Stupid Questions, Stupid Answers (Max Verstappen x Reader)
Summary: When you try to understand the 2026 regulations, Max hits you with “stupid questions get stupid answers,” and you decide you’re never asking him anything again. Cue you interrogating the entire paddock, texting Ruth Buscombe like she’s your personal strategist hotline, and accidentally making your boyfriend think you’re hiding something—until he realizes he’s the problem and turns into a one-man 2026 TED Talk.
Word Count: 5.5K
Authors Note: This fic is inspired by my story “The Fast and the Curious” and written using what I could piece together about the 2026 regulations through a truly unreasonable amount of googling. I am not a strategist—I am simply a girl who was curious and tried to use my brain. Until the cars are back on track and the real experts start explaining things, this is very much my best guess at how 2026 is going to go. (Basically, I'm just a girl. I did my best. Please be nice.)
F1 Masterlist | Holiday Masterlist
The first time you try to learn the 2026 regulations the normal-girlfriend way—by asking your boyfriend who literally does this for a living—it goes… aggressively mid.
You’re curled up on the sofa in his apartment, legs tucked under you, laptop balanced on your thighs. You’ve got a tab open with a bunch of articles, another tab with an FIA render that looks like it was designed by someone who hates your ability to understand shapes, and a notes app that’s already devolved into question marks and rage.
There’s a section of your notes that is just “WHY” written three times, underlined, followed by a bullet point that says “active aero?????” and another that says “X-mode?? Z-mode?? are we naming these like video game characters now??”
Every time you think you’ve got a handle on one concept, something else pops up and knocks the legs out from under it. Energy per lap. Electrical deployment. Drag reduction targets. Diagrams that look like abstract art. Articles that assume you already understand the difference between downforce levels at varying yaw angles.
You do not.
Max is across the room, half in “home mode,” half in “driver mode.” Sweatpants, hoodie, phone in his hand, but he’s scrolling like he’s reading something important and not just doom-scrolling people arguing about whether cars should be “nimble” or “fast” like those are mutually exclusive personality traits.
You clear your throat.
He doesn’t look up. “What.”
It’s not rude. It’s just… Max.
You tilt your laptop toward him. “Okay, I’m trying to understand this ‘active aero’ thing and—”
He finally glances over, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re reading about that now?”
“Yes,” you say, immediately defensive, “because I want to know what you’re talking about when you say stuff like ‘X-mode’ like it’s a personality trait.”
That earns you a real look. Curious. Amused. A little proud, even, like he likes that you care enough to dig into it.
You take that as encouragement.
“So is it like… DRS, but always?” you ask. “Like the wings are just constantly moving?”
Max leans back, eyes narrowing like you just asked him to explain taxes. “No.”
You blink. “Okay. So what is it?”
He shrugs, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “It’s active. It changes.”
“Changes how.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Up and down.”
You stare at him. “Max.”
He grins. Full menace. “What?”
“I’m being serious.”
He sits forward, elbows on his knees, clearly enjoying himself now. “So am I. It moves. That’s active. Aerodynamics. Up. Down.”
“Babe.”
He tips his head. “Yes, babe.”
You feel your eye twitch. “Can you answer like a normal human being.”
His smile widens like you just handed him the red button labeled Do Not Press.
“Stupid questions get stupid answers.”
The words land way harder than he intends.
Because he says it like a joke. Like a little jab. Like haha, got you. Like it’s part of the banter you usually trade so easily.
But you’ve been trying. Actually trying. You’ve been trying to learn something that matters to him—something he lives and breathes, something you watch every weekend and cheer for and want to understand beyond just vibes and vibes alone.
You’ve been trying to meet him in his world without demanding he stop everything and teach you like you’re another media obligation.
And now your throat does that stupid tight thing.
You blink once. Then again. Pretending you’re fine.
“Okay,” you say.
Max’s smile falters for half a second, like he senses something shifted, but then he just… moves on. Like he doesn’t realize he poked a bruise instead of landing a joke.
You shut your laptop slowly, like if you do it too fast you’ll break something.
“Anyway,” you say lightly—too lightly—“I’m gonna go shower.”
“Okay,” he answers, already back to his phone.
You walk away before your face can give you away.
In the bathroom, with the door locked and the water running, you stare at your own reflection, wet hair pushed back, and you feel ridiculous for how much that one sentence stuck.
It was one comment.
You’re a grown woman.
But deep down, you’re suddenly more confused than ever—not about the regulations.
About whether you’re allowed to take up space in his brain with questions.
So you decide you won’t.
Not with him.
Not again.
It isn’t dramatic. You don’t announce it. You don’t even consciously think, I will never ask him anything again. It’s quieter than that—your brain just files it away as information.
This is a line. Don’t cross it.
You tell yourself it’s fine. That he didn’t mean it. That you’re overreacting. That you can still be curious without putting yourself in the position to feel stupid again.
Curiosity, unfortunately, does not work like that.
A few days later, you’re at the track, and it turns out curiosity followed you.
It’s there in the paddock, in the constant hum of activity, in overheard conversations that use words like “deployment” and “mode switching” like everyone in the world was born knowing what they mean. It’s there when you see diagrams taped to monitors and engineers gesturing in the air as if they’re shaping invisible wings.
And you’re walking behind Max, his hand briefly at your lower back as you weave through the paddock traffic. He’s in team kit, headphones around his neck, face set in that focused way that tells everyone to either move or perish.
You let go when he stops to talk to someone. You already know the routine: he’s going to do the driver thing, and you’re going to do the girlfriend thing, which mostly means not getting in the way and not tripping over a cable.
But your brain is itchy.
So when you spot one of the aero guys you’ve met a few times—friendly enough, perpetually tired, always smells vaguely like coffee and panic—you drift over.
“Hey,” you say, casual. “Quick question.”
He perks up, polite smile. “Sure.”
You glance around, lowering your voice like you’re asking for state secrets. “The new cars… are they actually smaller?”
His eyebrows jump. “Uh—yeah. That’s… yeah. Why?”
You rush forward before he can get suspicious. “Just curious. Like, what changes? Is it width? Length? Both?”
He blinks. “Both.”
“Okay, but—numbers?”
Now he’s staring. “You want the numbers?”
“Yes,” you say brightly. “Like, in millimeters. Please. I am trying to be the kind of girlfriend who knows millimeters.”
He makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Wheelbase cap goes down. Width goes down.”
“By how much?”
He looks over your shoulder like he’s expecting Max to appear and drag you away by the ankle. “Wheelbase max is 3,400 millimeters now. Width is 1,900.”
Your eyes widen. “Wait, so the wheelbase is shorter by like—”
“Two hundred millimeters from the current limit, yeah.”
You nod like you’re on a mission. “Okay. Great. Thank you.”
He keeps staring. “Is… Max making you do homework?”
“No,” you say too fast. “No. Definitely not.”
He frowns. “Then why are you asking me and not him.”
You laugh in a way that is not suspicious at all. “Because I like to diversify my sources.”
He gives you a look that says that is not a normal sentence.
You smile harder. “Have a great day.”
You walk away before he can ask follow-ups.
Your notes app is open immediately.
3,400 mm wheelbase cap
1,900 mm width
Smaller cars
Do not let Max see
You feel… triumphant.
Like you found a loophole.
Then you try it again.
A journalist you recognize from the media pen is leaning against a barrier, typing like her life depends on it. You’ve chatted before. She’s nice. Direct.
You slide up beside her. “Hey, can I ask something dumb?”
She doesn’t look up. “Always.”
You hesitate—because you promised yourself no dumb questions—and then push through. “DRS is gone in 2026, right?”
She finally glances at you, intrigued. “Correct. Replaced.”
“Replaced by… what exactly?”
She studies you. “You mean the override.”
You nod like you didn’t just learn that word ten seconds ago. “Yeah. The override.”
She tucks her phone away. “Manual electrical override. Extra deployment when you’re close enough to the car ahead.”
Your heart does a little kick. “So you get extra battery power?”
“Within a second, yes.”
“And the active aero is separate from that?”
“Correct. Active aero is about switching between low-drag on straights and higher downforce for corners.”
You scribble notes. “So it’s like two modes.”
She points at you. “Exactly. And now I need to know why you’re grilling me like you’re writing the exam.”
You laugh, waving a hand. “Just trying to understand what I’m watching.”
She leans in, lowering her voice like this is gossip. “You’re Max Verstappen’s girlfriend. You could literally just ask him.”
Your stomach flips.
You shrug, trying to play it cool. “He’s busy.”
She hums. “Sure.”
You walk away with your notes and your cheeks warm, feeling both smarter and somehow smaller.
Because everyone keeps asking the same question.
Why aren’t you asking him?
And you don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound pathetic.
Because he made me feel stupid.
That’s not something you want to admit in a paddock where everyone already has an opinion about you just for existing near him.
So you keep doing what you’re doing.
You ask a performance engineer about the weight reduction. He tells you the minimum weight is dropping—around 30 kilos lighter than the current generation—and then explains how that changes braking behavior, load transfer, the way the car feels in slow corners.
You ask someone else about the aero targets. They talk about downforce being cut and drag being reduced, about how the whole point is to make the cars more efficient and easier to follow without relying on a wing flap gimmick.
You ask a mechanic about tire changes and he squints at you like you’ve asked him to explain the meaning of life. “Fronts narrower. Rears narrower. Still eighteen-inch wheels.”
You thank him anyway, because you are nothing if not polite while being chaotic.
By the time you get back to the hospitality unit, your notes app looks like you’re preparing to join an engineering team.
And every single person you talked to looked at you like you’d grown a second head.
You keep telling yourself it’s fine.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
Later that week, the setting changes—but the pattern doesn’t.
You’re not even at the circuit anymore, and you’re still doing it.
At the factory, you’re sitting quietly in the sim building while Max does prep. You’ve learned the art of being present without being in the way. Visitor badge. Coffee that’s gone cold. Exactly zero business being here except that your boyfriend is Max and people let you exist as long as you don’t touch anything.
So you don’t touch anything.
You just listen.
Engineers walk past with laptops. You hear snippets of conversations—“energy deployment,” “harvesting zones,” “straight-line targets”—and your curiosity flares all over again.
You open your phone and type “2026 regs active aero X-mode Z-mode” like you’re trying to summon a demon.
It does not help.
You stare at a diagram and feel your brain melt.
Then you do the thing you promised yourself you wouldn’t do.
You message someone else.
Not Max.
You open a contact saved under “Ruth.”
You:
Okay, quick question. Is the 2026 power unit really close to a 50/50 electric split, or is that being exaggerated for headlines?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Ruth:
It’s not exaggerated, but it is simplified. The electrical contribution is significantly higher than it is now—close to an even split in terms of usable power over a lap.
You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.
You:
That’s what I thought. I keep seeing it described as “half electric,” and it felt imprecise.
Ruth:
That’s a fair reaction. “Half electric” is an easy way to explain it, but it misses the point. The real change is how central energy management becomes to everything else.
Another message comes in almost immediately.
Ruth:
The removal of the MGU-H is a big part of that. It simplifies the architecture, but it also shifts the challenge. Drivers will have to be much more deliberate about harvesting and deployment.
You swallow, eyes flicking toward the sim room door.
You:
So it’s less about supplementing the engine and more about planning the lap around energy?
Ruth:
Exactly. Deployment timing, recovery zones, and how you approach overtaking all become strategic. It’s not just an extra tool anymore—it’s fundamental.
There’s a pause.
Then:
Ruth:
Out of curiosity—why are you asking me and not Max?
Your chest tightens.
You type. Delete it. Type again.
You:
I’m just trying to understand what I’m watching.
A few seconds pass.
Ruth:
That makes sense. And for what it’s worth, you’re asking the right questions.
But you know he’d be happy to explain this when he has the headspace.
You lock your phone.
Because he would.
He would love it.
If you hadn’t already been shut down once.
You don’t want to risk it again. Not when he’s in his work headspace, not when the factory air feels like it’s made of pressure.
So you keep assembling understanding from everywhere else.
Which is how, by the end of the week, you’ve accidentally created a new problem.
Because when you don’t ask Max questions—and instead ask everyone else—it looks like you’re hiding something.
Like you’re gathering intel.
And Max notices patterns.
It catches up with you on a Friday.
The paddock is loud in that specific way it gets when everyone is pretending they aren’t stressed. Max has been in meetings all day. You’ve barely seen him except for quick passes—his hand squeezing your shoulder, a “later” tossed over his shoulder.
You keep busy.
You end up in line for coffee behind an engineer from another team. It starts as polite small talk—weather, travel, the usual—and then you mention, offhandedly, “I still can’t picture how the aero switches modes.”
His eyes light up.
Ten minutes later, he’s drawn invisible wings in the air, explaining low-drag and high-downforce configurations while holding both your coffees.
“This is actually a great question,” he says enthusiastically. “Most people don’t think about the transition between modes.”
You blink. “It is?”
“Absolutely.”
He hands you your cup, smiling. “You’re asking the right questions.”
Something tight in your chest loosens, just a little.
By the time you walk away, you’re smarter than you were yesterday—and absolutely certain Max is going to notice something’s off.
You pretend you are not conducting an investigative documentary titled Why The 2026 Regulations Are Ruining My Peace.
And then you make the mistake of asking someone in a place you shouldn’t.
It’s near the garage. Close enough that it’s obviously his space. Close enough that you can feel the hum of the team’s energy in your bones.
You catch one of the strategists and you ask, “With the lower minimum weight, are they expecting more instability in slow-speed corners, or does the aero compensate?”
He blinks. “That’s… still being worked through. Why?”
You’re mid-answer— “just curious”—when a shadow falls across you.
You don’t have to turn around to know.
You feel it.
That heat.
That presence.
The way the air gets thicker.
You turn and Max is there, headset around his neck, eyes sharp and fixed on you like he’s trying to read the code behind your face.
“Why are you asking him that?”
The strategist immediately looks like he wants to evaporate. “Uh—she asked me—”
Max doesn’t even glance at him. “Yeah, I heard.”
You blink. “Max—”
He cuts you off. “What’s going on.”
Your stomach drops. “Nothing is going on.”
He laughs once, humorless. “Nothing. Okay.”
The strategist clears his throat. “I can—uh—go—”
“Yeah,” Max says, still not looking away from you. “Go.”
The man disappears like he was never real.
Now it’s just you and Max and the noise of the garage behind you.
“What are you doing,” Max says, low.
You stare at him. “I’m standing here.”
“No,” he snaps. “This.”
He gestures, sharp and frustrated. “Asking everyone questions. Talking to people. Being weird.”
You flinch at the word. It’s not loud, but it hits.
“I’m not being weird,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m just—”
“What,” he interrupts, eyes narrowing. “Trying to figure out how to hide something?”
Your face goes hot. “What? No.”
His jaw clenches. “Then why are you doing it?”
You swallow. “Because I’m curious.”
He scoffs. “Curious.”
“Yes,” you insist. “About the regulations. About the changes. Because I want to understand.”
Max stares at you like he doesn’t believe you.
And honestly?
You get it.
Because you’ve been acting like you’re gathering information for a heist.
Your voice cracks a little when you add, “Why is that a problem.”
He exhales through his nose, the kind of breath he takes when he’s trying not to lose it and failing anyway. “It’s not a problem that you’re curious. It’s a problem that you’re asking everyone except me.”
You freeze.
Because there it is.
The real issue.
He steps closer, voice still tight. “Are you mad at me? Are you—are you… I don’t know, are you talking to someone? Is something wrong?”
Your eyes widen. “No. Max, no.”
“Then why are you acting like you can’t talk to me.”
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because how do you say, I tried once and you made me feel stupid without sounding fragile and dramatic in the middle of his workplace.
Max’s expression shifts into something sharper. Hurt, almost. “What am I, chopped liver?”
The phrase is so ridiculous coming out of him that it would be funny if you weren’t suddenly on the verge of tears.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Then talk to me,” he says, exasperated. “What is this.”
You feel your throat tighten and your eyes sting and you hate it. You hate crying. You hate doing it in public. You hate doing it anywhere near a camera.
You take a step back, trying to get air. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
Max’s face hardens. “You don’t bother me.”
You laugh, small and bitter, before you can stop yourself. “Right.”
His eyes flash. “What does that mean.”
It’s quiet between you for half a second. The world keeps moving around you, but it feels like you’re both trapped in a bubble of tension.
You take a breath and decide you’re not going to do the thing you always do, which is swallow it down until it becomes resentment.
So you say it.
“Because I asked you a question,” you say carefully, voice shaking, “and you gave me a stupid answer. And when I told you I was serious, you said—”
Max’s brows pull together. “What did I say?”
You swallow hard. “You said, ‘stupid questions get stupid answers.’”
The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they’re untrue. Because now they’re out here, between you, undeniable.
Max’s expression changes so fast it’s almost scary.
His annoyance drains out like someone pulled a plug.
He blinks once. Twice.
Then his jaw unclenches, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your chest hurt.
“Oh,” he says, quietly.
You look down, blinking hard. “So I figured… okay. Don’t ask stupid questions. Ask other people. Because I don’t want to be laughed at.”
Max takes a step closer. His voice is lower now, calmer. “Hey.”
You shake your head, stubborn. “No. Don’t ‘hey’ me. You literally trained me like a dog. One dumb joke and my brain went, okay, noted.”
Max winces like you slapped him.
“I was trying to be funny,” he says, and there’s something raw in the admission. “I didn’t think—”
“Well,” you cut in, wiping at your face like you can erase the whole moment, “I did think. And I felt stupid. So I stopped asking.”
Max is quiet. You can see him recalibrating in real time—replaying the scene, realizing what it sounded like, realizing what it did to you.
Then he sighs, and you can hear the apology coming before he even says it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, firmly. “That was stupid. I shouldn’t have said that to you.”
You cross your arms, chin lifting, because you are stubborn and you are not going to crumble just because he apologized nicely.
Max steps closer anyway, tone softening more. “You’re allowed to ask me questions. Always. I don’t care if it’s silly or not. You’re not stupid.”
You look away, blinking hard again. “Okay.”
He huffs, frustrated—but not at you. At himself. “And you’re not bothering me.”
You shrug. “You were busy.”
“I’m always busy,” he says, like it’s obvious. “That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me.”
You press your lips together.
Max studies you. “Ask me now.”
You stare at him. “No.”
His eyebrows lift. “No?”
You tilt your head, matching his energy. “No.”
He stares, like he can’t believe you’re refusing. “Why.”
“Because now I feel stupid,” you say flatly. “And because, like my boyfriend, I can be extremely stubborn.”
Max’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Of course you can.”
You cross your arms tighter. “So no. I’m not asking.”
He exhales, long and dramatic. “Fine.”
You blink. “Fine?”
He leans closer, eyes narrowing with new intent. “If you don’t want to ask, then I’ll just explain everything anyway.”
You scoff. “I’m not listening.”
Max smiles like he’s already won. “Yes you are.”
He turns, starts walking, and hooks a finger in the loop of your badge lanyard like he’s physically reeling you in. Not yanking—just guiding. Like, come on.
You follow, because even when you’re mad, you still want to be near him.
And because you’re curious.
Unfortunately.
He brings you somewhere quieter—an empty little corner behind the hospitality unit where the noise dulls enough that you can think.
Max leans against the wall, arms folded, looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
You stand with your arms crossed, chin up, doing your best impression of someone who does not care.
Max starts anyway.
“Okay,” he says, slow. “So. 2026.”
You roll your eyes. “I said I’m not listening.”
“You are listening,” he replies instantly. “Because you’re nosy.”
You glare. He smirks, then continues.
“The whole point is efficiency,” he says. “They want the cars to be less draggy, less… like a brick. And they want the engines to be more relevant.”
You shift your weight. You hate that you’re already paying attention.
“The power units,” he says, “are still hybrid, but the split changes. More electric. Basically fifty-fifty electric and combustion.”
You hum like you already knew that. Your brain: write that down.
Max watches your face. “They remove the MGU-H, because it’s expensive and complicated and not road relevant.”
You pretend to look bored. “Mhm.”
“And the MGU-K gets way stronger,” he continues. “More electrical power. Bigger battery. More energy recovery. You harvest more.”
You blink. “From braking?”
“Yes,” he says, like obviously. “From braking, from lifting. Energy per lap changes. You have more to play with, but you also need to manage it because you can’t just deploy all the time. It’s strategy.”
You bite your lip. He catches it.
“See?” he says, smug. “You care.”
“I care a normal amount,” you lie.
Max keeps going, voice warming as he talks—because this is his thing, and when he gets into it, he gets animated in that subtle Max way. Not big gestures, but the pace of his words changes. The intensity shifts.
“They also want sustainable fuel. Advanced sustainable fuel. So the combustion side is still there, but the fuel is different.”
You nod slowly.
“And then the chassis,” he says, “is smaller. Shorter wheelbase, narrower width. Less weight.”
“Okay,” you say, unable to help yourself. “How much less weight.”
Max pauses like he’s waiting for you to realize you just asked a question.
You freeze. Then you lift your chin. “That doesn’t count. It’s a follow-up.”
His smile turns deadly. “It counts.”
You glare. “Answer.”
He chuckles, then obliges. “Minimum weight is lower. About 30 kilos less than now.”
You nod, trying to look casual, but your mind is already connecting it back to what the engineer told you.
Max continues, “They reduce downforce and drag targets too. Less downforce, way less drag. That’s why active aero comes in.”
You narrow your eyes. “Okay, explain active aero like I’m five.”
Max points at you. “See. You’re asking.”
“I’m demanding,” you correct.
He gives you a look like he’s amused you exist, then starts.
“Basically, the wings can move,” he says. “Front and rear. Not like DRS where it’s one flap, one thing. It’s different.”
You nod. “Two modes.”
“Yes,” he says. “One mode for straights, one for corners.”
“X-mode and Z-mode,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Max’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, so you have been talking to people.”
Your cheeks heat. “Maybe.”
He smirks, then continues. “X-mode is low drag. For straights. Z-mode is more downforce for corners.”
“And it switches when—”
“When you want,” he says. “Driver controlled, generally.”
You nod, then immediately catch yourself and try to look unamused again.
Max watches you like he’s watching a cat pretend it doesn’t want the treat it’s actively chewing.
“And because they get rid of DRS,” he says, “they add the Manual Override.”
Your stomach flips. “That’s the… boost.”
“Yes. Electrical boost. When you’re close enough—within a second—you can get extra deployment to help overtaking.”
You lean forward without meaning to. “So the car behind gets—”
“An advantage, yes,” he says. “And the car in front has less electrical deployment at higher speeds, so it balances.”
Your eyes widen. “That’s actually kind of sick.”
Max’s smile softens. “Yeah.”
Then his expression shifts, quieter. “And you can ask me all of this. Anytime.”
You look away, suddenly shy again. “I know.”
“I mean it,” he says, voice firm. “If I’m tired, I’ll say I’m tired. But I’m not going to make you feel stupid.”
Your throat tightens. You hate that you’re emotional. Again.
So you do what you always do when you’re feeling too much.
You go stubborn.
“I still feel stupid,” you admit, small.
Max steps closer. “Then we fix it.”
You blink. “How.”
He tilts his head, eyes bright with mischief again. “By you asking me something right now.”
You scoff. “No.”
Max leans in. “Yes.”
You cross your arms. “No.”
He grins. “Okay. I’ll make it easy.”
Then, like the menace he is, he starts talking again—casual, like he’s just thinking aloud.
“So, for example, energy deployment is going to matter a lot because on long straights you can’t just—”
You hold your ground, but your ears betray you, tuning in automatically.
Max keeps going, deliberately weaving in little details that he knows will hook you.
“And because the cars are lighter and smaller, the way they behave in slow corners could change. Plus, tire widths change slightly, so—”
You blink. “Wait.”
Max pauses mid-sentence, turning his head slowly like a predator who just heard movement.
You immediately regret making noise.
“What,” he says, too innocent.
You press your lips together. “Go back.”
Max’s smile spreads, slow and victorious. “Go back where.”
“The tires,” you say, pointed. “You said tire widths.”
Max nods, like he’s generously allowing you to participate now. “Yes.”
You sigh, defeated. “Explain.”
Max’s grin turns bright, boyish, pleased. “Okay, so the wheels stay 18-inch, but the tires get a bit narrower—front and rear. That changes grip, wake, all that stuff.”
You shake your head. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” he says instantly.
You glare. “I hate you right now.”
He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his soap and the faint trace of paddock on him. Close enough that the fight feels like it’s already dissolving.
Max lowers his voice. “You’re cute when you’re stubborn.”
You scowl. “Don’t.”
He smirks. “Ask me another.”
You hesitate, then—quietly, because you’re still embarrassed—“Okay. The smaller cars… does it actually make racing better?”
Max’s expression softens again, thoughtful now. “That’s the idea.”
You swallow. “And the active aero is supposed to help following?”
“Yes,” he says. “Less dirty air issues, different approach. They want it to be easier to follow and pass without needing a wing flap gimmick.”
You nod slowly.
Max reaches out, brushing his thumb along your wrist, gentle. “See? Not stupid.”
You look up at him. “You promised you won’t say that again.”
Max’s face goes serious. “I won’t.”
A beat.
Then he adds, softer, “I like when you ask. I like that you care.”
Your chest does that stupid warm thing.
You roll your eyes because you have to maintain your brand. “I care a normal amount.”
Max laughs quietly. “Sure.”
He leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “Come on. I’ll keep explaining. And you can interrupt whenever you want.”
You exhale, finally letting your arms drop. “Okay.”
Max’s smile turns smug again. “Got you right where I want you.”
You shove him lightly. “Shut up.”
He just laughs, wraps an arm around you, and starts his word-vomit TED Talk again—except now you’re leaning into him, listening for real, asking questions when you want to, and letting yourself take up space in his world.
And when he catches you starting to overthink, he squeezes you a little tighter and murmurs, “Always ask me. Okay?”
You nod against his chest, quiet but certain.
“Okay.”
That night, long after you should both be asleep, Max is still talking.
Not because he has new information.
Not because anything urgent has changed.
But because now that you’re listening again, he’s terrified of stopping.
You’re curled against his side in the dark, legs tangled, his arm heavy around your waist. The hotel room is quiet in that specific way only hotel rooms ever are — the low hum of the air conditioning, the distant city noise softened by thick glass. His voice is the only thing cutting through it.
“And then in sector two—”
“Max.”
He doesn’t stop. He just shifts slightly, pulling you closer like that somehow helps him focus.
“—you really see the regen difference—”
“Max.”
His hand moves up and down your arm, absent-minded, grounding himself as much as you.
“—especially with the lighter car—”
“Maxy.”
He finally cuts himself off, blinking like he forgot where he was. Like he forgot it’s the middle of the night and not a debrief room with five engineers waiting for him to finish a sentence.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “I just… wait, one more thing.”
You lift your head slightly, peering up at him. “You said that ten minutes ago.”
“I know,” he says quietly, defensive but tired. “But this part connects.”
You let him talk anyway, because you can hear it now.
This isn’t excitement.
It’s anxiety.
He’s replaying it — the couch, the joke, the way you shut down. The way he didn’t realize until later that he’d crossed a line.
“And then when you don’t deploy early enough,” he continues, slower now, more careful, “you end up chasing the energy later in the lap. And that’s when it gets messy.”
You shift, pressing your cheek to his chest.
“Max.”
This time, he stops immediately.
“Yeah?” he asks, too fast.
You smile into his hoodie. “I’ve got enough info for one day. Let me review. I’ll follow up later.”
There’s a pause.
Not because he disagrees.
Because he’s deciding whether stopping is safe.
“And,” you add, muffled but firm, “I do not need a lap-by-lap analysis of your last session at two in the morning.”
That finally pulls a quiet laugh out of him, the sound vibrating under your ear.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, yeah. Sorry.”
His arm tightens around you, protective, instinctive.
“I just don’t want to mess it up again,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “I thought I was being funny. I didn’t think you’d—” He trails off, jaw tightening. “I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t ask me things.”
You tilt your head back enough to look at him in the dark. His eyes are half-lidded with exhaustion, but they’re serious — fixed on you like this matters more than sleep.
You reach up, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
“You didn’t mess it up,” you say quietly. “You were just an idiot.”
He exhales a breathy laugh. “I know.”
“I just needed you to know why I stopped asking.”
“I do,” he says immediately. “I get it now.”
A beat.
Then, softer, almost unsure, “You promise you’ll ask me?”
“I promise,” you whisper. “As long as you don’t do that again.”
“Deal,” he says, just as quietly.
He presses his forehead to yours, lingering like he’s committing the moment to memory.
“I like when you ask,” he adds, voice heavy with sleep. “Even the weird ones. Especially the weird ones.”
You smile, warmth settling in your chest. “Good. Because I have follow-ups.”
He groans softly. “Tomorrow.”
You laugh, relaxing fully into him.
He kisses your hair, slow and gentle, his breathing evening out as the adrenaline finally drains from him. And when sleep finally pulls him under, his arm stays firm around you — like he’s afraid of letting you drift away again, even unconsciously.
And for the first time since that stupid joke, you fall asleep knowing your questions have a place.
summary: 5 times oscar tries to reach out to his new team manager, who he's pretty sure hates his guts, and 1 time his team manager reaches out to him instead.
contains: strangers to lovers, curse words, a little bit of angst, charles and reader are childhood besties, descriptions of fist fighting and a little blood (it's a hockey fic it was needed) (it’s just a little bit of blood), fluff, tiny glimpses of lando and charles playing matchmaker
word count: 8.1k
a/n: BRING BACK 5+1S!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! special thanks to mara @lyricsandvenom and star @starry-132173 for reading this first, and the MOST special thanks to jackie @motorsportbarbie13 for explaining hockey to me!!!!!!! oscar plays in the red wings just for you fr <3
masterlist!
To put it simply, Oscar thought he was imagining it at first.
He has to admit that he was pretty excited when he got traded in from his old team, specially when he found out he'd be playing with Lando again. The media had gone crazy — the Wonder Duo from McLaren University playing defense together once more, this time in professional hockey. An opportunity of a lifetime that filled the sport with expectations. More than that, it was lovely to actually work with Lando after all the years they spent only playing together on free weekends, still good friends despite all the time passed.
As a new addition to the Detroit Red Wings, Oscar made a point to build a good relationship with his team. Not only with his teammates, but also with the staff, the managers, the coaches. Hockey is a team sport, his old coach taught him back in the college league, and that goes beyond the rink.
And he didn't really worry about it. It's obvious that the team manager would be closer to the older players in the team — you had known most of those guys for years, some for your whole life, and it made sense for you to be a little hesitant towards him at the start.
Except it didn't go away.
The first thing he notices is how close you and the right winger are. Charles has been in the team for around 3 years, now, and Oscar starts taking note of how the two of you leave the rink together sometimes, how you apparently have dinner at his house with him and his fiancée every once in a while.
A couple of weeks in, someone mentions you and Charles went to high school together, and that the two of you have known each other since you were kids. He got traded in almost a year after you started managing the Red Wings, which turned into the staff making jokes over how Charles only got into the team out of some sort of nepotism. Oscar laughs about it when Max brings it up in the locker room, and smiles when, later, Charles tell him he's glad to be known as the manager's childhood friend.
From that, it makes sense for you and Max Verstappen, their center and captain, to get along as well. Max and Charles were like Oscar and Lando, in a way — played with each other in their college years, grew into hockey together. Oscar can understand why you'd be close with him if you've always known Charles, even though Max is potentially the scariest person in and outside of the rink.
Oscar tries really hard to rationalize all of it. You, Ollie, and Gabi are attached at the hip because Bearman, goalie, and Bortoleto, left winger, are basically your younger siblings, and they got traded in many months before Oscar even started negotiating with the Red Wings. There has been time and opportunity for your friendship to grow, so it's fine, it makes sense, Oscar understands.
Now, he can't fucking get past the way you act with Lando.
Oscar and Lando joined the team at roughly the same time. They saw you the same amount of times. They even play in the same position, for fuck's sake.
And yet — you already act around Lando in the same way you act with the rest of the team: carefree, enthusiastic, funny, making intelligent jokes and giving teasing jabs. You grow into that friendship easily, chatting nonstop during quick breaks and laughing loudly whenever you interact before and after games.
So Oscar genuinely, truthfully thought he was imagining it at first.
But after a couple of months, he becomes pretty sure that you just hate his guts.
He can't come up with another reason why you can barely look him in the eye. You have inside jokes and anecdotes with every single player in the team, except him. You go out of your way to talk to everyone, except him. You have an actual friendship with everyone, except him.
