hours. You had time for yourself, maybe for a proper coffee and a chocolate croissant. Eventually, a little conversation with Lando, if you ran into him.
Yeah. This was a good morning.
You should have known it wouldn’t last.
It should have hit you when the coffee machine didn’t work, so you had to walk all the way to Lando’s side of the garage to fetch yourself a cup. It should have hit you when you didn’t even see Lando, and they were out of your favorite chocolate croissant. It should have hit you when you passed by grown men in their forties gossiping like schoolgirls about the new additions to Oscar’s car engineering team, you never heard anything about. It should have hit you when the feelings in your gut made you hesitate near the orange-colored walls.
But it really, really hit you when he grabbed your elbow.
“Y/N?”
Your body locked up like someone had flipped your off switch. The voice was familiar in the worst way─ like a nightmare you thought you’d finally grown out of. You didn’t even need to turn around. Your body already knew. Still, you did, as if asking the universe for confirmation.
And there he was. Theodore Silva, in full McLaren uniform, lanyard slung around his neck. Dark brown hair, messy, tied up in a bun, with his characteristic three o’clock shadow. Your ex-boyfriend. Your heartbreak origin story that, somehow, had the nerve to smile.
You would have backhanded him if the shock didn’t make your mind go blank.
“Wow,” he said, and you felt like a funny coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you there. Always knew you were the ambitious one.”
Oh, you knew that tone. That patronizing little tone he used when he wanted to seem impressed while reminding you he could always do better. As if you hadn’t told him a million times about your fascination with motorsports and all of its scandals. You weren’t 19 and easily diminished anymore.
You slapped on a polite, seething smile. “I could say the same. I wouldn’t have guessed they hired people with so little… experience. Or the grades to back it up.”
Theodore Silva wasn’t the richest man alive. No, that title was reserved for his father, who owned a few businesses that took off in the early 2010s and left him with an outrageous amount of money and too much to do with it─ including sending his incompetent son to a prestigious business school even though he could barely manage to keep up half of the average required. Even his father’s money couldn’t get him to graduate the same year as you.
But after another year, it could apparently get him a job at McLaren.
Yet, Theodore still chuckled, brushing off your remark as if it were just another inside joke you two shared. “They just brought me on- engineering for Piastri’s car. Funny how life works out, huh?”
He was on Oscar’s team. You’d be obligated to see him, be near him, every day. You didn’t answer, just stared at him blankly, too busy cataloguing every sharp object in the vicinity, trying to ignore the twist of your heart.
“Small world,” he added to your silence.
You tried to smile again, but you knew it came out weird when the words that came out of your mouth sounded more like a screech than anything else. “Smaller than I’d like.”
Theodore tilted his head, studying you with calm eyes, as if he hadn’t watched you, arms dangling near his side, as you broke down in his apartment’s parking lot. “You look good,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”
You stared at him.
Hell no. He had that voice, wearing guilt like an optional accessory, looking at you like he was the one that got away. The nerves. You hated how your chest tightened, the smell of his cologne, and how he thought he could just waltz in, throw some compliments around, hoping to win you back.
Fuck him. “I’m doing very well, Theodore. Loving my job. How’s Anna?”
That landed. He physically winced, scratching his neck. “We, uh─ We broke up, actually.”
How surprising.
“So─”
You weren’t about to let him finish. You weren’t about to let him think he even had the sliver of a chance. He wasn’t about to wreck the life you built for yourself by simply being here, no. Instead, you did the sanest thing anyone would have done in your place.
You lied.
“I have a boyfriend, actually.” The words came out so fast you almost flinched, not registering them yourself.
Theodore paused, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, wildly too sharp for the context. “He’s great. Amazing, supportive. Emotionally available. You know─ faithful.”
He blinked, and his fake-casual mask slipped for a second. “What’s his name?” He asked, all lightness gone from his expression.
That’s when it hit you. Unspoken panic rose in your throat because, believe it or not, you didn’t have a boyfriend. You barely even had a social life─ you spent most nights in bed with a sheet mask and Youtube videos. If you hesitated now, even for a second, Theodore would know. And he’d never let go, flashing you his smug little grin of his, strutting around the garage for a season, thinking he had a chance.
Not today, Satan.
The garage door behind you creaked open and footsteps echoed in your direction.
You didn’t look, didn’t think. You just grabbed the first arm that brushed against yours.
“This is him!” You said, an octave too high. “My boyfriend.”
And Oscar Piastri, your emotionally repressed, sarcasm-saturated PR headache of a driver, froze mid-step. As much as you wanted it, there wasn’t any way to back out now. His eyes dropped to your grip, white-knuckled, around his bicep. Then to you. Then to Theodore.
“... Sorry, what?” He said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Babe,” you hissed between your teeth, eyes still set on Theodore and smiling like your life depended on it. “Go with it.”
Finally, your ex managed to speak up. He was frozen, mouth half-opened in shock. “This is your─ You’re dating─ Oscar Piastri is your boyfriend?”
Oscar opened his mouth, definitely to ask what was going on, but you beat him to it. “Yes! Yep. It’s, um─ it’s very new. A few months.”
You finally turned to face him fully.
His brown eyes, sharp and unreadable as ever, flicked across your face─ first your eyes, then your mouth, then down to where your fingers were still digging into his arm. There was confusion there, definitely, but also a kind of calculation unique to him.
“This is Theodore,” you added, swallowing thickly. “He’s one of your new engineers.” You hesitated. “... and my ex.”
That’s when something clicked.
You felt it. The subtle shift in Oscar’s expression─ the way his shoulders straightened or the brief flicker of understanding behind his eyes. He glanced at Theodore just once before looking back at you. You pleaded silently. With your eyes, with your fingers brushing lightly over the sleeve of his fireproof top, even with the part of your lips that whispered please without making a sound.
But the longer you stood there, the more the panic crept up your spine. Oscar didn’t owe you anything. The man barely liked you. He could’ve thrown you under the bus without blinking, called you out right there and made your life ten times harder.
Which is why you almost jumped when his hand, much larger, reached up and gently settled above yours.
“Ah, Theodore,” Oscar said, like the name physically bored him. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about my reaction,” he added, fingers tightening just slightly over yours. “I just didn’t expect… this.”
He turned to glance at you. An innocent smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”
Theodore snapped out of the shock that froze him into place, and his smile flickered. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Oscar said casually. “All the highlights.”
You blinked up at him, heart in your throat, unsure whether to laugh or sob. Was Oscar Piastri helping you?
“The highlights?” Theodore asked, dumbfounded.
Oscar hummed, thumb absentmindedly brushing over your hand─ just once, like punctuation. You weren’t dreaming, he was playing along. And the look on Theodore’s face was worth every single of it.
“Funny, she never mentioned you, or the fact she was dating an… F1 driver, as a whole.” As if you even talked to him anymore!
Oscar shrugged, way too relaxed. “That’s all right. We’re keeping it on the down low for now, I’m sure you understand. And we don’t do much… talking, anyways.”
Your jaw nearly hit the tarmac. You stepped on Oscar’s foot, a habit by now, and he barely flinched. Apparently, that was enough for Theodore. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Guess I’ll see you two around the garage.”
“Guess I’ll see you around my car,” Oscar answered, a little too quickly.
Theodore just glanced at him before muttering, “Small world.”
“So small,” you nodded stiffly.
The second he was out of sight, you yanked Oscar by the wrist like a woman possessed, dragging him to the nearest utility alleyway─ dim, slightly greasy smelling, and blessedly empty. For how long, though? You didn’t know. “Okay,” you hissed. “Wow, what the hell was that line?! We don’t do much talking?!”
Oscar raised a condescendent eyebrow, arms crossed on his chest. “I don’t know, you tell me, Mrs. This Is My Boyfriend. I just followed along. You’re welcome, by the way.”
You groaned so loud it echoed, looking up to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall off it and solve your life, simultaneously pacing a short line across the floor. “I know what I did, alright? I just─ I panicked! That guy─ he… he cheated on me. With my best friend. In my own bed. And I just─ he looked so smug and self-satisfied standing here like I’d run back to him. I needed to shove something in his face, show him I’m fine. Better. And I didn’t look and you were there and your arm was right there and now I’m going to have an aneurysm─”
Oscar blinked. “Wow. Okay. That’s… a lot of information, considering we barely know each other.”
“Thank you so much for the support, Oscar. I wonder whose fault that is, exactly!”
“I’m just saying. That was a whole soap opera act in thirty seconds,” he snapped back, rolling his eyes.
You exhaled harshly. “Whatever. I didn’t actually mean to drag you into this, okay? I’ll fix it. I’ll… tell him it was a misunderstanding or… I’ll figure it out. I’ll PR my way out of this, because whether you like it or not, it’s actually my job─”
“It’s fine,” he said, cutting you off, eyes closing briefly like he needed to reboot.
You paused. “Huh?”
“I said it’s fine.” His eyes opened again, locking onto yours. “Now that he thinks you’re dating someone, his delusional ego’s going to spiral and he’ll leave you alone. Especially if it’s someone… above in station, let’s say. Not to stroke my own ego.” He tilted his head, tone flat. “He looks like the insecure type.”
“He is,” you aggressively agreed, pointing at him like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci code, and you swore you saw his lips pull up. “So we just… leave it alone?”
“Let it die down,” Oscar continued with a casualness you could only hope to replicate. “Maybe have a conversation here and there for consistency, but that's about it. It’s not like he’s going to go around bragging that his ex-girlfriend is dating the guy he’s working for.”
You snorted. “I think he’d rather die.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Exactly.”
You sighed, finally letting your shoulders drop as the tension bled out of you. The adrenaline was still rushing through your veins, waterfall-like, but slowly softening, giving way to a quiet panic that you could make do with until the end of the day. It’s fine, you told yourself, it’ll be fine. “Okay,” you murmured, giving him a small nod. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it,” Oscar replied, already turning away. “Literally.”
“Deal,” you said. “Never again.”
The plan was to return to your regularly scheduled programming─ distant and professional. With the way Theodore worked (or more accurately, didn’t), you were pretty sure he wouldn’t last long in the McLaren garage anyway. Life would go back to normal soon enough. You were sure of it.
Rule number one of PR management: never assume anything. Certainty was a myth. Because as long as there was even a sliver of doubt, it could all go wrong. Maybe you’d gotten complacent in your ways, Oscar never gave you anything to work with after all, but you really thought that this time, it would be fine. You slept like a rock that night, the kind of sleep where your mind recharged so hard it forgot you had responsibilities in the morning.
That’s probably the reason it took you so long to notice. First, it was the way people lingered as you passed. How engineers muttered behind their coffee cups and went dead silent when you got too close. You weren’t used to this level of attention─ as a whole, you were a pretty discreet presence in the paddock, so when the smiles came and the knowing smirks got thrown your way, you started becoming suspicious.
“Morningggg,” Lando sing-songed as you entered the McLaren hospitality tent.
“Good… morning?” You muttered, narrowing your eyes as you plopped down next to him. “What’s got you in such a good mood today?” You asked as you bite into the chocolate croissant you’d been craving since yesterday.
Lando studied you. Waiting.
“Do I have to guess, or…?”
The curly-haired man sighed dramatically, as if your question alone had aged him. “No, but I thought we were friends. Guess I was wrong, since I had to hear it from my race engineer. During briefing.”
You blinked. “Okay, what the hell are you on?” you admitted. “Have you been doing crack? Is that it?”
“Whatever, keep your secrets, Y/N,” Lando conceded, a smug little grin on his lips. “You’ll talk to me when you’re ready. Or I’ll just get the truth from Osc’. He seems… chatty, lately.”
You couldn’t imagine Oscar Piastri being chatty to save your life. “What? What does Oscar have to do with anything?” But Lando was already up and walking off.
Alone with your chocolate croissant and your detonated sense of peace, you scanned the room, eyes darting in panic.
Across the tent, Oscar stood by the coffee station, talking to a staff member with his hands-in-pockets casual disinterest. His eyes met yours, and he paused mid-sentence, one eyebrow raised in that really? kind of way that made you want to slap him. There was a silent question in it.
One you didn’t have an answer to.
The answer actually came knocking that night─ quite literally. Loud, incessant, unforgiving knocks at your hotel room door.
You were in the middle of taking off your makeup, cotton pad in one hand and dabbing at your under-eye concealer like it personally offended you. “Seriously?” You audibly commented, exhausted. It was nearly 10 PM. You’d done your job, answered more emails than anyone should in one day. The very least the universe could offer was twenty-four uninterrupted minutes of peace.
But the knocking didn’t stop, so you opened the door with a groan and a complaint on your tongue, only for the sound to die the moment you registered who was standing on the other side.
Oscar Piastri. In a hoodie, track pants, socks that did not match, and looking far too calm for someone who’d just banged on your door as if the apocalypse was tracking him down. You stared in confusion, words refusing to come out of your mouth no matter how hard you tried.
“Sooo… we might have a problem,” Oscar finally spoke in the silence stretching between you.
He walked in your room with no hesitation, without you even inviting him in─ the audacity! Sure, yeah, come on in, ruin my night, you thought. He glanced around, sizing your room and seemingly expecting paparazzis behind the mini-bar, before turning to face you with a flat look.
“What’s this problem that has you acting so dramatic for─”
“You’re trending on F1 Twitter. Well, we are,” he said simply, tone measured. “Someone took a photo. You holding my arm next to your ex. In the garage. And the caption is─”
He pulled out his phone. A screencap of big, red, capital letters: IS OSCAR PIASTRI SOFT-LAUNCHING HIS PR MANAGER?
It took a while for reality to set in.
You stared at the screen blankly, eyes flicking from Oscar to the headline, erratic. Soft-launching. Soft-launching. You tasted blood in your mouth. Oh, no─ it was actually just your soul leaving your body. “This is not happening,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly. “It’s fake. This is fake. I’m hallucinating.”
Oscar hummed. “Want me to read you the quote tweets?”
You pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged and put his phone down. You sat down on your bed, hands flying to your temple. “Okay, okay. No big deal. I’ll just tell the team we were talking about… a car issue. A steering problem. Brake pedal feedback. That sounds fake, right? Like, real-enough fake.”
Oscar gave you a look. “You could try that,” he said slowly, “but your ex has apparently been sniffing around the garage asking people if we’re actually dating.”
“No way.”
“I overheard Lando’s race engineer telling him. He asked five different people.” A beat. “He’s not subtle.”
You could feel your eyes twitch. “Jesus Christ.”
Oscar crossed his arms, leaning back against the mini-bar, staring at you. “So I don’t think your little oh it was just a brake issue! excuse is going to cut it.”
“I’m going to end it all,” you said, dropping your face in your hands. “I’m going to crawl into my media kit and live there forever.”
He raised an eyebrow at you. “I’ll bring you snacks.”
“How are you not freaking out? Like, at all? It’s your face on every headline, and my job on the line!” You didn’t want to think about the repercussions this would have on any future jobs you might want, or your actual one. Future employers were going to Google you and find dating rumors about a fake relationship with a driver you were managing.
“Oh, I freaked out,” Oscar cut in smoothly, walking toward you. “Trust me, I had a whole mini-existential crisis in the elevator.”
“That’s good for you, Oscar. Why aren’t you still freaking out?”
“Because I figured this might be a job for my PR manager,” he said, toned laced with sarcasm. “Who also happens to be the cause of the PR disaster in the first place.”
You opened your mouth just to close it, and to open it again. “That’s fair.”
“And you said I was too boring.” Oscar gave you a dry smile, and weirdly, that was the moment it clicked.
You were his PR manager. This─whatever mess the universe had decided to dump in your lap─wasn’t just a disaster. It was an opportunity. A viral, narrative-controlling opportunity. The kind of chaos you could work with. You’d complained that Oscar gave you nothing: too quiet and acidic. Well, he certainly wasn’t that anymore, or almost.
You straightened up, the panic slowly morphing into focus. Your heart was still pounding, but now to the rhythm of the plan puzzling itself in your head. No one had trained you for what to do when you were the story but if anyone could improvise, it was. Your idea was wild, unhinged, even. But you knew better than anyone that the line between unhinged and brilliant was just the execution. And if you played this right, it could be exactly what the both of you needed.
You turned to Oscar slowly, the corner of your lips twitching into something almost insane. “Oscar,” you said carefully. “What if we didn’t let this go to waste?”
“Come again?”
“I mean, this,” you gestured vaguely toward his phone, screen down on the counter. “Oscar Piastri’s mystery romance unveiled, blah blah blah. It’s a mess, but it doesn’t have to be.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “... You’re about to say something crazy.”
You got up from your spot on the bed to face him fully. “Fake dating.”
“There it is.”
“No, seriously, hear me out,” When he started taking a few steps back, you rushed toward him, hands animated. “People are already talking. We can’t undo the articles or stop the whispers, but we can own the story. It’s simple PR strategy: if the narrative’s out of our hands, we grab it back, shift the focus and make it work for us.”
“And what, exactly, would we be gaining from this?” Oscar looked deeply, deeply unconvinced.
You got closer to him and his eyes widened discreetly, quickly shifting from your eyes to your lips, and to the one finger you were holding up in front of his face. “One, you get press engagement. You’ve been called the human spreadsheet by more than one person─”
“Never heard of that.”
“Okay, maybe it’s only me, but my point still stands. This? It gives you dimension. Warmth. Personality. More people of all age groups rooting for you.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m dating you?”
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. Two,” you continued without missing a beat, “I get a break from Theodore. He’s more likely to leave me alone if he thinks you’re in the picture long-term, or as close as we can get to it.”
“Isn’t that the reason you picked me in the first place?”
“I was desperate. You were here and tall.”
Oscar shrugged at your words, quietly agreeing with you, which egged you on for the last point of your argument. “Three, if this all goes up in flames, we just say we broke up. That wouldn’t be the ideal outcome until Theodore’s out of the picture, but if push comes to shove, we do this quietly. Classic ‘we ask for privacy during this time’, then ghost the media. End of story, and we go back to our ways.”
The silence stretching between the walls of your hotel room seemed to last a lifetime too long as the Australian studied you carefully, arms crossed on his chest. “You’ve really thought about this.”
“Actually, I just did. I’m that good.”
He exhaled loudly at your comment, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and you tried your best not to let a little quip past your lips. “And how long would this have to last?” Oscar asked, voice muffled by his palm.
“Until Theodore goes away, which shouldn’t be more than a few weeks knowing his talents. Enough to let the story peak and settle and it would include a couple public appearances, some social media crumbs─ low effort, maximum payoff for you.”
Hope swirled in your chest with the intensity of a storm when he dropped his hands, his dark eyes locked onto yours.
“And your ex leaving you alone would be the only thing you’d gain out of all this?”
You didn’t hesitate a single second when you answered. “That, and peace. Maybe a little petty revenge over him and honestly? A challenge.” Because this is what you’ve been dying to do ever since you stepped foot in the paddock a year ago.
And maybe Oscar saw the hellfire of determination in your eyes as he scanned you, either that or you sold your reckless idea with the confidence of a politician, because after long, skeptical minutes. He held out his hand, and the overwhelming weight pressing against your shoulders seemed to evaporate in the flight of a hundred butterflies.
“Fine, count me in,” he said, voice a little hoarse, “but if it all goes to shit, you’re taking the blame.”
You hastily took his hand, his rough palm fitting into yours, and you blamed the electricity rushing in your spine and the powdery pink of his cheeks on the ridiculous situation and the relief coursing through your body. “Deal, but it won’t go to shit if you keep up with me.”
The ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, which made you smile. Your heartbeat was thundering in your chest and the heaviness of what you’d just agreed upon settled over you like a second skin.
Fake dating Oscar Piastri. How hard could it be?
First thing you did the next morning was to warn a handful of team members: there was no world in which running a fake dating scheme in secret wouldn’t come back to bite you and frankly, your job and reputation were already hanging by a thread due to yesterday’s PR earthquake. You and Oscar pulled Lando, Zak, and a few key staff members─social media, comms, and PR support─into the smallest available hospitality room you could find, locking the door behind you.
You explained the situation as fast as you could, hands raised in surrender under their gazes. How the rumors were technically true but not real, what conclusions you came to in such little time, and the thought process behind your idea, carefully excluding Theodore’s implication.
“Wouldn’t lying to the public make it worse?” Someone from comms piped up, deadpan.
You winced. “Damage control isn’t always about truth. It’s about optics, controlling the narrative before it controls us. We’ve assessed the risk, this buys us time to refocus headlines onto the cars, not the garage drama all while boosting Oscar’s popularity.”
Zak blinked at you as if you’d grown a second head. “You assessed the risk?”
“With me,” Oscar added from his chair, facing you. “I see the strategic upside. I’ll blow over in a few weeks, it’s fine. No harm done.” You sent him a silent thank you, holding his eyes just long enough for him to notice.
“Soo, when’s the wedding?” Lando piped up, leaning forward. “Or do we just have the break-up arc planned?”
You ignored him, preferring to explain the conditions of you and Oscar’s little agreement: no posts unless you greenlit them, no press comments and if anyone asked, yes, you were together. Happy. In love, but still casual. Social media staff were already scribbling notes or rapidly typing on their keyboards, and Zak looked like he might die of a heart attack.
So were you. Still, when you glanced at Oscar during one of McLaren’s CEO's silent breakdowns, you couldn’t help but share a silent laugh.
