“true or false,” you ask. “all is fair in love and war.” there’s a beat. isack doesn’t look phased at all. if anything, his face splits into the widest grin. “true,” he says readily. (hook, line, sinker.)
ꔮ starring: isack hadjar x journalist!reader.
ꔮ word count: 17.8k.
ꔮ includes: implied smut, romance, humor/crack. mentions of food, alcohol; one (1) scene with a minor injury; profanity. 2025 rookies dynamics, ollie bearman as a plot device, serious romcom vibes. inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days (2003).
ꔮ commentary box: the length of this is frankly obscene, but combine my favorite rookie & one of my favorite romcoms? bam. nearly 18k. happy birthday to my favorite fighting frenchman 🏁 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Your career dies a little every time you type the words “How to.”
How to Survive a Double-Stack Pit Stop. How to Tell If Your Favorite Driver Is Lying About Loving the Fans. How to Pretend You Understand Tyre Degradation at Dinner Parties.
You could keep going. Your archive is a graveyard of clickbait guides dressed up in racing metaphors. Chequered Flag markets them as accessible, fun, and informative. You call them what they are: soul-crushing.
Kate leans over from her desk, her neon green, Norris-themed nails clacking against her keyboard. “You’re frowning so hard, you’re about to invent a new wrinkle.”
“I’m dying,” you inform her flatly. “One article at a time. Death by listicle.”
Across the bullpen, Michele doesn’t even look up from her notes. “What’s it this time?”
You sigh, waving at your monitor. “How to Tell If a Safety Car Restart Is About to Go to Shit. Catchy, right?”
Kate makes a sympathetic noise, the kind you’d use at a funeral. “At least it’s popular. People love your stuff.”
“That’s the problem.” You jab the delete key. “I’m wasting my brain cells. I could be writing about chassis development, driver academies, the politics of grid penalties—anything with substance. Instead, I’m out here explaining slipstreams with stick-figure diagrams.”
Michele finally glances up, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “Welcome to journalism, sweetheart. The public wants candy, not vegetables.”
“Andie’s not going to greenlight you lecturing about aerodynamics for six thousand words,” Kate adds unhelpfully.
Your chair screeches back as you stand, shoving your notebook under your arm. “Then I’ll convince her.”
Kate winces. Michele sighs. Both of them know exactly how this ends—probably with you carrying a new assignment titled How to Get Over a Crush on Your Favorite Driver.
Still, your heels click against the floor with righteous determination as you march toward Andie’s office, rehearsing your pitch like it’s a closing argument and you’re desperate for parole.
Andie’s office always feels like walking into a shrine. Not because of the tasteful shelves stacked with trophies and framed front pages, but because Andie herself sits behind the desk with the unbothered aura of someone who’s already seen every trick you’re about to try.
She was a prodigy once. A karting wunderkind, the kind people whispered about in paddocks until a back injury rerouted her life. Instead of fading out, she built Chequered Flag from the ground up, hustling in press rooms and turning a startup blog into one of the most-read motorsport publications in the world. Now, she leans back in her chair with a mug of coffee, nails painted a muted steel gray, giving you the kind of look that makes lesser journalists sweat through their shirts.
“Let me guess,” she says before you even sit down. “You’re here to tell me you’re sick of writing ‘How to’ pieces.”
You gape. “How did you—”
“Because every time you walk in here, you’ve got that same constipated expression. Sit.” She gestures with the mug, and you obey because no one disobeys Andie. Not unless they want to end up covering feeder series practice sessions in the rain.
You slide into the chair, clutching your notebook. “Okay, yes. But hear me out,” you start. “I want to write something bigger. Like… the culture around the wives and girlfriends in F1. They’re visible, influential, but treated like accessories. There’s a whole story there. Power, image, expectation.”
Andie takes a sip of coffee, utterly unmoved. “No.”
You swallow. “Just… no?”
“You’ve built a brand,” she says, setting her mug down with a definitive clink. “People click your stuff because it’s funny, digestible, and makes them feel like insiders. You want to throw that away for a think piece on WAG politics? Not happening.”
Your jaw tightens. “It wouldn’t be throwing it away. It would be expanding,” you argue. “Showing that we can do both—candy and vegetables.”
“Cute analogy,” she chirps. “Still no.”
Frustration burns in your chest. You came in armed with passion and bullet points, but Andie swats them away like they’re gnats at a picnic. You can already hear Kate and Michele in your head: told you so.
You scrape your notebook off the desk and stand, forcing your voice to stay polite. “Thanks for your time.”
Andie is already scrolling on her phone by the time you leave, her acrylic nails glinting under the office lights. The bullpen feels louder, messier when you step back into it, like the universe is mocking you with the clatter of keyboards and Kate’s giggle from across the room.
You drop into your chair, frustration coiled tight in your ribs. Another “How to” piece it is. Unless you figure out a way to cheat the system.
The afternoon’s story conference rolls out like detention in a glass box. Everyone sits around the long table, laptops open, coffee cups sweating onto notepads, Andie at the head like a general surveying her troops. You’re still simmering from your one-on-one with her, but you plaster on a neutral expression and pretend to take notes.
Kate, however, is not pretending anything.
Her usual sparkle—the LN4 nails, the quippy asides—is dulled. She fumbles through her pitch about a behind-the-scenes look at tire warmers, stumbling over words, losing her place. The room shifts uncomfortably. Even Michele raises an eyebrow.
Andie cuts her off with surgical precision. “Kate. Either commit to the idea or don’t waste our time.”
The silence that follows is brittle. And then, to everyone’s horror, Kate’s voice cracks. “I—I can’t.” She throws her pen down and presses her palms to her eyes. “Sorry, I just… I can’t.”
Andie leans back, unamused. The rest of the room goes wide-eyed. You’re already scooting closer, pulling tissues from your bag like you’re performing an emergency pit stop. “Hey, hey, what’s going on?”
Kate sniffles, mascara smudging. “He broke up with me.”
“Who?” Michele asks, cautious.
“That F3 driver. The one I told you about.” Her voice wobbles. “He sent me a text. A text. After two months.”
Michele mutters something sharp under her breath, probably about cowardice. You rub Kate’s shoulder in circles. “I’m sorry,” you say, and you mean it. “That’s brutal.”
Kate nods miserably into her tissue. “Guess I wasn’t cut out to be a WAG.”
The words slip out before you can stop them, wry and sympathetic at once: “It’s hard to be a WAG, but it’s easy to lose the title.”
The room chuckles weakly, except for Andie. She sits forward, eyes bright, like a hawk spotting prey. “Say that again.”
Your stomach drops. “It was just a comment,” you say, disbelief marring your features.
“No. It’s a headline,” insists Andie. “That’s your next piece.”
You straighten. “Absolutely not. I’m not turning Kate’s heartbreak into clickbait.”
“You want serious? You want depth? Write this. A field guide on how to lose a driver. Ten races, ten steps, whatever spin you want.” Andie’s lips curve in a smile that is neither kind nor negotiable. “Do it right, and after that, I’ll let you pitch anything you want.”
The conference room tilts. Around you, people are already scribbling down their own assignments, but your pulse thunders in your ears. You glance at Kate, blotchy and sniffly, and then back at Andie, who looks maddeningly pleased with herself.
Somehow, you’ve just been conscripted into heartbreak journalism. And there’s no way out but through.
You spend the entire flight to the Tokyo Grand Prix rehearsing ways to spin Andie’s command into something remotely respectable. Every time you close your eyes, you see the headline she practically carved into your forehead: How to Lose a Driver in 10 Races. It’s less journalism, more cursed BuzzFeed quiz. By the time you reach Suzuka, your brain feels like overcooked ramen noodles.
The paddock is its usual sensory overload. Mechanics rolling tires like it’s gym class, espresso machines hissing from hospitality units, the faint tang of gasoline mixing with fried yakitori from a vendor just outside the gates. You’ve been sent to cover Yuki Tsunoda’s mid-season promotion to Red Bull, which your editor charmingly titled: How to Cope with Your Driver Being Swapped Mid-Season.
On the sidelines, you’re lined up with a mic and cameraman, waiting for Haas’s newest golden boy. Ollie Bearman bounces up, all teenage limbs and easy grin, his race suit hanging loose at the collar. He’s absurdly good at this already, answering questions with just enough polish that the PR rep beams, but casual enough to sound unrehearsed. You run him through the usual beats: Suzuka’s tricky corners, the pressure of standing in, his favorite Japanese snack. (He answers Pocky, specifically the strawberry flavored ones.)
When the camera clicks off, Ollie stretches his arms overhead, groaning like a schoolkid who’s just finished finals. “That wasn’t too bad, right?”
“You survived,” you say, slipping the mic into your bag. “No viral bloopers, no hot takes about sushi. Gold star.”
He grins. “Cheers. You’ve got the hard job, though. Covering all this stuff. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“All the time,” you admit before your brain catches up. “Especially when I’m stuck writing guides on how to lose a boyfriend in under ten races.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s… oddly specific.”
You wave a hand. “Long story. Basically, my boss thinks heartbreak is good content. So now I’m apparently an expert on gaining and losing WAG status.”
Ollie laughs so loudly a few mechanics glance over. “You? A WAG expert?”
“Don’t rub it in,” you say, though you’re laughing too. “Actually—since you’re here. Know any eligible bachelors in the lower circuits? Strictly research purposes, of course.”
He leans on the barrier, mock-serious. “What, you want me to set you up with my mates from F2? They’d faint if you called.”
“Perfect. I need someone to faint at my feet for once.”
“You’re funny.”
“Occupational hazard.” You check your watch, the next interview already looming. “Thanks for the chat, Ollie. And the market research.”
“Anytime,” he says, waving as he’s whisked away by a PR rep.
You shoulder your bag and head deeper into the paddock, laughter still lingering in your chest. For a moment, the whole ridiculous assignment feels almost manageable.
Isack Hadjar has never been good at losing, but if there’s one thing this rookie class is perfecting, it’s the art of pretending not to care about it.
Post-Bahrain, the five of them sprawl across Ollie’s hotel room like a crashed pit stop: pizza boxes on the carpet, empty water bottles rolling around, and the muted post-race replay looping on the TV as background noise they don’t really want to hear.
Ollie’s perched on the edge of the bed, lanky and smug in that way only someone with a solitary point on the board can be. Kimi cross-legged on the floor, swiping through his phone with the kind of concentration he should’ve saved for qualifying. Jack’s leaning against the desk, arms folded, looking like he’s two seconds away from starting a union against Alpine. Gabi’s half-buried under a mountain of pillows, occasionally chiming in with a one-liner that kills harder than any overtaking attempt. And then there’s Isack, stretched across the carpet, propped up on one elbow, the steady heartbeat of the group.
“Technically,” Ollie pipes up, picking a piece of crust off his plate, “I’m the only one here with points.”
“Technically,” Jack fires back, “you’re the only one who spun into the gravel and cried about it.”
Isack laughs, the sound quick and sharp, filling the room with something lighter than defeat. This—this is why he loves these idiots.
The rookie wall is real, brutal even, but it’s less suffocating when you’ve got people leaning against it with you. They’re competitors, sure, but tonight, with Bahrain still humming in their bones, they’re just kids in a borrowed hotel room, talking about everything and nothing, trying to forget how much it stings to keep finishing outside the points.
There is a con, though.
One second they’re arguing about which Bahrain corner feels the best flat out, and the next Kimi’s phone is lighting up and he’s slipping out to answer his girlfriend’s call, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.
“Give him ten minutes before he’s whispering baby talk,” Jack mutters, earning a snort from Gabi, who’s busy firing off texts to his girlfriend with the focus of someone trying to win a world championship via emoji.
Isack watches all of it from his spot on the floor, arms folded behind his head, the ceiling spinning just slightly from too many beers and not enough dinner. Something in his chest twists the wrong way.
“Unbelievable,” he groans, louder than necessary. “Every single one of you has a girlfriend. It’s disgusting. Actually, it’s offensive. I’m filing a complaint.”
Ollie perks up immediately, sensing blood in the water. “Oh no, poor Hadjar. Forced to be single in a world full of love. Tragic. Someone call Netflix.”
“Maybe if you didn’t treat every date like a qualifying session, you’d last longer than Q1,” Jack quips, and Gabi cackles so hard he nearly drops his phone.
Isack sits up, scowling, though the heat in his cheeks betrays him. “I do not—”
“You so do,” Ollie cuts in, already halfway to falling off the bed in laughter. “You’re like, ‘Hi, I’m Isack Hadjar, I brake late and commit early,’ and then you’re surprised when they ghost you.”
Gabi throws a pillow at him for good measure. “Face it, bro. You’re the only rookie here that’s P1 in loneliness.”
The room dissolves into chaos. Pizzas threatened as weapons, laughter ricocheting off hotel wallpaper. Isack tries to defend himself, he really does, but somewhere between the jabs and the beer haze, he’s laughing too, even if it’s at his own expense.
The teasing reaches the point where Isack’s seriously considering fake-dating the hotel minibar just to get them off his back. He’s mid-eye-roll when Ollie suddenly bolts upright on the bed like Archimedes having his bathtub moment.
“I’ve got it,” Ollie announces, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see if you can get a girl to fall for you before mid-season.”
Isack stares at him, deadpan. “What?”
“You heard me.” Ollie’s grinning now, leaning into the drama. “Ten races. That’s, what, mid-season? You’ve got until then to make some poor girl fall hopelessly in love with you. Otherwise, you shut up forever about being single.”
Jack folds his arms, nodding sagely. “Honestly, sounds generous. He’ll need all the time he can get.”
Isack groans, tipping his head back against the carpet. “You’re all insane.”
“Correction,” Ollie says, “we’re fun. You’re boring. Unless, of course, you’re too chickenshit to take the dare.”
The word “chickenshit” hangs there, sticky-sweet, and Isack feels something in his chest bristle. He knows the tone, knows it because he’s used it a hundred times on track. Baiting, daring, begging for a response. He pushes himself upright, jaw set, a flicker of heat cutting through the haze of beer and mockery.
“Fine,” he says. “Ten races.”
The room erupts like they’ve just won a podium. Gabi’s clapping, Jack’s shaking his head in disbelief, Ollie’s already demanding stakes.
“If you lose,” Ollie says, pointing at him like a judge, “you owe us all dinner in Monaco. Like, fancy. Caviar, oysters, the works.”
“And if I win?” Isack shoots back.
All the boys share a look. It’s Gabi who offers, “If you win, we’ll publicly endorse you for Rookie of the Year.”
Isack laughs, something already buzzing in his stomach. “Deal.”
The rookie class arrives in Jeddah like a pack of ducklings that got lost on their way to the water.
They move together, close enough to brush shoulders, an unspoken defense mechanism against the stares, the cameras, the whole spectacle of being F1’s newest chew toys. To the casual eye, they’re just kids killing time before track walk. To themselves, they’re hunters—because today, the dare is alive and breathing.
“Her,” Jack says, tilting his chin toward a tall brunette lingering by the Mercedes hospitality tent. “She looks nice. Polite. Like she wouldn’t immediately block your number.”
Isack squints. “She looks like she’d write self-insert fanfiction about me. Pass.”
“Fine,” Gabi cuts in, nodding at a girl scrolling on her phone near the barriers. “That one. Easy target. Probably bored. Perfect for you.”
Isack shakes his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Too easy. She’d say yes just to kill time and then forget my name before quali.”
The group groans in unison, Ollie throwing his hands up like he’s had enough of this nonsense. Then, the Brit’s gaze snags on someone across the paddock—you, balancing a camera bag on one shoulder, notepad wedged under your arm, moving with the purposeful stride of someone already late to three things at once. There’s a glint in Ollie’s eye before he speaks.
“What about her?”
Isack follows his line of sight. You’re talking animatedly to a cameraman, gesturing with a pen, your expression sharp enough to slice through the humid air. Not hovering, not waiting, not looking around like you’re desperate to be noticed. You look like someone with an actual life, which somehow makes the thought worse.
Isack lingers a second too long before answering. “Yeah,” he says finally, a little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Her.”
RACE 01: SAUDI ARABIAN GRAND PRIX.
You’re spiraling.
Michele’s perched on a folding chair with her tablet, looking every inch the unbothered senior journalist, while you pace the narrow stretch of hospitality hallway like a condemned woman. “Do you realize,” you hiss, “that ninety percent of these men are already taken? Girlfriends, wives, situationships, mystery blondes who keep popping up in Monaco. And I’m supposed to write about being a WAG. How the hell am I meant to lose a title I can’t even gain?”
Michele flashes you a small smile, the kind that says she’s listening but also enjoying the spectacle. “You could try Yuki,” she suggests idly. “He’s one of the three single drivers, and you like short kings.”
Your jaw drops. “I cannot just… shoot my shot with Yuki Tsunoda. That man would put me in a chokehold before the first free practice.”
You’re mid-rant when a voice interrupts, warm and faintly accented. “He’d probably feed you first.”
You freeze, spinning on your heel. There he is. Isack Hadjar.
All loose limbs and crooked smile, leaning against the wall like he was born for it. The blue and white of his Racing Bulls polo somehow makes his skin look golden, which is frankly unfair. There’s three presumably single drivers on the grid right now: Lewis Hamilton, Yuki, and the man standing in front of you right now.
Michele glances between you and him, and then, traitor that she is, she slips away with a muttered, “I’ll, uh, check timing sheets.”
You glare at her retreating back, then turn to Isack. “Do you make a habit of eavesdropping on journalists’ nervous breakdowns?”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Only when they’re loud enough to echo down the paddock.”
Your cheeks heat. Great. Public humiliation and now a rookie with a smirk. “Well, thank you for your concern,” you say, “but I don’t need unsolicited advice from someone whose race engineer still has to remind him which buttons do what.”
His grin widens. “Bold words from someone panicking over imaginary boyfriends.”
You cross your arms, ignoring the treacherous flutter low in your stomach. “Imaginary boyfriends are less trouble than real ones.”
“Maybe,” he concedes, pushing off the wall, stepping closer. “But less fun, too.”
The air tightens, charged. He smells faintly of fuel and aftershave, a combination that shouldn’t work but does, maddeningly. You fight the urge to step back or worse, step forward.
You arch a brow instead, clinging to bravado. “You volunteering to prove that?”
His laugh is low, rolling, far too self-assured. “Maybe I am.”
Your pulse stutters, your head floods with a thousand what-ifs, and suddenly this assignment doesn’t feel impossible anymore. It feels dangerous in an entirely different way.
You’ve learned drivers by smell, by the small, stubborn habits that only a paddock can teach you: the way they rub their hands together before a launch, the cadence of their laugh, the exact brand of energy bar they refuse to be without. Isack is a study in tight restraint and unexpected warmth. He doesn’t do the easy confessional interviews; he gives short answers, eyes steady, like someone who measures words the way he measures braking points. The media gets frustrated and then bored, which leaves you intrigued.
There’s nothing in the press bio about a partner. No staged Instagram pictures, no girlfriend’s handle floating through the comments. He posts sparsely—race photos, the occasional training clip, some tire smoke art—and then disappears. It makes him sound guarded, and guards are interesting things to prod at. You make a mental note of that, standing trackside as Suzuka eats rubber and prayers alike.
The race is a blur: engines screaming, lights dropping, the kind of chaos that rearranges your internal organs. You do what you always do. Watch, scribble, film the small moments that mean the most. Between pitstops and the shout of the crowd, your brain keeps pinging back to the conversation in the corridor, to his grin and the way his voice sounded when he said maybe I am.
Post-race, the paddock thins; people scatter like confetti. You’re walking toward the mixed zone when you spot him by a hospitality tent, sleeves pushed up, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He looks like he’s just been in a fight with physics and won. Up close, he smells of antiseptic and sunblock and something undeniably human.
He sees you and that grin returns, smaller, more private. “You made it through,” he says, voice softer than it was in the corridor.
“You survived Suzuka,” you counter, already reaching for your recorder out of habit. “Barely.”
He shrugs, and the movement is casual but practiced. “Rookie mistakes. We’ll learn.”
The banter settles between you. You ask the questions you always ask—how did it feel, what was the strategy, were the tyres a nightmare—and he answers, but then he asks you one back: “So, you doing anything after this?”
There’s an edge to that question that isn’t purely curiosity. You feel it in the way his fingers toy with the hem of his polo, in the quick tilt of his head. For once, you don’t dodge. Instead, you take a breath that tastes faintly of exhaust and adrenaline and say, “I might be persuaded to get a drink.”
He laughs, light and surprised. “Good. Then give me your number.”
You turn off your recorder then fumble with his phone, palms betraying you with sweat. He’s patient, eyes amused, not rushing you the way the world insists on rushing drivers. You type in your number, thumb careful, then hand the phone to him. He does the same with your phone, his digits cool and quick on the glass.
“Saved,” he says, and you can tell it’s true by the little way his mouth quirks. He hands the phone back and for an instant you linger on the space where your fingers brushed. “Text me,” he adds, because apparently the universe still uses instructions as bait.
“Wait,” you say, just as he’s walking away; he pauses to hear you out. “I’m going to ask you something weird.”
“Shoot,” he says smilingly, his curiosity obviously piqued.
You clear your throat. “True or false,” you ask. “All is fair in love and war.”
There’s a beat. Isack doesn’t look phased at all. If anything, his face splits into the widest grin. “True,” he says readily. (Hook, line, sinker.)
You smile back at him. “Great answer.”
“Good question.”
You don’t just nod. You tilt your head and blow a ridiculous, theatrical flying kiss—part joke, part challenge. The breeze picks it up immediately; the kiss seems to hang in the air between you, ridiculous and sticky with irony.
Isack fakes the catch with a flourish, the tiniest bow of his head.
(You can’t hear, but he mouths something to himself: part confession, part pride. “Oh, you’re already falling in love with me,” he says smugly.)
You walk away before he can see the way your chest hammers, before he can see you smile like an idiot. Under your breath, you whisper, “I’m gonna make you wish you were dead.”
RACE 02: MIAMI GRAND PRIX.
Isack doesn’t expect it to be this easy.
You’d think the dare would weigh on him like a stone in his pocket, a constant reminder to perform, to push, but the opposite happens. The texts start small: dumb jokes about paddock food, sarcastic commentary on press quotes, the occasional blurry photo of a hotel lamp that he swears looks like Charles Leclerc. You volley back with equal absurdity, quick and sharp, and Isack finds himself grinning at his phone way too often for someone who’s supposedly in this for a bet.