It's not that you're mean or cruel — you aren't! You're polite. You're nice. Professional. Efficient.
It drives Oscar fucking insane. With everyone else, you waste your time, you talk, you laugh, you joke, you tease, you complain. With him, it's don't worry, Mr. Piastri; I'm on it, Mr. Piastri; I've already taken care of it, Mr. Piastri; do you need anything, Mr. Piastri?
Oscar's been in the team for three months when he decides to bring it up to Lando.
"I think our manager hates me," he introduces the topic late one evening, while they walk together to the parking lot after practice, and the image of your carefully neutral expression while you listened to him stutter when he asked you if you could get his skates sharpened is burned inside his eyelids.
Lando turns his head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, staring as if Oscar's fucking crazy.
"Y/N?" He says your name like a holy grail, and it drives the knife further. "Osc, she's the best manager I've had in my life. She solves every issue before it even appears. She's the nicest person in this team."
"Yes, and she hates me." Oscar shakes his head in annoyance, standing still beside Lando's car when they finally reach it. "She doesn't even speak to me unless it's strictly necessary. She's friends with every other guy in the team but me."
"Mate, she's a lovely girl." And Lando's still looking at him as if he's insane, and Oscar feels like it. "Maybe you just haven't been… you know, approachable."
Oscar blinks.
"Approachable?"
"I mean, yeah." Lando shrugs, hand patting down his duffel bag until he finds his car keys. "Maybe you're just not giving her signs that you want to be friends with her like the other guys are. She can definitely be a little reserved — maybe try reaching out first?"
Oscar stares in disbelief as Lando finally unlocks his car, throwing his bag in the backseat as soon as he opens the driver's door.
"She doesn't seem reserved with anyone else," he complains, a hint of bitterness sticking to his words.
"Maybe, but being more friendly can't hurt, right?" Lando speaks as he climbs into the driver's seat, looking at Oscar from inside, door still open. "Friendships are a two-way street, aren't they?"
He mumbles something in return that his teammate can't quite hear, and waves unenthusiastically while Lando drives away, sighing deeply before he starts walking towards his car, parked a few feet away.
When Oscar is finally sitting inside his car, he grips the wheel and stares ahead, eyebrows furrowed with frustration, thinking over Lando's words.
He guesses he could be more approachable. He's not sure that's really the issue, but he guesses he could try. Just to check.
Oscar turns on the car.
Yeah. He can check.
His first opportunity happens as soon as the following day.
Oscar wakes up his usual time. He goes out for his morning run, comes back home, and then starts getting ready for hockey practice.
He usually arrives a few minutes before practice, just enough to stretch, tidy up his spot on the locker room and make sure everything is in place. This time, he arrives even earlier so he can get used to his reserve skates for the morning — he left his regular pair with you for sharpening, and there's no better way to get used to another than by getting into the rink.
You're already there, and Oscar realizes he's never seen you skate before.
You do it completely naturally. It's not flashy, not calculated, not complicated — you're just skating around the ice as if you were taking a walk in the park, hands behind your back, eyes ahead, clearly lost in your own thoughts, moving just for the sake of moving.
It's nice. Like watching a fish swim.
"Good morning," he clears his throat slightly, worried he'll startle you, and your head snaps towards him.
He watches as your eyes widen in surprise, and then you're already skating towards the edge of the rink, face slightly flushed.
"Good morning, Mr. Piastri," you answer, and you're the image of professionalism, and Oscar hates it. "You're here early."
"Yeah, I—uh—," he lifts his duffel bag as if it explains something, and it feels so incredibly stupid. "Needed to—need to get used to the reserve skates."
"Oh, I got you some as well," and you're getting out of the rink, sitting down to slip off your ice skates. Oscar feels weirdly bad about it. "I wasn't sure you'd want to wear your own reserve pair or not, so I made sure you'd have one here. They're on your spot in the locker room. Do you want me to grab them for you, Mr. Piastri?"
"No, it's okay," he says awkwardly, fidgeting in his own spot. "Mine are already broken in, so there's no need. They're just not my favorite."
You nod, tying the shoelaces on the sneakers you put on. "That's fair. I already asked our equipment manager to sharpen your usual pair — he's not here this morning, but he'll do if after lunch, so you can wear yours during afternoon practice if you want."
"Right." He nods back, still stuck in place. "Thank you."
"The other guys usually just get their blades switched." You stand up, holding your skates in one hand. "If you'd rather that."
"No, I—I don't like getting them switched that often. Maybe next time, though."
You smile politely.
"Okay."
An awkward beat passes by. Usually, Oscar would give you an uncomfortable smile, nod, and head into the locker room. This time, however, he remembers Lando's words — being more friendly can't hurt, right?
"You— uhm—," he begins, and you look as shocked as he feels about the fact he's trying to make conversation, "you enjoy skating?"
You blink at him slowly, clearly confused.
"I— yes?"
He fidgets with his bag. You fidget with the pair of skates in your hands. Oscar wants to kill himself from the absolute awkwardness of this clearly failing trial of being approachable.
"Did you—," he clears his throat and it sounds like nails scratching a chalkboard somehow, "did you play any ice skating sports back in college?"
"No." He can see the way you grip your skates, clearly uncomfortable. "I ran track back in college."
"Right. Did you want to go professional or…?"
"Not really." You shift your weight from one foot to the other. "I always knew I wanted to work with sports, but I've never been an athlete myself. I only skate and run for fun."
"That's cool." Oscar does his best interested face and worries he's only managing to look slightly constipated. "And how did you end up working with hockey?"
"Well—"
You're interrupted by Gabi's loud good morning! as the boy enters the rink, and he is forced to acknowledge the way the tension immediately leaves your shoulders, a soft smile taking over your expression as you look to the entrance.
"Gabi! Hey!"
And you can't get away from Oscar fast enough, nodding politely towards him before speed walking to the left winger, who greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a half hug.
Bortoleto waves excitedly at him while he walks by your side towards the locker room, listening as you talk excitedly, easy and smiling in a way that's completely opposite to how his attempt at speaking with you went.
You hate him. You must do.
However. Now he knows that you ran track in college. And you were about to actually answer his question about your— your professional journey or whatever, so maybe that could've turned into a meaningful conversation eventually.
Despite the fact this was clearly a failure, it fills Oscar with a weird sense of motivation.
He can try being friendly again.
Maybe without startling you out of the ice rink next time.
Oscar isn't sure how, but he ends up squished between you and Charles a week later, sitting down in the team's favorite pizzeria after days full of awkward nods and polite greetings. The NHL season is in full swing, and the Red Wings' game that weekends ends with a sparkling victory that paints every face with a bright smile. It also ends with a team dinner.
And it leads Oscar to sit right next to you.
Lando sits on your other side, entirely engrossed in conversation with Ollie, which, quite honestly, convinces Oscar that his shoulder is brushing yours due to some sort of scheming from his favorite teammate.
He's even surer of that after a few seconds of awkward silence, when Lando shoots him a meaningful glare and then glances pointedly at you.
Oscar clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, focusing really hard on his goal of being more friendly and approachable.
"Hey."
What a fucking awful, terrible start.
"Hi." Your eyes are painted with barely veiled surprise.
Another beat of silence goes by.
"Did you enjoy the game?"
It's a stupid question. They won. Of course you enjoyed the game, even though you had to help Max clean his bloody brow while he served his penalty for fighting in the rink. There's a bruise already forming on his face, an ugly mix of yellow and purple.
"I guess, yes." You pause for a second, and the way you choose to keep talking is so tentative and unsure Oscar can feel his heart rate spike with expectation. "You and Lando did an amazing job today. They just couldn't get past you, even when they were pushing really hard."
Thoughtful. Nice. Maybe this is getting somewhere.
"Thank you! It was a hard match, but Lando and I work pretty well together."
"You definitely do, Mr. Piastri."
And there we go.
"You can call me Oscar, you know," he offers, trying to sound the most casual he can about it, but he knows there's frustration slowly dripping from his every word, "I'm just another guy from the team, it's fine."
You blink and shrink into your chair, clearly taken aback by his tone.
"Oh, okay. Sorry, I didn't know it made you uncomfortable."
"It doesn't— it's okay. Sorry. Just— you can call me Oscar, really. I don't mind."
One more awful beat of silence.
Oscar isn't sure why it upsets him this much. You're not obligated to like him. However, he likes to think he's a pretty nice guy, and he doesn't understand why the fuck you can barely look at him when he's never been anything but nice to you — specially considering the way you've managed to become friends with every single other player on the team.
In the back of his mind, he's slightly aware that it's because he thinks you're pretty lovely, as well. He likes the sound of your laugh, the way your voice has a happy lilt whenever you congratulate the team after a victory, and specially after a loss — keeping morale up no matter what. He likes your smile, the way your eyebrows furrow when you're paying attention, the way your roll your eyes when Gabi and Ollie are saying something stupid and you're forced to hear it.
You, always so sweet, friendly, funny. It feels childish, in a way, but he can't help it — he wants you to smile at him too.
"Okay, Oscar," and he loves how his name sounds from your mouth, making him blush even while his irritation lingers.
"You were telling me about track the other day." He doesn't let another beat pass by, trying to pick up some imaginary momentum, bringing up the first thing he can think of — the only thing he knows about you. "Were you any good at it?"
It comes out way too blunt and stupid, but you give a surprised, honest laugh at the question, and Oscar feels something bloom inside his chest.
"I was, yes." Your words come out intertwined with a quiet giggle. "Not the best, sure, but pretty good. Got a few medals back home."
"Yeah?" He encourages, leaning even further towards you, pressing his shoulder against yours. "Did you do distance? Or sprinting?"
Your eyebrows rise, but you seem happy with the question, content with his interest, even if his knowledge is unexpected.
"Both. But my favorite was hurdles."
"Oh, hurdles is so fun to watch." He gives you a small smile, and you nod excitedly.
"I had a lot of fun with it. I really do enjoy running, and I could jump quite high too." You fidget with your hands, but it seems more like a thinking habit than anything else. "Hurdles was the most challenging for me. I think that's why I liked it so much. It felt good to do well at something that felt so difficult."
Oscar's smile widens. "That's really impressive, you know?" You dismiss the compliment with a wave of your hand and warm cheeks, and he chuckles. "I was awful at it — tried it out in high school."
"It's not for everyone," you agree, skin still flushed, smile fighting to take over your lips, "but hockey isn't either."
He chuckles.
"Yeah, that's true. Specially with all the fighting."
"Right!" Your eyes widen in the way he's seen they do whenever you're enthusiastic about something, and he can't believe he's experiencing it first hand. "You guys really need to wrap that shit up. It's a problem."
"My dear, the fighting is an essential part of the sport," Charles interrupts, and your eyes soften when they meet his. "You can't wrap it up! That's a betrayal to our traditions!"
"I know it's important," you concede, "I don't enjoy cleaning you guys up, though. We're an NHL team, we should get someone else to do that instead of leaving it to the team manager to do."
"Oh, we can all tell you don't like it," Max chimes in from the other side of the table, voice full of fake annoyance, "the way you poked at my bruise today was enough proof of that."
"You deserved it," you grin teasingly, giggling, and Max's jaw drops in exaggerated disbelief.
Oscar watches as your focus slips away from him, the conversation reaching every end of the table as the entire team erupts in excited chatting.
He doesn't mind.
He made you laugh.
"You've known her for a long time, right?"
Charles looks up from his skates to follow Oscar's gaze on you, breathing heavily as they sit together on the bench during a quick break from practice two weeks after that dinner. Their coach is lecturing Lando about something while they catch their breath.
"I have." Charles nods thoughtfully. "She's one of my best friends. She's gonna be a bridesmaid at my wedding — Alexandra loves her."
"That's nice." Oscar's hand comes up to wipe away some of the sweat on his forehead. "Is it true that you only joined the team because of her influence here?"
He laughs loudly at the question, a grin taking over his lips as he shakes his head in amusement.
"Oh, absolutely." He laughs again. "She definitely hyped me up way more than she should to the board when they started talking about trading me in." Charles looks towards you again, watching you fondly, and then turns his head to meet Oscar's curious eyes. "She's like a sister to me. Did you know she was my hockey team manager back in high school too?"
Oscar's eyebrows rise in surprise.
"Really?"
"Yeah. She told me back then that she was going to get into Business and Management School so she could become the President of a big sports team someday." Charles smiles with caring amusement. "She's definitely gonna make it."
Oscar can't help but smile too.
"Yeah, I believe that."
"Piastri, Leclerc, get off your asses and back on the ice!" Coach yells from the middle of the rink, an echo of yes, sir quickly ringing out from the bench as they stand up on their skates.
For a passing moment, Oscar studies you, talking with the equipment manager by the bleachers, adjusting a strand of your hair behind your ear while you listen attentively.
Practice runs late and when the team leaves the ice, the sky is already dark. You linger around the rink, on the phone with another team's manager to set up a friendly game before the next NHL match on the following week.
Oscar showers and changes and still finds you on your office, typing furiously on your laptop when he knocks on the open door.
Your interactions are still… complicated. You don't start conversations, and there's this lingering awkwardness that permeates every glance you share.
But you've started calling him Oscar instead of Mr. Piastri, and he's even managed to ask you about your day a few times.
Now, he's taking it a step further.
"Hey." He smiles when you look up from your laptop to meet his eyes, anxiety churning inside his stomach.
"Hi." You smile back, and it's awkward and weird and his heart flutters for some reason he doesn't really want to understand. "Are you guys done for the day?"
"Yeah." Oscar leans into the doorframe, fingers gripping the strap of his backpack more tightly than necessary. "I think everyone's already gone home."
You look down at your watch, eyebrows raising slightly when you take note of the time, sighing tiredly before leaning back on your chair.
"The hours pass by too quick when I'm doing paperwork," you mumble, and he lets out a quiet laugh. You look back up at him. "Why haven't you gone home as well?"
And this is when Oscar is taking a leap of faith, which is a very dramatic way of thinking about it, sure, but it does feel like an enormous gesture to him, specially considering he's still not sure you've stopped hating him.
"I was waiting for you," he starts, and it comes out a little creepy, so he's quick to continue, "I thought I could give you a ride home? I know you usually take the bus."
Fuck, is that worse? Did he manage to come off even creepier?
"Ollie mentioned it," he adds, wondering if that makes it any better at all, "I'm not stalking you or anything."
Yeah. That's definitely worse. Congratulations, Oscar. He can quite literally see Lando's disappointed expression in his mind.
You blink, speechless.
"I'm… glad?"
"What I meant," he tries again, face burning up with embarrassment, "is that Ollie mentioned you usually take the bus home because you don't like driving. But practice ran late today and it's already dark out, so I'd like to drive you home. If that's okay with you. Please."
You blink again, a certain level of understanding shining through your expression.
Oscar doesn't really get what you think you are comprehending from his awful rambling, because he's honestly at a loss as well.
"Okay."
He goes completely still, stuck somewhere between being impossibly surprised, really relieved, and insanely confused.
"Okay?" A mix of emotions can be heard through his voice, and a small smile appears on your lips.
"Okay. I just need to get my stuff — can you wait 10 minutes or so?"
Oscar stares at you.
"Yeah. Okay. Yeah. I can. Cool. Right. Okay."
You laugh through your nose, and your smile widens. He's still standing by your doorframe, eyes slightly wide.
"You can wait by the exit," you suggest, eyes sparkling with amusement. He nods, turning on his heels to walk away, barely able to conceal his disbelief.
"Okay. Alright. The exit. Okay."
It takes you less than 10 minutes to get ready, and then you're walking beside him to the parking lot, going around the car so you can get into the passenger seat.
You help him put your address in his car's GPS. Oscar starts the car. And then he realizes he didn't plan this far ahead.
He decided to offer you a ride at the start of the day. It was supposed to be a nicety, and it sounded even nicer when practice ran late. You agreed. You're in his car. One more mission completed in his never ending quest of being friendly and approachable and reaching out first. He has no fucking idea what to say to you.
"So." To his absolute surprise, it's you who breaks the silence. "You're stalking me."
Oscar almost crashes the car.
"What? No! What? No, oh my God, of course not, I just—it came out all wrong back at your office, I really didn't—I'm so sorry, I promise I'm not stalking you, I—"
He's interrupted by your loud laughter. Easy and sincere, the way he's always heard it around the rink, never directed at him — not the small, startled laughs he's managed to get from you. A real laugh, this time, that comes deep from your chest and rings through the air.
It shuts him up immediately, his cheeks burning bright red as he watches you cackle, trying to hide your giggles behind your hand and failing miserably.
"I know—I'm sorry," you start, but you're still laughing in earnest. He's not mad about it. He enjoys the sound, actually. "I'm just kidding, Oscar. I know you're not."
He lets out a relieved breath, a soft smile growing on his face.
"That's good. I'm glad."
"Your reaction was priceless, though."
Oscar sighs tiredly, but he's not really annoyed.
"Yeah, I'm glad you had fun from it."
You snort, and it puts a grin on his lips.
He reaches your building's driveway a couple of minutes later. You live somewhat close to the rink, and Oscar already misses your short lived company on his passenger seat.
He parks the car, but you hesitate.
"I'd invite you up for dinner," you start, and he immediately shakes his head in denial, "but my place is sort of a mess right now."
"It's okay," he answers quickly, heartbeat picking up even though your teasing broke some of the awkward tension between you, "don't worry about it."
"You can come up some other time," you offer still, "I make a pretty decent carbonara."
"Really, don't worry about it."
"I mean it though," you insist, and Oscar feels something warm building in his chest. "I'd love to cook for you sometime. I'm quite good at it."
"Like you were at track?" He asks with a soft smile, and you laugh again.
"Even better than that."
He nods, eyes twinkling with excitement.
"Then alright. Just let me know when."
"You'll know exactly when. As a good stalker you probably have my Google Calendar logged into your phone or something."
"Okay— stop that."
You laugh again, and he comes to the conclusion that he doesn't mind your teasing at all.
You wave at him when you finally get inside your building's gate, a shy upwards tilt to your lips.
Oscar waves back, and he drives away feeling like his heart might burst open from his rib cage the entire way home.
There's no excuse to arrive to the rink earlier that Monday morning. Oscar does anyway, searching for a glimpse of what he finds the moment he comes in through the entrance — you, skating with your hands behind your back, lost in thought.
There are times when you seem to forget your hatred for him.
That's not fair. Oscar has to admit your relationship has improved greatly over these past few months — you don't run away the second the two of you end up alone, you call him by his first name, you wave to him when he arrives for practice, and you even let him give you a few more rides home during the course of the last few weeks, even if your invitation for carbonara was never mentioned again.
It's as if every once in a while the fact you don't really like him slips away from your mind, and that's when you share instants like that one when he first drove you home. You crack a joke, he blushes until his face is beet red, you laugh, his heart beats like a drum. Then the moment dims, and you revert back to your awkward smiles and quick glances.
You still never reach out first. You still never seem to settle into yourself when around him, as if there's always a tiny piece of you that can't get comfortable when he's there.
It bothered him when he first joined the team, and now it bothers him tenfold. Perhaps because he's experienced the glimpses, the little moments when you can afford to be yourself around him, and now he craves those moments like a man starved.
Oscar wants to know you like he's never wanted to know anything in his life.
"I think you're in love with her," Lando said when he tried to explain it, the two of them sitting on a bench at their favorite padel court in town. Lando used to love to play it during their free weekends back when they were still in college, and it seems that old habits die hard.
"I think you're reaching incredibly far," Oscar answered at the time, drying some of the sweat on his forehead. "I'm just hurt that she hates me so bad."
"Osc, she clearly doesn't hate you at all." His teammate rolled his eyes. "You're hurt because you like her and can't handle the fact that she doesn't seem to correspond. At least not in front of you."
Oscar furrowed his eyebrows.
"Not in front of me? What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know," Lando shrugged, and there was a smirk building on the corner of his lips, "with the way she flushed when I asked about those rides you keep giving her, I'd say she's pretty interested."
"Shut up," Oscar mumbled, looking away in embarrassment, cheeks burning hot.
"No, hey, I mean it!" The other boy insisted, and his smirk gave way to a full grin. "But really, think about it. Why would you care so much whether or not our manager wants to be your friend? You didn't seem to have that issue with any of our team managers back in college. Like it or not, you have feelings for her. Better to just own up to it and take a chance on la-la-la-la-love—"
Lando laughed loudly as Oscar shoved his shoulder forcefully, face bright red, and then immediately stood up from the bench, muttering something about it being damn time for their next round of padel.
So when Oscar enters the rink the next Monday and sees you, it's safe to say he feels a lot more nervous than usual.
Not because of what Lando said, no. It's not like Oscar to be that affected by someone else's opinions, at least not if there isn't any truth to it. The issue is that it had some truth to it.
Love is too strong a word. Now feelings is pretty accurate.
When you see him at the entrance, your movement is immediate: just like that first time, you start skating towards the rink's edge, ready to get out of the ice. This time, however, Oscar's quicker than you, all but racing to the glass that separates the actual rink from the bleachers.
"No, wait!" And he attempts to offer a chill smile that he's sure looks anything but chill. "I was wondering if we could skate together?"
"Oh." You blink at him, just a couple of feet away from the exit. "Why?"
Oscar blinks back.
Well, he doesn't know the answer to that.
Because Lando said I have a crush on you and I'm pretty sure he's right? Because you skate like a fish swims and I want to see it up close? Because I want to be friendly and approachable?
"I don't know," he answers instead, "why not?"
It's small, but he notices. You smile.
It takes him a couple of minutes to get ready until he's actually on the ice with you, and then you're skating side by side. You've got your hands on your back again, and you look so incredibly at ease that he can't help but admire it, in a way.
"Do you do this every day?" He asks eventually, and you hum in soft agreement. "How come none of us ever see you?"
"Gabi does," you shrug, "he's usually the first one to arrive, so I get out when he comes in. Sometimes it's Max. It's my little break before I start to actually work."
"You're really good at it."
You chuckle. "You know, you just keep finding things I seem to be good at."
"Not my fault you're good at so many things."
"Ew, Oscar. Ew."
It's his turn to laugh at your teasing tone, a smile on his face while you move in perfect sync — he's even got his hands behind his back, easily keeping up with your momentum.
Until an awkward moment passes by. Oscar realizes he isn't sure what to say, and you don't seem to quite know either. So you shoot him a glance full of expectation, immediately picking up your pace, skating away from him. The challenge is clear.
And Oscar is a little more competitive than he lets on, even though it feels too real to chase after you.
He gains speed quickly, and you keep turning your head towards him to gauge the shortening distance, giggles spilling out of your lips as you skate around the rink.
You're laughing, and you're good, and he's grinning just from watching you move. You're about to complete a lap around the rink, and you're quick but he's quicker. He's almost reaching you when Gabi's good morning! rings in the air, getting to you faster than Oscar can.
You still shoot him a smile before correcting your path to the edge of the rink, your greeting seeming to echo when you take your first step out of the ice.
Oscar stays behind, momentum making him move even after he stopped chasing.
Oscar wasn't exactly a star player back in the Chicago Blackhawks.
A promise, they used to call him. A player who would grow into himself.
Still, they were pretty pissed when he got traded to their biggest rival before that promise was fulfilled, that's for sure.
In his defense, he didn't like being seen as potential. He was sure he could do better in a team that actually felt like he was valuable and able to contribute, and he was right. They all probably knew it — sports channels and commentators all mentioned how much he developed as a player after going to the Red Wings. The change was obvious.
It didn't stop his old teammates from provoking him the second they stepped into the same rink again.
Oscar knew they were targeting him. Charles told him not to bother with it — to play his game and defend. To ignore the side glances, the throwaway insults, the way they just kept bumping into him. Hard, purposefully, annoyingly.
He had never been a fighter. No, everyone knew that was Max's job in the team — Max's and Gabi's, even though they'd all back each other up when fights grew, with Ollie speeding from the goal to join quite a few times.
And yes, he'd partaken in the fighting before. It's inevitable when you're a hockey player, even more so in college, when Lando had that phase when he would start swinging whenever anyone looked at him wrong.
However, in all his years of hockey, including his clumsy middle and high school teams, college, and his professional career, Oscar had never thrown a punch first.
He sort of wants to this time.
By the time the first period of the match ends, Oscar's entire body feels like it's burning, and it isn't just from the effort.
"We need to go in harder, boys, we can't let their defense hold us back so much," coach starts as soon as they're all sitting down on the bench, eyebrows furrowed. Oscar tenses when his eyes focus on him. "And Piastri, you need to stop playing into their games. They're trying to rile you up so you'll make mistakes. Don't let them."
Right. He breathes in deeply. He can do that.
The second period passes by slowly and Oscar's still annoyed, but he's taking it better. The forwards manage to score a couple of times, safely securing the Red Wings' lead. By the time they have a quick break again, the team's mood is generally better, even though Oscar's blood is boiling from a hard shove he received from the Blackhawks' center at the period's last minute.
"We're doing great, just keep it up. Piastri, Norris, amazing work."
Oscar doesn't even answer, resorting to gulping down his water bottle while their coach speaks about bettering their strategy even further. He barely pays attention to it — he's angry, and annoyed, and he knows he can't let them rile him up, but everything is too intense and the adrenaline makes slight irritation feel like fury.
When your hand touches his shoulder, he jumps, startled. An apology is already forcing its way out of his lips when you take his empty water bottle from his hand and offer him a new one.
"You're doing a great job." You smile when he takes the bottle from you, a little of the tension seeping away from his body. "Those guys are assholes."
He snorts, muttering a soft thank you before taking a sip of the new bottle.
"Don't get too pissed off, champ." You clap him on the back and it's awkward as hell, but, even through the exhaustion and anger, it makes his heart flutter. "The game will be over soon."
And Oscar really, really tries. He does!
The other team must've watched your interaction from afar. Maybe they even noticed how softly he smiled at you. Honestly, what matters is that, the next time one of their forwards bumps into him, he says —
"Didn't know you were messing around with your new manager, Piastri. Is that why you changed teams? For some whore?"
Next thing he knows, his fist meets a jaw.
Things get out of hand incredibly quickly. Oscar throws away his hockey stick, takes off his gloves, grabs the guy's jersey and lands two more punches before he can even react, obviously taken by surprise. After the other guy recovers from the first punches, however, he fights back.
Knuckles connect with Oscar's lip, which immediately gets torn open by his lower teeth, and then he can taste the blood on his tongue.
It drips down his chin, stains his jersey. Quite honestly, he doesn't care. His heartbeat is high, blood rushes on his ears, and he's taking all the anger he's felt the entire game out on this guy's face. His own knuckles are already battered and bruised from hitting the other guy's helmet, and his face aches in a few different places from getting punched back.
Well, at least he's feeling a little satisfied with himself. Maybe he can get behind this fighting thing.
The guy falls back on the ice, and Oscar manages a final hit before the referee is pulling him back and condemning him to the stupid penalty box. He can hear his teammates cheer at his victory, and Max and Lando hoot for him as he skates towards the box, but his body is still burning with adrenaline, energy, and something that feels like rage but could just be the disappointment of losing control like that for the first time.
He doesn't even sit down before they're taking him to the dressing room to get cleaned and changed, and you're there in under a minute, a wet rag ready to clean the blood off his face.
Oscar can't quite look at you as you press the rag carefully against his skin. Your movements are soft, measured, maybe even caring.
You're already sticking a small bandage to his lip when you speak, a little awkwardly, always a little awkwardly, "not gonna lie, Oscar, I didn't take you for a fighter."
You're just teasing. You're joking around with him, tentatively, like you easily do with others. He thinks it's the pain that gets him — the pain on his face and knuckles, the frustration, the annoyance. That sad feeling in his chest that makes him feel like an 8 year old wondering why his crush from school won't like him back.
"Why do you hate me?"
Your eyes widen so much it looks almost comical.
"What? I don't hate you."
"Yes, you do." His hands tighten back into fists, and it stretches the wounds on his knuckles, stinging. "You avoided me like the plague for months after I joined the team, and even now you can't talk to me normally like you talk to the other guys. Why? What did I do?"
"You didn't do anything." Your eyebrows furrow, and you seem at a loss for words. "I don't hate you, Oscar."
"You do, though. And I've tried to be friendly and approachable and whatever the fuck else Lando told me to do, and it still feels like you don't like me. So what's the issue? Friendships are a two-way street but this looks pretty damn one-sided to me."
"No, I—"
"Piastri, it's time." Coach shows up by the doorframe, throwing him a new jersey and looking him up and down. "Are you good? Can you come back in or do you need a few more minutes?"
"Yes, sir, I can come back in." He's already standing when he answers, quickly changing out of his bloody uniform and moving out of the dressing room.
Oscar doesn't look back to see how you've reacted. He doesn't even stop to process his own words, even if he knows he'll be embarrassed of them as soon as the adrenaline slows down.
He focuses on the match, nodding towards the player that served his penalty before getting back into the ice.
When they win, you don't go to the victory dinner, and all the praise Oscar gets for his good performance and "sick fighting" feels hollow.
Oscar promises himself that the first thing he does when he sees you again will be apologizing profusely for his insane behavior at the Blackhawks game.
This time, however, it's you who reaches out first. You pull him aside the minute he gets to the rink a few days later, just offering him a quick hi before dragging him to your office and closing the door. His face is still bruised from the fight, his knuckles neatly wrapped and pretty much black and blue.
He knows he deserves whatever lecture you plan on giving him, but he still feels so fucking anxious about the fact you closed the door. Are you firing him? Can you fire him?
"Look, I'm really sorry." He starts almost immediately, fidgeting with his own hands as he stands uncomfortably in the middle of your office, eyes following you as you don't sit down, instead choosing to stand up uncomfortably with him. "I shouldn't have—"
"I couldn't talk to you at first because I thought you were cute and, in case you haven't noticed, I'm fucking awkward," you interrupt him, words blurting out of you uncontrollably. "I was too embarrassed to talk to you. I didn't think you'd notice."
Oh. Oh!
Oscar blinks, eyebrows rising up to his hairline out of pure surprise. His heartbeat picks up and his skin flushes. He opens his mouth to answer, but you're faster.
"I'm sorry if I made it seem like I didn't like you or like I was treating you worse than the other guys. You're really nice and I've had literally no reason to hate you — I don't hate you, not at all. In fact, Charles is always saying I have a crush on you. So."
"That's—wow, okay."
"I'm not saying—fuck, okay, look." You seem to be regrouping, body tense with nerves, brow furrowed so hard the crease on your forehead looks almost painful. Oscar wants to say something, but you've stunned him into silence. "When you joined the team, I thought you were cute, so I just got—I got shy, okay? And then you started reaching out to me and you're—you're really nice, Oscar, you really are, but it just made it so much worse, because then I started to like you quite a bit. And that was an obstacle. To being able to talk to you normally. And then Charles started saying I've got feelings for you, which is true, but also really embarrassing, so it made it worse, I guess. God, I sound like a teenager. This is so fucking stupid."
There's too many thoughts and emotions going through Oscar's head.
For one, you've never hated him. Great! Awesome! That's good to know. Furthermore, apparently you talked to Charles about him in the same way he talked to Lando about you, which feels like being hit by a fucking curve ball considering Charles never thought to mention anything the brief few times Oscar asked Charles about you.
Most importantly, you think he's cute. You like him. You have unnamed feelings for him, just like he does for you.
You're still rambling. Something about how Charles schemed to make him sit next to you during that one pizzeria night when he asked you about track, about how embarrassed you were, about being afraid he might think you're uninteresting when he finally had the chance to talk to you, which is nonsense, because you're probably the most interesting person in the world.
"Would you like to go out with me?" The question seems to come out of him all at once, immediately silencing you as you stare at him, expression blank, clearly confused. "Sometime? We could go to a restaurant. Or something."
You open your mouth. Then you close it. Then you open it again.
"Like a date?" The doubt is almost palpable in your voice.
"Yes, like a date." Oscar nods enthusiastically. "I—I'm really sorry for talking to you like that during the game. That wasn't okay. And I—I always thought you were cute, too, which is partially why I was so upset you wouldn't talk to me." He chuckles awkwardly, and you chuckle back. "Lando has also been saying I have feelings for you. I also think that he's right. So, just— yeah. Would you like to go out with me?"
You take a second to answer. When you do, it's awkward — anticlimactic, a bit weird. This time, for some reason, it makes his heart go soft. You smile at each other, and you still look nervous, and he still sounds stupid, and it's perfect in its own little way.
"Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I'd like that."
"You were right. Pretty fucking good carbonara."
You laugh loudly at that, eyes sparkling with amusement as you twirl your fork into the pasta.
"I told you, didn't I?"
"Yes, yes, you did. Even if you tried to trick me into forgetting about it."
"Wha—I did not!"
"Yes, you did!" His eyes are sparkling too, and your apartment is nice and cozy and homey, and he loves sitting across from you at the dinner table. "We've been dating for what, two months?! And I'm only now getting to try your carbonara?! I feel like I've been robbed all this time."
"Oh, that's—you're so dramatic, Osc."
It's his turn to laugh, and he shoves another forkful of creamy pasta in his mouth while he looks at you with a fondness that keeps growing with every passing day.
Your kitchen is a mess. You didn't even let him help as you cooked, repeatedly telling him to wait by the counter while you worked, threatening to put him into the "penalty box" (also known as the living room) whenever he drifted away from said counter.
"I'm not dramatic." He points the empty fork at you, grinning like a schoolboy, feeling happy like one. "You're the one who promised me carbonara back when I drove you home for the first time and then pretended to forget about it for months."
"I did not!"
"Yes, you did!" Oscar says for the hundredth time, grin stuck to his face as he watches you stand up from your chair so you can sit down next to him and plant a soft kiss on his lips, giggling and smiling as you play argue about the pasta, the dishes, the next hockey game, your first date.
He doesn't have to chase anymore.
He's happy to argue with you forever.
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HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED!!!!!!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated. I don't know that much about hockey tbh but I did my best and jackie helped LOADS!!!!!!!
thank you very much for reading and HAPPY NYE!!!!!!!!!!
Summary: “do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” – or the one where oscar has to go to group counselling after a turbulent race incident and meets you, the quiet girl at the back of the hall.
Pairing: oscar piastri x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
Word count: 19k
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ★ smut, unprotected penetrative sex, oral (f! receiving). they meet in therapy, so it's all angst. fraudulent behavior and mention of former drug abuse.
A/N: i wrote this in 2024 and had it posted on an F1 blog i used to have (@/immoral-stranger, if anyone remembers). i don't write for F1 anymore, but i wanted this to be posted somewhere because i'm really proud of it still. don't worry, this is only a blog for hockey fics, i'm just making one exception.
Abu Dhabi, 2024. Oscar could still smell the smoke sometimes, in nightmares or if he zoned out for too long. The scent clung to his mind—burning tires, scorched metal, and marshals running around in panic. In his dreams, he could hear the crackle of flames, feel the searing heat against his skin, as they carefully dragged him out and placed him in the medical car. He was sure that it was already in some compilation on youtube about the worst crashes of the season. Hell, maybe even in history.
Verstappen had already claimed his title, but getting the last win of the season would be a dream for anyone. It was a matter of pride, ending the season on a high note. For Oscar, it ended with a crash instead, just as he was about to overtake for the win on the last stint of the race.
And of course, it had to be with Charles.
Everyone loved Charles. And everyone hated Oscar for being the reason their favourite driver lost out on a win. Hate was a strong word and he was used to people having varying opinions about him, but there was something about this that he couldn’t shake off.
The worst part was the screaming—screaming that he had later been told never even happened. He'd made it up in his head. When he was being pulled from the wreckage, he could have sworn he’d heard Charles crying out in pain. He’d replayed it over and over, only to learn that Charles had gotten out first—before the fire even started to spread. Sore from the impact, but otherwise unharmed.
Oscar didn’t realise in the moment that the crash would affect him. It took months for it to catch up to him. It all cumulated into a breakdown during the pre-season testing for 2025, where he had locked himself in a room to drown out Charles’ screaming, getting the attention of his trainer and people on his team that something was wrong.
He was supposed to be the calm one. This was the opposite of calm.
He had Murphy’s Law on loop in his head. Everything that can go wrong will. It had never been like that for him before—analysing every possible mistake. It wasn’t even the mistakes he actually made, but the ones that never happened. It made him paralysed to get in the car every single time, but once he actually started driving, all those thoughts went away.
It was the imaginative screaming that had led him to where he was today—the parking lot outside of St. Anne’s Church before a group therapy and support meeting. It wasn’t a grand building by any means. The stones of the church were worn, weathered with years of storms battering its exterior. It always seemed to rain in this fucking town.
His therapist, trainer, and team had decided that this was best for him. Mandated meetings once a week until he could feel calm outside of the car and not just while driving it. This wasn’t about talking to some high-paid therapist; he already had one of those. No, this was about learning to cope with normal people, people who had been through real trauma, people who didn’t live their lives in the fast lane.
“You need support,” they’d said, as if these weekly gatherings at a worn-out church with other equally messed-up strangers would patch up whatever was broken inside him.
He had talked on the phone with the man leading the group, explaining that it would most likely be best for Oscar to show up to his first meeting, take a seat, and just get a feel for how it worked.
The meeting was held in a hall on the side of the church, an annex built sometime in the seventies while the church itself was centuries old. He was hit with the smell of old wood and damp air as soon as he entered. The group wasn’t small—maybe twenty people scattered around the room, sitting on mismatched chairs. It didn’t feel like one of those alcoholics anonymous meetings he’d seen in movies, which had been his first preconception.
He found a spot on one of the middle rows, on the edge to not draw attention to him. The personalities he could see around the room were all different. There were the nervous ones, bouncing in their seats—maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was abstinence. The tired ones seemed to be the majority. He fitted into that group himself—tired of life. You also had the desperate ones, sitting in the front, almost leaning forward to better grasp whatever words of wisdom were being said.
Guilt seemed to be a theme for everyone.
One after one the facilitator let people go up and speak at a makeshift lectern. Some just gave little updates, giving Oscar the impression that they’d gone to meetings for a long time. Others were speaking up for the first time. One that stood out was a mother, maybe in her fifties, whose daughter had just passed away in a car accident. She cried as she spoke, searching for some way of dealing with the guilt she felt, having let her daughter borrow her car even though she knew it was old and unsafe.
This was around the time when Oscar thought to himself that he should just take the money he had, find a way out of his contract, emigrate to Iceland, and change his name to Fabio. Never ever have to think about a race car again.
People were going on about their lives, their regrets, their struggles with addictions, or just their attempts to survive whatever the world had thrown at them. But none of it really resonated with him. Oscar didn’t feel like he belonged here. His problems felt different. And he wasn’t sure if that was because they actually were different or because he just couldn’t find the right words to describe them.
At some point, his gaze shifted toward the back of the room, and that was when he noticed you.
A girl his own age. You were sitting there, apart from everyone else, half-hidden in the shadows near the exit. You looked like you didn’t want to be seen—shoulders hunched, sat far down in your seat. You stared at your hands, fidgeting with skin around your nails. Oscar could spot your chipped black nail polish from across the room. He had a hard time reading your face, mostly obscured by your hair and the collar of your jacket.
He couldn’t help but wonder why you were here. He wondered it about everyone else too, but you stuck out since you were similar in age—young enough that people didn’t automatically assume that you’d gone through hardship. You looked… different. Troubled, maybe. Definitely out of place.
Oscar forced himself to look away, trying to focus on the group facilitator, who was droning on about acceptance and healing. He felt restless, a creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Why had he even come? This place didn’t feel like it could fix anything.
By the time the session ended, he hadn’t spoken a word.
As the last of the attendees dispersed, Oscar lingered under the arched entrance, watching the downpour. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, offering him some warmth from the cold rain. A faint glow from distant streetlights illuminated the soaked pavement, creating an eerie atmosphere that somehow felt fitting.
That’s when he saw you again, as the heavy church doors closed behind him with a slight thud. You were the last one out of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw you light a cigarette. His eyes met yours briefly, but you were quick to look away.
You exhaled smoke, sitting down on the stone steps leading up to the entrance, letting single raindrops fall onto your leather jacket, while still being mostly covered by the awning.
For a second, Oscar thought about walking away. He didn’t know you—he didn’t know anyone here—but something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was because he knew he would need to talk to someone here, not easily getting away from the mandated meetings. Maybe it was because you looked so damned lost.
Either way, he found himself speaking before he could stop himself.
“Uh,” he started awkwardly. “I like your stockings.”
You blinked, glancing down at your legs. Through the rips in your jeans, a pair of sheer black stockings peeked out, the floral lace pattern barely visible. You didn’t say anything right away, just stared at him with a look that was half-surprised, half-annoyed. Then, you blew out smoke from between your lips.
“Thanks,” you muttered.
Oscar shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he should leave or try to salvage the moment. Why had he said that? He wasn’t good at small talk, never had been. He had no idea why he thought this was the time to start improving that skill.
You let out a low chuckle, almost like you were laughing at him. Wordlessly, you asked him if he wanted a cigarette, lifting the carton up in his direction.
He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”
You took another drag, shrugging your shoulders, basically saying suit yourself to him. With your gaze turned back to the ground, the silence stretched on awkwardly, only broken by the sound of raindrops splattering against the asphalt.
“Aren’t white lighters supposed to be bad luck?” he asked suddenly, noticing the bright plastic you were flicking between your fingers. He’d heard that somewhere, an old superstition and coincidence—that a group of famous people who had died at a young age all had white lighters in their possession. It was a stupid thing to say, but it felt better than nothing.
You looked down at the lighter in your hand and then back at Oscar, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Maybe that’s the fucking point.”
Oscar didn’t know what to say to that. He wondered if you actually meant it—that bad luck didn’t matter to you, like you almost welcomed it. He wasn’t sure he believed in luck in that sense anyway. To him, life felt more like a balance of choices and chances, not fortune’s favour. But sometimes, maybe when the stars aligned and all that palaver, he believed in luck and he believed in doing the right thing to experience that luck.
Call it superstition, if you must.
The both of you continued to stand there in silence. Well, technically, you were still sitting. Two strangers, clinging to the building that was supposedly about to fix them, all while not really knowing if they even wanted to be fixed.
After a few long moments, you stood up, stubbing out the cigarette on the wet stone. You stuffed your hands into your pockets, casting him one last glance before heading out into the rain. The water immediately soaked your hair, but you didn’t seem to care. You hopped into a car that had pulled up at the end of the parking lot, an older woman in the driver seat.
You left him without a word and a strange feeling inside of him—like this situation wasn’t already odd enough.
______________________
You put out your cigarette as you reached the entrance of the church, again. Just another Tuesday in your life. You’d lost count on how long you had been going to these meetings. Two hours every Tuesday and one hour every Sunday.
It was a bit of a lie, that you didn’t know how long it had been. You just didn’t want to know how long it had been and therefore told yourself to not think about it until you’d all but forgotten about it.
However, Oscar was a new addition to the meetings, for a month or so. Seeing him, seemingly waiting for you before going inside, was odd? But not uncommon by now.
You didn’t say anything as you walked up beside him on the church steps, only giving him a slight nod as a way of saying hello. You looked out over the parking lot, glistening wet from the rain that seemed to haunt this small town. You were practically lucky that it wasn’t raining at the moment.
Something about the parking lot was different today, though. It stood out like a diamond in a drawer of costume jewellery.
There, parked conspicuously at the curb, was a sleek McLaren. The kind of car that didn't belong in this part of town, especially not parked outside a church where people came to unload their emotional baggage.
As if reading your thoughts, Oscar caught you staring with raised brows. “What nobhead takes their McLaren to counselling?” you muttered under your breath, clearly not expecting him to hear. But he was close enough, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile.
He chuckled, a low, surprised sound. “That would be me.”
You blinked, not expecting it to be him, let alone be so direct about it. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Oscar chortled, shaking his head, like he found your frankness refreshing, if not amusing, as though he wasn’t often spoken to like that.
“Yeah, it’s a dickish thing to do,” you admitted, giving him a half shrug. You couldn’t help but smile a little, though. He had a way of taking the sting out of your sharp words, as if he didn’t mind your snark.
You’d quite frankly been rude to him at a few of the former meetings, yet he still didn’t mind sitting in silence next to you for two hours every Tuesday. You were both here, after all—both stuck, both dealing with whatever mess had brought you to therapy.
The last few sessions had been the same—catching each other’s eye as you sat in the back of the room, listening to people’s stories. Neither of you said much during the meetings, but you always seemed to find each other afterward, just outside the church, where the air felt a little less suffocating. You smoked, and Oscar just stood there, pretending not to be bothered by the cold weather.
It had become something of a routine. You weren’t friends, exactly, but there was a strange sort of understanding between you. Tonight was no different as the meeting started.
You slipped into your usual spot near the back, watching as Oscar settled in a seat nearby. The room was filled with voices, people exchanging quick pleasantries before it started, just like every week, with people telling their stories.
You’d gone to meetings for such a long time that you knew the backstories of most people. It had been so long that some regulars had even stopped going, claiming they were fixed. Or at least fixed enough. You guessed that was the real goal—to not completely overcome trauma but to learn how to live with it. Then there were the people who were mandated to be there, by their workplace or by a court order. They were more hesitant than the people who went by their own free will, but their stories were always better when they finally got to talking, more interesting to listen to.
“Have you ever gone up there?” Oscar whispered at one point, curious.
“Nope,” you replied without hesitation, not looking at him. “They can force me to be here, but they can’t force me to talk.”
He looked at you for a moment, head tilted slightly, like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it. You could practically feel the question hanging in the air—who the fuck were they?—but he didn’t press. Instead, he glanced around the room again.
You liked that he didn’t push. That meant you didn’t have to lie to him.
There was an unspoken rule in these circles. Speak, or don’t, but never fake it. It couldn’t be about pretending, and for now, silence was as close as either of you seemed willing to come to honesty.
When the session ended, you found yourselves once again standing on the church steps, the night air brisk and cutting. You fumbled with a cigarette, attempting to light it against the persistent wind. Oscar lingered nearby, hands in his pockets, as he watched your futile attempts, half amused.
“Not getting picked up today?” he asked.
You shook your head, giving up on the cigarette and putting the lighter and carton back into the pocket of your jacket.
Oscar hesitated for a second, unsure whether to say anything. He was starting to feel that familiar awkwardness creep back in, the same feeling he’d had the first time he spoke to you. But before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I could give you a lift.”
You shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not sleeping with you, Oscar,” you said flatly.
Oscar’s eyes widened, and he spluttered, “W-what? No! That’s not—” He stumbled over his words, horrified.
You raised a brow, watching as he struggled to find his words. He was blushing, his ears practically glowing red under the streetlight. “You offered to drive me home without ulterior motives?” you asked, sceptical.
“Yes, I was just trying to be nice,” he said firmly, but flustered. “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?”
You let out a dry laugh, almost feeling guilty for your wrong assumption about him. “You’d be surprised at how many men find head-cases attractive.”
He only became more embarrassed, his mind flashing back to the first thing he’d ever said to you—a compliment on your stockings, of all things.
There was a vulnerability to him you hadn’t expected—something behind the stubborn façade and expensive car. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who was used to rejection. Or awkwardness. Or therapy, for that matter. But his loser personality made all of those things very possible.
“Well… I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” he said, shifting awkwardly.
You studied him for a moment, weighing his words. Then, with a sigh, you jerked your head toward the McLaren. “Fine. Start the fucking car.”
Inside the car, the quiet was different, somehow more suffocating than outside on the church steps. Maybe it was the notion of having to actually talk to each other now that hadn’t felt as forced outside of the car.
“So, where to?” Oscar asked, his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary.
You glanced out the window, your fingers tapping idly on the door handle, almost scared to touch the absurdly shiny car. “Do you know the council houses behind the post office?”
“By that one pub? With the—”
“The Swan, yes that’s the one,” you interrupted. “My aunt lives right there.”
Oscar nodded, pulling away from the curb and heading in the direction you’d indicated. You kept your gaze fixated out the window as the car began to move. The streets passed by in a blur, the rain-slicked asphalt reflecting the dim glow of the town’s yellow lights.
“Aunt?” he asked after a beat of silence. “Parents not around?”
You didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, Oscar thought he’d overstepped, thought you were going to turn to a rudeness that he couldn’t joke his way out of.
Then, quietly, you muttered, “I think I am the one who’s not around.”
He heard you clearly, but he didn’t press further. He didn’t try to fill the space with meaningless chatter, and for that, you were both grateful. For a moment, it was peaceful, almost as if you were just two people out for a casual drive instead of a pair of strangers bound by a not-so-positive common denominator.
As the car approached the run-down council houses, you unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t immediately move to get out. Instead, you turned to him, studying his profile in the low light, something unreadable in your expression.
“Thanks,” you said after a moment.
“For the ride?” he asked.
“For not being a complete dick,” you replied as you pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold. You didn’t look back, but you knew that he was smiling behind you.
______________________
The following week, you were late. Not late enough for it to actually be a problem, but late enough that Oscar felt the awkward tension of deciding whether to wait for you outside like he usually did or go inside. He definitely could have waited, but he was particular about time, so he went in.
Oscar glanced around the room, sitting somewhere in the middle now that you hadn’t decided seats for the two of you. He noticed the faces that had become a strange sort of fixture in his life over the past months.
The season had started and it was going fairly well. He had thoughts of disaster almost every weekend, but he didn’t hear Charles’ screaming as often. It was usually worst during qualifying, when the short amount of time made the anxiety build up quicker. But he was stable. Even his therapist had said that. He wasn’t a danger in any way, but he still just wished to get an answer as to why this crash had affected him in the way that it did.
Your heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, your Doc Martens making a thumping sound against the old hardwood flooring. You looked like a drenched, unhappy cat, caught in one of the town’s relentless downpours. For a moment, Oscar smiled; he hadn’t thought he’d ever see you sit anywhere but the back row, yet here you were, sliding into the empty seat next to him with a huff.
You took off your wet leather jacket and threw your bag on the floor, almost curling into your seat on the uncomfortable chair, a paper cup of hot water warming your hands. There was a station outside of the room with tea and coffee and you would grab a cup of tea for yourself before every meeting. Oscar had learnt that by now—also knowing that you brought your own tea bags since they only offered black tea and you drank rooibos. Oscar had lived in England for a long time, but the science behind drinking tea was still something that confused him.
You rubbed your face dry with the sleeves of your oversized sweater, not caring that your mascara smudged around your eyes. Oscar thought about offering his own hoodie, or at least a tissue, but you didn’t seem the type to want help with something so small. Instead, he kept quiet, simply watching as you tried to shake off the rain.
A beat of silence passed between you both. Then, you spoke first.
“You never come to the Sunday meetings.”
You tried to sound casual, but the question was deliberate; it was thought through. He glanced at you, surprised. It wasn’t often that you were the one to initiate a conversation, and when you did, they were short and edged with sarcasm.
“Didn’t even know they had meetings during the weekend,” Oscar replied with a shrug. “I work most Sundays.”
“So do I, but I manage to show up here anyway.”
He noticed the way your eyes held his gaze, challenging but curious. You weren’t shy to look him straight in the eye, unlike himself. The light from the nearby windows cast a muted glow over you, softening the lines of your face, your smudged makeup giving you a look of tiredness that felt familiar to him.
It was like you were waiting, expecting him to talk again, and he felt that familiar twist of unease, a reminder that vulnerability wasn’t something he navigated easily. A hint of a smile crossed Oscar’s face as he looked away, not sure how much to say.
Today’s meeting wasn’t much different from all the others. There was the mother who dealt with guilt after losing her daughter in a car crash. There was Anthony, a local restaurant owner, who was there as part of his probation plan after an assault charge. There was Jenny, a girl in her thirties who was mandated by her therapist to be there as exposure for her agoraphobia. It was definitely ironic that the girl with a social anxiety disorder did more talking than you and Oscar combined.
During a brief five-minute break, Oscar looked over at you again, seemingly lost in your thoughts.
“You think you’ll ever get up there?” he asked, nodding toward the lectern.
Oscar knew he had asked similar questions before, but this one was more to ask if you thought this group counselling thing would ever lead to you opening up—if you saw an end to these countless meetings by actually letting them help you, letting them make you feel better.
“No,” you answered flatly. “Opening up to strangers is weird.”
He smiled at that. “I think this is supposed to have the opposite effect,” he said, crossing his arms. “That it’s easier with strangers because we won’t feel judged in the same way.”
You looked up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Keep talking Oscar, and we won’t be strangers by the end of this.”
He laughed, shaking his head. There was a subtle humour to your banter, like you both enjoyed pushing boundaries without really crossing them. Oscar settled on the idea that he didn’t want you two to be strangers after all.
As the meeting came to a close, people began to shuffle out, some lingering to chat with one another, others heading straight for the door. You, as usual, made your way outside without a word. Oscar followed, as he always did, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that it didn’t feel like a coincidence.
He never knew why he lingered. He wasn’t even sure if you wanted him to. But the silence you shared after group therapy felt easier than the forced vulnerability inside.
Outside, the air was crisp, the rain from earlier having tapered off, leaving the ground damp and slick, the sun breaking through the clouds. You leant against the stone wall of the church, lighting another cigarette with the same white lighter he’d seen you use before.
Oscar frowned slightly, feeling a strange sense of unease creep into his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but before he could stop himself, he spoke up. “Can you stop buying white lighters, please?”
You raised your brows, almost mocking him. “Why? Are you superstitious?”
“No,” Oscar replied, shaking his head. “It just feels like a weird thing to jeopardise.”
“What do you know about the 27 club anyway?” you asked, taking another drag. You were mindful enough to turn your head in the opposite direction as you blew out the smoke.
The 27 Club—a bunch of musicians, mostly rockstars, who had died at the age of 27 due to rough lifestyles. Rumour had it that they all used white lighters for their cigarettes and other smokeable substances. Oscar didn’t know anything about their music or the club they were in. He just knew of the rumour.
“Literally nothing except that they died carrying white lighters,” Oscar admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And that you deserve to live way past the age of 27.”
You blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, the armour you wore around yourself seemed to crack. You stared at him, cigarette halfway to your lips, processing what he’d just said.
“Who knew you could be so sweet?” you teased, trying to be your usual sarcastic self, but there was a warmth in your voice that hadn’t been there before. That tiny hint of warmth made his chest feel strangely tight.
A few moments passed in comfortable silence before you broke it; your voice quieter now. “Why do you keep coming here anyway? You don’t talk much either. So why show up?”
Oscar hesitated, unsure how much to say. He wasn’t a stranger to lying about his job to people, often times just because he couldn’t be arsed to explain or have people ask if he was rich and famous. It wasn’t like that with you, but he still decided to lie—or opt out of telling the entire truth. He wanted you to think he was normal.
“I’m mandated to be here by my workplace,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I caused a car accident with a colleague of mine, and I kind of need to be able to drive to keep my job.”
You frowned in confusion. “But you drove me home? Are you scared of driving?”
“It’s… different,” he admitted. “Driving long distances for work or just around in this little hellhole.”
You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, in a surprisingly gentle tone, you asked, “Do you like… get flashbacks of the crash and blame yourself all over again?”
Oscar nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah, I guess it’s like that. I keep replaying it, even though my colleague was fine. It’s like this... loop in my head, where I keep imagining every possible way it could have gone worse. Murphy’s Law, you know? Like, I can’t help but think of every possible mistake I could make.”
“Murphy’s Law is about engineering, though,” you pointed out. “You can’t just apply that to your everyday life. It’ll turn you into an impossible perfectionist, constantly waiting for everything to fall apart.”
Oscar smiled, appreciating the unexpected insight. It reminded him of how little you knew about him, since, y’know, he hadn’t told you the truth—that engineering actually was involved in his everyday life. And yet, somehow, you still seemed to understand. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and he found himself wondering what other surprises you might be hiding.
You stubbed out your cigarette, bending down and reaching into your bag for a piece of chewing gum. He watched as you unwrapped it, slipping it into your mouth, the familiar scent of artificial strawberry filling the air. It was a ritual he’d seen before, almost like you were trying to erase the smell of smoke as quickly as you’d created it. The action was so practiced, and he found himself charmed by the small, sort of endearing quirk.
“You’re not gonna ask me why I keep on showing up here?” you asked, looking wondering up at Oscar, mumbling slightly as you chewed to get the gum soft.
He glanced at you with a faint smile. “You’ll tell me when you feel comfortable enough. I know that.”
A soft, almost approving nod was your only response.
“There’s my ride,” you murmured as a car drove into the parking lot—the same car he’d seen many times before, the same old woman driving. He could now assume it was your aunt. “I guess I’ll see you next week, then.”
Oscar stumbled on his words as he tried to say goodbye to you, caught off guard by how you almost skipped down the church stairs, looking happier than ever. It was a weird juxtaposition, because you obviously weren’t—happier than ever, that is. You actually dared to look back at him, smiling as you walked over the parking lot. The mascara still sat heavy under your eyes as light shone down on you from the clouds breaking above, and in that moment, you looked like the saddest thing under the sun.
After the car had driven away, Oscar stood still with his thoughts outside the church for a second. He had to look into the weekend meetings. Even if he could never attend them himself, he needed to know why they were important enough for you to mention them to him.
With a last glance toward the parking lot, he went back inside, his eyes drifting toward the bulletin board in the hallway. Various flyers covered its surface. The community really tried its hardest, offering support groups for just about anything—newly becoming parents, cancer survival, dealing with grief and death.
Oscar looked at the schedules, most of them being on weekdays. However, anonymous groups for recovering alcoholics and narcotics were on Saturdays, respectively, Sundays.
It didn’t take long for Oscar to understand.
He also understood why you had asked him. You wanted to know if you had another thing in common other than the group meetings. You hadn’t known he was there because of a car crash, so in your mind he might as well have been there for other issues, like drugs or alcohol.
Oscar didn’t know your full story. He didn’t know why you were here, why you kept showing up week after week, or what had led you to seek out meetings. But he did know one thing: you weren’t as unreachable as you pretended to be, and he was willing to wait until you felt ready to show him the parts of yourself you’d kept hidden.
______________________
The soft clink of glasses and low murmur of voices filled the pub as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your hands moving out of habit, eyes scanning the sparse crowd. Picking up an afternoon shift instead of the night shift wasn’t something you normally did, just for that reason. It was the same amount of hours, but it felt a lot longer since the customers were fewer. Thankfully, the evening crowd was starting to build up.
A woman sat at the counter, maybe ten years older than you, her fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass, her gaze flitting between the door and her phone. She had a nervous look and was dressed too nicely for the pub. You knew the type—the first daters—planning nights to the last detail, hoping for it to go well but preparing for disaster.
“Waiting for someone?” you asked, offering to take her glass.
“Yeah, a first date. I needed some liquid courage in advance,” she replied with a tight smile.
“Well, you look gorgeous,” you assured, showing her a genuine smile. “If they turn out to be a wanker, just come up and order an angel shot and I’ll help you out of here.”
Her smile widened, a bit more relaxed now, as she thanked you.
You made a point to watch over her as your shift went on. Her date arrived shortly after, looking just as nervous as she did. You let yourself relax; at least he wasn’t a no-show, and he didn’t look like the type to catfish someone. In fact, he looked almost as nervous as she did, and you found yourself rooting for them.
Working in a gritty pub had never been your dream, but it was what your CV got you at this point in life. You had tried living in London, making ends meet by working at a cocktail bar, but you had crash-landed back in your hometown, like big time crashing.
Thankfully, the owner of The Swan hadn’t looked too closely into your past, or he at least didn’t care. You knew how to pour a pint, you knew how to clean up, and you knew how to deal with rowdy drunk people. That made you a top employee.
You moved on autopilot around the familiar bar with its familiar patrons. Some old, who frequented the bar even on weekdays, and some young, who you mostly saw on weekends.
You had learnt to listen to some and to eavesdrop on others. Like, you knew all about Denny’s divorce and custody battle because he sat by the bar and went on and on about it as he downed London Prides. But you had to eavesdrop to know that the group of girls who came in after work on Fridays had finally staged an intervention for their friend who put up with too much shit from her boyfriend.
Little things like that made bartending enjoyable.
Other things—like loud groups of lads your own age—almost always made it less enjoyable. That was why you felt a tiredness fall over you like an anvil in a slapstick comedy when you, even with your back turned to the door, could hear them enter. You let out a resigned sigh, knowing that the evening was about to take a livelier turn, and maybe not for the better.
However, they weren’t the usual group that gave you and your colleagues trouble. This were customers you’d never seen before. Strange for being such a small town with only The Swan and two other pubs. Sure, the boys were loud as they came to the bar to order from your colleague, but they were patient and not overly rude.
You froze in surprise.
You felt your grip slip from the glass you were holding, almost dropping it. While his friends filed up to the bar with an eagerness for drinks, Oscar lingered, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. The shocked look on his face was almost priceless. He looked as startled as you felt, his eyes widening briefly as they locked onto yours.
He seemed out of place in the gritty atmosphere of the pub—too put-together, too polished. You knew he wasn’t British from his strong accent, and you knew he wasn’t the most outgoing type from his well… personality. He didn’t belong in here, but for some reason his friends had waltzed right in to The Swan, never having done so before.
You were scared to think about why, but deep down you knew.
Before your colleague could ask him for his order, you stepped forward. You wiped your hands on a towel and raised an eyebrow. “You lost?” you teased lightly, leaning against the bar.
Oscar’s friends were still gathering their drinks, a couple of them glancing your way with open curiosity. Your colleague doing the same, knowing full well that you would have to explain this to them afterwards.
Oscar smiled back, a bit shyly. “No, just… here with some friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him, looking mildly uncomfortable.
“So,” you said, folding your arms. “What can I get you?”
Oscar chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not drinking tonight. Just…moral support, I guess.”
“You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
For a moment, you both stood there, the noise around you fading into the background.
His friends soon called after him to join them at their table and you had a job to do. As you moved around the bar, greeting regulars, wiping down counters, and handing out drinks, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Oscar was still there, his presence lingering even when he was out of view.
Each time you glanced over at their table, you caught him glancing back. The first few times he seemed nervous to be caught, but when he realised how often you looked at him, he really had nothing to be ashamed of if he stared back at you.
After a while, the place grew livelier, and you lost sight of him in the ebb and flow of customers, the noise picking up as more people filled the seats. The usual rowdiness of a Saturday night began to take hold.
Eventually, you saw his friends begin to gather their things, settling their tabs, pulling on jackets, and nudging each other as they headed out. You felt yourself get stuck in your steps behind the bar as you watched Oscar stand up from his seat. He exchanged a few words with his friends as they left, but he stayed, earning what you assumed were amused laughs and some crude comments.
Oscar waited a moment, watching them go, before he turned his gaze toward the bar. You tried to make yourself seem busy, cleaning a counter that wasn’t even dirty. You felt a flicker of nerves as he approached, unsure if you should be the first to talk. He sat down on an empty bar stool next to Denny. He didn’t have to dare to look at you because you already had all of his attention.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you this long without a cigarette before, y’know,” he said, breaking the silence.
You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I only smoke when I’m stressed, which is less often than you’d think.”
Oscar’s smile lingered, a warm glint in his eyes that hinted that he understood that the only time he saw you was at the group meetings and that they were the thing that caused you stress to the point where you felt the need to smoke. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a nicotine addict. However, of all things, nicotine wouldn’t be the worst thing to admit that you were addicted to.
Your conversation was briefly interrupted by your other patrons, like Denny, who flagged you down for another pint. You poured his drink wordlessly, and Oscar waited, his presence somehow calming amidst the usual chaos of the bar.
The couple you’d served earlier—the first-daters—approached to settle their tab.
“That looked successful,” you remarked with a friendly smile, referring to their date.
“Yeah, honestly green flags all around,” she replied, throwing her date a soft smile as he took out his wallet. “Thanks for the angel shot advice, though.”
You smiled. “Glad you didn’t need to use it.”
The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she looked from you to Oscar, as if piecing something together. She tilted her head toward you. “Do… you need an angel shot yourself?”
“For this bloke?” you asked in surprise, pointing at Oscar. “Nah, I can handle him myself.”
The woman nodded, smiling in amusement as she gave Oscar another once-over before heading out with her date, holding hands. Oscar, who had been listening to the entire exchange with a bemused expression, raised an eyebrow.
“What’s an angel shot?” he asked.
“It’s a code we use for people on bad dates,” you explained with a shrug. “If they order one, it means they need help, and I step in. It’s a subtle way for someone to signal they’re uncomfortable without making a scene.”
Oscar’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he nodded. “That’s pretty smart.”