The following days were catastrophic, to say the least. Navigating the Bahrain paddock for the last of testing and media obligations for the first Grand Prix of the season the week after had turned into a minefield of knowing looks and suspicious stares. You and Oscar were learning how to walk the tightrope of fake affection with the grace of two toddlers. A few shared smiles, a shoulder brush, but every interaction felt rehearsed, taken off a badly written script. By some given miracle, it did work on some people but not all, and especially not Theodore. You could feel his eyes on you everytime you walked through the garage, narrowed as if waiting for a slip-up, but you’d rather die than prove him right.
By the end of the first few days, Oscar’s social media manager handed you a photo of the both of you to approve for Instagram─ one where Oscar had his arm slung around your shoulder awkwardly while you stood next to the car, all too aware of the massive lens pointed right at you. It was…
“It looks like we lost a bet,” you muttered, horrified.
Oscar leaned in over your shoulder to look at the picture. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”
You threw your hands in the air, movements more powerful than words to transcribe the frustration elevating your blood pressure. Before a flurry of complaints and insults could slip past your lips, Oscar spoke.
“Okay, maybe it’s not very convincing, but it’s also because we haven’t figured out how to sell it correctly.”
“What a revolutionary thought.” He shrugged your comment off.
“Well, I figured since we skipped the whole dating part and went straight to the whole madly-in-love thing, maybe it’s time we… backtrack?”
You felt the lightbulb switch on in your mind, eyes widening in realization. “Backtrack… like a backstory?”
Oscar nodded solemnly. “A timeline, yeah. How it started, how it’s going, first dates and everything. The whole fake fairytale.”
You couldn’t argue with that. You hated to admit he was currently beating you at your job, but Oscar was right. People were already speculating about the two of you a week in your fake relationship; everyone, including you, needed some foundations to be settled and fast. “Okay, alright. We can figure this out tonight, preferably in my hotel room since it apparently became the headquarters of this,” you made circle hand gesture between the two of you, “operation. Also because nobody will bust us in there.”
Oscar showed up at an ungodly hour of the evening─ the clock showcased numbers that hurt your sleep cycle, but nothing made the press talk more than going to your girlfriend’s room in the middle of the night, right? He knocked once before letting himself in, dressed in the same sweats and hoodie as a week ago, and holding a suspiciously large energy drink. “I come bearing poison,” Oscar announced, lifting the can.
You squinted at him from your spot on the bed-your hotel room lacking a desk-surrounded by a battlefield of notebooks and your wheezing laptop that was one short breath away from the grave. “Perfect, that’ll keep us up. We have work to do. Welcome to the Ted-talk-slash-lie-building meetup.”
Oscar kicked off his shoes, walking toward you. He eyed the chaos with a low whistle. “Oh wow, you weren’t kidding.”
You handed him a purple glitter pen without even glancing in his direction. “Sit your ass down and write with honor, Piastri.”
“Glitter? Really?”
“Don’t patronize me. I love glitter gel pens. Better memorize that if you want to be a good fake boyfriend.”
Oscar snorted but didn’t protest as he took the pen, sitting down next to an open notebook on the edge of your bed. He cracked the energy drink open with a hiss, and you took it from his hands before he had the time to bring it to his lips. “Jesus, you’re bossy.” You shot him a look. “Alright, alright. Where do we begin?”
You exhaled, eyes settling on your computer screen. A bright, pink page was showcasing Date Idea: Where To Take Your Beloved For A First Date? “With the basics. When we started dating, how we met, how many fake months we’ve been in fake love, which side of the bed you sleep in for continuity purposes.”
“Right side.”
“Wrong answer. It’s mine.”
You gradually settled in a surprisingly comfortable rhythm. Between the quiet clicking of the keyboard, the buzzing of Chinese nightlife outside your window, and the rhythmic scratch of the glittery ink on paper, you and Oscar brainstormed.
Ideas came slowly at first, awkward and stilted the way two kids forced together in a group project would work─ which it was, in a way. It didn’t take you long to realize you didn’t know Oscar at all, and he didn’t know you either, and the recognition of that fact put a certain strain on your interactions, as much as there already was. Yet, the tension softened as the minutes from midnight trickled away. You found yourself building a history out of thin air, questions after questions and jokes after jokes─ inside jokes that didn’t exist and justified why you laughed so hard at ‘soft tyres’, a first date that involved a tragically undercooked lasagna which Oscar and you had to fight over because neither of you wanted to look like a bad cook. You chose May 21st as the anniversary date because it sounded cute. Oscar protested, “How can a date even be cute? It doesn’t make sense.” He still settled on it.
Snorts, teasing looks as you drew a clumsy timeline in the middle of your designated ‘Relationship Basics’ notebook. “What about our first kiss?”
“Mmh, that’s a good one. People are going to ask.”
“Duh,” you fought the smile on your lips with little effort. “C’mon. You were wearing that hideous orange puffer, it was raining, and I was mad because you didn’t share your umbrella.”
“Oh right, and you were soaked and… okay, you said I owed you a kiss for compensation. Sounds like something you’d do,” Oscar replied, leaning forward in mock seriousness.
You made a sound, halfway between a gasp and a laugh. “You do remember!”
He laughed. A real one, warm and easy, going right through your chest. You quickly joined him, and his eyes lingered on you a second too long after the joke faded. “I made it up with hot chocolate later, though,” he added with a lazy smile that didn’t belong in any scenarios.
You scribbled that in your notebook. “Ew. We are sickeningly cute.”
And somewhere between a fabricated ski trip and the great debate of who said ‘I love you’ first, something shifted, just a little. Oscar had moved from the edge of the bed to sit beside you, arms behind his head against the headrest, legs stretched on the covers. His knees bumped yours every now and then, but you didn’t flinch away. The notebooks laid abandoned now, pens scattered across the duvet. Your laptop screen dimmed after an hour of neglect and your limbs were heavy with the sweet stickiness of fatigue that only came when you laughed too much and too hard.
You glanced over at Oscar and his hair was a little messy, eyes a little sleepy, softened by the light of the space. He was already watching you. “You know,” he spoke up. “For a so-called meeting, it suspiciously looks like a sleepover.”
You couldn’t help but giggle at that, tiredness winning over your resolve. “It’s almost four,” he continued, voice lower in the hush of your hotel room. “We’ve officially survived our first week of fake dating. Well, we did four hours ago, but…”
“And we haven’t accidentally gotten married in Vegas like they do in movies. I’d call that a win.”
“Oh yeah, that’s definitely not because of our amazing chemistry.”
A huff escaped you again, and your head fell back against the pillows. Shanghai still hummed outside the window, quieter this time, and the city lights threaded through the thin curtains you pulled. The room was just as still, if warmer─ you could feel the tired blush on your cheeks and the heat of Oscar’s thigh against yours. “You know, you’re not as annoying as I thought,” you said, a lazy sigh curling into your words.
It came out like an offhand casual observation, but you didn’t meet his eyes. Truth be told, you were ashamed. The whole year you’d convinced yourself Oscar Piastri was a nuisance and a stain on your work life had been shattered in the shine of glitter pens and the drafting of a romance novel-worthy story. Because he was actually kind of funny, and even though he delivered his jokes like he was bored half the time which you used to interpret as condescance, they still made you laugh. He listened when you spoke. He had a dry, understated charm you were starting to recognize as very authentic.
And he hadn’t complained once tonight. Not when you made him pick an anniversary date for the third time, or reenact a fake first meeting with your best friend. He was just… there.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he replied, but his voice melted at his usual edges. “You’re alright too. Surprisingly.”
When you turned your head, you found he was already looking at you for the second time, and a moment passed. You gave him a smile, barely there, and he looked away. “Guess we do make a decent team,” Oscar mumbled.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you mimicked him. He snorted.
You walked him to your door after an exchange of soft chuckles and breathy goodnights. Fake dating Oscar would be harder than you thought, but it definitely wouldn’t be as bad as you made it out to be.
You weren’t sure what it was between the sleep deprivation, the amateur acting, or the emotional whiplash of building an entire relationship with a guy you were only acquainted with, but something about it shifted the rhythm you’d gotten used to. Whatever happened during that night, being Oscar Piastri’s fake girlfriend became easier after it.
It started with texts. You couldn’t remember which one of you sent the first non-work related one, but it became a daily occurrence of linking the other pictures the press took of the both of you.Oscar would often comment something along the lines of Do I look like a man held hostage or a man in love? Be honest. You’d roll your eyes everytime, answering: All I can say is that I’m not flattered. At first, it was mostly logistical─ scheduling photo ops, making sure neither of you veered your scheme off the track. But somewhere between sarcastic captions and oddly flattering candids, the conversations grew longer. It became a way to kill time, a habit.
Oscar was easy to talk to, which was a thought that would’ve originally terrified you. Except the conversations carried off screen, and you found yourself enjoying them an awful lot.
Along the lines of your ruse, you started saving seats beside each other during lunch breaks or waiting up for the other to go back to the hotel together─ not for the cameras or Theodore’s heinous stare, but for a reason as simple as the enjoyment of the other’s company. Oscar was more than a colleague by that point, he became something else that you couldn’t quite call a friend the way you called Lando one. You stopped overthinking every step you took beside him, every glance and sentence. You had your script, sure. But more than that, you had a quiet kind of understanding. He knew when to press his hand to the small of your back when it was needed, and you knew when to lean in just enough to sell the look of something intimate.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. Comfortable, even. Maybe, just maybe, a little fun. Which is why you couldn’t tell when the little things started to feel not as little anymore.
Rare were the times you arrived late to a team briefing, but a late-night spiral reviewing articles about your little charade had stolen more sleep than you’d expected, and for the first time since you started out at McLaren, your alarms lost the battle. You slipped in your seat next to Oscar, a movement you barely thought about anymore, breathless, cheeks warm from your run across the paddock and the drizzle misting your hair. Your pants were drenched, there was a pounding behind your eyes and you were thirty minutes away from biting someone’s head off if they even dared mention your tardiness.
Oscar didn’t say anything at first, just glanced your way as he often did, eyes flicking up and down once. You braced for a comment, a joke, preparing to hold yourself back from doing something you’ll regret doing to your fake boyfriend in public.
Instead, he leaned down, reaching for a paper bag next to him, from where he pulled out a steaming paper cup and a chocolate croissant that he slid toward you without a word. Your name was scribbled across the side of the wrapper along with your very specific order, down to the temperature.
You looked at Oscar. At your breakfast. Then at Oscar again. “How─”
“You weren’t answering my texts,” he said, still looking forward. “Figured you’d be late, so I got you this. You get cranky with no sleep or caffeine in your system.”
“I don’t get cranky,” you muttered, wrapping your cold hands around the hot beverage. “You get sassy when you don’t sleep.”
“Sure,” Oscar said casually, meeting your eyes for the first time since you sat down. “There’s extra vanilla, by the way.”
You didn’t answer, just rolled your eyes, but his gaze was still on you when Zak burst through the door. The fact he remembered that you took extra vanilla syrup in your extra hot latte and that your favorite pastry was a chocolate croissant should be nothing, because you’re sure you told him at some point during your many one-on-one briefings. Except it wasn't. Not really.
Then, there was the flight. There was nothing the fans and the media loved more, and Theodore despised just as much, than couple apparitions at airports, which led to Oscar’s social media manager to nudge you into the believable. That’s how you found yourself catching the same flight as Oscar, Lando and a few others on their jet. It had become recurrent in the past few weeks and you’d never admit it out loud, but there were non-neglectable perks: fewer crying babies, more space, and the occasional poker game where you absolutely obliterated Lando’s ego. You know I’m just that good at acting, you’d said, throwing a cheeky smile at Oscar that he gave you right back.
This time, though, none of you had the energy to talk, let alone play cards. It had been an exhausting and emotional race weekend─ back-to-back media obligations underneath the fire of reignited on-track rivalries, rain delays, and disputes amid the team you couldn’t legally disclose. The jet was unusually quiet as it took off into the night sky, everyone slipping into their respective silence.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You usually didn’t in airplanes, they stressed you out too much─ you’d just leaned against the window for a little moment, eyes fluttering closed. The buzz of the engine and the soft cabin light blurred the world into static and you drifted away in a split second, as soon as the city was turned to insignificant holes in the black tapestry underneath you.
After a while, you felt a warmth, subtle at first. There was something solid against your shoulder, enough to make you crack one eye open.
Oscar’s head was resting against yours, and you were tucked comfortably against him. At some point, he’d dozed off too, and the both of you had slumped toward each other in your sleep. You could’ve moved, you know you would have a few weeks back, but you didn’t. You let your eyes close again and let yourself drift in and out of sleep along the quiet sync of your breath. His arms wrapped around your waist, your legs rested on his knees, and you weren’t quite sure how long you stayed like that─ten minutes, an hour─but when you finally woke up again, it was to the obnoxious flick of Lando’s phone camera and his barely contained laughter.
It was the accumulation of those little things, the seemingly insignificant moments that, piled together, made them bigger than they should have been. It was when Oscar took the habit of sleeping in your hotel room after qualifications to watch a movie under the pretense of simulating ‘passionate encounters’. It was when, one morning, bleary-eyed, you accidentally threw on his hoodie with his number printed on the back, and his hands lingered on the small of your back a little more possessively that day. It was when you were running low on your orange glitter gel pen and a full set was mysteriously delivered to your door, even if you didn’t need one. In the way his pupils dilated ever so slightly when you caught him staring, when he pointed right at you after his podiums, how your skin fizzed with heat for hours after he kissed your cheek in front of the cameras.
But what really blurred the line was the night in Spain.
It hadn’t been a particularly thrilling race─ tame from lights out to chequered flag. Oscar had finished P3, Lando snagged P2, both holding their qualifying positions with sharp determination. But the crowd had been wild, the champagne flowing and before you knew it, Lando dragged you and Oscar into Carlos’ plans for the night. All that happened after was a blur of neon lights and ear-shattering singing.
The walk back to the hotel was your idea- just a short stroll through warm cobblestone streets, the air sweet with late night chatter and the slow beginning of summer. You and Oscar snuck out the back entrance of the club, the latter clearly not fitting in the Spanish nightlife, your heels dangling from your fingers and his cap pulled low to hide the flush of his cheeks. Both of you were just tipsy enough to feel invincible, shoulders brushing as you exchanged anecdotes and very real inside jokes, something about not-much-talking, laughter echoing against the dead of the night.
It was quiet for a moment after that, the comfortable kind that sometimes settled between you. Oscar decided to break it.
“You know,” he started, softer than usual. “I’ve been meaning to ask─ why didn’t you like me at first?”
You turned your head up slowly, the reality of the question dawning on you. You raised an eyebrow. “What made you think I didn’t like you?”
“Come on.” Oscar gave you a look, and in the dark of his eyes you swore you saw the polite, Shakespearean insults you sneaked in your emails, the harsh tap on your foot on his, flashing in the quarter of a second. You couldn’t help but laugh.
“Okay, maybe I didn’t. At first.”
He kept his eyes on you, waiting. You sighed, tipping your head back to look at the night sky─ no stars were visible, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of it. “You were just─” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “Honestly, you were rude, smug and condescending. I felt like you were trying to make my job harder than it should be by just- not doing anything. People were talking about you as this nice, quiet boy and I secretly wanted to bash your head against a wall.”
A beat. “Wow. That’s brutal,” he simply answered. “I don’t get how I gave that impression. I always thought you were the one being rude to me.”
Your head whipped in his direction and you could physically feel the disbelief splashed across your features. “Me? You started it!”
“How?”
“That one car ride in my third month,” you deadpanned. “You made a very snobbish comment about a dream I had about my ex. You said, and I quote─” you cleared your throat dramatically, dropping your voice to the flattest Oscar impression known to man, “‘Imagine being boring and still more interesting than your ex.’” Oscar was half-laughing by that point. “Oh, don’t you dare! You also said something about how I shouldn’t sleep in the HQ again, but for the record? It was my first triple-head─”
He held a hand up in mock surrender, mouth agape in stupor. “Is this what started this whole… passive-aggressiveness?”
“Uh… yeah? It was unnecessarily arrogant!”
Oscar made a face. “Unnecessary, sure. I get it. But you know what was also unnecessary? The intimidating, pretty new girl at McLaren─who also happened to be my new PR Manager─calling me boring to my face.”
The words hung in the air between the two of you. Your froze, caught off-guard by the ease with which the compliment slipped out. Oscar was continuing with his rant, either completely oblivious or choosing not to care. You cut him off. “... You thought I was pretty?”
That’s when he faltered, his lips parted in a half-word as if he hadn’t realized what he said before you pointed it out. Oscar’s gaze flicked to yours, then away, suddenly far more interested in the cracks of the sidewalk than anything else. “Well, yeah,” he took off his cap and brushed a hand through his hair like it might undo the sentence. “I mean, you still are. It’s not like that changed.”
It would be lying to say you had considered the possibility that you caused the tension between you and Oscar in the first place. While your sad attempt at humor might have been the catalyst, something must’ve already been simmering under the surface for things to go cold so quickly after it. Your heart gave the tiniest, traitorous jump, chest pulling in a reluctant way, at the thought he’d noticed you then. You despised how easy it was to smile, to fall into the warmth of the possibility.
“Oh,” you said softly, and it explained everything and nothing all at once.
“I’m just saying,” Oscar added quickly, flustered, “it didn’t feel great.”
You couldn’t tell if the red of his cheeks was from the heat, the alcohol, or the embarrassment, but what you could tell was how hopelessly cute you found him in this moment. You tried to play it cool, despite the fact your heartbeat had skipped a full chord. “Noted. And for the record, now I know you aren’t boring,” you added, teasing, playfully nudging your shoulder with his. “You’re just… private. Or mysterious. A sardonic brick wall, if you will.”
It successfully had him looking up, a light-hearted scoff slipping past his lips - you could see the relief in his facial traits. “I’ll take mysterious. It’s better than boring.”
When you got into your hotel room, Oscar slipped past your door as he normally would, and you collapsed onto the bed with your legs tangled together like always─ but something was different now. The air around the mattress was slower, stuck in time, warm in the way his breath ghosted over the nape of your neck when he settled beside you, eyes already fluttering shut.
For the first time since this whole agreement began, you had to consciously remind yourself that it wasn’t real. The comfort in your chest wasn’t made to stay. The steady rhythm of his breathing next to yours, the way your body naturally molded into the other─ it was all pretend.
At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.
Like silk curtains flowing with the breeze, the change was discreet but there nonetheless, in the shared silences that felt less like pauses and more like instances captured with a polaroid. There was hesitation, once again, but unlike the one you chased away before─ in how you touched, how you laughed, how you glanced at each other and closed the gap under the bright flashes. You were both tiptoeing around something fragile and new.
Neither of you said anything, but it was something too heavy not to notice─ at least, you hoped Oscar did as well: the reluctant awareness of how hazy the lines had started to get and the stunned realization that maybe they’d never really been that straight to begin with after Oscar’s tipsy confession in Spain. You were still doing everything to showcase your relationship to the media, Theodore’s presence in the paddock still overwhelmingly present and Oscar’s popularity sky-rocketing. You were still holding hands and tucking yourself to his side in the garage between two meetings, carefully weaving the continuation of the story you made up together. Yet, when no one was watching, it didn’t feel as plastic. Not when Oscar whispered in the crevice of your ear in a crowded room, or when your heart jumped at the sound of his laugh. When it started to hurt, just a little, when he pulled away.
The day he called you at five in the morning from Canada was confirmation enough. The switch from the heat of Spain to the rainy weather of the United Kingdom for work had taken its toll on you, and you had to call in sick for the Montreal race weekend. Tucked in your covers with a cup of coffee and an inability to sleep due to your clogged nose, you watched your phone screen lit up with his name. You answered with a hoarse, “Why are you awake?”
Oscar chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the hotel air conditioning in the background. “Why are you?”
“Respiratory betrayal,” you said, dragging your blanket further up your chin. “What’s your excuse? The race’s tomorrow.”
You talked about everything and nothing for a little while. Oscar told you how the track felt a little underwhelming, how the social media team messed up with their main Instagram account, and of Lando’s endless complaining about the lack of your presence─ apparently, the paddock was too quiet now. You nodded in your pillow with a smile like he could see you.
Eventually, the conversation drifted away, like it always did now. Oscar asked what you were listening to lately and you told him of a song that sounded like spring and reminded you of long drives at night, especially the instance when he drove you home after Monaco. He said it sounded like something you’d play to get out of your own head. You said it was. He told you about this stupid childhood habit he had of organizing cereal boxes in alphabetical order and you laughed so hard it triggered a coughing fit.
Oscar’s voice dropped. “I wish you were here.”
It wasn’t dramatic or purposeful in the slightest. He said it as if he was realizing it at the same time he pronounced the words. It was your case too when you answered, “Yeah, me too.”
Your chest ached, because there was no camera to capture the softness of the moment and you just found out you preferred it that way.
And then you came back for the Austrian Grand Prix. You didn’t see Oscar much that weekend. You’d barely touched the ground before you were swallowed whole by emails, debriefs, documents you missed during your sick leave and Theodore side-eyeing you every time you so much as coughed next to him. There was no time for soft moments, not even time to stop and just glance at Oscar even if you wanted to.
