SUMMARY ✰ Danny, ever the flirt, sits beside you ‘just for answers’
CONTAINS ✰ SMAU with written parts, Danny being a flirt, some cheesy lines
FEATURING ✰ Daniel Ricciardo x Reader
A/N ✰ At 1:46 AM on September 23rd, Daniel Ricciardo exited the F1 paddock for the last time as an F1 driver.
Your erudition had proved to be plentiful. In all fairness, it had shown its potential late in life whereupon you had been sought out for your insight based on exterior appearance alone. For the foreign exchange student, one whom many had whispered about in quiet, loquacious, manner had chosen to place himself amongst a brighter crowd. In his efforts of mixing in with intellect, Daniel Ricciardo was found right beside you, sitting shoulder to shoulder with a total stranger.
You were lost in the revery of fanciful literature, enjoying the off-time received after finishing the test ahead of schedule by cracking open a new book, when he leaned over to shamelessly scrutinize the contents of your exam. You eyed him cautiously, remaining equanimous despite the frustrations of a cheater.
He glances up at you and appears almost perplexed at the fact you were already looking at him, as if he expected to go unnoticed with his blatant foolery. The man smiles with boyish charm, showing off his pearly whites in the same way a dog tries to imitate a smile. Cute, but clearly guilty. “Are you as smart as you are beautiful?” He whispers, earning a few turned heads as people look back with scornful expressions, insisting quietly that he shuts his mouth.
“What?” You’re utterly flabbergasted by the sheer gall of this boy. To copy your answers so loudly, and then to make an attempt at flirting. Even more abstruse, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest as if it were working.
Danny gives the book in your hands a quick glance. He shrugs, shoulders rolling in such a nonchalant manner. “Doth your pulchritude insist upon your intellect, fair maiden?”
“No—” You blink in surprise, wholly astounded by the nerve. “I get what you’re asking, I just don’t understand why.”
“I just wanna know if you’re safe to cheat off of.”
“Maybe don’t admit to being a fraud out loud. Makes you seem untrustworthy.” Nonetheless, you slide your test paper towards him, all the answers filled out with total confidence.
He smiles in acknowledgment of your impishness. “You didn’t answer the question.”
You don’t answer him at all. One might, under normal circumstances, appear frustrated for your lack of response. However, Danny figures this is only meant to be a ‘fuck around and find out moment,’ so with your form of assistance, he carries on with filling out his exam.
-♡
campusconfess
liked by your.username and others
campusconfess Flirting with someone for answers? 🤔 New strat unlocked
—
georgerussell63 - Just ask me instead of flirting please xx
↳ campusconfess - 😞
username1 - Using seduction to pass a class is rare, but not unheard of…
username2 - Yeah and yk what if he’s gonna butter me up he deserves those answers
username3 - Wow we really have lost all our morals
↳ username4 - You’d do it too for a cute guy
↳ username3 - Depends on HOW cute
↳ username4 - Yet you’d still do it…
username5 - Ay. Respect
-♡
danielricciardo has posted a story!
STORY REPLIES
↳ maxverstappen1 - Ok fess up what’d you do
danielricciardo - I got all the answers right
maxverstappen1 - I don’t believe it
maxverstappen1 - Not for one second
danielricciardo - I cheated off the girl next to me
maxverstappen1 - There it is
↳ hulkhulkenberg - I’ve got my eye on you ricciardo
danielricciardo - I’m a very innocent student professor hulk
↳ lando - Teach me your ways
danielricciardo - It’s a trade secret mate
-♡
campusconfess
liked by oscarpiastri and others
campusconfess Accents. What do we think? Yes or yes
—
username6 - Absolutely yes
username7 - Accents are already a yes but an AUSTRALIAN ACCENT? That’s a yes PLEASE
↳ username8 - there needs to be a study done on why they’re so fine
username9 - Oh I’d be weak in the knees like genuinely
username10 - IS THIS ABOUT THE FOREIGN EXCHANGE STUDENT BECAUSE IF SO? I get it. He’s fine shit
-♡
campusconfess
liked by danielricciardo and others
campusconfess Mhmm…
—
georgerussell63 - Wdym “mhmm.”
↳ campusconfess - Uhh it was sarcastic
username11 - Is this the guy??
↳ oscarpiastri - No
↳ lando - 🤦
username12 - No but actually
username13 - I need an aussie boyfriend rn
-♡
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ BEST FRIEND
-♡
“Do you flirt with everyone like this?”
Danny seems surprised by your question. It had been the same routine as always, his consistency somewhat superb even with tomfoolery as such. He walked in, sat beside you, pretended like he was going to do his work, and then proceeded to chat your ear off with remark after remark about your indelible beauty. But curiosity gets the best of you, so you shatter the illusion of repetition and step out of line with a simple, straightforward question.
It could be dignified with a simple, straightforward response, but then you’re reminded of who you’re talking to and you know that’s not true. “No,” he responds with an ounce of hesitation. You cock one brow, lips quirking into a knowing smile. “Okay. Okay. I sit next to pretty girls in every class, but you know why? They always have the right answers. You’re all smart. But I only flirt with you,” he raises his brows suggestively.
You roll your eyes, but as you look away your hint of a smile widens with every second. Daniel’s on the edge of his seat, waiting patiently for that fangirlish response he had been used to. Normally you’d smile shyly and look away with every suggestive comment, brushing it off by changing the subject.
“Good,” you reply smoothly, not giving him time to process. “I want you to save it all for me.”
Your heart is pounding.
Danny’s dumbfounded, staring at you with wide eyes and an agape mouth like a deer in headlights. Never before had he been rendered speechless.
You were consistently surprising him.
-♡
campusconfess
liked by danielricciardo and others
campusconfess Jackpot
—
username14 - “Oh no my life is great, what do I do?”
username15 - Men who get flustered when you match their freak >>>
↳ username16 - When you catch them off guard and they get all blushy…
↳ username15 - Claiming this energy
username17 - GIMME DAT
username18 - UGHHH FLIRTY MEN WHO ARE SECRETLY SOFT
username19 - WHERE DO YOU GUYS KEEP FINDING THESE MEN??
-♡
campusconfess
liked by your.username and others
campusconfess 🤐
—
username20 - Andy’s coming type of vibe
username21 - This is awkward
username22 - Fancy meeting you here man
your.username - Uh huh 🙄
-♡
danielricciardo
liked by maxverstappen1 and others
danielricciardo Saving it all for you 👀
—
maxverstappen1 - 😂
username23 - Aloha fine shit
your.username - My dinner tonight btw
↳ lando - Literally no food in this slideshow
↳ your.username - I’m not talking about food
↳ danielricciardo - 🫢
-♡
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ DANIEL RICCIARDO
-♡
your.username has posted a story!
STORY REPLIES
↳ bestfriend - THIS IS HIM?
bestfriend - He’s ADORABLE
your.username - EXACTLY
↳ danielricciardo - I’m SO cute omg
your.username - It’s true
-♡
your.username
liked by danielricciardo and others
your.username First dates 🦡❤️
tagged danielricciardo
—
bestfriend - Flowers? Already
↳ your.username - IKR I’m in love
danielricciardo - Many more to come ❤️
↳ your.username - Oo la la 😏
maxverstappen1 - Treat him right for me
↳ your.username - I’ll carry the torch dw
your.username - My boyfriend btw so everyone back off
SUMMARY ✰ Oscar Piastri has been thoughtfully writing two sets of notes for you, because he notices you always fall asleep during lectures. You don’t know who’s been leaving behind these mysterious notes, as you only wake up after they’ve been placed before you, but you hope it’s someone entirely different.
CONTAINS ✰ Slight misunderstandings, gentlemen Oscar Piastri, tooth rotting fluff, Lando cameo
FEATURING ✰ Oscar Piastri x Reader
A/N ✰ My fav polite cat
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ BEST FRIEND
-♡
campusconfess
liked by lando and others
campusconfess A cute gesture from a mystery individual!!! Fess up, who’s giving #82 their notes??
—
username1 - This is so sweet actually
username2 - I wish someone would do this for me
username3 - Wishing it’s your crush is so real 😂
username4 - Idk but I’m jealous of you anon
username5 - Rught? I wanna take a nap and have my notes magically there in front of me
-♡
-♡
your.username
liked by bestfriend and others
your.username Thank you to the person who keeps writing my notes for me because I get to go home and make them look pretty in my notebook
—
bestfriend - Can you lock tf in
your.username - Do you like my silly hat?
> bestfriend - You are an enemy of Christ
friend1 - I like whatever’s wrong with you
friend2 - Born to be geeked forced to lock in
your.username - You get me…
friend3 - Hoping you pull a baddie
your.username - Ty queen… Ily
friend4 - They haven’t pulled me yet so it’s looking unfortunate
> your.username - HEY!
-♡
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ BEST FRIEND
-♡
campusconfess
liked by lando and others
campusconfess - Poor #81… Hoping you get noticed soon
—
username6 - Don’t do things just for attention… Do things from the bottom of your heart
username7 - That’s poetic twin
> username6 - Thank
username8 - Nice guys always finish last…
username9 - SYFM
-♡
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ BEST FRIEND
Y/N’S DMS ☆ LANDO NORRIS
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ OSCAR PIASTRI
-♡
your.username
liked by bestfriend and others
your.username - My love life lowk. (just fumbled a baddie)
—
bestfriend - Sigh.
friend1 - I wish I could block you
friend2 - Haters stay hatin. This is tuff
your.username - Ty Twin
-♡
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ OSCAR PIASTRI
-♡
your.username
liked by oscarpiastri and others
your.username Is that my beautiful, smart, sexy, intelligent, awesome, handsome, pretty, incredible, funny, hilarious, dazzling, sparkling, loving, caring, terrific, awkward boyfriend, Oscar?
tagged oscarpiastri
—
📌 oscarpiastri - I love you
♥︎ by author
your.username - 😻😻😻😻😻
your.username - I want you lowkey
your.username - I love you too
your.username - Guys he’s so fine
your.username - Hello fine shyt
your.username - I’m so lucky
bestfriend - Am I interrupting?
your.username - Yes but u can stay
lando - I was here first
your.username - You pmo I’m blocking you
your.username - Delete this comment NOW
-♡
campusconfess
liked by bestfriend and others
campusconfess Let’s goo!!!
—
username10 - Starting to think this account is actually magic
SUMMARY ✰ One day, when you’re in a rush, Alex holds a door open for you. In your haste, you accidentally utter some words meant for a much more intimate relationship. Just to mess with you, he says it back!
CONTAINS ✰ Crack, Alex being a little mischievous and cheeky, and fluff!
FEATURING ✰ Alex Albon x Reader
A/N ✰ I want to kiss him so bad. Side note, if you’re looking to be added to a taglist, comment under the masterlist for the series and I’ll compose a list for the next chapter!
campusconfess
liked by your.username and others
campusconfess #24 🫣 How do you recover from this?
—
username1 - This would make me want to die btw
username2 - Time to change names and move to a different country
username3 - This is like the more embarrassing version of calling a teacher mom
username4 - That’s actually so funny icl
username5 - If someone did this to me I’d just laugh
-♡
campusconfess
liked by alex_albon and others
campusconfess I laughed, sorry
—
username6 - Admin, have you no shame?
username7 - WHAT
username8 - Icl I’d probably fall in love
username9 - I smell yet another love story unfolding
username10 - Hey, he held the door open. I’d say ily as well
alex_albon - Was he cute at least
georgerussell63 - Why do you want to know?
> alex_albon - I’m interested
> georgerussell63 - In a boyfriend?
-♡
campusconfess
liked by alex_albon and others
campusconfess Bold words
—
username11 - Anon you’re cooked
username12 - Ooo someone has a crush 🤭
username13 - This page is so huge and this is such a specific situation that atp there’s no way he hasn’t seen this
alex_albon - Lol true
username14 - Door holder guy, can you confirm or deny your feelings
username15 - He said ily. What more can he do?
> username16 - But did he MEAN it… 😔
-♡
Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆ BEST FRIEND
-♡
campusconfess
liked by alex_albon and others
campusconfess Fair points are being made. #23 thinks the door guy is suave
—
username17 - That’s actually true
username18 - And somehow he made it attractive and not corny?
username19 - Pls the whole internet is fawning over him
alex_albon - Yeah what a brave guy
username20 - I need him to reveal himself
-♡
campusconfess
liked by alex_albon and others
campusconfess Oh… 👁️ Hello door guy
—
username21 - LOL hello door guy
username22 - WAIT HE’S AMONG US
username23 - DOOR GUY GIVE US A RESPONSE
username24 - Any sign of life from our guy?
-♡
campusconfess
liked by your.username and others
campusconfess BETRAYAL! WE TRUSTED YOU
—
username25 - TOP TEN PLOT TWISTS??
username26 - SO YOU WERE HYPING YOURSELF UP??
username27 - Knowing this makes him even more cute ngl
> username28 - Right? Like he’s funny too
username29 - Cool now kiss already
username30 - I ACTUALLY CAN’T BELIEVE THIS
-♡
Y/N’S DMS ☆ ALEX ALBON
-♡
STORY REPLIES
→ bestfriend - IS THIS WHO I THINK IT IS
your.username - MAYBE…
→ alex_albon- Fuck you lookin gorgeous* for
alex_albon - Aw thanks
your.username - You’re so cringe
your.username - Love you
alex_albon - It’s I love you
your.username - Shut up
alex_albon - SO YOU CAN SAY IT WHEN WE FIRST MET BUT NOT NOW THAT WE’RE DATING
-♡
your.username
liked by alex_albon and others
your.username Could I beat Alex in a fight yes or yes
tagged alex_albon
—
bestfriend - Absolutely
♥︎ by author
bestfriend - You can and you should
♥︎ by author
bestfriend - I support Alex’s rights to shut the fuck up
♥︎ by author
alex_albon - 😕🥺
♥︎ by author
georgerussell63 - No
your.username - SOMEONE’S jealous I stole his boyfriend
LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter
ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K
ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc
ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!
send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ
The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.
There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.
He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.
You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration.
“They’re just jealous,” you mutter.
He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?”
“No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”
That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.
You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.
He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.
“I’m Lando.”
“I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”
You shake his hand anyway.
A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.
You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”
He makes you want to win. So you start trying.
When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.
“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”
You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.
You hand him his water bottle.
“You were okay.”
He gasps. “Just okay?”
“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”
He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.
“Admit it. I looked sick.”
He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.
Later that summer, you win.
It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.
You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.
“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”
You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”
He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.
Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.
At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.
It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.
You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.
The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.
His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.
But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.
He looks at you.
“You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie.
You shrug. “I’m always quiet.”
“Not with me.”
He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.
That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.
“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.
He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard.
“Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”
“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.
And maybe he is.
Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.
He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.
“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.
He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”
You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.
Like watercolor left out in the rain.
You look away first.
You always do.
At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.
He just pulls you in.
You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.
But this is different.
“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”
You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.
Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.
“Come on,” he says.
You frown. “Where?”
“Just— trust me.”
He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.
The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.
Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.
The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.
Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.
“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”
You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”
He shrugs. “Run it.”
So you do.
You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.
The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.
When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.
You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.
“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”
You don’t answer. You can’t.
He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.
“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”
You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.
“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”
He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.
You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it.
You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.
Maybe he always has.
By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.
You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.
He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.
But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.
He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.
His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.
“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.
“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”
“You think I was okay?”
“You were sick.”
He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.
You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.
Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.
Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.
Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.
“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.
You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”
You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”
He makes a face. “Nerd.”
“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”
He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”
You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”
“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”
You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”
He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.
“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.
You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”
The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.
You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.
Until he finds you.
Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”
You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.
“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”
He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”
Your jaw drops.
“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”
You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.
He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.
Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.
He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”
You hum. “FP1?”
He nods.
You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.
“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”
Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.
“You’ll be great.”
You scoff. “You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Why?”
There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.
You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.
“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”
You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.
He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”
You don’t answer right away. You can’t.
The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.
“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”
He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.
“That’s hot,” he teases.
You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”
“But I’m your nightmare.”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it?
It’s always been him.
Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.
You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.
You, who traded circuits for classrooms.
Him, who never stopped circling back to you.
He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.
You think maybe you believe him.
That you’ll be okay.
Because he said so.
Because he always shows up.
Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.
At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.
You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.
You forgot it by morning.
He didn’t.
Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.
Your breath hitches without meaning to.
“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”
Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.
“What?” you ask warily.
He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.”
“Lando—”
“No time. Let’s go.”
You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.
Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.
“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—”
“We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?"
“FIA—”
“Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”
Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.
You run.
Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.
The air smells like salt and speed.
By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.
The one with grass stains on his overalls.
The one whose curls never obeyed a comb.
The one who grinned like mischief itself.
The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.
You stop, breathless. He does too.
And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.
Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.
Beside you, Lando says nothing.
But you feel him watching.
And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.
But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.
Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.
He bumps your knee with his.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Better than okay.”
“You looked happy back there.”
“I was happy back there.”
“Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”
You glance at him, surprised.
“Miss what?”
“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”
You don’t say anything.
He does.
“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”
Your breath catches.
“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”
Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.
“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”
You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”
“We were so happy.”
The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.
You look over at him. Really look.
His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.
And here you are.
“Lando,” you murmur.
“Yeah?”
“I missed you too.”
He doesn’t wait this time.
He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.
And maybe he has.
Maybe you both have.
The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.
All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.
“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.
You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.
It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.
He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.
You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.
“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.
“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”
You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.
You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”
He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”
That shuts you up.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.
“Told you,” he murmurs.
There are races, years, chapters.
Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.
Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.
He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.
There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations.
But you’ve always known who he was.
You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.
And you’ve always let him.
You always will.
He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.
“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”
From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”
You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.
“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.
He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.
He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”
Summary : While filming a “What’s In My Bag?” video for TUMI during a dreamy shoot in Lake Como, Lando Norris proudly shares his favorite travel items: headphones, cinnamon mints, lucky charms… and a stack of Polaroids of his girlfriend.
Until one very private photo slips into the mix, and suddenly the internet sees a whole lot more than he meant to show.
Genre : suggestive, fluff, oneshot
Pairing : Lando Norris x reader
Warning : mature content, allusion to nude and sex activities
Main Masterlist
Author notes : funny and soft oneshot to bring a little bit of joy after the race of Sunday. Everyone please stay safe and if you can, stay away from social media if it gets too hard after this week-end race, love you all <3
Lake Como glistened in the soft morning light, its surface scattered with diamonds of sun as gentle waves rolled against the dock. A light breeze rustled the cypress trees lining the water’s edge, carrying with it the scent of pine and polished wood from the nearby villas. Birds chirped, water lapped, cameras clicked.
And somewhere on a private terrace above the lake, Lando Norris was trying not to sweat through his linen shirt.
“Alright, we’re rolling in three, two, one...” the cameraman’s voice faded into silence as the red light blinked on.
Lando sat back in the sleek director-style chair, a black TUMI backpack resting on his lap. He adjusted the strap, cleared his throat, and gave the camera his signature, cheeky grin.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
His voice echoed softly against the terracotta walls behind him.
“This is my TUMI backpack. I take it everywhere, especially when I’m traveling. It’s kind of like my...survival kit,” he chuckled, unzipping the top compartment. “You’ll see what I mean.”
One by one, he began pulling items out, placing them carefully on the small table beside him.
“First up: my headphones,” he said, holding up a sleek black pair. “Can’t live without these. Whether it’s music, Netflix on the plane, or zoning out in the paddock, these save me.”
He paused and smirked at the camera. “They also help when I’m pretending not to hear Oscar.”
The staff behind the camera chuckled.
“Next... passports. Plural. Yeah. I have three.” He fanned them out like a hand of cards, laughing. “I’m international, baby.”.”
He dug deeper into the backpack and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Opening it carefully, he revealed several stone bracelets in warm earthy tones.
“My mum got me these for Christmas,” he said quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t always wear them on track days, but I keep them close. Just… makes me feel a bit more grounded.”
He placed them gently down and then brandished a small tin.
“Cinnamon mints,” he declared proudly. “For the sweet tooth. Helps with cravings. Or when you want to pretend you don’t eat like a raccoon at midnight.”
More laughter. The atmosphere was warm, friendly. Lando was in his element, somewhere between boyish and bold.
“Now we’re getting to the fun stuff.”
He pulled out a tangled mess of keychains, one shaped like a tiny McLaren helmet, another a fluffy orange pom-pom, and the last: a piece of tissue with the initials LN sewn into it.
“A fan gave me this,” he said, holding it between his fingers. “I’ve had it for years. It’s falling apart but... can’t travel without it.”
He smiled at the memory, then paused as his hand slipped into one of the deeper side pockets. His brow furrowed.
“Oh... wait,” he muttered, pulling something halfway out before immediately stuffing it back in.
He looked up at the camera, suddenly sheepish.
“Uhh...yeah. Some stuff I definitely can’t show you,” he said, grinning and scratching the back of his neck. “Let’s just say... it's better to stay protected”
The staff broke into laughter. One of the camera guys let out a dramatic “ooooohhh.”
“What?” Lando laughed, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “You never know, okay? I like to get prepared.”
Still grinning, he reached again into the bag and pulled out a small, silver disposable camera.
“This guy comes everywhere with me,” he said. “I take film photos when I travel. Stuff that’s just for me, you know? Not for Instagram. Just memories.”
He held it up with affection, then reached in again and began pulling out little mementos: a handmade skull keyring from Mexico, a folded receipt with something scribbled on the back, a broken friendship bracelet.
“I’m kind of a hoarder,” he admitted. “These are all... pieces of places. People. Moments. I like keeping them close.”
His hand brushed against something in the side pocket. A small, rubbery bottle.
He pulled it out before he registered what it was.
There was a beat.
He stared at the camera.
The bottle gleamed in the sunlight. Bright pink. Labelled clearly ' Lubricant: Strawberry flavor' .
“Oh. My god.”
He blinked, went pale, then immediately turned red.
“I...okay, that’s not, this is not...this wasn’t meant to be in here.”
He stuffed it back into the pocket, eyes wide.
The cameraman wheezed behind the lens. A staffer covered her mouth.
“I swear this is not... I didn’t pack this bag this morning!” Lando stammered. “Okay I did, but not, like, not with this interview in mind so I didn't know I had to show it.”
Lando groaned. “Can we cut that out? Please? It’s for...dry skin.”
“Oh wich part of your skin?”
He buried his face in his hands and trie to change the subject.
Still flustered, he grabbed one of his tech pouches and unzipped it, desperate to pivot.
“Oh!” he beamed. “Okay. These are my favorites.”
From the padded pouch meant for a laptop, he pulled out a neat little stack of Polaroids tied with a red ribbon. He untied them quickly, holding the first one up to the camera.
“This... is my girlfriend.”
The way he said it, like he couldn’t believe his luck, was soft, sincere.
He flipped through the pictures with reverence.
“This is her in Spain last summer. Look at this, she was trying to take a serious photo and I made a face behind her.”
He laughed.
“This is us in Monaco. Don’t ask how I convinced her to get in the pool. She hates cold water.”
Another.
“This is her sleeping. And this... this is her at breakfast, in my hoodie.”
His smile melted into something private, like a quiet sunrise behind his eyes.
“And this...”
He held up the next Polaroid to the camera without looking at it first. There was a beat. A pause.
From behind the camera, someone made a choked noise.
Lando glanced up. “What?” Then looked at the picture.
“Oh...oh, no. No, no, no...”
He yanked it back quickly, his ears flushing bright pink.
“Shit, this isn’t...this was not supposed to be in that pile.”
He stuffed it deep into the side of the bag, clutching the remaining Polaroids protectively.
“Oh my god, please can you blur it,” he groaned, covering his face. “That’s from the other pile. Like...the private-private collection.”
The entire crew burst into cackles.
“I swear to god if that makes the cut, I’m a dead man. She’s going to kill me.”
“Was that a nude?” someone asked, not even trying to hide the glee.
“I am not answering that.”
“Was it?” the assistant pressed.
“I plead the fifth,” Lando said dramatically, still red-faced. “Blur it. Blur it, please. I’m begging you. I have a career. I have a relationship.”
He tried to laugh it off, but his smile was flustered, eyes wide and nervous.
Eventually, he cleared his throat, trying to move on.
“Anyway. My phone. My wallet. You know. The boring stuff.”
But even as he listed the rest of his items, he kept glancing at the camera, haunted. Regretfully boyish. Still blushing.
“Alright. That’s what’s in my bag,” he said quickly, snapping the backpack shut. “And apparently... a reason to get murdered by my girlfriend.”
He groaned again. “Can we cut that part? Please? I swear, she’s gonna make me sleep on the balcony.”
The red light turned off.
The staff burst into applause.
“Best interview yet,” one of the directors laughed, clapping. “Gonna break the internet.”
@TUMIofficial
WHAT’S IN MY BAG with Lando Norris: Lake Como Special
Catch our exclusive behind-the-scenes interview with what Lando really carries with him👀
@_user1
WAIT. Did he just… show a nude of his gf on camera?? 😭😭😭
@_user2
THE WAY HE PANICKED. omg that was NOT staged. He looked like he wanted to die 💀💀💀
@_user3
No bc I NEED to know what was on that Polaroid. Was it like artsy nude or nude-nude?
@_user4
LMFAO he had the audacity to hint at condoms, then literally WHIPPED OUT A NUDE LIKE IT’S A FAMILY VACAY SNAP 💀💀
@_user5
He carries cinnamon mints for his sweet tooth AND spicy pics of his girl?? man’s layered fr
@_user6
Not Lando Norris accidentally exposing his thirst for his gf on a sponsored ad 😭 someone check on the TUMI PR team
@_user7
Lube AND nudes of his girl?? Lando Norris is not packing for a trip. He’s packing for a weekend of sin.
@_user8
He really said: “this is her being pretty, this is her sleeping… and this is her NAKED” lmao LANDO WHYYYYY
@_user9
This man is not traveling. He’s on a mission.
@_user10
Lando really opened that bag and gave us: emotional support bracelets, cinnamon mints, protection, lube, porn. He's got range.
@_user11
“Some stuff I can’t show you” and then five minutes later accidentally shows us 😭 this man has NO filter and NO chill
@_user12
This isn’t a “what’s in my bag” this was a “what’s in normally in my bedroom drawer but I somehow take it everywhere in my backpak”
@_user13
He said “I like to be prepared” and I believe him now
@_user14
“That’s from the other pile” UM. HELLO????? THERE IS A PILE??
@_user15
Protective AND obsessed with his girl?? I need a man like Lando
@_user16
He really said “what’s in my bag?” and the answer was: horniness
Texts messages
Y/N
Just watched the TUMI video 😇
Lando
Oh no.
Y/N
The one where my nude photo makes a guest appearance in front of 1.2 million people? 🤗
Lando
BABE
It was an ACCIDENT But don't worry it's blur we can't see a single thing
I didn’t mean to pull that photo
I meant the cute ones!! The breakfast one!! The one where you’re wearing my hoodie!!
Y/N
So you show the one where i’m wearing nothing at all?
Lando
I’m sweating
I’m actually sweating
I’m gonna get sued. by you. By TUMI. By your parents
Y/N
My mum did text me
She said “interesting campaign... very modern”
Lando
NOOOOOOOOOOOO
I’m crawling into the lake
Y/N Also “i like to be prepared”?
Really?
What exactly are you preparing for mid-flight with lube? 🤔
Lando
Dry skin!!!
I said it's for my dry skin!!!!!
Y/N
Right
Because when i think of skin hydratation i think of edible lubricant 🙃
Lando
I’m scared to check twitter
Someone called my bag “frat boy coded" They’re not wrong
Y/N You do carry condoms, lube, candy and a Polaroid of me naked in the same backpack
You’re like Dora the Explorer if she was addicted to sex
Lando
DORA?!?!?! 😭
Y/N
“What’s in my bag?” Everything but self-control
Lando
Okay, first of all, RUDE
Second of all… the lube smells nice
Third of all…
You didn’t complain last time
Y/N
Oh so now you’re doubling down??
Lando
Just trying to make the best of my public humiliation
Besides
What’s so wrong with carrying a few... essentials?
A man’s gotta travel prepared
Y/N
You sound like a horny boy scout
Lando
“Always be ready” is a valid motto 🙋♂️
Y/N
Valid until you drop a bottle of lube in front of a camera crew
Lando
They laughed so hard i thought someone was gonna need CPR
Y/N
You’re lucky i love you
And you’re lucky the nude was actually a good one
Lando
Thank you 🥺 i almost show the one where you’re biting the sheet but i had... instincts
Y/N
INSTINCTS????
You mean your last two brain cells had a moment of clarity
Lando
Pls
Do you still love me?
Y/N
Debatable
Might depend on whether or not you bring me almond croissants when you will come back
Lando
Deal
But only if you let me take a new Polaroid…
One just for me to see😉
Y/N
…
Good luck on media day tomorrow Norris
Lando
Oh no god I forgot about that
The paddock was already buzzing by the time Lando arrived, hoodie up over his head like he was trying to go incognito. Not that it helped, cameras turned as soon as he walked through the gates.
Media day.
He kept his head down, offering a few tight-lipped smiles to passing crew and journalists. He could feel the looks. The barely contained smirks. The PR team had already warned him to "expect commentary.” He hadn’t realized commentary meant the entire motorsport world was now intimately familiar with the contents of his bag.
He reached the McLaren hospitality unit and headed straight for the driver lounge.
Oscar was already there.
He looked up from his phone the second Lando walked in, and the smile started immediately.
“Morning,” Oscar said, way too casual. “Sleep well?”
Lando didn’t answer. Just dropped into the chair across from him and stared at the ceiling.
Oscar waited half a beat.
Then: “So… what’s in your bag today?”
Lando groaned, eyes closing. “No.”
“No what?” Oscar asked, blinking innocently.
“I’m not doing this with you.”
Oscar nodded slowly, tapping his phone against the table. “Right. Of course. Strict media day focus. No time for lube talk.”
Lando didn’t move but look at him shocked. “Oscar!”
“Yes?”
“I will actually fight you if you keep talking”
Oscar continued, unfazed. “I’ve learned a lot about you this week.”
“Please stop.”
“Your skincare routine. Your travel essentials.”
“It’s for my girlfriend,” Lando muttered.
Oscar nodded slowly. “Romantic.”
Lando looked at him. “I didn’t mean to show half that stuff.”
Oscar took a long sip of his water bottle, then added, deadpan: “You were really sweating.”
“I was panicking, Oscar.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
There was a pause.
Oscar looked back down at his phone.
“I just didn’t know you were the type to carry… souvenirs.”
Lando threw his head back and groaned. “It’s private. It’s supposed to stay private.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You handed it to a camera crew.”
“I didn’t know it was that one.”
Oscar hummed. “Risky system.”
Lando covered his face. “I’m not coming out for media. Tell them I’ve combusted.”
Oscar leaned back again, shrugging. “Might be safer. Someone from Williams asked if you’re sponsored by Durex now.”
Lando didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to crawl into his chair.
Oscar gave a tiny, satisfied nod.
Then, after a beat: “At least the mints were normal.”
“Thanks,” Lando said miserably. “Really comforting.”
Oscar took another sip from his water bottle, then looked back at Lando, who was still sulking in the chair across from him, hoodie half over his face.
After a moment, Oscar spoke again. Calm. Curious.
“Okay, but... I actually have a question now.”
Lando didn’t move. “Please don’t.”
Oscar ignored him, tone completely deadpan. “What’s in the pile?”
Lando sat up slowly, blinking at him in horror. “What the hell, Oscar?”
Oscar stayed relaxed, perfectly composed. “You said it yourself. There's the normal Polaroids. And then there’s the private-private pile. So… what’s in it?”
“I am not...” Lando pointed at him, absolutely done. “...having this conversation with you.”
Oscar raised a brow. “Just curious. For science.”
Lando stood up instantly. “I’m leaving.”
Oscar shrugged. “Fair.”
Lando stormed toward the door, muttering something about changing teams, changing sports, maybe even changing names.
He was halfway out when,
“Oi!” Oscar called after him. “Don’t forget your backpack, Norris.”
Lando froze mid-step.
Oscar was already grinning.
“You left it,” he added, far too casually. “Y’know… the one with your precious things in it.”
Lando turned around like a man walking back into a crime scene, snatched the bag off the chair with one hand, and glared.
“Stop talking about it,” he muttered.
Oscar just smiled. “I’m not saying anything.”
“You are thinking them.”
Oscar leaned back, unfazed. “I’m not.”
“You’re being insufferable.”
Lando slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out without another word.
As the door shut behind him, Oscar shook his head slightly and let out a quiet laugh, just enough to himself, just loud enough for it to echo in Lando’s memory for years to come.
r/aita · @papayadays asked, “aita if i cook a lot of fish dishes because the guy (m25) living next door is constantly streaming and playing games loudly at odd hours?”
ꔮ starring: lando norris x neighbor!reader.
ꔮ word count: 4.4k.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor. mentions of food, blood. set in monaco, rivals to lovers lite, max fewtrell (<3) makes an appearance!!!, open ending.
ꔮ commentary box: my favorite type of reader are the petty ones. thank you, joyce, for letting me breathe life into this one 🐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
You move to Monaco with a suitcase, three pairs of good shoes, and a bruised dream wrapped in bubble wrap. The apartment isn’t yours, technically. It’s your aunt’s. She split for Lisbon and left the keys in your inbox like a lifeline.
Temporary, you tell yourself. A pitstop. A soft landing before the real move to Berlin, or maybe Paris. Somewhere with bookstores that stay open past nine and train stations that hum with poetry. Not a place where every other person looks like a yacht catalog model and wears sunglasses indoors.
But it’s free, and you’re broke, so you unpack.
Your first day? An unmitigated disaster. You get lost on your morning walk and end up at the same roundabout three separate times, each one increasingly humiliating. Your French fails you at the grocery store, where you try to ask for almond milk and accidentally request a marriage license.
Then there’s the glass of water that explodes in your hand while you’re trying to rinse dishes. One shard grazes your thumb, and you watch the blood bloom with the kind of theatrical sadness that makes you laugh out loud in an empty kitchen.
By evening, you just want a single conversation that makes sense. You call your best friend. “You wouldn’t believe the day I—” you start, but the line goes fuzzy.
Then it cuts.
Then it returns just long enough for her to say, “You sound like a blender,” before it dies again.
You hold your phone in your lap, eyes burning. It’s stupid to cry about a call, about a thumb, about almond milk. But it’s never about just that, is it?
You crawl into bed, sheets unfamiliar and stiff with that just-washed hotel feeling, and you close your eyes.
Then, he speaks.
Through the wall.
A man. British, probably. He laughs, loud and unfiltered, and the laugh turns into commentary. “Alright, alright,” he hollers, “easy win, mate!”