“Yeah, it can be useful. When I worked at a cocktail bar in London we had to use it almost every night. This place is a lot calmer.”
You knew it, Oscar knew it too—that rich people drinking Negronis at a rooftop bar in London were more troublesome once they got drunk than what people like Denny did once they were in on their seventh pint of the evening in a small town pub.
There was a brief lull in the conversation, the uncomfortable kind where you just waited for someone to break the silence. Oscar’s fingers tapped lightly on the bar, and he seemed lost in thought for a moment before, as if summoning courage, he spoke again, his voice a bit hesitant.
“So… when are you off?”
“In…” you stopped to check the clock on the wall behind you. “Three minutes.”
Oscar shifted, clearly nervous. “Do you want to maybe hang out? Get dinner or something?”
You blinked, taken off guard. He looked so uncomfortable. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected. He was as unsure of himself as anyone else was.
Oscar, meanwhile, felt as though he was the world’s worst at this. It was no wonder he never had casual things like Lando seemed to have every other weekend, one night stand after one night stand. Not that Oscar necessarily wanted that, but to even feel like he had the possibility to ask someone out would’ve been nice.
“I mean, if you’re up for it,” he added quickly, tripping over his words. “Like, we don’t have to or anything. I just thought—”
You cut him off with an uncharacteristic giggle, the sound breaking through the tension. “Only if I can use your shower. I smell like cheap beer and fryer oil,” you said, lifting your t-shirt with the pub’s swan logo on it to your nose, grimacing at the smell.
“Oh,” he breathed, his face lighting up in relief. “Absolutely.”
You tossed the towel onto the counter, giving him a playful smile as you stepped around the bar to join him. “But I’ll let you know,” you said, lowering your voice, “you shouldn’t hang out with someone like me. I’ll defile you.”
“I’m not as innocent as I act,” he said teasingly, but he wasn’t even sure if he believed his own words, let alone did he fool you.
______________________
Oscar sat like a sociopath on the sofa waiting for you to finish showering. He was not sure his posture had even been this good. You’d made your way to his flat after your shift had ended. He’d offered you his shower and clothes while he said he’d fix the rest. However, every film he could think of watching seemed pathetic. Every type of food he could think of ordering seemed disgusting. He hadn’t exactly thought this through when he asked you to hang out. He hadn’t expected it to be so… casual? Or maybe easy? Like you actually wanted to be here, in his flat, spending the evening with him.
He was probably overthinking this—no, he was overthinking this. But how could he not? He tried so hard to not think of the fact that you were wet and naked just a wall away, but he was pretty sure his brain broke in the process. Every detail was suddenly monumental, as though he was a teenager again.
The faint sound of the shower stopped, and he quickly sat up straighter, mentally scolding himself to look less… tense. He wasn’t sure he was pulling it off. He could hear the bathroom door open, and then you were padding down the hall, and he practically whipped his head around to see you.
You were wearing one of his favourite shirts, the maroon fabric hanging over your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair was still damp, small droplets darkening the shirt where they fell. The sweatpants you’d borrowed were too long, so you’d tucked them into your socks—baby pink, fuzzy socks with little red hearts on them. The socks were definitely not Oscar’s. He couldn’t believe that was what you were hiding under your Doc Martens.
Oscar blinked, trying to reconcile the idea that this—this ridiculously adorable version of you—was the same person who’d honestly scared him during your first conversation.
“Cute socks,” he chuckled, unable to stop himself.
“Shut up,” you muttered, hiding a smile, before flopping down on the sofa next to him, already more casual than Oscar could ever be. “What are we watching?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was acutely aware of how close you were, your leg brushing against his as you made yourself comfortable. You didn’t hesitate to grab a blanket that was thrown over the back of the sofa, cuddling into it as you wrapped it around yourself.
“We could watch… uh, anything you want,” Oscar finally managed.
You rolled your eyes, sinking into the sofa cushions. “If you let me pick, it’s going to be something dumb.”
“I’m okay with dumb.”
Your lips curled into a smile, but you didn’t say anything as you leant forward to grab the remote. Oscar sat there, watching as you navigated through streaming options. You were on the hunt for something specific, he noticed. Right in on Disney+ and quickly you searched for…Brother Bear?
Oscar’s brow lifted in surprise, but he didn’t question it. In a way, it felt perfectly fitting. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and settled into the cushions, letting himself ease into the film, into the quiet comfort of the moment.
You both ordered pizza that arrived sometime in the middle of the film. You liked pineapple on pizza, but he guessed he could overlook it. Especially if it meant you were here, sitting beside him, taking a bite with a content look on your face.
You’d grown soft around the edges, for him. This was domestic, bordering on romantic. The girl he had first met—cigarette and white lighter in hand—would’ve never admitted to liking Disney films and to wearing pink fuzzy socks.
When the pizza was finished and the movie neared its end, you laid down in the corner of his L-shaped sofa, blanket fully surrounding you. Oscar wanted to scoot over, closer to you, maybe put your feet in his lap, but he hesitated, scared to cross boundaries. He chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, hoping that his nerves would miraculously disappear.
And then you made a sound—a soft, involuntary awe that escaped your lips during the scene where Koda, the little bear cub, was reunited with his deceased mother through some sort of glowing spirits in the sky. Oscar had to admit that even though he’d seen this film as a kid, the plot was now completely lost on him because of you.
It was cute. Like, painfully cute, and Oscar felt that weird mix of cute aggression, where something is so adorable you just want to squeeze it. Instead, he let himself simply watch you, taking in the way your eyes glistened and your mouth parted slightly, as if you’d forgotten everything around you, wrapped up in this world of animated magic. He mentally cursed himself when you caught him looking.
“Why are you staring at me?” you muttered.
“You look like you’re about to cry,” Oscar teased and smiled boyishly.
“Shut up, I do not,” you shot back, rubbing your eyes with your fingers. You were sharp enough to draw blood, and he was somehow always left unscathed.
He couldn’t help but smile wider, watching as you tried to hide your embarrassment. In a brave moment, he moved closer, daring to take a hold of your wrist so that you couldn’t hide from him. Your eyes were shining and a couple of your eyelashes had clumped together from the moisture.
“It’s okay to cry to movies,” he said, nudging you gently. “Especially one’s about animated animals.”
“I am not crying. Not even close,” you insisted, laughing, sinking further into the sofa, pulling the blanket up to your chin.
You moved to the side and somehow, Oscar felt himself fitting naturally into the space behind you. He felt something shift inside him, a strange warmth settling in his chest. This was soft, quiet, almost painfully domestic. Yet it was real. You were here, cuddled up on his sofa, wrapped in his blanket, wearing his clothes, and laughing at something he’d said.
Neither of you said another word as you moved to lay together like you’d done it a million times before. He found his arm moving to wrap around you, pulling you in closer until your back was touching his chest. You lifted the blanket to cover him partly too. The movie rolled through its final scenes, and Oscar found himself paying even less attention now that you were literally touching him.
“You’re gonna stay there?” you whispered as the end credits rolled.
“Yeah, we’re watching the sequel.”
But neither of you moved to get the remote.
After a still moment, with a deep breath you moved to lay on your back. You glanced up at him, your gaze holding his for a long moment. Oscar didn’t dare look away, even if his confidence told him to do it. At least it was easier to look you in the eye than to take in the rest of you.
His heart picked up when you adjusted yourself, the blanket slipping from your shoulders and the maroon fabric of his shirt shifted slightly, revealing the outline of your body beneath. Your breasts moved gently, and he couldn’t help but notice the lack of anything underneath the soft cotton. His throat felt tight, and suddenly, every molecule of air around him seemed saturated with the scent of you.
Then, he realised that the scent of you was actually the scent of his laundry detergent and the soap he kept in his shower mixed with something that was uniquely you. And oh, how Oscar hated being a man. Was he really pathetic enough to pop a boner because you smelled good?
His body reacted before his brain could process it, betraying him in ways that were anything but subtle—warm and spreading, settling quickly. He shifted uncomfortably, moving his legs in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence of just how much you affected him.
“Oscar…” Your voice was soft, questioning.
He shook his head, looking anywhere but at you as he managed to respond. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, mortified. His face burned with embarrassment. He couldn’t believe this was happening—couldn’t believe he was that guy right now.
“You don’t have to apologise,” you whispered, and you still weren’t scared to look him in the eye. Oscar for once wished you were.
“Yes, I do. It kind of ruins the mood,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Your expression softened and then you shifted to give him a bit of space. In the process, you nearly tipped off the edge of the sofa, and instinctively, Oscar reached out, his hand steadying you by your arm. The warmth of your skin under his touch sent a spark up through his palm, grounding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt if he’d made you uncomfortable.
“Ugh… it’s just…you just smell good, and you’re wearing my shirt, and your skin is the softest thing ever, and I can’t think straight—” he stopped himself abruptly.
A laugh escaped your lips, soft but warm, and Oscar froze, unsure if he’d actually said all that aloud or if his brain had finally imploded.
“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head as you watched Oscar suddenly move away from you, sitting up in an awkward half-way position with the limited space he had behind you. It probably looked like he was about to bolt out of the flat out of sheer embarrassment.
“What am I doing?” He frowned. “I just—I don’t want you… I mean, you shouldn’t have to, y’know, feel it.”
At that, your smile deepened, and you moved your legs, spreading them just enough to make space for him to settle between them, throwing the blanket off the sofa.
“Oscar, can you… just calm down for a second?” you said gently, meeting his gaze with a reassuring look. “I’m not appalled by it, y’know? But you’re acting like I should be.”
His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he looked at you, processing your words. You didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. It was in this moment that Oscar also realised the position you were in, with him between your legs, fighting with his arm propped up to not fall flatly over your body. You weren’t scared to brush his sides by shutting your thighs just the slightest.
“You’re okay with this?” he felt the need to ask.
“I am.”
Oscar let his eyes linger for the first time, deciding for once to let the awkwardness melt away. And just like always, your eyes were on him, almost shamelessly scanning his broad shoulders and the way the fabric of his grey sweatpants stretched.
The shirt you’d borrowed had ridden up slightly, revealing your soft stomach and the hem of your underwear—a black cotton thong, the thin material peeking out. What was the frontal version of a whale-tail called? When the elastics sank into the soft parts of your hips and showed on either side above the waistband of your sweatpants.
Yeah, Oscar’s brain was definitely broken.
His mind spun, grasping for words, but all he managed was a shaky breath as he leaned in, like he couldn’t believe that he was seeing it, that he was this close. The air brushed against your skin. His mouth was as dry as a desert. You inhaled so sharply that he could hear it and see your stomach rising. He was eye level with your belly button and he decided upon… kissing it. Or right next to it, on the softest part of your stomach, the world narrowing down to just that patch of skin.
He looked up for reassurance, and you just smiled. A perfectly content smile where light sparkled in your eyes. Oscar’s hands found your waist as he kissed you again, his lips trailing gently across your stomach. Your skin was impossibly soft, practically melting into his hands.
Oscar’s next step was unplanned—like this entire thing—and maybe a bit silly, but when he was down there, kissing your stomach, he couldn’t help but want to venture higher up. So, like any other unreasonable person with hormones clouding their judgement, he stuck his head under your shirt, starting by kissing your ribs.
You let out something between a gasp and a giggle as your breathing picked up the higher up Oscar’s mouth wandered. Where your ribs connected in the middle of your chest, right where the skin was the thinnest, was where he started to gently suck and he earned his first moan. You could feel him start to smile as it escaped you.
When you looked down at him, all you could see was how his head stretched the fabric, and it was simply just humorous.
“I could just take my shirt off, y’know?” you teased, though you were out of breath.
”No,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin, an audible mwah leaving his mouth as he moved higher, planting a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts. “It’s warm under here.”
You let out a small laugh, your fingers resting on top of his head, the shirt still acting as a barrier as you felt his hair through it. “Wouldn’t have taken you for such a boob guy.”
Oscar closed his eyes as he felt your quiet laugher vibrate through your chest against his lips. Your breasts were practically lodged against his cheeks and he was definitely flushed red all over so it was actually convenient for him to be hidden under your shirt.
“Shut up,” was all he could manage to mutter.
He couldn’t hide anymore when he felt you pull the shirt up by the hem, first over his head and then swiftly over your own, it landing somewhere on the floor. Oscar was left laying there, chin resting against your sternum, feeling totally exposed as your eyes met his again. He didn’t dare to take in the sight of you shirtless, even though he was literally on top of your breasts.
And while he probably looked like a flustered mess, you looked totally unfazed.
“You motorboated me,” you exclaimed, laughter in your voice, “and you haven’t even kissed me on the mouth! Feels a bit backwards, don’t you think?”
Oscar chuckled, not having the time to think that he should be ashamed because of what you just insinuated. His hand moved to gently cup your cheek as he lifted himself to look at you.
“What I’m hearing is that you want to kiss me.”
He hated to sound cocky. He promised he really did. But with your jaw slacked and disbelief plastered on your face, he felt like he had said the right thing. You weren’t pushing him away, weren’t closing off the moment like he half-expected.
Instead, you were pulling him in.
If he thought your chest had been soft, your lips were like fucking velvet. It was like he was scared to touch you with how delicate you felt; with how softly you met his own lips. The initial connection was quick before he pulled away an inch or two to gather your reaction. With pure lust in your eyes, you were back to kissing him again before he had the chance to overthink what had just happened.
The kiss deepened slowly, a tender exploration of new territory, a silent acknowledgement that this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a one-off moment.
Oscar’s heart hammered in his chest as he shifted, his body now hovering over yours. His lips brushed against yours in a series of soft kisses. Then, before he knew it, your tongue was fighting his own. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in closer, and he let himself be totally absorbed by you.
And oh my god, you were shirtless beneath him. He struggled with where to place his hands, feeling strange holding your face for too long but scared to grip your bare waist with his wandering hands. But when he felt you push up towards him—your nipples rubbing his shirt, the soft flesh of your breast squished against his chest—Oscar felt like he could indulge fully.
With his forehead pressed against yours, Oscar pulled away and asked, “Do you want this to go further?”
You nodded first, swallowing your breath, before verbally saying a low and desperate yes too.
He wasn’t sure if he answered anything coherent or just let out a loud huff when he leant back down to kiss you. As his hands travelled up your body, you could feel goosebumps form under his fingertips. He stoked the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted, before fully cupping them in his palms.
You tipped your head back between the sofa cushions as his lips moved down your jaw and neck, littering you with open-mouthed kisses. He towered over you, his lower body fitting perfectly with how your legs spread for him.
Oscar smiled as he grazed his teeth against your nipple, hearing you gasp at how he purposely teased you. And while he hadn’t thought about it like that before, you were definitely right with calling him a boob guy. Because fuck, could he spend his time adoring and fondling your soft tits, malleable in his hands and stimulating on his tongue. The way they perked up and became more sensitive with his touch was about to make him delirious.
And the sounds you were making—the gentle breathy groans—were better than any sound he’d ever heard before, practically deafening to his ears by how much he was concentrating on it. God, was he glad to have to turned on the sequel because having sex to Phil Collins wasn’t really on any bucket list. Especially not with how overwhelming he found your noises.
He released your nipple with a smacking sound, gazing at the attacked skin of your chest and neck. It would leave bruises, which made him feel even more like a horny teenager.
“Can you take your shirt off?” Your voice felt airy and small.
While your hands had already crept under to rake down his back as you were kissing, Oscar hadn’t exactly thought about the imbalance. He’d do just about anything to make you comfortable, meaning that his t-shirt soon joined yours on the floor.
He was an athlete, yet he hadn’t personally ever thought he looked like one. He’d never been one of those guys to confidently parade around without a shirt on in summer or post pictures of himself flexing in the gym. He just couldn’t do it.
But your eyes on him, the way you nestled your lower lip between your teeth, and how your hands immediately reached out to touch him… yeah, that was maybe the closest thing he’d felt to confidence in a long time.
“Do you feel okay?”
He wasn’t sure how his own voice would sound when he spoke again—dry and muffled, distracted by a million different things.
“Mhm,” you sighed out. “You wanna take off the rest of my clothes or should I do it myself?”
Oscar gulped at your forwardness, but he guessed he already knew that you wanted to take this further. So did he, like insanely. With fumbling fingers, he untied the drawstring on your sweatpants and worked them down your hips, until you laid there in front of him in just your thong and fuzzy socks.
He had sat up to take off his shirt, but he now nestled down between your legs again. There was no way in hell that he would last long inside of you, so he would need to please you beforehand. A gentleman, after all.
Oscar felt like he was about to die at the thought of going down on you, his blushing cheeks almost hurting from how warm they were. His hair was messy, his lips were kissed raw, and his pupils had dilated until all you could see in his eyes was darkness.
“Y’know you don’t have to—” you tried to tell him.
“What if I really want to?” he questioned, almost rhetorically. You didn’t fight him on it.
He kissed down your stomach until he came to the hem of your panties, absentmindedly rubbing soft circles on your hips and then down your thighs. There, his thoughts were simply reduced to the need to have you, in whatever way you allowed him.
You were impatient, while Oscar took his time to enjoy you. He tortuously dragged his lips across your thighs; the faint pattern of your skin looked like thin, pale lines spreading like lightning strikes. Once he dared to touch you over the fabric and feel the wetness that had soaked through, he could hear your breath hitch.
Slowly, he hooked his fingers in the sides of your thong and dragged them down your legs, leaving them discarded on the floor with the other clothes. Fully naked, except the socks, but those were staying on, Oscar decided.
“Have I told you that you’re gorgeous yet?”
You were looking down at him with an expression akin to frustration—mouth slightly open and heavy breaths spilling out, almost scoffing at his cliché words. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as his own breaths hit your skin, blowing against your exposed heat. He pecked the stretched skin on your inner thigh to soothe you, stopping your writhing.
At a loss for what to do with your hands, they found their way down to his hair, weaving through his soft curls, tugging gently to get his attention.
“Osc…” you said with a simple breath.
That was really all Oscar needed—to hear you want him. That stupid little nickname was also something special. He hummed against you, feeling your reassurance as he kissed gently over your clit. And before you were able to complain for more, he latched his lips around it, suckling in a way that made your vision momentarily blank. His movements were tentative at first, unexperienced and lacking confidence.
“Oh, you’re so good,” you exhaled, praising him.
And there was something about the way you say it that just drove Oscar mad. It wasn’t that it felt good—it was that he was good. He got off on your reaction. It was as simple as that. It made him determined, building something with precise dramatics.
You felt his left hand grasp at the skin of your thigh, slowly inching upwards before he carefully sank a finger into you. Your hips twitched and you moan out loud as he played with you. He worked you open before adding another finger, his mouth never leaving your clit in the process. Even when your thighs fought to stay open, caging him between them, he didn’t falter. And every once in a while, when his eyes looked up to meet yours, you only felt yourself falling apart quicker.
His voice was low, the tone soft, when he mumbled something against your swollen cunt; something about how you tasted good. His free hand gently pressed down on your stomach to make you focus on the sensation—to feel his fingers ripping you apart from the inside out.
“God, fuckfuckfuck—” You were barely making sense of your own words as you bucked up against his mouth, completely buried over you, nose bumping your clit with his repeated motions.
Automatically, your hands grasped your breasts, fingers toying with your already sensitive nipples. Moving from your stomach, Oscar’s right hand was placed on your tits too, clasping his fingers over your own as he squeezed.
When you inevitably fell apart, he didn’t stop—not until you were a complete mess beneath him. Arching, white-hot, and expanding with intensity before his very eyes as he continued to softly lick. The way he was making out with your soaked core and babying your clit with the tip of his tongue would make one believe that this was a man who had never been shy or embarrassed over a single thing in his life.
And he wasn’t going to stop until you begged him.
With a pleasured and defeated “Oscar, please…” you were letting him know that he had done his job—that he had won you over in more ways than was necessary, that you were spent by him.
“I know,” he cooed, kissing your stomach. “I know.”
He moved to lay beside you, gently sliding his fingers out of you before tap, tap, tapping at your puffy clit, keeping his eyes steady at how you reacted. A slight hiss left your mouth before a hoarse laugher slipped out too. Your legs were still trembling from how intense your orgasm had been.
“You’re a mess,” you chuckled, raising a hand to brush his hair back then wiping his mouth with the back of your hand to clean him. “And a menace.”
“Well, so are you,” he smiled, kissing you on the mouth, neither of you caring about said mess.
You took a moment to breathe, and Oscar took a moment to think. While he couldn’t think straight, he could still come to the conclusion that this was such a good feeling—an overwhelmingly good feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe never before.
By now, his cock was painfully hard beneath his sweatpants, definitely having leaked pre-cum through his boxers. If it had been bad before, it was so many times worse now with you heaving next to him, naked and looking at him through your eyelashes. He was practically seeing stars, and you hadn’t even touched him where he ached the most.
It was almost unjustifiable the way he was feeling—someone should just tape a sign to his forehead that said practically a raging virgin and call it a day. He wasn’t one, just to clarify, but you made him feel like one.
Your hand trailed gently down his chest, your nails painted black like always. Oscar wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He wished he could react normally to your touch, but instead it was like his skin raised like a mountain range wherever your hand wandered, his eyes following your movements with a pitiful desperation.
And when your hand moved below the waistband of his sweatpants, resting gently over his boxers, and therefore his erection too, he wasn’t sure what exactly would happen to his body—something new, a biological error, or a supernatural phenomenon.
You were so close to him, pulling his trousers down in such a fashion that your legs almost clashed together while it happened. Then he was naked, and you turned quiet.
Abashedly, he tried to think about what he looked like from your perspective. He wondered if he was too thick or too thin, if he should’ve groomed better, or if his upper body was disproportionate to his legs, or if he smelled bad, if he was just plain weird, or—
“Holy shit,” you whispered.
“W-what?” Oscar stuttered.
While Oscar was busy analysing himself, you were gawking. Maybe people on TikTok would call it a ’sleeper-build’, but there was nothing subtle about it. His pale skin looked pretty in a flushed pink tone, easily scratching under your sharp nails. Broad shoulders, toned stomach, thick thighs. Your eyes couldn’t help but look lower and lower. The pure size of him sank in a second later.
“You’re… big,” you said like a matter of fact. “It’s been a while, so you’ll have to go slow.”
“W-what?” Oscar stuttered, again.
His eyes widened to the point where it strained them. Of all the things you could’ve said, that was probably the one he expected the least. He tried to read your face, waiting for more of an explanation.
With your brows furrowed, all you asked were, “You’re surprised that I haven’t had sex in a while?”
“No!” he hurried to say, not thinking about other implications his reaction could’ve had. He’d curse himself for eternity if you thought he meant to slut-shame you. “I’m surprised about the other… thing. No one’s ever said that before,” he gesticulated with his hand, unsure what to call the thing that had just happened.
You glanced up at his face to see that he was now sporting a smirk, letting you know that your words had gone completely to his ego. Motherfucker, was he pretty.
“I’m not sure I believe that,” you mumbled, kissing him again. Laying side to side next to each other on the sofa, both of your hands had grown eager to touch. It was waists and chests, up bare backs to tangle fingers in hair.
“I promise you that it’s the first time I hear that,” he mumbled back.
Your hand sneaked down between your bodies, and any cockiness that Oscar gained from his newfound ’big dick energy’ was washed away in seconds. A whimper. A fucking whimper was ripped from his throat as soon as your fingers were wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop himself. Your movements were slow and languid, spreading the beads of pre-cum around his tip with your thumb. Oscar closed his eyes as he tried to not fall apart instantly.
“How’s your pull-out game?” you asked between placing kisses on his neck and jaw. He had beautiful freckles and birthmarks all over his skin.
And, fuck, how Oscar couldn’t think when dirty words left your mouth.
“I—, Uhh… Not good?”
He let out a moan mid-sentence. He felt both pathetic and tortured as your delicate fingers kept stroking him up and down.
“I’m on birth control anyway.”
“I could go and get a condom,” he fought himself to say.
“Do you have one?” you questioned, and Oscar’s lack of an answer told you what you already knew. “I thought so.”
And while Oscar knew that he came across looser-like, he didn’t also need it to be so transparent to you. Even though he sort of liked the dynamic built between you. He had always liked that you were quick-witted and a little mean.
Oscar exhaled, concealing another moan with a breathy chuckle. “You need to stop making fun of me when I’m naked. It’s going to affect my self-esteem.”
“Can’t help it, you’re an easy target.” You quickly pecked his lips, a little laugher slipping out. “You’re also a very pretty target.”
He wasn’t used to being called pretty. His mum called him handsome. His instagram comments called him a polite cat. Pretty was entirely new territory. But he liked it, and impossibly, he blushed even harder.
“Are we really doing this?”
He just had to be sure, still in a bit of disbelief.
“Please,” you said. “Fuck me.”
Oscar propped himself on his elbow, placing it beside your head, caging you beneath him. He took himself in his hand, giving his cock a few slow stokes. He looked tortured, the tip pink and engorged as it curved up towards his stomach, a thatch of hair connecting to his faint happy trail.
The head of his cock sat heavy against your entrance as he aligned himself, and you felt yourself desperately clenching around nothing. His free hand rubbed circles on your hip comfortingly. He was hesitant, and maybe that was your fault for asking him to take it slow, but the last thing he wanted was to cause you pain. With an eager nod, you gave him the green light.
“God, you’re tight,” Oscar murmured, his voice breathless as he pushed forward.
“No,” you gasped, gripping his bicep for something to hold onto. “You are massive.”
A low, strained laugh escaped him. “You really wanna argue right now?”
No, you didn’t. Not when you felt him slide inside you completely.
“I’m okay,” you whispered, breathing heavily, unable to help the way you tightened around him. “F-fuck, you can move,” you told him, voice muffled against his neck.
Oscar inhaled sharply, softening to the touch by your reassurance, as he pulled his hips from yours before slowly moving back, tentatively creating a steady rhythm, stretching your around him.
It was intoxicating, and warm. While he knew that he liked you, he had never imagined it to feel like free falling. You still smelled like a mixture of him and yourself, and your soft skin was touching him in ways and places he couldn’t describe. It was gratifying that you were just as desperate as he was.
He lifted your leg up by gripping under your knee, thrusting at a deeper angle. The sounds of your bodies crashing together filled the room as your moments only got quicker and needier.
Looking down at you, he saw your eyes struggling to stay open and your jaw dropping loose with the whimpers and moans you were letting out. Your tits bounced in pace every time he came to the hilt inside you.
“Holy f-fuck, you feel good,” he stuttered right in your ear. “You feel like you were fucking made for me.”
He was being lewd and you giggled. God, you giggled—like Oscar didn’t have enough of a hard time keeping it together. You were teasing him, but it was gentle and honeyed, like a beautiful song to his ears.
He forcefully dug his fingers into the soft fat of your thigh, spilling out between his fingers, doing just about anything to ground himself, but it was impossible. Admittedly, Oscar had never felt this good before in his life.
His living room was ablaze with your movements—an incoherent mess between two bodies, all skin and bone, at each other’s disposal to use.
“Fuck…” Oscar moaned, grinding his cock into you. “I’m already so fucking close.”
“Me too,” you whined out, voice strangled. “Let it all go.”
Oscar buried his face in your neck to try and hide his desperation, moaning and biting down into the soft skin. He was moving frantically, feeling it all approaching rapidly.
With a soft cry, Oscar was cumming, stuttering and needy, groaning everything from your name to all the curse words he could think of. He twitched inside of you, coating your walls with his cum. You moved one of your hands to his cheek and you held his face, staring intensely into his eyes, as he rode out his high.
Damn you and your damn eye contact.
He continued to slowly thrust, doing whatever he could to get you off while being totally spent. The hand on your hip drifted to your pubic bone before delving between your folds, his pointer and ring finger running steady halos over your clit. Thankfully, you weren’t long after. He wasn’t sure he could take the embarrassment of not making you cum when it had been so easy for him. You arched your back as it hit you, throwing your head back in blind pleasure.
And then it all slowed. The moans disappeared, and all that was left were heavy breaths in an eerily quiet living room. He felt warm air hit his neck as he laid down and you cuddled up against him. Mindlessly, you ran your fingertips along his skin, soothing the marks your nails had left. He’d gone soft inside you, his release mixed with your own leaking out the sides.
“I’m gonna slide out, okay?”
“Mhm, slowly,” you whimpered as he did it, going from feeling full to achingly empty. A single tear ran down your cheek out of exhaustion and pleasure, and Oscar stopped to kiss it away, tasting the saline on his lips.
“Talk to me,” he whispered.
You let out a deep breath, your body feeling heavy but sated. “I’m good,” you murmured, your cheek pressed against his chest. “Can feel you dripping down my thighs though.”
“We should probably clean up.”
He didn’t move, and neither did you. You were perfectly content with the mess if it meant that you would stay cradled in his arms. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, legs intertwining. His pec was soft against you, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment.
“I was going to let you wait annoyingly long before sleeping with you. I can’t believe I caved in so easily,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but teasing. The words hung in the air for a moment, light and playful, but you could feel the way his chest rumbled as he chuckled.
Oscar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh, really?”
You nodded, hiding your face in his chest. “Yeah. Like, painfully long. Months, at least.”
“What changed?”
You hesitated for a moment, your face still pressed against him. But then you tilted your head slightly, sneaking a glance up at him through heavy lashes. “Can’t help the fact that I’m insanely attracted to you,” you admitted shyly.
Oscar took in your smile before embarrassment made you hide it into his chest again. You were so… soft, like he couldn’t actually believe it.
“Glad we’re on the same page,” he exhaled, sinking down further into the sofa cushions. He ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to contain the pleased grin that spread across his face.
You kissed his chest gently, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a sense of peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, the comfortable silence stretching between you. You were glad this hadn’t turned awkward.
Then, his voice broke the quiet, low and soft. “Are you staying the night?”
You didn’t look up at him, sort of scared to say a right-out yes to his question.
“If you want me to.”
His arms tightened around you slightly, and you could feel the smile on his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “I’d love that.”
______________________
Oscar wasn’t sure how long he spent starring at himself in the bathroom mirror afterward. He moved through his routine on autopilot—brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth—only for his movements to slow as his reflection pulled him back in. His messy hair was still tousled. The love bites on his neck, faint but unmistakable, stood out against his pale skin. His fingertips grazed over the scratches on his shoulders, his cheeks warming as he recalled how they got there. He didn’t think he would ever stop blushing tonight.
When he finally mustered the courage to step back into his bedroom, he found you there: bare feet on the hardwood floor, wearing only his maroon t-shirt. You stood in front of his dresser, looking intensely at something placed on it.
The trophies.
You had fucked his brains out so good that he had forgotten about the intricate web of omissions and half-truths he had woven around you. And now, his lies were staring back at him, literally and metaphorically.
This was about to be awful.
“So, this is where you keep them?” Your voice was calm, deceptively so, as you turned to face him.
Oscar stood frozen in the doorway. He opened his mouth but no words left it, his body rigid as he grappled with the realisation: you already knew.
He hadn’t wanted to keep these things out in the open. Unlike some drivers whose homes were practically shrines to their achievements, Oscar preferred subtlety. Most of his trophies were tucked away, gathering dust in storage. But these— mostly medals and pictures from his childhood, tokens of his early racing days—remained on his dresser.
“I’ve known for a while,” you admitted, as if offering him a way out of the confession he hadn’t yet made. “Since I questioned you driving a McLaren to counselling.”
Oscar blinked, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with an awful, grinding clarity. It wasn’t like he had tried to be undercover or specifically careful about concealing his identity.
“I thought you just worked for McLaren at first,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the trophies. “But then I googled your name and the brand… My brother used to be a big Hamilton fan, so I made the connection.”
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained out of him. “Why didn’t you say something?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound defeated, but it did.
“Figured there was a reason as to why you didn’t tell me,” you shrugged, taking a seat on his bed. “I won’t force you to talk about things you don’t want to. We met in an unconventional way and I fully understand that you don’t want a stranger to know everything about you.”
“Don’t say that,” Oscar interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He stepped further into the room, his hands flexing at his sides. “We’re not strangers, we know each other.”
You tilted your head, your expression softening as you studied him. His sudden reaction surprised even himself, but he couldn’t let the word “strangers” hang in the air between you. Oscar guessed he was more emotionally involved than he had let himself believe, but that he now couldn’t deny it. He sat down beside you, the bed shifting under his weight, and your eyes searched his for something—an explanation, perhaps
“I know you,” he argued. “I know that you only smoke after counselling since it stresses you out and you think that because you smokeMarlboro Silvers, it won’t affect you as badly. know that immediately after, you chew strawberry gum to get rid of the taste, because you don’t actually like it.”