He crossed the line in P1 that day. You were mid-conversation with Zak, animated with excitement even during your lengthy talk about the following media duties, when arms pulled you in so strongly you lost track of what you were saying. You recognized him by touch alone: Oscar was wrapped around you, body sweaty and warm from his maddened laps. He held the helmet in his hand, still catching his breath when his head dropped on your shoulder.
“You’re back,” he said, voiced laced with something a lot like relief.
“Of course I’m back,” you whispered back, fingers twitching on the back of his race suit. He sounded like you were gone for years and somehow, it really did feel like it. You could’ve stayed there for hours, you thought, until Zak obnoxiously cleared his throat next to you.
Oscar pulled back, eyes brighter than his usual post-race exhaustion, the glint of something you couldn’t name just yet dancing in his pupils. His hands came to rest on your wrist, barely brushing your hands. “Stay with me?” He asked, and your heart might have stopped just there. Realizing how it sounded, Oscar quickly corrected, “For the interviews. I’ve been dodging the media since you weren’t there.”
“I will,” you smiled. Your feet were already moving anyway.
He kept glancing sideways everytime the journalists asked about strategy and pace, and the little tug in your guts told your mind you were enjoying it, even though shamefully missing the feeling of the circle his thumb drew on the inside of your hand. When the interviewer asked about the less than discreet glances, making a comment on the obvious chemistry you two shared and how well you worked together─as colleagues and as a couple─Oscar didn’t laugh it off like you always practiced. He nodded, bashful and sure.
The sentence kept blinking in the back of your head like a warning sign: this was all fake. But even telling yourself that wasn’t enough anymore because your heart apparently didn’t get the memo. The touches and the sleepovers made your dreams spiral and your cheeks warm. You became his phone wallpaper for authenticity and his picture became yours as well without as much as a second thought, every little attention as natural as the cycle of seasons.
You were falling for your own fake dating ruse. Which meant you were quietly, miserably falling for Oscar Piastri in the process, in the realest and most literal way known to man. That was terrifying.
Never, in your short but hectic PR career, had you ever experienced that.
Not the newfound feelings you were harboring for your fake boyfriend, no. You tried your best to think about that as little as possible─ if you didn’t look at them, maybe they wouldn’t look back. Right now, you were talking about the diplomatic ambush you and the F1 grid and staff just walked into. The hotel hosting the drivers and half the sport’s staff for the Silverstone weekend had decided to organize a charity gala. Last minute. Mandatory, if you had any desire to keep your reputation intact.
It was a smart move─ brilliant, even: Host a fancy event for a cause, pick a night when the entire motorsport world is under your roof, and leak just enough information to the press so no one can afford to skip it. Declining? Not donating? Refusing to schmooze with the hotel owners? You’d be crucified online by breakfast. Genius, really. You respected the play.
But damn, give a girl some warning. You didn’t have anything to wear.
Apparently it was the case of everyone else as well, which made you feel less self-conscious. When you walked out your hotel room the morning of FP3 and qualifying, the hallway wasn’t buzzing with race talk but with chaotic murmurs about last-minute outfits, shoes emergency and the drama of Max Verstappen only packing team merch─ which, much to his dismay, was absolutely excluded from the dress code.
You were promptly swept away by a group of female staff members from different teams, mostly working in comms or PR, determined to save you from showing up in jeans and a prayer after a heated conversation around the breakfast table. It turned into a surprisingly wholesome mission: shared complaints, budding friendships, and a chorus of tender laughter when you found the dress. “Your boyfriend’s going to be a happy man!” one of the older women teased, earning cackles from the others and a fiery blush from you.
You were, admittedly, very lucky─ as much as someone in a fake relationship could be.
Especially when Oscar knocked on your hotel door later that evening, fresh from his post-quali shower, hair a little messy, still buttoning up the blazer of his suit and eyes flickering with something unreadable when you opened the door, ready.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t expecting a reaction. When you were tearing down your skin with your scented body scrub and carefully smoking out your eyeliner in the mirror, you told yourself it was for you only─ but faced with Oscar’s eyes roaming over you, you knew you were clearly lying to yourself.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He silently took you in, and you feared that maybe you didn’t achieve the effect you hoped for. Maybe a hair was out of place, or the dress looked awkward on you. But Oscar’s lips parted in a discreet intake of breath and the way his mind blanked out was painfully visible on his features. Quietly, “You look…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck as if he could try to scrub off the red climbing out of his collar. “You look really nice.”
Really nice. That wasn’t quite what you expected, but his reaction was telling enough for you and knowing Oscar, you knew you weren’t getting anything more unless he was under a copious amount of alcohol or sleep-deprivation. You rolled your eyes at him, biting back a satisfied smile. “You don’t look half bad either.”
And he did. Devastatingly so. His suit was tailored within an inch of its life, cinched right at the waist and the lapels hugging his chest, his frame striking in the color. It was all very James Bond of him, minus the reckless charm─ though tonight, he seemed to be toeing the line. Your gaze dropped to his tie, and your fingers twitched at your side when you realized the shade was an exact match to your dress. You hadn’t said anything about your outfit ahead of time so you didn’t believe it was on purpose, but when your eyes met his again, there was a flash of something knowing and boyish─ almost proud that you noticed.
“Come on,” Oscar finally broke the silence. “You’re setting the bar too high. Everyone’s going to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”
“That’s because you are.”
The hallway was quiet as you two walked down together. You could feel it again─ that invisible thread pulling tighter, a weightless tension lodging in your chest and the incessant smile pulling at your lips. This was fake. Totally fake, you repeated to yourself again as you stepped with Oscar in the elevator, arm slithering around his bicep, ready to make your entrance.
The hotel hall was drenched in gaudy decorations, shimmering chandeliers and overly sparkly dresses, the kind of excessive elegance that only made sense in photoshoots and unnecessarily overpriced galas. Everywhere you looked, sequins caught the light and laughter echoed over the clink of crystal glasses. You weren’t in your element at all, Oscar wasn’t either and clearly, none of the drivers or the team principals who showed up wanted to be there. But in the name of keeping up appearances, you spent the evening with Oscar and a glass of champagne, stepping on his foot from time to time for old time’s sake. You knew how to mingle, after all it was everything you studied for four years.
You drifted through conversations in tandem. His hand stayed on the small of your back, occasionally brushing lower in ways that felt more unconscious than performative, or maybe it was just wishful thinking. When you’d lean into him to talk, he always dipped his head to hear you better on instinct. When Lando started tagging along, he was quick to complain about third-wheeling.
The whole evening was spent like that: finding amusement where you could in the middle of obligations, which was often spent sending sharp comments Oscar’s way, which amused him greatly, or Lando’s with Oscar’s help, which definitely amused him less. But gossiping could only get you so far, and soon enough the height of the heels you chose and the weighty ambience was enough to uncomfortably tighten your ribcage. You were quick to excuse yourself to the empty entry of the hotel, where you collapsed on a chair with a sigh.
You took a slow sip of your almost empty glass, letting the fizz of the bubbles distract you from the uncomfortable twist in your chest. Oscar would have followed you if you didn’t ask for some alone time, and God knows you needed some away from him. You were trying to find a distraction, anything to make you stop thinking about the brush of his fingertips or how you could have sworn his gaze lingered a second too long on your lips when you laughed at one of his jokes.
You didn’t expect, and especially didn’t want, Theodore to be that distraction.
His voice cut through the fog. “Tired?”
The glass nearly slipped from your fingers. Your body tensed, and you jumped to your feet out of reflex, ready to leave at any given moment. “Oh wow, didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he raised his hand in mock surrender. You rolled your eyes.
Theodore had the same haircut, same smug face, same cologne that lingered like melted plastic. The longer you looked at him, the longer of an eyesore he became─ nothing about him stood out: not his suit, the false casual way he was holding his blazer in his hands, and certainly not his demeanor. You couldn’t help but draw a silent comparison to Oscar.
That’s when you realized: you hadn’t seen much of Theodore the past week around the paddock. You hadn’t paid a lot of attention to his presence in general, too caught up in Oscar and the torment of your own conflicting feelings to even grace him with acknowledgement. You voiced the first part of your thought, casually sipping your drink.
His expression tightened as he forced a smile. “Ah. Yeah, well, they… they let me go. Budget cuts, you see.”
It took all your will and decency not to explode in laughter. Budget cuts. Ah, yes. Incompetence must have had a change of definition in the Oxford Dictionary recently. “So… why are you here?”
“My dad knows the hotel owner. I got an invite last minute.”
“Oh,” you said with a mocking tilt of the head. “So nepotism and unemployment. Got it.” The fake niceness you sported on during your first interaction at the start of the season had vanished out of thin air─ you weren’t going to put up with this pathetic excuse of a man any longer than you had to, precisely now that you had no reason to anymore.
Theodore laughed. Your hand prickled with the need to punch him in the nose. “You know, it’s not even that important that I lost my job at McLaren.” Said no one ever, you thought. How far did his privileges go? “I─ well, I only took it up because I learned you were working there. I thought… maybe if I was around again, we could fix things.”
You must have hit your head, this had to be a fever dream. The words reaching your ears made no sense to you whatsoever.
“Fix─?” You scoffed, eyes widening. “That job was supposed to be your redemption arc? Is that it? Oh my god, Theo. You slept with my best friend and you thought I’d fall back in your arms because you barged into my career?”
“I made a mistake─”
“You made a choice,” you spat.
“I didn’t think it would matter this much to you!”
“Did I not cry enough the first time or do you want me to reenact it? Were you really hoping I’ll welcome you with open arms, open legs and a memory loss?”
“Well─”
“Don’t answer that. Actually, stop talking.”
Theodore threw his arms in the air, taking a step forward as he hurled his jacket on the chair you sat on a few minutes ago. “I just thought maybe seeing me again would remind you of what we’ve had!”
Rage and indignation alike rose in your throat like vomit, and your hands shook imperceptibly as you answered. “It did. It reminded me that what we had was never good enough to keep me from building something better. So thanks for the little nostalgia trip, but I’ll pass.”
Something in Theodore’s gaze darkened, dangerous and petulant, and before you could step back, he leaned in. “Oh, I get it now,” he snarled at you, voice dropping into something bitter. “It’s because of Piastri, isn’t it?”
“Back off, Theodore.” Your back had straightened instinctively. Discomfort crept under your skin like cold water─ you didn’t like the way he hissed his name and how close he was getting.
He didn’t back away. Instead, he took another step. “Didn’t realize you’d fall for the first man who gave you attention after me. Guess I underestimated how lonely you─”
“Everything alright there?”
His voice, warm and familiar, sliced through the tension and your shoulders slumped in relief. Oscar.
He was standing just behind Theodore, who turned around comically slow. Oscar’s expression was unreadable. You never saw him angry, but you did know how to recognize the calm before a storm.
“Yeah,” Theodore answered, too fast. “Just… catching up.”
Oscar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I think you’ve done enough catching up for tonight.”
He walked toward you, and you subtly stepped to his side, his heat grounding in the absurdity of the situation. He didn’t look at you─ his eyes were locked on Theodore’s, cold and measured. “If you’ve said your piece,” he started, “I think you should head back to whatever table your father pulled strings to get you to.”
Theodore scoffed, his features twisting into something ugly, but he didn’t push his luck. He wouldn’t be winning this fight. After a beat of tense silence, he turned and stormed off the entry hall, muttering something beneath his breath you didn’t bother catching.
The moment he was out of sight, you could feel the rigidity in your body melt away. You hadn’t even realized how tightly you’d been wound until now, standing frozen in place. You reached out instinctively, gripping Oscar’s sleeve in order to keep you on your feet. “Shit,” you whispered. “I didn’t expect him.”
Oscar’s hand closed gently over yours and how thumb drew slow circles across your knuckles. You could feel his eyes on you attentively. “You okay?”
You sniffled, breathing fast as a breathy, nervous laugh slipped past your lips. “God.” You wiped your cheek, pausing when you saw the glint of moisture on your fingers, “I didn’t even realize I was crying.”
Oscar didn’t say anything right away─ he reached up with his other hand and brushed your tear track, cradling your cheek with the gentlest touch, like you’d break if he pressed too hard. “He’s a real dick,” he murmured, brows drawing together. “Trust me, he’s never coming near you again.”
That made you laugh─ quiet, and undeniably tired, but real. You looked up at him, something vulnerable sitting openly between you now. “Thanks for stepping in,” you breathed out. “You know, you’re awfully good at being a fake boyfriend. You nailed the attitude down.” You tried to make light of the situation, but the words stung when you got them out. You regretted uttering them as soon as you felt the frail openness in the air retract. Something in Oscar’s eyes dimmed a little, but they didn’t move from yours.
“Always, that’s my job,” his tone dripped with a strange kind of acerbity. “Now, let’s get you to your room. I think we’re done for the night.”
You couldn’t agree more.
The way to your room was spent in silence, apart from the click of your heels on the carpet and the faint sound of breathing. The quiet was now oppressing, seeping with an anxiety that took you back to when he shook your hand in a similar hotel room a few months ago. When you released his arm as you reached your door, you half-expected him to mutter a polite goodnight and disappear at the end of the hallway.
Instead, Oscar leaned against the doorframe, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”
You gave a small nod.
“What made you say yes to him?” He asked. Faced with your confused expression, he clarified, gaze flicking down. “Theodore. Why did you date him?”
There wasn’t a trace of judgment in his voice, just a searching sort of curiosity. The answer sat heavy on your tongue, unfamiliar and painful, but still, the question pulled something sharp through your chest─ you didn’t know why you were suddenly so self-conscious about it.
“I’d like to say I don’t know but…,” you leaned back against the wall next to him, folding your arms to hold yourself together and eyes fixed on a point somewhere past his figure. “I think… I was tired. I used to put everything into school, so much that I skipped out on everything else. I didn’t even know who I was beside the pressure and achievements, and Theodore… just happened to be there during that confusing time of my life. My roommate’s, and ex-best friend’s, friend. I thought he was charming, in his own sort of way. He was persistent, used to leave flowers by my dorm room every morning.” You chuckled sadly. “They weren’t even my favorite - turns out they were hers.”
You heard Oscar exhale. “It still made me feel noticed, like I mattered to something outside of studies. Like someone actually saw me, you know? So I fell in love. And turns out he didn’t see me at all─ he sure as hell doesn’t now either, if he thought showering Zak with dollar bills and side-eyeing me across the paddock would be enough to win me back. That’s without mentioning the cheating.”
The silence of the hallway was deafening, your words echoing against the walls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just dense. Until Oscar broke it.
“I don’t get it,” he murmured, “how anyone could cheat on you. It doesn’t make sense.”
It made you look at him. You’ve gotten used to turning around and finding his eyes already on you; it shouldn’t have been much of a surprise, but your chest still tightened when you met the darkness of his irises. You waited for him to reply, lacking any explanation yourself of why it couldn’t meet the simple principles of logic in his head, why he couldn’t find the flaws in you that lead Theodore to another woman.
Oscar’s answer came under a different form. “For what it’s worth,” he said, gaze steady. “I like to think I see you.”
You blinked. “Do you?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, the answer came rushing in. He did. You knew it in the way his head tilted slightly to the side, like he was still trying to see more of you, even now.
Oscar knew your coffee order by heart, the temperature and how much milk to ask for when you were too tired to speak it aloud. He knew which bakery carried your favorite pastry and what time he had to sneak away from media duties to grab it for you─ especially when the paddock version tasted like cardboard. He noticed when your hands got cold before you did, kept spare hand warmers in his bag in colder countries because “you’re always freezing.” He sent you stupid memes during long flights because he knew take offs made it hard for you to sit still. He carried spare glitter gel pens in his bag, and never teased you about it─ just handed you another one when you absentmindedly noticed yours was running out.
He remembered that you always got motion sick if you sat in the backseat of a car for too long. That you needed silence when thinking. That you hummed when you were concentrating and tapped your pen when you weren’t.
And suddenly, you weren’t just asking if he saw you the way you’d always wanted to. You were asking if he’d always been seeing you, even when you weren’t looking.
“I do,” he answered, barely above a whisper.
You nodded. There couldn’t be anything more true than that.
Just like that, the air tilted. Toward him, engulfing you both in a fragile, sacred space. Everything narrowed down to Oscar and the small buzz between your two bodies─ dense and electric, full of every feeling that had been lurking beneath the surface. His eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest of seconds. Back to your eyes.
He moved subtly, like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, the idea of losing the moment scarier than not having it at all. Your body was still, breath hitching and heart racing, as his hand reached up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing softly over your cheekbone, memorizing the shape.
And when he finally leaned in, he hesitated just inches from your lips, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath and the tremble in yours. “Is this okay?” He whispered.
You closed the space.
The kiss was gentle at first─ careful and tentative. The gentle, kind sweep of two people trying to find their footing, but the electric shock of the feeling brought everything back to you: the months of tension, the stolen glances, the fumbled excuses to stay close. Your mouths crashed over each other, deepening in the split of a second, slow and aching in the pants you let out and the touch of roaming, curious hands. You breathed into his mouth, seeking his air to make it yours.
Oscar’s other hand slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer and your back flush against the wall as your fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, fast and desperate, mirroring yours. His tongue demandingly slipped past your lips, and he kissed you like he had wanted to for a long time, and there was no denying he had. Raw and needy, you felt stripped bare by the small whine he let out when you bit down on his bottom lip.
You thought, the world could fall apart tomorrow and this would have been everything you needed to go peacefully.
When you finally pulled apart, both breathless, he didn’t move far. You wouldn’t have let him anyways, the heat of his body too comfortable, the weight of his mouth branded on your own. His forehead rested against yours, eyes closed and lips swollen.
“You have no idea how long I wanted to do that,” he whispered, voice hoarse and rough with honesty.
You fingers tightened in his jacket, and you brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “Trust me, I think I do.” He laughed against your lips and you kissed him again. Because after all of it─all the pretending, the teasing, the overthinking─you didn’t have to lie to yourself anymore, to convince yourself. You couldn’t make up the way he was kissing you back.
Yet, you still went to bed alone.
You hadn't planned on it─ well, not exactly. After the emotional whirlwind of the evening, the kiss, the honesty, the confession, you’d invited Oscar into your room without really thinking. It had been an instinct, comfort-driven by the nights already spent together, even if everything was entirely different─ including your intentions and his. But Lando had to barge in, clumsily looking for his room next to yours, doing a double-take at the sight of you tucked into Oscar’s side, your makeup smudged from tears and kisses like a hormonal teenager, Oscar looking all too rumpled and embarrassed next to you.
“Jesus,” Lando muttered. “I’m just─ you know what, we’ll unpack that later. Good night. Please don’t make too much noise.”
Oscar laughed, arms wrapping tighter around your waist when your friend disappeared, whispering, “I’ll come back tomorrow. After I take you out on a date. A real one, this time.”
You’d smiled. “You better.” He kissed you again, quick and soft and annoyingly perfect, more than your dreams made it out to be, and you went to bed glowing, with his name lighting your phone screen with sweet nothings and promises of conversations tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came, because the knocks that woke you up were giving you a sickening déjà-vu. They were urgent, a trumpet announcing the complete turning of your world just like they had done a few months back, in February, and loud enough to slice through the sleepiness in your bones along with the drowsy haze of your mind.
You got up with difficulty and barely had the time to wrap a blanket around yourself before answering the door. You half-expected to find the Grim Reaper himself waiting on the other side with how early it was for anyone else to be knocking. Instead, you were faced with Oscar. Your heart gave a small, automatic jolt when you saw him. After how last night ended, he should have been the best thing possible to wake up to.
The expression on his face stopped you cold.
Oscar, who rarely wore his emotions so plainly, looked visibly shaken. The sharp lines of his face were pulled tight with worry, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. And that─more than the hour, more than the knocks─was what stopped you from throwing yourself into his arms.
You opened the door wider to let him in, which he did with hurried steps. “What’s happening?”
“Can you close the door first?” You did without much of a question.
Oscar sat on the edge of your bed, phone cradled in hand. He looked up at you, and distressed wasn’t enough to describe it─ he looked wrecked. “Have you checked your phone this morning?” He asked.
Dread pooled in your stomach. “No, I─ I just woke up,” you answered. “Oscar, I─”
“Someone leaked it. Our agreement, the fake dating. It’s all out.”
The world tipped.
The air in your lungs vanished and, for a moment, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears. His words repeated like static, a taunting echo getting louder and louder the more you realized what it meant. “What?” You whispered, eyes locked on his. The truth could have looked different there, but didn’t.
You sat down next to him, every limb leaden, cinching the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “How─? Who even─? We were so careful and─”
“Nobody knows, they’re searching for it right now,” Oscar replied, but it came out strained. “Everyone's trying to trace it now, but it landed on DeuxMoi and basically everywhere after that. They’ve got… receipts. Pictures, testimonies, photos- and a very incriminating audio recording.”
His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Of you. Saying something like… how good of a fake boyfriend I am. From last night, before we went up.”
Your stomach flipped. “But─ we were alone.”
Different scenarios flashed in your mind, engulfing you both in a spiral of questions and worry. Someone could have been filming you, and the lights were too low to spot the silhouette. Maybe Theodore’s jacket, draped over the chair you’d sat on, had a recording device on it in an attempt to prove himself something, or to get revenge on you. But how would he have guessed? There were so many possibilities, and Oscar’s silence didn’t help you feel any better about any of them─ not knowing burned hotter than the betrayal itself.
He took your hand in his, your intertwined fingers resting between the two of you. The contact made you flinch.