FaceTime comes next. At first, short calls—five minutes, maybe ten—until suddenly it’s midnight and he’s still propped up against a hotel headboard, laughing so hard his ribs ache while you tell him about your tragic history with parallel parking. There’s an ease to it that catches him off guard, the kind of flow that doesn’t need managing. He barely notices when the minutes stack into hours.
Tonight, he’s sprawled on his bed in yet another indistinguishable European hotel, earbuds in, phone balanced just so. Your face lights up his screen, the pixelated glow bouncing off his grin. He thinks about how Ollie and the others would absolutely crucify him if they saw this, but he can’t bring himself to care.
“You know what would make this easier?” he says when he notices you yawning. “If you were in Miami. Not on assignment. Not in the media pen. I mean, actually in the garage. With me.”
The words buzz like static through the call. His heart does an unhelpful little skip as he waits for your response.
You tilt your head, squinting at him like you’re trying to see past the suggestion. Then you smile. Slow, deliberate, conspiratorial. “So, you’re inviting me as your guest? Not a journalist?”
Isack clears his throat, tries for casual, fails spectacularly. “Yeah. My guest. In the VCARB garage. You’d get the good coffee at least.”
Your laugh—warm, teasing, a little dangerous—slides through the speaker. “Alright,” you say. “I’ll be there.”
It’s ridiculous how much relief floods him, how much satisfaction threads through his chest at your agreement. For the first time since the rookies cooked this whole scheme up, he thinks he might actually win.
The Miami paddock is an exercise in excess: neon signs buzzing like they’re trying to outdo the humidity, fans pressed against barricades with phones raised, the distant thump of bass spilling from some VIP suite. VCARB has gone all-in on their special livery, the cars dripping in bright pink, and the drivers are matching. Jumpsuits loud enough to make flamingos look washed out. Isack actually kind of loves it. The whole thing is ridiculous, campy, and a little bit glamorous. He doesn’t even mind being mistaken for an extra in Barbie: Formula Edition.
What he does mind, or at least thinks he should, is the way his stomach flutters when he spots you. You’re committed to the theme too, dressed in a shade of pink that somehow manages to look brighter than the cars themselves. He’s still processing how unfairly good you look when you close the gap between you in about three strides, slip your arm through his, and announce, loud enough for half the garage to hear: “Hi, I’m Isack’s girlfriend.”
Everything freezes.
For a moment, even the Miami heat feels stunned. His PR rep drops a clipboard. Another fumbles with their phone. Someone mutters, “Oh my God, when did this happen?”
Isack blinks. His brain should be short-circuiting, but instead, there’s this slow, stupid grin tugging at his mouth. He could correct you, laugh it off, say it’s a joke, but he doesn’t. He leans into it, looping his arm a little tighter around yours like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Yeah,” he says smoothly, eyes flicking down to meet yours. “She is.”
His PR team explodes into motion, muttering about statements and hashtags, but Isack barely hears them. All he can think about is the way your nails graze his sleeve when you squeeze his arm and the little smile you give him, like you know exactly what kind of chaos you’ve unleashed.
Hard-launched, against his will? Maybe. But if this is what losing control looks like, Isack thinks, he could get used to it.
Isack finishes Miami in the worst place imaginable, though. Eleventh. The no-man’s-land of points and glory, so close he can taste it, so far he wants to bite his steering wheel in half.
By the time he gets out of debrief, he’s almost convinced the racing gods hate him—until he walks into VCARB hospitality and sees you curled on one of the white couches, pink sunglasses still perched on your head like you own the place.
“You assigned yourself the title of girlfriend pretty quick,” he says, dropping down beside you with the kind of theatrical exhaustion only a driver who’s done sixty laps in Miami heat can pull off.
His hair’s damp, shirt clinging, and he makes a show of stretching his legs out until they’re knocking against yours. You don’t even look up from the mocktail in your hand. “Well, someone had to take initiative,” you point out. “You were dragging your feet.”
“I was not dragging my feet.”
“You were practically buried in the sand. Lucky for you, I’m efficient.”
He huffs, pretending offense, though the smile creeping across his mouth betrays him. “So you just decided to announce it to my entire PR team. Without warning.”
“Hard launches are trending. You should be thanking me.” You sip from your straw like the case is closed.
Isack narrows his eyes, weighing his pride against the way your knee brushes his. In the end, he sighs and admits, “I don’t mind. Was going to ask you anyway.”
That makes you pause. Your glass stills halfway to your mouth, eyes flickering sharp, as if you’re trying to decide if he’s joking. When he doesn’t waver, you laugh, light and startled, the sound cutting through the static of the paddock.
“You’re sweet,” you say finally, setting the glass aside. Then you lean in, lashes batting at him with weaponized innocence. “So sweet, in fact, that I think you’re going to take me out for a meal.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. Because I forgot my wallet.”
He groans, tipping his head back against the couch. All the same, he’s already reaching for his phone to make a reservation. He supposes this is just part and parcel of now having a girlfriend.
RACE 03: EMILIA ROMAGNA GRAND PRIX.
You arrive in Imola with a game plan so meticulous it could rival a pit strategy. If you’re going to commit to being a WAG, you’re not just going to dabble. You’re going to up the ante. Maximalist. Obnoxious. The sort of thing that makes PR reps clutch their crisis management clipboards and mutter prayers.
You’ve dressed for it, too. Oversized sunglasses, scarf knotted just so, heels clicking loud enough on the paddock asphalt to count as a warning siren. You stop for the photographers, tilting your chin, making sure every angle screams, Yes, I belong here, and yes, I am entirely too much.
When you breeze into the hospitality suite, you gush to a couple of media colleagues about how ‘Isack’s just the sweetest’ and how ‘he looked sooo hot in the pink suit’. You expect him to cringe into the carpet, mortified beyond recognition.
Except he doesn’t. He preens.
You catch him across the room, hearing your voice carry, and instead of burying his head in a cap like any sane person would, he straightens. Shoulders back. Jaw angled. Like your shameless bragging has inflated him three inches taller.
Later, when you sidle up and hiss, “You were supposed to hate that,” he just shrugs with infuriating calm.
“Why would I hate free publicity?”
“You’re egotistical.”
“Or maybe,” he sing-songs, “you’re just really good at being my girlfriend.”
You glare at him, but the flush rising to your cheeks betrays you. This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to go at all.
Isack finishes P9, and you’re shocked at how loud a midfield team can get about two points. VCARB treats it like a homecoming parade, streaming straight from the paddock to a cramped bar in town. You tag along, shoulder to shoulder with mechanics and engineers who are already ordering trays of Aperol spritzes. Isack doesn’t leave your side once, a steady shadow at your elbow, and you can feel the warmth of his arm every time he leans in to say something over the music.
The vibe is celebratory, chaotic, and just tipsy enough to make you reckless. Which is how you get the idea.
You catch the eye of a waiter—tall, dark hair slicked back, tray balanced on one palm like he was born to carry glassware—and when he approaches, you turn the full wattage of your smile on him. “So,” you purr, fiddling with the straw of your drink, “do you get off at the same time every night, or do you make exceptions?”
He blinks, looks at you for approximately half a second and then his gaze slides right past you. To Isack. His eyes brighten. “You’re Hadjar, right? The rookie? Big fan, bro.”
Your soul leaves your body.
Isack doesn’t help. In fact, he laughs so hard he has to set his drink down, clutching his stomach as the waiter peppers him with questions about racing in Saudi, about what it’s like driving against Max Verstappen. You’re left holding your humiliation like a handbag you can’t put down.
When the waiter finally drifts off, promising to bring Isack another round ‘on the house,’ you bury your face in your hands. “I’m never showing my face in public again,” you groan.
Isack, still grinning like a cat who’s found cream, nudges your shoulder. “Don’t worry. You were very convincing.”
“Convincing at what? Getting rejected in record time?”
“At making me laugh,” he says, and you feel the words sink warm and heavy in your chest. Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.
You’re still pouting when Isack tugs you off your barstool, threading his fingers through yours with casual confidence. “Come on,” he says, already pulling you toward the dance floor where the music is low enough to sway but loud enough to cover your grumbling.
“I don’t dance,” you mutter, dragging your feet, though the way his grip tightens at your wrist betrays zero patience for your sulking.
“Good thing I do,” he shoots back, and before you can lodge another protest, you’re in the middle of a crowd, bass thrumming through your ribs, his hands settling on your waist with unearned ease.
You glare up at him. “This is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous,” he agrees, chuckling as he gently nudges you into a slow rhythm. His chest is warm against yours, his breath grazing your temple when he leans down. “But you’ll thank me when you stop stepping on my shoes.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t bring stilettos.”
“I’d survive.” He dips his head lower, his voice a curl of smoke under the music, meant for you alone. “But listen. Don’t do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Flirt with someone else,” he says easily, though there’s an amused edge glinting beneath the words. “I’m a greedy man, mon amour. I don’t like to share.”
Your breath catches—traitorously, humiliatingly—and you scramble for a comeback that doesn’t exist. He’s still holding you close, still moving you to the beat, and the only thing you can manage is a weak, “That sounds like a you problem.”
“Maybe,” he says, smiling against your hair. “But it’s still your solution.”
RACE 04: MONACO GRAND PRIX.
Isack has never dated someone high maintenance before, mostly because he’s never really dated at all—but apparently, that’s the price of playing chicken with a bet.
You’re mercurial in a way he can’t quite keep up with. One day you’re warm, sweet, melting against him when he FaceTimes you from his hotel room. The next, you’re cold, dry, firing off texts like bullets: single-word replies, snappy quips, leaving him hanging on read until he’s grinding his teeth. In person, it’s worse. You flit between coy smiles and barbed teasing, the kind that makes him want to kiss you and strangle you in the same breath.
Isack tells himself it’s fine. It’s fine. He signed up for this. Ten races. He can win anything, even love. Right?
Monaco looms on the calendar, and the rookies turn Isack’s hotel suite into their unofficial lounge. Gabi’s scrolling through Instagram, Franco’s sprawled on the couch with a protein bar, Kimi’s half-asleep against the window, and Ollie’s bouncing like a terrier with a new toy. And, of course, they’re all pouncing on him.
“Bro, she’s running circles around you,” Ollie says, laughing as he scrolls through Twitter. “Half the grid thinks you’re whipped already.”
“I’m not whipped,” Isack huffs, tugging his cap lower over his face. “I’m in control.”
“In control?” Gabi grins without looking up from his phone. “She had you carrying her bag through the paddock like a personal assistant.”
Franco lifts a brow, chewing lazily. “And smiling about it.”
Kimi cracks one eye open. “Didn’t she also steal your jacket in Imola? You didn’t even complain.”
“That’s not—” Isack starts, but they’re already cackling, voices overlapping like jackals. He throws up his hands. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got this. I can hold her down. You’ll see.”
Ollie snorts. “We’ll believe it when she stops making you look like her intern.”
Isack clenches his jaw, but inside, a flicker of competitiveness flares. Bet or not, there’s no way he’s losing to the rookies.
And, really, Isack had every reason to be floating after Monaco. P6, points in the bag, champagne haze still fizzing in his ears. Instead, he’s hunched in a VCARB folding chair with his phone pressed to his cheek, trying not to grin too hard at your face pixelated on his screen.
“Congrats, superstar,” you say, as though he hasn’t just wrestled the car through a street circuit where the walls kiss back. “See? I told you you’d do well.”
For a moment, it’s normal. Sweet, even. Your voice is soft around the edges, no dramatic flair, no performance. Just you, sounding like you’re proud of him. Isack lets himself relax into it, head tipping against the hospitality tent wall. Maybe you’re not always chaos incarnate. Maybe this whole thing could—
The notification pings before he can finish that thought. Instagram. He swipes down without thinking, and your newest story smacks him right between the eyes.
It’s a photo. Not even a flattering one. He’s mid-bite into a burger from a date two weeks ago, profile caught in bad restaurant lighting, looking more like a kid on a school trip than an F1 driver. Captioned with a flourish: told you i’m his good luck charm. you’re welcome for the p6, boys.
He stares. Then groans.
“You didn’t,” he mutters into the phone.
“I did,” you say, delighted. “And it’s doing numbers. Your fans are obsessed with me. They should be, honestly. I’m hilarious.”
Isack fights back a disbelieving laugh. “You really couldn’t just… say congrats like a normal person?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” You bat your lashes through the screen, perfectly insufferable. “Besides, now the entire world knows you owe me dinner. Again.”
He tries to look exasperated, but the corners of his mouth betray him, curling upward in a wry smile. Of course you’d make his best race of the season about you.
The next morning, Isack finds himself shoved in front of a ring light. The interviewer—a hyperactive Monagesque TikToker with glossy hair and a microphone bedazzled in rhinestones—grins like she’s just been handed his diary.
“So, Isack,” she chirps, already holding up her phone with your Instagram story queued up, “care to explain this? Your so-called ‘good luck charm’?”
His jaw tightens for a moment, the flicker of last night’s irritation threatening to resurface. But then he exhales. He’d had time to think. To cool down. To remind himself of the bet, of the ridiculous way you’ve sunk claws into his routine.
“I agree with her,” he says easily, his accent curling around the words. “She’s to thank. That’s my motivation out there. If she wants to claim the P6, she can have it. I’ll get her more.”
The TikToker claps a hand to her chest, squealing, already mentally editing the clip for maximum virality. The questions pivot, the tone switches, and Isack answers with calm, practiced charm. He doesn’t notice how often the interviewer leans in, doesn’t register the camera’s love affair with his profile. He’s thinking only of how smug you’ll be when you see this.
Except smug isn’t what he gets.
His phone buzzes relentlessly the moment he leaves the paddock. Your texts flood in like an ambush.
enjoyed the attention?
didn’t know you were auditioning for mr. suave.
she was practically sitting in your lap. maybe she’s your real good luck charm.
Isack stares at the screen, incredulous. He’d barely shifted in his chair. He hadn’t touched her, hadn’t even smiled more than necessary. Yet here you are, reading phantom sins into pixels.
He scrubs a hand down his face, half-laughing, half-exasperated. High maintenance. There’s no other word for it. The thought doesn’t bother him the way it should. Instead, it calcifies into something like resolve.
You may be high maintenance, but he can maintain you.
RACE 05: SPANISH GRAND PRIX.
Isack’s first mistake is inviting you to a Pierre Gasly–sponsored Champions League finals watch party. A rookie move, really. The kind of thing you don’t hesitate to exploit.
You make a show of canceling plans, fingers flying across your phone as if you’re sacrificing something noble. Andie doesn’t even blink before granting you leave under the convenient excuse of your assignment. As if your career hinges on a bunch of overpaid footballers and Pierre’s ability to pour champagne with flair. Still, you take it, because apparently you’re desperate now. Desperate enough to clear a Saturday night just to keep testing Isack Hadjar’s limits.
The boy has limits, you’re sure of it, but for some reason you haven’t managed to find them. Your sniping? He grins. Your dramatics? He smirks. Your cutting remarks designed to knock him off balance? He leans right into them, tossing the ball back harder, faster, until you’re the one fumbling.
It’s maddening. You’ve tried being clingy, aloof, obnoxiously WAG-coded, even borderline flirty with others. Isack hasn’t cracked. He hasn’t even flinched.
So now you’re pulling your trump card: public chaos. Pierre’s watch party is the perfect environment to turn the heat up. You’re already picturing the headlines. The rookie, cornered by his self-declared girlfriend. The rookie, rattled at last.
Except, if the past few weeks have proven anything, it’s that Isack might be un-rattleable. Which is unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable.
You strut into the watch party in a PSG jersey, armed with a smile that borders on villainous and a plan that hinges on turning the night into a performance. When Isack spots you across the room, his whole face lights up like you’re the one holding the trophy.
“Mon amour,” he greets, making room for you on the couch. “You look good in my team’s colors.”
You smile at him, the perfect image of innocence. His first mistake was bringing you to this watch party; his second was underestimating your commitment to mischief.
The living room of Pierre’s flat is buzzing with chatter, glasses clinking, shirts and scarves declaring allegiance to PSG blue. You’ve got a death grip on Isack’s arm, half for show, half because the energy in the room feels like it could swallow you whole if you let go. He doesn’t notice your theatrics. He’s already locked in, eyes glued to the screen, jaw tight with concentration.
“You’re really gonna ignore me for ninety minutes?” you murmur, but he doesn’t blink, doesn’t even twitch.
That’s when you decide to get the ball rolling.
“I’m thirsty,” you announce, as if your dehydration is a moral emergency.
“Mhm,” he says, leaning forward when PSG makes a break. “In a minute.”
The audacity.
You pout, leaning back dramatically, tilting your head like a neglected damsel. “Fine. I’ll get it myself.” You even add a little sniff, subtle as a hammer.
That gets him. His head whips toward you, and the panic in his eyes is almost laughable. “No, no, wait—I’ll get it.”
He’s already standing, fumbling for his phone so he can check the time, torn between the kitchen and the game. “You don’t have to,” you start sweetly, but he’s gone, muttering something about sparkling or still.
You bask in your small, glittering victory as he disappears into the kitchen, missing the eruption of cheers around you. On screen, Désiré Doué threads a pass that Achraf Hakimi rifles into the net. PSG scores. The room explodes. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Isack reemerge, your drink trembling in his hands, looking utterly betrayed by life.
He stares at the TV in horror, then back at you, realization dawning. “You made me miss the first goal of the game?!”
You beam. “There’ll be more goals,” you assure him, though you don’t add that he’s unlikely to see any of them.
PSG are thrashing Inter Milan, and you’re running your own private little war against his attention span. Every time the crowd surges, every time the stadium crackles through the TV with that molten roar of a goal, you’re in his ear with another demand.
“Isack,” you stage-whisper as Doué charges toward the box. “This Coke tastes flat. Can you swap it for Sprite?”
He huffs, mutters something in French that sounds like a prayer for patience, but he goes. By the time he gets back, the replay is already rolling.
Later, when Kvaratskhelia’s sprinting down the wing, you tilt your head into his shoulder, voice syrupy-sweet. “Do you think they’ve got pistachios here? Not the salted ones, the roasted honey kind.”
Another sigh, another missed eruption from the crowd. You pretend not to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.
By the fourth goal, you’ve upgraded to whispering at him like it’s a life-or-death situation. “The ice cubes melted. It’s too watery. Can you… you know.”
“Mon dieu,” he mutters, but he obeys, because apparently the match isn’t the only thing he’s committed to.
Mayulu’s fifth slips into the net. The room rattles with celebration. You glance back to the screen just in time to catch the replay: a perfect strike, history being written, the kind of thing Isack will probably have tattooed in his memory forever. Except he wasn’t there to see it.
He returns, empty-handed this time, shoulders stiff, eyes flat with disbelief. The celebration around you is wild, but he claps like he’s on autopilot, the picture of a man in mourning.
You reach up, tilt his chin, and plant a quick kiss on his cheek, sugar and smoke clinging to the gesture. “Good match,” you say brightly.
“Yeah,” he says through gritted teeth. “The absolute best.”
RACE 06: CANADIAN GRAND PRIX.
By the time the Canadian Grand Prix weekend rolls around, Isack is braced for another storm. Another pointed sulk, another public ambush, another one of your little sabotage games that his rookie friends find hilarious. He tells himself he’s strong enough to withstand it, that he’s French-Algerian, resilient, and wholly immune. But even he’s starting to wonder how many more self-inflicted disasters his sanity can hold.
Then you tilt the axis of his weekend. Out of nowhere, you tell him you want to treat him to a movie. Not just any movie. The newest Demon Slayer film.
It’s almost insulting how easy it is for him to perk up at that. But he does. Because for once, you don’t look like you’re plotting. You look like you’re extending an olive branch wrapped in anime.
The cinema is dark and chilled, the buttery smell of popcorn drifting like an unholy mix with the sour bite of soda syrup. Isack sinks into the seat, eyes trained on the screen’s flashing colors, but he feels the true sensory overload when you shift into him. Your shoulder presses into his, your knee brushing his thigh. He thinks he’s imagining it until you properly lean in, curling into his side as if he’s your personal armrest.
It’s crazy how much this simple gesture buoys him. The movie’s violent, fantastical, all swords and demons and flames, but the steady weight of you against him feels like something quieter, grounding. He chews on the thought that maybe you feel guilty about the watch party, that maybe this is your version of an apology. He hates how much he likes that idea.
Isack doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare breathe too hard in case you shift away. For once, he’s not thinking about the bet, or the points, or how the rookies will rip him apart if they find out about this. He’s just a guy in a cinema, heart hammering against his ribs, praying you don’t notice how good it feels to have you there.
It starts fine. Better than fine, actually. Isack thinks for a brief, blissful moment that he’s won: you’re pressed against his side, eyes wide, munching popcorn. He lets himself relax, shoulders sinking into the seat as animated swords clash across the screen.
Then you open your mouth.
“Why does the blond one look like he’s always crying?”
Isack shifts, eyes still glued to the movie. “That’s Zenitsu. He’s complicated,” he answers simply, pitching his voice low so as to not disturb anyone.
Two minutes later: “Wait, is that his actual hair or did he bleach it?”
“Actual hair,” Isack mutters. He knows because he read the manga. Twice.
By the time you whisper, “Do you think I’d look good with a katana?” he can feel the people two rows behind glaring holes through the back of his head. Still, he answers, “Yes. Terrifying, but good.”
The inevitable happens around the halfway mark, when you’ve started asking Isack whether he likes this anime or Hunter x Hunter more. A man in the row in front swivels in his seat, face flushed with irritation, and hisses, “Man, can you tell your girlfriend to shut up? Some of us actually came here to watch the film.”
Isack bristles, protective, before his PR training kicks in. “Sorry, we’ll be quiet.”
You have less delicadeza, leaning forward like you’re about to duel the guy in the cinema aisle. “My boyfriend can easily beat you up,” you snipe.
Isack freezes. Boyfriend. The word rings in his ears. He still really does like it when you say it out loud, staking that little claim over him. In this context, though, he’s staring at the very large man whose jaw just clenched like a steel trap. “Excuse me?” the stranger snarls, and Isack thinks he sees his entire life flash before his eyes.
That’s how Isack finds himself outside, in the humid Montreal night, after the staff politely but firmly kicked them both out. He’s still trying to explain, to deescalate, to remind everyone he didn’t want a fight, when the stranger’s fist connects with his face.