He started at you intensely as he kept talking, finally not scared of your eye contact. But he could see that you were crumbling.
“You only drink rooibos tea because it’s naturally sweeter than black tea. You carry white lighters to appear fearless, but in reality it’s because you’re sad and you don’t care if something bad happens to you.”
“Oh, and you cry to Disney movies,” he lastly added, “because you are in fact not fearless. You’re scared shitless of the emotions you harbour inside and never tell anyone about. So, yeah, I know you. ”
You blinked, his words hanging in the air between. “That doesn’t sound like you know me,” you said after a long pause. “That sounds like you’ve observed me.”
“We also quite literally just had sex,” he reminded you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “And I think we’re alike in that sense—that we don’t casually do that with random people.”
“Fair point,” you conceded, unable to suppress your own smile.
And there it was again—the strange, undeniable truth between you. There was truth in what you had shared with each other, always. Even if he had skipped the specifics, his feelings had never been false.
You exhaled loudly, your back hitting the mattress. It was like a balloon had popped, the tension in the taut latex having exploded into nothing. You were so tired. You always were.
Oscar knew not to push further. Not right now at least. He fell back on the mattress too, hiking further up to rest his head on his pillow. He lifted the covers to invite you underneath, cuddling you closer as your arms and legs were now slightly cold to the touch.
He also came back to the realisation that you knew him too. That you knew why he went to the group meetings. That you knew what he did all those weekends he spent working. That the car crash he blamed himself for wasn’t exactly average.
“Did you see the crash?” he asked quietly after a moment, his voice murmuring between the sheets.
He felt you shake your head. “No, I haven’t seen a race since Hamilton last won the championship.”
“Right, because of your brother,” Oscar remembered. “Is he no longer a fan?”
“I don’t know if he is. Haven’t talked to him in over a year.”
Oscar nodded slowly, taking in the weight of your words. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tracing the edge of the covers. “Do you want me to see the crash?”
“No,” he answered quickly. “Not really.”
“My first impression of you racing probably shouldn’t be a crash anyway.”
The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile, and he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. The weight of that topic seemed to drift away, and you found yourself sinking into the comfort of his embrace again, your head resting on his bare chest. He could feel your warmth tucked against his side, your breathing steady like a rhythm. You traced little patterns along his palm and fingers.
For a moment, it felt easy again. Soporific, even.
He could’ve easily fallen asleep, for once without thinking about nightmares. Oscar also didn’t want this to end, for the night to be over and for him to have to say goodbye to you in the morning. Not that he imagined it to be a dramatic goodbye, you’d see each other soon enough again, but still, he didn’t want to.
“You should come with me to a race,” he said softly, breaking the peaceful silence, looking at you almost succumbing to slumber.
“I can’t—” you began and Oscar could immediately sense your hesitation.
“I’d pay for everything. I just want to have you there,” he added quickly, tilting his head to gaze down at you. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about showing off. He just needed you near him, in whatever way he could.
Your body tensed up against him. “I can’t leave the country Oscar.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. He frowned, confused. “I’m sure you can get time off from work,” he said, worrying that was the reason.
You turned your gaze away, your cheek no longer resting against him, and the absence of your touch sent a quiet ache through him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and the pause that followed felt agonisingly long. The words felt stuck in your throat, your chest tightening.
“I mean—,” you paused, swallowing hard. “I’m not allowed to leave the country.”
The room fell silent, save for your faint whisper.
“I’m on probation.”
Oscar’s mind went blank. Probation. That was for criminal offences. You’d done something deserving of a court sentence. Silence stretched between you, and Oscar pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you more closely. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak.
“So, I’m sorry for calling us strangers,” you said finally, “but you don’t know the half of what I’ve done.”
You sat up fully now, a cold weight settling in the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice steady, watching as you untangled yourself from the sheets, kicking the comforter off your legs.
“I’m leaving.”
“No. You’re not.”
His voice was firm, almost commanding, as he reached out and grasped your arm before you could move further. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was resolute. He wasn’t going to let you walk away—not like this.
“You’re going to stay and tell me about this. I feel like you owe me that after what we just did.”
You froze, whole body going rigid, but Oscar didn’t let go.
“I need to know if I’m falling for a serial killer or not,” he added with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood, “because then I’ll seriously need to reconsider my life choices.”
Your heart ached at his attempt to make you laugh, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. The humour didn’t land, not fully, and the weight of what you were about to confess pressed down on you like a heavy stone.
You bit your lip, your voice trembling as you said, “I c-can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
Your body trembled beneath his touch and he loosed his grip, thumb rubbing soft circles on your arm.
“Because you’re a good person,” you whispered. “You’re going to find me repulsive and never want to see me again.”
Oscar could see it in your eyes—the battle raging within you, the fear that once the words left your lips, he would be gone. But he wasn’t going anywhere. You cared about seeing him again. That alone gave him something to hold on to.
“Unless you’ve actually murdered someone—I don’t think that’s possible.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing.
“I don’t think you get probation for murder. I promise no one got hurt physically.”
And even in this state, you still kept that sarcastic edge that he’d grown to adore.
“Okay,” Oscar said softly. “Then tell me.”
You sighed, your hands trembling as you ran your fingers through your hair. Your eyes squeezed shut, as though blocking out his gaze would somehow make it easier to speak.
“When I was 19 I got into a relationship with a guy who was a lot older than me,” you began, your voice uneven. “He had a very… destructive lifestyle that I became a part of. I let him use me.”
Oscar’s stomach twisted, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. He could see how much it was costing you to admit this, and the last thing he wanted was to make it harder for you.
You slowly opened your eyes, not to look at him, but to look at the ceiling, blinking to fight tears from running down your cheeks.
“The reason as to why I haven’t spoken to my brother in such a long time… ” Your voice broke, and you paused, taking a shaky breath. “…is because I committed fraud with his identity. I took out a loan using his name because I was desperate for money.”
Oscar couldn’t hide his shock, but he didn’t pull away. You were laying it all out, raw and exposed, and he wasn’t going to judge you. He couldn’t. He stayed rooted in place, his hand still on your arm, grounding you.
“When he found out, he turned me in. I confessed to doing it and agreed on accepting help which is the only reason I’m not currently in prison.”
“And the boyfriend?” Oscar managed to ask.
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “He took the money and fled the country. Haven’t seen him since. But I paid my brother back. Every penny.”
Oscar nodded slowly. “What did you need the money for?”
Your lips trembled as you looked down at your hands. “Don’t make me say it. I feel like you already know.”
And he did. He’d known since he realised what those Sunday meetings were for.
“Are you clean now?”
“14 months,” you quickly said. “Ever since he turned me in. I have a badge on my keys if you—”
“I’m proud of you,” Oscar said, cutting you off gently.
Your breath hitched as he said it. It had surprised you. “See?” he whispered. “You didn’t scare me away.” Oscar gathered his courage to hold you in his embrace again, laying you gently down on the mattress, letting your body relax on top of his.
“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “I’m in an industry where if you haven’t committed tax fraud, you’re probably the odd one out.”
You blinked in surprise, a startled laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. “What?”
Oscar chuckled, the tension between you easing ever so slightly. “I know drivers who’ve had people go to prison on their behalf because of embezzlement,” he said, clearly exaggerating, but the humour in his voice was infectious. “You’re practically a saint compared to some of them.”
“Fucking corrupt rich people,” you muttered.
“Well,” Oscar said, his hand moving down to hold yours, “the point is… you can’t scare me away.”
He heard you exhale loudly. He even felt it against his shirtless skin. Your arms tightened around him, clutching both yours and his chest. It was adding pressure to stop you from panicking.
And then you started crying. For real this time. It wasn’t you fighting the tears from falling or shyly getting watery eyes from Brother Bear. You were sobbing. He hadn’t thought he would ever see you cry.
Oscar’s heart broke a little as he watched you finally let go, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. He immediately pulled you closer into his arms, holding you close, his hand gently stroking your hair as you cried against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” Oscar whispered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You clung to him, your tears soaking into his skin, but he didn’t mind. You were essentially a stranger—even though he hated the word—crying in his arms, and he’d do anything in his power to never see you like this again. He had fallen for your softness, not the jagged edges you put up around yourself in protection. He’d accept you unconditionally if it meant you didn’t see him as something you needed to protect yourself from.
As your sobs quieted and your breathing got steady, you remained tucked against Oscar’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. You could feel his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. He almost thought you had fallen asleep.
“Thank you,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice hoarse from crying.
Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “For what?”
“For making me stay.”
______________________
A couple of weeks later, on a Tuesday at St. Anne’s Church, you did something you’d never expected yourself to do. You found yourself standing at the lectern in front of the room of strangers that you had spent the past year of your life with. And Oscar, but he had never really been a stranger.
It felt stupid at first, when you walked up there and said your name, the people in the room saying it back to you like a choir. Some clichés from movies really were true.
You started off by giving a brief background as to why you went to meetings. It was supposed to be a guilt-free environment, one where you wouldn’t be judged for anything. But opening up about betraying your own brother and getting probation because of it wasn’t guilt-free no matter how you twisted it.
“Some of you might recognise me from NA meetings as well, but the drugs were never my main issue. I mean, I was— or am an addict, that’s how they want you to say it in NA at least. There is really no denying that, but the real problem was how it made me treat the people around me.”
You didn’t like how your voice sounded in the echoing room, but it didn’t stop you from trying. You knew that the people listening had their own issues so present that yours wouldn’t bother them.
“I understand that my brother never wants to speak to me again,” you continued, your gaze falling to your hands, a cuticle bleeding from unconsciously picking at it. “I think I almost feel the same way. But then… I’ll go to Sainsbury’s and buy green apples, even though I hate them, but he loves them, and I used to buy them for him.”
It was true. You’d have vivid flashbacks about apples every time you saw them. You’d get them from the store as if you were moving on autopilot and hate yourself for it when you got home and unpacked the groceries. Your aunt would always question why you bought them but never ate them, and you couldn’t put that into words.
“I’ll have a mental breakdown over some stupid apples and realise that… we are connected in a way that can never be erased. That’s my fault, my guilt to carry—that I ruined it, that I get to argue with apples instead of arguing with him,” you said with an almost laugher.
You fixed your gaze on Oscar, whose eyes had never left yours for as long as you spoke. He held a tight smile, like understanding the humour in how trauma tended to materialise.
The facilitator asked you a question, like he normally did when he saw people trying to find the right words but struggling to get them into actual sentences. He asked you how time had changed the guilt you felt and if your probation still felt fair to you.
“It’s just so… fucked up that you can convince yourself that you’re evil and unfixable,” you answered, your voice growing steadier. “But it turns out you’re just young. And you’ll make mistakes because of it. I’m paying for those mistakes, but I can’t let them define me.”
You decided that you were done there. You could say more, and you could’ve said less, but you’d done it now. That was the important part. And even though you’d never admit it, it really did feel better to have said it out loud.
As you stepped down and walked back to your seat, a small wave of applause followed you. You felt Oscar’s hand slip into yours as you sat down, his fingers squeezing gently, a wordless assurance.
It took a bit longer for Oscar to finally walk up to the front of the room, a month or so. But he did it in the end. You understood that he felt like his problems weren’t like everybody else’s, because no normal person could really understand his job. And feeling guilt over a car crash where no one was hurt wasn’t easily explainable either.
Oscar’s movements were deliberate, almost stiff, as though he was trying to keep himself together with every step. He stood at the lectern, his hands gripping the edges tightly, and you could see the tension in his knuckles.
He talked about the crash in broad terms, but most of his focus was on Charles, and Oscar’s messed-up idea about how he had hurt Charles. When the facilitator asked him to base his guilt around something real, something factual, you saw the struggle in his expression.
“It’s just… guilt,” he said finally, his voice low. He paused, searching for the right words, but they didn’t come. “I’m not sure I can explain it or give it a likeness. Not everything feels like something else.”
Not everything felt like something else. Issues were allowed to be unique and entangled. It wasn’t about understanding them as much as it was about accepting them. You watched him closely, and you raised your arm to ask him a question, waiting for him to acknowledge you with a silent nod.
“If Charles felt like he never needed to forgive you because he knew all along that this was an accident and no one was actually hurt—why can’t you forgive yourself?”
Oscar’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping slightly. He stood there for a long moment, the words sinking in.
He realised then and there that his main issue wasn’t the crash or the possibility of it happening again. It was that he blamed himself for hurting someone else—a hurt that granted hadn’t even happened, Charles was fine—but his mind hadn’t cared about that. He had the lives of others at risk with the turn of a wheel, and the crash had made him mentally unprepared for that risk. He guessed he knew now what to bring up the next time he met up with his therapist.
After that meeting, Oscar talked for a moment with the facilitator, before he walked out to find you standing by the big doorway into the actual church, looking down the isle to the altar. He stood quietly behind you, placing his arm around your waist. The quiet of the church was profound, almost unsettling. The rows of pews stretched out before you, bathed in a soft glow of candlelight.
“I don’t think I ever understood religion,” you said, whispering in the stillness. “Or God, for that matter. It’s too quiet. Too much about self-reflection and not enough about the old men in the Bible for me to grasp it.”
Oscar didn’t respond right away, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he followed your gaze to the altar.
“I see it as a last ditch effort for when you have no one else to talk to, but all you end up doing is talking to yourself,” he explained.
“Sounds a lot like self-reflection to me,” you huffed a little.
Maybe that was the thing people needed most—to get to know themselves. Bad people don’t wonder if they’re bad people. A truly evil person wouldn’t feel guilty for something bad they’ve done. You were both paralysed by guilt, but standing there with Oscar, it felt just a little less heavy.
“Oscar…” you began again, turning to meet his gaze. “Please don’t tell my secrets to anyone else.”
“We literally had to sign an NDA to join the group, babe.”
“You know what I mean,” you said, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small laugh.
“I promise.”
When you left the church that evening, it was abnormally sunny. Early summer, colouring the nature around you green. You walked across the parking lot hand in hand, that silent show of affection a normal occurrence between you now.
“Oh,” he said suddenly, stopping by his car. “I got you something.”
From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter, its surface bright orange. He held it out to you, his expression almost shy. You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected anything like this, the small, unspoken care behind the gesture. No more conscious bad luck.
“It’s a myth, y’know?” you said, taking the lighter and looking at him softly. “Most of the 27 club died before Bic started making the white version.”
Did Oscar feel a little stupid for not thinking to google the superstition before buying you—granted, a very cheap gift—but also something so laced with thoughtfulness? Maybe. Did he also deeply want you to stop being reliant on nicotine to feel calm? Definitely. But that was too late to say right now when you already had the lighter in your hand and he was blushing from how exposed he felt.
“Well, I think orange suits you better anyway.”
______________________
Oscar had insisted, of course—gently but persistently—until you’d finally agreed to come to a race. Silverstone wasn’t out of the country, which meant it didn’t violate any of your probation rules. A technical loophole, but a loophole nonetheless. Your 18 months were nearly over, but Oscar hadn’t been able to wait.
Now, standing among the sea of spectators in the garage, the weight of his world began to settle. The sheer scale of it all was overwhelming. You couldn’t deny it was exhilarating, but it also made you feel small, like an intruder. It was fucking Silverstone, after all—on a Sunday afternoon just minutes before the lights would go out.
You glanced down at your phone, trying to distract yourself from the growing tension in your stomach. That’s when a message appeared.
Eli: “Are you at Silverstone?? I swear I just saw you on TV.”
Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened around your phone. Eli. What happened to hello? What happened to how are you? You stared at the message for a long moment. Before you could even process how to respond, another message appeared.
Eli: “Are you with Piastri?? What the hell?”
A startled laugh escaped your lips, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You glanced around, as if half-expecting Eli to appear out of thin air. Of course, he wasn’t here. He’d gone once to Silverstone with your father when he was young, but nowadays it was cheaper to try and go to Hungary or another European race.
So, right now you knew exactly where your brother was—in the living room at your parents’ place because even though he’d moved out a long time ago, he still went home every Sunday to watch F1 because he leached off of their streaming services.
You took a deep breath and typed back.
You: “Yeah, I’m here with Oscar.”
For a moment, you stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the send button. Then, with a rush of courage, you pressed it. The three dots indicating Eli was typing appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again.
Eli: “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re at an F1 race with a driver, and I have to find out on TV?”
He definitely didn’t mean to guilt-trip you—you knew that. It was his way of breaking through the awkwardness. In a way, you supposed it was better to feel guilty about not telling him about Oscar than about the bigger things. The real things.
Before you could reply, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you saw Oscar in his race suit, his face flushed from the adrenaline of pre-race preparations. He looked out of breath, but his smile was unmistakable, the sight of you clearly easing some of the tension in his own chest.
“Hey,” he said, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”
You nodded. “Yeah. My brother just texted me.”
Oscar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. You bit your lip, holding up your phone so he could see the messages. Oscar leant in, glancing at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“He recognised you on TV?”
“Apparently,” you said with a soft laugh. “He’s freaking out.”
Oscar’s expression softened, his hand squeezing yours reassuringly. “That has to be good, right? That he’s talking to you?”
“I hope so,” you whispered.
Before either of you could say more, someone called Oscar’s name from across the paddock. He sighed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I have to go. National anthem and all that.”
You nodded, your fingers reluctantly slipping from his grasp as he stepped back. “Good luck,” you called after him.
He grinned over his shoulder, his confidence infectious. “Thought you didn’t believe in luck.”
And while in the past you hadn’t minded your own bad luck and superstitions, you definitely didn’t want to spread that mindset to Oscar. You would start carrying wishbones, four-leaf clovers, and horseshoes if it meant that just a smidge of luck would be transferred to his life.
As he disappeared into the crowd, the nervous energy around you seemed to intensify. The minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like hours. Your phone buzzed again, pulling your attention back.
Eli: “I’ve missed you. We should talk whenever you can.”
Your breath caught, and for a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You read the message twice, three times, the words sinking in slowly. For so long, you’d been afraid that you’d lost him for good, that the damage you’d done was irreparable—that you were irreparable. But here he was, reaching out.
You: “I’ve missed you too. I’m back in town tomorrow.”
You hit send just as the formation lap started. You were not sure for how long you held your breath after that.
Oscar was good—so good—and as you watched him race, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He was in his element, completely focused, completely in control. You were glad to not have seen the crash that still haunted him at times, because this proved that it was just a fluke, a temporary stumble rather than a career-defining event.
As the checkered flag waved, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing he had made it through safely. By the time the race was over, Oscar had finished in fourth place—a strong result considering weak qualifying. Most positions gained by anyone in the race. As the crowd erupted in cheers, you found yourself smiling, the tension in your chest finally easing.
Afterward, you found yourself standing in Oscar’s drivers room, waiting for him to return. Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see another message from your brother.
Eli: “That was an insane race. Piastri is a beast. Proud of you for being there.”
You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in months.
Moments later, Oscar appeared, his hair slightly damp from the helmet, his face flushed. He spotted you immediately, his eyes lighting up as he walked over, his smile wide despite exhaustion.
“How’d I do?” he asked, his voice breathless.
“You were amazing,” you grinned, stepping closer to him. “How are you so calm? That was nerve-wracking as hell.”
“I’ve done this a couple of times before,” he teased. Oscar laughed, pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered into your ear.
You buried your face in his shoulder, holding him close, and felt the last remnants of tension melt away. “Me too.”
Pulling back slightly, he looked down at you, his smile soft. “You haven’t been sarcastic with me all day, y’know? Is there something wrong?”
You smirked, tilting your head. “I can always start—”
Before you could finish, he leant down and kissed you, cutting off your words. Smack dab on the mouth, messy and rushed. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright and his grin was infectious. You guessed you didn’t need to resort to sarcasm and snarky comments when you were happy. Simply happy.
thank you for reading ★
please tell me what you think
my asks are always open!
an: guys i've been so dead latley but i have been writing! you also know me and i can't spend too much time away from catholic themes lol
warnings: mentions of suicide, sexual assult
part two
summary: she had walked into the river to drown. he pulled her out and called it trespassing. in 1950s mississippi, a girl cast out by her church finds sanctuary with the man they call the devil. together, they build something the righteous can't touch, a life entirely their own.
THE WATER WAS COLD THIS TIME OF THE YEAR
She'd known it would be. Had felt the autumn bite in the air for weeks now, watched the leaves turn copper and fall into the river like God's own confetti celebrating her misery. The hem of her white dress, always white, always pristine, even when the rest of her felt rotted through, floated on the surface for a moment before the current tried to pull it under.
The stones beneath her feet were slick. She didn't remember walking into the water. Didn't remember leaving the house, or crossing the field, or standing at the edge deciding. But here she was, knee-deep and going deeper, and the cold felt like something holy. Like punishment. Like relief.
Behind her, the town slept in its Sunday best, all those good Christian people dreaming good Christian dreams. Tomorrow they'd wake and go to church and pray for the sinners, never once thinking they might be the ones who needed saving. She'd tried to tell them. Tried to speak the truth the way they'd always told her to, honest and pure and faithful.
They'd called her mad for it. Hysterical. Touched by the devil.
Maybe they were right. Maybe the devil had touched her. Maybe he'd worn a familiar face and a wedding ring and afterwards told her to pray for forgiveness for what she'd done.
The water was up to her waist now. Her ribs. Cold enough to stop her heart if she let it.
She wanted to be clean again.
She closed her eyes and let herself sink.
The river accepted her like an embrace, and for one perfect moment, everything went quiet. No more voices. No more prayers that felt like accusations. No more white dresses that might as well be shrouds.
Just the cold. Just the dark. Just—
A hand closed around her wrist and pulled.
She broke the surface gasping, choking on river water and shock and the terrible, burning realisation that she was still alive. Her lungs screamed. Her vision blurred.
And there was a man.
He hauled her toward the bank with a strength that didn't match his lean frame, and she fought him, of course she fought him, thrashing and clawing because she'd been so close to peace and he'd stolen it from her. But he didn't let go. Didn't flinch when her nails raked his forearm, drawing blood. Just kept pulling until they collapsed together on the muddy shore, both of them breathing hard.
"Let me go," she spat, scrambling backward. Her white dress clung to her like a second skin, transparent and ruined. She didn't care. "Let me go back—"
"No."
The word was firm but not unkind. He sat up slowly, pushing wet dark hair from his face, and she got her first real look at him.
He was beautiful in a way that made her think of fallen angels. Sharp features, pale skin, eyes so but but so dark they looked black in the moonlight. He wore a white shirt, now soaked and mud-stained, and fine trousers that marked him as wealthy. Someone from outside. Someone who didn't belong.
"You're not real," she whispered, because he couldn't be. Men didn't appear out of nowhere at rivers in the middle of the night. Men didn't look at her like that, like she was a person instead of a problem, a temptation, a cautionary tale.
He tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that should have frightened her but somehow didn't. "I assure you, I'm quite real."
"No." She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. She was shivering now, violent tremors that had nothing to do with the cold. "You're—you're a test. Or a punishment. Or—"
"I'm neither." He stood, offering her his hand. She stared at it like it might burn her. "My name is Charles. And you were drowning."
"I wanted to drown."
"I know." Something flickered across his face—not pity, which she would have hated, but understanding. "But you didn't, and now you're freezing. Come with me."
She laughed, sharp and brittle. "So you can finish what—" She stopped. Bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. Couldn't say it. Couldn't name it, even now. Even here with this stranger who might not be a stranger at all but some demon sent to drag her the rest of the way to hell.
But Charles didn't move closer. Didn't try to grab her again. Just kept his hand extended, patient.
"I have a house not far from here," he said quietly. "It's warm. There's a fire. Clean clothes. No one will hurt you there. I give you my word."
"Your word." She wanted to spit the phrase back at him, remind him that men's words had gotten her here in the first place, cold and drowning and so broken she couldn't even die properly. But something in his voice made her pause.
He said it like a vow. Like it meant something.
"Why?" The question scraped out of her. "Why pull me out? You don't know me."
"No," Charles agreed. "But I know what it's like to be cast out by people who call themselves righteous. I know what it's like when the only peace you can imagine is the permanent kind." His hand didn't waver. "And I know that you deserve better than that river."
She looked at his hand. At his face. At the treeline behind him where she could just make out the shape of something massive, a house, maybe, or a cathedral, all sharp angles and impossible height.
The devil's house, the townspeople called it. The place where Charles lived alone with his money and his marble floors and whatever darkness had made the good Christians decide he didn't belong among them.
She should refuse. Should drag herself back to town, back to her narrow bed and her narrower life, back to the people who'd already decided what she was.
But the cold was in her bones now, and she was so tired of being good.
She took his hand.
His skin was warm.
The walk to his house was silent except for the squelch of her ruined shoes and the steady drip of water from her dress. Charles walked beside her, not touching, not hovering, just... there. Present in a way that felt strange. Most men either crowded too close or stayed too far away, like whatever had happened to her might be contagious.
The house emerged from the trees like something out of a fever dream.
It was massive. Three stories of pristine white stone that seemed to glow in the moonlight, columns flanking the entrance like sentries, windows tall and arched like the ones in St. Mary's Church where she used to pray before they'd barred the doors against her. She'd heard rumours about this place, about the man who lived here alone, about the excess, the extravagance, the way it looked like a monument to pride.
They said he'd built it to mock God.
Looking at it now, she thought maybe he'd built it to replace Him.
Charles led her up the front steps and through doors that were twice her height. The entrance hall opened before her, and she stopped dead.
Marble floors stretched in every direction, veined with gold that caught the light from a chandelier overhead, crystal and enormous, dripping with light like tears from heaven. The ceiling soared above them, painted with scenes she couldn't quite make out in the dimness. More columns. More arches. It looked like the inside of a cathedral, if cathedrals were built for comfort instead of guilt.
"Jesus," she whispered, then flinched at her own blasphemy.
"Not quite," Charles said dryly. He shrugged out of his ruined shirt. "Though I appreciate the comparison. Wait here."
He disappeared through a doorway, leaving her standing in a puddle of river water on his perfect floor. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, suddenly aware of how small she was in this space. How out of place. A drowned thing in a white dress, tracking mud through a palace.
Charles returned, his upper half now clothed, with a thick blanket and what looked like women's clothing, a simple dress in deep blue, a shawl, undergarments that made her cheeks burn.
"The bathroom is through there," he said, pointing. "There's hot water. Take your time."
She didn't move. Couldn't. "Why do you have women's clothes?"
"My mother's." He said it without emotion. "She passed several years ago. Left behind more than any one person could wear in a lifetime." He draped the blanket over her shoulders. "They're doing no one any good in a closet."
She clutched the blanket, still staring at the opulence around them. The wealth. The space. "I didn't know you were—I mean, everyone said you had money, but this is..."
"Excessive?" Charles supplied. "Ostentatious? A sin of pride?"
"I was going to say 'beautiful.'"
Something flickered in his expression. "Go get warm. We can talk after."
She started toward the bathroom, then stopped. Turned back. "The river," she said quietly. "It runs through your property, doesn't it? That's... that's your land."
"It is."
"So when you said—" She swallowed. "When you pulled me out. That wasn't charity. That was—"
"A request that you not commit suicide on my property, yes." His voice was flat, almost businesslike. "I've had enough trouble with this town without them finding a body in my river."
The bluntness of it should have hurt. Should have made her feel like an inconvenience, a problem to be managed.
Instead, she almost laughed.
Because he wasn't treating her like she was made of glass. Wasn't speaking in those hushed, pitying tones everyone used now when they bothered to speak to her at all. He was treating her like someone who'd made a choice he found inconvenient.
It was the most human anyone had made her feel in months.
"I'll try to be more considerate next time," she said, and this time she did laugh, sharp and slightly hysterical.
Charles raised an eyebrow. "See that you are. Now go. You're dripping on the floor."
She went.
The bathroom was as excessive as the rest of the house, marble tub, golden fixtures, mirrors everywhere. She filled the tub with water so hot it turned her skin pink, and she sank into it still wearing her ruined white dress, watching the fabric balloon around her like a shroud.
Only when the water started to cool did she peel it off, wring it out, drape it over the edge of the tub like a flag of surrender.
She scrubbed herself raw. Washed her hair three times. Tried to wash away the river, the cold, the feeling of hands that had no right to touch her, prayers that had curdled into accusations.
When she finally emerged, dressed in the blue gown that hung slightly loose on her frame, she found Charles in what he called the sitting room. It was smaller than the entrance hall but still grand, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace large enough to stand in, furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum.
He'd changed too, was now fully in dry clothes and holding a cup of something that steamed. He gestured to a second cup on the table.
"Tea," he said. "Or there's brandy if you prefer."
She took the tea, cradling it between her palms. The warmth felt like a small miracle.
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Charles spoke.
"You know," he said conversationally, "suicide is a violation of the Fifth Commandment. 'Thou shalt not kill.' That includes yourself, according to the Church."
She stared at him. "Are you... are you really going to lecture me about sin right now?"
"No." He took a sip of his drink. "I'm curious if you care."
"If I care?" The laugh that escaped her was bitter. "The Church made it very clear what they think of my sins. I think I've earned a few more."
"Have you?" Charles leaned back, studying her with those dark, unreadable eyes. "Tell me, do you still believe in it? God, heaven, hell, all of it?"
The question hit her like a physical blow. Because she'd been asking herself the same thing for weeks now, months, ever since she'd stood in front of the congregation and told the truth and watched them decide she was the liar.
"I don't know," she whispered. "I want to say no. I want to say they ruined it for me, that I can't believe in a God who would let—" She stopped. Started again. "But I can't stop. I still cross myself when I'm scared. Still hear hymns in my head. Still feel like I'm being watched, judged, weighed and found wanting."
"So you're haunted by it."
"Yes." The word came out like a confession. "I'm haunted by it. By all of it. The prayers, the rules, the promise that if I was just good enough, pure enough, faithful enough, I'd be safe." She met his eyes. "I was good. I was all of those things. And it didn't matter."
Charles was quiet for a long moment. Then: "They're hypocrites, you know. Every last one of them."
"I know."
"They speak of love and mercy and forgiveness, and then they cast out anyone who threatens their comfortable lies."
"I know."
"They call me the devil," he said, and there was something dangerous in his smile now. "Because I don't pretend. Because I have wealth and I don't apologise for it. Because I don't bow to their provincial god or their provincial rules." He leaned forward. "But I've never harmed an innocent. Never forced myself on anyone. Never called a victim a liar to protect a monster."
The air left her lungs.
"How did you—"
"I didn't." His voice gentled slightly. "But I can read people. And you have the look of someone who told the truth and was punished for it."
She set down her tea before she could drop it. Her hands were shaking again. "They said I was mad. That I'd imagined it, or invited it, or—" Her voice cracked. "They said good girls don't get—that if I'd been pure enough, God would have protected me."
"And what do you think?"
"I think—" The words came out in a rush, angry and anguished. "I think God wasn't there. I think He looked away, or He didn't care, or He doesn't exist at all. I think the devil they warned me about wore a cross around his neck and quoted scripture while he—" She couldn't finish.
Charles didn't tell her it was okay. Didn't offer empty comfort or hollow prayers.
He just said, "Yes."
She looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. "You believe me."
"Of course I believe you." He said it like it was obvious, like there was no other possible response. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Because everyone else—" Her voice broke. She pressed her palms against her eyes, hard enough to hurt. "The pastor said I was touched by demons. That I was trying to destroy a good man's reputation. His wife called me a jezebel in front of the entire congregation. And my own mother—"
She couldn't say it. Couldn't voice the final betrayal, the way her mother had looked at her with something worse than anger. Disappointment. Shame. Like she'd failed some test of worthiness.
"Your mother chose their comfort over your truth," Charles finished quietly.
"She said I should pray for forgiveness. That I should ask God to cleanse me of whatever darkness made me speak such lies." The tears came now, hot and furious. "I wasn't lying. I wasn't."
"I know."
"How?" She dropped her hands, glaring at him through the blur. "How do you know? You don't know me. You don't know what happened. You don't—"
"Because liars don't try to drown themselves in rivers," Charles said simply. "Liars don't scrub their skin raw trying to feel clean again. Liars don't wear white dresses like armour and flinch when people get too close." He paused. "And liars don't have that look in their eyes. The one that says they've seen the true face of evil and it was wearing a familiar smile."
The words hung between them, heavy and true.