Your breath came out in a shaky exhale. “I mean… it was going to end anyways, right?” Oscar’s frown deepened, so you pushed forward. “The whole relationship. Theodore left. That was the plan, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to last past him. It’s a very shitty way to end, sure, but… you can work with it.” You were tearing up by the time the last word left your lips.
Oscar winced. His grip on your hand tightened. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” You let out a wet, pathetic laugh. “It’s over.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, and it sounded a lot like a plea. “We can figure something out─ Zak, the rest of the PR team-someone will know what to do, there-”
You scoffed─ not at him, never, but at the cruel absurdity of it all. Your incapability of keeping something good for yourself. “You don’t get it, Oscar.” Your voice wavered. “Apparently, we’re everywhere. There’s an audio recording. People feel like they’ve been made fools of. They won’t forgive that so easily─ they’ll turn on you. They won’t believe in something that’s already been exposed as fake, even if─”
You couldn’t finish your sentence. Because that was the worst part, wasn't it? You weren’t faking it anymore. Neither of you were, and hadn’t been for a really long time. You could have stumbled around, trying to figure out what it meant, searching his mouth and holding on to the feeling long enough to put a name on it, but the headlines didn’t give you that chance. They took it from you, carved it out of your hands before you even got to claim it as yours.
A beat.
“It was real for me,” Oscar said. “It is.”
You looked at him, the details of his eyes that made promises you were sure he could have kept under different circumstances. You tried to smile, but your face cracked under the weight of it, tear tracks shining under the early morning light. “They don’t know that,” you whispered. “They won’t care.”
Oscar’s gaze fell on the floor, and you shook your head gently. “You still have a career to protect. Just say it was my idea, you were helping me out and I got you into all of this─ which is the truth, technically. You just got too caught up. They’ll forgive you eventually, they’re here for the racing.”
“And what about you?”
The silence spoke for itself, heavy with the undeflectable nature of the situation. Carefully, as to not startle him, you took back the hand he was holding and folded both of them on your lap. There would be no other outcome to this story. “I’ll figure it out. It’s my job.”
He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the lopsided curve of his mouth, the prominent vein near his temple you traced with your eyes before falling asleep. You realized you never had the opportunity to pass a night in his arms.
“You go get ready for your race, Oscar. Don’t worry about me.” Your chest ached as your mouth shaped the words, barely hearing them yourself. The only thing that mattered was the low lights in the Australians’ eyes, how his mouth opened and closed around something. He never said whatever was pending at the edge of his tongue, but he closed his eyes when you put your lips on the skin of his cheek.
Oscar just left quietly, in the imperceptible click of a hotel door. You couldn’t watch him go─ if you did, you might not have had the strength to let him.
You were let go by McLaren before the race even began.
The decision had been clear from the get-go. Still, it didn’t make sitting in that sterile room any easier knowing the lanyard around your neck would be up to grab for someone else in seconds. It wasn’t cruel or personal─ it was just business.
You spent over three hours with members of staff, going over the facts and projected damage. You nodded along and asked questions you could predict the answers to, but the conclusion was written into the walls: the scandal was too loud, and you weren’t quiet enough to survive it─ at least, not with a badge that read McLaren on your chest.
You gave it back, sliding it over the table to the chief of staff. They booked you a flight home as discreetly as they could manage and it wasn’t until you stepped in your apartment, suitcase dropped by the door and keys shaking in your hand, that the overwhelming silence caught up with you.
And with it, everything else.
Your face was headlining the front pages of multiple websites and you’d just lost the best job you’ll ever have─ if not the only one, because a simple search would now lead every possible employer to the failed scheme you tried to put up.
You collapsed onto your bed, entirely dressed and only one shoe off, still wrapped in the airport chill. They made you hand-over your team-issued phone, along with the contacts of everyone that mattered back at Silverstone. You didn’t even have a chance to explain yourself or to say goodbye.
Oscar would finish the race and find out you vanished, and you had no way of telling him
You let the weight of it all crash down on you.
If you had to estimate, you’d say you let yourself rot in your own misery for about a week, give or take. You weren't counting the days, but you knew you hadn’t opened your curtains since you got home. Your eyes were red, rubbed raw every time another wave of emotion struck you, and you hadn’t so much as looked in a mirror. Instead, you moved through your apartment like a ghost, sidestepping your own reflection as if it might reach out and confirm what you already knew─ you’d lost something you didn’t realize mattered this much until it was gone.
The past year had been everything. You successfully worked your way into a world that worked too fast for second chances where you found a rhythm, built friendships and connections. As tiresome as the lifestyle could sometimes be, you fell in love with what you were doing and what you came to be. In the past months, your life had mirrored the tracks─ swift and brutal, with enough turns to break a few wheels. Now, you were left with nothing but the emptiness in your stomach and for someone who always strived for more, the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was enough to keep you from wanting.
Your wake-up call came in the form of your rent.
Turns out heartbreak didn’t pause rent or the cost of groceries rising due to inflation. McLaren paid well, but not well enough so that you could afford to disappear off the grid and wallow in self pity with your last check. So you did what you always did, reminiscent of your past college superhuman efforts: you opened your laptop and got to work.
You applied to everything you set your eyes on─ LinkedIn, obscure websites, Facebook Ads, no one was safe. You didn’t dare touch anything remotely F1 related, or even F2, F3 or F4, the wound was still fresh and your name was probably too much of a touchy subject for you to be accepted anywhere near. You stuck to motorsports-adjacent companies, agencies, development programs, even local circuits. Just… something, anything that would let you keep your toes in the world you loved.
Eventually, it came.
A small karting company in the Netherlands, of all places. Barely enough to fill a spreadsheet on a good day, but they had promising talents and were expanding, so in need of someone to help build their communications structure from the ground up. Preferably someone who knew how to handle press and build narratives, connect people to stories. They were desperate, which means they probably didn’t even look you up when they interviewed you. You took the opportunity with your first real smile in a minute.
It wasn’t as glamorous. The office had flickering lights, and you hadn’t come with the most adapted wardrobe. But it was something─ so you got to work.
You were surprised by how much you ended up loving it.
The people were awkward but nice, you went out with a few of your colleagues by the end of your first week, and the kids racing under your name were awfully sweet and their parents just as kind. The work wasn’t overbearing, but you put every ounce of your attention in building its perfect image with your team. Your new apartment was small and comfortable, and the city you settled in a neverending discovery of wonders. You felt fine─ which was a step away from the state you had been in not so long ago.
But even though you tried to build yourself another life, you still couldn’t shake the memory of Oscar. He was still there─ not in person, but in every memory you were not capable of erasing just yet. You caught yourself ordering his coffee order alongside yours as a force of habit, and accidentally took the notebooks with the overly precise details of your fallacious history with you to work. There was so much of him in you now, you had trouble picking apart the pieces. You scanned articles for his face but skipped race reports in case his name hurt more to see.
You tried to bury the ache in your schedule and the excitement of the company’s mediatic expansion, you wrote press releases, attended networking events with a tight smile and let small wins feel bigger than they were. Yet you knew your heart was sitting in his hands, thousands miles away- and you refused to wonder if, without knowing, you were still holding his. It was a hope you couldn’t entertain, all in the name of letting go. It was an act of healing of some sorts. Putting Oscar behind you was growth, not grief, and letting go of something that had no chance of being anymore was the most adult thing you’d ever do.
Except you have a history of your past catching up with you─ deep down, you should’ve known this time wouldn’t be any different.
It happened when you bumped into someone on your way out the café, hands full with the Communications team’s comically large coffee order. It was the end of August, and your mind was anywhere but on the street─ mostly focused on not spilling anything. Of course, that’s what made the crash even more cinematic.
Cold drinks flew in the air, splattering across the pavement and down your pants in dramatic, sticky rivulets. You were halfway into a curse when someone said your name in an all-too-familiar voice.
“Y/N?” You looked up from your drenched legs, and there he was.
Lando Norris in the flesh, unruly mullet and all. “Oh my god,” you muttered, halfway between disbelief and horror. “Hi?”
He stared at you like he was trying to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. You’d feel offended if you couldn’t understand where he was coming from- you did disappear suddenly, those two months ago. “You’re─ holy shit, what are you doing here?”
You awkwardly wiped your hands on the napkin that came with the order, glancing at the wasted money on the ground. “Clearly failing my duties. I work for a karting company just outside the city. Communications consultant.”
“No way, seriously? In the Netherlands?” Lando asked, eyebrows shooting up. “That’s… kind of awesome.”
You gave him an awkward smile. “Yeah. It’s not McLaren, sure, but I like it there.”
The mention of the team brought an icy breeze to the conversation and had Lando shuffling on his feet before you changed the subject. “And what are you doing here?” You asked, too enthusiastic for it to be spontaneous.
“Zandvoort race this weekend,” he answered with a slight grin.
“Oh, true.” With the drastic changes in your life and the newfound popularity the company had gained, you’d forgotten all about the fast-paced calendar you had become so accustomed with. The fact there was even a race taking place in the Netherlands, despite Max Verstappen being Dutch, had completely slipped your mind.
It should feel like a win, but your heart twisted to punish you.
Faced with another silence, Lando spoke up again. “You know, it’s not the same without you there, Oscar’s new PR manager is an old man.” That made you chuckle, although bittersweet. “We miss you. A lot.”
You didn’t miss the implication in his words. The air suddenly felt a bit thinner in your lungs than it did a few minutes ago. “He shouldn’t,” was all you could manage to reply in the tightening of your throat.
“Why not?”
You shrugged, forcing your voice to stay level. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It ended. He has to focus on his career.”
Lando opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it, only giving you an hesitant smile in return. “Well… I’ll tell him I saw you. If you want.”
“No,” You shook your head with a soft laugh. “No. Just… good luck, alright? For the Grand Prix.”
It got Lando to smile wider, at least, something warm in the spreading of his lips. “Thanks. And Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really glad I bumped into you. Let me make up for the spilled coffee.”
He did. Brought the entire order again and handed it over with a sheepish shrug, reminiscent of the friend you had two months ago, before disappearing down the cobblestone street. You stood there a bit too long, dazed by the improbability of it all. The universe decided to shake you a little, but somehow it had to be just when you made peace with the fact it had moved on without you.
You went back to the karting center where reality demanded your full attention. The rest of the day passed in a blur of last-minute adjustments─ tomorrow, you were hosting a little event in order to showcase the rising talents driving in your colors, which needed your immediate attention, no matter how divided by the episode this morning. You didn’t even notice everyone else leaving until the sun dipped below the horizon, painting gold across the windows and casting long shadows on the now-empty space.
You exhaled slowly, closing your computer and feeling the soreness in your back from being hunched over too long. The cons of being a workaholic, you guessed, but you’d done your part. You gathered your things, slid your jackets over your shoulders, and stepped out into the cooling evening.
You could have missed him if you hadn’t hesitated a second too long in the doorway, but you could also recognize Oscar anywhere, eyes closed or blindfolded.
He was leaning against a car, parked a few meters away from the entrance, hoodie loose around his shoulders and hair tousled by the breeze. His gaze was distant, unfocused as he was watching the distance. The second the door thudded shut behind you, the sound cutting through the quiet evening, his eyes snapped up, finding yours.
He looked lost, beautifully so. It froze you in your tracks. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on Oscar, as he pushed off the car and took careful steps forward.
“Hi,” was all he said, soft and steady.
You hadn't realized how much you missed the silken casualness of his voice before it reached your ears. It hit you harder than you’d expected. “How─?”
“Lando,” Oscar cut in gently. “He said you worked at a karting company near the city. I… looked it up. Thought maybe, with a little chance, you’d still be here.” He scratched the back of his neck and he looked away for a second, just one, before his eyes snapped back to yours.
Neither of you moved, unsure how to cross the canyon that had cracked open between you.
“I wasn’t expecting…” You trailed off.
“Yeah,” Oscar breathed out a humorless laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Me neither. It was, uh, pretty impulsive. But I couldn’t just…” He trailed off too, shaking his head.
You nodded, even though you didn’t understand. This whole conversation made no sense. “How’s it going? Life, I mean. At McLaren?” you asked, desperate to ignore your heart clawing at your ribs.
Oscar’s lips thinned. “Fine. Busy.”
“That’s good.”
He took a step closer, so very little you could have missed, and so slow it gave you the opportunity to step back. You didn’t take it. “And you? How’s─ all this?”
“It’s… something. I like it. I do.” You laughed, and it came out wrong.
“I’m glad.”
Silence fell, weighty on your shoulders. You didn’t know what to do, and you couldn’t guess how to act when Oscar looked so closed off, out of reach─ something he hadn’t been to you in a long while. You chose to let it stretch, unsure of what else.
Finally, it came down to Oscar. “You left.”
The words stung with the strength of a slap, and heartbreaking enough to put you back in front of your apartment door, two months back. You gripped the hem of your jacket, bringing it closer to your body in hope to substitute for the warmth his tone lacked. You inhaled sharply, fighting the sting behind your eyes.
“I didn’t have a choice. They made it very clear there was no place for me anymore, and it would be the better option for one of us to come out unscathed.” Your voice faltered despite your best efforts. “I didn’t want to leave that way, Oscar. Not without saying goodbye.”
You couldn’t help the comment that bordered on your lips. “But I figured you weren’t too concerned. You didn’t look too hard to reach me either.” Not an e-mail, no nothing. You were deprived of his contact information due to your work phone being taken away, but he wasn’t.
Oscar’s hands curled into fists at his side. “I couldn’t. If I did, they assured me it could make everything worse if someone leaked it again, for the both of us.” A scoff escaped him. “Told me I had to wait until they found the person who took the audio recording in the first place before I could try anything.”
“And did they?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I don’t really care.”
Again, he took a step forward. Oscar was close, not overly, but close enough for you to see the wild and desperate edge etched in his delicate traits, regardless of how much he tried to hide it. “I wanted to reach out. Every day. I just─” He ran a hand through his hair. “I guess I thought that’s what you wanted. I kept thinking that maybe you hated me for how it ended, or─ maybe you regretted it.”
Your laugh broke out sharp and ugly, more hurt than anything else. “Hated you? Regretted it?” You shook your head in disbelief. “Oscar, how could you even think-?”
He didn’t interrupt you. You had to do it yourself, because Oscar just watched as if waiting for a confirmation between the lines. “You really think I’d regret you?”
He still didn’t move. “I mean…,” he finally rasped out, barely carrying over the wind, “it cost you your career in F1. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“I cost me my career, Oscar. Not you. The fake relationship was my idea. I told you from the beginning I’d take the fall if it came to it. You were just helping me.”
You watched his jaw contract with the need to argue back, but you wouldn’t let him. Oscar was wrong on all accounts in his reasoning, blinded by whatever had been clouding his mind during your disappearance, and you were making sure it stopped there.
“I couldn’t hate you even if I tried. Well, not now at least- you were pretty insufferable at first.” His shoulders shook in the semblance of a laugh. “And if there’s anything I regret, it’s not realizing that it stopped being fake a lot sooner.”
There it was, the hefty topic you had been dancing around─ the kiss, gentle in its unearthing, and the whispered promises of explanations in the morning. Something that had been stolen from you and was now coming back to the surface for a last gasp of air. You could either take it or let it drown.
Oscar’s eyes searched yours, and for a second you believed he’d apologize and leave.
But that’s not what he did.
“It was never fake for me,” he said. “When- When you walked in and introduced yourself as my PR manager, and you were all smiles and nerves and─” he huffed, breathless, shaking his head, “and I was gone. I didn’t know how to act around you or what to do with myself.”
He got so close, you had to tilt your head to look up at him. “I kept thinking it would pass,” he continued. “That it was just a stupid fixation. But you kept being you, and you got close to Lando, and you stuck around. It just kept getting worse. Or better, I guess, depending on how you looked at it.”
“Then there was your ex,” He said, breaking into a soft laugh. “You took my arm and called me your boyfriend and all I could think was, yeah. I’d like to hear that again.” His fingers grazed the inside of your wrists, a ponctuation in his confession. “I didn’t fake a single thing. Not once. It’s been real from the beginning.”
Almost delirious, you broke into a cackle that had your hand flying to your mouth─ a half-sob, half-choke ripped from your chest. “So you were a douchebag… because you liked me?”
Oscar’s mouth quipped, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“And you acted like an idiot because you didn’t know how to show it?”
“... Yeah.” Now he sounded embarrassed.
Another watery laugh bubbled out of you, and you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “Oh my god, you’re such a man,” you said, voice wobbling between amusement and heartbreak, and Oscar’s smile cracked wider at the sound of it. You sniffled, rolling your eyes to try and hide the hopeful pain in your chest as you asked, intertwining your hand with his.
“So… what do we do now?”
The pad of his fingers trailed up your arm, sending shivers down your spine. He cupped your elbows gently, steadying you like you were at risk of breaking at any minute. “Well,” Oscar murmured, the ghost of a demand parting his mouth. “Now that we got everything out of the way, I’m here for a reason. Only if you’ll have me.”
You didn’t need any more convincing, the days spent in his company during the tired mornings and warm nights gave you ample amounts of reasons not to deny him.
As if you had the strength to even think about it.
You surged up, and your mouth caught up with his in the same way a puzzle piece would fit into another. It felt like homecoming, how the weight of his lips balanced against yours. Oscar hands went up your sides, painfully slow, wrapped around your waist and pulled your body flushed against him. You curled your fingers in the air at the nape of his nec, tugging slightly, and he sighed into your mouth─ broken and hopelessly in love.
The world shrank to just this: the press of his chest to yours, the warmth of his skin and how intensely Oscar Piastri kissed you back.
When you broke off contact for air, Oscar chased after your mouth. You tried to contain a giggle, unsuccessfully. “I can’t believe it took a whole fake relationship, messy break up and all, for you to do and say all that,” you teased.
He rolled his eyes and before you could react, the hands resting on your hips pinched your sides. You yelped, stepping on his foot. Old habits die hard, apparently, no matter what may have transpired in between.
“Well, I think you wouldn’t have liked me as much without that fake relationship.”
“I wonder whose fault it is, Oscar.”
“I’m just saying, I─”
You kissed him again. And again, and again, until the sun was well gone and stars were the only witnesses.
That night, you made sure to take Oscar back to your apartment. There was no awkwardness in the small talk made in the car, no hesitation in your movements. It was a slow series of quiet laughs against skin, not rushed or frantic in the slightest, whispered confessions tangled between languid kisses. You were curled up against him, a blanket thrown haphazardly on your legs and you talked. The way you wanted and needed to.
He murmured you might need to lay low for a while into your hair, eyes already closing with tiredness, in order to let everything die down and you agreed, brushing his knuckles with the featherlight touch of your lips. You could always come out with the truth later on, and you were content with your life in the Netherlands─ even more so if Oscar could share it with you in some hidden place in his heart. Your palm rested over his heart, feeling his heartbeat slowing down by sleep and lulling you into Morpheus’ arms just the same.
He kissed you one more time. The taste of home and future lingered in your mouth. Oscar will be there in the morning, when the sunlight will shine through the window. And then you could discuss it, about you, more in detail around a cup of coffee, when he’ll drive you to work before disappearing in his orange car, feelings less raw and more authentic.
Real didn’t have an expiration date. You had all the time in the world to figure it out.
hiiii love, absolutely adore all of your fics - but especially your dbook stuff 💗 do you think you could write a little something about the reader having a horrible shift (possibly in healthcare) and dev just being the most supportive, comforting boyfriend ever. coming from an ER nurse, i could definitely use some 🥲 much loveeee xx
i hope you feel better lovey, i hope this fic cheers you up a bit!
The fluorescent lights above you buzz like they’re mocking you, flickering just enough to make your headache worse but not enough to fully cut out. It’s been one of those shifts—long, chaotic, the kind that makes you wonder why you ever thought this job was a good idea. You can still hear the beeping of monitors in your head, still feel the phantom weight of paperwork you didn’t have time to finish, still smell antiseptic clinging to your scrubs like a second skin.
By the time you drag yourself out of the hospital doors, the night air feels almost disrespectful in its crispness, like the world has the audacity to keep moving while you’re unraveling. Your phone vibrates in your pocket before you even make it to your car.
Dev 💛: Outside.
You blink, squinting at the message like exhaustion has made you forget how to read. Then, like muscle memory, your head snaps up, scanning the nearly empty parking lot. And there he is.
Leaning against his car, hood up over his curls, arms crossed like he’s been here long enough to get comfortable but not long enough to get impatient. The sight of him—tall, solid, familiar—pulls something in your chest so tight it almost hurts.
You barely get the chance to process before he spots you, straightens up, and meets you halfway, his pace unhurried but purposeful. Like he already knows. Like he could feel from miles away that you needed him.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, warm hands finding your waist, pulling you in before you can even think about resisting. Not that you would. Not when his hoodie smells like him, not when his lips find the top of your head like it’s instinct, not when his grip is steady enough to hold together all the pieces of you that the night tried to break apart.
And just like that, the tension in your spine starts to dissolve. Just like that, you can breathe again.
As soon as you step through the front door, your body reminds you just how much you’ve been running on fumes. The exhaustion settles deep, making your limbs feel heavy, but the familiar warmth of home starts working on you almost instantly. The lights are dimmed low—just the way you like them after a long shift—and the soft scent of something warm and musky lingers in the air, something Devin must’ve lit before heading out to get you.