There’s the mechanical click of a controller. The hum of speakers turned up too loud. And him. Always him. Saying something about headshots and revives and how someone named Max is the worst support player in Europe.
You press your pillow over your face.
He doesn’t stop.
He is holding court with a Twitch audience or a Discord server or, frankly, Satan himself, because that’s the only reasonable explanation for this level of volume past midnight.
You turn over. You try every sleeping position known to man. Your body is tired, but your brain is staging a mutiny.
Across the thin apartment wall, your neighbor whoops, “Oh my God, that was sick!”
You hate him.
You haven’t seen his face, don’t know his name, but you hate him with the precision of a sniper. You picture his setup. Ring light. Gaming chair. Probably eats cereal straight from the box. Probably thinks emotional intelligence is knowing when to mute himself.
You sit up, exhausted and vibrating with something that might be rage or might just be the weight of everything. Of being new. Of being rootless. Of being twenty-something and two train rides away from where you thought you’d be.
You think to yourself, My neighbor is public enemy number one.
Somewhere in the next room, as if summoned, he laughs again.
You fall asleep planning revenge in the shape of a mackerel.
You learned early that revenge doesn’t need to be grand or cruel. It doesn’t need fire. Or blood. Or police involvement. It just needs fish and patience.
Your neighbor—the one with the ungodly laugh and the microphone seemingly embedded into his windpipe—turns out to be exactly what you feared: a streamer of some sorts. Loud. Consistent. Trapped in the same five phrases over and over like a man who thinks enthusiasm counts as personality.
“Massive clutch, boys!” he yells one night.
You’re brushing your teeth. Your reflection doesn’t wince anymore. It just stares back, resigned.
You start to recognize his rhythms. He boots up around ten, peaks at one a.m., and winds down just shy of dawn. You hear every lezgooooo. Every backhanded insult disguised as banter. Every fake laugh with a delay so practiced it should be in the credits.
You get it from the little morning market down by the port, where the old woman with the sharp eyes and the sharper elbows doesn’t judge when you say, “Something that really lingers, please.”
She wraps your fish in yesterday’s sports pages and nods like she’s just knighted you.
You wait. Two nights. Three. And then, on the fourth, the opportunity arises.
He’s at it again.
You’re jolted awake by the sound of crashing digital glass and someone named Alex swearing vengeance over stolen loot. Your eye twitches. Your soul flinches.
You rise.
Barefoot. Silent. Vengeful.
You retrieve the fish from its solemn resting place in your fridge. You unwrap it slowly, ceremonially, like a priest with a grudge. You set the pan on the stove. Add oil. Wait for the sizzle.
Door? Just slightly ajar. You’re not a monster.
The smell hits quickly. The kind that coils through air vents and seeps into memory. Thick. Assertive. Biblical.
You hear him talking.
Then coughing.
Then—“Jesus, what’s that bloody smell?”
You can hear the tinny echo of his stream through the walls. A chorus of confused bros. “Mate, I think something died,” your neighbor complains.
You flip the fish, slow and steady, and for the first time since you moved, you smile.
It is not graceful. It is not healed. But it is something.
There’s a beat of silence before he adds, sounding properly horrified, “I can’t focus. It’s like—like someone deep-fried a sea monster.”
You stifle a laugh.
Another beat.
And then—
“I just threw that round because I couldn’t stop gagging. What the fuck.”
You close your eyes. You breathe in deeply, the scent of your petty, fishy triumph. You feel, for the first time since arriving, like you might survive here.
In the quiet that follows his sudden log-off, you hear something almost tender: the sound of yourself exhaling.
The routine is nauseating and vicious.
Midnight strikes, his headset clicks on, and your stove follows like a soldier obeying orders. You rotate your menu with a quiet, vengeful pride. Mackerel. Bluefish. Herring. The holy trinity of domestic warfare.
Your fridge smells like the Atlantic. You have Tupperware stacked with leftovers that no amount of lemon can redeem. Your clothes faintly reek of brine. Your hallway smells like Poseidon lost a bet.
You blow half your salary on scented oils and humidifiers. It doesn’t matter.
When you hear his stream stutter, when his voice rises an octave mid-sentence, when he lets out a full-body cough on air—you feel something click into place. Not joy, exactly. But electricity, petty vindication. A pulse under your skin.
You’re alive. You’re here. You matter, at least to the man slowly losing his KD ratio to anchovy fumes.
And so are you really that surprised when the letters start?
You find the first one in your mailbox, scrawled on a curling Post-It in handwriting so bad it looks forged by a raccoon.
Please stop cooking fish.
No greeting. No signature. Just a room number: 4B.
Your neighbor.
You laugh. Out loud. Alone.
You grab a pen, flip the Post-It, and write:
Please stop streaming like you’re commentating a demolition derby.
You slip it into his box with the kind of rigor that would make your childhood piano teacher weep. He responds two days later. New Post-It. Different color. Same aggressive penmanship.
You’re ruining my career. I had a sponsorship stream. I nearly vomited mid-Raid.
None of those words make sense or, frankly, matter to you. You write back:
You’re ruining my circadian rhythm. I nearly cried brushing my teeth.
The great war escalates.
Buy a fan, you write once. Or a conscience.
Buy soundproofing, he shoots back. Or a soul.
This is harassment.
This is performance art.
No names. Just numbers. 4A. 4B. Scrawled like rival graffiti tags across increasingly creative stationery. Napkins. Magazine margins. Once, the back of a takeout menu.
You keep them all.
You don’t know why.
Maybe because his handwriting is getting better. Or maybe yours is getting worse. Maybe because his notes are still angry, but the barbs are getting softer. He adds a ‘please’ once. You add a smiley face, very small, like a glitch in the matrix.
It stops being war and starts being—something else.
You still cook. He still streams. The stakes have changed, though. It’s less about triumph now, and more about tension. A taut little thread stretched between your walls.
He says nothing, but one night you hear his laugh falter. Just once. Like he’s smiling at something off-mic. Probably this morning’s Post-It, where you proclaimed you would have him arrested for having the world’s most obnoxious giggle.
You don’t know why your chest goes warm.
You open your fridge. There’s herring, wrapped in foil.
You leave it there. Just for tonight.
Three days later, you’re at the grocery store, waging war with the top shelf.
The cereal you want is just out of reach, wedged between some fancy muesli and a box that promises to change your digestive life forever. You rise on tiptoes. Stretch. Swear under your breath. Contemplate climbing the shelf and dying dramatically in aisle four.
“Need a hand?”
The voice is warm, accented, familiar in a way that makes your stomach tilt. You turn.
He’s tall. British. Hoodie up, sunglasses on like he’s either famous or afraid of fluorescent lighting. Curly hair peeks out at the edges. His smile is quick, polite, and somehow bashful.
You nod, startled. “Yeah, sorry. It’s always the stupid cereal.”
He grabs the box and hands it to you. Your fingers brush. You try not to make it a moment. “Thanks,” you say simply.
He just nods. A twitch of his lips, the shadow of something amused.
You think that’s it—a blink-and-miss-it kindness—but then he reappears in the produce section. Holding a single banana like it’s a business decision. Then again in frozen foods, squinting at ice cream like it might reveal a secret.
And again, finally, in line. In front of you. Holding his sad little haul: oat milk, bananas, a chocolate bar.
You place your basket behind his and say, “That’s a bachelor’s cart if I’ve ever seen one.”
He glances over his shoulder, guarded, but snorts when he sees it’s just you. “Guilty,” he chirps. “You, uh—planning a dinner party for all the pescetarians of Monaco?”
You glance at your cart. Fish. Fish. More fish. Lemons. You smile. “Just making enemies.”
He raises a brow, intrigued, but he doesn’t press. Instead, his gaze dips to the chocolates near the register. “These are rubbish, aren’t they?”
“They are,” you say, “but they’re cheap and I’m sentimental.”
He grins. Something slow and crooked. “Story of my life.”
You reach for a bar and toss it into your cart. Then, like it matters, like it might matter more than you want to admit, you offer your name.
He freezes. Not in a dramatic way. Just a flicker. Barely noticeable. Social norms call for him to give his name back, but it looks like he’s about to make you work for it. “You don’t know who I am?” he asks, head tilted, almost cautious.
You squint. “Should I?”
He shrugs, trying to make it look casual. “Just… most people do. Eventually.”
You gesture at his hoodie and shades. “You’re going very hard on the international man of mystery look.”
That earns a laugh. Light, genuine, like it surprises him a little. He steps up, pays for his things. The cashier doesn’t blink, and you wonder if Monaco’s grocery clerks are trained to ignore famous people. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
He picks up his tote bag, turns halfway back toward you. “Nice to meet you,” he says, name still unspoken.
His eyes flick down to your cart again. “Hope your neighbor likes fish,” he adds as a final jab, his lips somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
Then he’s gone.
Out the door. Into sunlight.
You stand there with your cereal and your vengeance and a chocolate bar that suddenly feels a little more romantic than cheap. You try to forget about the romcom-ness of it all, which isn’t all that hard.
Especially when your neighbor starts streaming again that night.
You hear it the second you roll over in bed and your cheek sticks to the pillow in that cursed way it does when you’re halfway between dreams and rage. The voice booms through the wall like clockwork, but this time, there’s a second one.
Lower. Calmer. With an accent you can’t quite place and the voice of someone who would absolutely win in a hostage negotiation. “Max, you’re such a tryhard,” your neighbor groans.
Max mumbles something in return. You can’t hear the words, but you can hear the smirk. They’re good together. The kind of good that only comes from years of knowing exactly how to get on each other’s nerves without ever actually bruising anything.
You throw the blanket off with the grace of a corpse rising from the dead.
You consider the herring. You even go as far as opening the fridge. But it doesn’t feel worth it. Not tonight. Not when the noise is less a scream and more a low, persistent thrum.
So instead, you grab a Post-It.
Your pen hovers for a second. You’re too tired to be clever, too annoyed to be poetic.
Some of us sleep. Just a thought.
You shuffle to the hallway, drop the note to the floor, and slide it under 4B’s door. No drama. No ceremony. You’re tucking yourself back into bed when Max’s voice cuts through the wall. “Hey, Lan. You got mail.”
A pause. Some shuffling. Then a laugh. Unmistakably from the bane of your existence.
Your neighbor again, amused: “It’s from 4A. This is basically a love letter.”
You roll your eyes so hard it might count as cardio.
“You two got a little thing going, huh?” Max huffs.
“It’s a game,” your neighbor says. “A little fishy cold war. Very romantic.”
There’s a clatter of something—a chair being kicked, maybe. And then your neighbor’s voice softens, like it always does when he’s trying not to seem like he’s trying. “Alright. I’ll keep it down,” he says.
Not to Max. Not to the stream. To you. Probably.
He does.
The rest of the night is quieter. Not silent. Just gentle. Muffled laughter, low voices, the occasional rustle of something plastic.
But you can’t sleep. Not because it’s loud, but because you caught something else. Hey, Lan.
A name.
Lan.
You say it once in your head. Just to try it. You’ve named your enemy now. Sort of.
You lie there, awake, holding the syllable in your mouth like it might mean more than it should.
Lan.
The name sticks.
It loops around your mind like a lyric you didn’t mean to memorize. You think about it brushing your teeth. Folding laundry. Stirring rice. It hums in the back of your head, louder than any of his streams. More persistent than his dumb laugh.
You wonder if that’s what Max calls him. If that’s what everyone calls him. If he signs hotel check-ins with it or introduces himself that way on streams or if he only ever lets certain people use it.
Whatever it is, you and Lan have now abandoned all pretense of civility. The mailbox game is over.
Now it’s Post-Its under the door, no shame, no waiting. You slide one under when his voice gets too loud. He returns fire when your fish leaks into the hallway. It’s not war anymore. It’s not not war. It’s something else.
A little dance. A game where neither of you know the rules, but you’re both still playing.
One afternoon, you’re juggling three paper bags and a box of laundry detergent in the apartment elevator. You’ve pressed your back to the wall, trying to breathe through the feeling that your arms might just abandon you, when the doors creak open. “Whoa,” someone says. “You need a hand?”
He’s all clean curls and clear eyes, baby-faced in a way that makes you think he’s either younger than he looks or has very good skin habits. His sweatshirt reads Quadrant in big letters across the chest. His duffel bag has the same logo.
He steps in before you can protest and grabs one of the bags from your arm.
“Thanks,” you say, a little breathless. “You don’t live here, do you?”
“Nah,” he replies, grinning. “Just visiting a mate.”
You nod, adjusting the detergent. Small talk is pretty mandatory when the other person is helping you with your groceries. “Nice,” you respond. “You from the UK?”
“Guilty,” he says. “I’m Max, by the way.”
Max. As in Max, you’re such a tryhard-Max. As in Max who said Hey, Lan with the comfort of a best friend.
Your brain stutters. Trips. Goes cold and still. You flinch, almost visibly. You don’t offer your name.
He doesn’t notice, too busy glancing at the elevator numbers. You scramble for a lifeline, something to say that doesn’t immediately tie you to 4A. To the fish. To the Post-Its. To the sleepless nights spent writing anonymous venom and then rereading it like scripture.
“I—I actually forgot my keys,” you blurt out as the elevator doors slide open. “Think I’ll just run back to the lobby.”
You’re already halfway out the doors when Max turns, still holding your groceries. “Wait, do you want me to—”
But you wave him off, doing your best impression of someone not about to spiral. “Just leave it by the floor!” you yell back, making a run for it.
You hide in the stairwell. You wait, then you peek. Max, although confused, does as you asked; he leaves your groceries on the floor by the elevator before walking down the hall.
Right to 4B.
You curse under your breath. You watch him enter with a spare key, and then you wait a full five minutes. You sprint, grab your groceries, and fumble with everything for a full minute.
Door. Key. Lock. Twist.
Inside your apartment, you collapse against the door, heart pounding like you just committed an actual crime. You feel ridiculous.
You also feel something else. Something weirdly like grief.
For what, you don’t know. Maybe for coming close to the possibility of putting a face to the name. Monaco has been lonely in that I’m-just-passing-through way, and you’ve wondered if knowing your neighbor—actually knowing them, beyond the warfare—would ease that ache. You’ve yet to meet him. You’re not sure if you ever will. But you’ve met his best friend, and you try to let that be enough.
Come Monday, you find that you’re not okay.
You have a job interview tomorrow—real job, real stakes, real money that could pay for food that is not fish and therapy—and your brain has decided to stage a coup. Your apartment is a mess. You’ve gone over your answers a hundred times. You’re sweating in places that shouldn’t sweat. Your blazer has a suspicious stain on the inside hem and you’ve just realized you might not know how to tie the scarf you planned to wear.
And next door, Lan is streaming again.
Loud. Oblivious. Laughing in that way he does when he’s not trying to be charming but kind of is.
You sit on your couch, holding a mug of tea that’s gone cold, feeling like a deflated mascot costume. No fish tonight. No energy for spite. You just want silence. You just want sleep. You want tomorrow to come and not completely ruin you.
So you do something you haven’t done before.
You knock at the wall.
Not hard. Just three fingers to the wall. Firm. Sharp.
A pause. Then Lan’s voice, slightly muffled but still infuriatingly warm: “Hang on, chat. Be right back.”
Shuffling. SIlence.
Then, through the wall: “Hey, neighbor. You okay?”
It’s the first time he’s properly addressed you. He sounds close, like he’s pressed up right against the wall. You close your eyes and try to imagine how that looks like.
“I have a job interview tomorrow,” you say, voice thin and smaller than you mean it to be. “It’s important. I really need it. So if you could just… I dunno. Let me have this.”
There’s no way you could know, of course, that this is technically the first time Lan has heard you speak. How he’s frozen on his side of the wall, fingers curled over the plaster like he might be able to reach through it and reach you. How he’s realizing that you’re actually a very real person with very real feelings, not just some caricature he’s been exchanging threats with these past weeks.
A beat. Two. You hear him shift. The faint creak of his chair. The hum of his mic.
Then: “Sorry, guys. Gonna call it early tonight. Something came up.”
You stare at the wall, stunned. Not used to getting what you want without some sort of conflict or fish stench. You wait five minutes, then ten. It really has gone quiet. Lan has called it a night, just because you asked.
You lift your hand and tap twice. Thank you.
There’s a pause.
Then two taps back. It sounds a lot like you’re welcome.
The next day is a blur of sweat, strangers, lukewarm coffee, and a delayed bus ride that smells vaguely of onion. The interview went well. Surprisingly well. You said things like strategic alignment and collaborative dynamic and did not throw up on yourself.
You get home exhausted. Starving. Quietly proud. That’s when you see it.
A bouquet of supermarket flowers, taped crookedly to your door. They’re not fancy. A little wilted. The cellophane crackles in the breeze. But they’re trying, and there’s a Post-It stuck to them.
Hope it went well.
Your stomach does something ridiculous.
You take the flowers inside and set them in a glass, because you don’t own a vase. You sit on the floor beside them, still in your interview shoes. You stare at the wall that separates you from him.
The job offer comes on a Wednesday.
London. Real contract. Real benefits. A desk with your name on it and a swipe card that might actually open something important. More than that: an apartment lease that belongs solely to you. Your name on every dotted line. No inherited clutter. No temporary furniture. No fishy feuds with mystery men next door.
You should be thrilled. And you are, mostly. Enough to dance in the kitchen when the email lands. Enough to call your best friend and scream. Enough to finally let your shoulders drop for the first time in months.
But under that: something a little tight. A little strange.
You’ve done well not forming attachments in Monaco. That was the rule you gave yourself from the beginning. Keep it temporary. Keep it light. Don't grow roots in a place that was always meant to be a layover. A waiting room. A pitstop.
Except.
Well.
Your suitcase is zipped and locked. Your boxes are taped with Sharpie scrawls that say things like kitchen stuff and probably important. They’re already downstairs, waiting for the courier. Everything practical is done.
What’s left is not practical.
You’re in your hallway with one last Tupperware, this time not a weapon but a gesture. Sushi, handmade. No cooked fish. No smell. No passive-aggressive message in the form of mackerel oil. Just rice and seaweed and clumsy affection.
You knock.
At first, there’s nothing. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The door cracks open an inch. Lan peers out.
Or rather, the boy from the grocery store does. Hoodie up. Hair a little messy. That same unreadable look in his eyes.
Recognition hits you both like a comedic pratfall. “Oh my God,” he says, pulling the door open fully. “Grocery store girl.”
You stare. “You’re the hoodie guy?”
“And you’re the fish assassin.” He steps fully into the hallway, barefoot and blinking. “Are you stalking me?”
“I live next door,” you deadpan.
A beat. Then it hits him, too. His jaw drops. “You—You’re 4A?”
“And you’re 4B,” you say, like it’s the final piece of some wildly stupid jigsaw puzzle.
You both laugh. The kind that spills out before you can decide whether to stop it. The kind that feels like relief.
There’s a silence, hanging there. A quiet that isn’t awkward. That sits between you like something gentle. You lift the Tupperware.
“I’m moving,” you say. “Thought I’d say goodbye with something less vengeful.”
His smile falters. Not dramatically. But enough. “Moving?”
You nod. “Job in London. New apartment. New walls. Probably thicker ones. No more passive-aggressive Post-Its.”
He takes the sushi, then hesitates. “So… this is it?”
You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Yeah. Don’t worry. You’ll find a new nemesis to annoy.”
“I don’t want a new nemesis,” he says. “I want my fish-scented wall banshee.”
You snort. “Touching. Truly.”
He lifts the lid on the sushi, looking at it like he’s not entirely sure what to do with it. “Full disclosure,” he mutters. “I actually really fucking hate fish.”
“I figured,” you hum, fingers curling around each other so you don’t do something stupid. Like take back the Tupperware and say you’ll make him something better. “You still let me stink up your living space for three months.”
“I didn’t let you,” he counters. “I endured you. With dignity.”
“Barely.”
“True,” he admits, “but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
And just like that, your chest gets tight again. You both go quiet, standing there in the hallway that always smelled like leftover fish and mild annoyance. Except now it just smells like memory.
You step back, toward your door. “Well. See you around, 4B.”
“See you, 4A.”
You close your door. This is how the story should end.
But five minutes later, there’s a muffled sound. That now-familiar slide of paper against wood. A Post-It, slipped under your door for the last time.
Call me when you get to London. I’m from around there, actually, so I know a thing or two.
There’s a number written beneath it. Black ink. Neat. And, this time, signed with not 4B but with a name.
Lando. You turn it over and over in your head, sifting through all the times you mentally called him Lan and wondered what it was short for.
Lando. Your nightmare of a neighbor. Streamer, grocery store boy, and something else entirely.
You hold his Post-It in your hand longer than necessary. After a long moment, you walk to the wall.
content warnings. i bought a 45 dollar mv33 cap and it wasn’t for me im so sad.. anyways. cursing. implied infidelity. light emotional manipulation. jealousy. some spanish. i think that’s it. i added pato because i love him.
After a harsh breakup, you and Lando reluctantly take a summer trip together to the Amalfi Coast you once booked. Forced to share a car, a villa, and memories, old arguments flare up—but so do burried feelings.
pairing. Lando Norris x ex-gf! fem! reader.
warnings. second chance, 12,5k words, enemies to lovers -ish, slowburn -ish, forced proximity, angst, both are toxic toward each other as hell, a lot of arguing & screaming, profanity, protective!lando, alcohol use, hints of past toxic relationship, pet names (baby, love), emotional ending.
playlist.
YOU HATED HOW DAMN STUBBORN YOU WERE.
Anyone with a shred of common sense would’ve canceled the trip. After all, what kind of lunatic agrees to spend a week in paradise with the person who’d just torn them apart? The breakup hadn’t been quiet. It had been volcanic, ugly—shouting matches that scraped raw, doors slammed hard enough to echo, words thrown like knives that still lodged in the back of your mind.
But somehow, you and Lando had decided to go anyway.
The conversation happened over a series of dry, impersonal texts. No calls. No apologies. Just blunt logistics. The vacation was booked, paid for, and non-refundable. Even for Lando and his millionaire status, tossing that kind of money felt wasteful. For you—on a budget and aching—it was a once-in-a-lifetime trip you probably couldn’t afford to make solo.
So you swallowed your pride and took the chance.
Amalfi. The place you'd once squealed over together on that couch, scrolling through sun-drenched villas like future memories. Back then, it felt romantic. Now it felt ironic. It was Lando’s name on the booking confirmation, his card that sealed the deal. You were going on holiday with your ex—not because it made sense emotionally, but because the receipts said so.
There was a bitter humor to it. You were about to spend seven days surrounded by turquoise water, lemon trees, and honeymoon energy… with the one person you could barely look at without remembering how it all shattered.
───
The plane jolted once, twice, then landed with the grace of a shopping cart being shoved downhill. Classic Ryanair. You stood, shoulders stiff from the cramped seat, heart heavier than your carry-on.
You’d been told Lando would be waiting outside the arrivals terminal in the rented car. That’s all. No details. No “can’t wait to see you.” Just a one-liner text that barely felt like it came from someone you used to call “baby” while brushing your teeth beside him. You had no idea how he’d arrived. Private jet? Yacht? Teleportation via sheer ego? You didn’t care. You didn’t ask.
What you did care about—much more than you wanted to admit—was that there would only be one car.
You could’ve rented your own. Sure. But the price tag on that? Dumb. Especially when your ex was quite literally one of the fastest drivers on Earth. He could drive you anywhere. Probably blindfolded. You convinced yourself it was practical. Just smart economics.
Except… maybe you were also a little terrified he’d crash just to prove a point.
Your mind spun stupid scenarios as you walked through the glass doors of the airport: Lando taking a hairpin turn too sharply with a smirk. Lando casually flooring the gas mid-argument. You rolling your eyes, pretending you didn’t flinch.
You told yourself he wouldn’t. That he wasn't that petty. But then again... you hadn’t seen him since your last fight. Since he threw those words that still lived like a burn in your chest.
You stepped out into the blur of heat and exhaust, scanning the arrivals zone like it was a battlefield. Taxis lined up like options. Easy exits. You could just take one—pretend the plan was always solo. Pretend you hadn’t agreed to this ridiculous arrangement with a man who now felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face.
But then you saw him.
Leaning against a white SUV, arms crossed loosely, phone dangling from his hand. His hair was messier than usual, curls flattened by travel or maybe nerves. And yeah—you were shocked to admit it, but he did look nervous. His gaze kept flicking to the terminal doors like he was debating whether to bolt or stay.
You gripped the suitcase handle tighter, fingers white-knuckled as you gathered what was left of your pride and stepped toward him. One foot in front of the other. No turning back now.
Lando looked up as you approached, locking eyes with you in a way that made your chest clench. His expression didn’t give much away, but his eyes scanned you. And maybe judged you. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe you just felt like they did.
Suddenly the whole idea seemed catastrophically stupid.
“Hey,” he said, voice caught somewhere between casual and careful.
You nodded once. “Hello.”
That’s all you allowed yourself to say. Nothing warm. Nothing cruel. Just the word that lived in the neutral zone between past and present.
You popped the trunk, lifted your suitcase without asking for help. The silence felt heavy and awkward, pressing into your ribs. You slid into the passenger seat, clicked the belt into place, and stared straight ahead—hoping the engine would cover everything you weren’t saying.
The silence in the car was thick enough to touch, broken only by the occasional aggressive hum of the engine as he pushed the SUV harder into each curve. The road twisted like it was designed to test his patience—or maybe his impulse control. You watched the sheer drop to the sea flicker past your window and gritted your teeth.
Typical Lando. Always driving like the rules were optional, like adrenaline made up for emotional depth.
“Do you always have to drive like you’re trying to crash us?” you said, deadpan. No heat in your voice, but not quite empty either. You kept your gaze trained on the cliffs ahead, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
Lando chuckled, and the sound annoyed you more than it should.
“You used to think it was fun,” he said, like that was some kind of trump card. You could hear it—the smirk stretching across his mouth, the self-assured tilt in his voice. “You loved it. You used to throw your arms out and belt whatever trash was on the radio. Remember that one ABBA song?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just stared harder out the windshield. The memory clawed its way up regardless: you, half-hung out the window screaming lyrics with the wind in your hair, him laughing beside you, hand casually firm on the wheel. Back when speeding with him felt more like flying.
“I used to love a lot of things,” you said finally, voice low and flat. The words landed like a slap on the console between you.
“Such as?” he asked, turning his head just slightly, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar glint. The smile tugging at his mouth wasn’t warm—it was calculated. Lando knew exactly what he was doing. Poking. Testing. Pushing the edges of your temper like they were buttons in a video game he used to win every time.
But not today.
You didn’t bite. Not like before.
Instead, you leaned back in your seat, arms crossed loosely, gaze locked on the winding road ahead. Then you smiled. That big, ironic one. The one that meant I know what you're doing—and I'm better at it now.
“Such as papaya,” you said coolly. “You kinda ruined the taste.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was victorious.
The car rumbled to a stop in front of the villa, tires crunching over gravel as the sun dipped lazily toward the horizon. It was breathtaking—whitewashed walls draped in bougainvillea and ivy, the house clinging to the cliffside like it belonged there. It looked like something out of a travel magazine. Just not one you ever imagined starring in with your ex.
You stepped out, heart tight, and let your gaze sweep across the facade. It was beautiful. Painfully so. The kind of beauty that felt unfair, considering how miserable you were inside.
The moment you crossed the threshold, warm citrus air met polished terracotta tiles. Everything was perfect: airy rooms flooded with golden light, vintage furniture artfully mismatched, and just beyond the arched French doors—a sprawling terrace with a view that stole the breath right out of your lungs. The sea stretched endlessly below, glittering like spilled sapphires.
This was everything you’d wished for.
Until you reached the bedroom.
You stopped cold. Eyes wide. Staring.
One bed. Just one.
Your stomach dropped. Of course. Of course they hadn’t listed that tiny, crucial detail when the booking was made—back when shared pillows and lazy mornings were still your reality. Not this.
Your breath snagged in your throat, and you stood in the doorway like you’d been slapped. The bed loomed large, perfectly made, flanked by two matching nightstands and smug silence.
You stood at the bedroom threshold, staring at the one bed like it had personally betrayed you. The pristine white linens, artfully fluffed pillows, and sun spilling across the mattress—it was all too perfect. Too intentional. Too… romantic.
Lando’s footsteps were soft behind you, but you felt him coming long before he spoke. You turned halfway, still wide-eyed.
“There’s only one bed,” you said, flat but not emotionless. More like disbelief simmering under the surface.
He didn’t even blink. Just glanced at the room, then at you, lips curling into a half-smile that felt a little too easy.
“It was supposed to be romantic, remember?” he said, shrugging.
Of course you remembered. The memory flickered across your mind like a cruel joke—you and Lando side by side, tangled in blankets months ago, scrolling through dreamy villas and laughing over terrace views and breakfast baskets. You had picked this one. Together. Back when the idea of shared mornings still felt safe.
Now, his tone landed somewhere between wistful and cocky, and you hated how much it still made your stomach flip. Maybe he didn’t even mean it that way. But coming from him? Everything sounded like a power play lately.
“I’ll take the couch,” you said immediately. You turned without waiting for a response, already sizing up the living room in your head, calculating whether a throw pillow could double as emotional armor.
But Lando didn’t let the silence settle. Instead, his voice came softer, enough to stop you mid-step. “Y/n, c’mon. A woman shouldn’t sleep on the couch. Take the bed.”
You blinked.
That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not after everything. You turned slowly, narrowing your eyes, unsure if he was joking or trying on chivalry like a borrowed jacket. Did someone swap him out for a gentleman when you weren’t looking?
“I’m fine,” you replied, smile creeping into place—sharp, ironic. “You’re the pro athlete. You need sleep to... I don’t know, race cars and stuff.”
He raised one eyebrow, that look in his eyes like he wanted to say something else. Maybe argue. Maybe offer. But he didn’t.
───
The afternoon sun spilled across the streets like thick honey, turning everything gold and soft at the edges. Voices swirled around you—Italian, German, a splash of English from passing tourists. You walked ahead of Lando with deliberate distance, camera in hand, snapping photos while carefully keeping him out of the frame.
It wasn't passive aggression exactly—it was preservation. You wanted memories of Amalfi, not fragments of him slipping into your shots like shadows you didn’t invite. He didn’t say anything about the distance, didn’t try to catch up. Just followed, sunglasses on, hands tucked into his pockets, moving with that cool indifference that used to thrill you but now felt like ice.
You found a small grocery tucked between two pastel buildings, quaint and shaded with striped awnings and handwritten signs. Inside, the space was cramped and overflowing—bright fruit spilling from baskets, dusty wine bottles stacked in corners, the scent of basil and old stone. You wandered the aisles, letting your fingers trail across unfamiliar packaging while Lando trailed somewhere behind you. There was no conversation. Just a silent agreement to stock the villa with food, avoid killing each other, and act vaguely human in public.
Eventually, you reached the pasta aisle. Shelves crammed with every type imaginable—linguine, conchiglie, tagliatelle, shapes you didn’t recognize and didn’t care to. You reached for a bag of rigatoni, mostly at random. It was pasta.
And then came his voice, slicing through the calm like a paper cut. “Really? Rigatoni? They’re cheap shit.”
You froze, staring at the bag in your hand. Of course. Of course he had an opinion. Lando always had an opinion. He snatched the rigatoni from your grip and replaced it with fusilli like he was doing you a favor.
“Take fusilli,” he said, like that settled it.
You turned slowly, eyebrow raised, annoyance prickling beneath your skin.
“Since when does pasta define who I am?”
He barely looked up from the shelf, casual in his dismissal. “It says a lot about your standards.”
Your throat went tight. The room felt smaller. Hotter. You bit down on the response rising fast—but then let it go, sharp and clean.
“Funny,” you said, voice curling around each syllable. “Because my standards clearly weren’t that high even back then.”
You didn't have to name the reference. You didn’t need to say you. His eyes flicked to yours, and for a split second, the smirk faltered.
You could practically see the fire flicker behind his eyes, barely restrained. The jaw clenched, the breath pulled tight, the faint twitch of his fingers like he was seconds from snapping. If you were a betting woman, you’d wager he was one sarcastic syllable away from calling you a bitch—or worse. The pasta aisle had nearly become a battleground.
And then—
The old woman stood beside the shelf of olive oil, her hands folded sweetly over her purse, a smile tucked beneath deep laugh lines and crooked lipstick. She looked pleased with herself. Like she'd just witnessed something adorable.
“Ah, young love,” she said with a thick, choppy Italian accent, her voice loud enough to echo through the aisle. “Always arguing but still together.”
Your whole body went rigid.
For a breath, you were frozen—caught in a strange spiral of horror and disbelief. You had just survived a pasta-based verbal brawl, one emotional landmine away from snapping, and now you were starring in someone’s romantic comedy? You wanted to deny it. God, you wanted to scream the truth in every language available. We’re not together. We’re not anything. We’re not okay. Because going back to him would be reckless. Would be stupid. Would be—you realized—borderline self-harm.
You opened your mouth. “We’re n—”
But Lando cut in, louder than necessary.
“Grazie,” he said smoothly, flashing her the kind of boyish smile that used to win you free desserts.
You whipped around to look at him, stunned. His expression was unreadable—calm, maybe smug, definitely intentional. You could see it now: the calculated deflection, the charm turned up just enough to wrap the truth in velvet and toss it aside.
You stood stiffly by the cashier, watching the old woman disappear between aisles, her comment still echoing in your ears like leftover music from a party you weren’t invited to. Your heart hadn’t fully settled yet.
You turned to Lando, one eyebrow raised, voice tight with disbelief.
“Are you kidding me? What was that?”
He didn’t look up, busy loading tomatoes and rigatoni into the thin paper bag like nothing had happened.
“We’d be here until tomorrow if we tried to explain the whole story,” he muttered, tossing in a bottle of olive oil. “Was easier.”
You narrowed your eyes. Easy. Everything with him was always easier when someone else was watching.
The cashier rang through the last item with a dull beep, and you reached for the bag without thinking. But just as your fingers grazed the paper, his hand intercepted.
“Let me do it,” Lando said, voice quieter now but firm.
You hesitated—then pulled back slightly, the irritation bubbling again. “I can do it myself,” you snapped.
He turned toward you fully, eyes sharp. “Why are you so goddamn stubborn?”
You opened your mouth, ready to fire back something cold and cutting, but caught yourself. His words weren’t cruel, just exasperated. Maybe tired. Maybe something else.
So instead, you smiled. That slow, ironic one that always curled at the edge of something deeper. “Okay then, Mr. Gentleman,” you said, voice lighter now, teasing—but not without weight.
Lando blinked, then shook his head softly, gripping the bag and stepping toward the door.