White light bursts behind his eyes, and he stumbles back, clutching his cheek. He hears you gasp and all he can think, through the throb in his jaw, is that his MMA coach would be disappointed he didn’t see that coming.
Isack hits the floor hard enough to see stars, the throb in his cheekbone blooming fast. The stranger stomps away, muttering curses, but he barely notices—because suddenly you’re crouched over him, pulling him up with both hands, frantic in your fussing.
“Isack, are you okay? Oh my God, are you—” You’re cupping his jaw as if you’re a field medic, scanning him like you might diagnose a concussion by sheer panic alone.
He lets out a low grunt, eyes half-closed, head tilted just enough to press against you. Okay, this was definitely not the point of anything, but Isack was still just a man.
His lips curl, even with the swelling already coming in. “Perfect,” he mumbles into your chest, voice thick with pain and contentment. “Actually perfect.”
There’s a pause. You blink down at him, realization dawning in your expression. Then your palm smacks lightly against his shoulder. “Pervert,” you scold, though the corner of your mouth is already twitching.
He chuckles, the sound muffled into you, equal parts pain and triumph. The absurdity of it—his aching face, your genuine worry, the fact that he’s managed to make it feel like some kind of victory—spools between you until you’re both laughing, bent over on the sticky cinema floor like it’s the most natural place in the world.
Isack isn’t all that mad he missed the movie.
RACE 07: AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX.
Your grand entrance into Austria isn’t the grid, the paddock, or even the garage. It’s Isack’s driver’s room, which you’ve managed to slip into like some kind of Formula 1 bandit. By the time he finally trudges back in, P12 stamped all over his slumped shoulders, the place doesn’t look like his sterile little hideout anymore. It looks like… well, you.
There’s your hoodie thrown across the back of his chair like it owns the joint. Your tote bag sits half-open on the floor, spilling lip balm, receipts, and a detangling hairbrush. His sad single water bottle has been replaced by an entire hydration lineup: sparkling, flavored, and that bougie mineral water you claim tastes different even though he swears it doesn’t. The faint smell of your perfume clings to the air, cozy and cloying, along with all the other trinkets you’ve decorated his space with.
He stops in the doorway, helmet still in one hand, sweat-streaked hair falling into his eyes. He looks around slowly, like he’s not sure if he’s hallucinating from exhaustion or if you’ve just committed light trespassing.
“Surprise!” you say, throwing your arms out as if you’ve just remodeled the Louvre. “Do you love it, or do you love it?”
Isack’s clearly too tired to process the full impact of this domestic invasion. His eyes flick from the hoodie to the tote to the water bottles, then back to you, his mouth twisting as if he can’t decide between smiling or filing a restraining order.
“You redecorated,” he says flatly.
“Made it cozy,” you correct, plopping down onto his couch like a queen on her throne. “You deserve a space that feels warm and inviting, not like a hospital waiting room.”
He drops his helmet onto the table, rubbing his temples, but he doesn’t push you out. If anything, he’s bracing himself for whatever’s next. Which is perfect, because you’re practically vibrating with anticipation.
“I know you’re tired,” you say, patting the seat next to you. “But I saved the best for last. One more surprise.”
His eyes close briefly as if he’s weighing every life choice that led him here, before he drags himself over and sits down, shoulders heavy, patience thinner than his P12 finish. “God help me,” he mutters. “What did you do?”
The reveal is dramatic, obviously. You reach into Isack’s closet with all the flourish of a magician about to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Except instead of a rabbit, it’s a potted plant. A leafy, stubborn little thing that looks wildly out of place among his neatly folded team gear and Hugo branded polos.
You beam. “Ta-da! Our love fern.”
Isack stares at it, then at you, like maybe if he does it enough times, the situation will reset itself. “That’s… a plant,” he says.
“Not just a plant,” you correct, holding it out like a sacred relic. “It’s our plant. Symbol of our blossoming relationship. You take care of this, we take care of us. Very simple.”
Isack exhales. He looks like he just aged three years in the span of ten seconds. “You do realize I barely have time to keep myself alive, right?” he says. “I’m flying to three different continents in a month. You want me to babysit a fern?”
Your lower lip trembles. Textbook crocodile tears deployment. “So… you don’t care if our love withers away?”
His eyes widen. “That is not what I said.”
You clutch the pot to your chest, hunching over it. “Guess I’ll just raise it alone,” you sniffle. “Like some single mother in the suburbs, abandoned by her race car-driving partner who couldn’t be bothered to water our child.”
Isack groans, throwing his head back, but there’s the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth that betrays him. “You are clinically insane,” he exhales.
“And yet,” you say sweetly, placing the fern on his desk, “you agreed to this relationship. Which means you agreed to the fern. Congratulations, papa. It’s a boy.”
You keep it up, ramping up the theatrics because that’s what you do best. Whining about the humidity, fussing over the lack of scented candles in his driver’s room, and even suggesting that the love fern would benefit from a motivational playlist. Isack just slumps against the back of the chair, lids heavy, looking like he’s two minutes away from passing out right there in his sweaty race suit.
The irritation you hope for never comes. Instead, there’s just silence. Slow, dragging, heavy. You realize he isn’t tuning you out; he’s just too drained to fight back. That alone makes you pause. You’re good at many things, but kicking a man while he’s down? Not really your brand.
So you ease off.
You shut your mouth about the fern, about candles, about anything that might require energy. You kick your shoes off and curl up next to him, deliberately un-annoying for once. It’s almost suspicious how normal it feels—like slipping into someone else’s skin.
“Are you hungry?” you ask, delicate in a way that is decisively not pretend.
Isack hums a quiet ‘mhm’. He can’t seem to muster much more.
“I can get you food from hospitality,” you offer. “What do you want? No—don’t answer that. No mental load. How does a sandwich sound?”
There’s no respond for a minute, not until Isack moves. Not dramatically, not with some grand romantic gesture, but with a subtle lean that brings his mouth to your shoulder. A small, grateful kiss. He mumbles a hushed “thank you” against your skin, before resting his weary head there.
You freeze, not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s the opposite. It’s gentle. Intimate. Too real. You feel like the worst kind of fraud, because you were just seconds away from running the bit into the ground. Instead, you’ve stumbled into actual tenderness, and now Isack is falling asleep on your shoulder. So full of trust and something that looks dangerously like love.
You don’t say anything about the guilt that knots in your chest. You just rest your head lightly against his, let the moment sit between you, and pretend like you’re exactly what he thinks you are.
RACE 08: BRITISH GRAND PRIX.
Isack is halfway through bragging when the knock comes. He’s stretched out on the sofa, controller in hand, talking big about how he’s practically at the finish line with this bet.
Ten races. Just a handful left, and then he can cash in on his bragging rights forever. Franco is groaning into a pillow, Kimi is rolling his eyes, Ollie is smirking, and Gabi’s heading for the door because he drew the short straw.
The Airbnb smells like takeout boxes and teenage-boy deodorant, which is fitting because that’s exactly what it is: rookies pretending they aren’t grown men with publicists breathing down their necks. Controllers are strewn across the coffee table. The TV is blaring the main menu theme of some racing game they’ve been hyping up all night. Isack is ready to wipe the floor with them, especially Ollie, who’s been annoyingly self-assured about his skills.
“Mate, you don’t get to call it early,” Kimi says, biting into a slice. “You haven’t even survived Silverstone yet.”
“I’m not surviving, I’m thriving,” Isack shoots back, flicking his hair out of his eyes. “She’s basically—”
And then Gabi opens the door.
The rookies’ Airbnb suddenly feels too small, too loud, too exposed. Because standing there—cheerful, composed, and very much not supposed to be—is you.
There’s a beat where everyone stares, pizza mid-bite, controllers halfway to hands. Gabi blinks twice like he’s hallucinating. “Uh. Hi?”
You smile, stepping in like you own the place. “Hi! I brought snacks.”
You hold up a paper bag like it’s some kind of peace treaty, and the room instantly fractures into chaos. Franco is elbowing Ollie in the ribs, muttering oh my god, Kimi is choking on cheese, and Isack… Isack is just frozen.
Isack fumbles with the controller, suddenly hyperaware of four pairs of eyes drilling into him. The TV menu music loops, obnoxiously upbeat. You beam at him like this is all part of your plan.
“Hi, boyfriend,” you say, voice lilting, deliberate. “Miss me?”
Franco falls off the sofa laughing. Ollie trills, “This is better than Drive to Survive.”
And Isack? Isack does what he’s been doing since the start of this bet—he commits. He sits up straighter, grins like it’s all under control, and says, “Of course I did.”
The rookies cheer. Traitors, every one of them. Franco is already digging into your bag like a raccoon; Ollie’s beaming, Kimi’s mumbling thanks for the snacks, and Gabi gives Isack a look that screams, she’s your problem, mate.
Isack rubs a hand over his face, praying you’ll stick to the snacks and leave. But you don’t. You’re in their kitchen, bossing everyone around like the Airbnb is your second home. You’re teasing Ollie about his ‘baby face,’ high-fiving Franco when he lands a cheap shot in the game, and making Kimi blush so hard he has to excuse himself to grab more soda. Meanwhile, Isack is sinking lower and lower on the couch, half-expecting the earth to swallow him whole.
“Isack, you’re awfully quiet,” you call out, perched on the arm of his chair, shoving a handful of popcorn in your mouth. “Is it because you don’t want the boys to know how clingy you get? Or because you’re embarrassed I’m better at FIFA than you?”
The room erupts. Isack wants to throw the controller through the TV.
You wander over to his open suitcase in the corner. He realizes too late what’s sticking out of it: a green plastic pot, bent and sad-looking, with the limp body of your so-called love fern. The poor thing looks like it died days ago.
“Isack.” Your voice slices through the noise. “What is this?”
He tries for casual when the room goes silent. “It’s… a plant,” he says helplessly.
“A dead plant,” you correct, holding it up like evidence in a murder trial. “Our love fern. Our child. And you—” Your voice rises, fury dripping with theatrical heartbreak, “—you shoved it in your luggage like a pair of socks? You didn’t water it. You didn’t care for it. You don’t care about us.”
The rookies are frozen. Franco looks like he wants to crawl under the table. Gabi bites his fist to keep from laughing.
“Come on, it’s just a fern,” Isack mutters, but even as he says it, he knows it’s the wrong play.
Your eyes flash. “Just a fern? Maybe we should just break up then, since you obviously don’t give a shit about our relationship or our baby!”
With that, you storm out, the wilted fern clutched dramatically to your chest. The door slams. Ollie pipes up, voice soft but gleeful: “Mate… you killed your kid.”
Isack buries his face in his hands, wishing the fern had taken him with it.
He starts pacing, running his hands through his hair like he’s trying to rip the frustration out strand by strand. “She’s insane. Actually insane,” he rambles. “Who cries over a plant? A plant that she smuggled into my driver’s room like some kind of eco-terrorist? And then calls it our child? No, really, who does that?”
Franco flops onto the couch, grinning. “Thought you had it in the bag, man. Guess not.”
Ollie smirks, controller in hand. “Yeah, mate, we were all placing bets on how long you’d last. Honestly thought you’d cruise to ten races easy.”
Isack throws his hands up. “I was! I was cruising! Then she starts screaming about breaking up because of some stupid fern—”
“It’s not just a fern, Isack,” Kimi cuts in, voice flat, eyes glued to his phone. “It’s your child. Symbol of your relationship. Maybe you need couples’ therapy.”
The room explodes with laughter. Isack stops dead, blinking like he’s just been slapped. Then, in a sudden burst of panic, he bolts for the door. “Screw you guys,” he hollers, “I’m not losing her over a fern!”
He barrels out into the night, heart hammering. He finds you a few steps away, clutching the drooping plant. Your face is still wet, your glare sharpening into a weapon the second you saw him.
“Don’t even start, Hadjar,” you snap. “We’re done. Over. Finished. May the fern rest in peace.
Without thinking, he blurts, “We’ll go to couples’ therapy. You, me, the fern—whatever it takes.”
You blink at him, surprised, the anger faltering before you can shutter your expression back behind rage. “Couples’ therapy?” you repeat, and the mere fact that you’re not tossing him aside is already half a win. An emotional P11.
“Yes,” he says, rushing closer, catching your hand before you can pull away. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, desperate. “You pick the therapist. I’ll go. Just… don’t break up with me over a house plant, please.”
For a long second, you study him like you can’t quite believe it. Then your mouth quirks into something dangerously close to a smile. “Fine. But I’m choosing the therapist.”
“Deal,” Isack breathes, relief flooding his chest as he kisses your knuckles again. Behind him, he swears he can hear the rookies cheering through the thin walls.
Who knew Isack Hadjar was capable of groveling?
RACE 09: BELGIAN GRAND PRIX.
You’re genuinely confused what the hell is wrong with Isack.
Any sane person would have dumped your crazy self three meltdowns ago, and yet here he is, clinging on like he’s training for some endurance sport you didn’t know existed. It’s irritating, unsettling, and—fine—more than a little flattering.
That’s how Kate gets roped in. You ask her, very winsomly, to pose as a couples’ therapist. She gives you that look that says, You’re deranged, but I’m in, and suddenly you’ve booked a fake appointment with Dr. McConaughey, the best couples’ therapist for clients below the ages of 25.
Now, you and Isack are both sitting in Kate’s living room, which she has aggressively redecorated with candles and an IKEA plant for ambiance. She’s perched on a chair like she’s desperate to keep her license (which, technically, she doesn’t even have). Isack sits beside you on the couch, hands clasped like a schoolboy about to confess to stealing chalk.
Kate clears her throat in her best serious voice. “So, tell me about your relationship.”
You roll your eyes. “Where do I start?” you sigh. “He’s negligent. He crushed our love fern. That’s basically plant homicide.”
Isack clears his throat. “It was an accident,” he says. “You put it in my luggage like it was indestructible.”
“Love is supposed to be indestructible,” you fire back, gesturing dramatically. “And yet here we are, surrounded by the ashes of our metaphorical greenery.”
Kate disguises a laugh with a cough. Barely. “Interesting. And, Isack, how do you feel about being accused of plant homicide?”
“Like I should get a new girlfriend,” he mutters, then immediately backpedals when you snap your head toward him. “I mean—a new plant! A new plant. Definitely a new plant.”
Kate scribbles something fake on her notepad. Probably a doodle of a heart. “I think what you two need is a reset,” she declares, using a soothing TikTok therapist voice. “A getaway. Somewhere you can spend uninterrupted time together before the Belgian Grand Prix.”
You shoot her a death glare sharp enough to cut glass. That was not the script. Kate was supposed to point out Isack’s flaws, maybe call you out for some of your own imperfections. Encourage a breakup. You start, “Kate—”
“That’s Doctor McConaughey, please.”
“Doc,” you grit out. “I don’t think that’s is a good idea.”
But Isack lights up like someone just offered him free tires. “That’s actually a great idea,” he says. “We can go to my parents’ place for the weekend.”
Your glare deepens, silently screaming betrayal. Kate beams like she’s just solved world hunger.
Isack takes your hand, kisses your knuckles like some hopeless romantic, and says, “It’s settled. You’ll meet my parents.”
You’re stuck somewhere between horror, disbelief, and the creeping suspicion that this fake therapy scam just spectacularly backfired. “Anyway,” Kate says, just to add insult to injury. “That’ll be 150 euro for the hour. Should we do cash or card, Mr. Hadjar?”
There’s some satisfaction in Isack paling at that.
You tell yourself you can handle the weekend. You’ve survived worse—like being booed at karaoke night. This, though, feels like a new circle of hell disguised in soft lighting and freshly baked bread.
His father, Yassine, answers the door, tall and broad-shouldered, with a smile that could thaw glaciers. Randa sweeps you in with a kiss on both cheeks, talking a mile a minute in French that you mostly guess at. Something about you being too skinny, something about you being bienvenue. Her warmth is relentless, a blanket you didn’t ask for but are now wrapped in anyway.
Yassine insists on taking your bag even though Isack already has it slung over his shoulder. “Sit, sit,” Randa urges, gesturing toward the couch. “You must be hungry. I’ve made couscous, and don’t argue with me—it’s ready.”
You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the way your shoes squeak against the tile, the way you don’t know whether to double-kiss or triple-kiss, the way your laugh sounds about ten decibels too loud in their living room.
Isack is basking. Absolutely basking. He’s in his element here, relaxed and boyish, letting his mother pinch his cheek, letting his father clap him on the back. His eyes shine like he’s home, and when he glances at you, they soften even more. Which should be comforting. It should be reassuring. Instead, it feels like salt in the wound, because you know you don’t deserve any of it.
His sister is missing in action, buried under exams at uni, but she’s sent along a cheerful voice note that Randa insists on playing at full volume while you sit at the dining table, pretending to belong. Her voice is bright and teasing, and you can’t help imagining what she’d say if she were here in person. Probably something like, Really, Isack? Her?
You’re smiling, laughing at the right moments, nodding when you’re supposed to, but inside, your stomach is a lead weight. This family is too warm, too welcoming, too everything. Meanwhile, you’re sitting there like a fraud wrapped in a borrowed sweater, wondering how long it will take before they realize you don’t deserve their son.
“You must tell me how you survive him. He leaves socks everywhere. And the fridge? Always empty,” Randa tells you.
“Lies,” Isack protests. “Half-empty at most.”
Yassine chuckles, reaching for the remote to lower the background music. “We are glad you are here. Family is important. You should feel at home.”
And that’s the problem. You do. You feel at home in a house you have no right to claim, with people who don’t know they’ve seated an actress at their table.
“Merci,” you say softly, your accent stumbling, and Randa smiles so warmly it feels like forgiveness.
Isack bumps your shoulder, whispers, just for you. “See? They already like you.”
You wish they didn’t. You really, really wish they didn’t.
Once the dishes have been done and you’re given time to explore the house, Isack is the one who gives you a tour. He pushes open a door at the end of the hall, gesturing like a maître d’ at some absurdly fancy hotel. “Voilà. Guest quarters.”
The room is perfectly neutral: white bedding, folded towels, a soft lamp in the corner. Cozy, but you wrinkle your nose anyway. “So this is where you banish all your victims,” you tease.
He shoots you a look. “Guests.”
“Mm. Same thing.” You flop onto the bed dramatically, arms spread. “Not bad. Better than most Airbnbs I’ve stayed in.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Isack says, tugging at your ankle until you sit back up. “You haven’t seen the real attraction.”
He takes you down the hall again and nudges open another door. His childhood bedroom. You can’t help but grin the second you step inside.
The room is a time capsule. Posters of Lightning McQueen and Alain Prost plaster the walls. Die-cast cars line the shelves like an army at attention. On the desk: a neat cluster of old karting trophies, all glinting in the warm light.
“Oh my God,” you say, spinning slowly. “Look at all the Cars merchandise.”
Isack leans against his door frame, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Don’t start,” he warns.
“Oh, I’m absolutely starting. I mean—” You pick up a McQueen plush. “You slept with this guy. Don’t deny it.”
He snatches it back, cheeks tinged pink. “It’s called childhood nostalgia.”
“Sure. Sure.” You’re already moving to the desk, tracing a finger along the edge of a trophy. The plaque reads: Championnat de Karting, 2011. It’s small, scratched, clearly loved. You lean down to read it closer, your voice softer now, though still teasing. “Baby Isack, future world champion. So precious.”
He hovers behind you, hands shoved into his pockets, like he’s suddenly run out of things to do. His voice comes softer, almost lost under the creak of the old floorboards. “I’m happy you’re here.”
The words almost slip past you. You pretend not to hear, brushing at imaginary dust on the trophy instead. “You really need to polish these, you know. They’re a bit tragic.”
He smiles, relief flickering across his face, and reaches over to nudge your shoulder. “Tragic is you thinking you’re sleeping in the guest room tonight.”
The invitation shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. It seals your fate, though, enough that the day goes by in a blur and the highlight comes after you’ve all bid each other good night. You wait an inordinate amount of time, convincing yourself to just fall asleep in the Hadjar’s guest room, when you get three consecutive texts from Isack pleading for you to just do it.
You sneak down the hallway barefoot, your phone’s flashlight clutched tight, because God forbid you wake up his parents. The house is impossibly still, all warm wood and faint cooking smells lingering in the air. Every creak of the floor feels like an alarm. But when you ease his door open, Isack’s already half sitting up in bed, hair sticking up and a grin flashing quick as if he’s been waiting.
“Finally,” he whispers, and pats the space beside him.
You roll your eyes, whispering back, “You’re acting like I had to climb out a window to get here.”
“You basically did,” he shoots back, but his smile softens as you crawl in next to him, the mattress dipping under your weight.
For a moment, you just sit shoulder to shoulder, the intimacy of the dark pressing close. It occurs to you then that despite the months of being his so-called girlfriend, it’s all been public arm-linking, a handful of hugs, a few brushes of lips. Never this.
You shift closer, close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek. You kiss him firs.
It’s messy at the start—his surprise, your nerves—but then his hand finds your waist, steadying you. His lips move against yours, slow and tentative at first, then with a hunger that makes your pulse spike.
The bedsprings squeak and you both freeze, eyes darting toward the door. Nothing. You smother your laugh into his shoulder, and he squeezes your side, a warning and a dare at once.
When you go back in, the kiss is deeper, teeth catching, breaths quick. His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, not bold, just resting there, as if he’s testing the idea of touching you more. You press your palm against his chest, feeling the wild beat of his heart, and it matches yours exactly. It’s ridiculous, the two of you trying to be quiet while your mouths say otherwise.
At one point you pull back, whispering against his mouth, “We’re gonna get caught.”
He leans in again, his lips brushing yours as he mutters, “Worth it.”
You sneak under his covers, your knees brushing his as you settle against him. It starts innocent, just his lips on yours, slow and careful, the kind of kiss that builds instead of burns. But then his hand properly slips under the hem of your shirt, fingertips skating over your skin, and your body sparks awake. You tug him closer, your own hands roaming—shoulders, chest, down his sides—like you’re trying to memorize him by touch alone.
It’s clumsy and heady, the two of you fumbling like teenagers despite the months of stolen glances and snappy banter. When his mouth trails lower, your breath hitches; when his hand cups your breast, you gasp before biting back a laugh, muffling it against his neck.
His eyes flick to yours, dark with heat but soft around the edges, as though he’s asking without words if this is okay. He shifts, about to go further, and that’s when hesitation tugs you back.