“You good to shower?” His voice is gentle, careful, like he already knows you’re teetering on the edge of exhaustion and just needs to guide you the rest of the way.
You nod, but your fingers grip the sleeve of his hoodie for just a second longer before letting go. It’s the silent way of saying thank you, of saying I needed you tonight, and the way his eyes soften tells you he understands completely.
The hot water works its magic, washing away the long night, the stress, the scent of antiseptic and sweat clinging to your skin. You stand there longer than you probably should, letting the steam loosen your tight muscles, your mind finally starting to quiet down. When you step out, wrapping yourself in one of the oversized towels Devin insisted on buying because he “knows you like to be all wrapped up,” you feel almost human again.
When you make your way to the bedroom, you find him already waiting, leaning back against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. He looks up the second he hears you, taking you in—your damp skin, the tired way you walk, the way you clutch the towel to your chest like it’s holding you together. And then, with zero hesitation, he tosses his phone to the side and opens his arms.
“C’mere.”
You don’t even think twice before crawling into bed, into him. His arms close around you immediately, the weight of them solid and grounding. He’s warm—always warm—but tonight, it feels like he’s radiating heat just for you. His hoodie is soft against your cheek, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your ear.
For a while, he just holds you. No rush, no pressure, just quiet comfort. His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your back, slow and deliberate, like he’s unraveling the tension knot by knot. His lips press into your hair, into your temple, murmuring soft little reassurances against your skin.
“Long night, huh?” His voice is low, a gentle rumble in his chest.
You nod, exhaling shakily, and he pulls you even closer, tucking you into him like he could shield you from the whole world if he tried hard enough.
“You’re home now,” he murmurs, his fingers slipping under the towel at your shoulders to rub slow circles into your bare skin. “You’re safe. You don’t gotta do anything else, baby.”
You let your eyes close, melting into the way he touches you, the way his hands know exactly where to soothe, where to press. The tension in your neck, the ache in your lower back—it’s like he can feel it all, like he knows exactly how to undo everything your shift put you through.
Then, after a few minutes, he shifts just enough to reach over to the nightstand, grabbing something. You hear the familiar click of a cap before you feel his hands on you again, this time with the smooth glide of lotion warming against your skin.
“I know you like this one,” he says, massaging it into your shoulders first, kneading the muscles there with just the right amount of pressure. It’s the vanilla and sandalwood scent he bought you last month—the one he pretends not to care about but always buries his face in when he hugs you.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he cuts you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You do too much, baby. Let me take care of you.”
And God, do you let him.
He works his way down your arms, slow and methodical, pressing kisses to your shoulder between strokes. When he reaches your legs, he tugs the towel away, chuckling under his breath when you instinctively try to protest.
“Nah, I got you,” he reassures, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to keep you close as he kneads at the soreness in your thighs, your calves, your ankles. His hands are firm but gentle, and every press of his fingers into your muscles feels like it’s pulling the exhaustion right out of you.
By the time he’s done, you’re practically boneless, melted into the sheets, into him. And Devin—sweet, thoughtful, perfect Devin—just grins, pulling the blankets over both of you before tucking you into his side again.
“You good?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep now.
You don’t even have the energy to respond properly. Just a hum, a slow blink, the way your hand curls into his hoodie, fingers fisting into the fabric like you’re anchoring yourself to him.
He chuckles, presses one last kiss to your forehead, and whispers, “Love you, baby. Get some sleep.”
And for the first time all night, you finally feel at peace.
Author's Note: okay so I tried to do it a little different this time. usually i write like three/four part series, because it's easier for my brain. but i don't think people like that so i just wrote it all, so this is one long part but a somewhat satisfactory conclusion. lmk what you guys thinks.. thank you to anyone who enjoys this. imma be honest it feels a little melodramatic.
---------------
It had been a few weeks since Charles first mentioned Alexandra to you. Since then, you’d pieced together bits of their relationship but he was careful to keep it discreet. You didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer details. It was better that way. Today, though, was different. It was the last race before the summer break, and as usual, Charles was driving you to the track.
The early morning sun filtered through the car windows, casting a golden glow over the roads. The hum of the engine was a familiar backdrop to your thoughts. In the beginning, Charles had been rigid about the drive to the track—no touching the radio, no deviations from his carefully curated playlists. But over time, he’d loosened up. First, he’d let you choose the music on practice days. Then, gradually, he began trusting your taste entirely. Now, it was almost expected of you to play the music for the drive.
You weren’t always sure if he liked what you chose, though. He never said much about it. But every now and then, after he parked the car, you’d catch him adding one of your songs to his personal playlist. It was a small thing, but it made your chest warm in a way you couldn’t quite explain.
Today was no different. As the car rolled to a stop, you saw him pull out his phone and add another song. The corner of your mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Shall we head in?” Charles asked, turning to look at you.
His eyes—those eyes—always seemed to catch you off guard. People argued over whether they were green or blue, but to you, they were something else entirely. When he looked at you like that, it was impossible not to feel something. Something deep and unspoken. Charles wasn’t yours. He would never be yours. But the way he looked at you—that was yours, and yours alone.
“After you,” you said, smiling up at him. It was a sweet, genuine smile, the kind that made his heart skip a beat.
Charles wasn’t sure when it had started, but your smile had become his undoing. Every time you flashed it at him—soft, warm, and just a little teasing—he felt his cheeks heat and his stomach flip. It was ridiculous, really. He wasn’t yours, and he never would be. But when you smiled like that, you owned him, if only for a moment.
He stepped out of the car and came around to your side, opening the door with a quiet grace. He held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation. His grip was firm, grounding, as he helped you out of the car. Together, you walked toward the entrance, his hand still in yours.
To anyone watching, you looked like the picture of a perfect couple—two people completely in love, completely in sync. But you and Charles knew the truth. Or at least, you thought you did.
-
At the race, Charles had crossed the finish line in fourth place. It wasn’t a terrible result, but you knew he wouldn’t be happy—not when he’d started on the front row, not when he’d been aiming for the podium. You waited for him in the garage, watching as he went through the motions of post-race interviews in the media pen. When he finally returned, his expression was unreadable, his usual spark dimmed by disappointment.
He didn’t say a word as he walked past you. You followed him silently, giving him the space he seemed to need. The two of you entered his dressing room, the door clicking shut behind you, and still, he remained quiet. You didn’t push him to talk. You knew better than anyone how Charles processed his emotions—how he needed time to sort through the frustration before he could voice it.
The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. You were used to this, to the way he retreated into himself after a race that didn’t go as he planned. But then his phone buzzed, breaking the stillness. Alexandra’s name lit up the screen, her picture flashing brightly.
Charles’s face softened as he answered the call, a smile spreading across his lips—a smile you couldn’t remember ever eliciting from him. It was warm, genuine, and effortless, the kind of smile that made your chest ache. You didn’t stay to listen. Instead, you slipped out of the room, leaving him to talk to her in private.
As you wandered through the paddock, you felt the weight of your anonymity settle over you. Without Charles by your side, you were just another face in the crowd. No cameras followed you, no fans called out your name, no one demanded your attention. For a moment, you told yourself you liked it this way—the peace, the freedom, the ability to move unnoticed. You repeated it like a mantra, trying to convince yourself that this was what you wanted.
But deep down, you knew the truth. You didn’t mind the chaos that came with being by Charles’s side. You didn’t mind the flashes of cameras, the constant attention, or the noise. Because being with him made it all worth it. He was the reason you endured it, the reason you smiled through it. And now, as you walked alone, the absence of it all felt like a void you couldn’t quite fill.
You told yourself you liked the solitude, but the ache in your chest told a different story.
-
Charles watched you walk out of the room as he answered Alexandra’s call, the door closing softly behind you. For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on the space where you’d just been. A part of him wanted to hang up the phone, to follow after you, to take you by the hand and be with you for a quiet stroll. He loved those moments with you. The moments where the world seemed to fade away and it was just the two of you, moving in sync through the chaos of the paddock.
He loved the way you held onto him a little tighter when fans approached, your fingers curling around his arm as if he were your anchor. He loved how you’d gently tug him toward the crowd, your voice soft but insistent as you reminded him to acknowledge the people who adored him.
And then there were the photos—the endless requests from fans eager to capture a moment with him. You never seemed to mind the interruptions. You’d stand patiently by his side, your hand still in his, as he posed for pictures and signed autographs.
As he listened to Alexandra’s voice on the other end of the line, his thoughts drifted back to you. He wondered where you were now, if you were wandering the paddock alone or finding a quiet corner to sit and wait. He wondered if you missed him as much as he suddenly missed you. But the call demanded his attention, and so he stayed, his heart being tugged in two different directions.
“Charles,” Alexandra says his name through the phone, “you’re gonna come tonight, right?”
Charles brings himself back to pay attention to Alexandra, “yeah, yeah.”
“And you’re gonna bring y/n right?” Alexandra questions, excitement evident in her voice, “I really do want to meet her.”
The idea of you and Alexandra meeting sends a ripple of unease through Charles. He doesn’t have a valid reason for the two of you not to meet—after all, you’re his fake girlfriend, and Alex is his real one. But the thought of the two worlds colliding makes him tense. He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know, Alex. I can ask y/n, but she’s not really a clubbing person. And honestly, I’m not in the mood to party tonight.”
Alexandra’s voice takes on a pleading edge. “Please, Charles. We don’t ever do anything together—not in public, at least.”
“Alex, that’s just how…”
“Charles I know that’s how it has to be, and I love hanging out at home with you, I really do. But it would be nice to go out for once, to feel like we’re… normal. And if you bring y/n, it would be the perfect opportunity. No one would suspect anything.” Alex makes her case, and Charles doesn’t want to deny her.
Her words hang in the air, and Charles can hear the longing in her voice. Alexandra isn’t just asking for a night out; she’s asking for a chance to exist in his world, even if it’s just for a few hours. She wants to feel like she matters, like she’s more than a secret tucked away in the shadows of his life.
“I will ask,” Charles says, his resistance wavering, “but if y/n says no, then i’m not going tonight. She has made it clear how she feels about this, and I'm not going to make a fool out of her.”
“I understand,” Alexandra replies, though her sigh betrays her disappointment. She doesn’t like this feeling of being second to you—not when she’s the one in the real relationship with Charles. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that she has to share him with someone who doesn’t even truly have a claim on him.
As the call ends, Alexandra stares at her phone, a mix of emotions swirling inside her. She loves Charles, but sometimes she wonders if she’s just another piece in the carefully constructed puzzle of his life. She wants to be more than that—more than the girl he hides away, more than the one who has to beg for a night out. But for now, she’ll take what she can get, even if it means sharing him with you.
-
As you and Charles walk back towards the car, after the events of the day, Charles asks, “what are you doing tonight?”
You sigh, “I’m hoping to pack, my flight home is tomorrow in the late morning.”
Charles stops in his tracks, his brow furrowing as his thoughts shift. “You’re not coming to Monaco with me?” His voice is tinged with surprise, almost disbelief, as if the idea of you not being there hadn’t even crossed his mind.
You turn to face him, noticing the way his expression falters. “I’ll be in Monaco before you have to go to the Netherlands,” you reassure him, your tone gentle. “But no, I’m not going straight to Monaco from here.”
Charles stands still, a few paces behind you, his eyes searching yours. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of pain in his gaze—something raw and unspoken. “I just thought…” he begins, his voice trailing off as he struggles to find the right words. He looks at you with those eyes—the ones that always seem to see straight through you, the ones that hold a world of emotions you can’t always decipher. “I just thought you were coming home with me.”
You offer him a smile, that sweet, reassuring smile that he loves, and take a step closer to him. “Charles,” you say softly, “I’ll be back in Monaco before you can even miss me.” But the truth is, he’s already missing you. He hasn’t even let go of you yet, and already he’s dreading the emptiness your absence will leave behind.
You hold out your hand to him, a silent invitation to close the distance between you. For a moment, he hesitates, his emotions swirling just beneath the surface. Then, with a quiet resolve, he takes the first step forward, his hand slipping into yours. His grip is firm, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away too soon.
The two of you walk toward the car, Charles reaches the passenger side first, opening the door for you with a small, almost reflexive gesture. You slide into the seat, murmuring a quiet “thank you,” but you notice the way his movements seem to slow, more deliberate than usual. As he walks around the car to the driver’s side, his mind races. There’s something he needs to ask you, something he doesn’t want to ask of you. He tries to find the right words, weighing each one carefully. This isn’t a conversation he can rush—it requires caution, a gentle touch.
When he finally settles into the driver’s seat, the car door closing with a soft thud, the silence between you feels heavier than before. You glance at him, noticing the way his hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, the way his jaw tenses as he stares straight ahead. It’s clear he has something on his mind, something he’s struggling to put into words.
“Charles,” you call out softly, looking at him cautiously, “what's on your mind?”
Charles freezes, looking like a deer caught in headlights, and you smile at him. Charles sighs, running his hand through his hair. “Alex wants to meet you,” he admits.
You physically cannot hide your surprise, “Oh.” You don’t know what to say. Your mind races, trying to process the idea of meeting Alexandra. She seems nice—kind, beautiful, and clearly someone who makes Charles happy. There’s no logical reason to refuse, but the thought still makes you feel awkward, “Sure,” you smile, “when is a good time?”
Charles hesitates, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “Well,” he begins, taking a deep breath, “she was thinking tonight, there’s this party at this club.”
“Charles,” you start to shake your head, “that’s not really…”
“I know,” he interrupts, his words tumbling out faster now, as if he’s trying to explain before you can object. “Alex wants to go, and she thinks it would be something we could do in public if you’re there. Since, you know, all we usually do is hang out at home. But if you say no, y/n, I won’t go. I promise.” He takes another breath, ready to say more, but you cut him off this time.
“Don’t do that,” you say sharply, your voice rising as your face hardens with anger. “Do not make it seem like you can’t do something because of me, Charles.” The way you say his name—cold, clipped—makes him flinch. It’s not the way you usually say it, and the shift in tone stings. “Do not act like I’m the reason we’re in this situation.”
Charles’s eyes widen, and he quickly shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not what I’m trying to do, y/n,” he says, his voice earnest. He looks at you with those eyes—the ones that always seem to make you weak—and you feel yourself soften, just a little. “Alex wants to meet you because we spend a lot of time together. And that’s not your fault or your doing. She just wants to know who I’m spending my time with, and she thought tonight would be a good chance for that.” He looks down at his lap, his shoulders slumping. “If you don’t want to go, I won’t force you. We can just go back to the hotel, and we’ll figure out another time for you to meet Alex. I just meant… if you say no, then it’s no. I won’t argue with your decision.”
You sigh, the tension in your chest easing slightly. None of this is ideal—not the fake relationship, not the secrecy, not the way Charles is caught between you and Alex. But you know it’s not his fault. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, your gaze dropping as you take a deep breath. “I know this situation wasn’t your idea. It’s what the team wanted, and I shouldn’t blame you.” You pause, then look up at him, forcing a small smile. “I’ll go tonight. I’ll meet Alex tonight.”
Charles looks up at you, studying your face. “Are you sure?” He asks softly, his expression showing a mix of relief and concern.
“Yeah it could be fun,” you smile, that sweet smile, that Charles loves so much. There’s a silence that falls over you both, as Charles looks at you with those eyes, and there’s so many unspoken thoughts behind them.
“Thank you,” Charles whispers to you.
-
Much later that evening as you adorned an outfit befitting of a night out. Charles and you made your way to the club. You and Charles walk hand in hand, into the club, he waves at some of the fans that spot him. Inside, it’s much more crowded than you expect. Charles pulls you closer to him, as he weaves his way through the crowd. You know that there were gonna be several of the drivers and their girlfriends out tonight.
As you approach the area that the drivers are gathering at you spot Kika. You and her have formed a simple friendship, just from seeing each other at the races. You and her aren’t exactly close, but she is definitely someone you find comfort in. You smile and wave at her, as you find a seat next to her.
“I thought parties like this weren’t your thing?” she shouts over the music in your ear.
“They’re not, but Charles asked me to come.” Kika nods, as she hands you a shot. Without hesitation, you down it—and then two more in quick succession. Kika watches with a mix of amusement and concern, giggling at your boldness. She’s not sure if you’re a regular drinker, but your actions suggest something is on your mind.
Meanwhile, Charles is a few feet away, mingling with fellow drivers like Pierre and Carlos. They’re deep in conversation, their words drowned out by the music. Charles is in his element, laughing and gesturing animatedly, while you and Kika share a quieter moment amidst the chaos.
You watch as Charles rises from his seat, his figure cutting through the dim, pulsating lights of the club. He disappears into the crowd, his broad shoulders and confident stride making him easy to track—at first. But as the sea of faces shifts and sways, the crowd swallows him whole, and your eyes lose him in the blur of bodies and flashing lights. You crane your neck, trying to catch another glimpse, but he’s gone.
Moments later, you spot him again. This time, he’s not alone. Standing beside him is Alexandra, her presence commanding attention even in the chaotic atmosphere. The club’s lighting seems to bend around her, casting a soft, golden glow on her flawless skin. She moves with an effortless grace, her every step exuding confidence and poise. Her beauty is undeniable—radiant, almost otherworldly.
You can’t help but notice how perfectly she fits into this world, how she seems to belong in a way you never could. Her smile is dazzling, her laughter carrying over the music as she leans in to say something to Charles. He laughs too, his expression relaxed and open in a way you can’t bring out of him.
Your eyes follow them as they draw closer. “y/n,” Charles calls your name, and he looks at you with those eyes. Those eyes, with that look, that belong to you and only you. He gives you that look, and your heart breaks knowing that’s the only thing you have. “This is Alexandra.” He steps aside, presenting her to you. His tone is polite, but there’s a flicker of unease in his expression, as if he’s bracing for impact.
“Hi,” you say with a big smile, as she moves to hug you and you are forced to stand and hug her back.
“Hi,” Alex says breathlessly, and even her voice is beautiful. “It’s so nice to meet you, Charles says nothing but praises about you.”
For a split second, your heart skips a beat. Charles talks about me? The thought sends a rush of warmth through you, but it’s quickly replaced by doubt. You force a blush, playing along. “Charles says nothing but wonderful things about you too,” you lie, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. You realize, with a sinking feeling, that her words are probably just as hollow. Charles doesn’t talk about Alexandra to you, and you doubt he’s ever mentioned you to her.
“I’m so grateful that you let Charles ask me out,” Alex says with a genuine smile, even her smile is beautiful.
“Of course,” you say, your smile tightening, “it really isn’t my place to tell him who he can and can’t date.”
Alex giggles, a sound that’s light and carefree. “And thank god your relationship isn’t real,” she adds, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I mean, I knew Charles was in a relationship when I started hitting on him, so I’m just relieved it wasn’t a real one.”
Your breath catches, and you’re not sure if you manage to keep your expression neutral. “I mean, thank god,” you echo with an awkward chuckle, your mind racing. Did she really just say that? You glance at Charles, but he’s already looking away, his jaw tight. “You guys should go get a drink or something,” you suggest quickly, desperate to end the conversation.
“Yeah, we’re gonna go check out the bar,” Alex says as she turns back and looks at Charles to point at the bar. She turns back to look at you, still smiling so radiantly, “it was so nice to meet you, let’s hang out sometime.”
You nod, “of course we must have lunch or something.” You watch as they walk away, your smile fading the moment they’re out of sight. You sink back into your seat, reaching for another shot on the table. You down it in one gulp, the burn of the alcohol doing little to numb the sting of Alex’s words. You want to believe she didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but the doubt lingers.
“Did she say she knew?” Kika’s voice cuts through your thoughts, her tone sharp and accusing.
“I think it sounds worse than-” you shake your head as you talk.
“No,” Kika interjects, “it sounds like she was willing to be a homewrecker.”
“Kika, I think you’re exaggerating,” you reply, trying to laugh it off, but the sound falls flat.
“Girl, be so for real right now,” Kika snaps, leaning closer. “She just admitted she knew Charles was in a relationship when she made a move on him. That’s not normal.”
“But we’re not actually together,” you retort.
“She didn’t know that,” Kika fires back. “All she knew was that he was in a relationship. That’s messed up, and you know it.”
Kika raises her eyebrows, daring you to disagree. You sigh, your shoulders slumping. There’s no point in arguing. Not that any of it matters now.
-
The rest of that night is a blur, the edges softened by too many drinks and the weight of unspoken words. You and Charles don’t discuss Alexandra again. The next morning, you leave Belgium before he does, slipping away without fanfare. The summer break stretches before you, a welcome reprieve filled with family and distance. The time away gives you space to breathe, to think, to untangle the mess of emotions tied to Charles.
Two weeks pass, and you convince yourself you’ve figured it all out. The conclusion is clear: you don’t like Charles. Not in that way at least. The hours spent together, the shared smiles, the quiet moments—they were just part of the act. You tell yourself you’ve mistaken his kindness for something more. That your feelings are nothing more than a byproduct of the close proximity. You repeat it like a mantra: You don’t like Charles. You don’t like Charles.
By the time you land at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, you’ve almost convinced yourself it’s true. Charles insisted on picking you up, despite you arguing that a taxi would be fine. You protested, but he wouldn’t budge. And now, as you spot him weaving through the crowd, your resolve wavers.