She wiped her face with shaking hands. "They said you were dangerous. That you were... wrong somehow. Unnatural. That good Christians should stay away from you."
"And yet here you are."
"I'm not a good Christian anymore." The admission felt like stepping off a cliff. "I don't think I can be. Not after—" She gestured vaguely, encompassing everything. The assault, the rejection, the drowning attempt. Her entire ruined life. "How do you go back to believing in goodness when the good people are the ones who hurt you?"
Charles stood and moved to the fireplace, staring into the flames. The light cast shadows across his face, made him look even more like the fallen angel she'd first thought him.
"You don't," he said finally. "You stop believing in their version of goodness. You stop letting them define what purity means, what righteousness means, what you mean." He turned back to her. "You build something new."
"I don't know how."
"Neither did I." He smiled, and it was sad and sharp all at once. "When I first came here, I thought I could be one of them. Thought if I attended church, donated generously, smiled at the right people, they'd accept me. But they could smell something on me. Something that didn't fit their narrow little world."
"What?" she asked. "What could they smell?"
"Difference. Independence. The audacity to exist outside their rules." He gestured around the room. "So I stopped trying. Built this place. Made it everything they fear, beautiful and excessive and unapologetic. Made myself into exactly what they accused me of being."
"The devil."
"Their devil," he corrected. "Not the real one, if such a thing exists. Just a man who refuses to kneel."
She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw someone who'd been cast out just like her. Someone who'd stopped begging for acceptance and made his own world instead.
"They were right about one thing," she said slowly. "You are dangerous."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"You make me think I could do it too. Stop trying to be what they want. Stop carrying their god around like a stone in my chest." She stood on shaking legs. "You make me think I could be... free."
"You could be." He moved closer, but not too close. Still respecting the distance she needed. "But it's not easy. They'll hate you for it. Call you worse things than they already have. You'll lose whatever scraps of acceptance they might still offer."
"I've already lost everything."
"Not everything." His voice dropped. "You're still here. Still breathing. Still fighting, even if that fight looks like drowning." He paused. "And you still have a choice. You can go back to that town, put on another white dress, bow your head and pray for their forgiveness even though you've done nothing wrong. Maybe eventually they'll let you back in. Maybe they'll let you marry some farmer who'll overlook your 'past' in exchange for a obedient wife."
The thought made her want to vomit.
"Or?" she whispered.
"Or you stay here tonight. Rest. Recover. And in the morning, you decide who you want to be. Not who they say you are, who you choose to be." He held her gaze. "I'm not offering salvation. I'm not offering redemption. I'm just offering a choice."
She thought of the river. The cold. The peace she'd sought in oblivion.
Then she thought of this house, warm and bright and defiant. Thought of Charles, who'd pulled her from the water not with prayers but with action. Who'd spoken of her assault like it was a fact, not a sin. Who looked at her ruined white dress and offered her blue instead.
"I'll stay," she said. "Tonight, at least."
"Tonight is enough." Charles moved toward the doorway. "I'll show you to a room. You need sleep."
She followed him through corridors lined with paintings and mirrors, up a curved staircase that spiraled like a nautilus shell. Everything gleamed. Everything echoed. It was like walking through a church built for one.
He stopped at a door, opened it to reveal a bedroom larger than her entire house back in town. Four-poster bed. More windows. Moonlight streaming across polished floors.
"There's a lock on the inside," Charles said quietly. "Use it if it makes you feel safer."
The consideration in that simple statement nearly undid her.
"Charles," she said as he turned to leave. "Why did you really pull me out? The property thing was a lie, wasn't it?"
He looked back at her, and for just a moment, something raw crossed his face.
"Because I've stood at that river too," he said. "And no one pulled me out. I had to crawl back to shore alone." His jaw tightened. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."
Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hall.
She stood in the doorway of her borrowed room, wearing her borrowed dress, in this borrowed sanctuary.
And for the first time in months, she didn't feel like she was drowning.
She felt like she might, possibly, impossibly, learn to breathe again.
She woke to sunlight streaming through windows she didn't recognise, in a bed too soft to be her own, wearing a blue dress that smelled faintly of lavender and time.
For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was. Then it came back in pieces, the river, the cold, the hand that had pulled her back. Charles. The house that looked like a church but felt like sanctuary.
She sat up slowly, half-expecting to find the whole thing had been a dream. Some fever vision her drowning brain had conjured. But no, there was the four-poster bed, the moonlight-pale walls, the door with its lock still turned from the inside.
She'd locked it. Had lain awake for hours waiting for footsteps that never came, for a knock that never sounded, for the moment when Charles would reveal himself to be just like all the others.
But there had been only silence. And eventually, impossibly, sleep.
Now she unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, following the smell of coffee and something baking. The house looked different in daylight, less cathedral, more home. Still grand, still excessive, but warm somehow. Lived in, despite Charles living here alone.
She found him in the kitchen, and it was a kitchen, not some formal dining room, just a large bright space with copper pots hanging from hooks and bread cooling on the counter. He stood at the stove in shirtsleeves, his dark hair slightly mussed, flipping what looked like eggs.
He glanced up when she entered. "You're awake. Good. I wasn't sure if you'd sleep at all." He gestured to the table. "Sit. Coffee's fresh."
She sat, feeling strange and disoriented. Men didn't cook, not in her world. That was women's work. But here was Charles, completely at ease, plating eggs and bacon like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He set a plate in front of her and took the seat across, his own plate considerably smaller.
"I'm not much of a cook," he said. "But I've learned the basics out of necessity. Living alone has a way of forcing competence."
She picked up her fork, then set it down. "I don't understand you."
"Most people don't." He took a sip of coffee. "What specifically confuses you this morning?"
"All of it. This house. The way you talk. The fact that you..." She gestured vaguely. "You pulled a stranger from a river and brought her into your home and fed her and you're acting like this is... normal."
"Would you prefer I act like it's strange?"
"I'd prefer to understand why."
Charles was quiet for a moment, studying his coffee. "When I first came here," he said finally, "I was running from something. Or maybe toward something, I'm not sure which. I bought this land, built this house, tried to make a life. And the good people of this town took one look at me and decided I didn't belong." He met her eyes. "I know what it's like to be cast out for reasons that have nothing to do with who you actually are. So when I saw you in that river..." He shrugged. "I suppose I saw myself. If I'd been less stubborn. Less angry. If I'd let them win."
She absorbed this, pushing eggs around her plate. "I'm not like you. I'm not strong."
"You walked into a river in October. You're still here, eating breakfast, despite everything they did to you. That's not weakness."
"It feels like weakness." Her voice dropped. "I wanted to die. I wanted it so badly I could taste it."
"And now?"
She considered. "Now I want to burn my dress."
Charles blinked. Then slowly, a smile curved his lips, the first real smile she'd seen from him. "Your white dress?"
"Yes." The certainty surprised her. "I want to burn it. I want to watch it turn to ash. Is that, can I do that? Here?"
"You can do anything you want here." He stood, collecting their plates. "There's a fireplace in the library. We can burn it there. Make a ceremony of it, if you'd like."
"No ceremony." She shook her head. "Just fire. Just... gone."
They retrieved the dress from where she'd left it draped in the bathroom, still damp and stained with river mud. She carried it at arm's length like something contaminated. Which, she supposed, it was. Contaminated with everything she was supposed to be and could never be again.
Charles built up the fire in the library without comment. The room was lined floor to ceiling with books, thousands of them, more than she'd ever seen in one place. A life's worth of knowledge just sitting here, available. Not locked away or forbidden or deemed too dangerous for women's minds.
"Whenever you're ready," Charles said quietly, stepping back.
She stood before the fire, clutching the white fabric. It had been her armour. Her proof. See how pure I am? See how good? As if goodness were something you could wear. As if purity were a costume that would protect you from the ugliness of the world.
It hadn't protected her from anything.
She threw it into the flames.
The dress caught immediately, the white fabric blackening and curling, the lace trim disappearing in sparks. She watched it burn, feeling something tight in her chest begin to loosen. Not freedom yet, she wasn't naive enough to think one symbolic gesture could undo months of trauma. But something. A beginning, maybe. A small rebellion against everything they'd tried to make her.
"Good," Charles said from behind her. Not I'm proud of you or You're so brave or any of the condescending phrases people offered when they thought you were fragile. Just: good.
They watched until there was nothing left but ash.
"I should go home," she said eventually. "My mother will worry."
"Will she?" There was something sharp in Charles's tone. "Or will she pray?"
The accuracy of that stung. "Both, probably."
"You don't have to go back."
She turned to look at him. "Where else would I go?"
"Here." He gestured around the library, the house beyond. "God knows I have the space. And this place gets lonely. Hard to maintain alone. If you wanted to stay, help with the upkeep..." He trailed off. "I'm not suggesting anything improper. Separate rooms, separate lives. Just... company. And somewhere you don't have to pretend to be something you're not."
The offer hung between them, tempting and impossible.
"I can't," she whispered. "If I stayed here, if they saw me living in your house... they'd call me worse things than they already do. They'd say I was your—" She couldn't finish.
"They'll say it anyway." Charles's voice was matter-of-fact. "You've already committed the sin of surviving what they wanted you to quietly disappear from. There's no going back to their good graces. The only question is whether you'll waste your life trying."
He was right. She knew he was right. But the programming ran deep, honour thy mother, obey thy father, a woman's place, all of it still carved into her bones.
"I need time," she said. "To think."
"Of course." Charles walked her to the door. "The offer stands. Always."
She left through the front entrance, down those pristine white steps, into the autumn morning. The walk back seemed longer somehow. Or maybe she was just moving slower, reluctant to return to the narrow house, the narrower life.
She passed the river. Saw the place where she'd waded in, where Charles had pulled her out. In daylight it looked almost ordinary. Just water and stones and mud. Not the gateway to oblivion she'd imagined.
By the time she reached town, the sun was high. People stared as she passed, their eyes following her blue dress, where did she get that, whose is it, why isn't she in white? She kept her head up, her gaze forward. Didn't apologise. Didn't explain.
Her mother was in the kitchen when she opened the door, and the moment she saw her, she rushed forward with a cry.
"Oh my dear, you're safe! You're safe!" Her mother's arms wrapped around her, tight and desperate. "Margaret said she'd seen you walk past the river yesterday evening and we were all so worried, I prayed all night—"
She stood rigid in her mother's embrace, her mind catching on one word.
"Margaret saw me?"
"Yes, yes." Her mother pulled back, gripping her shoulders. "She was coming back from the Hendersons' and saw you by the water. She said you looked troubled. We've all been so worried—"
"She saw me by the river." The words came out flat. "And she didn't stop? Didn't call out? Didn't come get you?"
Her mother blinked. "Well, I—she came to tell me, dear. As soon as she could."
"When?"
"This morning. She stopped by on her way to church."
"This morning." Something cold settled in her stomach. "She saw me last night. At the river. Where people go when they—" She couldn't say it. "And she waited until morning to tell you?"
"She didn't want to spread rumours, dear. You know how people talk."
"People talk?" The laugh that escaped her was sharp enough to cut. "I could have been dead and she was worried about talk?"
"Don't be dramatic." Her mother's voice took on that tone, the one that meant she was being unreasonable, hysterical, touched by something dark. "You're fine. The Lord was watching over you."
"The Lord." She stepped back, out of her mother's reach. "Where was the Lord when I was drowning, Mother? Where was He when Margaret saw me and did nothing?"
"You weren't drowning—"
"I was." The words tore out of her. "I walked into that river to die. And your friend saw me and went home and said her prayers and waited until morning to mention it because she didn't want to gossip. That's your Lord's protection? That's His mercy?"
Her mother's face had gone pale. "You're not yourself. You're speaking madness—"
"I'm speaking truth." She was shaking now, months of silence finally breaking. "But you don't want truth. You want me to smile and nod and pretend everything is fine. Pretend I wasn't—" She stopped. Still couldn't say it. "Pretend your church didn't call me a liar. Pretend your God didn't abandon me when I needed Him most."
"He didn't abandon you! You're alive, aren't you?" Her mother reached for her again. "You're here, you're safe, that's His grace—"
"No." She backed toward the door. "Someone pulled me out. A person. A man. Not your God. Not your prayers. Just someone who saw me drowning and actually helped."
Her mother's eyes widened. "What man? Who—" Then understanding dawned, followed quickly by horror. "You were at his house. That's where you were. That's whose dress—"
"Charles saved my life."
"Charles?" Her mother's voice rose. "You let that man put his hands on you? After everything? After what happened with—"
"Don't." The word came out low and dangerous. "Don't you dare compare them. Charles pulled me from a river. He gave me dry clothes and asked nothing in return. He didn't touch me, didn't hurt me, didn't tell me it was my fault." She met her mother's eyes. "He did more for me in one night than this entire God-fearing town has done in months."
"He's dangerous—"
"No." She said it with absolute certainty. "The dangerous ones wear crosses and sit in your church and smile while they destroy people. Charles is just different. And you hate him for it."
Her mother was crying now, silent tears streaking her face. "I'm trying to protect you."
"You're trying to control me." She softened slightly. "I know you think it's the same thing. But it's not."
She turned toward the stairs, toward her small room with its white walls and its white curtains and all its suffocating purity.
"Where are you going?" her mother called after her.
She paused on the bottom step. "To pack."
"Pack? You can't—you can't go back there. People will think—"
"Let them think." She looked back at her mother, really looked at her, maybe for the first time. Saw a woman so trapped in her own cage she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to leave it. "I'm done living for their thoughts. Their prayers. Their version of God."
"And what will you live for instead?"
She thought of Charles's offer. The house that looked like a church but felt like freedom. The choice to build something new instead of begging for acceptance from people who'd already decided what she was worth.
"Myself," she said simply. "I'm going to live for myself."
And she climbed the stairs, leaving her mother's prayers and protests behind her like ash.
She returned to Charles's house that night with a single bag.
Everything she owned fit into one worn carpetbag, a few dresses (none of them white), her mother's Bible (she couldn't bring herself to leave it, even now), a photograph of her father from before he died, and the silver cross necklace her grandmother had given her. She'd stood in her bedroom debating that necklace for twenty minutes before finally clasping it around her neck. Not for God. For her grandmother, who'd been kind.
Charles opened the door before she could knock, as if he'd been watching the road.
"I accept," she said simply. "Your offer. If it still stands."
Something flickered across his face, relief, maybe, or satisfaction. "It stands." He took her bag without asking if she needed help. "I've prepared a room. Better than the one you stayed in before. More... permanent."
He led her upstairs to a room in the east wing. Larger than her entire house back in town, with windows overlooking the gardens and its own small sitting area. A writing desk stood in one corner. Bookshelves lined one wall, empty and waiting.
"You can fill them however you'd like," Charles said. "The library downstairs is yours to explore. Take what interests you."
She set her bag on the bed, running her hand over the deep green coverlet. Not white. Never white again.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Don't thank me yet." His tone was wry. "This house is enormous and I've been maintaining it poorly. You'll earn your keep."
And she did.
Three weeks later
The routine settled over her like a second skin, strange at first, then increasingly comfortable.
She woke with the sun and helped Charles prepare breakfast, he taught her to make coffee the way he liked it, strong and bitter. She learned he took his eggs scrambled, that he ate mostly in silence, reading while he chewed. She found it peaceful, the lack of forced conversation. No one asking her to smile, to be pleasant, to perform femininity like a trained dog.
After breakfast, she worked. There was always work, dusting the endless rooms, beating rugs, polishing silver that had tarnished from neglect. Charles had been right; the house was too much for one person. But for two, working in companionable silence or easy conversation, it became manageable.
She discovered he was terrible at laundry. Shrank his own shirts, turned whites gray. She took it over and he didn't protest, just looked vaguely relieved.
He discovered she'd never learned basic arithmetic beyond counting change. Sat her down at the kitchen table and taught her with the patience of a saint, never making her feel stupid when she struggled.
They painted the east parlor together, a project Charles had been putting off for months. Got more paint on themselves than the walls. She laughed, actually laughed, when he smeared ivory across his own face by accident. The sound startled them both.
"You should do that more," Charles said quietly.
"What?"
"Laugh. It suits you."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she flicked paint at him instead. He retaliated. They ended the day covered in ivory and cream, the parlor only half-finished, and she felt something close to happy.
At night, they sat in the library. She was slowly working her way through his collection, had started with poetry, moved to philosophy, was now deep into a novel about a woman in London society that would have been deemed inappropriate back home. Charles read too, or sometimes just watched the fire, lost in thoughts he didn't share.
Sometimes she caught him looking at her with an expression she couldn't decipher. Not hunger, she knew what that looked like, had learned to recognise it in the split second before she needed to run. This was something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or concern.
"What?" she asked one evening, catching his gaze.
"You're different than when you arrived."
"How?"
"Less haunted." He paused. "Or maybe just differently haunted. You don't flinch as much when I enter a room."
She considered this. It was true. The constant vigilance had eased, replaced by something that almost felt like trust. "You haven't given me reason to flinch."
"I won't." He said it like a vow. "But I need you to know, if I ever do anything that makes you uncomfortable, anything at all, you tell me. Immediately. This is your home too now. You shouldn't have to be afraid in it."
The sincerity in his voice made her throat tight. "Okay."
"I mean it."
"I know." And she did. That was the strange part. She believed him.
Five weeks later
The first sign of trouble came on a Sunday.
She was in the garden, pulling weeds from the rose beds Charles had neglected, when she heard the whispers. Turned to see three women from town standing at the edge of the property, staring.
She recognized them, Mrs. Henderson, Mrs. Clark, and Sarah Mitchell, who'd been in her Sunday school class years ago. They weren't trying to hide their presence. Wanted her to know they were watching.
She stood slowly, wiping dirt from her hands, and met their gazes.
Mrs. Henderson made the sign of the cross. Sarah looked away, shame or disgust colouring her face. Mrs. Clark just smiled, cold and knowing.
Then they left, their whispers carrying on the wind.
She told Charles about it over dinner.
"It'll get worse," he said matter-of-factly. "They've probably been watching for weeks, gathering evidence of your 'fall.' Soon they'll feel justified in acting on their righteous anger."
"What do you mean, acting?"
He was quiet for a moment, pushing food around his plate. "When I first moved here, they tried to... encourage me to leave. Notes at first. Then damaged property. Nothing they could be arrested for, but enough to make the message clear."
"What kind of notes?"
"Bible verses, mostly. Threats disguised as salvation. 'Flee from evil,' that sort of thing." He looked up at her. "I'm telling you this not to frighten you, but so you're prepared. They see you living here, unmarried, unchaperoned. In their minds, you've confirmed every suspicion they had."
"That I'm a whore."
He flinched at the word. "That you've rejected their protection. Their rules. It's the same thing to them."
She thought of the women's faces, the cold certainty in their eyes. "I'm not going back."
"I'm not asking you to." His voice was firm. "I'm just warning you. It's going to get ugly."
Seven weeks later
The first note appeared on a Tuesday, pinned to the front door with a nail.
"Jezebl, painted and vile. The wages of sin is death. Romans 6:23"
Charles tore it down before she could read the whole thing, crumpled it in his fist.
"Don't," she said. "Don't hide it from me."
He handed it over reluctantly. She read it twice, feeling that old familiar shame try to resurface. But underneath it, something new: anger.
"They spelled Jezebel wrong," she said.
Charles blinked. Then, impossibly, he laughed. "So they did."
Three days later, another note. This one shoved under the door.
"She who lies with a man outside of marriage shall be cast out. Repent before it's too late."
"We're not even—" she started, then stopped. It didn't matter. In their minds, she was already damned. Living under the same roof as a man was evidence enough.
The notes came more frequently after that. One every few days, each more vitriolic than the last. Charles started checking the property each morning, finding them tucked in the garden, tied to tree branches, once even thrown through an open window.
He stopped showing them to her after she found one that made her cry, not from shame but from rage at the injustice of it all. At the fact that her attacker walked free while she was the one receiving death threats for daring to survive.
Then came the Sunday when they found the dead bird.
It was nailed to the door, wings spread in grotesque mockery of crucifixion. Blood had dried black on the white wood. Above it, painted in what looked like the same blood: WHORE.
She stared at it, feeling nothing. No fear, no shock. Just a cold, settling certainty.
"They want me gone," she said quietly.
"Yes." Charles had gone very still beside her. "But you're not going anywhere. Not unless you choose to."
"And if they escalate?"
"Then I escalate too." There was something dangerous in his voice now, something that reminded her why the town feared him. "I've been playing nice. Being the polite outsider who ignores their hatred. But if they think they can terrorise you into leaving..." He looked at her, and his eyes were dark. "They'll learn why I'm not afraid of them."
She should have been frightened by the intensity in his voice. Should have worried about what he might do.
Instead, she felt protected. Maybe for the first time in her life, she felt like someone was truly on her side.
"What do we do?" she asked.
"We keep living." He pulled the bird down carefully, his jaw tight with controlled fury. "We keep existing exactly as we are. We show them that their threats and their prayers and their righteous anger have no power here." He met her eyes. "Unless you want to leave. I would understand—"
"No." She said it firmly. "I'm not leaving. This is my home now."
"Yes," Charles said softly. "It is."
They buried the bird in the garden. She said a prayer over it, not to the God of her childhood, but to something older, kinder. A god that might care about small dead things and women with nowhere else to go.
That night, Charles installed locks on all the doors. Heavy ones, the kind that would take force to break. She heard him moving through the house long after she'd gone to bed, checking windows, reinforcing entrances.
Making their sanctuary a fortress.
She lay awake listening to his footsteps, clutching her grandmother's cross, and wondered how much worse it would get before it got better.
Or if it would get better at all.
Eleven weeks later
She woke to the smell of smoke.
For a moment, still caught in the space between sleep and waking, she thought she was dreaming. Then she heard Charles shouting her name and the fog of sleep vanished in an instant.
She ran to her window. The garden shed was burning, flames licking up the walls, sparks dancing into the night sky.
By the time she got downstairs, Charles was already outside with buckets, trying to contain the blaze. She joined him, both of them working in grim silence, hauling water from the well until their arms ached and their lungs burned from smoke.
The shed was a loss, but they kept the fire from spreading to the house.
They sat on the front steps as dawn broke, covered in soot and ash, watching the smoldering remains.
"They could have killed us," she said quietly.
"Yes." Charles's voice was flat. Exhausted. "They could have."
"We should go to the sheriff."
He laughed, bitter and sharp. "The sheriff's son attends their church. His wife is on the women's auxiliary. You think he'll help us?"
She knew he was right. Knew that in the eyes of the law, she and Charles were the problem. Not the people terrorising them, but the ones refusing to conform.
"So what do we do?"
Charles turned to look at her, and there was something fierce in his expression despite the exhaustion. "We survive. We endure. We refuse to let them win." He paused. "And we become what they've always accused us of being."
"What do you mean?"
"They think we're sinners?" His smile was sharp as glass. "Then let's sin. Let's live so freely, so unapologetically, that our very existence becomes a rebellion against everything they stand for." He stood, offering her his hand. "Let's build something here that they can't touch with their hatred. Something beautiful and strange and entirely ours."
She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet.
"Okay," she said. "Let's burn it all down."
He smiled. "Metaphorically, I hope. We've had enough literal fires for one night."
Despite everything, the exhaustion, the fear, the smoking ruins, she laughed.
And standing there in the ashes, covered in soot, she realised something:
She wasn't afraid anymore.
She was angry.
And anger, she was learning, was so much more useful than fear.
SUMMARY ⛐ You get a new feature installed in your car! Unfortunately for you, the voice you thought was AI turns out to be a real, very attractive man.
WORD COUNT ⛐ 5.3K
CONTAINS ⛐ Suggestive themes, hotheaded reader, mentions of a crush on childhood friend!charles, mechanic!kimi cameo, street racer!f1 drivers and reader, engineer!oscar, and a brief joke about stalking (no actual stalking involved)
FEATURING ⛐ Engineer!Oscar Piastri x Street Racer!Reader
A/N ⛐ This was requested by 🎧 anon. Please do not let this one flop because I think it’s very cute ☹️
It started with some offhand comment to Kimi. He was fixing your car up, as he does, while you were practically announcing to the whole garage how it was difficult to memorize the tracks before a race, and how you’d prefer if you could just have live updates while you’re on the go.
When you return the next day, there’s a large, fancy neon orange button on your dashboard. You complain that it doesn’t match the vibes of your green and blue Y2K vehicle, but Kimi just shrugs and tells you to give it a try. So you slide into the driver’s seat and slam your index finger into the button.
Your music, loud and vibrant much like your personality, switches off with some loud static, as if it’s changing frequencies on its own. “Hey-”
“Hello. This is Oscar, your live race assistant.” The voice is monotone and clear. Very Australian, too. You have to wonder if Kimi had intentionally made him accented in such a way, or if it was just the first voice he downloaded off the internet.
“Really? Glorified street-racing Siri?” You give Kimi a deadpan expression. He sighs, pocketing his wrench and crossing his arms with a light shrug. “Great. Cool.”
“I’m not Siri,” Oscar says as if stating the obvious, much like Siri would do.
“Yeah, yeah. Just shut the hell up and do your job.” You hit the button again, changing the frequency back to your favorite station.
“How can he do his job if you’ve turned him off?” Kimi asks, running a hand through his messy, curly hair.
“I don’t need this. Tell it to find a new car to hijack.”
Oscar, however, proves to be useful on track. You drive your car out of the garage, waiting patiently on the driveway for the rest of your competitors to pull up beside you. Out of sheer boredom, you hit the button, and Oscar comes to life.
“Evening, Y/N.”
“Alright, Osc. Talk dirty to me— How’s the car look?”
It’s oddly quiet as he processes your question.
“I will not do such a thing. The car looks to be in optimal condition. Based on your previous performances you can be expected to come in first or second.”
“You don’t know shit about my precious performances.”
“Actually, Kimi gave me access to your past racing results. I see that a few days ago you crashed on—”
“Okay! Fine. I get it… Moving on.” You huff, gripping the wheel tight. You’re anxious to get out there and get to racing, but you still have a few minutes before you all drive out onto the street. “What’s your fuckin’ purpose anyway? To annoy me all night.”
“To provide you with accurate, live data and guide you through the track. You’ll be exiting the driveway in two minutes now.”
“Thanks, genius. I could have figured that shit out on my own.”
“Just trying to help.”
You follow the basic step by step process, and soon enough you’re off racing alongside the other circle members. You speed ahead of everyone, making deliberate and intricate overtakes in order to position yourself in first. You’re heavily regarded as an impressive competitor, known for your instantaneous strategies that land you in the top five majority of the time.
On the off chance you fuck up, you fuck up big time. That’s the downside. It’s not a small scratch that Kimi can easily buff out in minutes, but large crashes that land your car in his auto shop for weeks at a time. He scolds you constantly, but you still make those same mistakes.
“Alright, Y/N,” Oscar begins. “You’re doing good, but I need you to not overrev for this next turn. Your engine is showing signs of early failure if not properly cared for.”
You bite your tongue. You want to spew out some shit about not being told what to do, but considering he’s been right about everything else, you decide to trust his programming and follow his instructions. He tells you how to properly downshift, making for a smooth turn that you keep noted for future references.
Later, you radio in once more. “Alright, babe, give me your worst. What’s the gap looking like?”
“Doriane’s right on your tail, so do your best to optimize your speed here.”
“You’re so obsessed with me that it’s almost sickening.”
“Just… Trying to do my job.” You find it somewhat unsettling how real he sounds. There’s so much conviction in his tone, and for a second you almost believe he finds your statement funny. It’s like you forget he’s not real.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll finish first, Romeo. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”
You hold true to your promise. Doriane crosses the line mere seconds after you do, all thanks to a good mixture of defensive driving and some guidance from your new built in companion, who you absentmindedly thank before turning your car off.
“No way I just thanked an AI program…” Despite feeling silly, you leave to celebrate your win with the others.
You’re sprawled out in your car, enjoying some off time by wallowing in your own boredom. You have your feet on the dash with your seat pushed back as far as it will go.
There’s a knock on your window, and you’re quick to roll it down just as Charles’ face pops in. He leans his arms on your door, peeking into your car, which is sporadically messy in a way that you’re fond of. “What’s up?”
He shrugs at your question. “Bored, that’s all.”
“Wanna race?” You try to hide the way your eyes light up. Charles was someone you had a lot of respect for as he introduced you to the group— You had known him for a while, and to say he always made you starry eyed was a bit of an understatement.
“Can’t.” But your heart is, once again, shattered. “I gotta help Max with his car.” You huff, crossing your arms.
“Lame.” He smiles, the cutest dimples highlighted. “Why even tell me you’re bored when you have plans?”
“I don’t know.” He stands up straight, but not before reaching in to ruffle your hair affectionately. “See you around.”
“Yeah. See ya.” You roll the window back up, and immediately sigh with disappointment. There was no affection there, at least not from his end. Even the hair ruffling felt unbearably platonic in that sibling-like way. Your emotions were a mixture of confusion that you just couldn’t seem to decipher, because on some days Charles just felt like another member of the circle, and on other days you wanted nothing more than for him to hold you in your arms.
That said a lot, because you weren’t always big on affection. The occasional side hug and high five was plenty to keep you satisfied, but with Charles? It was hard to describe.
You feel defeated when you hit the orange button, the loud pop music transitioning to initial silence. You wait a moment, and then decide to call out for him. “Hellooo? Oscar?”
“Good morning, Y/N,” he eventually responds, that annoying accent present once again. You recline your seat, resting your hands behind your head while looking up at the ceiling. “Did you need something? I see you’re still parked in the garage.”
“Play me some music. Like, some depressing shit.” You hum. “But not too depressing. Like, sexy depressing where I feel sad but I’m still jamming out.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Can you play me some music?”
“I’m not connected with any music platforms.”
“Alright, whatever.” You close your eyes.
“Are you not going to shut the radio off?”
It’s weird, the way you’re feeling. It’s like your heart is empty— You have no reason to be sad, but as you sit there alone in your car, talking to artificial intelligence to pass the time, you feel extra lonely. So you sigh, and you shake your head. Mostly to yourself. “No,” you trail off quietly, fingers tapping against the center console. “I enjoy the company.” You make a bored lip trill. “Say something.”
“What do you want me to say?”
You mull over the question for a minute. What do you ask an AI to tell you? Normally you might have said something in a teasing way, like call me beautiful just to see how far it would go before deciding your orders were outside of its parameters. Maybe ask it how you make a guy fall for you. But this time you don’t feel up for it. “Just…”
“Would you like to hear about your performance lately?”
“Yes.” Perfect.
You swore that if you listened close enough, you could hear the tapping of a keyboard. You brush it off as your mind tricking you and nothing more. “Your car looks to be in good shape. You’ve been stacking up to be the garage’s number three driver, placing just ahead of Lando and Doriane.”
“Only number three? Who’s ahead of me then?”
“Max and Charles are currently ahead of you in terms of overall performance.”
You groan. “Don’t talk to me about Charles.”
“Okay.” That was easy. “Max and he who shall not be named are currently ahead of you in terms of overall performance.”
“How can I improve? I want to be number one.” Everyone wants to be number one, but currently it’s your main goal in life. You were hotheaded and a total try hard, so the fact you were only third was really taking a blow to your ego.
It didn’t help that Charles was a step above you. Honestly, it really hurts your soul. “How about some practice laps? You have some free time, right? I can evaluate your data from there and tell you how to approach your racing. Just radio me in when you’re ready.”
“Sounds good.”
Oscar instructs you through a couple practice tracks in the city, fluctuating based on police activities from his radar and how populated each area is. Eventually he tells you to relocate to the garage while he assesses the data to give you your proper information. So you switch back to your music as you make your way back, pulling into the garage with extra care. To be frank, you were somewhat exhausted.
“Alright, babes, what’s up?” You hit the button before you ask your question, drumming your fingertips against your wheel.
“That was certainly some impressive maneuvering. As I mentioned halfway through, your main problem was over-revving in corners. I think I’ve said it before but if you continue to do that, your engine will eventually have some significant damage.” Again. You swear you hear typing. “But you fixed that after I mentioned it. Now I just need you to work on maintaining confidence and speed in those corners.”
“And then I’ll become number one?”
“Potentially, yes.”
“Thanks, Oscar. Talk to you tomorrow.”
After a rather tantalizing race, you return back to the garage with your second place victory. It still wasn’t number one, but you were glad for one primary reason: You had finished ahead of Charles. You park in your designated spot, rolling the window down when the man in question approaches your vehicle from the side. “How ‘bout that?” You wear a dorky grin, unable to contain yourself.