You freeze, heart hammering, mind stuttering through reasons. This is wrong, you’re playing a part, he doesn’t deserve to be tangled in your mess. He notices instantly, retreating without complaint, pressing his forehead to yours.
“We can stop,” he whispers, and you know he means it. He would rather cut the night short than push a boundary.
Maybe that’s why it feels impossible to let go. Because for all your theatrics, he’s real. Gentle. Yours, if you want him. The thought terrifies you and yet, you still grab his wrist, pull him back down, and kiss him like you’re starving.
What follows isn’t graceful. It’s rushed, desperate, whispered into the hush of his childhood bedroom. You explore, you give, you take. It’s messy, breathless, the kind of closeness that blurs where one of you ends and the other begins.
You lose yourself in him, in the warmth of his skin and the weight of his body pressed to yours. “As much as I’d love to know how you sound, mon amour,” he grunts as he slides two fingers into your mouth, “I’d rather my parents don’t know I’m fucking my girlfriend.”
By the time you collapse together, panting and tangled, the world feels sharper, scarier, and also sweeter than you’ve ever let it be.
You wake up the next morning to the sharp rap of knuckles against Isack’s door. Your body jolts like you’ve been tasered, and his arm tightens instinctively around your waist. You’re still pressed against him, naked warm under the sheets, when his mother’s voice floats in, gentle and terrifying all at once: “Isack? Do you know where she is?”
Panic is a sprinting animal in your chest. You can practically see your reputation combusting in real time. You start to sit up, whispering, “I’m dead. We’re both dead. They’ll bury us in the garden.”
But Isack only calmly clears his throat and calls out, “She’s probably on a morning jog.”
A pause. Then the sound of footsteps retreating. The silence that follows is so loud you can hear both of your heartbeats. You slap his chest lightly. “A jog? Really?” you hiss. “That’s your cover story? I don’t even run.”
He grins at you, eyes half-lidded, hair a ridiculous mess. “Exactly. Which is why it’s believable. Who would suspect it?”
“One of these days, your schemes are going to get us caught.”
“Mm,” he hums, leaning over to kiss you. It’s soft, lazy, unbothered. “Exhibitionism.”
“Do you ever think before you speak?”
He bites back a laugh, kisses your cheek, and whispers into your skin, “I could probably go for one round before she comes knocking again.”
Your jaw drops. “You’re joking.”
His smirk says he’s not.
You roll your eyes dramatically, but then you swing your leg over and pin him down with all the authority you can muster. “If your mother walks in,” you warn, fingers tangling in his curls, “you’re explaining everything.”
He grins up at you, utterly unrepentant and entirely yours.
RACE 10: HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX.
Isack feels like the shittiest person alive, and it’s not because he finishes the Hungarian Grand Prix in eleventh place. Sure, eleventh is the most cursed number on the grid—so close to points, yet destined to rot just outside the spotlight—but that isn’t what’s twisting his stomach into knots. It’s you.
He’s convinced he’s in love with you, which feels like the cruelest kind of trap.
He brought you home to his parents, let you slip seamlessly into his family’s warmth, and then—like an idiot—he slept with you. That wasn’t supposed to happen, not with the dare hanging over his head, not with the knowledge that this whole thing began as a stupid competition. He’s pretty sure the only reason he’s still playing along isn’t because he wants to win, but because he doesn’t want to lose you.
It’s pathetic, he knows. The thought that he might actually be happy just having you around, even if it means living under the weight of a lie. He thinks he can manage it, as long as the truth never claws its way out. As long as you keep smiling at him like that.
You appear in his peripheral vision before he even realizes it, charging past the barricade with that reckless, unbothered confidence that somehow always makes security melt like butter. And then you’re in his arms, throwing yourself against him with a hug so tight it makes his breath stutter. You smell like lip gloss and cheap trackside fries, and he doesn’t care that he’s drenched in sweat and regret.
“Good job, champ,” you say brightly, muffled into his shoulder. “That’s the first half of the season done and dusted. Not bad at all.”
Not bad. He almost laughs at the understatement.
He wraps his arms around you anyway, holding you close enough that maybe you won’t notice how guilty he feels. If he squeezes hard enough, maybe it’ll bury the truth, keep it locked inside. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, not right now. Not when you’re here, congratulating him, acting like he hasn’t ruined both of you already.
He buries his face in your hair and mumbles something noncommittal, hoping you mistake it for exhaustion. Hoping you never hear the real words sitting unsaid on his tongue: I think I’m in love with you, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
Later, back in his hotel room, Isack feels like he’s barely holding it together in his crisp suit, tie knotted neat, hair actually behaving. He’s braced for the midseason party. One of those glittering, invite-only affairs where every team principal and sponsor lurks like a predator, and every rookie is expected to smile until their jaw aches. He tells himself it’s he can handle a little small talk and champagne. Easy.
Then you step out of the hotel bathroom, and his entire game plan combusts on sight.
The dress is yellow. Loud, shameless, satin that catches the light like it’s been engineered by Pirelli themselves. Halter, backless, slinky enough to make him forget how breathing works. Isack forgets every line he rehearsed, actually. Every name he needs to drop, every polite thing he was supposed to say tonight. All of it short-circuits as his gaze drags down your shoulders, spine, the way the fabric clings when you move.
“Holy shit,” he mutters, entirely reverent, entirely doomed.
You arch an eyebrow at him. “Too much?”
He shakes his head so quickly it’s borderline embarrassing. “Not enough.”
He’s across the room in a blink, arms wrapping around you from behind, palms splayed against bare skin he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch. You laugh, light and smug, and tilt your head when he buries his face against your neck.
“We don’t have to go,” he breathes into your skin, half begging, half bargaining. “We could stay here. Order room service. Watch something dumb. Have so much sex it ends up in the Guinness World Records. Literally anything but—”
You twist in his arms just enough to laugh up at him. “Oh no. You’re not skipping out on your big boy schmooze-fest. Besides”—you press your lips to the edge of his jaw, sharp and quick—“I’d hate to waste this dress.”
He groans, low and helpless, when your lipstick leaves a mark. You do it again, higher, then lower, as if you’re plotting a constellation across his collar. He doesn’t even protest. He tips his chin obligingly, letting you brand him. By the time you’re satisfied, the collar of his shirt looks less like designer tailoring and more like evidence.
“You’re insatiable,” he says, though his grin gives him away. He doesn’t even bother hiding the flush. “I’m going to wear these like medals.”
You pat his chest, smug. “Good boy.”
When you finally walk into that ballroom, hand looped casually through his arm, heads turn for all the wrong—or maybe very right—reasons. Isack feels the stares, the whispers, the weight of the entire motorsport circus watching. But all he can think about are your fingerprints on his shoulders and your lipstick on his collar, and for once, the pressure feels easy.
He keeps a hand on your back at first, reluctant to let you drift more than an arm’s length away. That’s until the rookies descend, already half a glass too deep. Franco claps him on the shoulder, grinning wide. “Holy shit, Isack, you didn’t say you were coming accessorized.” His eyes flick to the faint lipstick smudges on Isack’s collar, and the group howls.
Ollie leans in, mock-serious. “Can I buy one of those for myself?”
Isack’s ears go red. “Shut up,” he mutters, though he’s grinning despite himself.
You, meanwhile, are already slipping through the crowd, off to greet a cluster of fellow journalists. He tries not to watch you too openly, but his gaze keeps catching on the sway of your dress, the way you laugh easily in someone else’s company.
“Alright, alright,” Kimi announces, raising his half-full champagne glass. “I think we can all agree—Isack has won the bet.”
That pulls Isack back. “What?” His voice cracks sharper than he means, and the rookies laugh.
“You heard me,” Kimi says, eyebrows wagging. “Ten races, fake girlfriend, whatever. He’s survived, and more than that. Look at her.”
“Yeah,” Gabi cuts in, tilting his head toward you. “It’s not about surviving anymore. It’s the way she looks at you, bro. That’s not fake.”
For a second, Isack swears his stomach drops and flutters at the same time. He tries to laugh it off, but it sticks in his throat. “You’re drunk.”
“Maybe,” Ollie shrugs. “But we’re not wrong.”
And when Isack finally dares to glance your way, you’re already looking back at him across the room. Like the noise and the neon lights mean nothing, like it’s just the two of you standing there. His chest tightens. Butterflies, panic, something dangerously close to both.
You smile, all gentle and soft, and Isack—like a fool—hopes his friends are right about the way you look at him.
The night pulses on. Bass from the speakers thrums through the soles of Isack’s polished shoes as he weaves through the glittering crowd. Every nerve in his body is fixed on you. He’s got one hand already half-raised, ready to wave you down, when a voice cuts sharp at his side.
“Isack Hadjar?”
He swivels. Andie, your editor, stands there with a champagne flute, her smile just a touch too professional to be friendly. He summons his manners like armor. “Hi, yes. Nice to meet you. You’re Andie, right?”
“That’s me.” She extends her hand, and he shakes it, resisting the urge to crane his neck back toward you. “I just wanted to say your races this season have been impressive. Especially considering you’re a rookie. Big shoes to fill.”
“Thank you,” Isack replies, clipped but polite.
He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, restless, eyes darting past her shoulder to where you’re laughing with a circle of journalists. He aches to break away, but he’s not rude. Not yet.
Andie follows his gaze, and something in her expression softens into sly recognition. “You know,” she says, swirling the champagne, “it’s funny. I’ve been editing this new piece she’s been working on. A feature, sort of like a social experiment.”
Isack’s interest is piqued for a fraction of a second, if only because he’s started taking any chance to talk about you. “Oh?”
“It’s called ‘How to Lose a Driver in Ten Races.’” She says it like a joke, but her words lance through Isack. “Every race, she documents these… antics. The petty stuff, the chaos, all the things someone might do to drive a man away. Honestly, some of it made me laugh.”
The room seems to tilt. Isack stares at Andie, his chest gone hollow. Antics. Chaos. Ten races.
Andie goes on, oblivious. “The funny part is, reading it, I was convinced whoever this poor guy was, he’d be sprinting for the hills by now.” She chuckles, then catches the way his eyes are glued to you. The laughter drains from her face. Realization strikes fast, and her manicured hand flies to her mouth. “Oh.”
Isack’s lips part, but no words come. The bassline swells around him, merciless. Across the room, you tilt your head back to laugh at something, radiant, utterly unaware that your cover has been blown.
Andie stammers, “I—I should go. Excuse me.” She ducks away before he can even respond.
He stands frozen, his whole body caught between betrayal and something worse: the aching knowledge that every rookie joke, every chaotic stunt, every maddening moment suddenly makes a twisted kind of sense. The butterflies in his stomach curdle, sharp and sickly.
An article. Is that all Isack was to you?
Isack still hasn’t come back, and you’re starting to feel like a stray balloon caught against the ceiling, bobbing above everyone else’s heads. You hover near the champagne table, glass sweating against your palm, trying to smile like nothing is wrong. The music is thumping, the lights are too gold, and you’re very aware of the way your halter dress catches attention every time you move.
You’ve gotten good at acting normal—fake laugh, polite nod, sip of bubbles—but inside, your stomach won’t stop twisting.
Because you told Andie. You told her you couldn’t do it anymore. That you weren’t going to hand in the damn article.
Andie had leaned across the newsroom desk, her rings clicking against the wood, and insisted, all sharp-eyed and serious, that she wanted it on her desk anyway. “You spent company funds to go on these races, these ‘dates’,” she had said, putting quotation marks on the words. “A real journalist commits. You have until the end of next week.”
You’ve been walking around with the guilt clamped to your ribs ever since. Now here you are, waiting for Isack, like nothing is wrong. Like you aren’t the biggest fool in the room.
Ollie’s voice crashes into you, too loud, too bright. He barrels toward you, calling your name with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever after three vodka sodas, cheeks flushed pink. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere—everywhere!”
He reeks of liquor and cheap cologne and unbothered joy. “Ollie,” you say carefully. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
You flash two at his nose. “Seven,” he grins, then squints at your glass. “Oh, wait. None? Who cares, doesn’t matter.”
He claps you on the shoulder, nearly spilling your champagne. “I just wanted to ask—how’s your article shaping up?”
Your pulse stutters. You almost forgot you’d mentioned it to Ollie all those Fridays ago, when you’d asked him if he could hook you up with somebody from a different series. You open your mouth, about to bribe him for his silence, when Ollie leans in conspiratorially.
“Don’t tell Isack I told you this, but—” He hiccups, then lowers his voice to something almost theatrical. “The rookies? We made a bet. We said he couldn’t hold on to you for ten races. Thought he’d cave, but—” Ollie snickers into his drink. “Guess he proved us wrong, huh? He really stuck it out. Mad respect.”
The words slam into you, harder than the bass, harder than any of Andie’s insistence. A bet?
The floor tilts beneath your heels, the golden light suddenly garish, your champagne glass suddenly heavy as lead. Everything you thought you knew, every kiss, every fight, every whisper in the dark.
You feel like the walls of the party are closing in, like the world is crashing down around you, and Isack isn’t here to stop it.
“Sorry, Ollie,” you choke out. “Duty calls.”
You do the best thing you can think of doing. You flee, because the statement does partly ring true. Duty. That’s what this whole thing has been, right? An assignment.
For Isack, it’s been a bet. You think you’re going to be sick as you step out of the party. The hotel awning hums with neon and exhaust. Your heels click against wet pavement as you throw an arm out to flag a cab, the kind of cinematic exit that would look cooler if your stomach weren’t folding in on itself.
You just need out. Away from Ollie’s sloppy confessions and the rookies’ smug laughter and the unbearable, syrupy guilt that’s been congealing in your chest all night.
“Going somewhere?”
Isack’s voice cuts through before any taxi can slow. He steps out of the crowd, his suit jacket sharp, his expression sharper. The kiss marks you left on his collar are still there, except now they look like evidence at a crime scene.
You force a smile that dies almost instantly. “Don’t you have a pack of rookies to babysit?”
“No,” he says flatly, eyes narrowing. “I have questions. Like why Andie thinks she’s publishing an article called How to Lose a Driver in 10 Races.”
The words snap in the air. You swallow. The cabs keeps rolling post, taillights glowing like escape you can’t reach. You don’t even have the energy to ask Isack how he found out. Not when his own betrayal threads the space between you.
“Funny,” you spit back, your voice trembling despite your best effort, “because I’ve got questions too. Like why Ollie thought it was hilarious to tell me about a bet. Ten races? That’s what I was to you. A scoreboard.”
Isack’s mouth twists. “I was a guinea pig. Somebody you could test your theories on.”
“And I was… just a girl Ollie picked out in the paddock.” The words burn as they leave you, sour on your tongue.
“Yeah, you know what? Big deal.” He laughs once, bitter and sharp, shaking his head. “Hell, I’m sure now you can even use this as a little twist in your story.”
“That’s a good idea,” you say, arms crossing. You mean to sound mean, but it comes off as broken. “Maybe we should bet on it.”
The streetlight cuts shadows across Isack’s face. He looks devastated, underneath all that anger. “You know what? You did your job.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You wanted to lose a driver in ten races? Congratulations. You did it. You just lost him.”
Your chest tightens. You fire back, voice low as Isack spins on his heel.
“No, I didn’t, Hadjar.” He pauses, hearing you out as you say, “’Cause you can’t lose something you never had.”
Silence, broken only by the distant honk of a car horn.
You don’t wait to see his reaction. You pivot on your heel and start walking down the slick pavement, your pulse in your throat, each step heavier than the last. Behind you, you hear his footsteps turn the opposite direction, sharp and decisive, like he’s severing something invisible between you.
The night swallows both of you.
Isack doesn’t feel like Rookie of the Year material. He doesn’t feel like anything, really, except hollow.
The summer break stretches out before him like a gift he can’t unwrap, and not even the supposed perks taste good. Not the rookies dutifully cashing in their lost bet—each one of them, in their own way, putting his name forward in interviews and socials, hyping him as the next big thing. Not the warm air and family meals of his Morocco vacation, where he should feel grounded, safe. He sulks, lets the sun hit his skin, but none of it gets through.
It’s you. It’s only you. He knows it, and he hates it.
Once he’s back in Paris, he ignores the buzzing of his phone at first. Even when the buzzing becomes relentless, group chat chaos. Franco sends links, Gabi drops a laughing emoji, Kimi spams him with caps lock. Isack doesn’t open a single one.
He chucks his phone across the couch and tells himself he won’t look. Not today, not ever. If the world wants to keep talking about you, let it. He’ll sit this one out.
That is, until Ollie shows up at midnight. Like physically, in Isack’s family home, all grinning and sheepish with a folded printout in his hand. He waves it like a white flag.
“You’re going to want to read this,” Ollie declares.
Isack glares at him from the front step. “You stalked me across borders to bring me homework?”
Ollie walks past Isack, plops the pages on the counter, and smooths them out. “Not homework,” Ollie argues. “An article. Your article. Well, technically hers. But about you.”
The headline stares back at Isack, mocking. His teeth grind together. He doesn’t want to read it, doesn’t want the confirmation of what he already suspects—that he was an experiment, a punchline, just another story to file away.
But Ollie looks at him with this irritating mix of pity and expectation, and Isack can’t help it. His fingers close on the paper anyway. The room feels too quiet as his eyes begin to skim the words. His throat goes dry. He tells himself not to react, not to give Ollie the satisfaction.
Isack sits on the edge of the couch, the article trembling in his hands. Ollie’s already passed out on the armchair, smug with the satisfaction of having delivered the grenade and not waiting around for the blast. It’s just Isack, the paper, and his pulse doing laps at full throttle.
He skims the title—How to Lose a Driver in 10 Races. Exactly how he expected.
The first line opens with no-nonsense.
When I accepted the Chequered Flag's assignment, I thought it would be easy: understand the mysterious world of WAGs—how to become one, how to maintain the status, and, more importantly, how one might spectacularly lose it.
The article moves fast, race to race, your voice biting, sarcastic, way too precise.
Step one: Hard launch without consent. This forces maximum discomfort and public panic.
Isack presses his lips together, remembering that chaos week, the calls from his manager, and you with your smug little grin like it was the funniest joke in the world.
Step five (though this may work on all males, not only professional racecar drivers): Burden them during their team’s championship game. It’s astounding what a man will do when he’s trying to put his best foot forward.
Isack exhales through his nose. He’s still bitter about needing to rewatch the PSG championship goals on replay.
By mid-article, though, your tone shifts. The banter falters. The jabs blur into something softer, reading like a confessional.
I thought this experiment would be a study: manipulate, provoke, disrupt. But I’m not ashamed to be proven wrong. Not by the driver being perfect, but by him being good, patient, witty, genuinely kind. My plan to lose a driver had been sabotaged by the driver himself.
Isack rubs his eyes, but the words burn clearer. Then, the sharpest turn:
He wins. Not just races, not just my admiration. Something far greater. Rookie of the Year—not just on track, but in life.
His throat tightens. He forces himself to keep reading.
When I started this column, I wanted to commit all the silly dating faux pas that dooms our beloved WAGs. I hadn’t known I’d be making a huge mistake. Not the relationship, no. The mistake was losing what I think might have been the love of my life.
Signed with your name, in ink that might as well bleed.
Isack sits frozen, the weight of it pressing into his chest. Anger, disbelief, relief, ache. All of it collides in his bloodstream. He wanted to hate every word, but instead he feels his world shift, like you’ve managed to put him in parc fermé without touching a wheel.
He folds the paper carefully, as if mishandling it might undo something. Across the room, Ollie snores, blissfully ignorant. Isack leans back, staring at the ceiling, and finally lets himself whisper what he’d been holding in since Hungary: “Fucking hell.”
That’s why Isack drives through the night, Paris to London, headlights carving tunnels through the dark as if speed alone can rewind time. The streets blur, rap music thuds low from the stereo, and his grip on the wheel is iron. He’s running on espresso shots and adrenaline, the weight of your article pressed in his chest.
By the time he pulls up outside Chequered Flag’s office, dawn has barely cracked open. The newsroom lights hum awake, pale against the gray morning. He doesn’t even bother locking his car, just bolts inside.
The place smells of burnt coffee and printer ink. Desks already trill with the shuffle of papers and tapping keyboards, but yours is stripped bare. Empty, like you were never there.
Michele clocks him first, eyebrows shooting up. “Oh, hey,” she greets, as if always having expected Isack to storm past security and end up her. “You just missed her. Packed everything. Like, everything.”
Isack’s heart slams, but he forces words out. “Where is she?”
Kate swivels around in her chair, mug in hand. “Interview. Esses Magazine. She left half an hour ago.” She pauses, eyes narrowing with something between pity and curiosity. “You look like hell, Hadjar.”
He ignores the jab, but then he remembers—sharp, out of nowhere—the session, Kate perched in an armchair pretending to be some licensed relationship whisperer. His voice comes out strangled but determined. “You owe me 150 euro, McConaughey.”
Kate smiles sheepishly. “Not my real surname.”
“I do not care!”
Michele snorts, Kate sputters, but Isack’s already gone. He barrels back out the door, the newsroom behind him, the only thing ahead of him is you.
He feels like he’s running on fumes, but audacity keeps him steady. He’s been on the phone since he left the newsroom, calling every favor he can think of, piecing together clues from friends-of-friends until someone finally drops the location: Esses Magazine, Wimbledon. He doesn’t even think, just drives, muttering to himself about how this is certifiable behavior, how he should be committed, how he probably is committed—just not the way he thought.
By the time he pulls up in Wimbledon, he’s convinced he’s missed you. But then the glass doors of Esses Magazine’s office swing open, and there you are, stepping out in the sunlight. Your hair catches the light, your expression still half in professional mode until you clock him. Then your brow knits in confusion. He’s meant to be in Paris. He’s meant to be anywhere but here.
“Isack?” you say, disbelief dripping from your voice. “What the hell—how are you even here?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just stands there, chest rising and falling, holding the battered copy of your article. He’s wearing the day on his face. Creased from the wheel, from not sleeping, from caring too much.
Finally, he manages, voice rough: “Did you mean it?”
You stare, thrown. “Mean what?”
He steps closer, holding up the printout, pages crumpled from the drive. “What you wrote. All of it. About Rookie of the Year. About me… being the love of your life. Did you mean any of it?”
The world narrows, traffic hums distantly, and he swears you can probably hear his heart pounding against the paper. He isn’t suave. He isn’t careful. He just looks at you like the entire universe hinges on the next words out of your mouth.