He looks… different. Or maybe it’s just that you’ve forgotten the way his presence makes you blush, the way his eyes light up when he sees you. Your chest tightens as he approaches, and you realize just how much you’ve missed him.
“Hi,” he says, slightly out of breath, as if he’d been running to you. Before you can respond, he’s pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I missed you,” he murmurs into your shoulder, so softly that you wonder if you imagined it.
“Hi,” you reply, your voice muffled against his chest. You hug him back, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor yourself. When he finally pulls away, he looks at you with those eyes—the ones that belong to you and only you.
You can’t help but smile, and when you do, Charles’s heart skips a beat. He’s waited two weeks to see that smile, the one that lights up your face and makes his stomach flip. It’s the smile he’s come to love, though he’d never say it out loud.
“Let’s go home,” he says, holding out his hand to you. The word home lingers in the air, heavy with meaning. You take his hand, your fingers slotting perfectly into his, and something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.
Charles grabs your suitcase, his free hand still holding yours, and the two of you make your way to the car. The airport buzzes around you, but at this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you, walking toward something you’re both too afraid to name.
The drive from the airport to Charles’ apartment is quiet. The hum of the car engine and the soft music you play, filling the space between you. You stare out the window, watching the familiar streets of Monaco blur past. Charles glances at you occasionally, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as if he’s searching for an opening to speak. But the words never come, and neither do yours.
When you arrive, you look up at the building before you. You try to remind yourself that everything from here on out is just an act. Charles carries your suitcase upstairs, his movements brisk and efficient. You follow him, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and dread. The door to his apartment swings open, and the smell of something delicious wafts out—garlic, herbs, and warmth.
“Welcome back!” a cheery voice calls out, as Alexandra rounds the corner to greet you.
You freeze seeing her standing there. She has an apron tied around her waist, subtle sweat beads drip down the sides of your face. The smile she wears is genuine and kind. She looks breathtaking at this moment. Even the disheveled, homebody, tirelessly working version of her is stunningly beautiful.
“Y/N! It’s so good to finally meet you properly,” she says, pulling you into a hug before you can react. Her embrace is warm, her perfume soft and floral. “Charles has told me so much about you.”
You stiffen, your arms moving awkwardly up to hug her back. Over her shoulder, you catch Charles’s gaze. He looks uneasy, his jaw tight as he sets your suitcase down.
“Alex wanted to make something to welcome you back,” Charles says, his voice carefully measured.
Alexandra pulls away, her smile still radiant, and glowing. “I made pasta, I hope you like it,” she says as she plants a soft kiss on Charles' cheek before returning to the kitchen. The act makes you clench your jaw, how you wish that it was you doing that.
You try to remind yourself that you don’t like Charles. “That was really kind of you Alex,” you say walking past Charles and towards the kitchen.
“I know I love a good home cooked meal after a long flight,” Alex says as she plates the food, “I thought you would enjoy the same.” She brings the plates to the dining table.
She ushers you toward the dining table, which is set with candles and a bottle of wine. The scene is so domestic, so perfect, that it makes your chest ache. You glance at Charles, but he’s avoiding your eyes, busying himself with pouring glasses of water.
“Please, come sit,” she says. You take your seat across from Alexandra. You can tell she’s worked hard on this meal.
“It smells amazing,” you say, your voice tight as you smile. You pick up your fork, your appetite gone, but you force yourself to take a bite. It’s delicious, of course.
“Tell me all about your summer,” Alexandra says, she looks more beautiful in the candle light, “Charles said you were with family.”
“It was good,” you say, “quiet. Different.”
“That sounds lovely,” she says, her tone warm. “I’ve been here most of the break. Charles has been such a great host.”
You glance at him again, but he’s staring at his plate, his fork pushing food around without eating. The awkwardness in the room is cutting, though Alexandra seems oblivious—or maybe she’s just that good at pretending.
“It’s nice to finally have you here,” she continues, reaching for the wine bottle. “Charles talks about you all the time. It’s like I already know you.”
“Does he?” you ask with a bit of a force chuckle, “I hope it’s nothing but good things.”
“Oh of course,” Alexandra says as she looks at Charles, nothing but love in her eyes, “I think it would literally kill him to say a negative thing about you.”
You smile, looking back at your plate. Charles looks at you, that smile you wear isn’t the same. It’s not the smile that he loves. It’s different, it’s a sad smile. “I’m glad he’s not telling lies,” you finally say looking at Alexandra. You can feel Charles’ gaze on you, but you don’t meet it.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Alexandra fills the silence with stories about her summer, her laughter bright and easy. You nod along, your responses polite but distant. Charles stays quiet, his presence a heavy weight at the table.
When the meal is over, Alexandra insists on cleaning up. “You two must be tired,” she says, shooing you toward the living room. “Go relax. I’ve got this.”
“Thank you again for cooking,” you say.
“Of course,” Alexandra smiles, “It was so nice having you. Now go unwind.”
You don’t argue. You follow Charles into the living room, you try to remind yourself once more. You don’t have genuine feelings for Charles. He sits on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
“Charles,” you call out to him softly.
He looks up, his eyes tired. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rough. “I didn’t know she was going to do all this.”
You sit beside him, your hands clasped in your lap. “She’s… really kind.”
Charles sighs, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as if anchoring himself. “Yeah, she is,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, maybe, or forgiveness. But the words don’t come, and the silence between you grows heavier.
You lean further back into the couch, your gaze fixed on the ceiling. “When the season is over, you can be more open about your relationship with her,” you say, your tone carefully neutral. “No more pretending. No more… me.”
Charles flinches, his jaw tightening as he stares at the floor. His fingers tap restlessly against his knee, a telltale sign of his unease. “It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice rough, though he doesn’t elaborate.
You turn to look at him, your heart aching at the conflict etched across his face. “Isn’t it?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer.
For a moment, he doesn’t respond. His eyes drop to his hands, his shoulders slumping under the weight of everything left unsaid. The sound of Alexandra humming in the kitchen fills the silence, a painful reminder of the life Charles has built—and the one you’re no longer sure you belong in. Neither of you say anything more for the night.
-
Time doesn’t allow you to wallow. It never does. It throws you into the next event before you can catch your breath, before you can prepare. Time forces you to face the crowd, to put on the mask and play the part. You sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the paddock entrance. The sea of photographers waits, their cameras poised, ready to capture every and all moments.
Charles comes around to your side, opening the door for you. His hand is steady, but his eyes show his concern.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, his gaze searching yours.
“Yeah,” you force a smile, though it feels brittle on your lips. You take his outstretched hand, your fingers slipping into his as you step out of the car. His grip is firm, grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him.
“I forgot about this,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the hum of the paddock.
Charles’s jaw tightens, guilt flickering across his face. “We can take the other entrance,” he offers, his tone hesitant. The other entrance is quieter, less crowded, but it feels like running away.
You shake your head, your resolve hardening. “It’s okay.”
The moment you take the first step forward, the cameras erupt. Flashes of light burst around you, blinding and relentless. Charles’ smile is bright, effortless, as he waves at the crowd. You mirror him, your own smile plastered on, but your grip on his hand tightens instinctively.
His thumb brushes against the back of your hand, a small, unconscious gesture that sends a shiver up your spine. You glance at him, but he’s focused on the crowd, his smile never wavering. His grip on your hand tightens slightly, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away.
“Charles,” you say softly, your voice barely audible over the noise. You’ve just arrived at the Ferrari motorhome, the chaos of the paddock fading behind you.
He looks down at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Yeah?”
You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. This isn’t real, you remind yourself. It’s just an act. But the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the world—makes it hard to breathe.
“Nothing,” you say finally, your voice barely a whisper.
Charles lets go of your hand, and the loss of his touch is immediate. You clench your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms to keep from reaching for him. You watch him disappear into a room, his figure swallowed by the shadows. You know you’ll barely see him for the rest of the day, and the thought leaves you hollow.
Hours pass in a blur. You make yourself comfortable in the Ferrari motorhome, but your mind is anything but at ease. The weight of your feelings presses down on you, a constant ache in your chest. You don’t notice Charles approaching until he’s standing in front of you, his presence pulling you back to the present.
“Hey,” he says softly, taking a seat across from you. His fingers move instinctively, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so tender, so intimate, that it steals your breath. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head gently. “Nothing important.”
Charles’s gaze softens, his hand lingering near your face for a moment before he pulls it back. “Everything about you is important to me,” he says, his tone casual, as if the words don’t carry the weight of the world.
Your heart flutters, a traitorous warmth spreading through your chest. You want to believe him, to let yourself fall into the comfort of his words, but you can’t. Not when you know this is an act.
“We’re heading to the track,” he says, standing up. “I’ll see you later.”
You nod, your throat too tight to speak. As he turns to leave, he pauses, his hand brushing against your shoulder. Then, without warning, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on your cheek.
The act is so unexpected, so intimate, that it leaves you frozen. Your mind races, a million questions swirling in your head. Why? There are no cameras here, no fans watching. No one to perform for. So why?
Charles pulls away, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, charged moment. Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting there, your hand pressed to your cheek as if to hold onto the warmth of his lips.
-
The Dutch Grand Prix unfolds like all the others—chaotic, exhilarating, and filled with the same familiar routines. You play your part as Charles’ girlfriend flawlessly, smiling for the cameras, laughing at his jokes, and holding his hand as you navigate the paddock. But every moment together leaves you more confused than the last.
Time, however, is relentless. As soon as the race ends on Sunday, you’re boarding a plane. The Italian Grand Prix is next, and the entire week is packed with events for Charles. There’s no time to breathe, no time to process. Sponsor appearances, media commitments, team meetings—his schedule is a whirlwind, leaving little room for anything else.
In a strange way, you’re grateful for it. The constant busyness means your time together is limited, and that makes it easier to keep your walls up. If you don’t see him, you can’t fall deeper into the trap of pretending this is real. If you don’t hear his voice, you can’t let yourself believe the way he says your name means something more. Distance, you tell yourself, is your only defense against the ache in your chest.
But even as you cling to that logic, a part of you wishes for just one more moment—one more stolen glance, one more brush of his hand against yours. Just one more chance to pretend, even if only for a moment.
Today is Sunday, race day—the final act of this week-long spectacle in Italy. The air is thick with anticipation, but Charles has been in a slightly sour mood since yesterday’s qualifying, where he secured fourth on the grid. You watch him now in his dressing room, his movements sharp and focused as he goes through his timing drills. The rhythmic sound of his steps fills the room, a steady beat that mirrors the tension in his shoulders.
“Don’t tire yourself out before the race even starts,” you tease, your voice light and playful, cutting through the silence.
Charles pauses, glancing over at you. The corners of his mouth twitch, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders seems to lift. He’s grateful you’re here, sitting in the quiet with him, offering a moment of calm before the storm.
“I’m just psyching myself up,” he says, flashing you a small but genuine smile.
You smile, your tone softening. “You’re going to do great out there,” you say, your voice steady and sure. “I have nothing but faith in you that you’ll bring home the results you want.”
Charles stops completely, his drills forgotten as he turns to face you. His eyes—soft, caring, and impossibly kind—meet yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The look he gives you, that look. Something so raw and intimate just below the surface.
He might not be yours, he may never be yours, but this look—that look—is yours.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are too fragile to speak aloud.
The room feels warmer somehow, the air between you charged with unspoken emotions. You don’t say anything else; you don’t need to. The quiet understanding between you is enough.
Charles takes a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing as he exhales. He gives you one last lingering look before turning back to his preparations, a small but steady smile playing on his lips.
You stay there, watching him, your presence a silent anchor as he readies himself for the race ahead.
-
You watch the race from the garage, your eyes glued to the monitors tracking Charles’s car as it weaves through the pack. The tension is palpable, every overtake, every corner, every lap tightening the knot in your chest. When Charles fights his way into first place, you can’t help but jump to your feet, cheering alongside the rest of the crew. You hold your breath as he maintains his lead, the checkered flag feeling like it’s an eternity away.
The race drags on, each lap stretching time to its limits. You count them down, your heart pounding in sync with the roar of the engines. As Charles approaches the final corner on the final lap, the garage erupts. You’re jumping, screaming, caught up in the electric energy of the moment. There isn’t a garage in the paddock cheering louder than Ferrari.
The second the checkered flag waves, you’re running. You sprint with the team to parc ferme, your feet barely touching the ground. You arrive before Charles does, your chest heaving as you watch his car pull up in front of the number 1 sign.
You don’t have to pretend to be happy for him. You don’t think about the cameras or the fans or the performance you’re supposed to put on. All you care about is Charles Leclerc, standing there in his red Ferrari, victorious at the Italian Grand Prix. At the home grand prix.
Charles wastes no time. He leaps out of the car, his movements fueled by adrenaline and joy. He crashes into Fred first, hugging his team principal with a force that nearly knocks them both over. The crowd surges forward, hands reaching out to pat him on the back, to share in this moment of triumph. The atmosphere is intoxicating, a heady mix of pride, joy, and sheer exhilaration. You’re overwhelmed by it all—by the love for Formula One, for Ferrari, for the tifosi, and most of all, for Charles.
When Charles steps back from Fred, he pulls off his helmet, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed with victory. His eyes scan the crowd, and when they land on you, everything else seems to fade.
He doesn’t think. He doesn’t hesitate. He acts on his emotions alone.
Charles strides toward you, his hands cupping your face with surprising gentleness. And then he kisses you.
The kiss is raw, unfiltered, and filled with emotions you can’t name. It feels real—so real that it steals your breath. The world around you disappears, the noise of the crowd fading into a distant hum. All you can feel is the warmth of his lips on yours, the way his hands tremble against your skin. His fingers grasping at the ends of your hair. For a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the world.
When he pulls away, he doesn’t say a word. His eyes search yours, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you. But before either of you can speak, Lando and Oscar are there, clapping him on the back, pulling him into the chaos of celebration.
You’re left standing there, your fingers brushing against your lips as if to hold onto the memory of his kiss. The warmth lingers, a bittersweet reminder of a moment that felt too real to be part of the act.
-
Alexandra watches the scene unfold from her hotel room, the glow of the television casting shadows across her face. She sees Charles leap out of his car, his joy radiating through the screen. She sees him hug Fred, the team, the crew—his smile so wide it could light up the entire paddock. And then she sees you.
Her breath catches as Charles pulls off his helmet, his eyes scanning the crowd. When they land on you, something shifts. His expression softens, his movements slow, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world ceases to exist.
She watches, her heart pounding, as he strides toward you. She watches his hands cup your face, so gently, so reverently, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. And then she watches him kiss you.
It’s not the kind of kiss they share—quick, polite, perfunctory. No, this kiss is raw, unfiltered, and filled with an intensity that makes her chest ache. She sees the way his fingers tremble against your skin, the way his body leans into yours as if he can’t bear to let go. She sees the way he looks at you when he pulls away, his eyes brimming with an overwhelming amount of love.
Alexandra feels the tears before she even realizes she’s crying. They roll down her cheeks, hot and relentless, as she clutches the edge of the bed. She tries to tell herself it’s an act, a performance, nothing more than a show for the cameras. But deep down, she knows better.
She’s tried to ignore it—the way Charles’s eyes follow you instinctively, like you’re the only person in the room. She’s tried to ignore the way he speaks about you, his voice softening with a fondness he’s never shown her. She’s tried to ignore how your smile can brighten his mood, even on his darkest days. She’s tried to ignore how gentle he is with you, how careful, as if you’re something fragile and precious.
But now, watching the two of you from this private hotel room, far from the crowds and cameras, she can’t ignore it anymore. You look like a real couple. You look like his girlfriend.
Alexandra knows she can’t compete with someone like you. You’re the sunlight breaking through on a rainy day, the sparkle on the ocean under the moonlight. You’re the tinkle of the brightest star, the kind of light that draws people in and holds them captive. You’re a shiny emerald in a sea of diamonds—unique, irreplaceable, unforgettable.
You are everything.
And she is nothing. At the very least she is nothing compared to you for Charles.
The realization crashes over her like a wave, pulling her under until she can’t breathe. She curls into herself, the tears coming harder now, as the weight of it all settles in her chest. She loves him—she loves him so much—but it doesn’t matter. Because he loves you.
And there’s nothing she can do to change that.
-
After the podium celebrations, Charles disappears into a sea of cameras that follow him towards the press conference. You slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the motorhome. The weight of the day presses on your shoulders, but it’s the stares—the lingering gazes of strangers—that make your skin crawl. You can feel their eyes on you, their whispers trailing behind you like shadows.
You quicken your pace, your heart pounding in your chest, when you hear the rapid click of footsteps behind you. You turn, and there’s Kika, breathless and flushed, her face etched with something you can’t quite place. Pity. Concern. Fear.
“Y/N,” she says softly, her voice trembling as if she’s afraid to shatter you.
“What is it?” you ask, though the unease in her expression tells you everything you need to know. Your stomach twists as she hands you her phone, the screen glowing with a headline that stops you cold:
‘Charles Leclerc Cheating? Two Is Better Than One.’
Your hands tremble as you scroll through the article. It’s filled with photos—Charles and Alexandra, laughing on a sunlit terrace, walking hand in hand through the streets of Monaco in the middle of night, sharing quiet moments that feel too intimate to be real. Some of the pictures date back to the Hungarian Grand Prix, a timeline of a relationship you didn’t know existed.
And then, at the bottom of the article, there it is: a photo of you and Charles from just hours ago. His hands cupping your face, his lips pressed to yours in a kiss that felt so real, so raw, so yours.
The caption beneath it reads: ‘Was it just a summer fling, or is it a torrid affair for the Formula One driver?’
The article is careful to blur Alexandra’s face and omit her name, but the damage is done. The world sees her. The world sees you. And the world sees Charles caught between the two.
“He said he wouldn’t do this to me,” you whisper, your voice breaking as you hand the phone back to Kika. The words feel hollow, like a promise that was never meant to be kept.
You turn on your heel, your feet carrying you toward the motorhome before your mind can catch up. Kika follows close behind, her steps hurried and anxious.
“Y/N, wait—what are you going to do?” she asks, her voice laced with worry.
“I’m going home,” you say, the words final, absolute. “Tell Charles I had an emergency. Or don’t tell him anything at all. But I’m not staying here for another second.”
Kika reaches for your arm, her touch gentle but insistent. “Let me come with you. I’ll make sure you get home safely.”
You shake your head, your vision blurring with unshed tears. “Pierre’s going to be looking for you. You don’t have to worry about me.”
You step into the motorhome, your movements quick and mechanical as you gather your things. Kika watches from the doorway, her expression torn between concern and helplessness.
“Thank you, Kika,” you say softly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “For everything.”
Before she can respond, you’re gone, disappearing into the chaos of the paddock. Kika stands there, frozen, as she watches you walk away—your figure growing smaller and smaller until you vanish from sight.
The noise of the paddock fades behind you, replaced by the hollow echo of your footsteps. You don’t look back.
-
The press conference with the podium finishers is winding down, the atmosphere in the room relaxed as the moderator announces the final questions. Charles sits between Lando and Oscar, his smile easy but tired, the adrenaline of the race still buzzing faintly under his skin.
Then, like a crack of thunder, a reporter shoots to his feet, his voice cutting through the calm.
“Charles!” he shouts, not waiting to be called on. “Care to comment on the article that was just released minutes ago?”
The room erupts into chaos. Reporters scramble for their phones, fingers flying across screens as they search for the article. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, growing louder with each passing second. Charles glances at Lando and Oscar, their faces mirroring his own confusion.
“I’m sorry, what article?” Charles asks, forcing a chuckle, though his stomach twists with unease. He can’t imagine what they’re talking about, but the tension in the room is palpable.
The reporter doesn’t hesitate. “Are you cheating on your girlfriend, Y/N?”
The silence that follows is deafening. Every eye in the room locks onto Charles, every camera lens zooms in on his face. Even Lando and Oscar turn to him, their expressions a mix of shock and curiosity.
Charles freezes, his mind going blank. The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. His heart pounds in his chest, his thoughts racing in a thousand directions at once.
Before he can gather himself, a Ferrari representative rushes the stage, their voice sharp and commanding. “We’re going to end right there. Thank you for your time!”
The room explodes into noise as crew members swarm Charles, pulling him to his feet and ushering him toward the exit. Reporters surge forward, shouting questions, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations and demands. Cameras flash, their blinding lights adding to the chaos.
Charles stumbles as he’s pushed through the crowd, his mind spinning. He fumbles for his phone, desperate to see the article, but the noise around him is overwhelming. The questions keep coming, each one louder and more invasive than the last.
“Charles, is it true?”
“Who is the other woman?”
“How long has this been going on?”
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, his pulse racing as he’s hurried toward the Ferrari motorhome. The crowd follows, a relentless wave of voices and cameras that he can’t escape.
When he finally reaches the motorhome, he bursts inside, his eyes scanning the room frantically. “Y/N?” he calls, his voice strained.
The room is empty. His heart sinks, panic clawing at his chest.
“She’s not here,” a voice says softly.
Charles turns to see Kika standing in the doorway, her face pale and her expression grim. “I didn’t know what to do,” she admits, her voice trembling. “So I waited here for you, trying to figure out what to say.”
“Where is Y/N?” Charles demands, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.
Kika hesitates, her eyes filled with pity. “She said she was going home.”
Charles stares at her, his mind reeling. “Home? What do you mean, home?”