───
The day had been surprisingly calm—almost too calm, like the universe had hit pause on the tension you’d been wrapped in for days. No raised voices. No sarcastic comments disguised as jokes. No passive digs over groceries or travel arrangements. Just peace. Uneasy, fragile peace. It was already past 7pm, and not a single argument had erupted. Honestly, that felt like a record worth framing. You weren’t sure if it meant something or if it was just temporary, like the eye of a storm lingering a little too long.
You were curled up on the couch, legs stretched out and mind drifting, when you felt Lando walk past behind you. He ruffled your hair with the same casual touch he used to do when things were easy between you—when affection wasn’t layered with awkwardness and sharp memories. You rolled your eyes, a reflex you didn’t bother hiding, though a tiny part of you didn’t actually mind the gesture. It was familiar.
He paused for a second, then said, “Going for a drive, u wanna go with me?”—as if you were still that version of you, eager and uncomplicated. Something in the way he asked made your chest tighten. Just hours ago, you’d nearly stabbed each other with pasta choices, and now he was offering a sunset drive like it was nothing.
You hesitated, the weight of the invitation sitting in your stomach. A drive meant space to talk. Or space to not talk at all, which was almost worse. But you didn’t have anything better to do. And part of you missed the version of your relationship where driving together felt safe. So you gave a small nod and said, “Let’s go,” keeping your tone light, as if agreeing to go wouldn’t stir up memories you weren’t ready for.
The road was high and winding, hugging the edge of the cliffs with the sea stretching beneath you—endless and blue and quietly intimidating. You drove, both hands on the wheel, the breeze sneaking through your open window and making your hair dance. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. And it was familiar in a way that made your heart ache. You’d done this drive before—different location, maybe, but same rhythm. The silence, the sunset, the weight of something unsaid sitting between you. Back then, it was the good part. The part of your relationship that felt like exhaling. The two of you always clicked on the road. It seemed like the only place where the mess didn’t follow you.
You glanced out the window, trying to keep yourself grounded in the scenery and not in the past. But then it hit—the music. That one song. It played without warning, and you groaned, a smile tugging at your lips even as your stomach dropped.
“Oh god. Not this again,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully, but with just a bit of weight behind it.
The music filled the car in slow waves, louder now thanks to Lando’s hand flicking the volume knob with casual confidence. You didn’t turn to look at him when he smiled—couldn’t, really. His words landed somewhere between nostalgia and provocation.
“What? It’s our classic,” he said, his voice light, almost teasing. Like it still meant something.
But it didn’t. Not anymore.
Still is? Nah. Not with the way your stomach knotted on the chorus. Not with the memories this song stirred, bright and painful in equal measure.
You kept your eyes on the horizon, the coastline rolling out like a story you didn’t know how to reread.
“Yeah,” you muttered, half-smiling without real joy. “You played it like a thousand times that summer.”
That summer—the one wrapped in salt air and laughter, cheap wine and hands tangled in sun-warmed sheets. It was reckless, beautiful, doomed. And this song had been its soundtrack, stuck on repeat every time he drove you through cities you couldn’t pronounce, pretending that love was enough.
Suddenly, impulse tugged at you. You shifted in your seat, arching your spine just slightly before leaning out through the open window. The wind tangled in your hair like fingers, cool against your cheeks, sharp against your throat. The music was louder now, filling your chest. It felt like something you’d done a hundred times before—something from the version of you that hadn’t yet been disappointed. For a moment, it was perfect. Reckless. Wild. You let your arm stretch out, fingers splayed into the air as if you could catch a piece of the sunset.
Then you felt it.
His hand landed on your thigh—firm, steady, anchoring you.
Your breath caught like a hook in your ribs. Not from the touch exactly, but from what it meant. The muscle memory of it. The sudden intimacy. You whipped your head around, heart thudding a little too loud.
“What are you doing?!”
Your voice was half panic, half fury, like being touched again broke a rule neither of you had spoken.
Lando didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance over, eyes still on the road. “Making sure you won’t fall out.”
He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. Like holding you steady hadn’t meant anything more than preventing roadkill. But you both knew better. That hand wasn’t about safety—it was about familiarity. About instinct. About the version of him who used to know how to hold you without being asked.
You stared at him for a beat too long, trying to swallow the thing rising in your throat—regret, anger, maybe longing. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel safe either.
You went back into your seat. The road kept winding, the sea stretching endlessly alongside as the sky slipped into a deeper shade of gold. For a while, neither of you spoke. Lando’s hand had retreated, resting back on the wheel like nothing had happened, but your thigh still buzzed with the imprint of his touch. You sat upright again, the wind no longer in your hair, but something else stirring just beneath your ribs—unease, maybe. Or something like nostalgia trying to sneak in.
You looked at him from the corner of your eye. He was focused, calm, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw. Like maybe he regretted reaching for you. Or maybe he didn’t. The thing about Lando was he never gave away more than a flicker—and somehow you still knew exactly what he was feeling.
The song faded into something new, softer, but the silence between you didn’t shift with it. It sat there, heavy and fragile, like it knew one wrong word could unravel the day.
You crossed your arms and leaned slightly toward the window again, letting the breeze bite at the warmth on your cheeks. You hated that this felt good. Not the drive. Not the music. Him. This version of him—relaxed, considerate, soft-spoken. It was dangerous. It made you forget. And forgetting led you right back to the place you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t return.
“You remember when you drove through Monaco with no headlights?” you asked suddenly, voice quiet but laced with an old spark.
Lando chuckled, shoulders relaxing.
“You screamed the whole time.”
“Because you’re insane.”
“I was spontaneous,” he corrected. “It was romantic.”
“You nearly got us arrested.”
He glanced at you then, grinning just a little too wide. “But you said it was the best night of your life.”
You didn’t deny it. Couldn’t, really.
Instead, you rolled your eyes and turned back to the window, letting the sunset hit your face. You wondered if he knew he was the reason your good memories always felt like sharp edges now.
───
The day had started quietly, again. Almost suspiciously so. The air was warm, breakfast had been peaceful—surprisingly so, considering your recent track record. You’d even laughed once, over something dumb Lando said with a mouthful of toast and marmalade. For a moment, it felt normal. Familiar. Like maybe the storm that had been brewing since the moment you landed in Amalfi had passed. But the quiet didn’t feel secure. It felt like the kind of silence that tiptoes in right before everything breaks again.
After breakfast, you agreed to take a walk through the city. It seemed harmless enough. Streets lined with stone buildings in pastel shades, vines creeping up walls, old men smoking in alleyways with one eye closed against the sun. You slipped into the rhythm of sightseeing. Bought gelato you didn’t finish. Took photos you weren’t sure you’d keep. And then wandered into a little souvenir shop.
The shelves were cluttered but charming—keychains, magnets, bracelets that would snap in two if someone looked at them wrong. You moved slowly through the aisles, picking up little trinkets for your friends back home. Things that screamed “I survived Italy and remembered you.” Your fingers grazed a woven bracelet, and you wondered for a moment if your best friend would find it tacky or cute.
Lando was somewhere nearby, wandering in his own orbit, probably scanning shelves for overpriced sunglasses or debating which bracelet would go best with whatever influencer he was texting lately. You rolled your eyes at the thought. He had a type. Or rather, a pattern. Charm, gift, vanish. Repeat.
You were mid-reach toward a charm bracelet shaped like a tiny lemon when Lando’s voice cut through the quiet of the souvenir shop, light and teasing—like he hadn’t just reopened something you’d worked all morning to bury.
“Look what I found,” he said, stepping beside you with something in his hand. “Would suit you.”
You turned, expecting something cliché—maybe a little magnet or one of those tacky tourist mugs. But no. It was a cropped T-shirt, obnoxiously bright, with bold letters slashed across the front: I love my ex.
Your breath caught in your throat, and something in your chest went rigid. You blinked, letting the message soak in like acid. Was he actually serious? You stared at the shirt, then at him. There was still time for him to laugh it off, play it like a bad joke, shove it back on the rack and move on like it never happened. Still time for him to choose not to ruin whatever fragile peace the day had offered.
But of course, he didn’t.
“Excuse me?” you said, low and clipped, eyes locked on his. You felt something begin to stir in your gut—a pressure, slow-building and hot.
He shrugged, unbothered, as if the shirt didn’t carry emotional shrapnel. “You can read,” he said, tone irritatingly smug. “You’re literally on vacation with your ex. Pretty fitting, no?”
The way he said it—so casually, like it was just facts—made you flinch. It wasn’t just the words. It was the total lack of care behind them. Like this trip, this silence, this effort meant nothing. Like your pain was punchline-worthy.
You stared at him, then at the shirt again—I love my ex, bold and ugly in its mockery—and tried to process the fact that this was real. That Lando had looked at that thing, held it in his hands, and thought it would be funny. That after everything—after the emotional rollercoaster, the silence, the tension, the effort to just survive this trip without killing each other—he still found a way to twist the knife with a smile.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you said, voice surprisingly calm but shaking at the edges. The kind of calm that carried heat underneath. It wasn’t just about the shirt anymore. It was the principle. The lack of care. The never-ending cycle of him pushing until you broke, like it was sport.
But instead of going off, instead of throwing it at his face or letting him see the sting in your eyes, you turned away. Back to the bracelets. Something safe. Something that couldn’t mock you.
Behind you, Lando scoffed. You could feel the smirk in his voice even before he spoke.
“You’re offended? Still can’t take a little joke?”
You closed your eyes for half a second, fingers tightening around a flimsy charm. Of all the things he could’ve said. Of all the ways he could’ve backed off, shown even a sliver of regret. But no. He doubled down. Like always.
You spun around, no longer interested in staying calm.
“You know what?” you said, louder now, louder than the soft hum of music in the shop and the quiet chatter of other customers. “You just reminded me why we broke up.”
“Because you can’t take a joke and take everything way too seriously?” he fired back, voice tight, more defensive than clever. The bravado was there, but barely. He knew it. You knew it. That wasn’t the real reason. Not even close. He could lie to you, fine. But the way his eyes darted as he spoke—that was him lying to himself.
You turned toward him fully, the bracelet still clenched in your hand. Your heart was thudding now, not with anger, but with something heavier. Something bitter.
“No,” you snapped, barely masking the disgust. “Because you’re still a childish prick who’s desperate for my attention.”
There was no room left for subtlety.
He scoffed, folding his arms, shifting his weight like he needed a new pose to match the ego he was scrambling to protect.
“Desperate for your attention?” he repeated, trying hard to sound unaffected. “Oh please. I moved on the second you slammed the door.”
You laughed—cold and biting, the kind of laugh that didn’t hide anything. That peeled back all the curtains and shone a harsh light on the cracks he kept pretending weren’t there.
“Right. That’s why you called me drunk at 2 a.m. saying you needed me,” you said, laughing again, bitter this time, eyes glinting as you stared him down. “I must’ve imagined that part, huh? You were just bored, or confused, or maybe—just maybe—you weren’t over it like you like to pretend.”
Then you turned toward the rack, grabbed the ridiculous t-shirt from where it hung like a neon reminder, and shoved it against his chest with deliberate force.
“You know what? Maybe you should buy it,” you said, voice low but clear. "It suits you much better than it does me."
The silence didn’t last long—not with the storm already rolling in behind your eyes. The air inside the shop was too still, too tight, and the space between you and Lando was thick with everything you hadn’t said yet. He stood there, arms crossed, trying to wear the smirk like armor, but it was slipping.
“You broke up with me, remember?” he snapped, voice lower, bitter now. “So stop acting like I ruined your life.”
You turned, breath sharp. “I didn’t say you ruined my life. I said you acted like a self-absorbed manchild who didn’t know what to do with someone who actually cared.”
“Oh my god,” he laughed, but it wasn’t real—it was the kind people use to stop themselves from yelling. “You were suffocating. Always needing something, always mad about something.”
“I was asking you to show up, just like real boyfriend should!” You shouted, stepping closer. “Emotionally. Mentally. Occasionally answer a text like a normal person, not disappear for days and come back like nothing happened just to fuck!”
“That’s not how I remember it,” he bit back. “You were obsessed with picking fights! Every single little thing pissed you off!”
“Because everything else was silent!” Your voice cracked then—just slightly. “You don’t talk, Lando. You don’t explain. You just vanish. It’s easier for you to ghost than to face anything real.”
He looked away for a second, jaw tense, like he hated how accurate it was. Then he stepped forward, closer than you wanted.
“I didn’t ghost you,” he said, quieter now. “I was trying to avoid this. The yelling. The constant drama.”
“And now you’re in the middle of a gift shop yelling anyway,” you hissed. “So tell me, how’s that avoidance working out?”
For a beat, neither of you spoke. Just heavy breathing and the echo of your own anger bouncing off sun-faded trinkets.
Then he glanced at the shirt again—the one you’d shoved against his chest—and let out a slow, bitter laugh.
“You know what?” he said, voice cold. “You’re right. I’ll buy it. I’ll wear it. I’ll wear it to the airport if it gets me away from you faster.”
You stared at him, stunned. Then turned on your heel without another word.
───
The whole day had passed in silence. After that fight, after everything he said and did in the gift shop, there wasn’t a single part of you that wanted to talk to him. Not after he made you feel so stupid in front of strangers. It wasn’t just embarrassing—it was cruel.
It was late now. Evening had settled in, soft and slow, but it didn’t feel peaceful. You were curled up on the couch that had doubled as your bed for days. It was uncomfortable and stiff, and your body was starting to feel the consequences. Your back ached, your neck was sore, and sleep had become something you dreaded because you never really felt rested. Still, you hadn’t moved to the actual bed. Maybe because you were too stubborn. Maybe because going to the bed felt like admitting defeat—and you’d already had enough of that.
Lando hadn’t said a word to you either. He’d gone straight to the balcony when you got home from the shop and hadn’t left it since. You hadn’t looked at him, but you could imagine the scene clearly. He was probably slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, phone in hand. Knowing him, he was either venting to Max—telling him how you overreacted—or texting some random girl who had no idea how good he was at being charming and careless at the same time.
The couch groaned beneath you as you shifted for the third time in ten minutes, trying to find a position that didn’t make your back scream. Your neck had officially given up—stiff, sore, humming with regret—and the cushions felt more punishment than comfort. But still, you stayed. Maybe out of stubbornness. Maybe out of pride. Maybe just because you didn’t want to owe him anything.
Lando walked past, his footsteps echoing slightly on the stone floor, and just as you closed your eyes, his voice cut in.
“You’ll wake up in pieces if you keep sleeping here.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t look at him. Just blinked up at the ceiling, irritation prickling beneath your skin. Of course he had to say something. He couldn’t just keep walking. Why did he comment on everything? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone?
“So?” you murmured, jaw tight. “I survived worse.”
Oh, how much you wanted to say more. Like the relationship with you. The words danced at the tip of your tongue, sharp and ready, but you swallowed them back. Not tonight.
There was a pause. You assumed he’d keep moving, leave you in peace, retreat back to the balcony where he’d spent the entire day avoiding any trace of accountability. But instead—he stayed. And then came the unexpected.
“Take the bed.”
You turned your head toward him slowly, trying to hide the disbelief on your face.
Since when did he offer without a punchline attached?
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal.
“You know your dad would kill me if you didn’t come back.”
Ah. There it was. Not kindness. Not guilt. Just logic. Just obligation.
You stared at him, heart tight, thoughts tangled. You could still feel the sting of the fight from earlier, still remember how small he made you feel in front of strangers. And yet here he was, offering a bed that used to be yours. That used to be yours together.
The decision came slow, but it came. The couch had become a war zone of poor sleep and regret, and your back was finally staging a protest you couldn’t ignore. One more night on that lumpy disaster meant waking up with your spine in alphabet soup—and yeah, you deserved better. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Besides, he’d be sleeping out there now, right? It wasn’t giving up. It was survival.
“Okay,” you said, dragging your body upright, every joint groaning in agreement. “But only because the couch is really horrible.”
You didn’t wait for ceremony. You fell into the bed like gravity owed you a favor, sinking into the pillows with the kind of relief that felt criminal. Soft, warm, perfect. The mattress hugged you instantly, almost annoyingly gentle after the concrete couch you’d forced yourself to suffer through. For a moment, you lay there, eyes fluttering shut, letting your body thaw. Heaven. Unexpected, unearned heaven.
And then, of course—he had to ruin it.
The door creaked open, and in walked Lando. Shorts. Shirtless. Like the villa was his runway and drama was his cologne. Your eyes snapped open, immediate whiplash from bliss to disbelief. Shirtless? Seriously?
Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t flinch. Just strolled in like it was a Tuesday. “Relax. I’m not sleeping on that couch either.”
Oh. My. God.
Of course he wouldn’t. Of course this man, this ambassador of chaos disguised as a charm machine, would decide that one tiny moment of peace wasn’t allowed. You blinked at him, trying to process how someone could look so smug and so casual all at once. The bed wasn’t just yours again. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered, he’ll ruin your night, just like he ruins everything.
You pushed yourself up from the pillows, arms stiff and body sore from days of pretending the couch was enough. Your eyes went to him instinctively, but they didn’t stop at his face—they landed on his chest first. Bare, relaxed, way too familiar. It threw you off. It wasn’t just the fact that he was shirtless, it was the way he looked like this was all normal. You stared, mostly because you weren’t ready to speak, and when your words finally came, they were laced with disbelief.
“You’re not serious,” you said, voice flat, eyes narrowing.
Lando didn’t even blink. He stood there in his stupid shorts, arms loose at his sides like he didn’t just drop an emotional bomb into the room. His tone was easy, like he was offering you a logical solution instead of stirring up something messy.
“It’s a big bed,” he said. “And I won’t touch you. You know I wouldn’t ever do that.”
Something in your chest tensed. He said it like he was trying to sound respectful, reasonable, but there was something else there too—like he wanted you to remember that once, not so long ago, he used to be the one you let touch without hesitation. And maybe now he was trying to prove he was capable of restraint. Or maybe he was just doing what he always did: pushing the line and pretending it wasn’t loaded.
You rolled your eyes and nodded, already regretting the shared bed arrangement but too tired to argue. He didn’t gloat, didn’t smirk—just grabbed his blanket and settled in on his side, clearly making an effort to put as much space between you as the mattress allowed. It was awkward. Not hateful, just strange. Like trying to sleep beside a ghost of someone who once knew how you curled up at night.
“Should I build a pillow wall?” you asked, voice dry, not exactly serious but not exactly joking either.
“No,” he mumbled, turning away from you, his back a quiet barrier. “I’ll be careful.”
The silence that followed stretched long. Not tense, but definitely not comfortable. You lay there, too aware of the space between you, of how your breathing changed when he shifted, of all the things neither of you was saying. The blanket was warm, but your thoughts kept peeling away layers of stillness until your brain buzzed more than your body relaxed.
Then his voice broke through, casual and ridiculous. “And by the way, don’t you dare fart like you always did.”
It was so random, so unnecessary, so him—you couldn’t stop the laugh that exploded out of you. Full-bodied, messy, uncontrolled.
“Shut up!” you managed through the giggles. “You were worse!”
There it was. The first real laugh in days. Still tangled in bitterness, but alive.
───
The beach was buzzing—kids shrieking near the shoreline, music spilling from hidden speakers, the scent of sunscreen and sea salt hanging heavy in the warm air. The water stretched out in front of you, glittering in every shade of blue, and for once, you weren’t weighed down by drama. The day felt soft. Easy.
You sat comfortably at the beach bar, legs stretched out, a mojito sweating in your hand. Your phone was open on your lap, half a text typed out to your friends. Slept in the same bed as my ex. And somehow… no explosions. You weren’t even sure what reaction you were hoping for—concern, amusement, validation? But it felt worth saying. A small miracle, considering your recent history with Lando.
Speaking of him—he was somewhere in the water, floating around with zero grace, probably reenacting some ridiculous underwater mermaid scene. You didn’t care much. Not actively. But your eyes still drifted to where he was every so often, checking to make sure he wasn’t doing backflips off a floatie or convincing strangers he was a dolphin. It was instinct now. Like your nerves still knew how quickly chaos could show up.
You took another sip of your drink, already melting into the salt-soaked rhythm of the day, when a voice popped up beside you—smooth, confident, unfamiliar.
“Hey gorgeous, mind if I join you? You look like you need some company.”
You blinked, turned. The guy was tall, tan, and very aware of his own charm. Smile practiced. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like a lifestyle choice. The kind of guy who didn’t ask twice because he expected a yes the first time.
Lando was already taking up too much space in your head—his crooked smile, the way he made everything feel exciting and unsafe at once. You hadn’t come here looking for drama. You just wanted quiet. A little peace. Something to help you breathe.
So when that guy slid in beside you and started talking, your whole body tensed. You gave him the easiest answer you could, hoping he’d take the hint. “I’m sorry, but I like to be on my own,” you said, trying not to sound cold, just clear. You even shifted away a bit, politely but firmly. But of course, he didn’t listen.
“C’mon, pretty girl, one drink,” he said with a grin that felt too smug, too sure of himself. That phrase made you feel small. Like you were something pretty to be collected, not someone real with thoughts and boundaries. The irritation rose quickly this time, burning through your chest like fire.
“I’m not interested,” you said, voice hard now. You didn’t care about sounding nice anymore. “Just go a—”
And then—Lando. His voice cut through the noise like a sharp wind against your skin.
“She said she’s not interested, man,” he said, and you turned. Instinctively.
Seeing him there hit you like a wave. The protective stance, the grip on the guy’s shoulder that clearly wasn’t gentle—it was too tight, almost daring. He looked serious, eyes dark with warning. Something inside you flickered at that. Gratitude. Surprise. Maybe even something warmer than you expected.
“Respectfully, fuck off,” Lando added calmly, almost like it was routine. Like defending you came naturally.
The guy puffed up, trying not to back down. “Who even are you? Her boyfriend?” he snapped.
Lando didn’t hesitate. “Kind of,” he said quickly, way too quickly. And your heart did something weird—it stopped for a second, then started again, faster than before.
“Now go away before I have to break your nose,” he added, still calm, still threatening.
The guy looked at you, then back at Lando. He didn’t want the fight. Not with someone like that. So he muttered an apology and walked away, shoulders slumped.
You blinked, still frozen, trying to catch up. Kind of? What did that mean? Was he just saying that to push the guy away, or did he actually mean it? And why did your heart ache a little at how easily the words rolled out of him?
Lando slid into the seat next to you like it was his rightful place. You didn’t even look at him at first—your fingers still wrapped around your drink, heart still thudding from how easily he’d stepped in earlier, jaw tight and protective. It should’ve annoyed you. It almost did. But somehow, it felt good—just for a second.
“Thank you,” you said, turning your head toward him with a playful roll of your eyes, “but I could’ve handled it.”
He leaned in—slow, casual, but just close enough that his presence wrapped around you like the tide. His proximity made your breath catch, just barely. Like old habits were trying to sneak back in under your guard.
“Really?” he said, voice dipped in teasing amusement. “You were about two seconds away from looking like you needed saving.”
You turned toward him properly now, eyebrow raised, mouth curved in that half-smile that always came with a challenge. You hated how easily he stirred something in you, how natural it was to fall back into this rhythm.
“Saving? From that?” you scoffed gently. “Please. I’ve handled worse.”
The moment hung there for a beat, the breeze picking up your words and sending them between you like a dare.
His grin stretched wider, a spark flicking behind his eyes that made your chest squeeze.
“Oh, I know,” he said, smug and unbothered. “You dated me.”
It hit harder than it should have—because you both knew it was true. Because even now, even after the fights and the silence and the mess, he could make you laugh without trying and make your walls tremble with a single look.
───
The yacht gleamed under the sun like it was showing off, bobbing gently on the water as if wealth could float. Typical Lando—big gestures, big toys, zero concern about practicality. He’d rented the whole thing for the day, no hesitation, just a smirk and a swipe of a card like it was nothing. Yeah, rich people will be rich. You just silently crossed your fingers he wasn’t planning on calling this a “shared experience” later and asking for payback in the form of emotional favors.
But truthfully? It was nice. Stupidly nice.
The breeze, the sound of water lapping against the hull, the way the sunlight kissed the surface of the sea—everything felt soft and indulgent in a way you hadn’t let yourself enjoy in ages.
The problem wasn’t the yacht. It wasn’t even the luxury.
It was him.
Lando, with his easy grin and relentless teasing. Every time you rolled your eyes, he leaned closer. Every time you tried to stay cool, he said something that tugged just a little too hard on your past. It was like he couldn’t help himself—chipping away at your restraint with little jabs and dumb jokes and that stupid dimple that appeared when he knew he was winning.
Lando was already sprawled out across the cushioned sofa like a king in his natural habitat—one arm behind his head, legs stretched out, curls completely untamed and defying gravity as usual. His Calvin Klein swim shorts weren’t helping either, and you hated how effortlessly attractive he looked when he was relaxed like that. It was annoying. Unfair, really.
You carried the bag carefully, the scent of sushi already teasing the air. You knew exactly how he felt about it—he’d complained at least five separate times on this trip about how “it smells like a fish market” and how “raw stuff shouldn’t be called food.” But you didn’t care. You were craving it. And maybe, just maybe, part of you enjoyed irritating him in small, harmless ways.
“Lunch is served,” you said with dramatic flair, lowering yourself onto the seat next to him. He turned his head immediately, eyes narrowing the second he spotted the bag in your hands. You smiled sweetly, slow and deliberate, and began pulling out the containers one by one like you were presenting gourmet treasure.
His face twisted into that classic Lando expression—half disgusted, half disbelief.
“Oh fuck off,” he muttered, eyebrows raised. “You know how much I hate it.”
The sushi container was open between you, its bright colors almost mocking his stubborn refusal. You picked up the avocado roll—the most harmless option of them all—and waved it in front of his face, chopsticks poised like a peace offering.
“Come on, Lando,” you said, playful and firm. “You can’t go through life without trying it. This one doesn’t even have fish. Literally just avocado and rice.”
You smiled wide, knowing exactly how to press the right button. He groaned, already looking exasperated before you even got the words out.
“I swear, Carlos said the same thing,” he muttered, pushing your face away with his palm like you were an annoying little sister rather than the ex he still hadn’t figured out how to stop orbiting.
You swatted his hand, laughing, but something about the way he smirked—lips curling and eyes soft with half-masked affection—made your heart thump just once, unexpected.
He brushed past your mention of Carlos like it hadn’t happened, redirecting the moment toward a memory you hadn’t thought about in a long time.
“Do you remember when I once tasted seafood for you?” he said, as if it was nothing. But you did—instantly. That trip was etched into your memory like ink beneath skin.
“Dubai?” you replied, a small laugh slipping out. “And how you threw up five minutes after?”
You remembered the fancy restaurant by the marina, the warm evening air, the golden lights reflecting off the water. He’d insisted on ordering something you loved, even though he hated seafood with a passion. You had warned him. But he had wanted to prove something then, and maybe it wasn’t about the food at all. He had looked so proud sitting across from you, trying to chew through squid like it wasn’t making his stomach turn. You had laughed then too, but with your heart swelling a little because part of you had believed that love meant doing strange things for someone just to see them smile.
“Oh yeah,” he said, chuckling. “See? I was so in love with you. I ate damn seafood for you. And you thought I didn’t love you.”
Your laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, slipping out as a quick snort when Lando made his dramatic declaration. The sun was warm on your skin, and everything about this moment—his ridiculous tone, the way he sprawled across the cushions like a defeated movie star—felt familiar and easy. “So now seafood trauma is a romantic gesture?” you teased, eyebrows raised as you plucked another piece of sushi from the tray between you. “Soon you’ll be writing love poems to spring rolls.”
Lando groaned loudly, tossing his head back like he couldn’t bear the memory. “Don’t mock my suffering,” he said, dragging out the words like he was physically suffering. “That squid was basically a rubber band soaked in disappointment. It betrayed me.”
You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting with genuine amusement. His voice might’ve been full of regret, but it made your chest feel lighter. This was the kind of rhythm that felt like home—the joking, the banter, the way you both knew exactly how far to push. “You ate it for me,” you said, nodding like it was a serious statement. “And you almost died for me. Your stomach still hasn’t forgiven you.”
He narrowed his eyes at you, not angry—just teasing, like he was deciding whether or not to take revenge. “Watch it,” he said softly. It wasn’t a real threat, but there was something in his look that made your pulse skip a beat.
You raised an eyebrow and popped an avocado roll into your mouth. “Or what?” you asked through a half-chewed bite. “You gonna cry into your fancy yacht pillow?”
That was it.
Lando sat up halfway, lightning-fast, and reached for your ankle without warning. His grip was firm but gentle, playful in the way his fingers wrapped around your skin like he’d done it a thousand times before. “I swear on my overpriced sunglasses,” he said, voice deepening just enough to sound dramatic, “I’ll toss you overboard right now.”
You shrieked in surprise, laughter spilling out uncontrollably as you squirmed, trying to free yourself. “Lando!” you gasped, clutching the tray to keep the sushi from flying everywhere. “You wouldn’t!”
Lando gave you that grin, “I absolutely would.”
You didn’t even have time to scream. One moment, Lando was smirking like the devil himself, eyes full of chaotic joy, and the next—you were airborne, muscles tensing, breath caught in your throat. Your heart jolted as your body flipped through the salty air, and for a second, time slowed. The edge of the yacht blurred past your vision, the glint of the setting sun dancing on the waves. And then splash—cold, wild water swallowed you whole. But you hadn’t gone quietly. In that split-second of instinct, your hand had clawed for anything to take him down with you—and his hand had been the perfect target.
Above the surface, you heard him yell—a mix of surprise and pure panic—and then another splash. And oh, it was glorious. You rose from the depths gasping, water streaming down your face, laughter already bubbling up before you could get the words out. “You actually threw me in, you psycho!”
He burst to the surface beside you, coughing dramatically, curls plastered to his forehead. “You dragged me in like some cursed, revenge-fueled sea goblin!”
“You deserved it,” you shot back, half laughing, half breathless from the adrenaline rush, body already starting to shiver from the temperature drop. The ocean wrapped around you like silk and chaos, waves nudging you both closer.
He wiped his face with both hands, looking at you through soaked lashes. “You’re fucking relentless, you know that?” But his grin was still there, wild and boyish, the kind that made your stomach twist in ways you hadn’t felt in months. “I mean—I was supposed to be the menace!”
You swam toward him, closing the distance a bit. “Takes one to know one,” you murmured, your voice softer now, amused but aching beneath the surface. His eyes locked onto yours, and everything suddenly slowed again—not from adrenaline this time, but because the world got quiet inside you. It was like the noise of your thoughts stopped spinning, just long enough to let something real push through.
He tilted his head, mouth opening just slightly like he was going to toss another joke your way—but it didn’t come. Instead, his expression shifted. He stared for a beat too long, and the gleam in his eyes dimmed into something earnest.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.”
You laughed.
He was definitely joking.
Or…?
───
You hadn’t meant for the night to go this way. You and Lando had made a promise—just one drink. Keep things chill, keep emotions at bay. But that stupid confession from yesterday had tangled itself into your thoughts so tightly, you couldn’t ignore it. “I think I’m falling in love with you all over again.” How were you supposed to hear that and not feel everything? The weight of it, the confusion, the hope. So yeah… you drank. More than one. More than two. Probably more than anyone should. And now here you were, trying to breathe against the cold wall outside the bar, while the world spun like it was mocking you.
You had told Lando you needed fresh air, said it with a smile like everything was fine. But the truth was—your knees were unsteady, your stomach twisting, and your head full of emotions you didn’t know how to name. You’d been standing here for maybe fifteen minutes, barely able to keep upright. Your eyes blurred and doubled, and the tips of your fingers tingled. You kept telling yourself it would pass. That you’d walk it off and rejoin him inside like nothing had happened.
And then—his voice. Sharp, worried, and far too sobering.
“Y/n? What the fuck?” Lando was already halfway out the door, eyes wide as he spotted you slumped against the wall. He rushed over, breath quick, confusion written all over his face. “You okay?”
You tried to wave it off, your hand flicking lazily in the air like it could dismiss everything wrong. “Yeah,” you said, forcing the word through the fuzz in your throat. But the moment you stepped forward, your foot missed the ground, and you stumbled—hard enough for him to flinch.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t scold. Just let out a quiet sigh and mumbled, “Yeah, you’re not walking. You’re gonna hurt yourself.” And then he bent down. No hesitation, no sarcasm. One arm tucked behind your knees, the other pressing firmly against your back, and suddenly you were airborne. Safe. Wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the scent of his cologne.
He picked you up like it was easy, like he’d done it before, like you weren’t a mess of feelings and regret. And as your head leaned against his shoulder, you felt something settle in your chest—uneven and heavy, but less alone. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.
Your head rested against his shoulder as the world tilted and blurred around you. You felt completely out of it—your body heavy, your thoughts a tangle of half-formed memories and spinning questions. It was like you’d lived this moment before. Him carrying you. You too drunk to walk. That strange feeling hit you hard, like a dream you couldn’t quite remember but your bones knew by heart. Maybe it really had happened before. Maybe it hadn’t.
You didn’t feel like talking, but the words slipped out anyway, low and raw. “Why do you still help me?” You weren’t trying to push him away—you really just didn’t get it. The trip had been a wreck. You’d fought with him so much, said things you didn’t even mean, thrown sarcasm like knives. He had every reason to leave you behind, to walk away and not look back. But he hadn’t. He never did.
He didn’t answer right away, but when he looked down at you, there was something soft in his eyes, something almost tired, but patient. He smiled, that quiet kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. “Because clearly you can’t help yourself.”
You rolled your eyes at his answer, not because it wasn’t kind—but because it wasn’t real enough. It didn’t explain everything. Not the late-night help, not the way he jumped in during that mess on the beach, not how he always showed up when no one else did.
“That’s not the answer, though,” you mumbled, words sticking to your throat as your fingers curled into his shirt a little tighter. You weren’t trying to start something. You just needed to understand.
You lifted your gaze to him, watching the way his jaw shifted—the muscles tight like he was holding something back. You could feel his chest rise and fall underneath your cheek. “You didn’t have to do all that,” you said quietly, voice slower now. “You didn’t have to step in on that beach. Or carry me like this. You could’ve just… left me there. Walked away.”
You hadn’t meant for it to sound so sad. But it did. And now it hung in the air between you like fog, wrapping around everything unsaid.
For a moment, Lando didn’t speak. His mouth moved slightly, like he was forming something careful. His arms didn’t shift—still holding you close, still steady—but you felt the tension in him. The way it settled in his shoulders, how he hesitated before finally letting the words out.