“Isack,” you say, voice so small it hurts him.
“It’s a true or false question,” he pleads. “Come on. True or false: You meant this article.”
You look skyward. When your answer comes, it’s barely above a whisper. “True.”
He could fall to his knees. “True or false,” Isack breathes, taking a step closer. “You consider me Rookie of the Year—”
“Really, Isack?”
“—more importantly, boyfriend of the year.” Another step towards you.
You look like you can’t decide between crying and laughing. “True,” you say, still looking anywhere but him.
He takes one more step, just enough so that you have no choice. You’re forced to meet his gaze, to see exactly how much you’ve undone him. Isack has won, and lost, and finished just outside the points one too many times. This is not about to be the relationship equivalent of a P11. Not on Isack’s watch.
“True or false,” he says, voice lower now that he’s so close to you. “You’re the love of my life, too.”
You stare up at him. “I don’t know the answer to that,” you choke out, and Isack shakes his head.
“I think you do, mon amour,” he says as he drops the papers in his hands in favor of reaching out for you.
The article flutters down onto the ground, forgotten and crushed underneath Isack’s shoes as he pulls you in for a kiss. ⛐
They don't know what to do without you. These big, dumb drivers.
💿 A drabble collection where I put drivers in situations based on songs on Sabrina Carpenter’s new album, Man’s Best Friend.
paring: fem reader ft. max, lando, franco, alex, charles, oscar, lewis, george
wc: 4k total
tags: all contain descriptions of sexual content, minors go away. individual tags per driver listed below.
author's note: i enjoyed sabrina's new album way too much and just had to write the drivers as dumb men who want to get in your pants. enjoy!
manchild - mv33
Why so sexy if so dumb?
And how survive the Earth so long?
tags: mild dubcon
“Jesus fucking Christ, Max.”
The apartment smells like smoke.
Your boyfriend turns to look at you. “Oh, morning love.” Whatever he’s cooking is already burnt to a crisp. “Made us breakfast—oh.”
He stares at the frying pan and shrugs. “Well. That’s too bad. Guess we’ll just order in.”
You roll your eyes and stand beside him. “What even possessed you to cook.”
“Romance,” he deadpans. You try not to wince when he disposes the pan’s contents.
“That’s really wasteful,” you comment. Max only shrugs and moves to kiss you on the lips. “Don’t worry about it. This happens all the time.”
Another lecture about food waste dies down in your throat when his mouth moves down to plant kisses all over your jaw. His stubble prickles your skin.
You groan. He chuckles lowly and the sound unfortunately goes straight to your core.
There are very few things in life Max excels in. Driving cars, having sex. Having sex in cars.
That’s probably all his cerebral capacity has room for. You forget he’s pointless in a whole lot of other things because he’s a god at the few he’s good at.
It’s concerning. He’s a man with more experience popping champagne bottles on podiums than frying an egg. His pajamas are Red Bull team kits. You ordered him a tongue cleaner because you swear his breath tastes like Red Bull Sugarfree whenever you makeout.
“I’m hungry,” you whine. An uncomfortable, hollow feeling pinches your stomach. You hadn’t had dinner last night because he was too busy rearranging your guts.
“I am, too.” Max smirks, a glint of mischief in his eyes. Oh, no. He thinks you’re trying to have sex, but you really are fucking hungry. The second whine you let out doesn’t help.
God, he’s useless. Rough hands slide down your waist to cup your ass. You think about how he flies you across the world, showers you with luxuries. You think about how he makes your blood boil because he asks “Are you on your period?” whenever your tone gets tetchy because he’s watched one Reel on hormones and now equates any show of irritation with your menstrual cycle.
The scales tip themselves.
He grinds you against his bulge and you sigh. You ignore the sunken ache in your stomach, especially when you feel him slide your slick panties to the side, his tip entering with no warning.
He might not be able to feed you on time, but at least he knows how to take care of the ache in your pussy.
tears – ln4
I get wet at the thought of you
Being a responsible guy
tags: suggestive content
“Can I eat you out now?”
Lando’s heaving. You can’t tell whether it’s from physical exertion or the need to taste you. Either way, the sight of his chest rising and falling makes your insides churn deliciously.
Your hand cups his cheek. “Just one more thing?”
His brows furrow. It looks like he wants to complain, but you bat your lashes and look up at him with your big eyes and he swallows it down. Nods obediently. Your heart soars when he keeps his composure. He takes one long stare at your lips before asking, “What else do you need me to do, baby?”
“Can you wash my hair? I’ll feel better when I’m all clean,” you ask politely. Whatever the tone, the persona, be it brat or angel, you know he’ll listen. You’ve been meaning to wash your hair anyway, but since Lando’s here, you suppose another favor won’t hurt.
He’s been so helpful, helping you lift and assemble new furniture for your apartment. Insists he rearranges everything to your liking. So quick to rush over after one call, too.
You decide to be nice.
He still looks a little sad. You walk over, swipe your tongue over the bead of sweat sliding down his jaw. A tiny, kitten lick. You whisper into his ears and hope he hears how genuine you are. “I’m really thankful for you, Lan. I hope you know that.”
He preens at your gratitude. His face lights up in soft surprise, “Yeah?”
You smile. “Mhm.”
“Let’s get you clean, then.”
When you asked to wash your hair, you really did mean just your hair. But he goes above and beyond, offers to scrub you down entirely. “Up,” he says gently. You sit on the toilet seat and raise your arms as he pulls your top off.
At first, you think he’s just hastening the process so he can wet his dick a lot quicker, but he truly does just wash you up. No inappropriate touches. No tempting kisses, even when your body gleams with soap, skin smelling divine.
It’s awfully nice if him. So nice, it makes your pussy clench around nothing.
He’s drying you off with a soft towel. Tells you to sit, then switches on the hair blower and runs his big hands through the wet tendrils of your hair. When he’s done, he asks you where your lotion is and your voice is an embarrassing croak when you reply, “By the vanity.”
He comes back. Pumps the white cream over his sunkissed hands. He kneels infront of you and props a leg over his shoulder, lathers the product all over your leg and rubs it into your skin.
“Mmmmm,” you close your eyes. “Feels nice?” he asks, warm fingers sliding up and down your leg. Heat pools in your belly. This position is so compromising, your heat just near enough his face you suspect he can smell you.
His hands continue to rub. It’s so easy to slip a finger in, given his position. But he doesn’t.
Oh, you feel so soft, so clean, so taken care of your eyes are watering with want. His tenderness is making you so, so turned on you honestly can’t take it anymore.
“Lan,” you say, voice cracking. “Eat me out. Now.”
He smiles. Kisses your ankle. “Of course, princess.”
my man on willpower – fc43
I'm right here, I'm waving (Right here, hello)
The joke can be over now
You're so silly, baby
tags: mentions of cheating
Franco used to be absolutely, terribly, down bad for you.
Key word: used to.
Back then—was it just a week ago?—you had to physically swat his hands away because they were always wandering. Always wanting to pinch, to squeeze, to get inside. Didn’t matter if you were out in public or eating dinner at home. He couldn’t get enough. A dog in endless heat.
At least you thought it was endless. He treated you like it was. Waited on you hand and foot. Laid claim on your mouth, neck, pussy.
You should’ve figured.
Gone are the days he used to greet you with open arms, softly calling you mi corazon and spinning you around like you were the only girl in the world.
Your friend calls it lovebombing, but you hadn’t really cared at the moment. She brings up cheating as a possibility, and it’s the only thing you’ve thought about for weeks. Even if he wasn’t, it was the reason that made the most sense; his polar attitude was evidence enough.
You knew he’d hit the club. Now, most especially, after that god-awful 18th place finish at Spa. You had offered him a kind smile after his return to the garage, but he didn’t even spare you a glance. It left you standing there compeltely affronted by his attitude.
That was your final straw.
Maybe if someone else had a taste, he’d snap to his senses.
The dress you pick out is form fitting, neckline plunging deep. Franco had always been more of a boobs guy.
He picks you up, at the very least. Kisses your cheek. Ogles at your boobs. Bare fucking minimum.
But when you leave him the moment you enter the room, he raises a brow. “Where are you going?”
You just pat his cheek.
When you spot your friend, she waves you over to the bar excitedly. She introduces you to a man who is much more mature looking than Franco, and looks very much eager to get his hands all over you. He greets you with a kiss on both cheeks.
You don’t even glance at Franco. You can feel his eyes on you.
The man leads you to the dance floor.
“Don’t be shy,” you whisper in his ear. It emboldens the man.
Five seconds later, you’re grinding on each other.
The lewd dancing lasts for a set too long, but you don’t mind. The stranger is surprisingly engaging.
Franco comes around looking a lot less sober than you are.
“Come here,” he growls, pulling you away from the man. He’ll realize you’re gone a second too late.
You’re dragged to a hallway. It muffles the club’s deep, pounding bass. Franco tucks a stray hair behind your ear before pinning you to the wall, kissing you hard.
“You are so mean,” he whines against your lips. You scoff and pull away, but he chases your mouth. You place a hand on his chest and glare at him. “You deserve that. And I deserve someone better.”
He cocks his head to the side. “But I thought you were mine.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” you reply, cold. Still, you toss him a chance. “I’ll forgive you if you say sorry.”
He rubs his thumb against your lips, burrows frowed, staring hard. He looks so handsome like this: hair mussed, eyes dark, attempting very hard to form a coherent thought.
“Hmmm. No.” He gropes your ass. Fuck. You’re undeniably aroused, but you find it’s easy to put a lid on it when he’s acting like an asshole in front of you.
You don’t have time for him anymore.
“Suit yourself.”
Selfishly, you kiss him long and hard for one last time.
And maybe it’s not fair, trying to start a fight in the hallway of a night club in Hungary when he’s obviously had a drink or two, but you remember his attitude and decide once and for all he doesn’t deserve fair.
You leave him stranded in the hallway.
we almost broke up again last night – cl16
All the "I love you"s and "I'm sorry"s were said
We had our sex, and then we made amends, that's right
tags: toxic relationship
“Wait—you’re still together?”
You don’t miss the way your group of friends glance at each other. You pretend not to notice and sip at your drink.
“I thought you broke up,” one says. You shrug.
“We almost did. Hard to keep away, I guess.”
Suddenly, your friends sit up straighter. Plaster a fake smile on their faces.
Familiar hands wrap around your shoulders. Charles’ breath fans across your ears, “Hi baby.”
You grin at your friends. “Speak of the devil.”
This makes him pout. “You’ve been discussing me?” He looks at your friends for confirmation. They laugh nervously, deny it with a smile. Charles doesn’t seem to notice or care.
He props his sunglasses on. Rubs his fingers on your collarbone. “Can I steal her from you girls?”
They don’t have a say in it. Not really. No matter how much they try to talk you out of it.
So you let him whisk you away. You glance at your boyfriend, one hand on the wheel and the other clasping yours. Against the blue sea, with the sun basking down on him and the wind blowing his hair, he looks God-touched.
You love seeing Charles like this. Happy. Dimples out. Not a worry in those brows.
It’s a different Charles from race weekends.
When Ferrari fucks him up, and they truly do most of the time, Charles takes it out on you.
Grips your hips like you’ve wronged him personally. Marks you up all over. Says, whines, that you should take care of him. Because there’s no one else. No one else.
In the same breath, he’s worshipping you, asks for mercy when you’re on top of him and start milking him dry.
And then, in a bout of post-nut clarity, a scattering of purple hickeys and blotches blooming under your skin, Charles blames himself. Proposes you should end things. Tries to convince you you don’t deserve him.
You’d shake your head, tell him you wanted this too. Cup his face, remind him that there’s no one else. It’s a viscious, self-sabotaging cycle that benefits no one but your libidos and pride. A breeding ground for sin.
At some point, the weight of it all presses down on your shoulders, and you start to believe you do deserve better. Something more than this sadistic pattern. Someone who knows how to regulate.
You want to understand why this emptiness persists despite satiated all the fucking time.
He’s always back before it ever happens, though.
Like now.
He lets go of your hand and rests it on your thigh, warm and heavy.
He smiles at you. He looks at peace.
“I love you,” he says.
You lean in and kiss his cheek. His stubble tickles your lips.
“I love you, too.” You say back, voice unusually tight. You want to believe it.
He squeezes your thigh, slides it up a little higher. It doesn’t stray for the rest of the ride.
Maybe he’s trying to believe it, too.
sugar talking – aa23
Say you're a big changed man, I doubt it
Yeah, your paragraphs mean shit to me
Get your sorry ass to mine
tags: suggestive content
Alex is perfect.
In a cardboard cutout, one-dimensional sort of way.
He picks up the bill first. Sends you flowers when you’re at work. Calls you beautiful. Compliments your nails.
Even then, he’s busy all the time. Why wouldn’t he be, driving in Formula One?
Still. He knows how to apologise. Profusely and regularly.
It’s everything and a whole lot of nothing. Especially when he keeps saying he’ll make it up to you.
He does make it up, with superfluous words and empty promises. Not really in the way it mattered.
Oh, I can’t come over. I’m busy training. There’s a team brief I have to attend. I’ll make it up to you next time. I miss you.
I miss you. You think about those three words often.
How can one miss what he hasn’t had?
You give him a chance. Lots of chances, if we’re being honest. Your kindness is a cheatcode, and Alex Albon some how says the right thing to maintain his unearned number of lifelines.
But Alex Albon, for all his gentlemanly disposition and character, can never get the fucking hint: you want to get laid.
You stop replying to his texts. Stop wishing him good luck. Stop sending proof of life photos when he’s racing in some far flung city across the globe.
The apologies come quick. But you don’t respond.
You’re enjoying the rain in the quiet of your London flat. The grey weather usually sends you into a seasonal depression, but it brings you comfort now.
The unmistakable click of the door lock grabs your attention.
Alex stands at your door. He doesn’t bring his things inside.
You can’t say you weren’t expecting him.
“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says. He sounds broken. It spurs you to move.
The smell of him nearly brings you to your knees. It’s been a few weeks since you were both in the same room. You ignore the heady sensation and bring his luggage inside, closing the door. His eyes are heavy on your frame.
When you turn to face him, you gulp. He’s so big like this, towering over you. Looming. You feel small. You hate how your nipples perk in attention his presence.
Weakly, you grab on to his hoodie, fisting it, reminding yourself to hold on to your anger. He speaks lowly, “Whatever it was I did—I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry.”
“You really are a fucking idiot,” you murmur.
You hear his next words before he says it. “How can I make it up to you?”
Quietly, you hold his wrist and bring it up to your breast. He stops breathing. Looks at you with raised brows.
“You can start here,” you glance up at him. He nods dumbly, understanding finally creeping into his features, and finally, finally, he squeezes.
“My pleasure,” he replies, a soft laugh escaping him. There’s a small, nervous smile on his lips. He’s still kneading your breast when you pull him in and kiss him the way you’ve wanted to all those weeks ago.
A squeal erupts from you when he lifts you up, mouths still connected.
He presses into you. “Where else does my baby want me?”
when did you get hot? – op81
Congratulations on your new improvements
I bet your light rod's like bigger than Zeus'
tags: mentions of spanking
Someone in a white race suit gives you a once over.
You had to do a double-take. Is that—
You meet his eyes. He’s still staring at you.
Okay, make it a triple-take.
“What the fuck.” You mutter, weirded out. You march out of the garage just to make sure you weren’t seeing things.
Oscar Piastri. 81.
The driver photo on the garage matches the one of the guy who’s been raking his eyes all over you.
Huh. You weren’t seeing things.
You haven’t really been attending any races, but it’s Monaco, and your father insists it’s special. That someone had to attend anyway.
So you play daddy’s responsible little elf and walk around, chin lifted, pretending you’re here to report any blunder that might risk pulling out your family’s sponsorship on the team. You’re hyperaware of the attention on you, sunglasses perched atop your styled hair. Not a strand is out of place.
His face appears on the live feed. For the first time, you consider Oscar Piastri.
One of your first impressions of him is that he was a gangly little thing. A boy. Not one defining quality except for his pedigree, which you supposed was all that matters.
Then you came across a clip of him on grid gills or whatever the fuck it’s called on Formula One’s channel and thought, Wow, what a fucking nerd.
Which is why it surprises you to learn that Oscar Piastri has gotten fucking fit.
Why your father supported Zak in stealing him from Alpine and replacing your beloved Danny Ric, you had no idea.
You hadn’t really cared for him since the swap. Except now, obviously, as he seems intent on making his presence known.
The thought slams down on you angrily: When did this nerd get so fucking hot?
You try not to stare back. Try not to notice how his neck is unreasonably thicker all these years later.
You swallow. Hard.
Disappointment fills you when he drives out for a lap.
The next time your paths cross, you’re at Cannes.
He seems surprised to see you in the same hotel. You press arrow upon the elevator. “Topping fan surveys now huh?”
The tips of his ears turns pink. “You just had to hear that bit, huh.”
Of course you heard that bit. That’s what happens when you start winning. He said, his voice rang through the speakers in a smug, overly pleased tone that sent a jolt of lightning straight to your core.
You smile gracefully. “Confidence looks good on you, Piastri.”
When he looks down on you, you wither. His eyes are a little intense. You struggle to keep the smile on your face. In fact, you smile wider.
The elevator arrives. You both get inside.
It is fucking torturous.
You’re squeezing your thighs, trying your best to be subtle but it’s been so goddamn long since anyone’s gotten you laid and his neck looks so inviting. You want to suck it off. Suck him off, really.
The awkward silence doesn’t even faze you, your arousal is ringing iin your ears and you’re already fantasizing about the vibrator in your drawer that you don’t even notice Oscar’s jaw tightening.
The bell dings. It’s his floor. Your room is five floors higher.
You give him a polite smile, dip your chin farewell. He gives a tight one in return and turns to leave when—
“Wanna check out the view from my room?”
It forces you to stand straighter. The tiniest loss of friction sobers you. You register his words.
He’s standing still, waiting.
You don’t tell him your room has a panoramic view of the French Riviera.
“Sure,” you say, unruffled. You hold on to his arm and smile up at him. He smirks to himself.
When you get inside, it only takes one offhand, nearly bratty comment from you about cockiness and being humble for him to pin you against the wall and steal your breath away.
You’re pleased to see his dick is as beautiful as he is.
Afterwards, when he’s done spanking your ass sore and reducing you to tears with his cock, you vow not to take anything at face-value ever again.
don't worry i'll make you worry – lh44
You think that I'm gonna fuck with your head?
Well, you're absolutely right
tags: emotional manipulation
It’s hard to believe you have a seven-time world champion wrapped around your finger.
This was supposed to be over. A long, long time ago.
He was supposed to find a better girl. Someone nicer, someone who won’t fuck him up whenever they liked. Someone who isn’t you.
It’s baffling and flattering all at the same time, the fact he still chooses you. In spite of it all.
He called you thrice tonight. You hadn’t picked up.
His race results hadn’t been the most satisfactory as of late. For a living legend like him, most especially.
You consider your cruelty for all of three minutes before pressing Call on his contact card.
He picks it up on the second ring.
“Hey, honey. Sorry, was a little busy.”
It’s a shit lie, but he buys it either way.
“Need you,” he murmurs through the receiver. “Please.”
The desperation is what brings you to your feet.
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
You let yourself in. Roscoe greets you at the door and your heart melts. You give the sweet boy a nice long rub behind his flappy ears.
“You there, love?”
“I’m here.”
He laughs when he rounds the corner, seeing you crouched on the floor indulging Roscoe.
“C’mon, bud. Don’t be selfish.”
You stand up and wrap your arms around him. He tilts your head up and kisses you, long and slow. It’s sweet, the very last thing you deserve.
He leads you up his bedroom. There’s no need for him to ask.
You take care of him.
Lewis, dear sweet Lewis. You draw it out for him, tease him until he’s on the brink of tears. Until he’s taking matters into his own hands, lifting you up on him and kneading your ass so you can ride him. And you do, just the way he likes.
Somewhere, deep in your heart of hearts, you feel a shred of guilt. You think it’s the only thing that keeps you going.
But then you hear it, crisp and clear, a stuttered I love you in between groans and you nearly freeze if it weren’t for his big hands on your hips.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s not supposed to–
You slam your lips against his before he even realizes.
When all is done and he’s taken care of, he makes sure you are, too. You let him. He’s not half bad with his hands and knows how to hit the spot near your cervix that makes you go a little feral.
You can’t remember the last time you passed out because of someone’s dick.
When you wake, it’s still dark out, but there’s low, sultry music playing from whatever thousand-euro, surround sound speaker system Lewis has installed in his room. Lewis is stroking your hair affectionately. Something punctures your stomach.
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. You pretend you’re still asleep.
You’ll never know how much you’ve ruined anybody else for him.
house tour – gr63
Do you want the house tour?
I could take you to the first, second, third floor
And I promise none of this is a metaphor
tags: suggestive content
The rumors are true. George Russel is a funny man.
On top of being deliciously tall and having a face chiseled by Greek gods themselves, he can hold a conversation, act like a perfect gentleman, and pay for everything, no sweat.
You joked about him giving all the girls the princess treatment.
He waves you off. Humble. “I hope that means I’m doing something right.”
And maybe that should ring the alarms off, this all too perfect man. But you’re enjoying it so much.
You hope his athleticism breaks you in the bedroom.
“I’m thinking gelato at one of my secret spots. What say you?”
You smile. Reel yourself from your thoughts. The worst thing would be to get ahead of yourself.
“Your best idea yet.”
Dinner was lovely. Dessert was delectable. The drive home was scenic.
You really want to let him up, but you think it’s too forward and too soon.
It would be the perfect way to end the night, though.
The conundrum lasts all the way until he’s rounding the corner to your place. George gets out and opens the door of his sleek Mercedez, holding out a hand.
Screw it. If you’re guilty of any sin, it’s greed.
You look up at him. God, he’s beautiful.
“You know, I just moved in,” you say conversationally, but there’s a provocative lilt to your voice. “I could give you a tour.”
He looks a little surprised.
Ah, fuck. Not that kind of guy, then. You knew he was too good to be true.
“On second thought, it is getting pretty late. Another time, yeah?” You smile, hoping to save face. “Thanks for tonight, George.”
You turn and leave. It’s not like this is the first time you read wrongly.
“Wait.”
He’s catches up to you with a brilliant smile. “I’d love a tour. If it’s not too late.”
Your mouth gapes open. He taps your chin twice and chuckles when you close it shut.