Kika shakes her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Charles. I don’t know. Do you know where home is for Y/N?”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He sinks into a chair, his hands trembling as he clutches his phone. The noise outside fades into the background, replaced by the deafening silence of his own thoughts.
-
After hours of enduring a relentless lecture from Ferrari’s PR team, Charles is finally allowed to leave. The weight of the world feels crushing on his shoulders as he steps out into the cool night air. His mind races, trying to remember where home is for you. He knows you told him—back at the beginning of the season, right after you signed the contract agreeing to pretend to be his girlfriend.
It was supposed to be a simple arrangement, a business deal. But that first day, after the ink had dried, you and him went on a little date—just to get to know each other. You shared many little details about yourself: where you were from, your favorite foods, the music you loved. He listened, but he didn’t commit it to memory. He didn’t think he needed to.
Now, standing alone in the dimly lit parking lot, he curses himself for not paying closer attention. He should have remembered. He could have remembered. If he wanted to, he would have.
When he reaches his car, he opens the passenger-side door, his body moving on autopilot. He stops, his hand frozen on the handle, as the reality hits him: you’re not here. You’re not sitting in the seat beside him, laughing at his terrible jokes or scrolling through your phone to find the perfect playlist.
His chest aches, a sharp, hollow pain that makes it hard to breathe. He closes the door gently, as if you’re there sitting inside, and walks around to the driver’s side.
As he slips into the car, he takes a deep breath, his eyes drifting to the empty passenger seat. For a moment, he can almost see you there—your smile, your hand resting on the console, your voice filling the silence with stories and laughter. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it forms, leaving him alone in the quiet.
He starts the engine, the sound jarring in the stillness. He doesn’t remember to put on any music. You always did that for him. The silence is deafening, a constant reminder of your absence. The drive to the hotel feels endless. His mind is elsewhere, replaying every moment he took for granted, every detail he failed to hold onto.
When he finally pulls into the hotel parking lot, he sits there for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel. The weight of his loneliness presses down on him, heavier than any race-day pressure. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t even know where to start.
As Charles makes his way to his hotel room, his thoughts are consumed by you. The weight of the day, the accusations, the chaos—it all fades into the background as he imagines what he’ll say when he sees you. When he opens the door, the room is dark, but he can see a figure standing there, silhouetted against the faint light from the window.
For a moment, his heart leaps. He thinks—no, he hopes—it’s you. That you’ve come back, that you’re standing there waiting for him, and that he can fix this. He hopes that home, for you, is with him.
But as the figure steps forward, the hope shatters. It’s not you. It’s Alexandra.
Charles doesn’t try to hide his disappointment. His shoulders slump, his face falls, and the breath he didn’t realize he was holding escapes in a quiet, defeated sigh. The reaction is like a knife to Alexandra’s heart. She doesn’t need words to confirm what she already knows: it was never going to be her.
“Alex,” Charles says softly, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “What are you doing here?”
He moves to walk past her, not sparing her another glance, but she stops him with her voice.
“Did you ever love me, Charles?” Her words tremble, fragile and raw, as if they might break under the weight of her own fear. She needs to hear the truth from him, even if it destroys her.
Charles freezes, his back still to her. He does love Alexandra. He loves her in a way that is unique to her, a way that is tender and real. In another lifetime, in another world, he might have been happy with her. But this isn’t that lifetime, and this isn’t that world.
“I do love you, Alex,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He still doesn’t turn to face her. “Just… not in the way I love Y/N.”
Alexandra’s breath hitches, a sob catching in her throat. “Why?” she asks, her voice breaking. “Why lead me on like this, Charles? Why let me fall in love with you when you knew you wouldn’t feel the same?”
Charles finally turns to look at her, his heart aching at the sight of her tear-streaked face. The pain he’s caused her is written plainly in her eyes, and it cuts deeper than he expected.
“I thought,” he begins, his voice faltering, “I thought you could stop me from falling in love with Y/N.”
The admission hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Alexandra stares at him, her chest heaving as she tries to process his words.
Charles steps closer, his hands reaching up to gently cup her face. His thumbs brush away her tears, his touch soft and soothing. She leans into it, just for a moment, savoring the warmth of his hands one last time.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you like this,” he whispers, his voice thick with regret.
Alexandra pulls his hands away from her face, her own trembling as she holds them for a moment before letting go. “Goodbye, Charles,” she says, her voice steady despite the tears still streaming down her cheeks.
She turns to leave, her steps slow and deliberate. But as she reaches the doorway, she pauses, her back to him. “I hope you get her back,” she says softly, her voice carrying a bittersweet finality.
And then she’s gone, the door closing softly behind her.
Charles stands there, alone in the silence, his hands still outstretched as if reaching for something—or someone—who’s no longer there.
-
“Get up!” a voice barks, sharp and impatient, cutting through the fog of Charles’s hangover.
His head pounds like a drum, each throb synchronized with the blinding sunlight streaming through the window. He groans, squinting against the assault of light, his mouth dry and sticky as he smacks his lips together. The events of last night are a blur—fragmented images and muffled sounds that refuse to connect into a coherent memory.
“Get up already!” the voice shouts again, louder this time, coming from the foot of the bed.
Charles rolls over, his body heavy and uncooperative, to see Pierre standing there, arms crossed and a scowl etched across his face. Charles doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he collapses back into the pillows, the plush mattress swallowing him whole.
He hears Pierre scoff, the sound dripping with exasperation, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not until Pierre grabs him by the ankles and yanks him halfway off the bed.
“What the fuck?” Charles snaps, his voice hoarse and ragged as he kicks out, trying to free himself. He glares at Pierre, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
Pierre doesn’t let go. “I found Y/N.”
The words hit Charles like a bucket of ice water. His exhaustion, his irritation, his pounding headache—it all evaporates in an instant. He sits up abruptly, his heart racing as he scrambles to his feet.
“Where?” he demands, his voice sharp and urgent.
“Andrea’s already getting the jet ready,” Pierre says, watching as Charles frantically rummages through the room, shoving clothes and belongings into a bag. “You’ve got an hour to get to the airport.”
Charles’s hands tremble as he zips up the bag, his mind racing. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to you. He doesn’t know how you’ll react. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty: he needs to see you.
His heart pounds in his chest, each beat a reminder of what’s at stake. He grabs his phone, his keys, his bag, and heads for the door, Pierre trailing behind him.
“Charles,” Pierre calls after him, his tone softer now. “Don’t mess this up.”
Charles doesn’t respond. He’s already out the door, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only: you.
-
Charles stands in front of your door, his heart pounding in his chest. On the other side is you. You, with your sweet smile that lights up every room. You, with the music he’s come to love because it reminds him of you. You, with all your kindness, your patience, your unwavering love. He hopes that you can forgive him, that you can accept him, that you can love him the way he loves you.
He knocks on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. He holds his breath, his hand trembling as he waits. The seconds stretch into an eternity, each one heavier than the last. When the door finally opens, the sight of you hits him like a wave.
You’re there, standing in the doorway, and for a moment, the world stops. The sight of you feels like the first light of morning breaking through the darkness. It feels like the first sip of a cold drink on a sweltering summer day. It feels like coming home.
And then, just as quickly, it’s ripped away.
You slam the door in his face.
“Y/N,” Charles calls out, his voice desperate, raw. He presses his forehead against the door, his hand flat against the wood as if he can reach through it to you. “Please,” he begs, his voice cracking. “Please open the door.”
His pleas make your heart ache, the sound of his voice tugging at something deep inside you. Against your better judgment, your feet carry you back to the door. You open it again, and the sight of him is like a punch to the gut.
Charles looks like he’s walked through hell to get here. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale and drawn. His hair is disheveled, sticking out in every direction, and his clothes are wrinkled, as if he’s been wearing them for days. He looks broken, lost, and utterly exhausted.
You don’t say a word as you step back, allowing him to enter your home. He walks in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. The look he gives you isn’t the one you’ve come to love—the one filled with warmth and affection. This look is different. It’s sad, heavy with regret and pain and loneliness. It’s a look that makes your chest tighten.
“Y/N,” he says your name softly, so gently it brings tears to your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” you say, shaking your head as you turn away from him. “No, no, no.” Your voice breaks, and you wipe at the tears already spilling down your cheeks. “You don’t get to come here and say you’re sorry and expect everything to be forgiven.”
You turn back to face him, your anger flaring. “You,” you say, pointing at him, your finger jabbing the air with every word as you step closer. “You told me you wouldn’t do this. You told me you wouldn’t make a fool out of me. You told me you wouldn’t let me look like some stupid little girl. You promised me, Charles.”
Your voice cracks as you say his name, and the tears come harder. Charles doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it feels like he’s trying to hold you together. His warmth, his embrace—it feels like home.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your neck, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry.”
You break down completely in his arms, your legs giving out as the weight of everything crashes over you. The two of you sink to the floor in the middle of your living room, Charles holding you as you cry. From the moment you saw the article, this is where you wanted to be—in his arms, safe and loved.
But he’s not yours. He never was yours. And he will never be yours.
The thought makes you push away from him, scrambling to your feet. Charles reaches for you instinctively, trying to pull you back, but you’re faster, putting distance between you.
“What are you doing here, Charles?” you ask, your voice laced with disdain. “Shouldn’t you be with Alex?”
“Why would I be with her?” he says, his voice steady but pleading. “I want to be with you.”
He steps closer, his hands cupping your face. You lean into his touch despite yourself, not wanting to lose the warmth of his hands.
“She’s your girlfriend, Charles,” you say, your voice hollow as you look at him but don’t really see him.
“I broke it off with her,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Why would you do that?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re still not putting the pieces together, and Charles doesn’t know if it’s because you’re naive to his feelings or if you just need him to say it out loud.
But he doesn’t mind. He’ll say it today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or ten years from now if he has to.
“I’m in love with you, Y/N,” he says, his voice firm and unwavering. “I am madly in love with you. I don’t want anyone but you.”
You shake your head, your eyes searching the room as if looking for a camera, for proof that this is just another act. “No, no,” you say, your voice trembling. “If you were in love with me, why did you go out with Alexandra?”
Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Because I was an idiot,” he admits, his voice heavy with regret. “I was too blind to see what was right in front of me. And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, more tears falling from your eyes, this time for a completely different reason.
“Because I was a coward,” he says, his voice breaking. “And I was weak. But if you’ll have me, I’m yours. Y/N, I am all yours. All of me belongs to you and only you.”
This boy—this man—who you’ve fallen so deeply in love with is yours. He’s yours for the taking. He’s yours and yours only. He belongs to you.
requests are open! send me anything!! [nav | inbox]
a/n: hope you enjoy my first lando fic!! i’m going to try really hard to not have this be too similar to other fics 🫣 please reblog if you enjoy <3
content: fake dating, famous!reader, cheating scandal, misinformation, reader is implied to have a drinking problem
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celebritynewsofficial just posted!
liked by user8, user 9 and 254,853 others
celebritynewsofficial ✓ HERE THEY ARE! Paparazzi photos from last night of Jackson Edwards and Y/n L/n kissing outside of a bar in the streets of London. Neither’s management team have responded to us asking for any comments on the situation. Our thoughts go out to Sophia Roth, Edwards’ fiancée.
tagged: @/yourusername, @/jacksonedwards
53,735 comments…
user10 tagging them both is FOUL
user11 y/n looks so out of it in these
user12 frfr she can barely stand up
user13 do you not remember that article last year where a ‘close source’ revealed that she had a drinking problem??
user14 well at least their film will be getting a lot of publicity 💀
user15 DAMN i forgot about that!!
user16 they haven't even finished their press tour 😭 i’m honestly looking forward to the next set of interviews they do
user17 @/yourusername homewrecker
user18 what a good day not to be on y/n’s pr team
user19 you couldn't pay me enough money to defend her
user20 finally! can we stop pretending she’s perfect now?
For some reason in my head when it gets to the time where they’re considering having a baby, george is the one who brings it up and wants it first, he’s the one dropping hints and talking about it while his wife is just living her life 😭😭
this turned into some angst... unsure why but enjoy!
"i found a new desk for you."
"i don't need a desk?" george questions, looking over his shoulder to see his wife leaning up against the doorframe to their spare room, his editing for a new youtube channel video going forgotten about on his laptop once her voice broke the silence he was sitting in, "i have one right here."
"i thought we could redecorate in here," she suggests, arms folded over her chest and her eyes wandering from where he was sat in his revolving chair to the empty space around him. the bare walls white and bright once the sunlight filtered through the window, the carpet still looking brand-new and untouched, not a single piece of furniture to give it an office-feel. "it's quite boring for you, no?"
"i figured we could use this room for something else," he admits softly and he pushes his feet into the carpet to push himself out from under his desk, turning in the seat to face her properly, "two bedrooms and all. one for us, one for... i don't know, one for a baby, maybe."
"a baby?"
he nods shyly and she stares at him, eyes wide and her mouth gaped open, her mind going blank for a response to his admission.
they'd only been married for less than six months and they'd only just moved into a brand new building; where they'd lived in her flat for the majority of their engagement, they wanted something completely brand-new. something that had both of their names on the lease and had both of their names on the bills.
"babe, did you-"
"i heard you," she interrupts him and he gulps back the thick lump that was forming in his throat, "george, i-"
"you're not ready, i know. i'm just saying," he stands from his chair and walks over to stand in front of her, "in the future, i mean. when it does happen, and we do end up having a baby, it's a good idea to just be prepared."
"but, i don't know right now," she sighs heavily, "of course, i want to have babies with you. have mini clarke's running around. but we're still young, george. we've got the rest of our twenties to think about having a family."
"i know," he smiles softly, bringing his hands to cup her face in his palms, "i'm just telling you i'm ready. i'm waiting. whenever you want a baby, i'm game."
"okay," she nods, tilting her head into the touch of his left hand, his thumb brushing soft strokes across her cheek, "but we can't leave the room with just a desk and a chair in here, george. we should, at least, add a some new furniture or something. it still feels brand new and we've been here for three months already."
"show me this desk then," he snickers softly.
and that's that for the conversation.
and george didn't want to dwell on the topic anymore knowing what he feelings were towards the next step of their relationship. he was willing to wait until she was ready, willing to talk about their options if she wasn't, willing to stand by her side as she figures her own life out as well as the life they were building together.
but sometimes, all he wants to do is talk about his future.
with the wife of his dreams, someone he loves and someone who can understand him in ways others can't, he was the happiest man in the world. the smile on his face looked like it could split him in two when he realised he got to go home to her at the end of the day. knowing he gets to hold her whenever he wants to give her a hug and to kiss her whenever he wanted a cheeky kiss in passing. making dinner for her when she's had a long day and starting his day with a breakfast made by her. getting to see her walk through the door in the evenings and getting to hear her drop her keys into the bowl on the side table once she arrived back from work. getting to cuddle on the sofa as re-runs of their favourite shows play on the television.
it was the life he had envisioned.
but deep down, of course, he wanted a baby.
-
"so, george," max starts off, watching as his useless hotline co-host took a sip of his drink from the mug in his hand, "we're nearing a year since the wedding. how on earth has it gone that fast?"
"i don't remember you at the end of the altar in the wedding dress," george retorts with a hint of sarcasm dripping from his mouth and he snickers softly at the swift middle finger thrown in his direction from the blonde-haired boy opposite, "but yes. it's been nine months. gone too fast, honestly. i'd do anything to go back to that day."
"it was a gorgeous ceremony," max says, resting his elbows on the desk beneath him and resting his chin on his hands, "i doubt you had anything to do with that."
george snorts and shakes his head in his direction.
"i did, thank you very much," he insists, "i helped choose our venue. i chose the colour scheme and i chose what flowers we had for each person in our wedding parties. with some guided assistance by yn but she let me choose the final part."
and it was true.
yn was impressed at how he had taken an interest in everything they needed to plan for their wedding day; everything except the wedding dress which she refused to let him know anything about. a stickler for the superstitions that came with getting married and he was more than okay with that. she loved how involved he had been, how much he listened and how he had everything planned out in his head... she was, at least, excepting herself to do a lot of the organising but felt a huge weight lifted off her shoulders when he offered his own ideas to help ease her mind.
it was their day and he wanted it to feel like it.
"is there any talk of babies yet? we can only hope that there are mini-yn's running around instead of mini-george's," max cackles and all george can muster is a roll of his eyes, "is that a roll of the eyes at the question or at me?"
"at you," george says with no hesitation, a smirk on his lips, "we've touched on the subject briefly. yn just wants to enjoy being young and free, enjoy us as a married couple, enjoy our twenties before we get tied down with babies and the responsibility of raising someone in this world."
"but what about you?"
"what about me?"
"you said yn wants to enjoy life right now but what about you?" max asks and george feels his cheeks heat up, telling himself to blame it on the lights and the heat of the room if anyone picked up on the matter, "i'm surprised you didn't knock her up on your honeymoon."
"i mean," george shrugs and sits back in his chair, bringing the mic with him as he moved further from the tabletop, "we did a lot of practicing on the honeymoon, anywhere and any chance we had, if you get my drift," he laughs loudly and max pulls a face of disgust, "no, i'd love kids. i'd love a baby, of course i would. a little bit me and a little bit of yn mixed into one human being. it's a dream."
"but?"
"but nothing," george insists, "like i said, we're just finding our feet in the world of marriage, it's only been nine months, so we want to take time in creating a family."
"uh-huh," max nods slowly, dropping the subject there and then to save any awkward conversations later on, "practicing is just as fun as the real thing, anyway. once you have a baby, it all stops."
"like you'd know," george retorts and max covers his heart with his hand, "anyway..."
-
the tension in their flat was thick enough to suffocate them.
when he'd come home from a chrismd video shoot down at the local 3g football pitch, for a football video that would go out on his channel in the near future, he was met with the silent treatment from his wife. confused and unsure of what he'd done, he tried to coax it out of her but to no avail... until she burst on him when she couldn't contain her emotions for much longer.
"you just need to talk about it, don't you?"
"talk about what?"
"you just can't drop the fact that i don't want a baby right now, can you?" her voice is thick with anger, her cheeks bright red and her eyes were dark and he honestly wanted the ground to swallow him whole so he didn't have to look at her. "what don't you understand about my feelings, george?"
"i understand you clearly," he responds only to receive a scoff back in his face and it was evident to him that she'd listened to the newest podcast episode that was scheduled for release that day, "what?"
"i told you how i felt, three months ago, george. i told you i wanted to wait to have kids, i told you we had the rest of our twenties to figure everything out, i told you i wanted to live my life without any heavy responsibilities," and he noticed that when she was angry, she used her hands to accentuate her words, his eyes focusing on the way her fingers scrunched up and how she pointed her pointer finger at him everytime she referred to him, "but you speak about it on the podcast and think i'd be okay with that?"
his gulps are thick as he tries to find the right words to say... although he knew, in that moment, anything he said was going to be ignored.
"i'm not okay with that," she grumbles heavily, shaking her head at him and he felt a pain in his chest like a knife had pierced through his ribs, "it's private information, george. our private life. we spoke about this."
"max asked me-"
"you could have ignored the question, told him you wanted to keep that to yourself," the tea-towel in her hand got thrown on the island in the middle of their kitchen area after she'd finished drying off her wet hands and her feet padded across the floor of their open-plan front room, in the direction of the dining table where she'd laid out plates and cutlery for their dinner, "why are you making me out to be a bad person?"
"i'm not-"
"you are!"
"please don't shout at me when i have no idea what's going on," he tells her and he can see her pause for a moment before continuing to clear up the dinner table, "what are you doing? dinner's done soon."
"i'm eating in the bedroom," she mumbles lowly, "i don't want to sit at the table and look at you right now. i'm angry with you."
"okay," he admits defeat, his words full of remorse and upset, and as toes off the trainers on his feet, he swears he can hear her mutter something beneath her breath but he couldn't bear to bring himself to ask what, "call me when dinners done. i've got some work to do so i'll be in the office most of tonight."
she hums in response and he bends over to pick his trainers up from the floor, walking into the entryway of their home and setting them down on floor beside her work shoes, and it kills him to walk away from her when all he wants is to work things out and argue until both of them are blue in the face. he can hear the gentle intakes of breath as she tries to calm herself down and he takes one last glance at her, as she rounds the island and steps back in front of the oven, and he can feel his stomach aching from the guilt that was building up.
he never meant to upset her.
he didn't think he said anything wrong... but it dawned on him how it may have sounded to her. how his words came out with the intention of answering the question as bluntly as possible without giving away their own private talks and could have been taken the wrong way by yn and how she felt targeted with the topic.
but for now, as much as he wanted to apologise, they needed a bit of time apart for the night
-
he's deep in thought when he hears a knock on the door.
his eyes were stinging from the bright light of the laptop screen that sat open before him and his hand was cramping from the way he was holding his pen tight in his hand, his notebook full of scribbles about upcoming video ideas he could do for his channel and who he wanted as a guest on each one, the silence being so comforting that he was knocked out of his distant look once the sound had disrupted him.
"george?"
he looks over his shoulder and sees yn standing in the doorway. one of his t-shirts hanging down her figure, a pair of tube socks on her feet to keep her toes warm, and a knitted blanket tucked around her shoulders and dragging across the floor behind her. in the bright light of the screen illuminating the room, he can see her wet cheeks and he feels his heart break.
"i'm sorry," he whispers softly and she shakes her head, "no, baby. i am. i should have just dropped the subject when you told me how you felt."