“That was good.”
That’s it? Just… Good?
“That was incredible,” you correct, biting your cheek and squinting your eyes. He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Do you-” Deep breaths. Be confident. “Do you wanna get dinner?”
It was a normal question to ask a friend, especially after such a feat. It seemed more like a victory celebration, so surely he wouldn’t assume the worst. The worst happened to be him knowing you liked him. Just terrible. Because of course you couldn’t face your feelings head on. Who does that?!
“I can’t.” You try to hide your disappointment, but you’re sure the deep frown you wear gives you away. “I have a date.”
Even. Worse.
Quick. Think of a witty reply— Say what you usually would to anyone else. Why is nothing coming out? Just silence. Shock. “Oh, have fun then.”
You sounded like a sopping wet, pathetic cat.
He bids you farewell, and as soon as he’s out of the garage you grab the wheel tight, and then smack your head against it, the horn sounding through the garage. “Fuck!” You yell inside your car.
“Why are you honking?”
Oh.
Whoops.
“Oscar.” You clear your throat. “I thought I turned you off.”
“You did not.”
“So you heard that entire thing?”
It’s quiet for a moment. “Um-”
“That’s so embarrassing. How do I wipe your memory? Don’t tell anyone. Was it obvious I like him? Can’t you like… Run a diagnostics thing.”
But then… He laughs.
Like genuinely laughs. Like a human— It’s not a glitch, or a sound error, but a human man laughing.
“WHAT THE FUCK!”
“What?!” His voice, which sounds a lot more real at your sudden realization, sounds very much concerned.
“Are you a REAL man?”
Silence.
“Yes?” He sounds obnoxiously confused. Your jaw is dropped, a hand running through your hair anxiously. “You didn’t know?”
“No?!” You laugh. It’s nervous, not charming. “I thought you were like… I don’t know, some AI shit that Kimi made. Why did you never tell me?”
“You know, I kind of just figured you knew!” He sounds just as frantic as you do.
“Oh my God. So all those nights I stayed up talking to, what I thought was a robot, I was talking to a real man! With a human body! And brain!”
“Yes.”
“Fuck my life.” You hit your head against the steering wheel again. This time you’re gentle, resting it against the horn like your life depends on it. “And now you know my secret. Great. Just great!”
“I won’t tell anyone about your tragic love life.” He says tragic sarcastically, which instantly sets you off. Because of course it does.
“It is tragic! I like him, and he doesn’t like me! What’s not tragic about that?!” You give an exasperated sigh and lean back in your seat. “I liked you more when I thought you weren’t real.”
“That’s rude.”
“Yeah, well… So is you making fun of me.”
His voice softens, and you can hear him sigh so gently. “I’m sorry.” You never expected a man to apologize to you. Let alone one so professional and monotone. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s missing out.”
“Thanks, Oscar.” The car is too quiet, so you quickly add, “If that’s even your real name.”
He laughs, and it’s so drastically human that you feel stupid for never noticing before. Just a soft chuckle that makes your tense shoulders relax, and your hands fall from the wheel that they had been gripping previously. “It is. I never lied to you, you know.”
“May as well have.”
“No, you just thought wrong for the entire time I was helping you.” He sighs again. “I hope you’re not weirded out.”
“No, actually. I’m a little relieved. I was starting to worry that I was actually bonding with a robot, so knowing you’re a real person makes me feel a bit better.”
“I’m glad.”
The one downside is that the silence is a lot more awkward this way. Having an AI be quiet was normal, because they were only expected to reply when you do, but now, knowing he was human, it felt a little unsettling. So you sit up, finger hovering over the button. “Well, goodnight, Oscar.”
“Goodnight. And good luck—”
You feel bad, but you’re overwhelmed by the events of tonight and shut his radio off and then murmur to yourself, “It’s only 6 p.m… Why’d I say goodnight?” You feel like honking your horn again. “I’m such an idiot!”
The next morning you’re running on pure energy drinks and two hours of sleep. You had spent the night driving around the city. Not racing, not speeding, but just driving. Radio off. You did that until you felt tired enough to go back home and go to bed.
This time you pull into the garage, hitting your button on instinct. You’ve nearly forgotten that it’s currently 6 a.m., and that your little robot friend is not a robot and is probably trying to sleep. Which is why you’re surprised when nobody greets you initially.
“Hello?”
His voice is groggy and low, a painful reminder that this man is running on human energy much like yourself. You bite your tongue, wanting to apologize but being too stubborn to do it.
“Sorry. Forgot.”
“Is something up?”
“Why are you up so early?” You answer his question with a question. Although it’s more like you ignore him to ask your own.
“I heard you ring in.”
You’re confused now. “Are you… Sleeping?”
“…” You can hear his disappointment. “Well obviously not.”
“I mean like—”
“I’m in bed, yes. Is this important?”
“No. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”
He groans. “Alright.” And then a yawn. It’s strange. You’re used to the quiet, monotone Oscar. He didn't make all these noises- or maybe he did, and you just never noticed. “If you want to talk, try again in like… Two hours.”
“Alright.” You turn the radio off.
Just as he instructed, you wait two hours before hitting the button again, hoping and praying that this time he’s actually up and running because you’re desperate to catch up with him already. You have a lot of questions.
“Morning, Y/N.” He greets, sounding much more lively than before.
“There you are!”
“What can I do for you this morning?”
“I just have some questions.”
“Sure.” The typing is clearer today. A reminder that you feel silly for not noticing before. “Just let me load up some statistics—”
“Not about that,” you interrupt.
He hums, clearly confused. “Okay… What do you want to know, then?”
You tap your fingers against the center console. “What are you wearing?”
He snorts, and you feel your cheeks flush. “That’s a little perverted, don’t you think?”
“Not like that!” You pinch the bridge of your nose, shaking your head. “I just wanna know. What do you look like? Are you like a fifty year old grease covered mechanic, or..?”
“I’m twenty four.” You can hear the smile in his voice.
“I’m noticing that you didn’t answer my initial question.”
His laugh is a little shy this time. He takes a moment, a noise leaving him that makes it seem like he’s debating what to say. “I’m wearing a t-shirt and shorts.”
“Well that’s boring.” You wait for a moment, and he says nothing. “Well, aren’t you gonna ask me what I’m wearing?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
“What are you wearing?” He asks after a moment of hesitation.
“A t-shirt and shorts.”
“Very funny.”
“Thank you.” You realize you’re grinning like an idiot, and you make a foolishly desperate attempt to stop, but you can’t. He’s a lot more fun to talk to now. That’s evident. “Do you know what I look like?”
“Is it creepy if I say yes?”
“Depends on how you know.” You lean back. “Like, if it’s because you follow me home or something then… Duh.”
“No. Definitely not.” He chuckles again. You feel like his laugh alone reveals enough about him. He’s a little shy, it would seem. “I have access to the security cameras in the garage as a secondary level of safety. I’ve seen you before, but only in black and white. Plus, you’re like… Made of five pixels.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Do I look pretty?”
“Um…” You’re worried you’ve made him uncomfortable, but then he gives a breathy laugh from his nose before answering, “From what I can see… Yes.” It’s a gentle whisper.
Oh he’s really shy.
“Thanks.” You actually feel a bit giddy at his compliment. Though, you’re sure he would have said yes whether he believed it or not. “What about you? Are you smoking hot— Is that why you hide your identity?”
“It’s not hidden.” He, again, avoids the question. But you wait, and he takes the hint. “I wouldn’t say so.”
Men were always liars about their looks. True or not, most would have said yes in response to your question. But Oscar said no. Which is somewhat reassuring, because at least he’s a humble assistant. “Your turn.”
“For what?”
“Ask me a question. Duh.”
He thinks for a moment. In fact, he thinks for a long moment. So long that you’re worried he got up and left— That he was sick of you. “What’s your… Biggest fear?” He settles on that.
You scoff. “That’s lame. You should’ve asked me something hot, like… What’s your wildest sexual fantasy? Or even What’s your type?”
“Those feel like very different levels of questions. Plus, I already know your type and who would be featured in your fantasy.”
…
“Sorry. Too far?”
“No, I just can’t believe you’d say something so low, Oscar…” You shake your head. “I’m smiling, don’t worry. I wish you could see.”
“Would you like me to check the cameras?”
“No, I look like shit.” You both laugh. It’s easygoing and refreshing. “For the record, my type isn’t just Charles. And I’m not gonna say a thing about my fantasy, because I don’t think you deserve to know. To be honest, I don’t even know why I like him— Or if I still do.”
“Then what’s your type? I won’t tell anyone.”
“I like… A guy with a cute smile, and… He has to be smart. And funny!” It’s basic, really. “Why, you interested?”
“You told me to ask-”
“Relax. I’m kidding.”
“I don’t fit that description anyway.” He adds on after a second. “Any more questions?”
“Can I see you? Face to face?”
He hesitates. “Are you asking me out?”
“Oscar.” You say it in a scolding tone. “Are you seriously teasing me?”
“No—”
“Why would I ask you out if you claim to not be my type?”
“I was teasing.” You can just tell he’s flustered.
“Fine,” you say with faux begrudge. “It can be a date, but you better make it worth my time.”
He’s picking up what you’re putting down with this playful vibe. “Alright, alright… Do you like Cipriani?”
“I’ve never been.” You’ve heard of it. Fancy, and way out of your budget.
“Then it’ll be a treat. Meet me there at six.”
“It’s a date.”
You go through multiple outfits, worried each time that you’re either under or overdressed for the occasion. It was a date, and it was at a fancy restaurant, but if you went all out then maybe he’d think you were trying too hard. You just wanted to get to know the guy face to face— To see who you’ve been talking to all this time.
You land on something simple. It’s a black off-the-shoulder, long sleeve dress that ends mid-thigh. It highlights your figure without being overly tight. Beneath that is a pair of tights and boots that end just below your knee. You feel awfully done up in comparison to your typical outfits, which really are just the most basic things you can find in your closet, but you don’t want to show up to a fancy restaurant looking like a slob.
You do your best to radiate confidence when you walk into the building, a bag slung over your shoulder as you tell the hostess the name of the reservation. She tells you that you’re the first to arrive as you sit down, menus laying on both sides of the small, circular table. You anxiously bounce your leg, looking over the menu, heart thundering at the high prices.
You’re so caught up in worrying about how you’re going to pay for a drink that you don’t notice someone sit down across from you. It’s only when he clears his throat that you look up, an apology on the tip of your tongue.
It’s lost the second you see him.
His face is soft and sweet, almost innocent. His fair skin is littered with moles, and his deep brown eyes sparkle like a doe’s in the gentle restaurant candlelight. His hair is terribly soft, reaching his nape. It swoops off to the side. He looks effortless in a charming way. He’s in a white button up with a suit jacket, the top button undone and lacking a tie— That would have been too fancy. You’re sure that’s what he was thinking.
“Wow.” That’s all you can get out. You think back to earlier that day when you had asked him if he was smoking hot, to which he answered no.
That liar.
“I’m sorry?” He smiles, laughing at your single syllable.
Goodness. His smile was adorable. ‘I don’t fit that description’ my ass! He had bunny teeth that were just a bit longer than the rest, but it was one of the cutest things you had ever seen. He was undeniably handsome.
“You’re too humble, Oscar.” You look back down at your menu. “I, for one, find you to be very handsome.” Why are you blushing? Why do you feel shy? Never before had you felt this way before— A warm, fuzzy feeling in your stomach. You were supposed to be brash and disagreeable. That was your thing. You were hotheaded with the mouth of a sailor, but right now you felt like you could melt into a puddle right in front of him.
“Thanks.” He smiles for real this time. It’s close mouthed, like he’s trying to hide his teeth, but it’s still heartbreakingly cute. “You’re much prettier in person. Not that you weren’t pretty before, I just couldn’t see you that well and—”
“It’s okay, I know what you meant.”
He’s very much relieved.
“Can I be honest with you?” You set the menu down. “This place is way too expensive.”
He laughs, and it sounds so easy. “It’s okay, I’m paying.”
“What? Are you sure? I can afford it, I just don’t know if I really want to blow my money on—”
“I promise. Order whatever sounds good.”
Your heart flutters at that. Something about a man being a gentleman in such a natural way really gets you going. You swallow nervously and nod. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Keep it cool, man.
It’s hard to be nonchalant.
The dinner went exceptionally well. You feel like you were blushing like a schoolgirl the entire night, and by the end of it you were walking on a dream. He walks you back to your car, offering you his jacket without you even having to complain about being cold. It’s like he could just tell.
“Thank you for the lovely dinner, Oscar.”
“Of course. Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight.”
You watch him walk away before getting back into your car and heading home. As you pull into your driveway, you make the bold decision to hit the radio button once more. Like always, he answers in a flash.
“Couldn’t get enough of me?” Does he have to be a tease? Right now? When you’re losing your mind already.
“Guess not.”
“What’s up?”
“Just wanted to say, you know… Because I think it’s worth mentioning…” You’re nervous. So nervous that your heart is pounding out of your chest. You’re entering heart attack levels. “You’re totally my type, you liar.” You try to be jokingly defensive because your statement feels all too embarrassing. Before he can even get a second to respond, you shut the radio off and lean back in your seat.
Now, of course, you sit in your car and regret every decision you’ve made in life.
You feel humiliated. So you do the only logical thing after that.
You avoid him.
Yep.
You actually avoid the garage as a whole, because it feels like if you show up, they’re all gonna know. They’ll all know you moved on so quickly from a life long crush and are in love with your engineer, which seems absurd but the thought haunts you nonetheless. You felt bad. Terrible, actually, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
But today you decide to face your fears and head into the garage with a clear, open mind. You don’t dare hit the button, because the idea of talking to him right now feels absurd, but you pull into the garage and park in your normal spot. You wait, taking deep breaths to work yourself up before stepping out.
And of course,
he’s there.
Waiting.
His face was stern and stoic.
“Oscar,” you breathe out softly. He steps closer, until you feel like you can’t breathe. His cologne is sickly sweet, and you desperately want to just bury your face against him and inhale it, but you’re frozen.
“Did I do something wrong?” He asks quietly, looking down at you. His face transitions from scarily serious to soft and tender. Genuine concern is etched in his pretty boy features, and you sincerely feel guilt. “I thought our dinner was good. Great, even. And what you said—”
“I know.” You cut him off because you’re embarrassed by the reminder, and then you instantly feel bad because his expression knits together in sadness. “I’m sorry, I freaked out. It did go well, really well.”
“So then why’d you disappear?”
“I’m… Nervous.” He doesn’t say anything because he wants to give you the freedom to speak for yourself. You huff, your leg tapping anxiously again. “This is— I don’t know. This is all new to me. I like you, a lot actually. I think you’re funny and charming, and I got all of that from just one date.” You’re rambling and he’s not stopping you. “You’re humble and sweet, too. You said you weren’t hot, and holy shit you are. Even right now when you’re just in sweats and a hoodie I feel like I can’t breathe just looking at you. God, it’s actually a little annoying because it’s so unfair—”
“Y/N.” Now he stops you, and you’re thankful because it was starting to reach an embarrassing point. He wears a smile. Empathetic.
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He reaches for your hand, and you don’t pull away. You just stare at him like a total dunce, unable to move. “I like you too. I think you’re witty, and you’re hilarious even when you don’t know what to say.” You smile because you can’t stop yourself from doing so. “If it helps, we can take it slow.”
“Yes. That would help a lot.”
He chuckles under his breath. “And to think you thought I was AI…”
“Oh shut up.”
“You’re doing great, love.”
“Quit distracting me with your cute bullshit, Oscar!”
You’re racing against Max. It’s a silent challenge for the number one spot, which you had been working and training for day after day for weeks now. Oscar was confident in your abilities, and you were finally confident in yourself, so you asked him if you could race one and one and he happily agreed. He loved a good challenge, after all.
“Upcoming turn. Remember, easy on the engine, but be confident in your speed.”
“Got it.”
Confident you are.
Because you cross the line first.
Oscar’s the first to hear about it, your car an echo chamber of your own shouting. “Number one, baby!” You pull into the garage, stepping out to shake Max’s hand in a moment of good sportsmanship. He congratulates you on your win, not fully understanding just how much this means to you.
You don’t want to look foolish celebrating such a seemingly small victory, so you keep your excitement to yourself until Oscar gets there, eagerly pulling you into a hug. He knows this means a lot to you— He’s been there from the beginning of this endeavor.
“I’m so proud,” he murmurs before giving you quite the dramatic kiss on the lips. You grin uncontrollably, squeezing him tight.
“All thanks to you.” He shakes his head, and you laugh. “Okay. Maybe not all.”
“Definitely not.” Another cheesy peck. “That was all you.”
sometimes all i think about is you ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .
featuring oscar piastri , roommate!au , friends to lovers , smut , use of fahrenheit (im american sorry deal w it) , unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it bbys !)
word count 4.2k
author’s note 18+ MDNI !!! once again (and probably every time i write smut) i will say i have no excuse for this one . if oscar piastri doesn’t want me to write smut about him then maybe he should stop posting slutty little photos where he’s all tan and sweaty !! like really … what was i meant to do with that . anyway let me know what you think , i hope you all enjoy <3 title is from heat waves by glass animals !
You’re halfway through your research when you notice the silence.
It’s not the comfortable, productive kind of quiet that tends to fall over the apartment while you work. This feels different. Ominous, even. Like there’s something you’ve gotten used to that’s suddenly gone missing.
You sit up straighter in your chair, frowning down at your laptop as you blink sweat out of your eyes. The cursor blinks back at you like it knows something you don’t. The air feels off — heavier, a little more stagnant, pressing down on your skin. Something about it makes your stomach twist nervously.
You push back from your desk and open your bedroom door. Your roommate is exactly where you expected him to be: sprawled on the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs as he types relentlessly away at the coding project he’s been “almost done with” for the past two weeks.
“Hey, Osc?”
He pulls out one AirPod, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he turns to look at you. You can hear his music even from your doorway, the house beats bumping through the tiny speaker. “What’s up?”
“Do you…” you pause, stepping fully into the living room. “Does it feel kinda hot in here to you?”
He presses up on his elbows, tilting his head slightly like he’s registering the temperature for the first time. “Yeah, actually. Weird.” He tosses his laptop on the coffee table, exchanges it for the air conditioner remote. When he points it at the unit and presses a button, nothing happens.
Your eyes flick to the AC unit. There’s no air moving above it. No breeze blowing through the leaves of the plants you’ve stacked across the windowsill.
Oscar tries again, pressing the buttons more frantically as you’ve ever seen him (which is to say, slightly harder than he did before). “It’s not working.”
“Shit,” you say, dread rising in your stomach. “You’re kidding.”
He raises an eyebrow at you, deadpan. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
He doesn’t. He looks mildly concerned at best, cheeks flushed and sweat starting to dampen the hair at his temples, brow furrowing in that calm, clinical way of his. You can tell he’s already cycling through possible fixes in his mind; to him, this situation is just another puzzle to be solved, an amusing diversion to take up his afternoon.
You, on the other hand, are spiraling.
“Oscar,” you say, words dripping off your tongue, “it’s nearly a hundred degrees outside. There’s been an extreme heat warning this entire week. I saw someone on TikTok this morning fry an egg on the sidewalk. And you’re telling me our AC is out?”
He points the clicker at the unit one more time for good measure. Nothing. Your chest tightens, as you glance down at your phone. 98º, the weather preview reads, next to a bright little sunshine icon. 98 degrees, and it’s barely 9 AM.
“Oh god,” you whine, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. It comes away damp. “Oh god, we’re gonna get heatstroke and die in this tiny shitty apartment.”
“Whoa. Okay. Don’t panic,” Oscar says softly, eyes wide, like he’s not quite sure what to do with the freaked-out version of you. He walks past you into the kitchen, filling a glass with water and handing it to you. “Drink this. I’m gonna check the breakers, yeah?”
He disappears down the hall to the fuse box, and you collapse onto the couch where he’d been laying. It’s still warm from his body heat, which somehow makes everything worse. You can already feel your hair sticking sweatily to the back of your neck. The water is lukewarm, but it helps a little.
Oscar’s back a few minutes later. “Did it work?” you ask hopefully, but he’s already shaking his head, holding his phone out to you. You can read the giant, size 128 font your super always uses in his emails from across the room: Building-wide HVAC outage. No ETA for repair.
“Okay,” you say slowly as you sit up, trying to channel some of his calmness. “Okay, we can figure this out. Ice packs. Cold showers. We can handle this. It’s gonna be fine.”
He nods uncertainly. There’s sweat starting to bead at his hairline. “I think there’s a fan in the closet that the people who lived here before us left. I’ll grab it.”
When he returns, he’s carrying the fan under one arm, biceps flexed around the frame. It’s an old thing — white plastic going yellow at the edges, wide square cage locked around three dusty blades, power cable frayed from use.
“That thing looks like it’s going to electrocute you,” you say, eyebrows raised.
He grins, plugging the cord into the wall. “C’mon, it adds character. Ready for sweet, sweet circulation?”
You scramble to the floor, sitting cross-legged directly in front of the fan. “Hit me, Piastri,” you say decidedly, and he flips the switch.
The fan wheezes to life, sort of. The blades creak into motion like they’ve woken up from a decade-long nap, and it only takes a moment before the first gust of air hits your waiting face.
Hot air.
“No,” you moan, and Oscar crouches next to you, hand in the corner of the frame like he’s trying to run his fingers through the breeze. “I thought this was gonna help. It feels like sitting in front of a fucking hair dryer.”
“Maybe it just needs a second to warm up?” he tries, but you’re already shaking your head.
“It is warm. That’s the problem.”
He sighs and sits on the floor next to you, knee brushing against yours. The fan keeps pushing the stifling air at your faces, like it’s mocking you. “Verdict: the fan is shit.”
“The fan is worse than shit,” you groan, letting your head loll against his shoulder. You can feel his skin even through his shirt, warm beneath your cheek. “The fan is actively taunting us. The fan is betraying us.”
“Okay, drama queen,” he says fondly, pulling the cord out of the wall. The fan stutters to a stop and silence falls again, the air feeling even swampier than before.
“We’ve got other ways to beat the heat,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself and you. “It’ll be fine.”
It’s absolutely, completely, one hundred percent not fine.
“This is hell,” you moan, fanning yourself with an old takeout menu. “Actual hell.”
Oscar swipes lazily at the menu, pulling it out of your hand. “Give me that.” He fans it at himself a few times, before letting it drop out of his hand with a groan.
For a while, it had kind of felt like an adventure. The two of you had dragged your stuff into the living room, worked side by side with bags of frozen peas pressed to your heads, cold beers sweating on the coffee table. The day dragged on, temperature climbing higher, and you’d been forced to get creative. On one trip to the kitchen, you’d figured out it was the shadiest place in the entire apartment, and promptly moved to lay out on the floor, tiles cool beneath your skin. The two of you took turns sticking your head in the freezer, too hot to be self-conscious about how stupid you looked. At least you’d gotten an ancient, frostbitten box of Bomb Pops out of it, long forgotten behind your ice tray. You’d spotted it, pulled it out and split the entire box between the two of you, rationing them like wartime supplies.
But now the popsicles are gone, the last of the beers going lukewarm, and you’re both pleasantly tipsy and running out of ways to keep yourself entertained. Judging from the way the sun is slanting golden through the window, you’re guessing it’s late afternoon, but you don’t dare get up and check your phone. That would mean expending energy and leaving the cold tiles behind, two things you are very much not prepared to do.
“This is such an undignified way to die,” you mumble instead, cheek flat against the cool floor. Your bottle is dripping with condensation, pressed into the skin of your neck.
“We’re not going to die,” Oscar says automatically, sliding down the cabinets until he’s on his back next to you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed.
You roll your head to the side to look at him. “I’m pretty sure this is how we go out. I’m wilting. I can feel my brain literally melting. Dripping out my ears.”
“Nah, I think that’s just sweat,” he grins, eyes sparkling.
“Ew, Osc.” You wrinkle your nose. “Gross. And also not helping.”
He lets out a laugh, lazy and breathless, forearm thrown over his eyes. “At least we’re going out together.”
“Yeah, put that on the tombstone,” you snort. “‘Here lies two idiots who died because they were too cheap to rent in a building with a competent super.’”
“We’re not cheap,” he protests weakly. “We’re… financially responsible.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s so financially responsible to just die of heatstroke.”
Oscar sighs, taking a long swig and then setting his beer down. The glass clinks against the tiles. “Okay. Well, we’re definitely not gonna survive if we keep wearing this much.”
You blink, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What?”
But he’s already shimmying his shorts down his legs, kicking them across the floor to the corner of the kitchen. “It’s basic heat management. Less layers means our skin’ll cool off faster.” He pulls his shirt over his head next, one clean, graceful movement.
And — okay. Okay. You weren’t prepared for Oscar to be shirtless.
You’ve lived together for almost two years. You’ve seen him before, on laundry day in a ratty muscle tank, on the way into the gym, even one particularly embarrassing moment when you walked into the bathroom before he’d gotten dressed, towel slung dangerously low on his hips. But you’d filed the moments away in your head as normal roommate occurrences, nothing to think twice about.
Clearly, you hadn’t been paying enough attention. Because now you don’t know what to do when he’s sitting on the kitchen floor in a pair of grey Calvins, skin flushed golden and peppered with moles, covered in a sheen of sweat. There’s a drop trailing down his chest, catching in the grooves of what look like very defined abs.
You know you’re staring. It’s shameless. You feel a little bit insane, actually. Oscar is… hot?
“You okay?” your roommate says, a little too casually.
“I —” you stammer, forcing your eyes up to his face. “What the hell, Osc. You have muscles.”
“Humans tend to have those,” he replies dryly.
“No, but like, I thought you had programmer muscles. Slouch over a computer all day and code muscles,” you try to explain. “But you look like you could be in like, a sexy sunscreen ad or something. When did you get so jacked?”
He laughs, a little breathless, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears look a little pinker than they were before. You’re not sure if it’s the heat or something else entirely. “I’ve always been like this. You just never noticed.”
You shake your head. “No way. I would have noticed that.”
“Apparently not,” he says, voice a little rough in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
He gestures at your sweat-soaked tank top. “Heat management, remember?”
“Right, yeah. Makes sense. Equal opportunity stripping,” you breathe, trying very hard to sound casual even though your pulse is racing under your skin. You take a breath, averting your eyes to the floor, and tug your tank top over your head.
The air hits your skin first, surprisingly cool. And then, unmistakably, Oscar’s eyes next, trailing down your body, heavy and lingering.
“You’re staring,” you note, and his gaze snaps back to your face.
He swallows hard, rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry, I —” His eyes flick back to your chest, like he can’t help himself, then quickly back up to your face. “Jesus.”
You raise an eyebrow, tiny smile on your face. “Humans tend to have those,” you echo him, gesturing vaguely at your bralette, and Oscar makes a strangled noise like he’s choked on his own tongue.
He rolls toward you on the floor slightly, one arm falling lazily over his waist as he looks up at you with those big brown eyes. “You can’t just do that.”
“Hey. You were the one who told me to take my shirt off,” you say, suddenly defensive.
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Well, I didn’t think you’d do it and look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Hot,” he says lowly, and now it’s your turn to sputter around your own breath.
“I mean — it is the middle of a heatwave,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes find yours. Hold them with an intensity that makes you shiver even in the heat. “You know that’s not the type of hot I meant.”
The air doesn’t feel stagnant anymore. It feels alive between you, some kind of simmering tension that’s using the heat as an excuse to finally, finally boil over.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, voice pitching high and unsteady.
His brows knit together. “What do you mean?”
“You’re looking at me like you want to kiss me or something,” you say, breathless.
A beat. Oscar’s lip catches in between his teeth as he looks at you, and you can feel your traitorous eyes drop to his mouth. His grin spreads slowly across his face, like he’s won something he didn’t know was up for grabs.
“I do want to kiss you,” he says. And then he leans in, slow, like he’s giving you the chance to stop all of it in its tracks, until there’s no space left between you.
When his mouth finally finds yours, it’s careful. He tastes like cherry popsicle, lips sticky with the leftover sugar and a salty twinge of sweat. One hand cups your cheek, the other resting tentatively on your waist, thumb skimming at the hem of your bralette like he’s still trying to figure out how far he’s allowed to go.
You don’t want him to be careful anymore.
You swing a leg over his lap, straddling him, knees knocking against the tile. His breath hitches as you settle against him, muscles tense beneath you. “You’re allowed to touch me, you know,” you murmur against his mouth.
He pulls back, chest rising and falling unevenly as he looks up at you. “Just — trying to be respectful,” he says roughly, fingers digging into the skin at your waist.
You smirk, rolling your hips against the obvious bulge in his briefs, hard and thick and throbbing. The groan he lets out is nothing short of filthy. “Osc, I’m literally half-naked on top of you. I think we’re way past the point of respectful.”
It’s like the permission flips a switch inside him. His mouth attaches to your neck, sucking little bruises into the soft skin, and suddenly, his hands are all over you. One sliding down your back, splaying over your hip and rocking you against him, cock rutting against your wet heat through your shorts. The other palming at your chest through your bra, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples pearl under his touch.
“So fucking hot,” he breathes into your skin, pausing between words to suck another mark at the swell of your breast. “Driving me insane, you know that? All fucking day with those shorts and that little tank top.”
You don’t respond. Just reach behind you, fingers nimbly unhooking your bralette, clasp damp against your back. The fabric falls away easily, straps slipping down your arms until you’re bare on top of him.
For a second, you think Oscar might have stopped breathing, hands frozen on your hips, eyes fixed on your tits.
“Oscar?” you say, breathless, rutting your hips against his in a shameless attempt to bring him back down from whatever planet he’s on. He blinks hard, shakes his head slightly like his brain is an Etch-a-Sketch he’s trying to reset. His pupils are blown, eyes wide as he stares up at you.
“Sorry, yeah, I —” he mumbles, and then his head is ducking down, mouth closing around your nipple, warm and wet. His tongue flicks sharp over the nub of it, his other hand coming up to palm at your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers.
It feels like he’s everywhere, all hands and lips and tongue, and you gasp, arch your back like you’re trying to get more of your tits into his mouth. He groans around you, teeth grazing against the sensitive area gently. The vibrations go straight to your core. “Osc — fuck — ”
“Good?” he mutters against you, and you nod frantically. His free hand wraps under you, fingers splaying against the curve of your ass, and he picks you up and presses you into the kitchen tile without taking his mouth off you. The move is so absurdly, unfairly hot that the only thought in your mind is why you didn’t let him do it sooner.
He pulls back, and you’re about to whine at the loss of contact until you feel his mouth against you again, pressing messy open-mouthed kisses in a trail down your stomach, tongue dragging against your skin like he needs to taste you. Your fingers weave easily into his hair, tugging loosely at the roots, and he whines.
“Can I —” he breathes when he gets to the waistband of your shorts, looking up at you through his lashes, and you’re lifting your hips in reply before he can even really get the question out of his mouth.
“Please,” you gasp, like he needs any extra confirmation. Like he’s not already hooking his fingers into the elastic and tugging your shorts and panties down your legs.
“Fuck,” he rasps once you’re laid bare in front of him, hand sliding slick up your thigh to your center. “You’re unreal.”
He kisses the inside of your thigh gently, then again. Higher and higher he goes, mouth dragging just shy of where you need him most. “Taste so fucking good already f’me,” he mumbles to himself, almost reverent. “Can’t believe I get to do this.”
Your hips kick involuntarily at the vibration from his words, his breath teasing at your cunt. “Then do it, Osc,” you whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. “Please.”
Apparently your begging does the trick. He plants one hand on your thigh, uses it to pull you towards him, spreading your thighs wide enough to keep them apart with his shoulders, and then presses the flat of his tongue to you, licking a long, hot stripe up your center.
He eats you out like he’s been dying to do it, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what makes you tick, what will make you fall apart the fastest under him. It’s a little sloppy, hot and wet and reckless, but it works — tongue circling around your clit in a way that makes you moan high and breathless. The sound only seems to spur him on, fingers slipping into you a second after that.
Your back arches off the tile at the feeling of his fingers, fucking you open slowly. Not that it’s doing a thing to cool you down anymore. With his mouth and his hands on you, you feel like you’re burning up from the inside out.
When he sucks your clit into his mouth, crooking his fingers inside you, the sensation is nearly too much to bear. “Osc, don’t stop — I’m gonna —” you pant brokenly, hips rocking against his face, his hand.