The point of contact burns.
“How many flights before your bedroom?”
Bingo. You bite your lip, suppressing a grin.
“Just one.”
this was fun to write! do let me know if you enjoyed 🫶🏼
the flat next door - op81 (firefighter!oscar)
a firefighter with a soft heart & no idea what he’s doing with his life. a single mum who gave up everything for a tiny pair of shoes. a six-year-old matchmaker with a butterfly painted on her cheek. and the slow, aching kind of love that feels like coming home.
the station down the road - mv1 (police!max)
she was too young to be taken seriously. he’d spent his whole life holding the world at arm’s length. they found home in each other, slowly, quietly, completely. not a love story with fireworks. just one that stayed.
the ward down the hall - fc43 (emt!franco)
a paramedic who hides soft worry behind loud grins & teasing words. a quiet nurse who forgot the sound of her own voice. a golden labrador who watches it all with knowing eyes. and the slow, patient kind of love that feels safe enough to stay. not a story of grand gestures. just one of small kindnesses, shared silences, and learning that you are not a burden to the right person.
the locker next to his part one part two- ln4 (firefighter!lando)
lando was just a tired firefighter in a flat that smelled like rice and regrets. then she showed up, quiet, sharp, accidentally charming. and suddenly things weren’t so routine. they flirt like it’s an olympic sport, but grief lingers like smoke. somewhere between post-it notes and midnight gelato, they start to save each other.
the field by the quad part one part two - ih6 (medical student!isack)
isack plays rec football and studies medicine on his good days, on his bad days he flirts with the first aider while she patches him up. he thinks it'll all just go away until he realises, they’re assigned the same hospital placement the very next week.
the clinic across the lane part one part two- aa23 (veterinarian!alex)
alex was a village vet with thirteen cats, too much tea, and not much surprise. she was an ex-army medic chasing quiet and found him instead. between pub quizzes, first aid kits, and a horse with opinions, something bloomed. they didn’t mean to fall in love, but as always, the village always knew before they did.
the bench by the river - ls2 in progress... (ex-army vet!logan)
the lab across the hall - cl16 coming soon... (forensic scientist!charles)
the classroom behind the gym - eo31 coming soon... (teacher!esteban)
the waiting room upstairs - lh44 coming soon… (social worker!lewis)
the kennel behind the fence - dr3 coming soon… (k9 handler!danny)
the lecture room on the third floor - ob87 coming soon… (trainee police officer!ollie)
who else do you want to see in this series! lmk :)
Franco Colapinto and Gabriel Bortoleto (Kick Sauber) during previews ahead of the F1 Grand Prix of Belgium at Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps on July 24, 2025 in Spa, Belgium. (Stake Kick Sauber F1 Team)
oscar can’t tell if he wants to impress you or ruin your day. probably both.
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x fashion journalist!reader.
ꔮ word count: 12.3k.
ꔮ includes: implied smut, romance, humor. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. enemies to ???, tension... so much tension..., slander vs. oscar’s fashion sense, piastri siblings & mark w. cameos, oscar models calvin klein (you have been warned), google translated french. title from carly rae jepsen’s tug of war.
ꔮ commentary box: that modeling contract was announced and i locked tf in. i am sure there will be a dozen more model!piastri fics in the forseeable future, so consider this my contribution to the discourse 🪞 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
♫ cooler than me, mike posner. diet mountain dew, lana del rey. jealousy, jealousy, olivia rodrigo. pretty boy, lennon stella. hate to be lame, lizzy mcalpine & finneas. everybody talks, neon trees.
Oscar hadn’t cared about the modeling contract.
It had been a management decision. One of those postseason strategy meetings where someone in a blazer said brand equity three times in five minutes; Oscar had tuned out somewhere between the PowerPoint transition and the phrase post-athletic versatility. IMG had been floated as a way to help secure luxury campaigns, sharpen his media presence, smooth the F1 edges.
He’d said yes because he didn’t have a reason not to. And because saying no would’ve meant sitting in that meeting room for another hour.
So no, he hadn’t cared. Not until Hattie forwarded him your article.
The link came with a text that just said, wow, which meant it was either horrifying or hilarious. Turns out, it was both. The log line says:
Oscar Piastri owes IMG Models an apology for being the worst thing that’s ever happened to them.
One sentence in and Oscar’s stomach had already done something unpleasant. By the second paragraph, it starts doing somersaults.
His Fashion Week appearance felt like a high schooler playing dress-up in his older brother's Balenciaga. Somewhere, a creative director is crying into his moodboard.
There’s aloof, and then there’s absent. Piastri, regrettably, leans toward the latter. A beautiful mannequin. Expression sold separately.
Someone please explain how the sport that gave us Lewis Hamilton and Charles Leclerc also produced this cardboard cutout in Prada.
Oscar blinks at his phone like the words might shift into something kinder if he just stares long enough. They don’t. The tone is biting. Effortless. Like you hadn’t hadn’t even broken a sweat while eviscerating him.
He reads it again. And then again.
It’s not that he hasn’t heard criticism before. Racing is full of it—bad weekends, strategy fails, one too many lockups and suddenly everyone’s got an opinion. But this is different. This isn’t about telemetry or tire strategy. This is personal. This is public.
This is accurate, which is probably why it pisses him off so much.
Oscar tosses his phone on the couch, then immediately picks it up again. Reads the line about the moodboard one more time. He doesn’t know what a moodboard is supposed to look like, but he’s now certain he’s personally destroyed one.
He should let it go. Laugh it off. Call it petty and move on. Instead, he looks at your byline and commits it to memory.
Oscar Piastri hadn’t cared about the modeling contract. Now he does.
He rereads the article for the fourth time, then fifth. Every line lands sharper the longer it sits. He keeps getting stuck on beautiful mannequin. Expression sold separately. By the sixth read, he’s no longer angry. He’s spiraling.
He hits FaceTime.
“Jesus Christ,” Edie says by way of greeting. She’s already mid-eye roll. “What now?”
Hattie and Mae appear one after the other, settling into their usual squares like it’s a scheduled intervention. Hattie’s in the kitchen, making a sandwich at a concerning angle. Mae’s already in bed. It’s noon in Oscar’s Monaco but eight in the evening over at Melbourne.
Oscar doesn’t beat around the bush. “What the hell was that article?”
“Oh.” Hattie flashes him a shit-eating grin. “How’d you like it?”
“Who does this girl think she is?” Oscar snaps. “Seriously. She thinks she can just—”
“She’s literally incredible,” Mae interrupts.
“Oscar, come on,” Edie sighs. “She’s an institution.”
He frowns. “She called me cardboard in Prada.”
“No, she said you looked like a high schooler in Balenciaga,” Hattie corrects. “Which, to be fair, you kind of did.”
Oscar’s jaw tics. His sisters, ever so relentless, push on. “She’s not just some influencer,” Mae adds. “She was writing features before Vogue. Like, real features. That profile on Anok Yai? I saved it. Actual goosebumps.”
“Her newsletter goes viral every other week,” Edie says. “I read her Substack like the morning paper.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?” Oscar deadpans.
“She’s our age, and she’s already shaping industry conversation,” Hattie says, smug and ignorant of Oscar’s mental breakdown. “You think IMG just let her roast you for free?”
“They probably begged her to,” Mae yawns. “Honestly, it gave you relevance.”
“Thanks,” Oscar bites out, already regretting his choice of calling in. “Really uplifting.”
“Check her Insta,” Edie says, already knowing he will.
Oscar hangs up before they can gloat any harder. Opens Instagram. Types your name.
Your profile loads in clean, curated rows. Not overly aesthetic. Not fake-candid either. A balance that feels practiced but not desperate. He scrolls.
There you are at New York Fashion Week, not posing, just standing. One heel cocked. Blazer draped loose. Eyes lined sharp. Mouth unsmiling. You look like someone who doesn’t need to ask twice.
Another shot—some rooftop party. Laughing this time. Half-lit, hair undone, drink in hand. The caption is some niche reference he doesn’t get, but the comments are flooded with blue ticks and clapping emojis.
And then a close-up. No makeup. Hoodie. A hand cradling your face, gaze direct into the lens. Oscar actually stops scrolling.
He doesn’t know the first thing about fashion. But even he can tell—you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Worse: you know it. Worse, still: you know exactly what to do with it.
Oscar locks his phone before he can do something stupid.
The IMG boardroom smells like mineral water and expensive neutrality. Oscar sits stiffly at the long glass table, a half-drunk espresso cooling in front of him. The screen on the far wall flashes a slideshow of moodboards and market analysis. Soft tailoring, desert tones, a luxury brand he’s already forgotten the name of.
He’s not really listening.
Someone’s saying something about crossover visibility. Someone else uses the word synergy. A third says, “the Vogue piece did numbers,” and Oscar's spine straightens before he can stop himself.
“Any questions?” asks the IMG rep—Valentina, maybe, or Vanessa—clicking to the final slide.
Oscar clears his throat. Immediate regret, especially when the entire room turns to look at him like that one Simpsons meme come to life. “Um. Yeah, just—” He shifts in his seat. “Should we be… worried? About that article?”
Three heads swivel. “The Vogue one?” Valentina-slash-Vanessa clarifies.
Oscar nods, as neutrally as possible. There’s a pause. Then, a light chuckle ripples through the room. Not cruel, but close.
“Welcome to the fashion world,” she says, smiling. “You get roasted. It means you exist.”
“She doesn’t roast just anyone,” someone else adds. “You made it onto her radar. That’s not nothing.”
Mark, seated four spots down, is doing that thing where he presses his knuckles into his cheek like he's considering whether to intervene. Eventually, he does.
“Look, mate,” he says, calm, as always. “You got pushed into an ecosystem where image is everything. She poked fun. That’s her job. Let it ride.”
Oscar looks at him. “You saw it?”
Mark raises an eyebrow. “You think I don’t read Vogue?”
Oscar blanches. Mark shrugs. “She’s good. She’s sharp,” the latter says sagely, “and she’s not going anywhere.”
That last part hits harder than it should.
Oscar leans back in his chair, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his posture might read. Relaxed. Unbothered. Cardboard in Prada.
The meeting rolls on. Talk shifts to campaign dates, shooting schedules, soft embargoes. Oscar nods when required, scribbles nothing, waits for the room to empty.
He doesn’t say another word.
By the time he’s alone, only one thought remains: You may or may not be around for the foreseeable future. And now, so will he.
Nonetheless, Oscar tries to put you in the back of his mind. He focuses on the simulator. On tire strategy. On corner speeds and data sheets and the way his new helmet vents better in the rain. The fashion thing is a side gig, background noise.
Until the campaign drops.
It’s everywhere by Friday. A soft launch gone sharp. His face on buses. On billboards. In reels that glitch between slow-motion struts and stiff-limbed turns in silk. One frame of him squinting at a rooftop in Milan is already a meme.
He thinks: fine. Let it ride. But then Lando walks into the paddock with that face-splitting grin and a phone already in hand. “You’re trending,” the Brit sing-songs.
Oscar doesn’t look up from his water bottle. “Great. Another out-of-context GIF?”
“Not exactly.”
Oscar finally glances over. Lando holds up his phone. It’s your Twitter. The open tweet:
ynofficial: A quick thread on why luxury branding is suffering, feat. Oscar Piastri and a war crime against wool blend tailoring. 🧵
Oscar goes still.
Lando scrolls. Each tweet hits like a slap.
ynofficial: First of all: the fabric. Looks like it itches. Looks like it squeaks. If I wanted trauma flashbacks to my Year 8 choir uniform, I’d go to therapy.
ynofficial: Secondly, the pose. Who told him to stand like his hips are on strike? I’ve seen more fluidity in IKEA assembly diagrams.
ynofficial: Third: who keeps convincing this man to stare into the distance like a brooding hedge fund intern? You’re not solving the economic crisis. You’re in pants.
Oscar exhales sharply. “I’m going to kill her.”
Lando cackles. “She ratioed the brand account in two hours.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means people agreed with her.”
Oscar’s throat feels tight. Lando is still talking, but none of it registers, because something is twisting under Oscar’s ribs. Not embarrassment. Not quite. It’s sharper than that. Competitive. Cavernous. The ache of being underestimated and publicly mocked by someone who clearly knows exactly where to aim.
Oscar pulls his fire suit on in silence. Helmet next. No commentary. No fanfare. This isn’t luxury; this is his world. He gets in the car, and he floors it.
The track roars beneath him, corners blurring into muscle memory. Every apex is cleaner than the last. Every lap carves out a little more fury.
He qualifies P1. Come Sunday, he finishes P1.
The engineer’s voice crackles in his ear on the cooldown lap. Oscar responds with cursory thanks but nothing more.
All he can think is, you saw the campaign. Now, you’ll see this.
Here is something he will never admit: Oscar spends an unhealthy amount of time thinking about how he might meet you.
He imagines a fashion event, something obnoxiously glossy with ambient synth and ten-euro cocktails. You’d be in black. All sharp lines and pointed comments. The kind of presence that makes stylists stutter and PR managers sweat. He’d walk up with practiced nonchalance, half-smiling. Say something like, So, do I still stand like an IKEA diagram?
You’d assess, tilt your head. Maybe smirk. Maybe destroy him again with four words or less. Maybe not even that. Maybe just a look.
He turns it over in his head, each version a little more bearable than the last. Sometimes, in the boring hours after media day or a late debrief, he catches himself imagining what your voice might sound like in person. How you’d cross your legs. If your sarcasm is sharper when you’re tired.
Instead, it happens in a bakery.
Rue Grimaldi. Mid-morning. Monaco between triple-headers is strange—too calm, too clean, like the whole city is holding its breath between champagne sprays. The sun makes the buildings look smug. Oscar’s running low on sleep and lower on patience, thinking only of croissants. Maybe a cannelé if he’s feeling reckless. He’s in a hoodie, sunglasses, trainers with half the laces undone.
He pushes the door open with his shoulder, and walks straight into someone.
“Oh—shit. Sorry,” he mutters, hands halfway up like he’s surrendering.
You take a step back, brushing hair from your cheek. “It’s fine. I wasn’t looking.”
You move past him without ceremony, heels clipping against tile. Already halfway to the counter, head tilted at the pastry case. He watches the way your fingers hover over the glass, like you’re about to point at something but change your mind.
And then it hits him. “Wait,” he chokes out.
You turn, slowly. Brows lift. Recognition blooms like something slow and amused. “No way,” you say, sounding properly tickled.
“You’re—” He gestures vaguely, as if that might conjure the words. “That journalist.”
“Guilty,” you drawl.
Oscar gives you a quick once-over, a bit disbelieving. You’re dressed down—cardigan, wide-legged trousers, sunglasses pushed up like a headband. One hand in your pocket, the other holding your phone like it’s mid-thought. But it’s you in the flesh. Your voice is far more devastating than he could have ever imagined, too. Clipped. Clear. Like every vowel is pre-approved.
He should walk away. He has croissants to buy. A qualifying sim to finish. A schedule to keep. But instead: “Do you want to a coffee?”
Your head tilts, just slightly. Not rejection. Not surprise. Something in between. “Seriously?”
He nods, maybe too quickly. “If you’re not busy.”
You glance at your watch, thumb tapping the screen once. Then back at him, expression unreadable. He’s torn between hoping you’ll deny him, and praying you’ll indulge. Before he can decide which one he wants more, you say, “Make it quick.”
And just like that, he’s breathless and buying two americanos before his brain can catch up. He chooses the corner table, by the window, heart doing something awkward in his chest. He watches as you tuck your phone away, adjust your sleeve, walk toward him like it’s a runway you didn’t ask to be on but will dominate anyway.
You’re here. Real. No edits, no distance, no screens. And he’s got ten minutes to not fuck it up.
Oscar watches you sit.
You move like you’ve done this a thousand times before—tug the sleeves of your cardigan once, push your sunglasses up to rest in your hair again, glance out the window like you’re in some French romantic comedy. He’s never seen anyone look so composed in a patisserie with wobbly chairs and sugar packets scattered on the table.
He tries to read your outfit. Telemetry would probably make more sense to him.
Cardigan: grey, slightly oversized, but structured in a way that says it costs more than most of his jackets. Trousers: tailored, pleated, high-waisted, the kind that whisper wealth rather than scream it. Sunglasses: probably designer, probably older than he is. Gold accents on your fingers and ears, none of it matching, all of it deliberate. Even your shoes look like they came with a waiting list.
He squints. “So, are you just…” he starts, “built like that, or is this your job?”
You catch him staring. Not at you, but at the pieces. “Cardigan’s Totême. Trousers are The Row. Sunglasses are vintage Celine. Earrings are Alighieri. Ring was my grandmother’s,” you enumerate without missing a beat. “Good enough for you?”
Oscar smiles ruefully. “I didn’t recognize a single name.”
You shrug, unimpressed. “Didn’t expect you to.”
He huffs a soft laugh. It’s not a comfortable one. “Right. You’re in Monaco for…”
“An assignment,” you answer crisply. “Fashion house interview. Launch story. Quick turnaround."
“And the bakery?”
“They do the only decent coffee south of the port.”
You sip like you’re just proven a point. There’s no flirtation in your tone. No curiosity, either. Just clinical precision. Oscar is used to being the composed one in a conversation—stoic, a little deadpan, unshakeable.
You rattle him.
He fidgets with the cardboard sleeve on his cup. Picks at it until it peels. “You always that generous with criticism, or was I a special case?” he asks for the lack of better thing to say.
Your expression doesn’t shift. “I critique clothes. You happened to be in them.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, sharper than he means to.
You purse your lips in a tight grin. “That campaign was a lesson in how not to style menswear. I just took notes.”
“You said I looked like a brooding hedge fund intern.”
“And you replied by qualifying P1. If I’d known all it took was a little public humiliation, I would’ve done it sooner.”
Oscar pauses. Something in your voice makes it sound almost like a compliment, but the smile that follows cuts that thought clean. He doesn’t delve into the implications of you keeping tabs on him.
“You write like it’s target practice,” he says.
“And you model like someone dared you to.”
Your back and forth isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. The tension is precise, contained in the space between your sentences. You sip again, completely unfazed. Oscar, by contrast, feels the sweat gathering at the base of his neck.
He clears his throat. “Well,” he mutters, “guess we both do our jobs.”
“Guess so,” you echo. Cool, efficient, already checking the time.
You glance at your phone. Tap the screen. Then stand, slow and sure. With swift finality, you reach into your bag and place a crisp bill on the table. Enough for both coffees, and then some.
“I said I’d pay,” he’s saying, trying to put the money back in your hand, but of course you don’t let him win.
“The conversation wasn’t really worth my time,” you say point blank. “Consider it charity.”
Oscar sits in the wake of the insult, even after you’re long gone. He’s annoyed. Intrigued. Slightly caffeinated and deeply insulted. It’s not the money. It’s the ease. The way you’d dissected him, then left him right there—unfolded, unbothered.
The fuse, lit.
He watches the door swing shut behind you and thinks, very clearly: you started it.
He’s already wondering how he’ll get the next word in.
Much to his chagrin, Oscar starts seeing you everywhere.
First, it’s a Vogue magazine in the Melbourne airport lounge, flipped open to your feature on emerging designers. Your byline stares at him like it knows something he doesn’t. Then, it’s a suggested Instagram post on his Explore page: you in Bangkok, sunlight through gauze curtains, captioned with something maddeningly cryptic. Fashion girls in the comments calling you mother. He doesn’t even know what that means.
It keeps happening.
A retweet of your article lands in his feed. Someone quotes your latest editorial line by line in their story. One night, Mae sends him a TikTok you made dissecting red carpet menswear, giggling so hard she can’t finish her voice note. “She’s so mean, but so right,” Mae says dreamily. “It’s art.”
He’s two days away from blocking your name from his searches. Not out of malice—he just needs the peace.
But then: the tweet.
Something offhanded. Low-effort. The kind of tweet you could’ve typed while standing in line for a matcha. It ends up on his timeline, cursed and unbidden.
ynofficial: Say what you want about celebrity collabs but at least Patrick Starr made a setting spray that worked. Can’t say the same for Rare Beauty.
Oscar squints. He reads it again. Then again.
With startling cognizance, he realizes, no. That’s not right. Rare Beauty doesn’t make setting spray.
He only knows this because Edie once dragged him through Sephora for forty-five minutes on a mission to find setting spray, and he picked up Rare Beauty thinking it looked cool. Edie had stared at him like he’d committed a war crime.
“They don’t make that,” she’d hissed. “Put it back.”
Oscar had remembered. Mostly out of spite. Now, he types a reply.
OscarPiastri: Rare Beauty doesn’t make setting spray. Pretty sure you’re thinking of Milk. Or Urban Decay if you’re old school
He hits send before the panic catches up.
It goes viral within the hour.
Quote tweets roll in. Not Oscar Piastri correcting her like he’s on beauty TikTok. WHY DOES HE KNOW THIS. Wait… is this flirting??
Oscar doesn’t care. He lets the notifications flood in, waiting for the only one that would truly matter. Except you don’t respond.
Of course you don’t. You’re probably spiraling in private, rewriting your whole digital identity. Or maybe you don’t care at all.
But the image of you reading the tweet, eyes twitching, maybe muttering “fuck” under your breath—it does something to him.
He walks into the paddock the next morning in an unusually good mood.
The fuse, now burning in both directions.
Two days later, Oscar’s just landed back in Monaco when it hits.
He’s waiting for his suitcase, scrolling through texts from the team, half-reading a message from his physio about recovery stretches when Lando sends him the reel.
No caption. Just the link. A laughing emoji. Oscar clicks, and there you are.
Your face fills the frame. Dewy. Annoyingly perfect. You’re holding up a glass bottle with a milky pink label, speaking directly to the camera. Voice calm, smooth, a little smug.
“Rare Beauty’s 4-in-1 Mist,” you say, tone lilting. “Hydrating, priming, refreshing—and setting. For those still confused.”
You spritz once. A delicate cloud of mist. Cinematic lighting. Some irritatingly well-timed music drop.
Oscar chokes on his own breath.
The video cuts. New outfit. New angle. You’re lounging on a sun-washed terrace, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses back in place. You’re wearing a cropped McLaren tee—cut just above the ribs, sleeves rolled, neckline raw. It’s been altered, obviously.
Oscar can’t fucking breathe. Across your back, in bold, stitched lettering: the number 4, and the last name NORRIS.