“Yeah, well…” he said, voice lower now, stripped of the joking edge. “I told myself I was done. That I wouldn’t care anymore.” He let out a breath that didn’t sound convincing—like he’d been carrying that lie longer than he wanted to admit. “But I guess I lied. ’Cause I’d still show up. No matter what.”
You blinked slowly, trying to process the weight behind that. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t romantic in the classic sense. But it hit you harder than anything he’d said the whole trip.
“If you called me five minutes before a race,” he continued, eyes focused straight ahead, “said you needed me—I’d drop everything. I’d come running. No questions, no hesitation. I’d be there.”
Your chest clenched at that. Because even though he was drunk, even though you were a mess and this wasn’t the place for heavy confessions… that felt like truth. Raw and real and maybe a little broken, but still whole in its own way.
The words left Lando’s mouth without much force, but they hung heavy in the air. “I hate that you hate me,” he said, almost like he wasn’t expecting a reply. You turned your head slightly, still pressed against him, and blinked slowly. That sentence wasn’t thrown out like a joke—it felt like something deeper. Something he’d been carrying for a while.
You exhaled, slow and careful, heart thudding. “I don’t hate you, Lando,” you said softly. And you meant it. Honestly, the thought hadn’t ever crossed your mind. Even in the worst fights, even during the cold silences and ugly words. Hate was never what you felt for him. It was frustration, disappointment, pain—but not hate. Never hate.
He scoffed under his breath. “You should.” His voice was quiet, but heavy with guilt. He sounded convinced. Like he’d already decided he didn’t deserve your kindness, your loyalty, your softness. That maybe, after everything, he’d earned your anger. That someone like him—messy, impulsive, hurtful in all the wrong moments—shouldn’t be forgiven. Shouldn’t be missed.
But if only he knew. If only he could see what was actually tucked deep in your chest. That through all of it—every argument, every confusing feeling—he was still your person. Your first real love. The only one who truly made you feel known. You were angry sometimes, sure. But you loved him still. Maybe too much. Maybe you were both just young and stubborn and too afraid to say what you really felt in the quiet moments.
Lando reached the villa with you still in his arms, his grip strong but gentle as he shifted your weight to open the door. He struggled for a second, fumbling with the knob while keeping you steady, until he finally managed to kick it open with his foot.
Inside, the room was dim and quiet, and everything felt like it was moving slower—probably because your head was spinning and you could barely keep your eyes open. He brought you to the bed and lowered you down carefully, but you were so drunk that even sitting felt like too much. You kind of melted sideways, your arms wrapping around yourself for balance, trying to stop the room from tilting.
Lando stood there for a beat, watching you with a look that was equal parts concern and exhaustion. Then he raised a brow, gesturing with both hands in a way that you barely understood. “Hands up,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. But your brain wasn’t connecting dots right now, and you just blinked at him, confused.
“What?” you asked, hugging yourself tighter out of instinct. Everything suddenly felt more vulnerable. You weren’t sure if it was the dress, the mood, or just how close he’d been all night. You could feel the fabric of it sticking to your skin, uncomfortable now after the ocean and the bar and everything in between.
He rolled his eyes, but not in a mean way. More like he was tired of pretending you were shy around him. “Come on, Y/n,” he said, voice low but soft. “I’ve seen every part of you.”
Your cheeks went warm—not from embarrassment, but from the way he said it. Not crude, not teasing. Just honest. And yeah, he was right. You’d let him in, more than once, in ways you hadn’t let anyone else. The history between you didn’t allow for awkwardness now, even if everything else felt messy. Still, the fact that he remembered all those moments—not just the dramatic ones, but the quiet, intimate ones—made your chest squeeze a little.
You lifted your arms slowly, the room spinning just slightly as Lando slipped your dress over your head with care. His movements were gentle, familiar, like he’d done this before—like he remembered your edges better than you did in moments like this. You didn’t protest. You were too tired, too drunk, too wrapped up in the safety of this quiet. He reached behind him and grabbed one of his shirts—oversized, worn, soft—and pulled it over your head, letting it settle around your frame like a blanket. It smelled like him.
Then he dropped down to his knees in front of you, fingers already working to unbuckle the straps of your heels. You barely noticed him move. His head was bent low, curls falling over his eyes, silent except for a tired hum that let you know you could speak if you needed to.
And you did.
“Lando?” you said quietly, voice hoarse.
He gave a soft grunt in response, focused on the buckle. But you kept going.
“I mean… what if we ended up together again?” Your voice shook slightly, your hands folding into your lap. “Would you do it all over again? Like… for real this time. The right way.”
He didn’t say a word while he finished removing your heels, fingers working through the straps carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter the quiet between you. When he was done, he rose slowly to his feet, and suddenly he felt so much taller, standing over you like a pause in the storm. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, and your heart jumped at the look in his eyes—steady and sincere, like something had finally shifted.
Lando reached out, palms cradling your cheeks with a softness that caught you off guard. His touch was warm, grounding. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.
“I would,” he said, voice low but firm. “I know I messed things up. I treated you like shit. I hate that—I regret it every single day.” His thumbs brushed gently across your skin. “But if we had a second chance… I’d do it right this time. I’d treat you the way you actually deserve.”
Then he leaned down, pressing a slow, tender kiss to your forehead. And in that quiet breath of contact, something inside you cracked—not from pain, but from the way his words settled into the empty spaces you’d been carrying. Maybe you didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But in that moment, you weren’t wondering if he cared.
You could feel it.
───
You remembered everything you said to him that night—every word that spilled out when your guard was down, when your emotions were louder than reason. And honestly, you hated that you did. You wished your memory had blurred it all away like the rest of the night. But instead, it stuck. The words you said, the way you felt, and that quiet moment where you let him see how much you still cared.
Now it haunted you. It had you thinking about him constantly, even when you tried to stop. You wanted to hate him. You swore you did. You had reasons—plenty of them. But your heart didn’t seem interested in any of that. No matter how hard you tried, you missed him. Not just the idea of him, but the real, messy, complicated person. You missed the way he made things feel easier, even when everything was hard.
The tears came suddenly, stinging and silent, as you stared down at the photos. Your phone screen glowed with frozen moments—smiles at the beach, blurry selfies, inside jokes captured in time. You pressed your thumb against one of them, like touching it could bring it all back. But you knew you couldn’t go back there. Not really. That version of you, that version of him—it was locked in the past, behind everything that went wrong.
Still, looking at those images made your chest ache. Because even if you couldn’t rewind, maybe you could rebuild. Maybe the words you said while drunk weren’t just chaos. Maybe they were your heart begging for another chance. And maybe now, sober and hurting, you could decide to fix it. To be honest. To let yourself feel it without shame.
You didn’t even know if he remembered all of it like you did. But somewhere deep inside, you hoped that he felt it too. That maybe your mess of a confession had sparked something in him—something worth saving.
The door creaked softly behind you, and you didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. You could recognize Lando’s footsteps anywhere. That low, careful rhythm—no rush, just a quiet urgency like he already sensed something wasn’t right. Before you could wipe the tears from your cheeks, he was beside you. Close enough to feel the shift in your breathing. Close enough to notice the redness around your eyes.
“Hey—” he started, but his words cut short when he saw your face. His brows drew together, eyes scanning you with that look that used to be impatience, but now… it was pure worry. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying, love?” His voice was soft, careful. Gentle, even. And god, it hurt a little more because a few months ago he would’ve said you were being dramatic. Back then, emotion made him flinch. Now he was standing here like it meant something. Like you meant something.
You turned away slightly, trying to gather yourself even though your heart felt cracked wide open. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t convincing, but it was all you could manage. You didn’t want to fall apart in front of him again.
He didn’t move away. His eyes caught the light from your phone screen still glowing faintly in your hand, and he tilted his head, just enough to see it. “Baby, don’t lie,” he said softly, then paused. “Is that us?”
Your hand scrambled to turn off the screen, already too late. You swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears rising again. “No—I mean… yes,” you stammered, breath catching in your chest as you looked up at him. “I was just… looking at old photos, and…”
Your voice broke, and you hated it. Hated that even now, after everything, he still had the power to unravel you. But the look on his face—he didn’t judge.
The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, raw and cracked at the edges. “And I just can’t pretend that I hate you,” you said, voice trembling, each word pulled straight from the deepest part of you. “I meant everything I said that night. I hate not being with you. It’s felt like I’ve been missing my other half for months.” You barely got it out before your voice broke completely, a quiet sob pulling at your chest.
Lando didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stared for a long second, his eyes fixed on yours like he was trying to figure out how you’d held that in for so long. Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe. Or maybe something softer. Something that looked a lot like understanding.
Then slowly, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just close. Real. His shirt soaked in your tears instantly, but he didn’t seem to care. He held you tighter, like he was trying to hold together all the pieces you’d lost along the way.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, voice shaky as your fingers clung to his back. “I was such a bitch. So toxic. And I hate that I pushed you away. I just miss you. Miss us.”
You pulled away from him slowly, the weight of the hug still clinging to your skin. Something inside you—instinct maybe, or just emotion—told you to look up. To meet his eyes. And when you did, the air felt like it cracked open.
“I love you,” Lando said, no hesitation this time, no jokes wrapped around the truth. “I always did. I never stopped.”
The words landed heavy, almost too much. You stared at him, lips parted, heart barely steady as he kept going.
“I wanted to call you,” he said, voice growing softer. “There were days I just sat with the phone in my hand. I wanted to cry, to say sorry, to beg—but I kept telling myself you deserved better than me.” His eyes didn’t look away, not once. “But then I realized… I wouldn’t survive seeing you with someone else. I couldn’t. And that’s when I knew—I have to be better. I want to be better. For you.”
Your breath caught. Because that wasn’t a speech. That wasn’t rehearsed. It was Lando—raw and scared and finally honest. And all you could think was: this is what it sounds like when someone means it.
Your voice barely made it past your lips, thick with emotion and shaking at the edges. “I love you, Lando,” you whispered, the words rushing out before doubt could swallow them. You didn’t plan it. You didn’t rehearse it. But the second it escaped, you knew it was true. As simple and messy and overwhelming as it sounded, it was the only thing that felt right.
Lando didn’t speak—his eyes just locked on yours, wide with something that looked a lot like relief. Like he’d been waiting for that exact sentence and didn’t know if he’d ever hear it. You didn’t give either of you a chance to pull away. You leaned in fast, gripping the sides of his shirt, heart pounding in your chest, and kissed him.
The moment your lips met his, the silence fell away. His hands moved instinctively, one cradling the back of your head, the other resting firmly on your lower back, pulling you closer like he needed you in every possible way. The kiss wasn’t perfect—it was a little desperate, full of emotion and breath and years of not knowing how to say what you both meant. But it was real.
When you finally parted, your faces stayed close, eyes meeting in the quiet aftermath. His thumb brushed your cheek, tender and lingering.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited,” he whispered.
You gave a soft laugh, teary and real. “I think I do.”
^ྀི context: You’re a singer chosen to write and perform the lead song for the new F1 movie. The 2024 drivers are watching from behind the scenes, but while the rest are laughing and cheering you on, Lando… Lando can’t even look.
^ྀི sophie speaks: I’m really loving doing singer!reader and i’ve got some ideas of some more singer fics and i’ve also got some ready to publish but i just need to edit them first! 💋 (request:open)
There’s a type of silence that doesn’t come from the absence of sound.
It’s the kind that fills the air when every eye is locked on one thing. Breath held. Muscles tense. And for Lando Norris—watching you walk in the middle of a live track while F1 cars screamed past you—it was suffocating.
“She’s mad,” Charles muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief from the barricaded pit wall.
“Or brave,” Lewis grinned, watching the playback monitor, one leg casually crossed over the other like he wasn’t even slightly concerned about your mortality.
“She’s mental,” Lando said flatly, his arms crossed tight across his chest, jaw clenched.
“Jealous it’s not you being serenaded by McLaren’s paint job?” George teased, nudging Lando with his elbow.
“I’m not joking,” Lando muttered, eyes flickering away from the camera feed. “I can’t watch this, man.”
“You do realize she’s not actually in danger, right?” Oscar chimed in from behind him. “They’re professional stunt drivers. She’s completely safe.”
“That’s what they said about Daniel when he jumped off that yacht in Monaco,” Max added dryly.
There was a beat of silence. Then everyone started laughing—except Lando.
⸻
Earlier that year…
When the directors of the upcoming F1 movie reached out to you, it sounded too surreal to be true - though you weren’t too surprised your boyfriend was an F1 driver after all.
“We want a lead song,” they said. “One that feels cinematic and makes you feel like you’re having a small adrenaline rush and fits the vibe of the sport.”
You locked yourself in your studio for a week and came out with Just Keep Watching.
And when they approved it for the movie’s trailer, then requested a full music video—on a live F1 track, no less—you were thrown into a surreal whirlwind of smoke machines, drones, flame-proof boots, and high-speed rehearsals.
And one British F1 driver who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off you… unless your life was in danger.
⸻
“Places!” the director shouted through a megaphone.
Your mind immediately locked in and you had a small internal pep talk to yourself. The stunt director came up to you and told you where to walk and where not to walk. Before the cameras started rolling your stylist came and straightened out your custom-racing-inspired outfit, a black racing suit with red accents which was tied around the waist and a plain black bra underneath.
“Camera 1, steady. Car line-up ready on both sides.”
You turned toward the track and saw the 20 F1 cars that would soon be speeding and swerving around you. All stunt-driven, because even though it was the guys job to drive these cars their job description doesn’t specify in swerving around people at high speeds also.
As the engines revved behind the camera, you sucked in a sharp breath. The song started in your earpiece.
“Goes like this, start with the track. Eyes on me, archin' my back. Just like this here for the night. You ain’t buyin’ in? Just keep watching”
The camera rolled. You stepped forward.
⸻
The cars weren’t driving with you. They were racing past you. Opposite direction. Inches away.
You kept walking. Staring dead into the lens. The wind from the cars nearly knocked you sideways, but you kept time with the beat, like you were immune to the chaos around you.
“I wanna make my mind up. Cause i know where this might go. Wanna take your time up. But you make it difficult”
Another McLaren car flew past, papaya blur.
From the pit wall, Lando swore and spun around, scrubbing a hand over his face like he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Mate,” Alex said between laughs, “you drive this fast every weekend.”
“Exactly. I know what it’s like in that seat. If one of those stunt drivers sneezes at the wrong time, she’s a goner.”
“She’s safer than you are during a Grand Prix,” Max pointed out.
“Shut up, Max.”
⸻
When the final cut wrapped, the music cut and silence blanketed the track. The cars pulled away into cool-down zones, and the crew erupted into applause.
But you?
You turned straight toward the pit wall, heart still slamming in your chest, and smiled like you’d just finished a damn ballet recital.
“I swear,” Lando muttered, shoulders sagging in relief, “I’m gonna kill her.”
“She’s walking over here,” Pierre smirked.
“Good. Great. Can’t wait.”
You jogged toward the group of drivers, your racing boots clacking on the tarmac, arms open in mock celebration. “Did it look sick or did it look sick?”
Lando didn’t answer. He just grabbed your wrist and pulled you away from the others, behind the McLaren truck where it was quieter.
“Hey—what—?”
“Don’t do that again,” he said, voice tight, eyes flashing.
You blinked. “It’s a music video, Lan.”
“You had cars going head-on around you.”
“They weren’t going to hit me.”
“You don’t know that!”
You fell quiet. The echo of your breath still caught in your ears. You took a step closer.
“Were you scared?” you asked softly.
He huffed. “Terrified.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Because I could’ve been hurt or because you—?”
“Because you mean too much to me for that to be how I lose you,” he said quickly, before his brain could stop his mouth.
The words hit you harder than the wind off the Mercedes had.
Then his hands found your face.
“I watched you walk through chaos like it was nothing,” he murmured. “You looked beautiful. Untouchable. But I was losing my mind.”
You wrapped your arms around his waist.
“I’m right here.”
“I know,” he breathed. “And I’m gonna keep you here.”
⸻
Two weeks later, the music video dropped.
Over 20 million views in 24 hours.
Thousands of F1 fans dissecting every frame.
“You can see the Red Bull inches from her shoulder here.”
“The way the Ferrari whips her hair back—cinematic genius.”
“I just know Lando was bricking it when she was filming it.”
But it was the behind-the-scenes clip posted by the F1 social team that really sent fans into a frenzy.
Lando, hiding behind Oscar.
Lando, swearing under his breath.
Lando, pulling you away the second filming wrapped and whispering something no one could hear.
The top comment?
“Everyone else: ‘cool video.’. Lando Norris: ‘My girl just danced with death in a fireproof suit and heels and I’m supposed to be okay with this?’”
⸻
And when the red carpet premiere rolled around, and you walked it hand-in-hand with Lando, you turned to the cameras with a wink.
“Don’t worry,” you said, tugging on his sleeve. “He kept watching.”
And Lando? He just smiled like he hadn’t blinked once since the day you walked through fire and kept your eyes only on him
pairing: oscar piastri x actress!reader
summary: Oscar watches from afar as you and your co-star make the internet a little crazy during your press tour. He tries to convince himself he's not jealous at all.
tags: jealous oscar, secret relationship, miami gp 25, reader stars in tbosas & has indiacorey and zeglyth levels of chemistry w her costar (iykyk!), tom blyth is here, pr team governs all, the woes of being long-distance, one teensy smut scene. minors dni
wc: 13.8k words :D
a/n: [taps mic] hi... [waves].. tons of actors sharing good chemistry with their costars as of late... wondered how oscar would act in a similar situation... Alas
Oscar could not let go of his phone.
It’s all rather inconvenient when the algorithm has him pegged. How could it not? He’s a simple guy with even simpler interests: sim racing, ESPN highlights, and you.
Hollywood's up and rising. Darling songbird. His long-term girlfriend.
His watch history is a clear smoking gun: Cast Trivia on IMDb. Challenges on Teen Vogue and Cosmopolitan. Behind-the-scenes teasers. A leak of your chemistry read. Press interviews—millions of them. He thinks he’s watched each interview from each country. Interviews with you interviewing the other.
And he thought media day was tedious.
He scrolls past a fan edit and exhales, long and weary; he feels a little hostile.
He thinks it’s jealousy.
The exact genesis of it is a mystery. All he knew was that you were suddenly busier than ever.
Not the usual kind of busy—long shoot days or back-to-back matinees where you barely had time to check your phone. Not the kind where, if he was lucky, he’d catch a glimpse of your day on your story. Maybe a ten-minute call before you dozed off.
This was a different kind of busy. Bigger. Public. Cameras trailed you from presser to presser. Your ensemble roles on Broadway and supporting acts in art house films hadn’t garnered this much scrutiny.
You were everywhere now. He didn’t have to wonder where you were or what you were doing—Lionsgate made sure of it.
They lavished on the ad spend: an international press tour when cross-country would’ve sufficed. Print. Radio. Television. Every feed, every timeline, flooded with the kind of lead-couple chemistry execs prayed would recapture the magic of the originals.
You’re both so rarely on the same televised frequency. Reels of his and Lando’s post-race debriefs bleed into autoplay trailers on TikTok. Even Hattie saw the trailer of your movie play right before lights out on a race weekend. Prime slot, full saturation.
He’s proud of you.
Who can discount your credibility? Raised to be onstage, just enough street cred that intrigues producers and makes you worth defending on Twitter. The same trajectory as the modern greats, really.
You’re headed there. He’s sure. Your fanbase themselves are sure. The world can’t help but pay attention when a star is born. Hold their breath, place their bets. Oscar’s already cast his, and they’re all in your favor.
But he scrolls and reads comments. Gets uncomfortably hot at the chest when he dwells on it for too long.
They’re literally in love.
Just date already.
There it was—a flicker of insecurity.
Your agent had advised you to keep your relationship private. Said it could hurt promotional activity. Poor promo hurts the box office. And box office sales were, more or less, championship points in your world.
He liked the privacy. The secrets? Not so much. The peace was a blessing, especially when he’d heard other drivers complain about the media digging into their partners’ lives against their wishes.
And while he wasn’t blind to the merits of a private relationship, he also saw their bright smiles whenever they get to mention their significant others in interviews, the posts on Instagram. Flirty comments and tags in photo dumps.
God, did he want to hold your hand in public. Bring you to races. Walk into the paddock with you by his side. Wishes you were here now, lounging with him in his driver’s room.
He wants to say your name when interviewers ask him, What drives you, Oscar? Wants to see your face at the barriers of parc fermé after getting P1. He even wouldn’t mind posing for a pap or two, arm around your waist. Unmistakably his.
Instead, you did interviews with your co-star. Talked on and on about how easy it is, how natural the chemistry sparks. The interviewers attest to this in confidence, and journalists call it electrifying and undeniable and incessant even when cameras aren’t rolling!
It’s unfair, honestly, to blame your co-star. Anyone in your immediate orbit, given a few moments with you, would fall headfirst.
You—so considerate, so warm, and so unbelievably easy to love.
After all, it only took him seconds to clock the thought: you might be it for him.
His phone dings.
you
you have NO idea what we did today.
oscar
Nothing dangerous, I hope
you
we did an interview with kittens. KITTENS. one climbed up my shoulder.
I named him Oscat :)
Sent an image
It was a selfie of you cradling the kitten, cheek against its furry head. The corners of his lips tug up. He reacts with a heart.
oscar
What an honor
Any chance I could meet Oscat?
you
Tom said we should adopt it
The mention of your co-star makes him frown a bit, but he brushes it off.
oscar
Do you want to?
you
even if I did
we couldn’t
we’d be terrible parents, away all the time.
He has to bite back a smile at the idea of you two being parents. It’s a welcome image that makes his world tilt a little bit off its axis.
Somebody whacks his head from behind. Lando snickers and sends him a knowing look. “What’s got you looking silly?”
“Piss off,” he laughs. His smile grows a little wider.
oscar
Next time then :)
Sure there are plenty of oscats around the world
Don't you worry
you
💔💔💔💔💔💔
gotta go now
love you raceboy
good luck with FP1 tomorrow!!!!
He wants to ignore the last bit. Really. If it were anyone else, but it was you, so he reluctantly searches for the waving hand emoji and hits send.
“That the leading lady?” Lando asks, plopping down beside him on the couch.
He raises his eyebrows at the nickname. “Yeah.”
“Still keeping it under wraps?”
Oscar sighs. “Yep.”
“That’s unfortunate. They’ve been all over my feed, her and that fellow.”
“Tom’s a nice guy,” Oscar says, though he doesn’t know why he finds the need to defend the dude. “He knows we’re together.”
Lando rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure.”
Oscar has a vague idea of where this conversation is headed and he doesn’t like it. “Is there a problem?”
“The problem is you have no rage.”
If only he knew.
“It’s a contractual relationship,” Oscar says, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Like we are,” he adds belatedly, but winces when he realizes the argument is flimsy.
“Oh, absolutely. ‘Cause we are the exemplar of professionalism, yeah?”
Lando sits up and looks at him straight in the eye. “Your girl’s great, don’t get me wrong. I dunno, though. I can’t sit still when some bloke is all over my teammate’s girlfriend.” Lando places a hand over his chest. “I’m an empath.”
Oscar scoffs. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it, can I? I’m not a douche, Lan.”
“I’m not asking you to be a douche. Just… don’t be a saint!”
He gets the urge to strangle him. He did not need Lando playing enabler.
“And you can do something about it, actually.”
His words hang in the air like bait. Oscar is no better person than what Lando says he is.
“…What do you mean.”
“I’m just saying. It’s not strange for an F1 driver to be into Hollywood and movies.”
“No clue what you’re trying to say, mate.”
“Just… hit like on a few photos here and there. Fans’ll pick it up, put two and two together, then wrap up their BS.”
And Lando leaves it at that.
It feels like crossing a boundary—breadcrumbing the press without your consent, so he lets Lando’s ill-advised scheming pass without comment.
Until Entertainment Weekly.
It’s a cast feature. The article features close-up portraits with your face squished against Tom’s, your hands pinching his cheeks, both of you mid-laugh as the photographer catches the moment.
They’re gorgeous shots. You’re gorgeous.
If Tom’s face weren’t basically fused to yours, Oscar might’ve made one his lockscreen.
There’s a tantrum bubbling up in his throat. He holds it in just barely. It’s his rest day, but he’s considering calling his trainer to punch it out.
It’s no mystery why the press has you pegged as Hollywood royalty’s next in line.
Then he makes the mistake of clicking the video link in the article.
The title alone slaps him across the face—three reads in, and it still stings.
Classic clickbait: loud, shameless, and almost believable if you’ve ever been online for more than five minutes. Fans will eat it up like it’s a confirmation in and of itself.
Tom Blythe Fell In Love with His Co-Star, YN
Oscar scrolls past clipped film stills and scans the article for where the fuck it says about him falling in love with you.
She’s just so alluring. Have you heard her sing? It pulls you in. I don’t even have to be in character to feel that pull. It’s magnetic, our rehearsals. I’ve worked with many people, and it’s hard to click with someone this easily. She’s—she’s very easy to fall in love with. The first time I met her…
He has to put his phone down. Oscar rolls his eyes so hard he sees the back of his brain.
He attempts to justify this revolting feeling worming through him—surely, Tom must be crossing a line? He’s never paid attention to Hollywood, but onscreen couples can’t be this intimate—this blatant—across the media, can they?
He does a quick Google search.
Hollywood co-stars turned couples.
Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Leighton Meester and Adam Brody. Tom Holland and Zendaya.
It’s a long list of more names he doesn’t recognize, but it’s the last one that drives the hammer home; he recalls you calling them “goals” once. He’s seen all the Spider-Man movies with you, so he gets the hype.
Fine. He is jealous.
Turns out the stifling feeling in his chest is a load of self-righteous anger after all. His jaw clenches. It’s triggering all other emotions he’d rather not be feeling.
The nerve of this man.
Oscar swipes back to the article, scrolls up to a photo of you and Tom in some preview event: you, every bit an angel in that white satin dress, and Tom, tall, blonde, with that princely aura Oscar knows he’ll never quite pull off. His stomach unclenches only when he sees Tom’s arm around your shoulder, not your waist.
He hates imagining himself in the same frame.
Next to Tom, he’s awkward. Pedestrian. Unsure in anything outside a race suit.
He hates imagining himself at all.
Then—like you’re psychic—a message pops up.
you
hi baby
my handsome boy
just letting you know the final trailer drops in three hours 😁
I’m reaaally excited for you to see this one
Guilt punctures him in the gut. This feels worse than jealousy—the fact that he had let doubt creep in. That you’d leave him for someone you, technically, met at work. Foolish. Foolish.
oscar
Are you a ghost?
you
???
oscar
Nothing. Was thinking about you when your message came in
Your contact card pops up. Incoming call. His lips perk up at your photo: it’s a stupid-looking high-angle shot of you frowning, your cheeks between his hand.
“What part about me were you thinking of, baby boy?” Your voice trickles through the speakers, sultry and low. He snorts. He can tell you’re holding back a laugh.
“Oh, you know, just about everything,” he replies. He plays along like it’s breathing.
There’s a pause. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
Your unguarded laugh is a bright thing. “Naughty. I hope you were alone.”
He laughs along until a wave of something washes over and an ache seizes his chest. His grip on his phone tightens. “I miss you,” he murmurs.
“I miss you too, Osc,” you say, quiet yet clear over the line. Somehow, you always sound so surprised. “Switch to FaceTime?”
“You aren’t busy?” He asks. Hates how surprised he sounds.
“I’ve got a couple of hours before a Zoom meeting.”
He waits while you switch on the camera, heart beating unusually fast.
When your face comes up, so does his heart. It’s all caught in his throat. Your hair is loose, and he thinks it’s his old sweater you’re wearing.
“Hi,” you’re smiling, propping your phone on a table.
“Hi,” he gushes, head tilting in fondness. His next words spill out involuntarily. “You’re pretty.”
You go shy. He bites his tongue in a grin when you hide and groan. Your blush triggers a dopamine hit, the kind that rushes in when winning, and he thinks he looks fairly dopey on your end.
“Thank you? I love you. Now—stop deflecting. I want to know why you sound like a sad puppy.”
“Hah. Okay. Uh, don’t get mad?”
“You can’t really decide that for me, but I’ll try.”
Oscar sends a screenshot of his recent Google search. Co-stars turned couples.
You lean in and nod. “Hmmm. I see.”
It takes a few seconds longer than it’s supposed to take. He scoffs lightly, amused. You definitely did not see.
You sigh and give up valiantly. “Babe, I have no idea what I’m supposed to be looking at. I’m not mad at your lack of Hollywood knowledge, if that’s the case? I might even prefer it that way.”
“That’s not— Okay, um.” Oscar scratches his jaw. He glances back at you, brows scrunched, and braces himself. “So I might have been feeling a little.. Just a little. Jealous. Of you and Tom. Er… Reasons being Entertainment Weekly.”
You blink.
“Oh.”
“Yup.”
“…Really?”
“Mhm.”
“Like, Tom, my co-star Tom?”
“Are there any other Toms I should be aware of?”
“No?”
“Good.”
“You’re jealous?”
“I’m not keen on repeating that part, but yes. I am.”
“Wow.”
“You sounded just like me.”
“It’s just…” You bite your lip, and Oscar spots the faint divot in your cheek, a telltale sign you were trying terribly hard not to laugh.
Fuck my life. He wants to crawl into a cave. “You can laugh, you know. I know it’s stupid.”
“You’d feel bad if I laughed! And you’re completely entitled to feel that way!” You grin. “But you’re right. It is a little stupid. It’s like me getting jealous of Lando.”
Oscar’s lips form a pout. “Why would you get jealous of Lando?”
“Exactly.”
Not only is he still confused, he’s also feeling an inch worse because your reaction makes it all seem like he’s just overreacting, acting irrational. He can’t help it—his usually sound judgment goes haywire whenever you’re involved.
His skin feels a little tight. Uncomfortable. Admitting it now felt like a terrible idea.
It must be written all over his face, because you lean closer to the camera. “Oscar.”
He’s still too upset to answer. When you call him again, your voice is a little more urgent.
He avoids the camera but hums, a tad grumpily, just to let you know he’s listening.
“I love you, softy. Just you.”
When he looks up, there’s a small smile on your face.
“I mean it. No acting here.”
All he can do is stare—wide-eyed, soft. Starstruck.
Maybe it’s the way you say it. I love you. Said in the same way you always do. All candid confidence. It’s the same I love you before he jets off. The I love you when you end a call. It’s instinct. Easy. The words, all the same, warm and worn like a well-fitted glove.
Or maybe it’s the way you’re staring. Eyes crinkled in mirth. The faintest dimple on your cheek. Incredulity—the gentle kind, the one reserved for lecturing little kids and, apparently, him—is written all over your face because he should’ve known.
I love you. You were so sure.
He forgets that he hasn’t spoken.
So you say it again. Firmer.
“You’re mine, Piastri. Got that?”
He has to clear his throat. Screw being jealous. He was yours—lanky shoulders, awkward grins, and all the uncertainty his confidence couldn’t quite cover.
You take home all.
He leans back on the couch, hides his reddening face behind his hands. “Overkill,” he mutters. “I got it the first time.”
You scoff. “Sure you did.”
“I swear.”
“Pffft.”
Oscar studies your face on his significantly small screen and wishes you were right next to him instead. “I love you.”
The mischief melts from your eyes. “I know.” It turns soft. “And I love you, too. Case it wasn’t clear.”
He laughs. Oh, God. You make it hard for him, sometimes.
And then he goes quiet. Not on purpose. But because there’s a stifling feeling in his chest. Emotions, too much of them. He has to let out a sigh.
You frown at that. “You really okay? And don’t fucking lie. I can tell.”
He rolls his eyes, gets very close to the camera. “I promise, baby. Thank you.”
A message comes through a couple of minutes after.
come to think of it. jealous and territorial thing could work in the bedroom. what say you 😉😇
This time, he really laughs.
He bags two wins from the triple-header. Finally: a week of grace.
By then, there’s another feature of you and Tom. You send him a link to the magazine’s official Instagram.
you
sending you, my dearest boyfriend, another shoot I had with Guy I Work With
oscar
You can call him by his name I’m not that petty 🙄
you
😛
oscar
Oh wow these shots came out well
you
right!! 🥹
Oscar scrolls through the comments, mostly mindless now.
Jealousy was exhausting. Irrational. Oscar Piastri is above such emotions. That’s how they were raised in the Piastri household.
He scrolls daringly.
The ones gushing about your chemistry barely bother him. The ones insinuating you and Tom are dating? Only slightly grating. He believes he’s made progress.
His chest swells at the sheer amount of love you’re getting.
One comment makes his thumb pause
⇢ the way he looks at her BROOO whoever yn’s bf is is better than me
Oscar sits up a little straighter. Grabs a cushion in case he needs to squeeze something.
He opens the reply thread against his better judgment.
⇢ “Whoever her bf is” when it’s literally tom LMAOO
⇢ i'd cheat if i were her #tbh
⇢ idt she’s dating anyone tho so the agenda lives on
⇢ MAYBE respect their private lives and not make this weird for them
⇢ why she would be single is beyond me of course she has a boyfriend
He hmms and huhs through the comments. Somewhat entertained, very much ticked.
It’s only after he gets to the end of the thread that Oscar realizes he’s pressed Like on the original comment.
“Ah shit.”
He immediately unlikes.
Oscar stares at his phone for one, two, three long seconds.
Fuck. Fuck.
Surely, this person wouldn’t know him? Didn’t get a notification for a like he quickly retracted? At least, he thinks he was quick enough.
Not everyone follows Formula One, anyway. There are thousands of other sports in the world, so surely…
Oscar cautiously taps on the commenter’s profile. His heart drops.
There, at the top of the person’s profile, is a dedicated highlight labeled F1 🏁
Okay. So this person is into F1. Cool.
He’s one of the less popular drivers, so it’ll be fine. It’s just his third season. He’s only won stuff just recently. Probably a Leclerc fan. Won’t care about him at all.
But then he scrolls down their profile. There’s a photo of them posing in the middle of the grandstands, pointing to a papaya cap with the number 4 emblazoned on the brim.
Just his luck: A fucking Lando Norris fan blowing his cover.
user: oscar just liked my comment on instagram..?
⇢ WHAT do you mean
⇢ this is the comment he liked
⇢ ????? wtf does he have to do with tbosas or yn or her boyfriend lol
⇢ UNLESS HE’S THE BOYFRIEND?
Nothing ever remains a secret for too long in these circles.
He’s surprised it’s gotten this far.
Somewhere, a gossip columnist cracks their knuckles and thinks finally, some good fucking food. It’s a field day for the tabloids and overtime for your PR team.
Not his. McLaren couldn’t care less about who he’s dating. That’s exactly why Oscar feels like crap.