"no, i shouldn't have overreacted earlier."
he turns in his chair and sets his pen down on his notebook, giving his thighs a pat as an invitation for her to come and sit down with him, smiling warmly when she accepted his offer and walked towards him. enveloping her in a tight hug and adjusting himself in his seat as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and curls up on his lap.
"you have feelings, just as much as me," she admits, bringing a hand up to tickle her fingers across his cheeks, "you understood how i felt so i need to understand how you feel."
"but it's a big life decision and i should respect your feelings more," he says and she frowns, "besides, i'm not the one who has to go through all the changes with a pregnancy. i won't be one to develop a bump, i won't go through the emotional changes, i won't have to actually give birth to the baby and deal with the pain. that's all you."
there's a comfortable silence that lingers in the air and she sighs just to break it.
"i know how badly you want a baby," yn admits, "and i do want babies with you, george. not just one but four. there's nothing i want more. but, right now, we have so much of our life to live together. lots we can do before we have a little one running around, so many places to go and see. don't take me not wanting a baby right now as me not wanting babies at all. i want a baby george running around."
"i know," he presses a kiss to her forehead and lets his lips linger on her skin, "i want to enjoy us a little more, too."
"i'm sorry for my outburst," she hides her face in the crook of his neck and he shakes his head softly, "i was just... scared, i guess."
"i'm not going anywhere, little rascal," he murmurs into her hair, "you are stuck with me, i'm afraid."
"there's scarier people in the world to be stuck with," she jokes and looks up at him, his mouth dropping open, "i'm kidding." xx
Hi, could you please write a little something about george looking after his girlfriend while she's ill? Xx
i am such a sucker for soft boyfriend looking after ill girlfriend :')
whatever he had planned, it was dropped.
except he never told her that he cancelled his work schedule or any of his upcoming video shoots that he was due to film because he knows her like the back of his hand. he knew, deep down, how much she was going hate being the reason that he stopped working just to take care of her when, really, she could do it herself.
'i need to cancel our dinner date with max and andrew tonight, not well at all. don't come and see me as i'm just gonna sleep all day and look like a mess. love you. <33'
george cancels on her behalf. informing max that they could move the date to another night and that he wasn't sure what was wrong with her but that it must have been something terribly bad if she was cancelling plans and had added on that she didn't want to see her boyfriend in the state she was in.
except, george doesn't always listen.
and its time like when she was sick where he was thankful he had a key to her flat amongst the keys on his keyring. arriving at her door with an abundance of bags filled with tablets and medicines, dry crackers and packs of biscuits, and whatever trinkets he could grab from the tiny supermarket shop at the entrance of her flat complex so he was prepared for any kind of sickness.
"i know you asked not to see me but i wasn't doing anything today in regards to work and i couldn't leave you here by yourself," his voice fills the quiet space of her home and he waits for her to make herself known before he unpacks the bags for her, "babe?"
when she doesn't appear after a couple of minutes, he feels guilt low in his stomach - he forgot she may have been trying to sleep off whatever had struck her and he was suddenly more aware of how loud he had been upon his entrance. he toes off his trainers and sets them beside her front door, sets the keys down quietly on the side table and leaves the bags in her kitchen before he goes on a look for her around her home.
she wasn't on the sofa; her living room hadn't seemed to be touched and her tv remotes were left where she would normally leave them the previous night, the blanket was still draped over the back of the sofa and there was no dip in the cushions to signify that someone had been sat there recently.
she wasn't in her office; he wasn't expecting her to be working, at all, but it was a much cooler room in her home since it was facing away from the sunshine and she had a fairly comfortable sofa to lounge on.
she wasn't in her bedroom; except he could tell she had taken refuge there for the majority of the day because her sheets were still messy and ruffled and her pillows looked laid upon, a glass of water on her bedside table and a mop bucket down by her side of the bed which she must have kept there in case she couldn't make it from the bed.
his next guess was her en-suite and as he poked his head around the doorframe, he was met with her eyes closed and leaning against the side of the bathtub with a sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. his t-shirt, which he had given to her when she first stayed the night at his place, loose on her figure and it swallowed her up and he just wanted to scoop her up and put her to bed so she was more comfortable.
"i know you're looking at me," she grumbles lowly, cracking an eye open and staring at him through one eye, "i said not to come over. i don't know if this is a contagious thing or not."
"i'll be fine," he waves his hand in her direction as if he was brushing off the comment and he steps into the room, reaching over to flush the toilet from the contents inside, "how long have you been here for?"
she shrugs before taking a deep inhale, exhaling slowly, and she stretches out her legs to rid the pins and needles feeling tingling at her toes. she feels george sit down beside her and she can't help but lean towards the body heat radiating off his body, his arm sneaking around her shoulder and pulling her into his side.
"just feeling sick?"
"just feeling a bit icky. woke up feeling weird, breakfast didn't stay too long in my belly, can't really keep anything down."
"maybe it's a viral thing?" george wonders and he reaches for a wet flannel to dab across her forehead and to clear her face a little, "chris went down with something a couple of weeks ago, seen a lot of stuff saying people are going down with a sickness bug."
"just my luck to get it."
george laughs softly and sets the flannel down on the side of the tub, removing his arm from her shoulder and standing to his feet, holding his hands out for her to take and pulling her slowly to her feet. letting her get some stability before he lead her back to the bedroom so she could get comfortable in bed.
"i brought some crackers and biscuits if you're hungry and want to try and eat something," george suggested and she shook her head, settling herself down in bed and pulling the duvet over her body, "i'll leave them in the kitchen for you, okay? they're there if you want them."
"thank you," she smiles softly and he climbs onto the bed, careful not to jostle her too much, laying down beside her and cosying under the covers, "love you."
"i would kiss you but," he looks her and she rolls her eyes, "i love you too. get some sleep. i'll be here when you wake up." xx
tw - mentions of blood, period, implication of sex
authors note : i haven’t written for the chaos crew before but have been a fan for a while! i fell down a rabbit hole and absolutely adored all of @live-laugh-lenney ‘s work and was inspired to write my own. not my best work and it’s a tad bit self indulgent but i just imagine george being the sweetest partner during the rough moments of the month. enjoy!
the soft pattering of the rain and rumbles of thunder were enough to rouse george from his sleep. 12:43 pm read on the clock beside the bed. the tour had just finished the night prior and waiting for him at his london flat was yn, a homemade candlelit meal and his favorite beer. he had missed her, and her him, and he made sure to show her in every way that he could. her busy schedule with work and uni kept her from attending any shows and he wanted to make up for lost time with dinner dates, pub nights, and more.
but when he rolled over to pull her to his warm body, he spotted the small red patch on the sheets and the pair of his boxers she had stolen from the floor after last nights escapades. he couldn’t help but frown, knowing the next week would be hell for her. creeping from the bed and to the en suite he decided a hot bath, filled with some lavender bath soak would be the best way for her to start her day and quickly busied himself with the task.
the absence of george beside her under the duvet was enough to wake her up, rolling over and arms searching the bed for any hint of him. “george?” she called out, noticing the light filtering in from the bathroom. he quickly poked his head from the door. “yes, love?” he quipped. “what are you doing out of bed?” she pushed herself up to lessen the space between them. “thunder woke me up.” he shrugged. “and what about the bath?” she asked, arms stretching above her head. “it’s for you.”
he sat down in from of her, placing a timid kiss against her forehead. he has scared to embarrass her though she had no reason to be. he knew she had been so caught up in uni and work and helping him with tour that she had just simply forgot. he knew her periods were unforgiving, usually leaving her curled up in bed for days. he’s found her countless times with hot water bottles and pain relievers surrounding her trying her best to find some sort of relief. the final straw for him was taking her to A&E a few months back when she’d stood up from the couch to shower and passed out right in front of him, head barely missing the glass table all because of low iron levels. from then forward, his mission has been to make each month as easy and pain free for her as possible.
by this time, the dull ache settling in her stomach had become noticeable for her and her head fell back in annoyance. “you’ve got to be fuckin’ jokin’ me.” she groaned, glancing down at the bed below her. “not on the brand new white sheets.” “i’ll do the washing, darling. you just worry about getting in the bath.” he said, leaning forward to kiss her lips and tutting her up towards the bathroom. he busied himself quickly, stripping the sheets and duvet from her double bed and throwing them in the wash while readying some pain relievers and a cup of tea, as well, which he promptly delivered to her in the bathroom.
between the weather, his exhaustion from tour and yn’s period a lazy day was more than needed. knowing her appetite would be low, he gathered some crisps and other light snacks, plenty of blankets and her favorite candle and moved to the living room. he lost track of time watching a football match until he heard her quietly padding across the room, an old jumper of his swallowing her frame. she stood in front of the sofa and took a moment to curl herself tightly against his body, quickly switching the heated blanket on and grabbing her book from the coffee table. her face was pressed against his chest as she mumbled, “thank you for this mornin’ hun. i love you dearly.” a soft laugh left his body and he turned to pull her head up to him for a kiss. “anything for you my love.”
wanna be yours 2.0 // ln4 social media au // part one
pairing: lando norris X american!reader / mclaren photographer!reader and slight pato o'ward X reader
warnings: swearing
summary: a remix of my fic wanna be yours in social media au form. or basically lando and the reader both being in love with each other but being too stubborn and scared to say anything so they suffer in silence until one finally crumbles.
contains: best friends to slight strangers to lovers, pining, angst, jealous!lando, asshole!lando, clueless!lando, and perhaps a little lando or pato? situation.
masterlist
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
may 5th, 2024
liked by landonorris, y/bsf, oscarpiastri and 100,000 others
y/n.jpg: miami baby! i think the guy in the second pic won some kind of race involving super fast cars but i could be wrong.
landonorris: who is that guy???? he's really good looking...
↳ y/n.jpg: i think his name is lando onewin.
↳ landonorris: bye. that doesn't even work.
user1: you always take such good pics of lando.. thank u queen
user2: lando always being the first to comment. dude's down bad lol
y/bsf: the kids miss you. please come home.
may 6th, 2024
may 8th, 2024
may 9th, 2024
liked by landonorris, mclaren, patricooward and 200,000 others
y/n.jpg: back at the mtc today for a very special reason! everyone was there to celebrate my amazing photography skills and editing on all the pictures from the season so far! lando was even kind enough to show up with a trophy to give to me! i love my job <3
in all seriousness. could not be more proud of you lando!!! it's been a long time coming, but we both know it's only the beginning!
landonorris: that awkward moment when you tried to take the trophy from me....
↳ y/n.jpg: DON'T SAY THAT PEOPLE ARE GONNA THINK IT'S TRUE.
↳ landonorris: i'll make sure they engrave the next one with your name too.
↳ y/n.jpg: ok but as long as my name is listed first.
mclaren: our favorite photographer ❤️ -liked by author
user1: ok but where is y/n's trophy fr??? she's hands down one of the best photographers in the game rn.
user2: y/n and lando you are so dear to me
user3: pato in the likes??
↳ user4: y/n used to work for arrow mclaren before working for mclaren f1. also pato is literally the reserve driver for f1 this season... honestly the web that is y/n, lando, and pato intertwines so much it's kinda crazy...
may 11th, 2024
may 14th, 2024
y/n.jpg added to their story
landonorris replied to your story
↳ WHY WOULD YOU POST THAT??? IT'S MORE THAN A JUMPSCARE!
oscarpiastri replied to your story
↳ why do you always catching me folding in front of lando like that :/
may 15th, 2024
may 19th, 2024
liked by y/bsf, oscarpiastri, patricooward and 100,000 others
y/n.jpg: imola 2024.
y/bsf: best photographer in the world. i love you!!! -liked by author
user1: not even a pic of lando's car.... oh no :/
user2: no funny caption... no lando like or comment... guys we are in the trenches
a/n: I 👏 WANT 👏 INTERVIEWER!READER 👏 TO 👏 BE 👏 A 👏 SERIES 👏 (please pretend you want it too)
cw/tw: none!! oscar piastri my favourite baby <3
:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ
twitter
:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ
oscar taglist (lmk if you want to be added); @llando4norris @apollosfavkiddo @mharmie-formula1 @mixedribbons @formula1-motogpfan @yesmanbabe @tallrock35 @mel164
the one where you watch your ex boyfriend walk into some bar called the black dog.
lando norris x gender-neutral!reader
word count: ~1.9k
warnings: angst!!!!, happy ending so fluff as well, brief discussion of bad mental health, lando is a bit of a prick at some point, exes to lovers, one sexual innuendo (?)
note: based on this request and obviously the black dog by taylor swift. this is one of my favorite taylor songs EVER i got so excited when i got this request. i also love a good angsty, heart-breaking fic so giving this a happy ending was a bit harder than it should’ve but i hope you enjoy it!
“stop that,” you softly cooed, your hands cupping his cheeks to try and make him look at you.
the past few weeks had been harsh on him, and you could feel how every self-deprecating comment just made him drown deeper into his own head. you just wanted the best for him.
he didn’t answer. instead, he looked away again, trying his best to avoid your gaze at all costs.
“it’s just been a bad weekend, baby. next one will be better,” you added.
“stop with the optimistic bullshit,” he rudely said before you could add anything else to try and cheer him up.
you knew he was angry —rightfully so —after missing on a potential win only a few days before, but you couldn’t just sit and watch him bring himself down anymore.
“it just hurts to see you like this,” you mumbled.
“it’s hurting you?” he snapped, his tone accusing. “why do you have to make everything about you, every single time?”
as his words escaped his lips, he gently pushed you off his lap, immediately getting up from the couch.
“i’m just saying…” you tried to explain, although his words hurt more than you would ever admit out loud.
“i don’t care what you’re saying,” he cut you off. “it’s always the same story with you. the world doesn’t fucking revolve around you, you know?”
your lips parted, intending to defend yourself, but no words left your mouth. not like lando would had let you speak, anyway.
“this is the last thing i need right now, i’m done here,” he grumbled.
you froze at the tone of his voice, not having heard him talking to you like that ever before. and you didn’t do anything to stop him when he picked up his jacket and walked to the entrance of your apartment, announcing his departure with a loud slam of the front door.
he just needed time, you told yourself.
but he didn’t call, and you didn’t wake up to a simple apology in your messages and him asking to see you as you were used to.
and it had been forty-two days since he had stormed out of your apartment and, unknowingly to you, vowed to never talk to you again.
and after six weeks of no contact, you still missed him.
lando had been more than just your boyfriend, he had been your best friend for as long as you could remember; he was there, in every little memory you had.
you had always been the first person he ran to whenever the smallest thing happened, and for the past few weeks you had to settle for watching his life go on without you through pictures and media outlets.
and as much as your friends tried to tell you that it would get better, every morning without him just got harder than the previous one; used to having his arms wrapped all around you and his curls tickling your neck, waking up in a cold bed was certainly something you weren’t quite fond of.
however, he seemed to be moving on.
that’s what you thought as you sat in the darkness of your room, the only light illuminating the space being the dim glow of your phone’s screen as you intently watched the small, blue dot moving on your screen.
he had forgotten to turn his location off.
like every weekend since the break up, you watched him walk into some random bar in a different city, piercing a new, deeper hole in your heart every time. and you couldn’t help but hope that they played your song each night, that even the smallest thing reminded him of you.
but instead, every morning you woke up to a new picture of him leaving the place with some girl wrapped around his arm, while you could barely wear your favorite clothes because they took you back to a memory you shared with him.
you didn’t understand how he didn’t miss you, how he could be doing so good without you by his side.
୨୧
it had never been his intention to walk out of your life that afternoon. but when the anger washed away, all he could feel was shame.
guilt, for how he had talked to you when all you wanted was to help. and he wasn’t sure he could ever look at you in the eyes without the feeling overfilling his senses. so, instead, he did what he knew best: he ran away.
and the only thing that could take you off his mind for some time was drowning his own pain in alcohol every weekend, end the night with some girl’s legs wrapped around him.
but that night, he froze as the first notes of your song started playing; the song that had started playing when you got in his car the first time he took you out on a proper date. and the upbeat music took him right back to that day.
he could still picture the sight of your teary eyes as you walked into his apartment after another failed date —the guy hadn’t even showed up; the sound of your sobs as you buried your face on his chest, looking for some comfort, still making his heart clench.
“you deserve better,” he had whispered into your hair, placing a soft kiss on top of your head. “someone who’s willing to give you everything.”
“i’m tired of searching,” you had simply mumbled, feeling hopeless after so many disappointments.
“maybe you don’t have to search for it,” he had said before he could even think about his words. “maybe it’s been right in front of your nose all this time.”
at the underlying confession of his words, you raised your head from his chest to look up at him.
“hm?” you hummed.
lando had always liked you; but he had also been scared of you not reciprocating his feelings, of your friendship being ruined by the love he had for you. however, he had been completely oblivious as to the way you had always looked at him.
but that time, he caught the glint in your eyes as his gaze met yours, and so he confidently asked:
“can i take you out on a date?”
he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he saw you crack a smile, relief washing all over him.
“i would love to,” you mumbled.
he smiled at your reply, his thumbs coming up to wipe the remains of your tears.
“tonight, then?” he softly kissed your cheek before you nodded and wrapped your arms around his frame, unknowing of how the turn your relationship would take after that night.
he looked down at the girl who was grinding herself against him, trying to ignore the memories flooding his mind; but her eyes didn’t sparkle the way yours did as the song played. and he knew she just wouldn’t get the jokes he was so tempted to make, the ones that would send you into a fist of laughter despite of the many times you had heard them before.
in short, she simply wasn’t you. and he knew he wouldn’t ever feel that way with someone else.
“excuse me,” he said, trying to push her away from him.
he made his way out of the bar pushing in between the sea of people, his phone clutched in his hand the second he stepped a foot outside.
he sighed as he looked at his screen, the cool air making him come back to his senses; he couldn’t just text you. not after ghosting you for over a month.
but he missed you, so what else could he do? how else could he apologize for what he did?
୨୧
you turned around in bed as you felt the room being illuminated again by the screen of your phone, a message interrupting your attempt to sleep.
your heart skipped a beat as you saw his contact picture, followed by a simple “are you up?”. you couldn’t believe your eyes, anxiety coursing through your veins as you stared at the message.
“you still have read receipts on”
“say something, please”
fuck, of course. and you had been staring at his text for five minutes straight.
“what?” you simply typed with shaky fingers; it was dry, yes, but you were still hurt about how things ended between the two of you.
his answer came almost immediately: “just wanted to apologize” it read.
but nothing could’ve prepared you for his next message, asking if he could come over instead of doing so over text.
you hesitated for a few minutes; you knew you shouldn’t, but you needed closure as well.
so, naturally, you accepted.
you anxiously padded around your house as you waited for him, biting your nails as you imagined every possible scenario that could happen. five. ten. fifteen minutes, and then you heard a knock on the door.
the door opened slowly, revealing the figure of your ex-boyfriend.
you stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind him and turning around with your gaze fixed on the floor. the silence was deafening,and the situation felt awkward.
“can i have some water?” lando tried to break the ice, his eyes fixed on you as you simply nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
when you came back only a few minutes later with two glasses on your hands, he had made himself comfortable. you walked to the couch and sat next to him, with a considerable distance between the two of you.
“i just…” he broke the silence again, his voice low and slightly nervous. you didn’t dare look at him yet, so you looked down at your lap, where you fidgeted with your fingers.
you heard him sigh as he chose his next words carefully.
“i never meant to hurt you, or ruin what we had,” lando started. “it was a few bad weeks, and i know i shouldn’t have, but i took it all out on you. and then i didn’t think i could even look you in the face after what i said.”
you looked up at him, your eyes starting to water as you took in his words.
“you could’ve just explained yourself, i would’ve understood,” you replied with a thin, vulnerable voice.
“i was ashamed of myself after the fight and i thought running away from all of it would be the best,” he said as his gaze met yours. “truth is i haven’t stopped thinking about you for a single minute all this time. i really miss you,” he almost whispered.
“i…” you stuttered.
“i get it if you can’t forgive me,” his voice broke mid-sentence.
“‘s not that,” you mumbled, a few tears running down your cheeks. “just wish it didn’t take you this long.”
you noticed his pained expression as he noticed the tears on your face, quickly whispering a soft “c’mere” as he opened his arms. you sighed and scooped next to him, letting his arms wrap around your frame in a comforting hug.
“i’m really sorry,” you heard him whisper into your hair before he planted a gentle kiss on top of your head. “i won’t leave again.”
“promise?” you murmured, snuggling closer into his embrace.
“promise, baby,” he answered in the same low voice.
you nodded slightly, your eyes fluttering close as you took in his scent and the way his grip on you tightened, an oath to never let you go again.
i had to sit my phone down at work and walk away. genuinely had to take a moment to collect myself. maybe i’m late to this picture but jesus god almighty.
arms. abs. thighs. giggling and kicking my feet.
if a fic writer sees this, you should totally write a piece about oscar taking you out for a boat ride at the monaco pier to take these promo shots but some other activities take place where he wants you on your knees - maybe the helmet stays on
credits to the tiktok creator i swiped this picture from. @/nikka_piastri81 - thank you for blessing me.
david malukas is so fucking adorable. he has me full on kicking and giggling my feet when i see his posts :’) he just exudes the energy of a fantastic cuddler. if anyone has any davey fic recs pls pls pls let me know
titsay
origamiaround
prguitarman
yousharknotpass
stormborns