He stares. Scrolls back. Watches it again, and again, until Lando’s texts become difficult to swipe up on and ignore.
Lan (McLaren) [4:34 PM]: bro
Lan (McLaren) [4:34 PM]: she wore my name
Lan (McLaren) [4:35 PM]: is this real life?
Lan (McLaren) [4:36 PM]: should i comment?? what do i comment
Oscar doesn’t reply. Can’t. His heart’s in his throat, competing with a hot streak of irritation. He’s not jealous, per se. Instead, he’s burning white-hot at the audacity of it all.
The fact that you posted it knowing he’d see it. That it’d somehow landed on his radar without him following you, without anyone tagging him. You wanted it to find him, trusted that someone in his circle would deliver it to him on a silver platter.
Voila. You hit your target audience. You didn’t clap back; you made content.
Oscar tilts his head back against the airport wall and exhales. “She’s unwell,” he mutters.
But he’s smiling as he says it, because maybe he is too. Oscar’s phone pings again.
Lan (McLaren) [4:38 PM]: do u reckon 😏 is too much
IMG sends Oscar to Paris for visibility. Presence. The words tossed around the email like perfume. Elegant, slippery, vague. No, he isn’t walking—thank God—but he’s expected to show up. Be seen. Play nice. Smile like he means it. Be the sort of handsome that can sit next to couture and not offend.
He wears something layered and monochrome, styled to look effortless but clearly expensive. The jacket alone cost more than a sim rig. Slightly oversized. Double-breasted. Something that drapes and swallows him in all the right places, though he still thinks it makes him look like a noir villain with a secret.
Mark tells him he looks great. Oscar tells Mark he looks like he’s playing dress-up.
“You are,” Mark replies without sympathy. “Just do it convincingly.”
The red carpet is chaos like Oscar’s never known.
Cameras flashing like artillery. Stylists flutter like moths. Security barking in five languages. People he doesn’t recognize yell his name, half-sure he’s someone they should know. He steps forward. Poses. Chin up, hands in his pockets. He gives the smile he practiced. Tight-lipped, a little cocky. Impassive but photogenic.
By the end of it, he’s posted up against a branded backdrop, trying not to sweat through the shirt. He can feel the back of his neck prickling, the kind of tension that comes from being watched and judged and catalogued all at once.
“How long do I have to stay out here before it counts as engagement?” he hisses, lips barely moving.
Mark doesn’t answer. Not immediately. He’s looking past Oscar, toward the entrance. His brows lift, and Oscar turns.
That’s when he sees you.
You don’t glide so much as you move with gravity. As if the air shifts around you. Your dress is sharp and architectural—silk, structured in the shoulders, soft in the fall. The neckline is subtle but strategic. Your pearl earrings glint once, then disappear behind the angle of your jaw. You walk like you don’t expect to be watched, which, of course, is why everyone watches you.
You’re not the main event. You’re not even meant to be on the carpet. Not a model, not a designer, not a red-list name. But the cameras start clicking anyway. Slow, then hungry. Someone calls out a name that isn’t yours, and you don’t correct them. You just keep walking, eyes fixed ahead.
Oscar forgets how to blink.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Mark mutters, “Stop it.”
Oscar tears his gaze away a little too late.
You catch him.
Your eyes flick to him across the stretch of velvet ropes and photographers. A beat. A pause that lasts longer than it should. You don’t wave. Don’t smirk. Instead, you nod once. Cool. Reserved. Devastating.
The nod of someone who knows exactly how much space she takes up and isn’t sorry about it.
Oscar exhales. Long. Low. His stomach twists with something sour and unplaceable. He rubs the back of his neck and grumbles to no one, “Mega.”
Mark arches a skeptical brow.
“It’s going to be a long fucking day,” Oscar mutters, as if that might explain everything.
The catwalk is sharp with light, harsh and theatrical. It slices down the middle of the room like a runway to judgment, slicing through perfume-thick air and the hum of curated conversation.
Oscar sits in the front row. Legs crossed. Fingers steepled. A pair of sunglasses shoved in the neckline of his shirt like a prop, like he belongs. He’s dressed to the nines in something structured and Italian, and bored out of his skull.
He tries to focus on the clothes. Tries to remember what Mark told him about appearing engaged. Something about camera angles and posture. Something about making eye contact with designers. He nods once or twice, tries not to squint. But the models blur together. Too much tulle. Too many clean lines and high cheekbones. Too much movement, not enough meaning.
Instead, he finds himself watching you.
You’re across from him, two seats down, framed by a low-profile designer and a bored French editor. Face angled slightly. Brows pinched in concentration. You don’t clap. Don’t smile. You take notes on a tiny, battered notebook, the kind that looks like it lives in the bottom of a tote bag. You scribble without looking. Never once glancing down. It’s almost surgical. Methodical. A soundless dissection of fashion as it walks.
Oscar can’t tell if he wants to impress you or ruin your day.
Probably both.
He shifts in his seat, tries not to look again. Fails. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and tilt your head as another model passes. Your expression doesn’t change. You are the real epitome of calm, cool, and collected. You are tragically unimpressed.
Oscar briefly wonders if you were ever impressed by anything.
Later, the afterparty buzzes with champagne and curated lighting. Something between a nightclub and gallery. Designers holding court. Journalists circling like sharks in silk. Models pretending they’re not hungry. Music pulsing through walls that cost more than his apartment.
Oscar finds you near the bar. Alone. Not talking. Watching.
You look like a contradiction. Sharp in silhouette but soft in posture. Still wearing the same dress. Still wearing that same air of impossible detachment.
You don’t look up until he says, “You know, you act like you’re above all this.”
You sip your drink, gaze still on the carnival show of desperate A-listers. “I don’t act.”
“Right,” Oscar says, shifting his weight, trying not to sound too bitter. “Of course you’re better than everyone else. That’s why you wore my teammate’s name on your back. Real elite behavior.”
Your lips twitch. Just barely. The smallest provocation of a smile. “Still thinking about that? That was weeks ago.”
“Not really the kind of thing one forgets.”
“No,” you hum. “Especially when you were too busy watching me to notice the show.”
Oscar hisses in air through his teeth. So much for being subtle. By the way you’re hiding your grin behind the rim of your glass, you’ve been waiting to say that.
“You think you’re clever,” he accuses.
“I am clever. You’re just slow.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “You know, the Rare Beauty thing was an honest mistake.”
“So was your outfit at the Balmain shoot.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Brutal.”
“Accurate.”
You swirl the ice in your glass, slow and deliberate. Still calm. Still infuriating. Oscar tries not to clench his fists. “You know,” he says, eyes narrowing, “for someone who hates attention, you seem to collect a lot of it.”
You set your empty glass down, fingers brushing the rim. “Is that why you’re here?” you ask, and it would be innocuous if it weren’t for the spark that flies in your eyes.
The words land. Oscar can’t even deny them. He watches you—unbothered, radiant, impossibly sharp—and the words escape him before he can tuck them away for another one of his daydreams. “Dance with me, then.”
You arch an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s the offer?”
“It’s not an offer. It’s a challenge.”
You smile, slow and sharp. “Cute,” you drawl. “You think I’m something to win.”
“Aren’t you?” he shoots back.
You laugh—just once, low and incredulous. Then, you lean in close enough that he can smell whatever citrusy thing you’ve dabbed behind your ears. "You’ll have to try harder than that, Piastri."
In the next heartbeat, you disappear into the crowd, pulled by someone else or maybe just the thrill of walking away first.
Oscar stands there, still watching you and the sway of your hips.
Still thinking about ruining your day.
Still wanting to be the exception.
“You’re joking,” Oscar says flatly, like it might scare the suggestion off.
Mark just raises his shoulders in a shrug. “Do I look like I am?”
Oscar glances at the pristine email printout handed across the table like a verdict. Calvin Klein. Two-page proposal. Full creative direction. Option for an extended partnership. His name is printed in bold.
“I drive cars for a living.”
“You also signed with IMG, remember? This is what comes with that. High fashion. Big brands. Broader reach.”
“Half-naked in a denim ad?”
“Tasteful half-naked,” Mark amends.
Oscar groans. Loudly. Like he’s trying to expel the entire conversation from the room.
But Mark doesn’t flinch. “It’s a legacy campaign. Shot on film. Iconic. Everyone does Calvin at some point,” he argues. “It’ll elevate your profile. Trust me.”
Oscar does not trust him. But he signs the paperwork with a sigh so deep it reverberates in his chest. Like he’s agreeing to commit social suicide with the understanding it might be good for him in the long run.
The shoot takes place in a converted warehouse in east London. Exposed brick, industrial beams, and tall windows that let in light so honest it’s almost cruel. The crew is massive. Stylists, assistants, camera techs, someone whose only job seems to be misting his torso between takes.
Oscar stands there in jeans that barely cling to his hips, shirtless under the bright lights, barefoot on cool concrete. His arms fold instinctively across his chest. A futile attempt at modesty.
“Relax the shoulders,” the photographer says. He’s wearing all black, with rimless glasses and a voice like he’s seen too much art to care about a racecar driver.
“This is relaxed,” Oscar replies, a little too defensive.
“Okay,” the man sighs. “Then turn your head more. Give me aloof.”
Oscar frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Pretend you’re bored and rich.”
Oscar thinks, I am bored. And kind of rich. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he leans against a brick wall and tries to look like he belongs in this space. Like he isn’t absolutely mortified.
They run through a series of setups. Some shots are close-ups. His jawline in profile, lips parted slightly, hair tousled in the hands of someone named Luca who smells like expensive resin. Some are wide: Oscar sprawled across a minimalist couch, or standing in the middle of the room with hands hooked in the waistband of his jeans.
None of it feels like him. Not the denim. Not the deliberate exposure. Not the forced intimacy of lens and light.
He tries not to think about it. It’s a job, a paycheck. Something that will invariably be blackmail material for years to come.
The campaign drops two weeks later. It hits Instagram first. Then the billboards. Then the fashion blogs. Oscar is already in the middle of a race weekend when the post goes live, and he makes the executive decision to turn off his phone.
He turns it on again after thirty minutes.
Lando is the first to breach his defenses.
Lan (McLaren) [9:21 AM]: mate
Lan (McLaren) [9:21 AM]: MATE
Lan (McLaren) [9:22 AM]: 😏 LEMME HITTTT
Then, Logan:
Logan Sgt. [9:43 AM]: No thoughts just oscar piastri for calvin
Logan Sgt. [9:44 AM]: Lmk who did the lighting, wanna kiss them
Logan Sgt. [9:44 AM]: Do u prefer I kiss you instead 💋
Oscar sinks lower into his hotel room couch, hoodie pulled over his head, drawstrings pulled tight like he can physically block out the world. He stares at the television, which is playing some muted rerun of practice highlights, and does not check Instagram.
That lasts for all of five minutes.
He taps into the app. Curiosity wins. As it always does.
He scrolls past the official Calvin Klein post. Then scrolls back. Blinks.
There it is.
Your name. Nestled neatly beneath the sea of likes. Verified and unmistakable. The same username that haunts his Explore page. The same one that once tore his confidence in half with a single article.
He refreshes. Still there.
He doesn’t know what to make of it. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you liked it out of obligation, out of algorithmic pity. Maybe you didn’t even mean to do it and will unlike it the second you notice.
But the tiny heart is there. Bright and red. Undeniable.
Oscar stares at the screen, his own face looking back at him in grayscale—hip bones sharp, denim hugging a little too low, expression somewhere between sulky and iconic.
He’s torn between bracing himself and letting the corner of his mouth lift.
He does neither.
Instead, he locks his phone again. Slower this time. And when he reopens it, refreshing the page just to see if you might have taken back your like? Well. That's between him and his Calvins.
For a few days after, Oscar lets his guard down.
He tells himself it’s fine. Normal. Healthy, even. You hadn’t said anything about the Calvin Klein campaign, and he’d spent a full forty-eight hours without spiraling over your silence. Maybe the like had been an accident after all. Maybe you didn’t have an article scheduled. Maybe you had other things to do.
He breathes easier. There are other things to worry about.
Wimbledon, for one. IMG sends him with Toni Breidinger, who’s every bit the polished motorsport crossover success they love to tout. She walks the press line like she’s done it a thousand times.
Oscar stands beside her in a light khaki linen suit, white shirt slightly unbuttoned. No tie. No pocket square. Just a faint squint against the London sun and hair that refuses to be styled into anything other than himself.
Toni, in contrast, is pristine. She wears a satin-adjacent ivory midi dress with delicate pleats and pointed slingbacks. Her jewelry is subtle, her sunglasses Chanel. She looks like someone who belongs in the Players’ Box.
Oscar enjoys her company. She’s kind. Funny. Grounded in the way only other racers are. She asks good questions. Laughs easily. Doesn’t mind that he doesn’t say much. When the match is done, she even manages to surprise him a bit.
“The night is young,” the NASCAR driver says as they make their way out of the court. “Have you got any plans?”
It takes a moment for Oscar to realize where she’s getting at, and then another moment for him to realize his next words aren’t probably the best ones he could’ve gotten at. “Are you asking me out on a date?” he blurts out, wincing as he gets to the end of the sentence.
God, the linen must be doing something to his brain. Thankfully, Toni seems endeared by his loserisms. “Maybe,” she says, coy in all the right places.
There’s a part of Oscar that considers it. Conversation in some pub. Fish and chips. Beer. But his brain doesn’t even get past that, and he doesn’t see the point in wasting Tori’s time. “Thanks,” he says politely, “but maybe next time.”
Both of them know there will be no next time. Toni takes the rejection with grace, and Oscar wonders why the hell he can’t say ‘yes’ and mean it.
He heads back to the hotel, strips off the suit, and scrolls through his notifications. Nothing interesting. Nothing urgent. He sets his phone down and is halfway into brushing his teeth when his Google Alert pings. ["Oscar Piastri" site:vogue.com]
He taps it out of instinct. The headline is innocent enough. Wimbledon 2025: Fashion's Winners and Losers From Centre Court to Champagne Tents.
He starts to skim, already expecting his name to be somewhere on the list. That was the whole point of the notification.
Toni is listed under Winners.
Poised and tonal, Toni Breidinger’s Wimbledon fit is a masterclass in motorsport-meets-Monaco. Ivory folds that call back to ‘90s Dior with none of the fuss. She looks like she knows your secrets and has already forgiven you.
Oscar raises a brow. He expected to at least find himself right underneath Toni, if not connected to her. To nobody’s surprise but his own, he finds himself under Losers.
Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, remains committed to dressing like an F1 intern promoted to full-time via nepotism. His linen suit wrinkles in ways only the ill-fitting do, and his refusal to accessorize speaks to either laziness or existential protest. Hard to tell.
He stares, refreshes the page. It’s still there.
The line cuts sharper on the second read. An F1 intern promoted to full-time via nepotism. He scrolls again. Wrinkles in ways only the ill-fitting do.
Jesus.
He lets the phone drop to the bed and stares at the ceiling.
This, he thinks, is what was missing with Toni. The friction. The fire. The way his blood runs electric when your words land like darts.
He doesn’t know if it’s a curse or an addiction.
It’s humid and loud in the Marina Bay paddock, which is why Oscar genuinely thinks he’s hallucinating.
It’s a dizzying maze of flashing credentials and overcompensating sponsors, all of it vibrating under stadium lights that haven’t even warmed up yet. He’s elbow-deep in a post-FP2 debrief, half-tuned out while Mark and his race engineer argue about brake balance, when he sees you.
You’re in black. Crisp, tailored, the fabric matte and expensive in a way that photographs like silk but doesn’t cling in the heat. Your heels are low but purposeful. Your sunglasses are oversized and unbothered. Your hair’s swept back, barely frizzing in the humidity, and your press pass swings from your hip like a dare.
But what he really sees—the thing that yanks his attention clean from throttle maps—is the lanyard. Alpine.
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t storm over, but the next time he spots you near hospitality, perched casually on the edge of a lounge seat, he doesn’t talk himself out of it, either. He tells himself he’s thirsty, that he was coming this way anyway.
“Bold of you to show up here wearing enemy colors,” he says instead of hello.
You turn at the sound of his voice. Stare at him like you need a second to place the face. Then you smile. Slow, like he’s an inside joke you just remembered. “You mean black?”
“I mean Alpine.”
You glance down at the pass, genuine confusion creasing your brow. “Oh. They gave me a guest tag. I filed my credential request too late.”
“Convenient,” he mutters, though there’s a bite in it.
Your brows lift, a perfect arc of condescension and curiosity. “Did I miss a blood feud or something?”
“Just a contract battle. Public fallout,” he says, trying to brush past it now that he knows you hadn’t done it with malice. “Several months of legal.”
“Ah. I see you’re being emotionally mature about it.”
Oscar huffs out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “You’re very funny.”
“Thank you,” you say brightly, like you’re accepting a prize.
You turn back toward the track, eyes scanning the mechanics swarming around a chassis like you actually know what you’re looking at. Oscar’s about to tease you about it when Lando arrives.
“Hey, love! I thought that was you,” Lando says, an easy grin in place as he slips an arm around your shoulders like you’re old friends. You lean into it without hesitation. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Didn’t plan on it,” you greet the Brit, voice already lighter than it’d been with Oscar. “Vogue sent me at the last minute.”
Oscar watches this with a rising tide of something he doesn’t name. It bubbles under his skin, prickling behind his collar. Later, he’ll find out the two of you occasionally exchange DMs. Lando, supposedly, asks for fashion advice.
Right now, though, you’re smiling kindly. Asking Lando about his setup. Nodding like you’re genuinely interested in the nuances of tire deg in sector three. You even laugh at his dumb joke about humidity and air intake.
The worst part is you look good doing it.
“Can we get a quick shot?” a McLaren social media manager appears with a DSLR, already angling it like the answer will be yes. “You, Lando, Oscar—just one for the feed. Paddock energy and all that.”
Lando shrugs and steps into place. Oscar does too, like it’s muscle memory. You hesitate just a fraction, but you don’t pull away.
So Oscar doesn’t, either.
Instead, he slides his hand around your waist.
Not tight. Not blatant. Just there. Possessive in the way a statement can be subtle and still sharp. You tense. The camera lines up. You recover quickly, spine iron-straight, lips curving with venomous ease.
“Smile,” he says from the corner of his mouth, gaze locked on the lens. “You’re the one in enemy colors, remember?”
Your smile widens. “You’re lucky I look good from this angle,” you grit out.
The flash goes off again.
Oscar doesn’t move. For a brief moment, it’s like no one else in the paddock exists.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He only knows that whatever this is—this weird, escalating combustion between you and him—it’s not slowing down.
Maybe he should be more careful. But as you step out of frame and walk away, leaving behind the scent of heat and challenge, Oscar just thinks: Game on.
That evening, Oscar drives like something’s chasing him.
Not a car, not even the clock. Just a thought. A presence. A black-sheathed silhouette somewhere across the pit lane, wearing the wrong lanyard and a smirk too clever for its own good. You.
You, hovering somewhere in Alpine’s garage. You, probably watching from behind glossy paddock sunglasses, arms crossed, whispering commentary in your head like it’s a column waiting to be written. Probably already composing the headline: Piastri Redeems Himself, Still Lacks Edge.
The logline, probably something like, Oscar Piastri should stick to racing. It’s clearly all he’s good for.
It shouldn’t motivate him. It does, anyway. Sector one: green. Sector two: purple.
He flies. Slips through corners like the car was carved from liquid. Every lap feeds the flame. You watching—or not watching—from the enemy’s camp has him gritting his teeth and braking half a beat later.
When the checkered flag waves, when the roar in his ears turns into a roar in the crowd, when his engineer screams through the radio—“P1, Oscar, that’s P1!”—all Oscar can think is: beat that, darling.
The cooldown room is too bright. The AC is too weak. The cameras are everywhere.
Oscar runs a hand through his hair. It’s wet, flattened from the helmet, and he’s aware of it in a way he normally isn’t. He adjusts the collar of his race suit, makes sure the zipper sits right, wipes sweat off his brow. He pretends not to care.
He absolutely cares.
He eyes the monitor playing back the race. There he is, overtaking with inches to spare. There he is, fist raised, head tossed back in relief. He wonders if you saw that part. If it impressed you. If it annoyed you.
The podium ceremony is a blur. Champagne. Anthem. The weight of the trophy pressing into his palms. He catches his reflection in the metal and straightens up. Just a fraction. Just in case you’re still looking.
Back in the garage, his adrenaline is still humming when he hears your voice. “Congratulations.”
He turns. You’re there, somehow composed despite the heat and the noise. Your sunglasses are gone. You extend a hand. Simple. Professional.
He stares at it like it might explode. “I didn’t realize Alpine handed out sportsmanship awards now,” he says, even as he takes it.
Your handshake is confident. Cool, despite the weather. “I’m off-duty. Try not to let it go to your head.”
He doesn’t let go right away. “Must be hard, watching me win in orange.”
You hum, amused. “You clean up alright, I’ll give you that. Shame about the post-race hair.”
His lips twitch. “You watched my cooldown footage?”
“No,” you say, dropping his hand. Your lips have already turned into half a sneer. “I have taste.”
He laughs, a sharp breath through his nose. “Right. Only tuned in for the mistakes, then.”
“Exactly.”
The tension could cut glass. It hums beneath the words, invisible but loud. There’s no need to drag this on, so you give a curt nod as you turn on your heel.
You’re walking away, already pulling your phone from your pocket, probably drafting your next jab in a group chat somewhere. Maybe something about podium etiquette or helmet hair.
But something glints by Oscar’s boot. Brows furrowed, he bends down.
A bracelet. Thin gold, broken clasped. Delicate, but not fragile. The kind that says a lot in its silence. Your perfume clings to it. Floral, warm, stubborn. Like jasmine twisted with fire.
Oscar holds it for a second, champagne drying sticky on his palm. For once, you’re the one who dropped the ball.
He rubs his thumb over the clasp, then looks up. You’re gone. Lost in the paddock. Swallowed by the crowd and the noise and the shadow of teams who aren’t his.
Looks like he has a reason to find you again.
Not that he needed one.
The opportunity presents itself sooner than expected.
Calvin Klein Autumn/Winter 2025. Runway show. Not just attending. Walking.
Oscar blinks at the email like it’s a prank.
“Please don’t make me do this,” he begs Mark over breakfast in Monza.