One elaborate Twitter thread becomes the de facto source for every other video uploaded on Tiktok and Youtube—the new bloods of Motorsports and Hollywood, here’s everything you need to know!
Oscar’s slip-up is a drop of blood in shark-infested waters, and they’re quick to catch scent. Fan theories climb up the algorithm. Discourse drives the headlines. Your digital footprints get timestamped, reverse-searched, and stitched into Reddit threads that are exaggeratingly formatted like crime scene dossiers.
It’s easy forensic work when both of you live half your lives in public.
To be fair, you haven’t made it hard, either.
You’ve flirted with exposure more than once: an Australia photo dump, repeated use of the orange heart emoji, that one offhand interview comment about being attracted to “people who chase their dreams at full speed.”
All harmless fun when the whispers didn’t exist.
Now, each breadcrumb’s been turned into ammo against you both.
“What a waste of talent. They could be doing investigative work for fucking Interpol and yet it’s our little lives they choose to pick apart,” You say on speaker as he drives to the MTC for their debriefs.
He knew your little ways of rebelling, the secret joy you get tiptoeing around PR restrictions. “This sucks. I liked playing cryptic.”
He can hear you pouting. “My poor girl,” Oscar coos.
You huff again, glassware clinking faintly in the background. Longing hits him like a spell; it’s been a while since he’s made morning tea by your side.
“I saw a vintage McLaren poster the other day and was tempted to upload a story of it. ”
He makes a turn. “I think you do want to get caught.”
“Ish.”
Oscar snorts. “Well, dearest, you’ve gotten exactly what you wished for.”
“But I wanted it to be without consequence.” You heave a dramatic sigh. “We could’ve watched it slowly unfold, avoid this flashbang in the morning.”
As much as he feels bad that he spoiled your theatrical soft launch, he can’t help but find your moping infinitely endearing. “Yeah, my bad. Slippery fingers.”
You pause to take a sip. “It’s okay. No idea what they’re talking about in the PR meeting they’re having, but— What’s that thing they say? Any press is good press?”
The dip in your tone doesn’t make you sound convincing. This alarms him. “I didn’t make things complicated for you, did I?”
“No, don’t worry,” you say. He hears the lie, and his grip on the wheel tightens a little. He calls your name again. He wasn’t buying it.
You give in. “Fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Isn’t it a sensitive thing, having us Hollywood folks poke around your sport? Fans hate that, right?”
Oscar already knows you’re biting the inside of your cheek. “Fuck ‘em,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t care about what a few motorsports purists have to say, and neither should you.”
You hum in response. Distant.
“Hey,” he calls. The end of the line is quiet. He has to double-check his phone. “Don’t get too in your head when I’m not there.”
“Hm?”
“I said get out of your head, baby.”
“Oh. Sorry.” You sound sheepish. “I think I’m gonna order in for breakfast. Let me know how the debrief goes, okay? Love you.”
He hums, still worried. “Bye. Love you too.”
The debrief, without any racket, goes. Everyone’s happy with the wins. He shoots a few videos with Lando for marketing, runs a few rounds on the sim. The day was supposed to end there, if not for Zak gesturing him over to the meeting room.
Lando notices and gets the hint way before he does because he asks if he can join in.
“I’ll eavesdrop if you say no.” Zak doesn’t have much of a choice.
It doesn’t take too long for him to piece together this impromptu meeting—not when the only people in the room are from Marketing or PR.
They all look a little confused when Lando walks in with him, but Zak waves them off.
“Hi, everyone. Just here for a good time,” his teammate greets. Everyone settles into their chairs. Lando leans in and whispers, “PR time, baby.”
On the side, someone rolls their eyes and mutters, “We’ll need an extra NDA.”
“Normally, we wouldn’t arrange a PR stunt because of a driver’s love life, but yours is a bit special,” Chrissy, the head of this entire op, says after giving them the rundown.
He nods in understanding. “Yeah. Cause she's a public figure, right?”
She knits her brows. “Yes, but it’s also more of a money thing. Some studio people wanted to mitigate this issue in case it hurts the box office. Crisis into opportunity and whatnot.”
It makes no sense. Oscar widens his eyes for lack of a better reaction. “Wow. Okay, sure. Didn’t know I could bring in such bad press.”
“You are when you’re getting in the way with one of their biggest selling points.”
“I’m in a relationship with one-half of their biggest selling points,” he deadpans.
Lando lets out a low whistle. “A bunch of stodgy Hollywood producers got in contact with McLaren?”
“Just one producer made the call. But yes.”
“Ozzz. You have got to stop messing with PR.” He grins. “You know Alpine still hasn’t recovered to this day?”
“Jesus..” Oscar rubs at his temples. “I will muzzle you.”
“Seriously. I respect the hustle. Why stop at F1? Why not terrorize Hollywood Hills while you’re at it?”
“Mate.”
“Hah. Sorry. Anyhow, I give my full support to Oscar’s second stint at appeasing the media via…” Lando looks over at Chrissy and gestures to the PowerPoint. “What’s this called?”
“Pardon?”
“This thing. This operation. Does it have a name?”
“We don’t really have a name for it.”
“You don’t?” His teammate’s face genuinely drops at this information. “Well. You must.”
“Um. Operation Big Reveal?”
Lando blows a raspberry. “Horrible. Next.”
“Operation Soft Launch?”
“What? No. Boring. Okay. Sit with it for a few minutes.”
Zak and the other company big shots escape while they can.
“Osc?”
“No. Can we go home now.”
“Just one bloody name.”
Someone giggles. “Rob thought of a great name.”
Oscar doesn’t know who Rob is, but he hopes he puts an end to this conversation. Lando urges him on. “Well, spit it out, then.”
“DRS.” A beat. They wait for him to elaborate. The tips of Rob’s ears turn a deep red. “Deploy Romance Strategically.”
“Operation DRS,” Lando grins, nodding. “You absolute genius.”
Oscar is impressed, embarrassed, but mostly relieved that Lando’s been satiated. “You’ve held onto that for a while, have you?”
Chrissy approaches Oscar while Lando chats the team’s ears off. “You can give your girlfriend a heads up that we’ll be in contact with her team soon.”
His cheeks warm at the mention of you, not used to hearing them address you so casually. “Sure, Chrissy. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s been a while since the team’s gotten to do anything on this scale—no offense.”
“None taken. Run through the NDA with Lando again, will you? He’s too loose for my liking.”
The next morning, a WhatsApp group is made.
OPERATION DRS — Miami GP PR Plan
Chrissy: Hi team!! Here’s the game plan for the upcoming race week just so we’re all aligned on tone + handling buzz during and after the GP.
The goal is to soft-launch the relationship of Oscar and YN without making it a spectacle + clear up the rumors between the two leads in a way that still boosts promo for the film.
I’ve already sent tailored briefs to your media reps, so you can direct your questions to them if you have any.
Chrissy sent a file.
Oscar reads the file twice, thrice. He memorizes his talking points and yours for good measure. He usually doesn’t care about the media; the consequences are too intangible in the grand scheme of things. But now, he takes it seriously. Because it concerns you.
Oscar doesn’t take risks with you.
And so he hangs onto every word in this document, places your welfare and your career’s success into the hands of experts. Trusts the process.
Your call is out of the blue.
Weird. He does a quick calculation—It’s 8 AM, and London is five hours ahead of New York, meaning it’s 3 AM right now where you are.
He picks up. “Hi? You having trouble sleeping?”
“Hi. No, I’m okay.”
“Wanna switch to FaceTime?”
“No!” You say abruptly, then catch yourself. “I mean, no. It’s fine.”
Okay, now you were truly acting weird. “O…kay? If you say so. Why’re you still up?”
There’s a sigh at the end of the line. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to check if you were busy today.”
“Oh. Nah, I’ve got a free day today. Some training, but nothing heavy.”
“When do you leave for Miami?”
“Hmm. Not in five days,” he replies, then he remembers the whole media plan, and the corners of his lips turn up. “Can’t wait to see your face then.”
“Yeah?” You ask, a soft quality to your voice. He hears the smile in your answer. “Me too, Osc. Can’t wait to cause some damage.”
He tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, rummaging through the cabinet for something to eat. “You think your fans will hate me?”
You pause, thinking. “Nah. I’ve met some of them, they’re chill.” But then you add lightly, “It’s the shippers we have to worry about. They’re somewhat insane.”
He inwardly sighs when he realizes there’s nothing passably nutritious (an old box of Weetabix, a few cans of Monster).
“I figured.” Then, he hears the distinct sound of a car horn, which makes him pause. “Wait. Are you in a car?”
“Why would I be in a car?” you ask, sounding too blithe for someone awake in the bleak hours of morning.
He shuts the cabinet door. “Well, that sounded really close. You’re not driving, are you? Don’t you live on the twenty-sixth floor?”
“Car horns are really loud, Oscar.”
Hm. If only you were acting in front of a camera and not him, he might have been fooled.
His heart starts to pick up.
He didn’t want to assume, but he thinks he hears a frightfully quaint accent that is very much not of a New York City cab driver.
He holds his breath when he pulls up the Find My app.
He stills. You’ve turned off your location—the flicker of truth in your lie.
His blood begins to hum.
If he wasn’t hearing things, if he wasn’t chasing some daydream… Then you were on your way to him.
“Oscar?” You call out gently. “You there?”
It genuinely takes a gargantuan amount of self-restraint to keep the fondness from his voice. “Sorry, love. Just got a notification.”
You sound relieved when you reply, now that you think he’s off the scent. “Free day my ass. Go answer those emails. I’m getting sleepy.”
“Okay.” He’s never been happier to hear you lie. “Sleep well.”
You blow a kiss into the receiver. “Night. Love you.”
“Love you most.”
When the call ends, he laughs to himself.
He can’t even remember what he was doing before—whatever it was, it doesn’t matter. Hunger dissolves into static.
He doesn’t know how far you are, only that you’re in England. And you’re on your way.
Still dazed, he starts tidying up. There’s a stupid grin on his face he can’t quite get rid of.
He puts on one of your pre-show playlists hoping it might settle his heart, which doesn’t know what to do with itself. Chopin trickles through the small speakers.
It’s someone’s dog at the door, tail wagging, thinking: Yes. Yes. Yes. You. Here. Soon.
The playlist is halfway through when the doorbell rings.
His heart gives a little kick. Jump starts his entire nervous system. He sprints to the door and nearly skids on the hardwood.
Oscar peers through the peephole.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He fumbles with the lock.
There you are—luggage in tow, a brown paper bag in hand, the faint smell of butter and dough curling into the air.
“Delivery for Oscar Piastri?”
His brain, operating on the thought of you alone this entire morning, short-circuits completely. You barely utter another sentence before he’s stumbling forward, all limbs and relief. The bag hits the ground before you can save it.
“Ack! Oscar, the food—”
“Later,” he mumbles, burying his face in your shoulder.
He squeezes you until the space between you disappears. No more miles, no more time differences. Just solid, present warmth.
Your body sighs against him. Arms wound tighter around his neck, and he relishes how the pull seems as desperate as his. It’s never easy, the distance. This time took a lot longer than usual.
He inhales a lungful of your scent and nearly whines. It all feels like coming home. Finally.
Too long. Too goddamn long.
“Hi,” you grin when you pull away, grasping onto his hoodie.
Oscar laughs, eyes crinkling, unbelieving. “Hi, pretty girl.” Then he leans in for a kiss.
You breathe into him, and he presses down a little harder. He’s missed this—your taste, the shyness of your lips.
A soft giggle erupts moments before the kiss gets too emotional, too heated. You lean your forehead against his, breathless.
He raises a brow when you bite your lips, holding back another fit of laughter. You’re all childish glee when he mutters ‘brat’ before he pecks you.
“Surprise,” you grin.
He rolls his eyes and smirks. “You can turn your location on, now.”
Your mouth falls open. “You noticed.”
“It’s you,” he shrugs. Something molten glimmers in your eyes. He’s not sure what it is, but he gets an inkling.
You kiss him again.
When you’re home, he makes it a point never to leave your side.
It’s like his heart’s outgrown his chest—stretching into the room, spilling into the kitchen, taking up all the space around you.
He takes the chair beside you rather than the one across. Glues his body to your side. Eats with one hand so the other can rest on your knee while you explain how you nearly missed your flight.
When he’s finished his food, he leans in and buries his head into your neck, sniffing without thinking. You’re in his hoodie, bare legs folded, socks peeking underneath the soft hem.
And it’s this: this specific blend of you, with a whiff of him. Balmy and warm and all-familiar comfort. It shoots up straight to his neural pathways like a drug.
You bring your free hand to stroke the side of his head. Oscar hums lowly, furrowing deeper. “Mm,” he presses a light kiss against your neck. He wants nothing more than to make a home here.
God, it’s like he’s intoxicated. Dipped in honey. He looks at you, struck by the sunlight gliding over your edges like something divine.
He picks out a goddess from memory. Hera. Athena. No—Aphrodite, he decides. There has to be a film about her somewhere. Maybe in that Nolan film you gushed about. Unfortunate, he thinks. They didn’t know the perfect girl for Aphrodite was in his arms.
If he had any creative acumen at all, he’d write a film just to watch you become her.
Alas, he was just Oscar.
“You are not real,” he murmurs.
“I don’t feel real,” you reply, eyes drooping. It must be all the warm food. The timezones catching up. He doesn’t know it’s because of all the attention he’s giving, layering on you lovingly like a weighted blanket.
You yawn, full-bodied and conclusive. He’s already slipping his arms under your knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”
You let out a yelp. “But we haven’t seen each other in months… I can’t go to sleep now.”
Oscar kisses your forehead and whispers directly into your ear, “I’ll make you sleep. Send you straight into REM.”
He gently lowers you onto the bed.
This is how he takes care of you: with hot licks and wet kisses against your core. It’s slow and lethargic. Nary a destination in mind when he draws out the laps of his tongue like a pastime.
There’s no rush, even when his fingers slip in. Languid, coaxing. A lullaby.
You sigh. Fall apart when he presses into the spot. Enough, you insist with a whine. He pretends not to hear, even when you tug his hair and cry out your thanks.
Everything is soft. Your thighs, the sound of your mewls. He allows himself to be greedy for a minute and sucks.
“Babe—” you gasp.
It’s useless. There’s no casting out the possessed.
He lasts for another round. This time, you don’t call for mercy. Only his name.
Oscar can tell when you’ve tipped over the edge of consciousness—You barely catch his ruined face when he comes to stroke your head.
Aftercare is a diligent affair. Runs the cloth over your skin like a ritual rather than a routine. He’s pleased. Overjoyed, really, over the fact that you’re here, sprawled across his bed, fast asleep.
He cleans himself up and crawls under the sheets, pulling you to his chest. This might be the best feeling in the world.
Training can wait.
Operation DRS is divided into three phases.
“Phase one focuses on riding along on fan speculation. So no teasing. On your end, at least. Any hint dropping will be coordinated by your reps.”
It’s mostly social media work: you, keeping up the online banter with Tom and reposting whatever needs to be shared. Tweets. Likes. Comments that make you two seem like a couple to those who didn’t know better.
Would’ve sent Oscar spiraling, too, if your head wasn’t on his lap while you went about it.
Having you around before he had to fly off to Miami is a gift. He likes hearing your voice across the room. Likes blowing kisses behind your camera during an interview, likes the faces you make when Mark’s on speaker, reacting to brand deals and podcast invites.
But you had to leave eventually. Some pop-up event with a brand, you had explained with a sad smile. Just a couple of days before flying to Miami, too. Right before Media Day.
The alarm already went off twice. He didn’t want you to leave.
He was a heavy sleeper, and while often a drawback, it worked to his advantage now. His arms clung to your frame defiantly.
You pat his arms. “I know you’re awake.”
“M’not,” he mumbled against your neck, eyes tightly shut. “I’m asleep. Leave in the morning.”
“It is morning.” There’s another attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. He pulls you impossibly closer. You sigh, “Oscar.”
“This is abandonment.”
“I’ll see you in two days, remember?”
He scoffed and tried taming down his whine. He was no better than a child.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re gone too quickly,” he says. It comes out more serious than expected.
You go still in his arms.
“Can I please face my boyfriend while we have this conversation?”
He lets go—reluctantly. Like he wants to fight it.
You twist around and cup his face in your hands.
His skin is warm, eyes intense. They don’t meet yours.
A light dusting of stubble prickles your palms. You feel his breath, slow and steady, fan across your cheek and try your damnest not to take the easy way out by kissing him instead.
“We’ve talked about this,” you say quietly. He looks up. You search his eyes, trying to gauge if he’s being serious.
His smile looks half-hearted. “I know. It’s just…”
“Yeah?”
“Feels different this time. Next time I see you, I have to pretend. Put up an act. I know it’s just for a while, but—I don’t like pretending,” he huffs. “Don’t think I can.”
You realize, then, how different this must feel for Oscar; You, used to acting, to slipping into another person’s skin, into another world. This was easy. A bit of fun, truly.
You hadn’t thought about how Oscar really thought about it. Not when he broke the news or told you the plan. He’d be playing a part, reciting some lines. Pretend that, for a while, you were just another person in his garage.
It nearly brings you to pieces, how quickly he takes the plunge when you’re in the picture. He hasn’t even said anything until now.
“It won’t be an act. None of it will.” You promise quietly, resting your forehead against his.
“Would be easier if this were about anything else,” he mumbles.
A younger you would’ve taken immediate offense. Not now, though. Because you understand. Because you spent more years arguing with him before being with him. Because of this, you know what he means: This isn’t just anything. It’s you.
You were everything to him.
Warmth simmers in your bones.
“Good thing I’m not easy,” you say, disguising your joy as impudence. Oscar nudges your nose. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
He closes in, resting his lips on yours. Not kissing, just to be as close as he can. “Thank you,” he mumbles. “I know it’s a little unreasonable.”
A peck. “Never unreasonable. Not with you.”
You show him a little mercy, cuddling and stealing time you don’t have. It’s the nature of your relationship. Trading places, who leaves and who stays. But it helps, just a bit, these short moments sitting in denial.
Your embrace breaks just before dawn does. He sits up, and you feel his eyes tracking you as you get ready.
In the middle of shoving packing cubes into your carry-on and picking which hoodie to steal (“Don’t you have anything that isn’t in damn papaya?!”), you don’t notice Oscar spiraling in the background.
He’s nervous. While he usually doesn’t let voices from the outside get to him, he couldn’t help but think of what—or who—was at stake.
Oscar scrolls through his socials the next day. He stops at a photo of you at the brand pop-up and has to physically stop himself from smiling.
You were dressed in orange—in papaya. Flashing a sweet smile at the camera with no traces of shame for any rumors you would start fanning.
user: wearing that shade of orange at this time was NOT a good move
user: I’m crying did she do this on purpose or is she just blissfully unaware
⇢ I don’t think she cares that some driver liked a comment about her tho
⇢ fr god forbid a guy likes pretty movie stars
⇢ SOME DRIVER????????????
user: Tom liked!!!!!
Your phone pings. Several times.
Nellie (PR)
PR would appreciate a heads up on any easter egg dropping moving forward, but they’ve decided it’s a good call. Said we’re getting enough “healthy speculation” to transition to the next phase.
Oscar
Hi. Cute outfit ☺️🧡 Can’t wait to see you
Tom
You are honestly so obvious
The team plants a tip anticipating your arrival with Tom for FP1 and Sprint Qualifying. It’s officially Phase 2 of Operation DRS.
Sparks fly as Hollywood’s newest stars are seen together trackside in Miami.
It doesn’t take long for the gossip sites to follow, skewing your visit into something entirely different, which is exactly what your team wants them to do.
Stars land in Miami—but which team gave them the paddock pass?
Who is YN really cheering for? Tom, or one lucky driver?
“I’m nervous,” Tom says as you both walk towards the Paddock Club suites. A wave of camera shutters goes off in your direction. You didn’t realize they were so… in your face, even on the paddock.
Both of you are led upstairs into the thick of the Miami Paddock Club. It's considerably crowded, a blur of designer sunglasses and neon-accented lanyards on tailored suits and deep plunge dresses. Laughter bounces off the glass railings. A few heads turn as you and Tom make your way through, towards a more private sitting area tucked behind a velvet rope.
There’s a flat screen streaming the broadcast, and you have one eye on it in case Oscar appears.
You’re grateful for the pocket of peace. You return to Tom. “He’s nice. You’ll be fine. And it’s not like you’re meeting him now. He’s already in the garage,” you say. “We’ll do some real damage tomorrow.”
“Psh. I’ll do some real damage now.” Tom lifts his phone towards you and coos, “Smile!”
You pose with a wink.
Tom’s thumbs fly across the screen and you feel your phone buzz.
Fast times with @ mclaren !
Someone’s stoked to be here @ yourname
You smirk, repost the story with I’ve got good company 🤷♀️
He snorts at your repost. “Now you’re being PR compliant.”
You ignore his comment with a roll of your eyes and raise your phone. “Your turn.”
Tom dons his McLaren cap and poses, pointing at the live feed with a grin.
The comments start flooding in. Your rep sends you a thumbs-up emoji. Everything’s according to plan.
You stare at the stream, willing it to cut to Oscar. This PR fuss is making you sick with longing.
When it cuts to him slipping his balaclava on, your heart lurches. At once, a series of oohs echoes in the room. Chit-chat multiplies. Only incrementally, but it’s noticeable. Some even take their phones out. You realize everyone else is staring at the same person on the screen.
Who wouldn’t? The Championship Leader. Record-breaker. Fastest man on the grid. Number one.
You bite the inside of your cheek and tamp down the sudden, ugly rush of possessiveness. You wish you’d brought his hat. Wish you’d worn his entire team kit, have his number emblazoned on your back.
You’re already opening up your photo gallery.
You scroll and scroll and land on one Hattie had taken in Australia—You on Oscar’s back, arms snug around his neck. Legs hooked between his arms. Smiles wide, skin flushed, lush greenery and trail signs peeking from behind.
It becomes your new wallpaper.
It’s shot a little wide, faces not too visible from afar, but the shot is affectionate enough for a follower to do a double-take. Just innocent enough. But petty. So petty, in fact, but you can’t help but pray someone catches it. Takes a photo, sends it online.
A little oops moment is all it would amount to. Can you blame a girl?
You put your phone aside, appeased.
Jealousy hadn’t thought to spare you either.
Sprint quali goes by similarly. You take photos. Joke around with Tom. Interact with other VIPs. It kills you that you’re obliged to network instead of paying attention to his lap times. You try not to get too upset when Oscar barely loses the sprint pole, knowing there’s a camera somewhere. You weren’t his girlfriend, not publicly, and so you shouldn’t be concerned with whether he places P1 or P20.
Back at the hotel, Tom retreats to his room. And while you have every intention of marching up to Oscar’s suite and making out with him like you’ve been separated for years, you could not wait to wash off the sticky heat of the Miami sun.
You’re in the middle of your skincare routine when you hear a soft knock on your door.
Through the peephole, Oscar stands with his hands in his hoodie, hair mussed, staring right through you. You immediately open the door.
He doesn’t say anything, just steps in to wrap you in his arms with a groan.
“Longest session of my life.”
You don’t even hear him, senses blocked by strong arms and a solid chest.
“Would’ve run through the paddock and tackled you to the ground if I had any say in it,” you mumble, voice muffled by the fabric. Oscar hears it perfectly, though, and you feel the rumble of a laugh erupt deep in his chest.
He gently pushes your body away from his, and you look at him with a raised brow.
He tilts his head to the side, teasing, eyeing you up and down, and you tighten your grip on him. You suspect he’s making fun of you in his head. The flicker in his smile tells you so.
You narrow your eyes. Who knows what else is going on inside that brilliant brain of his? It makes you want to wipe that smirk off his face.
“What?”
“What,” he parrots, mouth twitching upwards.
“Stop that.”
“Hm?” He tilts his head again, like he can’t help it.
“Stop looking at me funny.”
“You’re cute.”
“I’m not a stress toy.”
“You are to me.”
“Ugh,” you shut your eyes in quiet frustration.
Oscar takes the chance to press a soft kiss to your lips.
The contact unspools the tight coil in your stomach that’s wound taut from not seeing his face the entire day. You melt into him.
“Missed you today,” you confess once you’re buried in the sheets. “F1’s so different.”
Oscar props himself up with an elbow. “Yeah?”
“Nothing like your earlier races.” You climb onto his body. He adjusts himself so you can properly rest your chin on his chest. “Everyone’s an Oscar Piastri fan, now.”
His face contorts into something that can only be described as smug. He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. “Comes with winning, baby.”
You continue like this, taking turns recounting the day before sleep claims Oscar, and you have no choice but to follow.
Sprint and Qualifying permit you to fan the flames ever so slightly.
PR had arranged for you and Tom to have garage access during the Sprint and later in Quali, where he’s expected to reach Q3, meaning your boyfriend will be within your line of sight throughout the day.
You aren’t sure he’s aware, so you send him a quick selfie with the headset on. It’s not like he’ll see it, but—just in case.
You wish him luck on the sprint.
Still, no direct interaction is advised.
Soon.
Oscar gets a glimpse of you when he starts getting ready.
Your eyes are already on him, and he immediately lights up. He winks, half-smiling. You bite your cheek and mouth good luck.
The cameras, thankfully, don’t catch the exchange. Nobody does—except for Tom. He pokes your cheek in warning. “Keep it together, lover girl.”
You roll your eyes at him, not knowing that there’s a camera trained on you both this time around. You’ll find out how much the internet eats that up later in the day.
When the lights go off, you and Tom grab each other in a way that would seem overdramatized if you two weren’t genuinely invested in Oscar snatching back the lead. But then he holds the inside line, and race leader becomes his. No longer do you two look out of place with the McLaren garage erupting in fist pumps and shared yelps.
You let out a sigh of relief when his pitstop goes smoothly. Quietly curse at the same time he does when the safety car makes its untimely arrival, costing him the win.
P2 for the sprint. You applaud from where you are, giving your PR team room to breathe; nothing over the top, nothing to fuel the rumors. As discussed, you’re led out of the garage before Oscar returns.
You shoot off a quick text to Oscar, not expecting a reply until after his media obligations and debriefing. Nice P2, baby :)
He replies just an hour later. I’ll come find you once I’m done. Love you.
You and Tom are busy licking your spoons clean of gelato inside the Hard Rock Stadium when a McLaren staff member approaches you.
“Hi, sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s alright,” you reply, smiling, albeit confused. His face is familiar—you try to pinpoint where, and recall him from one of the Zoom meetings prior to race week.
“Oscar’s looking for you. I can walk you inside—a lot safer than entering yourself, case anyone pries.”
“Oh! Um-” You look at Tom apologetically. He waves you off. “Go on. I’ll go bother my manager while you rendezvous.”
On the way there, you apologize to the staff for having to play middleman to a pair of PR troublemakers, but he insists that it’s fine. Really. Having the opportunity to be photographed next to an actress is one of the more exciting aspects of the job, apparently.
Your escort helps you slip into the motorhome. It’s not as discreet as you’d hoped.
Someone snaps a photo and uploads it to Twitter.
user: yn with a mclaren staff. what goes ONN. i dont think she’s just a rando vip guest…
user: no cause did you see how she was reacting to the sprint fhsdjghsg
user: guys i think she might actually be oscar’s personal guest
⇢ Well now that’s pushing it
user: have we forgotten how she and tom were literally flirting in the garage
He’s lying horizontally on his physio bench when you come in. You snort at the sight of him.
In his shorts. Shirtless.
Oscar gets up with a grunt and automatically wraps his arm around your chest, then shyly thanks his staff for escorting you. They shut the door with a wink.
He pecks your lips in greeting. “I’ve got about ten minutes? Fifteen, max.”
“Nap first. Talk later.”
He kisses your cheek, muttering against it. “Can I lie on your lap?”
Your hand reaches up to pat his face. “Come on,” you say.
It’s cramped in his driver’s room—the floor would be a better option. You sit up against the wall and urge him over.
“And put a shirt on.”
He rolls his eyes at you like the little brat he sometimes is, but listens anyway.
When he’s finally dressed, he comes over and lays his head in your lap. You’re relieved the floor is carpeted.
Your hand finds his hair instinctively, fingers stroking his scalp, pulling gently at the back, knowing he likes the pressure. He sighs, subdued and content.
“All good so far?” he mumbles, half-asleep already.
“Yeah. PR team’s been quiet, so I guess that’s a good thing. Tom’s having fun, too.”
He hums softly. “M’glad to hear.”
And just like that, he’s knocked out. You smile, infinitely endeared.
You pass the time just like that: stroking Oscar’s head, playing with his curls, counting the freckles on his face. You think it’ll please his fans if they learn how feline he is when he’s affectionate.
You’re at twenty-six (twenty-six!) freckles when your phone starts buzzing.
Ten minutes is up.
“Oscar, darling,” you whisper into his ear. “Wake up.”
When he doesn’t stir, you scatter pecks all over his face. His eyes flutter open.
“Quali time,” you say quietly, and it’s enough to pull him out of the post-nap disorientation. He sits up with a groan of a grandpa and leans on you like a sloth.
“Thanks, baby,” he mutters into your hair. You kiss him for good luck and stand up to leave.
“You in the garage later?” He asks while slipping on his fireproofs.
“Only during Q3, if you get there.”
Oscar scoffs. “I think you mean when I get there.”
The smirk you’re nursing turns into a grin. “Of course I did, raceboy.”
Oscar meets expectations and is up to Q3.
By this time, you and Tom stand at the sidelines of the garage, notably not behind the stanchions where the other VIPs are corralled—a small but indicative freedom. It’s already earned you and Tom a few furtive looks; your paddock pass is, undoubtedly, a personal invitation.
It’s quiet between you and Tom now that Oscar’s on a hot lap. The garage is charged. All eyes are glued to a screen. You are willing everything, down to each pebble on the asphalt, to align for pole.
When he’s back in the garage, your senses snap to attention. The hairs on your skin stand. His bright helmet found at the end of your tunnel vision.
You try not to pay attention. Try.
He’s busy watching his monitors. You bite your lip, eyes trailing his hand when he reaches for his flask. Maybe it’s because you held that same gloved hand an hour earlier, kissed the face under that helmet. Or maybe you’re just down bad, the way watching Oscar in race mode does to you—but every motion in the cockpit makes your belly tie up in very big knots.
The secrecy thrills you more than you could ever admit.
Oscar’s reviewing his onboards when the screen connected to the broadcast cuts to you—eyes glued to the screens, wide and focused. A face that doesn’t resist the camera and makes him stop in his tracks.
The small banner below you reads ‘Actress’—he half-expects ‘Oscar Piastri’s Partner’ to appear right after it. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t. His stomach still curdles at its absence.
He realizes he’s been fooling himself this entire time if he thought he could still keep you to himself. Spare you from the scrutiny, at least from his corner of the world.
He realizes belatedly that the camera had cut to him next; it’s a small relief that his entire face is covered. He wonders if these consequent cutaway shots are a pure coincidence or a PR setup.
Either way, he hopes, selfishly, that the fans read into it.
P4 feels like a slap in the face.
The team claps his back and shakes his shoulders, but it’s Lando who’s P2.
But you’re there, and you’re beaming. You’re not supposed to—not with his results. Not with the PR directives in place.
No direct communication. Not even a shared look. It’s too loaded, near incriminating.
The time isn’t now. He knows that you know this.
And yet.
He tempts fate. He’d gamble anything for your touch right now.
It helps that there isn’t a rope fencing you in. He glances at the live feed—they’re busy interviewing the front row. He’s got a minute—maybe half?—before it becomes too risky. Better odds than usual.
Still, there are eyes everywhere.
Restraint. He thinks of the plan. He thinks of P4. He thinks about how a hug from you would blow over the sting of losing pole.
He reads your panic when he starts walking over. You hadn’t expected him to approach.
It’s delicate right now, he knows. He feels a small tug on the invisible thread between you two: Go away.
It makes him smirk a bit, your voice in his head.
Oscar pulls his gloves off.
He’s close enough to brush his knuckles against yours.
He doesn’t have to do more.
The point of contact sets a trail of fire running up his arm. For him, it’s enough.
When you meet back at the hotel, he doesn’t hold back. He’s all over you, and you all over him.
Race day. Ground zero.
Chrissy: It’s race day! Who’s ready to pour gasoline all over these rumors 🔥
It’s rightfully insane—a media team mobilized to ease fans into accepting your relationship. How artificial it reflects in the grand scheme of things.
“Showbiz, baby,” you mutter to yourself.
The groundwork is done. Talks of why you’re here can’t seem to die out in fan circles—too close to simply be a VIP guest. Too seen with Tom that you can’t be explicitly linked to Oscar (yet), yet too affected by race results to be anyone outside his inner circle.
Feedback from socials comes to you in WhatsApp reports: Less hostility towards Oscar from your fans. Shippers continue their steady streak of denial. Ample support from Oscar fans in general.
Your media rep, Nellie, leaves out some of the harsher details. But it doesn’t escape your notice—the bitterness of you and Tom’s supporters, the dissection of the tabloids.
You just hope the balance tips a little more in your favor by the end of it all.
The directive for today is simple: priority is Oscar and his race results. The team loosens the leash a little, gives you space to breathe. Play the docile, supportive girlfriend. Be subtle enough that people can gloss over it during the broadcast, but sincere enough that when the tape rewinds, everyone can go, ‘Ah.’
Not sure about docile, but you suppose the rest is doable.
You’re with Tom, shooting a few Tiktoks just for the joy of it. Out of love for the film and each other and the work you’ve both done. Promoting with no obligations.
At some point, your mind wanders to Oscar—his involvement in all this makes you a little tight-chested.
You wonder if you might have set things up for ruin.
You try not to dwell on it.
Oscar drives like a superhero if you’ve ever seen one.
There’s something supernatural, nearly beyond human comprehension, about the way he drives.
You’ve watched his races before, back when he was in F3 and your names barely registered in the world’s peripheral. Two irrelevant rookies in your fields. Too green, too untested. A lack of experience and appeal.
But for the first time, you’re in the front row. And Formula One doesn’t forgive.
It takes you back to the theatre. Your first love. Live, unedited, no room for mistakes. Equally cruel in its demands. You may star in films now, but nothing beats the high-wire act of live performance.
Oscar flies past the pit straight: the most unyielding protagonist in modern media.
He hits every turn like a cue. Executes instinct like it was written in the script. Delivers well-timed improv when his enemies close in.
You’re fully immersed in the act—headset on, breath held—and all you want is for him to win. So, so badly.
Unbeknownst to you, your team negotiated two cutaways during the broadcast—should Oscar do anything superhuman.