Unfortunately, Mark is a slave to capitalism. “You’ll be fine,” the man says, not at all reassuring. “The casting director loves you. The campaign did numbers. They want a face that can drive and walk. Two feet, mate. It’s not surgery.”
Oscar wants to crawl into the nearest drain. He wishes it were surgery. With a noise of resignation that sounds too much like a pained groan, he jabs his fork into his bacon.
The next week, he’s flown to New York for rehearsals. Takes walking classes. Has a terrifying instructor named Claudette who uses a metronome and phrases like own your breath and summon your solar plexus.
He doesn’t tell anyone about the classes. Especially not his sisters, who will definitely make fun of him until the day he dies. Especially not you, because why the hell would he message you first?
The day of the show, he wakes up with his stomach twisted in unfamiliar ways. It’s worse than the nerves he gets pre-race. Something slower, stickier. Like anticipation laced with dread.
Oscar is fitted into his look early. Black wool trousers, pressed razor sharp. A charcoal double-breasted overcoat belted tight at the waist, collar popped. No shirt. Just skin and coat. A single silver chain around his neck. Polished boots. Minimal, but cutthroat. Calvin in its purest language.
The show space is white and glacial. Rows of chairs in stadium silence. He waits backstage with professional models who barely blink. Someone sprays something into the air that smells like cold metal and luxury. Another person tapes the inside hem of his trousers.
Oscar knows exactly where you’re sitting.
Second row, right side, just behind the front row of buyers. Black dress. Black tights. Trench coat draped across your lap. Arms folded. Pen in hand. Eyes merciless.
He steps out onto the runway like he’s walking into fire. One foot, then the next. Claudette’s metronome rings somewhere in his skull. He counts the beat like a lifeline.
You’re not looking at him, not at first. You’re scribbling something, nodding at the tailoring on the model before him.
And then your chin lifts.
He feels your eyes like a pin to the ribs.
You don’t smile. You don’t smirk. You don’t do anything at all. You just watch.
Oscar keeps walking. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter.
He walks past you, into the lights, into the flash, into the breathless click of shutters. But for one heartbeat, all he can feel is you.
Watching.
In complete contrast to the soundless affair, the show’s afterparty is loud.
Louder than necessary, Oscar thinks. Some kind of converted gallery space with concrete walls and modular lighting. Everything hums with house music and ego. Everyone wants to talk. Designers. Models. Brand execs who smile too much and call him “champ.”
Oscar smiles back. He thanks them. He shakes hands and nods along, but his eyes are on the door.
You’ve been hovering at the fringes all night. Never fully in the center, but always just visible. You talk to a few editors. Sip something that isn’t wine. Check your phone often. And when your coat slips over your arm and your bag swings onto your shoulder, Oscar moves.
He cuts through the crowd like he’s late to pit lane. Nearly collides with someone holding a tray of cocktails, mutters a sorry, keeps going. You’re halfway across the lot when he catches up.
“Leaving already?” he calls out, breathless and not at all trying to hide it.
You turn, surprised but not startled. “Piastri.”
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he jams them into the pockets of his overcoat. “Didn’t peg you as someone who ghosts the afterparty.”
“Didn’t peg you as someone who corners people in parking lots.”
“Right. Fair. Still…” He shrugs. “Thought you might want to debrief. You know, since you were there. Second row and all.”
You arch a brow. “You looking for notes?”
His grin tilts. “You offering?”
“Not exactly.”
He takes a half-step closer. The night is cool and you’ve pulled your coat tighter, arms crossed again. Defensive. Or maybe just cold. “Just tell me what you thought, then,” he prods. “Of the show. Of the clothes.” Of me, goes unsaid.
“You’re fishing,” you snipe.
“I prefer ‘seeking insight.’”
You consider him, then look past him, like the skyline has something more pressing to offer. “You didn’t fall. That’s already impressive.”
“High praise.”
“I mean it. You walked better than some actual models.” You look up just in time to see the surprise flicker across his expression. “There. Satisfied?”
Oscar studies you. The way your mouth is a little tight. The way your hands fidget with the strap of your bag. There’s something below the surface, something he can’t quite nail until it hits him right between the eyes.
“You liked the campaign,” he says suddenly.
Your nose scrunches. “Excuse me?”
“My Calvin campaign,” he says, words coming out in a rush. “You didn’t say anything when it dropped. Nothing. No critique. No snide tweet. You went radio silent.”
Your posture stiffens.
He presses, triumphant in a way that a top step could never make him feel. “Which means you liked it.”
You scoff. “You're reaching.”
“Am I?”
You look away. It might be the lighting, but Oscar would bet half his month’s salary that you’re blushing. “It was... fine,” you stammer. “Well-lit. Competently styled.”
“You zoomed in.”
“Jesus, Piastri.”
You're flustered. Just a little. But it’s there, and oh, Oscar is going to count it as the best thing of the night. You adjust your bag again, already pivoting. “I’ve got a deadline. Enjoy the party.”
“Wait.”
He pulls something from his coat pocket. Holds it out.
Your bracelet. Delicate gold, a little bent from the champagne, still catching light. “You dropped this in Singapore,” he explains when your eyes narrow with suspicion. “I figured you might want it back, Cinderella.”
There’s a beat, but then you close the space. Your fingers brush his as you take it. Skin on skin, a flicker of contact that lingers longer than it should.
You don’t say thank you. Just nod once, turn, and disappear towards your car. Oscar stands there, bracelet-less, hand tingling.
Later, in his hotel room, he refreshes your Twitter in hopes of some throwaway tweet about the evening. About the walk. About him. He gets nothing, which is both a curse and a grace.
He falls asleep with his phone in his hand.
Oscar spends his next weekend doing something dangerously close to normal.
No cameras, no sponsor commitments, no paddock buzz. Just him, a takeaway coffee, and the faint smell of old books and worn denim clinging to the air of a tucked-away thrift shop in Monaco. It’s quaint here, nestled between a closed-down gelateria and a hair salon that only accepts clients by surname. The kind of place that never updates its storefront, never plays music above a hush. He likes it.
He’s flipping through a rack of jackets, trying to tell the difference between what’s vintage and what’s just old, when he spots it. A faded, steel-blue working jacket. Broken in just enough. Boxy shoulders. A collar that begs to be popped. He steps forward—
Only for someone else to reach for it at the exact same time.
His hand closes over yours.
You blink up at him, equally surprised. Then, as if nothing is out of the ordinary, you arch a brow. “Figures,” you say.
Oscar groans. “This Principality’s too small.”
“For your ego, definitely.”
He half-smiles, then gestures to the jacket, still suspended between your hands. “I saw it first.”
“Debatable.”
“Undebatable. I was reaching. You intercepted.”
“You were hesitating.”
“I was assessing.”
“You were confused.”
“You were lurking.”
You tilt your head. “I was curating.”
Oscar snorts. “You just make up verbs now?”
“It’s fashion,” you snap. “All languages are fair game.”
You tug gently at your side of the jacket, but Oscar doesn’t let go. He’s not entirely sure why—he can buy a dozen just like it online. But it’s the principle. Or maybe the thrill of not backing down. Or, maybe: it’s you.
You study him. “Let’s both try it on,” you declare.
He squints, as if trying to figure out the ploy underneath your words. “What?”
“We both try it,” you say, the same way one might explain something to a five-year-old. “Objectively decide who it suits better.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
Oscar sighs, glances around the shop like someone might come save him, then relents. “Fine.”
The mirror in the fitting room is cracked at the corner, a thin fracture spidering through the glass like tension made visible. Oscar sits on the little bench, elbows on knees, trying very hard not to look like he’s holding his breath.
You’re up first.
You disappear behind the thin curtain. The fabric sways for a beat too long, and he stares at it like it might offer a preview, a hint, a silhouette. He tries not to imagine what you look like half-undressed. He fails. Spectacularly.
When you step out, the jacket is slung over your shoulders like something you’ve owned for years. Open and deliberate. It shouldn’t work over your outfit—some slinky black knit dress that hits mid-calf, ankle boots that look sharp enough to hurt, gold hoops at your ears, your hair in something careless and unfairly chic. But of course it works. Of course it does.
You push the sleeves up to your elbows with practiced indifference, cinch the belt halfway. Collar upturned with a flick of your fingers. Oscar can’t tell if it’s instinct or performance. Maybe both. Probably both.
“Okay,” you say, watching his reflection instead of the mirror. “Your turn.”
He rises. His knees feel weirdly unsteady. He reaches for the jacket like it’s something sacred. Like touching it is the next part of a dare.
You don’t look away when he slips it on. He pulls it over his white tee, brushes it down over jeans that now suddenly feel too casual, too deliberate. The fit is almost perfect, but you step forward anyway. Tug the belt tighter. Tuck a fold at the collar. Adjust a seam at his shoulder. Your fingers smooth over the fabric like you’re coaxing something to life.
Your hand lingers at his collar. And, for some reason, Oscar’s fingers wrap around your wrist.
You look up at him. Not startled. Not smug. Just… still.
The air is suddenly too warm.
“You look good in it,” you say, voice low. Gazing up at him through heavy-lidded eyes that could mean only one thing.
Oscar’s response is hushed. “So do you,” he breathes, eyes flickering to your perfectly glossed lips.
It happens all at once. Like a thread pulled too tight. Like gravity giving up.
He’s not sure who he leans in. None of it matters, because all he cares about is that your mouth is on his. Hot, firm, hungry. Like you’ve both run out of excuses.
Your lips taste like coffee, like something sweet and sharp. Lip gloss. Impatience. Your fingers twist into the lapels of the jacket he’s still wearing. His hands find your waist, gripping and greedy. He pulls you closer like he means to stay there.
You breathe against his lips, words slipping out between the spaces. “I liked the Calvin campaign,” you hiss, like it pains you to admit.
“I figured,” Oscar grunts. “And you called me a loser at Wimbledon ‘cause you were jealous of Toni.”
You laugh, and it breaks the kiss but not the spell. It’s sharp, breathless, utterly you. “You’re cocky,” you huff, but you don’t correct him.
He preens. “You still kissed me back.”
Your nails graze the back of his neck and he groans, low and helpless.
“You started it, Piastri.”
“You wore the jacket like that.”
“You grabbed my wrist.”
“You knew what that would do.”
Clothes rustle. The mirror starts to fog at the edges. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, dips under your chin, slides down the slope of your throat like he’s learning a new track by touch alone. You fist the front of his shirt and drag him back in like you’re daring him to try and stop.
He doesn’t.
There’s the soft thud of your back against the wall. The faint creak of the bench shifting. Hangers sway behind you in silent rhythm. Somewhere, one clinks against the metal rail, forgotten.
Your breathing is uneven. So is his. The kissing gets sloppier. Hungrier. All tongue and teeth and little gasps that he drinks like water.
You whisper something he doesn’t quite catch. He thinks maybe it’s his name—Oscar, this time, instead of the usual Piasti. He rewards you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. Your jawline.
Then, finally, your throat. You shiver. It’s messy. Steamy. A little ridiculous, with how cramped the space is.
But, also: It’s inevitable. It’s you. It’s not enough. His hands trail upward, reckless and ready to risk it all. He’s barely brushed over your chest when a voice cracks through the space like thunder.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?!”
Oscar jolts like he’s been slapped. You spring apart, breathless and red-faced. An elderly woman with heavy-rimmed glasses and a deeply unimpressed frown is standing there, hands on hips.
“This—not a motel,” she snaps in clipped English, eyes bouncing between the two of you like you’re teenagers caught behind the bleachers. “Out. Maintenant!”
Oscar opens his mouth to apologize, but he fails to form a coherent sentence. You look like you’re biting back a laugh and a grimace at the same time. The two of you are practically shoved out by the store owner, who neglects to notice the vintage jacket still fitted on Oscar. She kicks the two of you out onto the curb.
“Je ne veux plus vous voir ici. Bannis à vie,” she announces before slamming the door in your faces.
Oscar is still catching his breath. You’re already grinning. “Did she just ban us for life?” Oscar wheezes.
“She did,” you say, brushing your hair back. “So. Your place?”
Oscar doesn’t have to be asked twice. He grabs your hand and drags you towards a corner, your laughter still echoing behind you. There’s heat under your skin, not just from embarrassment but from the taste of your mouth still lingering on his lips. Your fingers tighten around his as if you’re daring him to slow down. He doesn’t.
The second his apartment door clicks shut, you’re on him again.
You’re kissing like you never stopped, or like you never plan to again. Oscar backs into the entryway wall, hands at your hips, then your waist, then up your back, mapping all the places he’s wanted to touch you.
“Months,” you mumble into his neck. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”
“Right back at you.”
You breathe against his mouth, sweet and amused. “You always this hands-on with critics?”
He kisses your jaw. “Only the one who got me banned from a thrift shop.”
“That was mutual.”
“Was it?” He nips at your pulse point playfully. “Because I feel like you were the instigator.”
You laugh, warm and close and perfect. “Again: you grabbed my wrist.”
“Again: you styled the jacket.”
You make it to the living room like you’re sleepwalking through instinct. Oscar drops onto the couch and you follow, straddling him like you’ve known exactly how this would go from the very first article. Your palms flatten against his chest, fingertips grazing the hem of his tee.
“It’s my jacket, by the way,” you say.
He scoffs as he shrugs the said off, casting it to the side. “You’re delusional.”
“I wore it better.”
“You looked incredible,” he admits, hands landing on your hips. His thumbs circle at your waist, reverent to a fault. “Still doesn’t make it yours.”
You reach for the hem of your dress.
He stops breathing.
The black knit slides up and over your head, pooling to the side like a flag dropped mid-battle. Beneath, your skin glows in the lamplight, your eyes watching his reaction like you already know it.
Oscar chokes. “Okay. It’s yours. Definitely yours. Keep it forever.”
You smile like you’ve won something. Like the jacket isn’t the only thing you plan on keeping.
Oscar wakes to the morning sun slicing through half-drawn curtains. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. Then he shifts, feels the warm weight curled into his side, your leg hooked lazily over his. And it all comes back in slow, lazy flashes.
The couch, the jacket, your laugh against his neck, the soft thud of you both racing through the Monaco streets like idiots.
He doesn’t remember how many times you ended up in bed last night. He just knows it was a lot. You’d laughed against his mouth at some point and told him he was greedy. He remembers kissing the curve of your shoulder in apology, and then promptly proving your point.
He’s a bit sore. He doesn’t mind.
His arm is asleep. He doesn’t care.
You’re breathing slowly, cheek pressed to his chest, hair mussed from where he’d had his hands in it. Oscar doesn’t move at first. He only stares at your face, unsure of what to do with how at peace he feels.
Then you stir.
“You’re staring,” you mumble, voice still gravelled from sleep. Your fingers curl into his side like it's a habit. “Creep.”
He huffs out a laugh, shifts again to look at you properly. “You know,” he mumbles, “for someone who just climbed me like a tree a few hours ago, you’re awfully judgmental.”
You lift your head, hair falling into your face. Your eyes are barely open. You glance down, underneath the covers where you’re both only half-dressed. The smirk that blossoms on your face is wholly unfair. “Wow. Even your boxers are Calvin Klein. Do they own you, or—”
“Really?” Oscar groans. “First thing in the morning?”
You grin sleepily, mean and glowing in the soft morning light. He leans in to kiss you, but his efforts are met with a palm to his face.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet,” you complain.
“Neither have I,” he protests, trying again to capture your lips.
You dodge him effortlessly. “I have standards.”
“Prissy princess.”
“You were singing a different tune last night.”
He pulls your hand off his face, presses a kiss to your palm instead. Then your wrist. Then your collarbone. Every inch but your mouth.
You squirm a little, breath catching. “Oscar.”
“You said no mouth,” he says against the valley of your chest. “‘m improvising.”
Your fingers thread through his hair. Your grin softens.
It’s dangerous, he thinks. How easy this already feels. How much he wants the morning to slow down just so he can stay in this one moment, in the space between your teasing and something gentler.
You whisper, almost like a dare, “Don’t get soft on me.”
But you’re still curled into him, and he already is. Impossibly soft and utterly gone.
He’s the one who gets out of bed first. Pulls on a hoodie, leaves you with a hickey in a place you can cover up and advice about where he keeps his spare toothbrushes.
The plan is simple: pancakes. Not the boxed kind, either. He wants to impress you. Or, more accurately, he wants to have something to do with his hands that isn’t touching you, because he could probably do it all day. Cooking seems safer than crawling back into bed just to see if you’re awake enough to kiss him again.
He’s halfway through mixing the batter—flour dusting his hoodie, measuring cup discarded sideways—when he hears you. “Really embracing domesticity, huh?”
Oscar looks up. You’re in his McLaren jersey—his, not Lando’s—and nothing else. It hangs off your frame, ridiculous and perfect, and Oscar feels a deeply immature sense of victory bloom in his chest. The same jersey you’d practically flaunted wasn’t his in that Instagram reel, but now? Now, it clings to you like a claim. 81. Piastri.
Everything is right in the world, Oscar thinks to himself smugly.
“You finally found a driver worth repping,” he says, flipping the spatula in his hand with a bit too much flair.
You walk into the kitchen like you own it. Your hair’s a mess, sleep still heavy in your eyes. You loop your arms around his waist from behind and lean your cheek against his back. He freezes. Not because he doesn’t like it, but because he likes it too much. You fit there too well.
“Piastri,” you mumble against the fabric. “You’re burning your pancake.”
He curses under his breath and turns off the stove. Leaves the half-cooked pancake in the pan, forgotten. He turns to face you, and you’re already looking up at him with that expression. The one that sees through him entirely.
“We should probably talk about this,” he says evenly.
“About your tragically uneven pancake?”
He gives you a flat look. “About us. About… what this is.”
You pull back slightly, arms still around him, and tilt your head. “I like you,” you say plainly. “You know that, right? I wouldn’t have gotten into bed with you if I didn’t.”
“You also called me a loser in Vogue.”
“That was my job.”
“You said I looked like a Wimbledon ball boy who got lost on his way to centre court.”
“Because you did. But it doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”
“Unbelievable.”
You shrug, grinning. “You like it.”
He exhales. “You are so difficult.”
“You knew what this was.”
“I thought this was you slowly falling in love with me.”
You narrow your eyes, amused. “I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy.”
Before you can say anything else, he lifts you by the waist, setting you down on the counter behind him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You squeak, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders.
He leans in close, lips brushing your cheek. “Are you finally happy with your brushed teeth now?”
You blink, and then laugh. “Maybe,” you hum, that damned blush already dusting your cheeks.
“Good,” he says, and then he kisses you before you can change your mind.
The batter sits forgotten. The stove cools. Morning sunlight spills across the kitchen floor. And Oscar—hoodie rumpled, hair a mess, heart ridiculously full—decides the pancakes can wait.
Oscar barely has time to sit down when his phone starts buzzing with a FaceTime call from his sisters. Edie, Hattie, and Mae—all three of them crammed into one frame, faces glowing with purpose. It feels like an ambush.
“Is someone dead?” he asks, answering anyway, towel slung over his shoulder. He’s halfway through packing for the next race weekend, and his patience is running thin. “Otherwise, if this is about Hattie’s birthday plans again, I already said I’m not flying commercial.”
“Shut up,” Mae says. “This is serious.”
A beleaguered sound escapes Oscar. Hell hath no fury like the trio of Piastri sisters. “Then get on with it,” he grumbles. “I’m busy.”
Edie leans in like she’s about to deliver breaking news. “Who are you dating?”
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Oscar blinks. Stalls. Sputters out an incredulous, “What?”
Hattie sighs like he’s stupid. “Come on, Oz. You think we wouldn’t notice?”
“Notice what?”
“You,” Mae says, drawing the word out like it explains everything. “Your entire… aesthetic.”
Oscar looks down at himself. He’s in a sleeveless Margiela knit and tailored cargos. The sneakers are Balenciaga. Nothing too loud, but a far cry from his usual khaki-short-and-UNIQLO-tee era.
“You used to dress like you got lost on your way to a uni lecture,” Edie adds. “Now, suddenly, you’re wearing Loewe and soft knits in the paddock.”
“With jewelry,” Hattie cuts in. “Subtle, but intentional jewelry.”
Oscar’s eye twitches. “You lot stalk me too much.”
“The internet stalks you,” Hattie corrects. “We just pay attention. And people have noticed. There are entire threads now.”
She’s not wrong.
There are Twitter compilations. Instagram mood boards. (Oscar knows what a mood board is now.) TikToks that compare his grid walk fits from a year ago to now. The glow-up is so documented, it’s practically a sociology paper.
He remembers the first fight about it. You, arms crossed, standing in front of his closet like it personally offended you. “You own four identical grey hoodies,” you had said with disgust that could curdle milk. “That’s a cry for help.”
“They’re comfortable,” he’d defended.
“They’re a crime against humanity.”
You’d spent an hour styling him in pieces he didn’t even remember owning. Some he’d never worn. He’d grumbled the whole time, arguing about collars and cuts, but now? Now he barely touches the hoodies. He still doesn’t quite know what he’s doing fashion-wise, but he knows what looks good on him. Or at least, what looks good to you.
He flashes back to you in Paris, thumbing the lapel of his coat before a shoot. Tugging the hem of his jumper just so. Offering nothing but a single nod before stepping back like an artist proud of her canvas.
He can still hear you. Style is how you say something without having to explain it. And you’re Oscar Piastri—you’ve got things to say.
The camera pans awkwardly as his sisters continue interrogating him, but then a voice floats from behind the en suite bathroom door, cutting through their squabbles.
“Honey, should you go with the green vest or the cream knit for the weekend?”
Oscar’s soul exits his body.
You step out, holding both options in your hands, freezing the second you catch sight of the phone screen. There’s no way around this. You’re dressed in a bathrobe, barefoot in Oscar’s hotel room. The cat is decisively out of the bag—at least to his family.
Hattie screams. Edie drops her drink. Mae starts coughing so hard that she might be choking.
Oscar unceremoniously ends the call and slams on Do Not Disturb.
You’re pouting, hands curled protectively around the two clothes options you were presenting. “Should I not have called you ‘honey’?”
Despite himself—despite the interrogation he’s sure to get from his nosy sisters—Oscar grins. “Too late for that now,” he says.
He tosses his phone face-down, crosses the room in two strides, and tackles you onto the bed, both of you laughing before your back even hits the sheets. Your voice is muffled by the pillow as you petulantly mumble, “We should’ve hidden it longer.”
“I think the Loewe gave it away,” he says, kissing your temple.
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