It’s effectively Oscar v Max. Your hands are clasped, eyebrows drawn, caring too deeply for someone supposedly here on a business invite.
If it wasn’t obvious before, it’s undeniable now.
The camera’s timing is nothing short of impeccable. Your distressed face appears mid-broadcast.
Crofty’s commentary escalates. Oscar overtakes Max.
Another cutaway. Zoomed. You’re celebrating—just you, Tom’s out of frame. You’re eyes gleam with pride. The emotion on your face is telling enough.
A move that didn’t need spelling out. That’s a PR win.
Somewhere, there’s a group chat with all your reps. They try not to get ahead of themselves, but are very happy with where this is going. Very happy.
Oscar drives and drives. Builds the gap. Lando catches up behind.
The two cars are flying. It’s a pace advantage sanctioned by the God of Speed himself. No other team stands a chance.
The checkered flag zooms by.
He wins.
🔍 Recent Searches
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yn reaction
user: HELLOO??>!>@#2SKNXND DID EVERYONE SEE THAT
user: just confirm it atp idk why theyre playing with us
user: her eyes ohhh im gonna be SICK you dont look at a friend like that 😭
user: Tom barely shown in the broadcast guess who wasted two hours of their life
user: this obvious wag treatment
user: I FIND THEM CUTE EVERYONE SHUTTTT
⇢ you’re not alone dw
⇢ am i the only one who thinks she suits lando
⇢ ?
⇢ ?
⇢ ? ur sick
user: thread of yn’s reactions during the miami gp 🏎️
Tom is somewhere in the garage, advised to let you have a definitive moment by the barriers. He pouts, but understands.
“Chris!” You spot Oscar’s dad at the barriers. You’d met briefly last night, a quick catch-up in the lobby before his dinner with Oscar. You would’ve as well, but you weren’t exactly “soft-launched” as of yesterday.
“Congratulations,” you smile and hug him. His grin is an echo of Oscar’s. “Goes for both of us, sweetheart.”
“Not a bad win, eh?”
“Not bad at all.” Chris chuckles, teary-eyed. You feel for the man. You’ve never seen him stand as tall as he is now. “Especially in the middle of this media circus.”
You feel sheepish. “Did Oscar say?”
“It was Mark, actually.”
Just then, a celebratory tune starts blasting out on the speakers, and George’s victory clip appears. You both turn your eyes upwards.
George comes out. Then, Lando.
And finally, Oscar. Beautiful, lovely Oscar.
The crowd roars from behind. His team chants his name. You and Chris look at each other and laugh—a vivacious sound.
You look back up at Oscar and something lodges in your throat. It’s too big an emotion.
Whatever it is, you hope it reaches him.
Paps line the paddock like snipers. They’ve received the tip—and they’re waiting.
Meanwhile, you and Tom are on the second floor of McLaren’s motorhome scrolling on Twitter.
“I’ll miss being the internet’s OTP with you,” Tom sighs dramatically.
“Who says we’re stopping?” You show him a screenshot of him during the broadcast, headset on, jaw slack. He’s wearing the Miami cap. “Look at you, you papayahead!”
He grins, not one bit embarrassed. “Please. I’m already holding you onto a paddock pass for the next race. Don’t you dare leave me out. We have the same presser schedule.”
“Bribing my girlfriend for paddock passes now, are we?”
You whip your head around— Oscar’s leaning by the top of the staircase, still in his fireproofs.
His eyes are steady on you, stance unnervingly casual. Like he hadn’t just won his third Grand Prix in a row.
Something violent overcomes you.
You don’t know Oscar to be so suave, but on the rare occasion he is, it’s unintentional. So unbelievably effortless that it makes you want to rip your hair out.
You hound in towards him. There’s a twinkle in his eye; he meets you halfway with his arms wide open and crushes your bones.
“You—!” You crash into his body mid-expletive. His jaw finds your shoulder. Anchors itself. It’s not the most coordinated embrace—one arm’s between your chests and the other’s jutting off to the side—but it’s everything you need.
The skin around his neck is sticky. He reeks of victory.
Three days in. He still can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re here and not a time zone away. That he can just walk across the paddock and have you in his arms. It invigorates him—the immediacy. Of you, of your touch. Feels like crossing the checkered flag ten times over.
Maybe next time you won’t have to hide. It doesn’t feel too impossible, now.
Tom snaps a photo of you both discreetly.
You pull away, eyes gleaming and hair mussed. Emotion clogs your throat.
I should speak. A sentence. Maybe a sound.
A stilted croak trickles out.
Oscar grins—a wild sort of expression. His chest is puffed up. “Wow. That bad?”
When words fail, actions speak. You hit him square in the chest.
Oscar gasps, but his eyes soften. He nudges your chin and says, “I know.”
Something like love spills out in the small smile you cough up. “Some kind of driving.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Supersonic.”
He kisses the back of your hand and finally acknowledges the other presence in the room. “Hey, Tom.”
Your co-star walks over to you both, grinning. “Great to finally meet you, man. Congrats on the win.”
Oscar and Tom dap each other up. You watch with the fondness of a mother seeing her kid making strides in their social life.
“Fancy grabbing dinner with us back at the hotel?” Oscar asks when the small talk passes. You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. Even Tom looks surprised.
“I mean, I’d love to, mate, but don’t you have a victory to celebrate? With the team?”
“Well,” Oscar gestures to the McLaren cap on the table. “You’re pretty much Team Papaya now.”
“Huh!” You react out loud.
“See you at 8?”
“8 it is,” Tom smirks. “Have fun with the paps.”
Realization hits like a bucket of cold water. You and Oscar groan in unison.
There are fewer people on the paddock now that the sun’s begun its descent. Mostly podium teams wrapping up their post-race celebrations, itching to move out to wash off the day’s sweat and grime. The track was still technically their workplace.
“Last time I checked, you were jealous of Tom.” You mutter next to him when you go through the VIP exit. He appreciates the effort of a normal conversation. There’s a hammering in his chest, knowing there’s some freakishly long telephoto lens angled at you both from a vantage point tipped by your team.
“Not my brightest moment, unfortunately.”
Then, a rather loud camera shutter goes off from a nearby building. He shares a look with you, and it’s enough eye contact to trigger a fit of giggles from you both.
“This must be what birds feel like.”
What? Oscar raises his brows. “What?”
“Feels like we’re in a nature documentary,” you stage-whisper. “Caw, caw.”
There’s an intense look in his eyes that you can’t define. He either wants to kiss you or hurl you over his shoulders. You brace yourself.
But suddenly, he’s taking one step back and frames you with his fingers, tilting his head with one eye closed. You raise a brow, wondering what the hell he’s up to.
The accent comes at you like a blow: “Crikey! Ain’t she a beauty.”
You freeze. Glitch.
What in the world—
The snort you let out is gross and loud. Your knees buckle, and you keel over in a full-bodied, silent laugh. You hear Oscar’s groan before you feel his grip.
“Oh my god, get up. You look like you’re having a seizure.”
You’re dying. “Are you supposed Steve Irwin?!” A few side eyes get thrown your way.
He goes fully red. “Tried to make you laugh.”
“W-Wh-” You wheeze. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“By virtue of my nationality, I have the right to impersonate Steve Irwin. No matter how terrible you think it is.”
Oscar’s fully embarrassed, if the pink blush across his face is any indication. You are extremely entertained—and in love.
You are so in love.
‘Small, but definitive,’ had been the directive given to you both. That meant a shared smile or a hand behind your back. Not a boisterous laugh, not something so brazen and without regard for the rest of the world.
It was the opposite of Oscar’s image. A different dynamic compared to how you are with Tom. It could upset your fans, the shippers.
People disliked change. You needed to ease them into it. Into this.
But you can’t help it. It finally feels like this was how you were supposed to love Oscar. Loudly and honestly. The way truths are upheld.
The internet bares its teeth after the photos drop on Monday morning.
user: let’s just say I didn’t peg oscar to be the actress-type lol
user: her vibe is weird idk
user: all this time we’ve been calling yntom the second tomdaya.. we were played
user: the way she’s laughing im afraid we’ve lost her folks
⇢ LIKE CAN SHE GET UPPP
user: yntom is So over
user: Im confused isnt yn dating her costar or
user: Guys they havent confirmed anything yet they could just be really good friends. And yn is pretty funny of course that driver would fold.
⇢ whatever makes you sleep at night
user: what do they even have in common /gen
⇢ i was thinking the same thing 😭 randomizer ahh couple
It’s mean. It comes at you in Instagram comments, Tiktok hot-takes, and WhatsApp updates from Nellie keeping you informed whether you like it or not. F1 WAG accounts pick apart your outfits from the weekend. There’s a fan war on Twitter between Tom’s fans and yours. You haven’t even seen Oscar’s side of the internet yet.
Meet F1’s newest WAG, A Hollywood Upcomer
Another Hollywood Star Dips Her Toes in Sports
Did we get played? YN and Tom — Just Friends?
You’re gorgeous, irrelevant, real, and attention-seeking; vitriol and praise for breakfast.
The chatter squalls at a volume that’s near grating. It feels like static under your skin.
You knew it would be loud. Still, anticipation doesn’t soften the blow.
It’s Tom who becomes the first line of defense.
He uploads a carousel on Instagram the same day: an outfit shot, a couple of candid “boyfriend” photos you helped him take, a tray of paddock appetizers, a selfie with you in the garage, a three-second clip of him cheering with you beside him, and finally—a photo of the dinner you three shared last night. He tags you and Oscar on each dish.
tomblyth Miami GP with one of the best people I know. Made a new friend :)
He uploads it way earlier than advised—you’re supposed to let things simmer. Give it a chance to blow over.
It’s then you realize he’s done this of his own accord. No publicist whispering in his ear. Just a friend running interference.
Tom
Sent an image
You're welcome
Have you seen my post? 😝
It’s a photo of you and Oscar in the motorhome; You, squished in his arms, torso curved into yours. His number splashed across his back.
You bite your cheek. It’s a lovely, candid shot. You stare at it longer than you need to.
You weigh the consequences.
You’re supposed to upload something, too. “Own the narrative.” A soft confirmation. Something that won’t hurt.
This, however. It’s quite blatant. Harder for fans to swallow.
You trust your work. You trust the production. You trust the characters you and Tom gave life to, the chemistry that doesn’t require showmanship. That’s what audiences will remember.
The bathroom door is wide open. Oscar, hair utterly untamed, is brushing his teeth half-asleep.
Most of all, you trust Oscar—so why does this still feel so impossible? Like a freefall with no harness.
You shake your head. It’s good. And it will sell good. This PR stuff shouldn’t matter. You repeat it until it rings true.
“Hey,” he calls out, eyes squinting at you. “It doesn’t have to be scary.”
You sigh. “Didn’t realize I was thinking too loud.”
He makes a rough sound of assent.
You let out a soft ‘fuck it’ and start tapping away. Oscar hums.
The carousel goes like this: Outfit check. Paddock club hors d’oeuvres. A silly photo of Tom. A beautiful photo of Tom, so he doesn’t kill you. Racetrack views. Confetti during the podium.
The hospitality photo that looks like your heart. Better fit in between journal pages than an Instagram grid.
You type out a caption. Pick out a song.
Your thumb hesitates. Apprehension seizes your stomach. Go back. Back. Delete the last photo from the carousel.
You can’t—you can’t do this.
It was too resolute. A piece of you and Oscar you didn’t want the world to get hold of.
You wondered if you could do this. Without the games, the coy breadcrumbing. Escape the limbo hanging between confirmation and denial.
Instead, you scroll through Nellie’s folder and pick out one of her approved shots—a harmless, breezy shot of you walking in, all casual sweetness and your lanyard slung around your purse.
The pass on your bag was perfectly clear. Visible enough for a fan to zoom in and read it: Oscar Piastri – Guest. “That should say enough,” Nellie had texted earlier.
Confirmation without the brazenness. Tame. Safe.
Playing safe never hurt anyone.
yourname Lights, camera, a… and away we go?
You send it for checking and are given a green light.
Even then, you’re double-checking the post, triple-guessing the life you’d chosen before hitting upload and throwing your phone across the bed, muffling a scream with your hands.
Oscar picks it up. “It’s live.” You don’t notice him fiddling around with it while you’ve given yourself a timeout for being dramatic.
When you’re done, you flop onto the bed next to your boyfriend.
“Posted mine,” Oscar says, nudging you with his foot.
You see the notification.
oscarpiastri tagged you in a post.
What?
You stare at him. His face remains focused on his phone. “Were we allowed to tag each other?”
oscarpiastri liked your post.
oscarpiastri commented on your post: ☺️
oscarpiastri tagged you in a story.
“What the fuck are you doing.” You sit up, heart beating terribly fast. “It’s supposed to be a soft launch, Osc.”
You swipe through his post.
oscarpiastri All my favourites in one weekend
His fist pump on his car. The bottle of champagne raised high on the podium. Him clutching the trophy. The griddy in parc fermé.
The pap shot of you two leaving the paddock, grinning at each other like two damn idiots. It’s brazen. It’s defiant.
But still, it’s not the one you’re tagged in.
You swipe to the last photo: Oscar’s looking out of the stadium, Miami trophy between his legs, and you’re tagged right there—on his chest. Your name appears just above where his heart is.
A soft hiccup erupts from your chest. You can feel his eyes on you.
It’s the kind of non-compliance that should have repercussions. Especially on a PR campaign mandated to ease fans into accepting change.
Instead, Oscar hard launches you into oblivion.
You’re biting down hard on your jaw. You open the story next and your breath catches.
Thanks for the shot @ tomblyth
Kept it quiet long enough :)
It’s on all his socials. Twitter and Instagram and freaking Tiktok.
You close your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. “You absolute reckless piece of shit—”
He kisses you flat on the lips.
“First. I’m sorry. Also, Tom sent me the photo, too.”
“Still a piece of shit-”
“Who you still love?”
“I do,” you reply grumpily. “Were you two scheming behind me this whole time?”
He gives a sheepish smile. “He said, quote ‘Let’s just get this over with, man.’ End quote. His words, not mine.”
It still doesn’t pacify the clamor in your stomach.
“But to answer your question, no. It was all my doing. Tom’s just, uh, gonna help me soften the blow.”
Despite everything, this makes your mouth twitch. “And you’re qualified to call the shots how?”
“I’m internet savvy enough.”
“Right.” You tug on the drawstrings of your hoodie and retreat further into the bed. He wraps his arm around you.
He continues spewing out nonsense. You watch him doomscroll on his phone. He skims through his playlist and asks for help picking a song for his next post, though they all sound the same to you.
Whatever he’s doing, it’s working. The air feels warmer. You feel safe. Somewhere in between you forget the part where you were spiraling.
“Won’t McLaren PR tell you off or something?”
He scrunches his face. “Nah. They don’t care for my personal life. If anything, Sophie’s keen on letting me post you more. Think she might be a fan.”
You roll your eyes. “I doubt.”
“I’m serious! She’s probably following you.”
You’re tempted to open Instagram and check, but the thought of looking at your socials right now makes you want to barf.
Suddenly, you start talking like all along this was the topic of conversation. “You don’t get it. If I post it, it’s like the final nail in the coffin—and for a moment, I had some resolve. I was going to post the photo, Osc, I was. But I got scared. I thought of the fucking internet and then I—”
“Got cold feet,” he finishes for you, like it’s the most forgivable thing in the world.
“Internet’s plenty terrifying,” he says, turning to level his eyes with yours. He moves to sit before you, propping his legs up on either side of you so there’s no escaping. His eyes are big and honeyed and still sleepy at the edges.
“Fuck ‘em,” Oscar says. He cradles your face, thumb pressing softly into your jaw so you look at him. He says it again when you don’t respond. “Hey, hey. Fuck. Them.”
The message gets across. You nod. “Fuck them.”
He smirks and nudges your nose. “S’my girl,” he mumbles. Oscar leans in and rests his chin on your head. “And for the record, I would post you every day until you stop caring.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He grins. “Try me.”
Oscar doesn’t tell you how pleased he is now that it’s public. A silent “mine” in every post he’d have of you from now on.
The jealousy never really went away.
Tom, as promised, replies to Oscar’s comment on your post. Even reposts the story.
tomblyth replies: 🤨
tomblyth reposts: Couldn’t stop her from running off with a racecar driver
yourname reposts: skill issue
Crazily enough, it works. The narrative shifts, and suddenly, Tom is the relatable third wheel the internet never knew it needed. He takes the brunt of the joke like a champ.
Oscar, for the most part, stays the same. And so do you. If not a little more comfortable now.
Oscar
Sent a link.
“F1 driver”
I have a name you know 🙁
Oscar
Also. Been informed that you and Tom have some chemistry test challenge or whatever.
How is it your co-star tells me before you do
Oscar
Hey so
Your lockscreen is making rounds on Twitter :)
Sneak.
Round 2 this summer break?
Hattie told me she wanted to try out this new trail
Oscar
Have you booked flights for Monaco yet?
I got Tom a pass if he wants to come
Missing you a little extra tonight
Oscar is on his phone.
He sees the tweets, the comments, the tags. Sometimes, they get things right. How he does have heart eyes for you, how they can tell you’re sickeningly in love when either name comes up in interviews.
But.
It’s easy to get things wrong, too. They can never quite discern the full picture.
He finds peace in that.
He taps on the replay of your premiere’s livestream. Finds the playback of you and Tom entering the red carpet.
His thumb stops. There. You’re radiant.
The camera zooms in on you and Tom sharing a bit of banter before posing for the cameras. Does it annoy him? Only marginally.
He still gets jealous of the co-stars. All of them—Tom not excluded. Past, present, and future. That they get to be near you. That they get to know the sound of your laugh and have access to the contours of your face. Your lips, too, if they’re lucky enough.
1 new message.
You
booked tickets! see you in monaco baby <3
Even then.
They didn’t get to have you. No one did.
Though by some miracle, you let him.
They loved you. But he had you.
It’s something.
Something he has no plans to give up. Even when you’re both past your prime. Even when the world doesn’t want you two anymore. When the podiums and stages find new occupants and there’s no one left to fight you for.
(This, he doubts. You’re striking—there’s something godlike, beyond human comprehension, about the way you perform. There will always be someone to fight.)
It’s commitment, he realizes.
He feels a smile tugging at his lips. There’s peace in that, too.
Oscar knows he’ll outlast them all. Competition was barely worth mentioning.
Besides, he made sure the world understood it the first time—that he was yours.
whew! if you enjoyed operation drs, please do let me know or drop any in the tags!! like every other author here, i live for comments :)
oscar’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, “we make it work.” short, clipped, but it’s the truth. somehow, you and him fit.
ꔮ starring: divorce attorney!oscar piastri x wedding planner!reader.
ꔮ word count: 20.4k. (!!!)
ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, light angst. alternate universe: non-f1. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. set in new york, pining... yearning..., idiot best friends in love, a bout of miscommunication, sunshine/grumpy trope, carmen & george name drop. title from gracie abrams’ in between.
ꔮ commentary box: nobody talk to me about the word count. this is one of my favorite tropes of all time, and i always thought my pipe dream romcom novel would sing a similar tune to this. until that day comes, we see it play out in fanfiction 🩷 this fic means a lot to me, so if you ever decide to consume this behemoth: thank you in advance!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Oscar spots them before you do.
You have your nose in your tablet, scrolling through sample menus and floral arrangements, completely oblivious to the couple two tables over who are clearly yours. Matching mood boards, latte art going untouched, the sort of soft hand-holding that suggests they’ve already merged Spotify playlists. You’ve got that look you get when you’re planning someone else’s Happily Ever After: focused, bright-eyed, borderline evangelical.
Oscar, on the other hand, believes in love the way he believes in Wi-Fi on the subway. Pleasant in theory, disastrous in practice. And, as your best friend, he sees it as a public service to intervene before strangers spend years in litigation over who gets the air fryer.
When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”
They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”
“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”
The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”
He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”
The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.
“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”
“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”
You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”
The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC.
“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s offering directions to the nearest subway station.
You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like you’re resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.”
Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re selling or the way you sell it.
Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.
It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.
Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once.
Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didn’t mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical.
Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what you’ve built.
The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup.
Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.
Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.
Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. “Problem?”
“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank.
“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”
You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”
Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”
“Oh? What’s the damage?”
“Dinner tonight. My pick.”
Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”
You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”
It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted.
And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the other’s door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.
There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.
Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.
When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.
“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”
“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”
“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”
“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”
You’re an odd pair. He’s always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.
The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.
You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. “Same order?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”
“It’s called a compromise.”
“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”
“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.
Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own.
The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him.
There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want.
The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.
By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.
“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.
“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”
“I have a system,” he interrupts.
“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”
“Which is why I’m never locked out.”
You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”
“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”
The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”
“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”
“You loved that one.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You cried.”
“Allergies.”
You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”
He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest.
When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.
It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.
He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.
“What agenda?” you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.
Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”
Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”
You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”
He levels you with a look. “Three.”
“Six,” you insist.
He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafés, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.
“And you love me for it,” you retort.
The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t about to scream that from the rooftops.
Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witness’s story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.
“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.
“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”
“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”
He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.”
You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”
“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery.
Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.
The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say.
He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”
You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him.
Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on.
Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”
He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”
“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!
The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, it’s like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.
“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”
You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.
“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”
You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.
Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”
The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.
“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”
You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”
You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.”
“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.”
“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.”
“Oscar.”
The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”
Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”
“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”
The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”
He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”
You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”
“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”
Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon.
The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesn’t expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.
“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All that’s missing is a fake snow machine.
You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.
“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.
You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”
“Headshots.”
“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”
“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.
You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”
Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re playing chess.
The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.
“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”
Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”
Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”
There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”
You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.
You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”
“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.
“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”
“I’m a divorce attorney.”
The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”
“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.
Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”
That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad.
And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re involved.
Dinner turns out to be… something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation.
Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”
Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”
You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, he’s hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.
Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet it’s practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesn’t move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.
Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.
“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”
You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”
He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”
“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.
“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”
That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”
The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient.
What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?
Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if.
“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.
You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.
Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.
Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters.
The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.
The city’s already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.
His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. “Morning, Oscar.”
“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”
“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”
Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”
“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.
“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.
Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.
“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”
His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.
A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.
He doesn’t touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month.
Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like they’re preparing for trench warfare.
Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.
Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”
Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”
Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”
Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”
“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”
“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!”
Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern.
Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”
“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to.
There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.
He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.
The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says.
It’s a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other people’s endings.
Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.
Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.
By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision.
You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think he’s lost.
You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.
He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth he’s been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.
And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.
“You’re my logistics team.”
Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”
“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”
“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”
That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.
The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.
Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.
“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.
Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.
He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”
You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”
“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t bridal-friendly.
From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.
Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”
At first, he assumes she’s read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”
“So? Humor me.” Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.
Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.
He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”
Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him.
The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.
You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”
He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue. “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”
Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead.
Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.
It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position.
But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.
It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.
“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”
He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”
“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”
“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”
You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”
He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”
The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school.
Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.
“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”
She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.
On paper, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s sake.
But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.
Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”
“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”
“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s not half-distracted by a ghost.
He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.
The date survives dinner, and now they’re roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected.
“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”
The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”
Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”
Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story.
“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”
The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”
She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy.
As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.
The walk to Isabella’s apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscar’s thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because she’s truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.
They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. “You want to come in?”
It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”
Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.
When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.
“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.”
He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.
Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead.
You’re there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.
You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”
You hadn’t even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when they’re somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.
He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”
“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”
Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”
“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.
You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.
You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”
A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”
He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.
Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk he’d poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit.
And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”
“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”
You laugh—easy, unbothered—before you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would.
Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered.
The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly.
The caterer’s late, the florist’s lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.
He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”
You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”
“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.
You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater he’s ever seen.
Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.
You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.
Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out.
You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands.
“Oscar, I have a million—”
“Eat.”
Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”
You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”
The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.
“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”
You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.
It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.
He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, that’s my girl.
It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.
He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”
You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”
“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.
But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”
Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.
Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends it’s nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.
The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.
The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.
“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”
“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”
“That’s volunteering.”
He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”
You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most people’s pitch-perfect.
“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”
“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”
“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”
“And yet you trusted me with it.”
“Desperate times.”
He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isn’t the worst gig he’s ever had.
You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.
Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”
“Better now than during the vows,” you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.
He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”
“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”
“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”
You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”
Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”
It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. He’s probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.
The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.
“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”
The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”
“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief.
Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”
You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. It’s the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer.
The front door to your house swings open before you’ve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesn’t even dip.
“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”
He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”
She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than you’d like but more than you can forget.
“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye.
He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.
Oscar catches your eye as you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.
“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. “He was always a good fellow, that one.”
“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”
There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter.
You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades. “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks.
“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.”
Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them.
“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”
Oscar’s grin freezes.
Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents.
He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life.
He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”
For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over.
Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.
It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you don’t. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.
He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.
You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.
He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.
It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”
Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out.
“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”
Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”
George’s mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides he’s not letting that storm break.
“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”
“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”
“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”
Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”
There’s a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”
“Scout’s honor.”
As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.
The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if he’s a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, well—case closed.
He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”
“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”
The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”
Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”
George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”
Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”
The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.
Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”
Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”
Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”
The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”
George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily.
Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”
By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t knock the wind out of him.
The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.
Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people aren’t even supposed to notice.
The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But it’s enough.
There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.
Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that aren’t his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.
There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life.
The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.
You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.
“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”
Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?”
“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”
Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”
You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”
“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows.
“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”
Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”
“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”
“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”
You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s long since been established.
The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you don’t reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself he’s imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.
The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement he’s always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows.
You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”
He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the old refrigerator in the background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s supposed to.
Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didn’t.
Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.
Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real.
The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity he’ll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.
Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t care. Not even a little.
You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.
“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”
“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t stop.
You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.
“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and he’d still find your lips in the rubble.
Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.
Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.
Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than he’d prefer.
You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.
But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”
On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If you’d just stay still for two seconds—
You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.
You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”
For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you.
He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.
How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you.
Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like he’s been KO’d several rounds already.
He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.
Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s ready to look in the eye.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.
Except Oscar doesn’t hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself you’re just busy. People are busy, people have lives.
He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.
He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.
“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.
Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”
“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”
“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”
Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the city’s humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.
He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldn’t. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.
Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”
He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”
Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged.
Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasn’t already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.
By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.
Oscar decides he’s had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole.
He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—
Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.
Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”
“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”
He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”
Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”
She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.
Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.
Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.
He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”
Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”
Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”
“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?”
“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.
“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
He does. He knows, because it’s written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.
“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”
You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.
You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.
He’s cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, “It wasn’t for them.”
You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”
“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”
The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.
“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”
Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”
You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”
“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”
You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”
“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”
You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.
Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.
You’re quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course you’d manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.
“I wasn’t going to,” you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.
He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.
“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.
“Oh, you definitely did,” Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesn’t bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.
“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back.
“Promise?” you say in a small voice.
Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.”
“Already? You rented it already?”
Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”
You’re frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”
Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.
You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”
“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”
“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”
Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s trying to make a break for it.
Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”
“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”
See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.
You barely look around because this isn’t new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.
Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.
By the time evening swallows the apartment, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.
The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.
Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.
He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. He’s a grown man. Sort of.
Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.
You’re wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”
You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”
Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”
You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”
That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.
You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”
He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”
A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.
“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point.
Oscar doesn’t mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”
Your brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”
You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”
“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”
Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.
He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”
Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.
Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for.
The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.
Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist.
You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”
Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”
“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”
He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”
He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.
You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens.
What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between.
“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me.
It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.
Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds.
Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.
There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.
Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”
You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”
“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.
“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”
The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”
Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading.
You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”
“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”
Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.
“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.”
And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.
The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”
Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, don’t wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.
Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it.
He catches the damn thing midair and begrudgingly presses it to his chest. ⛐
Summary: in which Daniel gets dropped by his team and picked up by an heiress with a penchant for taking in strays
The heavy bass of the club still hums in your bones as you step out onto the pavement, the humid Singapore night wrapping around you like a second skin. The neon lights from Zouk, one of the city’s most exclusive nightclubs, pulse in rhythm with your heartbeat, and for a second, you stand still, relishing the quiet that follows hours of dancing, laughter, and too many cocktails.
The sounds of the party still echo behind you, a muffled roar of privilege and extravagance, but out here, it’s just you and the night.
Or so you think.
Your attention is pulled toward a commotion just a few meters away. You blink, trying to make sense of the scene. There’s a man — definitely not local, tall, and a little scruffy compared to the sharp-dressed crowd you’re used to — being unceremoniously escorted out by one of the bouncers. His head hangs low, and his shoulders are slumped in a way that screams defeat.
It’s not the dramatic, messy kind of exit where someone’s too drunk to stand, or too proud to admit they’ve done something wrong. No, this is different. This guy isn’t even trying to fight back.
“Get lost,” the bouncer grunts, shoving the man one last time before turning to head back inside.
You can’t help it — you freeze, your gaze lingering on him. He doesn’t move, just leans against the wall like he’s considering sinking to the ground. His posture is pitiful in a way that tugs at something inside you, that soft part of you that your family says is too soft. The part that’s always drawn to the broken, the hopeless, the ones who don’t quite fit.
He lets out a long, dramatic sigh, his eyes flicking up to the club entrance, like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll magically be allowed back in. He’s pathetic. There’s no other word for it. But he’s also kind of endearing, in a weird way.
“Pathetic,” you mutter under your breath, half-amused.
You could leave him there, you know that. This isn’t your problem. He’ll figure something out. Or not. It’s not like you owe him anything, but …
"Are you just going to stand there?” You hear yourself saying, your feet already moving toward him before you can stop them.
His head snaps up, clearly not expecting anyone to address him. His eyes — big, brown, and confused — lock onto yours. He’s a little scruffy, but there’s something boyishly charming about him.
“I — uh,” he stammers, straightening up slightly but still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “No. I mean, yeah, I guess?”
You roll your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
He shrugs helplessly. “Well, I don’t really have one. Kinda got kicked out of the only place I planned on being tonight.”
You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”
“I, uh …” He scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I don’t know, honestly. Might’ve been a little too loud, or maybe I was blocking someone important from getting their drinks. These places, man, they don’t like it when you’re … disruptive.”
You cross your arms, glancing at him up and down. He doesn’t look dangerous, just out of place. “You sound like you deserved it.”
He winces. “Probably did.”
There’s a beat of silence, and you’re still standing there, wondering why you’re wasting your time. Then, before you know it, you’re sighing. Your family would shake their heads at you, calling you too kind for your own good.
“Come on,” you say, jerking your head toward the curb. “Let’s go.”
He blinks. “What?”
You nod toward the curb, where your Rolls Royce waits, engine quietly idling. The chauffeur stands by, staring straight ahead like this is the most normal thing in the world, like this isn’t some insane act of kindness you’re pulling out of nowhere.
“I’m not leaving you out here,” you say, already heading toward the car. “Get in.”
“Uh — wait, seriously?” He hurries to catch up, still clearly not processing what’s happening. “You don’t even know me.”
You shrug, throwing a look over your shoulder. “Do I need to?”
“Usually, yeah,” he says, jogging slightly to keep pace with you. “I mean, what if I’m like, a complete psycho or something?”
“If you were, I doubt you’d be sitting against a wall feeling sorry for yourself,” you shoot back, opening the car door. “Now get in before I change my mind.”
There’s a brief moment of hesitation, like he’s weighing his options, but then he shakes his head, muttering something under his breath, and slides into the backseat beside you. The leather is cool against your skin, the scent of luxury and privilege permeating the air, and for a second, it’s quiet as the door closes behind you both.
The driver pulls away from the curb smoothly, not asking questions.
“So … you do this often?” The man asks, still clearly bewildered. “Pick up random guys outside clubs?”
You snort, turning to face him. “Definitely not.”
“Then why me?”
You shrug. “You looked pathetic.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and for a second, you think you’ve offended him, but then he laughs — loud, unabashed, and surprising. “Wow. Okay. Well, thanks, I guess?”
You smile despite yourself. “Don’t mention it.”
He leans back in the seat, still grinning. “I’m Daniel, by the way. Ricciardo. Not sure if that means anything to you.”
You narrow your eyes, the name clicking into place. “The F1 driver?”
He looks a little sheepish but nods. “Yeah, that’s me.”
You stare at him for a moment, processing that. It’s not like you keep up with racing, but you’ve definitely heard of him. Seen him in ads, maybe, or on TV. It’s a little weird, thinking about it now. The same guy who’s smiling at you, a little bashfully, is famous in his own right.
“I didn’t recognize you,” you say, somewhat apologetic.
He shrugs again, more relaxed now. “Don’t worry about it. Happens more often than you think. Usually, I’m not getting kicked out of places, though.”
You smirk. “Good to know.”
There’s a comfortable silence after that, the two of you settling into the soft hum of the car as it glides through the streets. You steal a glance at him, watching as he stares out the window, looking slightly more at peace now that he’s not sitting on the pavement outside of a nightclub. He catches you looking, raising an eyebrow.
“So, you’re just gonna take me home, drop me off like a stray cat?” He teases, flashing you that boyish grin again.
You tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “Depends. Do stray cats usually get rides in Rolls Royces?”
“Only the ones that get kicked out of clubs,” he fires back, and you can’t help but laugh.
This was definitely not how you expected your night to go.
***
You lean back in your seat, letting the smooth hum of the Rolls Royce fill the silence for a moment. Daniel seems more relaxed now, but there’s still something hanging in the air, something that makes you look at him again, curiosity getting the better of you.
"So," you say, turning your head slightly to study him, "where am I dropping you off? What hotel are you staying at?"
Daniel blinks, the question catching him off guard. He looks at you, then at the ceiling of the car like the answer might be written somewhere above his head. “Uh … yeah, about that …”
You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know, do you?”
He winces, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Not exactly. I mean, I know I checked into a place, obviously, but I can’t remember the name right now.”
“You can’t remember what hotel you’re staying at?” Your tone is somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
Daniel shrugs, unbothered. “It’s been a long day. Plus, there’s like, a million hotels in Singapore. They all start to blur together.”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Okay, genius. So how were you planning on getting back?”
“Hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he admits, grinning lazily. Then, the grin fades, and something shifts in his expression — something a little sadder, more raw. “Honestly, even if I did know, I don’t really want to go back there.”
You frown. “Why not?”
He hesitates, eyes flicking to the window as if he can avoid answering by watching the city lights whiz by. After a long pause, he sighs and leans back against the seat, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I got dropped,” he mutters, almost too quietly for you to hear.
“Dropped?” You repeat, confused. “From what?”
“From my team,” he clarifies, his voice a little hoarse. “VCARB. They, uh, decided they didn’t want me around anymore.”
You blink, the realization hitting you like a sudden cold wave. “Oh.”
Daniel doesn’t say anything for a moment, the silence growing heavy. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch slightly as he picks at an invisible thread on his jeans.
“I mean,” he finally continues, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I kinda saw it coming. Just didn’t think it’d happen this fast, y’know?”
The lightheartedness from earlier is completely gone now, replaced by something darker, something heavier. You can feel the weight of it pressing down on him, the frustration and sadness barely concealed behind his crooked grin.
“I thought I had more time,” he says softly, his voice raw with vulnerability. “But I guess that’s how it goes. One day you’re on top of the world, and the next … well, you’re getting kicked out of nightclubs.”
You stay quiet, unsure of what to say. You weren’t expecting to find yourself in this situation tonight — sitting in the back of a Rolls Royce with a famous F1 driver who just lost his job. And yet, here you are, listening to him spill his heart out in the middle of the night, somewhere between Zouk and wherever he was supposed to go next.
“I just don’t want to be around them right now,” he continues, voice thick. “The team, the people … they’re all pretending to be nice, like it’s just business, but it’s not. It’s my life. My career.”
He shakes his head, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “And now it’s over. Just like that.”
You let out a sigh, long and heavy. “So, you don’t want to go back to your hotel?”
“Not really,” Daniel mutters, slumping back in his seat.
You stare at him for a second, weighing your options. Your chauffeur is driving aimlessly through the city, waiting for your instructions, and Daniel is sitting here, lost in his own world of disappointment. He looks tired, drained, and you’re not cruel enough to leave him like this.
“Well,” you say, after a beat of silence, “I guess you’re coming with me then.”
Daniel’s head snaps up, his brows furrowing. “Wait, what?”
You glance at him, your voice firm. “You heard me. You can’t remember your hotel, you don’t want to go back even if you could, and I’m not about to leave you wandering around Singapore. So, you’re coming to my place.”
He stares at you, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “Are you serious?”
You roll your eyes. “Would I say it if I wasn’t?”
For a moment, he looks like he’s about to argue, but then he slumps back in his seat again, exhaling a long, tired breath. “Alright. If you’re sure.”
You nod, already turning to the front of the car. “Take us home,” you tell your chauffeur, who acknowledges the instruction with a curt nod before the car smoothly shifts direction.
Daniel leans his head against the window, eyes heavy. “Thanks,” he mumbles, his voice barely audible. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
You wave it off. “I know.”
A few minutes pass in silence, the soft sound of the tires against the road lulling both of you into a calm quiet. You glance over at Daniel again, noticing how his eyelids are drooping more and more, his head bobbing slightly as he fights to stay awake.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” you comment, amused.
“M’not,” he protests, but his words are already slurred. “Just … resting my eyes.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Sure.”
It doesn’t take long before his breathing evens out, and his head tips to the side, fully succumbing to sleep. You shake your head, watching him for a moment. He looks peaceful like this, the weight of whatever he’s been carrying lifted, if only temporarily.
“Of course,” you mutter to yourself, leaning back in your seat, “this is how my night ends.”
The car pulls up in front of your building — a sleek, modern tower in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Your chauffeur steps out first, coming around to open the door for you. You step out gracefully, smoothing your dress, but when you look back into the car, Daniel is still out cold, slumped awkwardly in the seat.
You sigh. “This is not happening.”
Your chauffeur, ever professional, stands at attention, waiting for your next move. You consider your options for a second before glancing at him. “Help me get him inside, will you?”
The chauffeur doesn’t hesitate, nodding curtly. He moves to the other side of the car and carefully opens the door. Together, you manage to maneuver Daniel out of the backseat, his arm draped over the chauffeur’s shoulder as he leans heavily against him. Daniel stirs slightly but doesn’t wake, too deep in sleep to even register what’s happening.
The doorman, recognizing you immediately, rushes over to assist. “Miss Y/L/N,” he says, eyes flicking from you to the unconscious Daniel, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Is everything alright?”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly, giving him a tight smile. “Just … had a long night.”
The doorman nods, not pressing further, and helps the chauffeur guide Daniel through the lobby and into the elevator. You follow behind, feeling a little ridiculous but knowing there’s no turning back now.
The elevator ride is quiet, save for Daniel’s soft breathing as he leans against the wall, still fast asleep. You glance at him, half-amused, half-exasperated. What a night.
When you finally reach your penthouse, the door slides open smoothly, and the chauffeur and doorman gently ease Daniel onto your plush couch. He sprawls out, looking even more out of place among the sleek, expensive furniture, but you can’t help but chuckle at the sight.
“Thanks,” you tell the men, who nod before excusing themselves quietly, leaving you alone with your unexpected guest.
You stand there for a moment, looking at Daniel as he sleeps soundly on your couch. His shoes are still on, one arm hanging off the side, and his mouth slightly open in a way that’s almost comical. Shaking your head, you grab a blanket from a nearby chair and drape it over him.
“Well, this is definitely not how I thought my night would go,” you mutter to yourself, standing back and crossing your arms as you look at him one last time.
With a sigh, you turn and head toward your bedroom, already mentally preparing for the chaos tomorrow is likely to bring.
***
You’re in the middle of a dream when you hear it — the unmistakable sound of your mother’s voice. Loud, sharp, and utterly out of place in the peaceful silence of your penthouse. Your eyes snap open, heart pounding in your chest as you try to piece together why in the world she would be here, at this ungodly hour.
And then you hear it. A scream.
“Who is this man?”
Your stomach drops, the reality of last night hitting you like a freight train. Daniel. He’s still here. Passed out on your couch. And now, your very traditional mother is standing in your living room, probably about to have a heart attack.
You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over yourself as you rush toward the living room. You can already hear her ranting, a mix of shock and outrage in her voice, and you don’t even have time to think before you’re standing in front of her, trying to calm the situation down.
“Mum!” You blurt out, trying to sound casual, like this isn’t the absolute disaster it clearly is. “What are you doing here?”
Your mother’s eyes are wide, her perfectly manicured hand pressed dramatically against her chest as she stares down at Daniel, who’s still blissfully unconscious, mouth slightly open, one arm dangling off the edge of the couch.
“I could ask you the same thing!” She snaps, her voice rising with every word. “Why is there a man sleeping in your living room? And why-” she leans in, eyes narrowing, “does he look like he’s been out drinking all night?”
Your mind races, panic bubbling up as you try to figure out what to say, what kind of excuse would possibly explain this. And then, without even thinking, the words tumble out of your mouth.
“He’s … he’s my boyfriend.”
The second the lie leaves your lips, you know it’s a terrible idea. But it’s too late now. Your mother freezes, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she looks between you and Daniel. “Your … boyfriend?” She repeats, her tone incredulous.
You nod, forcing a tight smile, praying that Daniel stays asleep long enough for you to get through this. “Yes. My boyfriend.”
Your mother looks like she’s about to faint. “And you didn’t tell me? You-”
“I was going to!” you interrupt quickly. “But it’s … it’s new. Very new. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”
She crosses her arms, still clearly not buying it. “And this is how you introduce him to your mother? Drunk and passed out in your living room?”
“He’s not drunk,” you say quickly, even though that’s obviously a lie. “He’s … uh, just really tired. He’s been going through a lot lately.”
At that moment, you hear a groan from the couch. You glance over, heart sinking as Daniel stirs, slowly blinking awake. His face is pale, and the second he opens his eyes, you can see the hangover written all over him.
“Wh-” Daniel starts, voice groggy as he sits up, rubbing a hand over his face. “Where …”
Your mother’s eyes widen, and she turns to you, her expression one of absolute horror. “This is him?” She whispers, like you’ve just committed some kind of unspeakable crime.
You give her a weak smile. “Yes. Mum, this is Daniel.”
Daniel’s head snaps up at the sound of his name, his bleary eyes trying to make sense of the situation. He looks at you, confused, and you give him a pointed look, willing him to just go along with it.
"Daniel," you say through gritted teeth, “this is my mother. Remember? I told you she might stop by.”
Daniel blinks at you, his brow furrowed in confusion. It takes a second, but you can practically see the gears turning in his brain as he tries to process what’s happening. Finally, he nods slowly, trying to catch up. “Right. Your mum. Uh, hi.”
Your mother stares at him, unimpressed. “Are you alright?” She asks, her voice cold and judgmental.
Daniel, still clearly half-asleep and in the throes of a wicked hangover, gives her a shaky smile. “Yeah, just … didn’t sleep great,” he mumbles, leaning back into the couch.
You wince internally, but keep up the act. “He’s been working so hard lately,” you say quickly, hoping to smooth things over. “With his job and everything.”
Your mother’s eyes narrow further. “And what does he do, exactly?”
Daniel glances at you, panic flickering in his eyes, clearly not prepared for this interrogation. You jump in before he can make things worse.
“He’s … in sports,” you say vaguely. “He’s an athlete.”
Your mother’s gaze doesn’t soften in the slightest. “What kind of athlete?”
You feel Daniel’s eyes on you, pleading silently for help. “Formula 1,” you say quickly. “He’s a Formula 1 driver.”
Your mother blinks, taken aback by this revelation. “A race car driver?” She repeats, like it’s the most absurd thing she’s ever heard. “That’s … interesting.”
You can tell she’s not impressed, but at least it’s bought you a little time. You just need to get through this without her prying too much further.
“I promise, Mum, Daniel’s a good guy,” you say, trying to sound convincing. “He just … had a rough night. That’s all.”
Your mother’s gaze flicks between you and Daniel, suspicion still heavy in her eyes. “And where did he sleep?”
You freeze. “Uh …”
Daniel, finally catching on to what’s happening, sits up a little straighter. “I slept here,” he says quickly, gesturing to the couch. “On the couch. I didn’t … you know …”
He trails off, looking at your mother awkwardly, but the message is clear.
Your mother’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised by his admission. “You didn’t share a bed?”
You shake your head vigorously. “No, Mum. We didn’t share a bed. We’re not married, remember?”
For the first time since she walked in, your mother seems to relax a little, her rigid posture softening just a bit. “Well,” she says, sounding somewhat mollified, “at least he has some morals.”
You breathe a silent sigh of relief, nodding along. “Exactly. Daniel’s … very respectful.”
Daniel gives a small, awkward smile, clearly still trying to wrap his head around the situation. “Uh, yeah. Very … respectful.”
Your mother studies him for a moment longer, then nods, satisfied. “Well, I suppose it could be worse.”
You almost laugh at that but manage to keep a straight face. “Right.”
There’s a brief pause as your mother smooths down her dress, glancing around the penthouse like she’s looking for something to criticize. Then, her eyes land back on you, and she smiles — one of those deceptively sweet smiles that always makes you nervous.
“Well,” she says brightly, “since I’m here, I’d love to get to know Daniel a bit better. Why don’t you two join me for dinner tonight?”
You blink, caught off guard. “Dinner? Tonight?”
Your mother nods, clearly not taking no for an answer. “Yes. I think it’s high time I meet this boyfriend of yours properly.”
You glance at Daniel, who’s looking at you with wide, slightly panicked eyes. You can tell he’s regretting every decision that led him to this moment, but there’s no way out now. You’re both trapped.
“Uh, sure,” you say weakly. “We’d love to.”
Your mother beams, clearly pleased with herself. “Wonderful! I’ll have my assistant call to make the reservation. Seven o’clock sharp. You know where. Don’t be late.”
Before you can respond, she’s already turning on her heel, heading toward the door with a satisfied smile on her face. “I’ll see you both tonight,” she calls over her shoulder as she exits, leaving you standing there in stunned silence.
The door clicks shut, and the room is suddenly, blissfully quiet.
You turn to Daniel, who’s staring at you, still half-dazed from sleep and now fully confused about what just happened.
“Boyfriend?” He croaks, his voice rough from the hangover.
You let out a long, exasperated sigh, rubbing your temples. “I panicked.”
He groans, flopping back onto the couch. “Dinner with your mum? Really?”
“Yes. And if you don’t play along, I’m pretty sure she’ll disown me.”
Daniel chuckles weakly, rubbing his temples. “Great. Just great.”
You stare at him for a moment, then flop down next to him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushions. “This is a disaster.”
“Eh,” Daniel mutters, eyes closed. “Could be worse.”
You shoot him a look. “How?”
He cracks one eye open, grinning. “At least I didn’t throw up on her.”
You groan, burying your face in your hands. “That’s not funny.”
But when you look up, you can’t help but laugh, because as ridiculous as this entire situation is, somehow, in the madness of it all, you know tonight is going to be even worse.
***
Dinner is already awkward. You can feel the tension every time your mother glances at Daniel, her polite smile not quite reaching her eyes. It’s a small, exclusive restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters wear gloves, and the courses are tiny but outrageously expensive. The chef is renowned for his traditional yet experimental take on Singaporean cuisine, which is perfect because your mother insists on a display of sophistication when it comes to hosting. Unfortunately, that also means the pressure on Daniel is palpable.
Daniel sits across from you, trying to look comfortable, though his hand is constantly fiddling with his napkin under the table. Your mother, seated beside him, is maintaining her usual air of grace, but you can see she’s sizing him up, scrutinizing every bite, every word. And you … you’re just trying to survive.
“So, Daniel,” your mother begins, swirling her wine like a seasoned critic, “what are your long-term plans? With your career, I mean.”
Daniel freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth, the question clearly catching him off guard. He clears his throat, scrambling to find an answer that sounds impressive. “Well, uh, things are a bit … in flux right now,” he says, offering a weak smile. “But I’m working on it.”
Your mother arches an eyebrow. “In flux? That doesn’t sound very … stable.”
You kick Daniel lightly under the table, silently willing him to come up with something better than “in flux.” He glances at you for help, but you just widen your eyes, urging him to recover.
“Yeah, well,” Daniel says, trying to salvage the conversation, “I’ve been racing for a while, you know? Formula 1. It’s a pretty high-pressure job, so … I’m considering my next move carefully.”
Your mother makes a noncommittal hum, clearly unimpressed. “I see.”
You want to sink into the floor.
“I’m going to excuse myself for a moment,” you say quickly, standing from the table. “I’ll be right back.”
Daniel gives you a look that screams *don’t leave me alone with her*, but there’s no way around it. You shoot him an apologetic smile before making your way toward the restroom, leaving him to fend for himself.
As soon as you’re gone, the silence at the table becomes almost deafening. Daniel shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing around the room as if he’s suddenly forgotten how to act normal. He’s about to reach for his water glass when he notices your mother watching him closely.
“So,” she says, her tone unnervingly calm, “Daniel.”
He straightens up, unsure if he should be relieved or terrified that she’s addressing him directly. “Yes, ma’am?”
“I think we should speak candidly, don’t you?” She says, her voice as smooth as silk but with an edge that makes Daniel’s skin crawl. She reaches into her handbag, and Daniel feels his stomach lurch with nerves. What’s she going to pull out? A contract? Some kind of questionnaire?
What she pulls out, however, is much worse.
It’s a small, velvet box. A ring box.
Daniel’s heart stops. His eyes widen as he stares at the box, his mind spinning, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
Your mother places the box delicately in front of him, her expression serene, like she’s offering him a cup of tea rather than a proposal-sized bombshell. “I’ve been waiting for Y/N to bring home a boy for quite some time,” she says, her voice soft but pointed. “And now that she has … well, I can’t let this moment pass.”
Daniel opens and closes his mouth, but no words come out. He’s too stunned to respond, completely blindsided by this sudden turn of events.
Your mother’s eyes gleam, and she leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if she’s sharing a secret. “Of course, I would have preferred if you were Singaporean,” she continues, her tone just a touch sharper, “but I’m not getting any younger, and I want grandchildren. So, we can’t be picky, can we?”
Daniel’s mind goes blank. He tries to form a coherent thought, a response, anything, but all that comes out is a strangled, “I … uh …”
Your mother regards him with the same calm, calculating gaze she’s had since the start of dinner, as though this entire interaction is completely normal. “You’ll do,” she says simply, and there’s a finality in her tone that makes it clear this isn’t up for debate.
Daniel stares at the ring box, his brain short-circuiting. Is this really happening? He glances around the restaurant, half-expecting someone to jump out and tell him it’s all some elaborate prank. But no one does. It’s just him, your mother, and the heavy weight of that velvet box sitting between them.
He’s completely out of his depth. He can’t even think of how to respond to your mother’s words, let alone the fact that she’s just essentially handed him an engagement ring.
“I-” he starts again, but his throat is dry, and nothing coherent follows.
“Daniel,” she interrupts smoothly, her gaze sharpening. “You’re a good man, I can tell. And you’re very … respectful.” The word drips with meaning, making Daniel shift in his seat.
Before he can stammer out anything in return, the restroom door swings open, and you reappear, walking back toward the table, blissfully unaware of the bomb that’s just been dropped.
Daniel panics. His mind races as you approach, and without thinking, he snatches the ring box off the table, slipping it into his jacket pocket in one swift movement. His heart is racing, his palms suddenly sweaty, but he tries to keep his expression neutral.
“Everything alright?” You ask, sliding back into your seat, oblivious to the tension radiating from both Daniel and your mother.
Daniel clears his throat, forcing a tight smile. “Yep. All good.”
Your mother smiles pleasantly, folding her hands in her lap. “Oh, we were just having a lovely little chat.”
You look between them suspiciously, but there’s no sign of the chaos that just occurred. Daniel’s poker face is impressive, but you can sense something is off. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he just gives you a strained smile in return.
The rest of dinner is a blur. You try to focus on the conversation, but your mother seems to be on her best behavior, keeping things light and superficial. Daniel is unusually quiet, nodding along and making polite comments when necessary, but there’s something distant about him, like he’s somewhere else entirely.
By the time dessert arrives, you can’t shake the feeling that something happened while you were gone. But Daniel isn’t saying a word, and your mother’s serene expression betrays nothing.
As the waiter clears the last of the plates, your mother dabs at her mouth with her napkin, looking between the two of you with an air of satisfaction. “Well,” she says, standing from the table, “this has been lovely. I’m so glad we could all spend this time together.”
You force a smile, standing as well. “Yes, of course. It was … lovely.”
Daniel stands too, his movements a little stiffer than usual, like he’s trying to keep his hands from shaking. “Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he says politely, though his voice is a bit strained.
Your mother gives him one last, long look, then smiles warmly. “Oh, Daniel, you’re always welcome. Anytime.”
With that, she gathers her things and heads for the door, leaving you and Daniel standing there in stunned silence. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, turning to Daniel.
“Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?” You ask, trying to lighten the mood.
Daniel gives a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah … not too bad.”
You narrow your eyes at him, picking up on the odd tone in his voice. “Are you sure? You’ve been acting weird since I got back to the table.”
He blinks, his hand instinctively brushing the pocket where the ring box is hidden. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. Just … full. Really full.”
You raise an eyebrow, not entirely convinced, but decide to let it slide for now. “Alright. If you say so.”
As you both head for the door, Daniel’s mind is still racing, the weight of the ring box burning a hole in his pocket. He has no idea what to do with it, or what your mother expects from him, but one thing is for sure — he’s in way over his head.
And he’s not sure how much longer he can keep pretending.
***
Back at your penthouse, the atmosphere feels … tense. Not the sort of charged tension from earlier, but something more fragile, awkward. The kind that makes everything feel a bit too quiet, like the air is too thick with things unsaid. You and Daniel are sitting on opposite ends of the plush couch in your living room. It’s not that big of a couch, but the distance feels enormous.
Daniel is fidgeting, running a hand through his hair, tapping his fingers on his knee. You’re sitting with your arms crossed, staring at him, waiting. But waiting for what, exactly? Neither of you knows. The silence stretches between you both, and it’s unbearable. Every breath feels louder than it should.
“Uh …” Daniel finally starts, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to find something — anything — to say. But nothing seems right, so he just ends up staring back at you, eyes darting around like he’s looking for a way out.
You, on the other hand, are unusually still, your eyes narrowed at him. It’s like you’re waiting for him to make the first move, but he’s not catching on. Not yet.
Daniel swallows hard, and after a moment of hesitation, his hand moves toward his jacket pocket. Your eyes flick to the motion, and his fingers tremble slightly as they close around the velvet box, pulling it out with an awkward kind of determination, as if it’s weighing him down more than anything. He holds it for a second, staring at it like it’s a puzzle he can’t solve.
Then, with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he opens the box.
The soft click of the hinge seems impossibly loud in the room, and for a moment, all you can do is stare. The ring glimmers under the soft lighting, catching the faintest reflection of the overhead chandelier. It’s not just any ring. You recognize it immediately.
And then, as if someone flipped a switch, you start laughing.
Daniel’s eyes snap to you in confusion, his brows furrowing. “What … what’s so funny?”
You’re still giggling, pressing your hand to your mouth to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t work. The laughter bubbles up uncontrollably, and Daniel looks like he’s caught between being relieved that you’re not mad and completely baffled by your reaction.
“You-” you manage between breaths, “That ring … that’s my grandmother’s. Oh my God, she’s really lost it.”
Daniel blinks, glancing down at the ring again, his confusion only deepening. “Wait, what?”
“My mother,” you say, wiping a tear from your eye, “She must be really desperate to get me married off if she’s giving out my grandmother’s ring to the first guy I bring to dinner. I can’t believe it.”
Daniel stares at you for a second, then back at the ring. “This is your … grandmother’s?” His voice is shaky, like the absurdity of the situation is just now hitting him.
You nod, biting your lip to stifle another laugh. “Yup. She always said it was meant for the man I’d marry one day. Guess she couldn’t wait any longer.”
Daniel’s face goes through a range of emotions — shock, embarrassment, and finally, something like disbelief. “I … I don’t even know what to say.”
You snicker again, leaning back against the couch and crossing your arms. “I think the bigger question here is — why didn’t you say anything to me? Did you just plan on pocketing the ring and hoping I wouldn’t notice?”
Daniel shifts uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing. “I — I didn’t know what to do. Your mom just … handed it to me. I mean, what was I supposed to say? ‘No, thank you, ma’am, I’m not ready for an arranged marriage just yet?’”
You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That might’ve been a good start.”
He opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, clearly struggling to find a way out of this. Finally, he lets out a defeated sigh and leans back, running both hands through his hair. “This is insane.”
“You think?” You quip, smirking.
Daniel’s gaze drops to the ring again, and there’s a beat of silence before you speak up, this time your tone more playful than mocking. “Well,” you say, drawing out the word, “if you’re gonna propose, you should at least get on one knee. You know, for tradition’s sake.”
Daniel’s head snaps up, eyes wide in disbelief. “What?”
You laugh again, your teasing smile growing. “I mean, come on. If we’re going through with this charade, you might as well go all in. Get down on one knee, Ricciardo.”
He blinks at you, completely at a loss for words. “You’re not serious.”
“Why not?” You shoot back, still grinning. “What’s stopping you? You don’t have a job anymore, so it’s not like you have much else going on. You could always be my trophy husband.”
There’s a flicker of something in Daniel’s eyes — part shock, part amusement, and maybe just a little bit of something else. “Trophy husband?” He echoes, his voice incredulous.
You shrug, leaning forward and resting your chin on your hand, as if the idea were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. I mean, think about it. You wouldn’t have to work, I’d take care of you. You could just … exist. Isn’t that every guy’s dream?”
Daniel laughs — an actual laugh this time, though it’s tinged with disbelief. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
You grin. “Maybe. But I’m also not wrong.”
For a moment, the room is quiet again, but it’s not the awkward silence from before. This is something lighter, filled with the remnants of laughter and the weight of an unspoken understanding. Daniel is still holding the ring box, his thumb absently running over the velvet surface as he processes everything that’s just happened.
And then, because clearly, the universe hasn’t thrown enough chaos at him lately, Daniel does something that surprises both of you.
He nods.
It’s a small, hesitant nod at first, like he’s not even sure he’s agreeing to anything real. But then he meets your gaze, and there’s a flicker of something — maybe exhaustion, maybe delirium, maybe just the sheer absurdity of it all — and he nods again. This time, more certain.
“Alright,” he says quietly, still staring at the ring. “Okay.”
You freeze, blinking at him in surprise. “Wait … what?”
Daniel looks up at you, his expression unreadable but calm. “I said … okay. Let’s do it.”
For the first time tonight, you’re the one who’s caught off guard. “You’re joking.”
He shakes his head slowly, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Nope.”
You sit up straighter, suddenly unsure whether you’re still in the middle of some elaborate joke or if the reality of the past few days has finally broken Daniel’s sense of logic. “You — wait, seriously? You’d marry me?”
Daniel shrugs, though there’s a glimmer of humor in his eyes now. “I mean, like you said … I don’t have a job anymore. And hey, being a trophy husband doesn’t sound half bad.”
You stare at him, searching his face for any sign of a punchline. But the longer you look, the more you realize he’s not kidding. He’s serious. Or as serious as someone in his situation can be.
A beat passes. Then another.
And suddenly, you burst into laughter again.
“God, you’re insane,” you say, shaking your head in disbelief. “This whole thing is insane.”
Daniel grins, leaning back into the couch with a relieved sigh, as if your laughter has lifted the tension from the room entirely. “Welcome to my life.”
You shake your head again, still chuckling, though there’s something warm and strange growing in your chest. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”
Daniel glances at the ring one more time before closing the box with a soft click and slipping it back into his pocket. “Hey,” he says, his voice softer now, “if nothing else, at least we’ll give your mother something to talk about at her next dinner party.”
You snort, rolling your eyes. “Oh, she’ll have a field day.”
For a moment, the two of you just sit there, side by side on the couch, the absurdity of the night finally settling over you both. It’s ridiculous, completely irrational, and yet somehow, in this moment, it feels … right.
Daniel nudges you with his elbow, breaking the silence. “So … when’s the wedding?”
You groan, but you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Daniel chuckles, leaning back into the cushions, finally starting to relax. “Yeah. One step at a time.”
But even as you say it, you can’t shake the feeling that this strange, accidental engagement is just the beginning of something even more complicated.
And maybe you’re okay with that.
***
You come home the next afternoon, practically skipping into the penthouse, your eyes sparkling with excitement. The energy around you is contagious, and even Daniel, who’s lounging on the couch with a glass of water — probably trying to recover from the whirlwind of the past few days — can’t help but smile at your entrance.
“You look … happy,” Daniel says, a slow grin spreading across his face. “What did I miss?”
You clap your hands together like an excited child, barely containing your glee. “I got you something.”
Daniel’s smile falters for a moment, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Wait, what? You got me something?” He straightens up on the couch, his brows furrowing. “You really didn’t have to do that-”
“Shush.” You wave a hand at him, cutting him off before he can protest further. “I wanted to. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”
Daniel chuckles, though there’s a nervous edge to his voice. “Alright, alright. What is it then? A new watch? Shoes?” He pauses, glancing at you skeptically. “Wait, is it another one of your mum’s rings?”
You shake your head, grinning like you’ve just pulled off the best surprise in the world. “Nope. Guess again.”
He raises an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Okay … well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s great but-”
“I bought Red Bull Racing.”
For a second, it’s like the words don’t register. Daniel blinks at you, his expression blank as his brain tries to process what you just said. There’s a long beat of silence before his mouth finally drops open in disbelief.
“You … you what?”
Your grin widens. “I bought Red Bull Racing. You know, the Formula 1 team? Your old team?” You say it so casually, like you’re talking about picking up a pair of shoes or booking a vacation.
Daniel’s jaw is still hanging open. “You — wait — are you serious?” He’s half laughing now, like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke. But the look on your face — pure, unfiltered joy — tells him you’re very, very serious.
“Yup!” You say, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Apparently, if you offer double what a team is worth, the owners tend to sell pretty quickly. Who knew?”
Daniel stares at you, completely slack-jawed, like you’ve just told him you bought a small country. “You … bought Red Bull Racing?” His voice cracks a little as he repeats it, as if saying it out loud will make it more real.
You nod, your smile never faltering. “Yup. Just closed the deal this morning.”
“Jesus Christ.” Daniel runs a hand through his hair, looking like he might faint. “Are you insane?”
“Maybe a little,” you admit with a playful shrug. “But it’s an engagement gift, you know? Gotta keep things exciting.”
Daniel lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “I … I don’t even know what to say. That’s — this is crazy.”
“I know,” you say, beaming. “But crazy is kind of our thing, isn’t it?”
He laughs again, though it’s still a little shaky. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
There’s a pause as Daniel tries to wrap his head around the fact that you, his new fiancée, just bought one of the most successful teams in Formula 1. He stares at you for a moment longer, then blinks, rubbing his temples like he’s getting a headache. “I … I don’t even know where to start. What does that even mean? You’re gonna be the new team owner?”
“Pretty much,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “And I’m planning to do a bit of restructuring. You know, make some changes, shake things up.”
Daniel gives you a skeptical look. “Restructuring? What kind of changes?”
“Well …” You tap your chin, pretending to think about it. “First of all, I figured I’d ask if there’s anyone you’d like me to keep around. I mean, it’s your engagement gift, after all. I want you to be happy with the team.”
Daniel snorts, shaking his head. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”
You lean closer, your eyes gleaming mischievously. “And I assume you’ll want me to keep your boyfriend, right?”
Daniel freezes, blinking at you in confusion. “My … boyfriend?”
“Yeah,” you say, deadpan. “Max.”
Daniel nearly chokes. “Wait — what?”
You burst out laughing, unable to keep a straight face any longer. “I’m talking about Max Verstappen! Don’t act so surprised.”
Daniel’s face flushes a deep red, and he shakes his head, exasperated. “We’re not — he’s not my — Jesus, you’re impossible.”
You pat his head, still laughing. “Sure, he’s not. Whatever you say.”
Daniel groans, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my God.”
You sit back, grinning at him. “So, do you want me to keep him or not?”
He lowers his hands, shooting you a look that’s half amused, half irritated. “Obviously, you keep him. He’s the best driver on the grid.”
You nod, pretending to jot down notes in the air. “Okay, so keep Max. Got it.”
Daniel leans back against the couch, staring at you like he still can’t believe this is real. “I can’t believe you just bought a Formula 1 team.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner,” you say with a grin.
Daniel laughs, though it’s tinged with disbelief. “And you’re just … going to be the boss now?”
You shrug. “Why not? It’s not like I haven’t run a business before. Plus, how hard can it be to manage a Formula 1 team?”
He raises an eyebrow at you. “You do realize you’ll be dealing with, like, a whole bunch of egos and drama, right? It’s not just about racing. There’s politics, sponsorships, technical regulations …”
You wave a hand dismissively. “Details, details. I’ll figure it out.”
Daniel shakes his head, still grinning. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And that’s why you like me,” you quip, flashing him a playful wink.
Daniel’s smile softens, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place. But then he shakes his head again, chuckling. “Yeah, something like that.”
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, and Daniel’s gaze drifts back to the ring box still sitting on the coffee table between you. It feels surreal — like the last few days have been one long, crazy dream that neither of you can wake up from. But somehow, despite all the madness, there’s a strange sense of peace settling over the room.
Finally, Daniel breaks the silence with a quiet laugh. “So … when do you get to meet the team?”
You grin. “Soon enough. I’ll introduce you as my fiancé. It’ll be fun to see the look on everyone’s faces.”
Daniel snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over well.”
“Oh, come on,” you tease. “You’ll love it. Don’t you like being the center of attention?”
He shoots you a playful glare. “I’m starting to regret this engagement.”
You laugh, leaning back into the couch. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”
Daniel chuckles, but there’s a warmth in his eyes as he looks at you. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
***
You and Daniel are curled up together on the plush couch, nestled under a thick blanket, a pint of ice cream balanced between the two of you. The glow of the TV flickers across the room as Crazy Rich Asians plays in the background, the glamorous scenes of Singapore flashing on the screen. You scoop a spoonful of ice cream and pop it into your mouth, your eyes glued to the over-the-top depiction of high society that, to you, feels more like a parody than reality.
“I mean, come on,” you mutter around a mouthful of ice cream, shaking your head. “That’s not how any of this works.”
Daniel glances at you, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “What do you mean? It looks pretty fancy to me.”
You roll your eyes, waving your spoon toward the screen. “Yeah, because all of us crazy rich Asians are just constantly jetting off to private islands in the middle of the week. And, of course, we throw dramatic, lavish parties for every minor inconvenience.”
Daniel grins, leaning back against the couch as he scoops up some ice cream. “I dunno, the whole secret wedding dress thing seemed pretty realistic to me.”
You nudge him playfully with your elbow, laughing. “Please. If anything, that’s understated.”
Daniel chuckles, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, so maybe Hollywood doesn’t exactly nail the rich lifestyle. But it’s entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” You snort, raising an eyebrow. “It’s borderline satire. Half the time, I’m watching these movies like, ‘Are you serious? Who even does that?’”
Daniel laughs again, clearly enjoying your commentary more than the actual movie. “Okay, but admit it, the wedding scene was pretty epic.”
You sigh dramatically. “Fine, I’ll give them that one. The water running down the aisle was a nice touch.”
“See? Even you have to admit there’s some good stuff in there,” Daniel says with a grin, licking his spoon.
You lean back against the couch, settling more comfortably into Daniel’s side as the movie continues to play. The ice cream between you starts to melt slightly, but neither of you seem to care, too caught up in the comfort of the moment. Your head rests on Daniel’s shoulder, and his arm is loosely draped around you.
There’s a comfortable silence between you two for a few minutes, the movie providing a soft background noise as you both watch absently. Then, without looking away from the screen, you break the silence with a casual question.
“Hey, so … do you want to drive for Red Bull next year?”
The question seems to catch Daniel off guard. His hand, mid-way to another scoop of ice cream, freezes in the air. He turns his head slightly to look at you, eyebrows furrowed in thought. He doesn’t say anything at first, and the silence stretches out long enough for you to glance up at him, wondering why he’s taking so long to respond.
“Daniel?” You prompt softly.
He pauses the movie, the room suddenly quiet without the chatter of characters and dramatic music. His face is serious now, a stark contrast to the playful mood from moments before. He places the spoon down in the pint and leans back, exhaling a long breath.
“I don’t know,” he finally says, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
You blink at him, confused. “You don’t know? What do you mean?”
Daniel rubs a hand over his face, looking down at his lap as if the answer is written there somewhere. “I mean, I don’t know if … if I deserve it. That seat.”
There’s a heavy pause as you process his words. The casualness of the evening suddenly feels distant, replaced by something more serious, more vulnerable. You turn slightly, facing him more directly now, your hand reaching out to rest on his knee.
“Why would you say that?” You ask, your voice quiet but firm.
Daniel looks up at you, his expression pained. “I’ve been dropped twice now. McLaren, VCARB … And, honestly, I didn’t do as well as I wanted. As well as they wanted. What if I’m just not cut out for it anymore? Maybe the sport’s moved on, and I haven’t.”
You frown, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s not true. You’re still an incredible driver.”
Daniel lets out a bitter laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Incredible? You’ve seen the results. I’m nowhere near where I used to be. And Max? He’s on another level. It’s his team now.”
“Okay, first of all,” you say, your tone shifting into something more assertive, “don’t compare yourself to Max. You’re both amazing in your own ways. And second, this isn’t about what they want, Daniel. It’s about what you want.”
Daniel doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at the frozen image on the TV screen, lost in his thoughts. His jaw is tense, and you can tell he’s grappling with something deeper, something that’s been weighing on him for a long time.
You squeeze his knee gently, your voice softening. “You’ve still got it, Daniel. I know you do. And so does everyone else.”
He glances at you, his eyes searching your face like he’s trying to find some kind of reassurance in your words. “But what if … what if I can’t get back to where I was? What if I’m just holding onto something that’s not there anymore?”
“You’re not,” you say firmly, not missing a beat. “You’ve had a rough few seasons, sure. But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost it. It just means you’ve had setbacks. And if anyone knows how to bounce back, it’s you.”
Daniel still looks unsure, and you can tell there’s a part of him that’s scared — scared of failing again, scared of not living up to the expectations that have been placed on him, both by himself and by others.
You lean in closer, your voice gentle but insistent. “Daniel, you’re one of the best drivers in the world. You’ve proved that time and time again. Red Bull wouldn’t have taken you back if they didn’t believe in you. And I wouldn’t have bought the damn team if I didn’t believe in you either.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of Daniel’s lips at that, though it’s fleeting. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. “I just … I don’t know if I’m ready to go back. I don’t know if I can handle it if things go wrong again.”
You nod slowly, understanding the fear behind his words. It’s not just about driving. It’s about the pressure, the weight of expectation, the fear of failure.
“I get that,” you say softly. “But you can’t let fear stop you from doing what you love. You’ve been through a lot, I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. You have so much more left to give. And I’ll be there with you, every step of the way.”
Daniel meets your gaze, his eyes softening at your words. For a moment, the vulnerability in his expression is raw, unguarded. Then he reaches out, taking your hand in his, giving it a small squeeze.
“You really think I can do it?” He asks quietly.
You smile, squeezing his hand back. “I know you can.”
Daniel lets out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as some of the tension seems to drain from him. He looks at you for a long moment, then nods, as if finally coming to terms with something inside himself.
“Alright,” he says, his voice a little steadier now. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” you say with a soft smile.
He leans back into the couch, and you both settle into a comfortable silence again, the tension from earlier slowly fading away. You reach for the remote and unpause the movie, but neither of you are really paying attention to it anymore. Instead, you both sit there, sharing the ice cream, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air but somehow lighter now.
***
The evening is quiet, the city’s hum muted behind the large windows of your penthouse. The movie’s credits are rolling, but neither you nor Daniel has made a move to turn off the TV. Instead, you both sit there, wrapped up in the soft blanket, the nearly empty pint of ice cream abandoned on the coffee table. There’s a sense of calm in the air, but underneath it, you can feel something unspoken, simmering just below the surface.
You glance at Daniel, who’s leaning back into the couch, his gaze distant. He’s still processing, you can tell — about Red Bull, about everything that’s been thrown at him lately. The weight of it all seems heavier in the silence.
After a long moment, you shift slightly, turning your body to face him more directly. “Daniel,” you say softly, your voice breaking the quiet.
He blinks, coming back to the present, and looks at you with a small, tired smile. “Yeah?”
“You’ve said something a lot that I keep thinking about,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “The whole ‘enjoy the butterflies’ thing. I’ve heard you say it in interviews, but I don’t think I ever really understood what you meant by it.”
Daniel’s smile falters a bit, and he looks away, his expression growing thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything at first, and you can see he’s retreating into his thoughts again, the way he does when he’s trying to figure out how to articulate something that matters to him.
You reach out, placing a hand gently on his arm, coaxing him back to the conversation. “What does it really mean to you? Enjoy the butterflies?”
Daniel takes a deep breath, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “It’s … it’s kinda hard to explain,” he says slowly, his accent thicker when he’s being reflective. “It’s not just about racing, you know? It’s more about the feeling — the nerves, the excitement, the anticipation. All those little moments that make your stomach flip.”
He pauses, glancing at you as if gauging whether you’re following. You nod, encouraging him to continue.
“I think,” he says, his voice quieter now, “for the longest time, I used to hate that feeling. The butterflies. It always made me feel … unsure. Like, am I good enough? Am I ready? Every time I’d get in the car, no matter how many times I’d done it before, I’d still feel that little twinge of anxiety. And for a while, I thought it was a bad thing.”
You listen intently, your eyes never leaving his face as he speaks. There’s something raw and real in his words, a vulnerability that you don’t often see in him.
“But then, I don’t know,” he continues, “at some point, I started to see it differently. Like, maybe those butterflies aren’t a sign of weakness. Maybe they’re a sign that you’re doing something that matters. That you’re alive. That you care.”
You nod slowly, your hand still resting on his arm. “That makes sense.”
Daniel meets your gaze again, his eyes softening. “Yeah. So now, when I feel the butterflies, I try to embrace it, you know? Instead of fighting it. Because if you’re not nervous, if you don’t feel anything, then what’s the point?”
You lean back slightly, absorbing his words. There’s a quiet wisdom in what he’s saying, a reminder that life’s most meaningful moments are often the ones that scare us the most. You think about how that applies to you — not just in your relationship with Daniel, but in everything. The choices you’ve made, the risks you’ve taken, the moments when you’ve doubted yourself. Maybe those butterflies are a part of the journey, too.
“I get that,” you say softly, nodding. “But … do you still feel them? After all this time?”
Daniel smiles, but it’s tinged with something bittersweet. “Every single time.”
You look at him for a long moment, the weight of his honesty settling between you. There’s something comforting in knowing that even someone like Daniel — someone who’s faced so many high-pressure moments, who’s been at the top of his game — still feels that same uncertainty, that same flutter of nerves.
“But now,” he adds, his voice softening even more, “I think the butterflies aren’t just about fear. They’re about excitement, too. Like, yeah, maybe I’m nervous, but I’m also excited because it means I still care. I still love what I do, even when it’s hard.”
You smile gently, your hand giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “That’s beautiful, Daniel. Really.”
He chuckles lightly, looking almost embarrassed by the compliment. “I don’t know about beautiful, but it helps me get through the tough days.”
There’s a pause, and you can feel the conversation shifting into something deeper, something more personal. You take a breath, feeling the moment settling between you like a quiet pulse.
“Do you ever get tired of it, though?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “The butterflies, the pressure, the weight of it all?”
Daniel tilts his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, his voice is tinged with a kind of quiet resignation. “Yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like too much, like it’s all building up and I just … don’t know how to keep going.”
His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. You’ve seen Daniel at his best, but you’ve also seen him at his lowest. The moments when he’s struggled, when he’s doubted himself. And yet, through it all, he’s always managed to push through. To keep going.
“But,” he continues after a beat, his voice soft but steady, “those moments don’t last forever. And when they pass, when I’m back in the car, or when I’ve crossed the finish line, it’s like … I remember why I do it. Why I love it.”
You watch him closely, your heart swelling with both admiration and empathy. “You’re stronger than you think, Daniel.”
He glances at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just stubborn.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I think it’s a little bit of both.”
Daniel grins at that, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. He shifts on the couch, turning more toward you, his hand reaching out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. There’s a softness in his touch, a quiet intimacy that makes your heart skip a beat.
“You know,” he says quietly, “you’ve got your own butterflies too. I’ve seen them.”
You raise an eyebrow, slightly surprised. “Oh, really?”
Daniel nods, his eyes locking onto yours. “Yeah. Whenever you’re about to make a big decision or when something’s stressing you out. You get this look in your eyes, like you’re bracing yourself for something.”
You blink, taken aback by his observation. “I didn’t realize you noticed.”
He smiles gently. “I notice a lot about you.”
The room falls into a comfortable silence again, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air like a shared secret. You can feel your heart beating a little faster, the warmth of Daniel’s words wrapping around you like a blanket.
“Do you ever wish the butterflies would go away?” You ask after a moment, your voice soft.
Daniel shakes his head slowly. “No. I don’t think I do. Because if they did, that would mean I’ve stopped caring. And I don’t ever want to stop caring.”
You nod, understanding now in a way you didn’t before. The butterflies aren’t something to fear — they’re a reminder that you’re alive, that you’re still passionate, that you’re still fighting for what matters.
You smile softly, leaning in closer to him. “I think I’ll try to enjoy the butterflies a little more.”
Daniel smiles back, his hand gently resting on your cheek. “Good. You should.”
And for the first time in a long time, you feel a sense of peace settle over you — a quiet understanding that, no matter what happens next, you’ll face it with open hearts and, yes, even a few butterflies.
***
The Red Bull Racing factory is a hive of quiet activity. The entire team, from mechanics to engineers, marketing staff to the senior management, stands gathered in a large meeting room just off the factory floor. Whispers ripple through the crowd, conversations hushed and speculative. It’s unusual to have the entire team assembled like this — especially during the off-season.
But today is different. They’ve been told that the team’s new owner will be making her first official appearance, and no one knows what to expect.
The announcement of Red Bull Racing’s sale had come out of nowhere, a shock to everyone. No one knew who the buyer was, only that it was someone with enough money to pull off the purchase in record time. The rumors had flown, the speculation mounting over the past few weeks, but nothing concrete had leaked. All they knew was that something big was coming. Something — someone — new.
The murmur of voices grows louder as the minutes tick by. Eyes dart toward the doors at the far end of the room, the anticipation palpable. Then, the doors swing open.
You walk in, a vision of confidence, head held high. The noise in the room instantly dies down, replaced by the stunned silence of dozens of pairs of eyes turning in your direction. Beside you, Daniel walks in, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, a familiar but unusual sight for the Red Bull team.
The shock is immediate, rippling through the room like a wave. Everyone stares, first at you, then at Daniel, as if trying to piece together how any of this makes sense. The whispers start up again, but you don’t let it faze you. Instead, you step forward with a wide, almost mischievous smile on your face.
“Good morning, everyone!” You greet them brightly, clapping your hands once, the sound echoing in the room. “I’m sure most of you have heard by now, but allow me to introduce myself formally. I’m your new boss.”
You pause, letting the statement sink in as the team stares at you in stunned silence. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N, and I’m thrilled to be taking over as the owner of Red Bull Racing.”
There’s a beat of silence, the team processing the bombshell, before a smattering of hesitant applause starts. You nod, acknowledging the claps, but there’s still a palpable tension in the room. You know they’re still confused, still reeling from the surprise. You’re not done yet.
“And I have one more introduction to make,” you say, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You glance over at Daniel, who’s standing beside you, a little less sure of himself than usual but still flashing that signature Ricciardo smile. “This is my fiancé, Daniel Ricciardo.”
The room gasps. The shock is real this time, murmurs breaking out instantly among the team. Fiancé? Some people turn to each other, others crane their necks to get a better look at Daniel. The whispers intensify, but you continue as if none of it fazes you.
“And I have some exciting news for all of you today,” you say, your voice cutting through the growing chatter. You step forward again, your gaze sweeping across the room. “With the team being restructured, and with Sergio Perez deciding to take some time away from the sport to be with his family …” You pause, letting that hang for a moment, watching the confusion bloom on their faces. “I’m thrilled to announce that Daniel will be returning to Red Bull Racing as a driver next season.”
The room falls completely silent again, a collective intake of breath. For a long moment, no one says a word. Then, as if on cue, someone begins clapping. It’s slow at first, hesitant, but then others join in, and soon the room is filled with applause. The realization starts to settle in.
Daniel Ricciardo — back at Red Bull.
You glance at Daniel, and his eyes meet yours. For a second, you see the flicker of uncertainty in them, the weight of everything hanging in the air. But then, as the applause grows, you see the shift — the spark of confidence returning to him, the slow curve of a genuine smile spreading across his face.
Daniel steps forward, raising a hand to quiet the crowd, but they don’t stop clapping for several more seconds. Finally, the noise dies down enough for him to speak.
“Wow, uh … thanks for that,” Daniel begins, clearly taken aback by the reaction. He rubs the back of his neck, his grin widening as he takes in the faces of the people who, not so long ago, had been his team. “I’ve gotta admit, it feels pretty good to be standing here again.”
A few people in the crowd chuckle, a ripple of warmth spreading through the room.
“I know it’s been a strange few years,” Daniel continues, his voice more serious now. “There were times when I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get back to this place. But when Y/N came into my life, well, let’s just say she’s good at making the impossible happen.” He glances at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of admiration and affection, and you feel your heart flutter in response.
The room watches this exchange, enraptured. There’s something surreal about seeing Daniel Ricciardo, a former Red Bull driver, now standing next to the team’s new owner — his fiancée, no less. It’s a lot for them to process.
Daniel turns back to the team, his expression softening as he addresses them. “This place has always been special to me,” he says quietly. “I’ve had some of my best moments in my career here, and I’m so grateful for the chance to come back and create more memories with you all. I know it’s not going to be easy, and I’ve got a lot to prove. But I’m ready. I’m ready to give everything I’ve got.”
The room bursts into applause again, louder this time, more genuine. The team members seem to be warming up to the idea now, their initial shock replaced by excitement. A few of the senior engineers, who had been with the team during Daniel’s previous stint, exchange nods of approval. There’s a growing sense of anticipation, the mood in the room shifting.
You watch Daniel as he steps back, the energy of the moment clearly lifting him. He catches your eye again, and for a brief moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you in the room. His smile is softer now, more private, meant just for you. You feel a surge of warmth, the bond between you solidifying even more in this shared experience.
Then, clearing your throat, you step forward again, reclaiming the attention of the room. “Now, I know this is a lot to take in,” you say, your tone playful. “But don’t worry. Daniel and I aren’t here to shake things up too much … unless we need to.” A few chuckles ripple through the room at that. “We’re committed to making sure this team remains at the top of the sport. And we’re going to do whatever it takes to get there.”
The applause comes again, more enthusiastic this time. You can feel the room shifting from shock to acceptance, and even a little excitement. The Red Bull team is known for its resilience, for thriving in the face of challenges, and this is no different.
As the clapping fades, one of the senior team members — a man with graying hair and a knowing smile — steps forward. He glances between you and Daniel, then says, “Well, if Daniel’s back, I guess we better start preparing for some shoeys.”
The room bursts into laughter, and even Daniel can’t help but laugh along with them, shaking his head. “You better believe it,” he says with a grin.
Slowly, the group begins to disperse, people heading back to their workstations, some still murmuring excitedly about the news. You catch snippets of conversation — mentions of Daniel’s return, your surprising entrance, and speculation about what’s next for the team.
As the room clears, Daniel turns to you, his expression soft. “You’re really something, you know that?”
You smile at him, feeling the weight of the moment settle around you. “It’s just the beginning,” you say, your voice filled with determination. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”
Daniel grins, reaching for your hand. “Yeah, but I think we’re gonna be just fine.”
You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with excitement and love. Together, you’ve just taken the first step into a new chapter — one filled with challenges, risks, and plenty of butterflies. But you know, with Daniel by your side, there’s nothing you can’t handle.
And as you leave the factory hand in hand, the future stretches out before you — unknown, thrilling, and entirely yours to shape.
***
The roars from the Melbourne crowd reverberate through the air as the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix begins. The cameras lock onto Daniel’s Red Bull, the #3 flashing as it leads the pack by several seconds. The circuit is electric, and the commentators can barely contain themselves.
“Here we are on the final lap,” David Croft’s voice crackles through the Sky Sports broadcast, almost trembling with excitement. “Daniel Ricciardo, the hometown hero, is this close to claiming his ninth career win — and his first ever win here in Australia. You can hear the crowd, the energy in the air — it’s absolutely incredible!”
Beside him, Martin Brundle jumps in, his tone equal parts admiration and disbelief. “This is what the fans have been waiting for, for years. After everything Daniel’s been through — leaving Red Bull, bouncing between teams, and now back with Red Bull and at the front of the grid — this will be a monumental moment, not just for Daniel, but for every Australian who’s dreamed of seeing him on the top step here.”
The camera flickers briefly to the Red Bull garage. You’re standing at the front, practically on your toes as you watch the live feed with bated breath, every nerve in your body tense with anticipation. You’re surrounded by engineers, mechanics, and team members, but it’s clear that all eyes in the garage are on you. The new team owner, the mastermind behind Daniel’s return to the team. And now, you’re witnessing the culmination of it all.
“Look at that,” Brundle says as the camera focuses on you. “There’s Daniel’s fiancée and the new team owner, Y/N Y/L/N. You’ve got to imagine what this moment means for her too, after buying the team and making the bold decision to bring Daniel back. She’s been nothing short of instrumental in this comeback.”
Crofty’s voice grows louder as Daniel approaches the final few corners. “And here he comes now, through Turn 13, a perfect line through there — keeping it clean. The crowd is going wild, and you can see why! He’s a few corners away from victory, from making history on home soil.”
As the camera switches back to the track, Daniel’s race engineer comes over the radio, his voice steady but filled with excitement.
“Alright, mate. Just bring it home now. One more corner. You’ve got this.”
There’s a brief pause before Daniel’s reply crackles over the airwaves, his voice barely containing his elation. “I’ve got it, mate! I’ve bloody got it!”
The Red Bull flies around the final corner, the engine roaring, and Daniel rockets down the straight toward the checkered flag. The crowd’s roar is deafening as he crosses the line.
“And there it is! Daniel Ricciardo wins the Australian Grand Prix!” Crofty yells, his voice barely audible over the roaring fans. “His ninth career win — and what a win it is! His first win here in Australia, and you can just feel how much this means to him and the crowd!”
The camera immediately cuts back to you, your face a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy. You’re laughing, hands clasped over your mouth as the enormity of the moment sinks in. The entire Red Bull garage erupts into cheers, people hugging and high-fiving all around you, but you’re frozen for a moment, just soaking in the euphoria of the victory.
“Look at her reaction!” Brundle says with a chuckle. “You can tell just how much this moment means to the team owner. It’s not just a win for Daniel — it’s a win for them. What a partnership!”
The scene cuts to Daniel inside the cockpit, raising his fists in victory as he slows the car on the cool-down lap. His voice comes over the radio again, almost breathless.
“YEEEEES! Let’s go! Oh my god, we did it! We actually did it!” Daniel shouts, his voice cracking with emotion.
“Mate, you’re a race winner in Australia!” His race engineer’s voice is filled with pride. “Take it in, soak it all in. This is your moment.”
“I’ve waited so long for this …” Daniel’s voice is quieter now, more introspective. “Thank you, everyone. This is unbelievable.”
As he makes his way around the track on the cool-down lap, the camera follows him, showing the thousands of fans on their feet, waving Australian flags and cheering for their hero. It’s an emotional scene, the kind that will go down in F1 history. The commentators fall silent for a moment, letting the raw emotion of the moment speak for itself.
Finally, Crofty breaks the silence. “Daniel Ricciardo has just made history. He’s become the first Australian driver to win here in Melbourne in front of his home crowd, and you can just see how much this means — not just to him, but to every fan in the stands.”
Daniel pulls into parc fermé, his car screeching to a halt under the massive “P1” sign. The mechanics are already leaning over the barriers, waiting for him, their arms raised in celebration. Daniel clambers out of the car, pulls off his helmet, and lets out a roar, his signature grin plastered on his face. The crowd erupts once more, their hero standing victorious before them.
The Red Bull team surrounds him, cheering and patting him on the back. But Daniel's eyes are searching, scanning the pit lane for you. Finally, they find you in the crowd, and without hesitation, he breaks away from the chaos and runs straight to you.
“Hey, boss,” he says, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice barely above the roar of the fans. “Did I do alright?”
You laugh, pushing him back playfully. “I’d say you did more than alright.”
Daniel grins, his smile wide and genuine, and then he’s swept back into the celebrations, the team lifting him onto their shoulders as the cameras capture every second.
The podium celebrations come next, the lights glittering, the trophy standing proud. Daniel, Max Verstappen, and Charles Leclerc climb onto the podium, their faces reflecting the joy and exhaustion of a hard-fought race. The national anthems play, first for Australia, then for Austria, and the crowd sings along, their pride and passion tangible.
When the champagne is finally handed out, Daniel holds his bottle aloft, savoring the moment. He walks to the edge of the podium, holding his finger up to signal the crowd. The fans know what’s coming. The mechanics in the garage know what’s coming. You, standing just below the podium, know what’s coming.
Daniel unlaces his boot and fills it with champagne, holding it high as he looks out over the sea of fans. The crowd roars with approval.
“Oh no …” Brundle says with a laugh, watching from the Sky Sports commentary booth. “Here we go. It wouldn’t be a Daniel Ricciardo victory without a shoey!”
Daniel grins and, with the flair only he can pull off, drinks the champagne from his shoe. The crowd cheers louder than ever, reveling in the chaotic joy of the moment. Even Max, standing beside him, cracks a smile as Daniel offers him the boot, but Max declines with a laugh, shaking his head.
As Daniel finishes the shoey, he looks down at you with a cheeky grin. He points the boot in your direction, his eyes twinkling.
“Wanna join in?” He shouts down, loud enough for the camera to catch.
You cross your arms, shaking your head with a smirk. “Absolutely not.”
Daniel laughs, tossing the boot aside and grabbing the champagne again, spraying the crowd as the podium celebration continues. The cameras capture everything, the joy, the fun, the relief of a long journey finally reaching its pinnacle.
Back in the commentary booth, Crofty speaks again, his voice soft but filled with admiration. “Daniel Ricciardo, a winner in Australia, celebrating in true Ricciardo style. This win means more than just points on the board — it’s the result of hard work, perseverance, and a love for racing.”
Brundle nods, his tone warm. “You’ve got to hand it to Daniel, and to Y/N Y/L/N as well. She brought him back to Red Bull, believed in him when others didn’t, and now they’re celebrating together on the biggest stage. It’s a fairytale moment.”
As the champagne rains down on the podium, Daniel glances over at you again, his face still lit up with that signature Ricciardo grin. And even though you’re not up there with him, he knows that none of this would’ve been possible without you by his side.
Texting them while they’re having a panic attack (A/F)
Asking them for a whimpering audio (S)
Shy!reader drunk texting drivers (M/F)
Jealous drivers (M/F)
Down we go (F) Part 2
Asking why they love you (A/F)
Them texting you while you’re having a panic attack (A/F)
Can I put a bow on it (M)
Accidentally texting them the morning after (M/F) Part 2
They introduced you as just a friend (A) Part 2 (F)
Texting you after you denied their proposal (A/F)
Asking for a threesome (M)
Horny texts from pregnant reader (M)
Asking drivers about their fantasies (M)
Walking into the wrong garage (F)
Jealous texts from reader (F)
“You’re cheating on me with another driver?” (F)
Thirsting for the drivers (M)
Baby fever (F/M)
Rookies say “I love you” first (F)
Sneaking around with them (F)
Texting them about your fight w your sibling (F)
The drivers refer to a pet/rookie/driver as your child (F)
Another driver has a crush on you (F)
Their family likes you more than them (F)
Accidentally telling them you faked it (M)
“Have you ever tried this one?” (M/F)
SMAUS ☆
Kimi Antonelli x Verstappen!Reader (F)
Y/N Verstappen is close with all the rookies, but one in particular seems to have a big crush on her!
Kimi Antonelli x Childhood bestfriend!Reader (F)
Kimi and Y/N have been friends for a long time. After her first F1 race, things get a bit exciting!
Kimi Antonelli x Classmate!Reader (F)
Kimi asks a cute classmate for help with maths :)
Oliver Bearman x Hamilton!Reader (A/F/M)
Ollie and Y/N have been secretly dating behind her brother’s back. Eventually, Y/N gets sick of the secrecy and asks to make their relationship public.
Oliver Bearman x Short!Reader (F/M)
Fans find out about Ollie’s super short GF!
Esteban Ocon x Fanpage!Reader (F)
Esteban Ocon’s biggest fanpage comes out as his girlfriend. Whoops.
Lando Norris x Fanpage!Reader (F)
Lando Norris’ biggest fanpage makes herself known as his girlfriend after receiving hate!
Lando Norris x Reader (M/F)
A famous actress has been flirting with YOUR boyfriend. Inspired by Miss Possessive by Tate.
Lando Norris x Ex!Reader (A/F)
You and your ex meet at a party and share a heartfelt moment. Inspired by 2 Hands by Tate.
Oscar Piastri x Alonso!Reader (F)
You’re Oscar Piastri’s girlfriend, and Fernando Alonso’s daughter! The grid loves to tease you two about it
Oscar Piastri x Childhood friend!Reader (F)
You’ve been there for every moment, including when he takes the championship lead.
Oscar Piastri x Rockstar!Reader (M/F)
You and Oscar keep your lives private. Imagine the shock his fans feel when they find out he’s dating a famous rockstar!
George Russell x Plus sized goth!Reader (F)
You’re a famous influencer, and it turns out your boyfriend is a famous racer. Nobody expected you two to get together!
thinking about f1 minghao crashing out on radio…. idk why… its burned in my mind…
crash and burn 📟 minghao x reader.
★ mercedes driver!minghao x reader ┆ word count: 1.8k ┆ includes: profanity, slight Trivia 承: Love reference. ┆ footnotes: oh, you are CRUEL for preying on my hyperfixation like this. how i ended up writing this much is anybody's guess.
For a moment, the entirety of Mercedes falls quiet.
You could hear a pin drop. The pit wall, the operations room, the garage. Deathly silent.
Xu Minghao never swore on the radio.
He could have. He’s certainly had his fair share of instances where a cuss or two would have been acceptable. The time he crashed into Williams’ Vernon on the final lap of the Australian Grand Prix, for example. Or the Singapore race where he ended up in the barriers after battling his teammate, Wonwoo, for podium position.
Minghao hadn’t cussed then. Everybody liked to joke that his face often did the talking for him— his expressions post-race landing him on the front page of every sports media outlet.
The Chinese racer was calm, cool, and collected under pressure. Critical without being cruel. Demanding without being demeaning.
And yet, today, in Monaco—
“Why do I have the penalty?” Minghao screeches, his voice crackling over the radio. “Hello?”
“You’re kidding!” Minghao downshifts aggressively as he rounds the next corner. The tires wail, the car jolts, and the telemetry lights up with data that makes the pit wall wince. “I stayed within the white line! You saw it, everyone saw it!”
The pit wall scrambles. Engineers replay the footage frame by frame, dissecting every pixel of the contentious corner. The commentators speculate wildly, cameras cutting to Minghao’s onboard view. Sky Sports plays the radio message on repeat, the words for fuck’s sake! echoing through living rooms worldwide.
But Minghao doesn't care about the broadcast. Doesn't care about the headlines already being written. His pulse hammers, hands locked around the steering wheel like a vice.
“Box this lap, Hao. Serve the penalty,” the team calls. “Then push. We can still fight for points.”
Minghao murmurs something incoherent, though it doesn’t take a genius to guess that it’s probably another curse. He lifts off the throttle, coasts through the last sector, and dives into the pit lane. The Mercedes crew swarms the car, stoic and efficient, every second ticking down with excruciating slowness.
The lollipop stays down.
Ten seconds feel like an eternity.
Minghao slams the throttle as soon as he’s released, launching back onto the track with a cloud of tire smoke.
“Gap to P10?” he demands, his tone unusually biting.
“7.3 seconds to Boo. But DRS is enabled—”
“I can catch him,” Minghao decides on his engineer’s behalf.
Nobody doubts it, really.
Minghao takes the next lap like a man possessed. Nailing apexes, brushing curbs, deploying battery in the perfect spots. Purple sector times flash on the screen; the crowd roars as he slices through the field like a scalpel.
Clean. Precise. Ruthless.
Minghao pushes right past Alpine’s Seungkwan, who screeches into his own radio about this reckless man, trying to kill him with the way he faked to the outside. It doesn’t matter to Minghao. Not when he’s through.
“P10, Hao,” his engineer says, relief bleeding into his voice. “Keep it up.”
“Don’t—” Minghao cuts himself off. Everybody can more or less guess what he was about to say. Don’t tell me what to do, he had planned to snap, and it only drives the team into a deeper state of confusion.
It’s even worse in the press room.
Minghao sits in the middle, flanked by Aston Martin’s Seokmin and Red Bull’s Jihoon. Minghao’s Mercedes suit is still speckled with sweat, and his jaw is tight, hands clasped in front of him on the table.
The moderator introduces them. “We’ll start with questions for the drivers. First, to Mercedes’ Xu Minghao. P9 after serving a 10-second penalty. Can you walk us through your race?”
A muscle in Minghao’s jaw ticks. Not a good sign.
Minghao leans into the microphone and very simply states, “It was bullshit.”
Again, that stunned silence. Seokmin balks like he had been physically struck. Jihoon fights back a grin.
The moderator blinks. “Uh,” she stammers. “Could you elaborate on that?”
“The penalty,” Minghao says plainly. “It was bullshit. I’ve seen the footage. I stayed within track limits. And even if I hadn’t, we both know there were other drivers exceeding limits all race who didn’t get penalized.”
A reporter from BBC Radio pipes up. “You’ve been known for keeping a cool head in difficult situations, but we heard your radio messages. Do you regret your reaction?”
The question draws a humorless laugh from Minghao. Today, his wit is razor-like in its sharpness. The claws are out, so to speak, as Minghao answers the query.
“Regret? No. I regret not pushing harder after the penalty. I lost ten seconds and still clawed my way back to points.” He pauses, letting the fact sink in. “What does that tell you?”
Somebody from Fox Sports pushes the envelope. “Are you implying bias in the stewarding?” the journalist calls out.
Minghao’s eyes flash, making even the most fearless of the media personnel shrink back a bit.
“I’m saying there needs to be consistency,” he hisses. “That’s all.”
Mercedes’ PR manager shifts uncomfortably in the background; one can assume they’re already drafting damage control statements in their head. The list of people to apologize to only grows when a ballsy ESPN journo dares to ask, “Do you think this will affect your relationship with the FIA?”
There’s no reason for the FIA— the Formula One’s governing body— to be dragged into this. Or maybe there is, with the way Minghao is crashing out in public.
The racer smiles coldly. “Maybe,” he answers, “but I’m not here to make friends.”
“Okay,” the moderator interjects. “I think it’s time for us to move on—”
Minghao concedes, leaning back into his chair and pushing the microphone over to Jihoon. There’s the slightest of miscalculations, though, when Minghao grumbles something to the Red Bull driver.
The microphone catches Minghao’s snide side comment, supposedly meant solely for Jihoon’s ears. “You should ask the FIA why they’re so scared of drivers who fight back,” the Chinese driver huffs.
The room explodes. Minghao doesn’t flinch.
Mercedes’ PR manager accepts that it’s going to be a long, long night.
Even Wonwoo doesn’t have an answer for his co-driver’s uncharacteristic behavior. The driver frowns when the team principal brings it up.
Wonwoo runs a hand through his dark, sweat-slicked hair, as if reviewing what he witnessed pre- and post-race. “Hao was already a bit… off when he came in this morning,” Wonwoo admits. “Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.”
“Drivers like Minghao don’t just wake up one morning and decide they’re going to be the devil reincarnated,” the team principal says tentatively.
Wonwoo takes a moment to contemplate. “Trouble in paradise, maybe?”
“Drivers like Minghao—”
“Don’t let their personal lives affect their racing,” Wonwoo finishes before waving his hand dismissively. “Well, I don’t know, then.”
Except— for once— Wonwoo is right.
The team doesn't press Minghao to celebrate, not when he’s a walking PR disaster in a foul mood. He heads straight back to his apartment, shedding all his rage on the way home.
It’s the only reason he manages to gently open the front door. He toes off his shoes at the doorway and shrugs off his hoodie, each action deliberate in its intent and slowness.
He finds you in the kitchen.
You’re seated at one of the bar stools, forearms leaning against the island. Minghao doesn’t come close. Not at first. He lingers a couple of steps away, stock still as the two of you lock gazes.
You open your mouth. Minghao beats you to the punch line.
“I know,” he says, his voice the most gentle it’s been the entire day. “Trust me, I know.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you off.”
Minghao lets out a derisive snort of laughter, though he’s quick to look chastised when he catches the shift in your expression. “Alright,” he says tiredly. “What were you going to say, then?”
You hop off the stool. Minghao holds his breath.
He still feels like he isn’t breathing by the time you’re standing right in front of him. Where others might hesitate, you don’t.
Your hand reaches up to cup Minghao’s face. Your palm is warm against his cheek, but your words are much warmer.
“I was going to apologize,” you say slowly, enunciating each word, “for breaking rule number three.”
Rule number three. To have it brought up now is comedic. Minghao thinks of the restaurant tissue framed in the living room, the one bearing the silly list the two of you had jotted down when you first started dating.
The very rule you’re referring to right now had been in Minghao’s loopy handwriting, underlined twice to emphasize its importance.
#3: No fights on race weekends.
It had come with an asterisk, a couple of caveats. Still, it was one of those ‘rules’ the two of you tried to see through the most. For not only Minghao’s sanity, but Mercedes’ as well.
Minghao sighs, the tension in his shoulders easing with the heavy exhale. He can’t help it; his cheek nuzzles into your palm, seeking the familiarity of your touch after being without it last night.
(That was his choice, admittedly, after he opted to sleep in the guest room instead of your shared bedroom. He left in the morning without all of his usual routines— his 30-minute guided meditation, his good luck kiss from you.)
The fight— God, what was the fight even about? Minghao is embarrassed to admit he can barely remember.
By the way you’re looking at him, though, it looks like you’re also ready to put it past the two of you.
“Did you watch?” he asks.
The corners of your lips twitch upward. “What’s the right answer?” you shoot back, half-teasing as Minghao’s arms gingerly wrap around your waist.
“I think I’d prefer that you say ‘no’,” he says wryly. “I was a monster out there. I’ve got so many people to apologize to.”
You give a low hum of approval. Minghao tugs you into his space until he can bury his face in the top of your head.
For a moment, the two of you bask in the aftermath. The bittersweet race, the shaky reconciliation. Minghao breaks the silence.
“I said fuck,” he mumbles, horrified, “on the radio.”
“You did,” you confirm. “Twice, actually.”
Minghao groans. “And at the press conference—”
“You told the FIA they could take it up their a—”
“I did not,” your boyfriend says shrilly, “say that!”
You break out into giggles. Minghao can’t help it; his arms tighten around you, and he holds you like he’s trying to erase the past 24 hours through touch alone.
Tomorrow, Minghao will be back to his usual self. He’ll play the PR game— waxing poetics about mental pressure, apologizing to the FIA for his conduct. He’ll pay the fines and promise to do better, be better.
Tonight, Minghao softens all his edges and loves you.
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