“Let go. Come on, baby, let me taste it,” he murmurs directly into your core, and your orgasm rips through you, thighs shaking around Oscar’s shoulders. He works you through it, tongue lapping at you like he wants to devour you as you writhe beneath him.
When you finally come back down to earth, you tug him back up your body until you’re face to face. “You good?” he asks breathlessly, looking down at you. He’s so pretty like this — wild-eyed, flushed and panting, hair mussed, mouth shining.
“Yeah. Yes,” you nod, dazed. “So fucking good.” He grins down at you, obviously pleased, if the way his hips twitch into yours is anything to go by.
You reach up for him instinctively, suddenly desperate to taste yourself on his tongue. The resulting kiss is hot and sticky and perfect, even better when you let your hand slip between the two of you to palm at his cock through his briefs. He hisses, jerks his hips forward as you work your fingers beneath the waistband, pulling them down just enough for his length to spring free, hard against his stomach.
He breaks the kiss just enough to shove the briefs down, past his ankles, kicking them to the rapidly growing pile of clothes in the corner of the kitchen. When your hand wraps around him, thumbing across the tip and spreading the wetness gathering there down his length with one experimental pump, he gasps, hips canting against your hand.
“Fuck, you can’t — I’m not gonna last if you do that,” he admits, eyes closed and breathing uneven.
Maybe it’s the heat that makes you bold, or maybe it’s his honesty, saying straight out how badly you affect him. But something makes you grin up at him and say it: “Maybe you should hurry up and get inside me, then.”
His eyes snap open, and he makes a wrecked little noise at that, something between a whimper and a growl. “Fuck. Okay. Condom. In my room, I think —”
You laugh, breathless, hooking one leg around his waist and pulling him down to press his forehead against yours. “I’m on the pill. And I trust you, Osc.”
His eyes flutter shut like that might legitimately be his undoing, cockhead pushing at your slick folds, barely holding himself back. “Jesus fucking Christ. Okay.”
He lines himself up, sinks into you so slowly that it’s torture. The feeling is overwhelming, the stretch, the heat of it. He’s thick, perfect, pressed so deep into you when he finally bottoms out that it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
“Shit,” Oscar chokes out, helpless. “You feel — fuck, you feel insane.”
You dig your heels into his back, nails dragging over his shoulders. “Probably feel better if you move,” you breathe, and his eyes go dark, pulling out just to slam back into you with a long moan.
He finds a rhythm fast. Messy, desperate thrusts that echo filthily against the tile every time his hips snap into yours, skin sliding against skin. He’s bracing one hand beside your head, the other gripping under your thigh to keep you spread open, flushed and panting beneath him.
“You’re so —” he starts, voice breaking into a moan as you rock your hips to meet him with each thrust, your cunt gripping him warm and tight and ready. “Fuck. Wanted this so bad.”
“You thought about this?” you manage between gasps, and he nods.
“All the fucking time. Jesus, you feel so good,” he groans, voice rough and hot against your ear. “So fucking tight, baby — m’not gonna last.”
You’re a mess beneath him already, gasping and clawing at his back as he fucks into you. “Don’t have to,” you whine as he hikes your leg up his waist, opening you up even more for him. The angle has your vision blurring, seeing stars every time his length scrapes that one spot inside you. “Want you to come, Osc, please, need to feel you.” You clench around him on instinct, and he shudders, hips stuttering.
“Fuckfuckfuck, don’t do that, I’m so close,” he grits out, hand sliding between your bodies to your clit, rubbing tight little circles against you. “Need to make you come first.”
You let out a moan, almost incoherent. You can already feel it building, coiling low and tight in your stomach, sparked by the heat and his voice and the frantic way he’s moving inside you. “Osc, I’m gonna —”
“Yeah?” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut as you pulse around him, so close to falling over the edge. “Do it then. Want to feel it on my cock.”
You come with a yelp, back arching and cunt fluttering around him. A moment later, Oscar’s rhythm falters inside you, and then he’s gasping your name, spilling into you with a groan that vibrates against your skin.
He stays like that for a moment, shivering in the aftermath, pressed fully against you, skin slick and sticky, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.
“...So,” he breathes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “That definitely didn’t help us cool down.”
You laugh, breathless. Fucked out. “Not even a little bit.”
“Cold shower together next?” he grins, dazed, cheeks flushed as he waggles an eyebrow at you. You smack him on the arm lazily in response, no real heat behind it.
But you don’t say no. And when he scoops you up off the floor into his arms and carries you to the bathroom, you get a distinct, giddy sort of feeling that no matter how long the heat wave lasts, whatever is happening between the two of you isn’t cooling off anytime soon.
Summary: You thought you could handle it—ignore the DMs, avoid the man who kept showing up, keep smiling so Lando wouldn’t worry. But fear doesn’t stay hidden forever. When it all comes crashing down on race day, you expect panic… not the quiet, relentless way he makes sure you’re never alone again.
One little kiss on the broadcast after the last race. One soft, blink-and-you-miss-it moment in parc fermé. The internet did not blink.
Your follower count doubled overnight. Every second comment was either “She’s gorgeous!!” or “Who is she??” or, occasionally, “She’s clearly distracting him from winning”—which you told yourself was hilarious, because Lando had just finished on the podium.
By the time you landed at the next circuit, your phone was a warzone. You’d shown Lando a few of the comments, half-laughing, half-concerned.
He’d only shrugged. “Take the internet with a grain of salt. They’ll find something else to talk about in a week.”
You were trying to believe him.
⸻
It was warm in the paddock, sunlight bouncing off the asphalt as you walked from hospitality toward the garage. Your pass swung lightly from your lanyard, the papaya accents on your dress catching the eye of more than one camera.
Halfway down the lane, you noticed him.
Standing by the outer fence, just beyond the designated fan zone. No team colors, no obvious camera. Just… watching.
Your steps slowed for a fraction of a second. His eyes followed yours, unreadable. You couldn’t place his age—somewhere late thirties, maybe. A little too still in the chaos around him.
Before you could think more about it, someone from the team called your name from up ahead. You turned toward them, breaking the moment. When you glanced back, the man was still there. Still looking.
⸻
That night, your phone buzzed with a DM request.
Unknown: That dress looked better in person. The cameras don’t do you justice.
Your heart skipped, pulse jumping in your throat.
You sat back, staring at the screen. Your profile wasn’t private—plenty of strangers could have sent that. The paddock had hundreds of people milling around at any given time. Could be a random fan who’d seen the broadcast.
You locked your phone and set it face-down on the table.
By the next day, you’d convinced yourself to let it go. The man by the fence slipped from your mind as you sipped coffee in hospitality, teasing Lando about his hair under the helmet. You posted a few race-day selfies. Normal. Easy. Like nothing had happened at all.
⸻
The off weeks were supposed to be calm.
Sleep in, no airports, no cameras in your face the second you left the hotel.
Monaco was bright and glittering that week, warm enough that you and Lando walked almost everywhere—coffee runs in the morning, late dinners with friends, quick stops at the marina just to sit and watch the yachts.
Everything felt normal… mostly.
Except the DMs hadn’t stopped.
On Instagram:
Unknown: You always look best in papaya.
On Twitter, buried in your mentions:
@somethingrandom: Saw you today. That skirt. Good god.
You’d blocked every account as they came in, but more just popped up—different usernames, same tone.
⸻
The first time you thought you saw him again, you told yourself it was nothing.
You and Lando were leaving a café, and across the street, just by the shadow of a building, was a man with the same stillness you remembered from the paddock.
It was only a few seconds before a bus rolled by and blocked your view.
When it passed, he was gone.
⸻
The second time, you were with Lando at the market, him trying to decide between two jars of pasta sauce like it was the most important choice of his life. You caught sight of him—tall, dark jacket, leaning casually near a stall but not really shopping.
Your stomach tightened.
You must’ve looked off, because Lando glanced over, eyebrows knitting. “You good?”
“Yeah,” you lied quickly. “Just… distracted.”
He smirked. “From the thrilling world of marinara selection? Fair.”
⸻
By the third time—passing a side street as you and Lando headed toward the marina—your pulse was already picking up. The silhouette at the end of the alley looked too familiar. You kept walking, forcing yourself not to look again.
That night, curled on the couch with Lando, you flinched at every creak outside the balcony. He noticed, of course.
“You’re jumpy,” he said, arm pulling you closer. “Is this ‘cause of that horror film we watched last night? Knew I shouldn’t have let you pick.”
You let out a weak laugh, leaning into him. “Yeah. Guess I’m just on edge.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “If anyone tries to break in, I’ll fight ‘em. Unless they’re bigger than me, in which case… I’ll verbally fight ‘em.”
You laughed for real that time, but you didn’t tell him he was wrong.
⸻
Race weekends had their own rhythm—noise, chaos, heat. You’d learned to navigate the paddock with a kind of muscle memory, slipping from hospitality to the garage like you belonged there.
This time, the man broke the pattern.
You spotted him before you even reached McLaren’s side of the paddock.
Different jacket, different spot, but unmistakable. Leaning against a barrier, posture easy, like he had all the time in the world.
Your steps faltered.
He didn’t move toward you. Didn’t speak.
But his gaze found yours and held it.
It wasn’t curiosity—it was knowing.
You ducked your head quickly and slipped inside hospitality, forcing a laugh when one of the team’s media girls nearly bumped into you.
⸻
The rest of the day, you stayed out of sight. No hanging by the garage entry, no chatting with the engineers between sessions. Even when the checkered flag fell and Lando crossed the line, you lingered back instead of weaving your way to the front for the post-race photos.
From the stage, Lando was grinning, arms raised, but when he caught sight of you in the back, something in his smile flickered.
⸻
He found you in the motorhome later, hair still damp from the champagne spray.
“You okay?” he asked, towel slung around his neck.
You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… bit of a headache. I’m fine.”
First lie.
He gave you a searching look, then stepped closer, brushing his knuckles gently against your temple. “Guess the noise doesn’t help. Come on, let’s get you back to the hotel before you turn into a zombie.”
⸻
That night, the tension crawled under your skin.
You locked the door when you came in.
Then checked it again before bed.
Hours later, you slipped out from under the covers to check it a third time. The lock clicked softly as you tested it, and when you turned back, Lando was half-awake, squinting at you in the dim light.
“What’re you doing?”
“Bathroom,” you whispered.
He grunted, rolling over, already drifting off again.
You stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, sleep a stranger, the faint echo of that man’s eyes on you still threading through your thoughts.
⸻
Monaco nights always felt a little unreal—bass bleeding into the streets, lights bouncing off the water, laughter spilling out of doorways.
You were sandwiched between Charles and Lando as they wove through the crowd toward one of the clubs Charles swore by. It should’ve been fun. It used to be fun.
Inside, it was pure chaos—music pounding, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, and the haze of perfume and spilled drinks hanging in the air.
Lando handed you a glass, ice clinking. “Just one sip,” he said with a grin.
You shook your head. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
Your eyes flickered past him. The other side of the club was a blur of movement and light, but—just for a second—you thought you saw him. The set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.
“Just… don’t feel like it,” you mumbled.
Lando shrugged, turning back toward Charles, but your attention stayed locked across the room. Too far to be sure. Too many people moving in the way. But the longer you tried to track him, the more your chest tightened.
Someone jostled past you, shoulder slamming into yours. Another brushed your arm. A third leaned in, laughing too close. The air felt thick and hot, your pulse skipping.
“Hey—” you tugged on Lando’s sleeve, your voice sharp with urgency, “I need to get out. Please.”
His head snapped toward you instantly. “Okay—yeah—come on.”
He didn’t hesitate, weaving you through the crush of people, one hand firm at your back until the night air hit you like a shock.
Outside, you braced your hands on your knees, trying to breathe.
“Hey, hey…” He crouched a little to catch your gaze. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Was it too crowded?”
You shook your head, swallowing hard. “I don’t know. Just… needed air.”
He frowned, searching your face. “You’ve been… jumpy lately. Maybe you should—” He hesitated, as if weighing the words. “Maybe talk to someone? A doctor? Just to see if there’s… I don’t know, something to help?”
You wanted to tell him. Wanted to explain that it wasn’t just some vague anxiety, that there was a reason. But the words stuck in your throat, tangled up with the pounding in your ears.
“Yeah,” you said instead, voice small. “Maybe.”
⸻
The next morning, you sat in your PCP’s office, hands folded tightly in your lap. You heard yourself admit it out loud—that it was getting harder to function normally, that you couldn’t shake the constant edge in your chest.
By the time you left, there was a small orange bottle in your bag, a low-dose anxiety med to try.
The first night, it made you nauseous.
The second night, worse.
You didn’t tell Lando. You didn’t want him to think you were giving up.
When he saw the bottle on your counter, his smile was soft, proud. “Good for you. Seriously. That’s a big step.”
You smiled back, even though the queasiness was still gnawing at you, and told yourself you could push through.
Because if you admitted the pills were making things worse, you’d have to admit why you needed them in the first place.
And that was still a truth you weren’t ready to hand over.
⸻
The email landed in your inbox like a rock in your stomach.
Subject: McLaren Accreditation — [July 2025]
Your eyes traced over the words, the official tone, the attached PDF with your pass details. Normally, this was the kind of thing you’d text to Lando with a dozen orange heart emojis. Normally, it was exciting.
Today, your cursor hovered over the Reply button.
You could just… say something came up. Family emergency, work obligation—anything that meant you wouldn’t have to step into the paddock and risk seeing him again.
The mental image flashed unbidden: the way he’d stood by the barrier, not smiling, not speaking—just watching.
Your finger twitched toward the mouse.
Then you exhaled sharply, hitting the laptop shut instead. No. You weren’t going to let some creep ruin your time with Lando. You weren’t going to hand him the power to keep you away from the place you’d been so happy.
⸻
When you arrived at the next race, you were ready—or at least, you told yourself you were.
Sunglasses on, hoodie up despite the warmth, you walked the paddock like you were just another person avoiding the midday glare. But your eyes were constantly scanning. Every shadow, every figure standing still, every shape that seemed too familiar.
You laughed when Lando teased you for looking like you were in disguise. “Just keeping the sun off,” you said, tugging your hood lower.
He squinted at you, but didn’t push. Not then.
⸻
Later, while he was strapped into the car, he caught himself glancing toward the garage entrance between radio calls. You hadn’t been hanging around the front row like usual.
He pinged one of the guys in the garage—half-joking, half-serious. “Hey, keep an eye on her for me, yeah?”
“On it,” the guy replied with a grin, though Lando didn’t find it particularly funny.
Because something was up. You’d been off for weeks now—more distant, more careful, always wrapped in that damn hoodie.
A small, ugly thought wormed its way in while he was waiting for the lights to go out. What if she’s pulling away because she’s about to end it?
He shook it off, gripping the wheel tighter. He’d figure it out after the race.
Right now, he just had to trust someone was watching your back.
⸻
The fan zone was loud with music and chatter, a sea of merch and waving hands. Normally, you’d linger—take a few pictures for your Instagram story, chat with McLaren fans, maybe snag a coffee from the vendor at the far end.
Not today.
Today, you spotted him within seconds.
He wasn’t in any sort of team gear. No camera slung over his shoulder. Just… standing. Watching. That same unreadable expression.
Your stomach clenched.
You kept your head down and moved quickly, weaving between the crowd until you found the side entrance to McLaren hospitality. The door clicked shut behind you, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Inside, surrounded by familiar papaya shirts, you felt marginally safer. But your phone buzzed in your pocket, and that fragile calm cracked.
Instagram DM — Unknown:You can’t hide behind him forever.
Your chest tightened.
You didn’t reply. You didn’t block him—because that meant losing the ability to see if he messaged again. You just… left it there, sitting like a splinter under your skin.
⸻
Hours later, you were in the corner of the hospitality lounge, scrolling idly between Instagram and Twitter. Same man. Same cryptic comments.
You must have gone still, because suddenly Lando’s voice broke through. “Hey.”
You looked up, startled. He was standing over you, hair damp from the post-session shower, brows drawn together. “What’s with that face?”
“What face?”
“The… I-just-read-something-bad-and-I’m-pretending-I-didn’t face.” He gestured vaguely at your phone.
You forced a shrug. “It’s just trolls. I’m used to it.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Not the good kind of trolls, I’m guessing.”
You smiled weakly. “There’s a good kind?”
He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. After a moment, he reached out and ruffled your hair lightly. “Don’t give them the satisfaction, yeah? They’re not worth it.”
“I know,” you said, tucking your phone away.
He hesitated—like he wanted to push further—but finally nodded and walked off toward the garage.
You watched him go, guilt curling in your chest.
Because the truth was, if it was just trolls, you wouldn’t feel like you were constantly being followed.
⸻
The garage was loud with post-race chaos — clanging tools, chatter between engineers, the occasional shout over a laptop’s whine. It was the kind of noise that usually made you smile, a soundtrack to Lando’s world.
Not today.
Your skin felt too tight, the air too warm, so you slipped out the side door, telling yourself you’d just get a few breaths of fresh air before anyone noticed you were gone.
The back walkway behind hospitality was quiet. The hum of distant generators, the faint scent of rubber and fuel in the air. You let yourself relax—
“Finally.”
You froze.
He stepped out from the shadow of the fence like he’d been waiting. That same man. Same flat, fixed stare. Only this time, he was close enough that you could smell the sour tang of his breath.
Your mouth went dry. “I—”
His hand shot out, curling around your upper arm in a grip that made you flinch instantly.
“It’s time you came with me,” he murmured, voice low but firm, like it was already decided. His other hand came up, brushing your side as he leaned closer, his chest almost touching yours.
The heat of his breath hit your ear and bile rose in your throat.
You jerked hard, panic flooding your limbs. “Let go!”
For a split second, his fingers dug in tighter. Then you wrenched free, stumbling backward before spinning on your heel.
And then you ran.
Adrenaline roared in your ears. Your chest ached, lungs burning, but you didn’t stop until you found the first unlocked door — a storage room stacked with spare signage and boxes of bottled water.
You slammed it shut, failing to twist the lock with shaking hands before sliding down the wall, breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts.
Your palms pressed over your mouth to muffle the sobs threatening to spill out. Your heart felt like it was trying to punch its way through your ribs.
In the dim light, crouched behind a stack of boxes, you hugged your knees to your chest.
Your whole body trembled.
You wished you’d never come. Never gotten that stupid accreditation email. Never walked into the paddock thinking you’d be safe just because you were with Lando.
A tear slid down your cheek, then another. You pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to breathe, but the images replayed — his face, his grip, the smell of his breath right against your skin.
And somewhere beyond the locked door, the race weekend carried on like nothing had happened.
⸻
Lando was pacing the length of the McLaren garage, scanning every face that walked past.
“She was just here,” he said for the third time, voice tight. “I told her I’d only be a few minutes—”
One of the garage guys glanced up from packing away equipment. “She was, mate. We were cleaning up and she must’ve slipped out the back.”
Lando’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing. “You were supposed to keep an eye on her.”
The guy held his hands up defensively. “I was. I swear, one second she was right there—”
Lando didn’t wait for the rest, already grabbing his headset off the counter. “If something’s happened—” His voice cut off, the words too sharp to finish.
Oscar caught his eye, reading the worry there. “I’ll take the back side,” he said, already heading out before Lando could argue.
The storage corridor was dim, the air cooler than outside. Oscar moved slowly, scanning open doors and shadowed corners—until he caught it. A sound. Small, broken.
He stopped outside a closed storage room. “…Hello?” he called, but softer than usual. No response—just the muffled hitch of a breath.
He tried again, voice steady. “It’s Oscar. I’m gonna open the door, alright?”
The door was unlocked, and it creaked slightly as it swung open. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, finding you crouched on the floor behind a stack of boxes, knees tucked tight to your chest.
When he stepped inside, you flinched — hard — scooting back until your shoulder hit the wall.
Oscar froze where he was, hands up slightly like he was approaching a skittish animal. “Okay, okay… I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “It’s just me. You know me.”
Your breaths came fast and shallow. You didn’t speak.
He knelt slowly, staying a good few feet away. “You’re safe here. No one’s gonna get to you in here.” His tone was quiet, almost conversational. “I’m gonna sit right here, and when you’re ready… we can go find Lando.”
Your eyes darted to the doorway, then back to him.
“Did something happen?” he asked gently. “You don’t have to tell me now. Just… nod if you want to get out of here.”
You didn’t nod. But your breathing hitched again, and you wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve.
Oscar’s voice stayed soft, patient. “It’s noisy out there. Too many people. If we walk slow, we can go the quiet way back. You can stay on my left so no one bumps into you.”
A long silence. Then you shifted — just barely — in his direction.
“That’s it,” he said quietly, encouraging. “Just me here. No rush.”
It took another moment before you finally reached for the hand he offered. Even then, your grip was shaky, like you might pull back at any second.
He didn’t push. Just kept his pace slow, body angled slightly to block anyone from getting close, guiding you down the corridor.
Halfway there, he slid his phone from his pocket and typed without breaking stride:
Oscar: Something happened. She’s with me. Don’t panic but come to hospitality now.
By the time you turned the corner, Lando was already there — eyes wide, every line of him coiled tight — and Oscar gently stepped aside, letting you decide whether to go to him or not.
⸻
The garage was quieter now, most of the team still huddled in debrief. But Lando wasn’t listening to anything except the pounding in his chest when he finally saw you.
He was across the floor in seconds.
“Where the hell were you? Do you have any idea—”
Your body jerked like he’d struck you. Eyes wide. Shoulders curling inward.
The sharpness in his voice vanished. “Oh, love…” He reached for you, slow and steady this time, and when you didn’t pull away, he pulled you into his arms. You were trembling so hard it rattled through him.
It took a moment before your voice came — shaky, almost too quiet to hear. “He was here again.”
Lando pulled back just enough to see your face. “Who?”
“The man… from the fence in Australia. The one I kept seeing in Monaco.” You swallowed hard. “The one who’s been DMing me.”
His brows drew together, the tension in his jaw sharpening. “DMing you?”
You nodded. “At first it was just comments about what I was wearing. Then it turned into… threats. I thought if I ignored them, it would stop. I didn’t want to make it your problem.”
The muscles in his forearms flexed where his hands cupped your shoulders. “You didn’t want to make it my problem? You are my problem. My responsibility. My—” He broke off, voice tight with frustration. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
“I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it.”
“Handle it?” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “It’s not your job to handle some creep following you around the world. It’s mine to keep you safe.” He shook his head like he was trying to reel it all in, then softened. “God, I wish you’d told me sooner.”
You bit your lip, guilt creeping up your throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he murmured, tugging you back into his chest. “You’re safe now. I promise you that.”
⸻
Ten minutes later, you were sitting in hospitality with a police officer across the table. Lando hadn’t let go of your hand once, thumb tracing steady circles into your skin as you told the officer everything — from the first message to the bruises now forming on your arm.
After your statement was done, he guided you to the security office, where the two of you sat with the track’s head of security watching grainy CCTV footage from behind the garage.
“That’s him,” you said the moment you saw him step out from behind a transport truck.
Lando’s grip on your chair tightened, but his voice stayed calm. “Get his photo circulated to every marshal, every team. He’s not getting within fifty feet of her again.”
They promised to flag his accreditation and ban him from future events.
⸻
By the time you reached the hotel, the adrenaline had worn off and exhaustion had set in. But Lando didn’t stop moving.
He went room to room, locking every window, double-latching the doors, even sliding the chain across. “Just so you know you’re safe,” he said quietly.
When you were finally in bed, he climbed in beside you, pulling you against his chest. His arm stayed wrapped around you like an anchor.
You stared at the ceiling for what felt like forever. Eventually, you whispered, “I can’t sleep.”
He shifted to look at you. “Still wired?”
“My chest…” Your voice broke a little. “It physically hurts. Like someone’s sitting on me. I just… I can’t get the weight of today off me.”
Lando sat up, thoughtful for a second, then slipped out of bed. He returned with a small hotel ice bag wrapped in a thin towel. “Here,” he murmured, nudging you to sit up slightly.
You frowned. “What are you—”
“Trust me. My mum used to do this when I’d get all wound up after a bad day.” He gently pressed the cool bag to the space between your boobs, right over your sternum. “Something about it makes your body think you’re safe. Lowers your heart rate.”
You sucked in a sharp breath at the cold, but after a few seconds, the pressure in your chest began to ease. Your breaths came slower. The knot in your stomach loosened.
“Better?” he asked softly.
You nodded, leaning into him. “Yeah. A little.”
“Good. That’s all we need tonight—a little better.” He settled back, keeping the ice in place with one hand while the other stroked your hair.
You fell asleep in his arms like that, the heaviness still there but muted, softened under the steady thump of his heartbeat and the cool press of his makeshift remedy.
For the first time all day, you felt like maybe — just maybe — you could breathe again.
⸻
You woke to the smell of toast.
Blinking in the soft morning light, you found the other side of the bed empty, the sheets still warm where Lando had been. A rustle from the corner drew your attention—he was standing by the tiny kitchenette, hair still messy from sleep, wearing one of his hoodies and your favorite smug little half-smile.
“Morning,” he said, sliding a plate onto the desk. Two pieces of toast, scrambled eggs, a few slices of fruit arranged in a slightly lopsided heart.
You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “You… made breakfast?”
“Hotel breakfast is boring,” he shrugged. “Plus, I didn’t want to let you out of the room yet. I had a few groceries delivered and picked them up in the lobby”
The casual way he said it made something warm settle in your chest.
“Did you sleep at all?” you asked.
He shook his head like it didn’t matter. “I wasn’t going to until I was sure you were okay. Besides…” He gestured toward the locked balcony door. “Every door, every window—still locked. You’re safe.”
You pushed the blanket back and padded over to him, stealing a bite of toast before he could hand you a fork. “You’re really not going to let me out of your sight, are you?”
“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Not after last night. You can complain if you want, but tough luck.”
You laughed softly, leaning into his side. “Not complaining. I like my personal security guard.”
“Good, because you’ve got me until further notice.”
When you finally sat down to eat, he pulled up a chair beside you, keeping one arm draped loosely along the back of your seat. Every so often, you caught him glancing at you like he was still making sure you were really there, really okay.
It was protective and grounding all at once—the kind of morning that made the nightmare of the day before feel like something you might actually get past.
⸻
Lando’s phone buzzed against the hotel nightstand, Zak Brown’s name flashing on the screen.
“Hang on,” Lando said, answering. “Hey, Zak—”
“Put her on speaker,” Zak’s voice came through immediately, no preamble.
Lando glanced at you, brow raised, then tapped the speaker icon and set the phone between you on the bed.
“Hi, it’s Zak,” came the firm, warm American accent. “First off, I need to say how deeply sorry I am for what happened this weekend. It’s unacceptable. We’ve worked with race directors, and the man has been identified and flagged—he will not be allowed into any races moving forward. Period.”
Your throat tightened. “Oh—Zak, that’s… you didn’t have to call—”
“I’m not finished,” he cut in gently but firmly. “You will follow up with legal about pressing charges. I know you’re about to tell me it’s not necessary, and I don’t want to hear it.”
“But I—”
“Zip it,” he said, the way only a dad could. “I’m a girl dad. This has me absolutely furious. This is not something you sweep under the rug, and it is not something you should handle on your own. Understood?”
You blinked, taken aback but a little grateful for his stubbornness. “…Understood.”
“Good,” Zak continued. “In the meantime, McLaren is assigning a dedicated staff member for security—specifically for you and the other WAGs—anytime you’re outside hospitality. You’ll get a proper introduction so you don’t have a stranger lurking in your peripheral vision. That way you can enjoy being here without looking over your shoulder.”
You let out a shaky sigh, leaning into Lando. “Thank you, Zak. Really. I appreciate it.”
“You’ve got nothing to thank me for. I just want you to feel safe,” Zak said firmly. “Now, you go get some rest, and we’ll make sure you’ve got the right support in place before the next race.”
When the call ended, you exhaled and sank further against Lando, wrapping your arms around him. “I’m sorry for being a problem.”
His arms tightened instantly around you. “You’re not a problem. Don’t ever say that again.”
You hesitated. “…I think I might go back to my doctor. See if I can get an anxiety med that actually works for me. At least for now.”
His hand smoothed over your hair. “If that’s what helps, then do it. I only want what’s best for you. I want you to want to be in the paddock with me—not spend the whole time bracing for something bad to happen.”
You let his words settle, letting the steady beat of his heart under your ear anchor you.
“Okay,” you murmured, finally letting yourself believe that maybe things could be fun again.
⸻
You adjusted the strap of your McLaren lanyard as you stepped through the paddock gates, the familiar hum of engines in the background. This time, though, you weren’t alone for long.
A tall man in a McLaren polo stepped forward with an easy grin. “Y/N, right? I’m Callum. Officially, I’m your security liaison. Unofficially…” he tilted his head with a smirk, “…I’m your shadow for the weekend.”
You blinked. “Shadow?”
“Yep. Always somewhere in the background, occasionally in the foreground, making sure you don’t get lost, stolen, or fed terrible coffee,” he said, falling into step beside you. “The last one’s my personal mission.”
You laughed despite yourself. “That sounds way less intense than it probably is.”
Callum just shrugged. “Well, it’s my job to make sure you don’t notice me doing my job. And, you know, if you get bored while Lando’s in the car, I’m not bad at small talk.”
It turned out he wasn’t kidding. By the time you reached hospitality, you’d already been roped into a passionate debate about the best street food in every race city, and Callum had offered a dramatic retelling of the time he’d been soaked head-to-toe in a rain delay.
When Lando spotted you from across the lounge, his brow lifted briefly—like he wasn’t expecting you to already be mid-laugh with someone else—but his expression softened into a smile as he walked over.
“You’ve met Callum then,” Lando said, slipping his hand to the small of your back.
“Yeah,” you said, still smiling. “Apparently he’s my shadow now.”
Lando’s lips twitched. “Good. I can actually get some laps in without worrying.”
Callum saluted lazily. “Don’t worry, boss. She’s in good hands.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Alright, Shadow, first mission—coffee.”
“On it,” Callum said, leading the way like it was the most important task in the paddock.
And for the first time in weeks, you realized you weren’t scanning the crowd over your shoulder.
⸻
You’d found a quiet stretch of pit wall just outside hospitality where the view of the track was perfect. Callum leaned beside you, one elbow propped up casually, McLaren cap pulled low against the sun.
“So,” he said, nodding toward the first corner, “this track’s claim to fame is the chaos right there. First lap, someone’s almost always in the runoff.”
You grinned. “And I’m guessing you have a list of the most dramatic crashes committed to memory?”
“Obviously,” he said without missing a beat. “Also a ranking system based on driver theatrics when they get out of the car. Top score’s for dramatic arm waving. Zero points for just trudging away.”
You laughed, clutching your coffee. “You’re ridiculous.”
While you were mid-laugh, Callum’s eyes flicked briefly to the left—subtle, scanning a pair of fans edging a little too close to the restricted zone. Without missing a beat in the conversation, he shifted slightly so he was between you and them, his body language easy and relaxed.
You didn’t notice a thing. “So who’s number one on your drama scale?”
From across the garage, Lando had just finished a run on mediums and was stripping off his gloves when he spotted you. You were leaning against the wall, laughing again, hair catching the light, completely at ease with Callum beside you.
His chest loosened. For the first time since that night in Monaco, he didn’t feel that tight, gnawing edge of worry. Callum caught his eye over your head, gave a tiny nod, and Lando returned it before glancing back to the monitors.
Every so often, he’d steal another glance out toward you—smiling faintly when you’d gesture wildly mid-story, or throw your head back laughing at something Callum said.
Sure, you were still “under watch” but at least this time you felt a shield of protection instead of anxiety surrounding you.
an: this idea came to me after tate released her new deluxe album and i heard the lyric "you say you hate me, but let's be real, you only hate 'cause you like the drama and if you hate me, then why you keep on jacking off to tatiana?" lollllll so please enjoy a long fic @amnesia-sc read while i wrote in barnes and noble during the las vegas grand prix heheh
wc: 12.5k
summary: she's hated lando norris since the day he moved into her apartment two years ago. he's everything she's not, effortlessly charming, frustratingly optimistic, and wholly unbothered by her hostility. the feeling, he insists, is mutual. their friends are sick of it. her brother's tired of playing referee. so when they're forced into close quarters at a thanksgiving lake house, everyone's hoping they'll finally work it out. they do. just not in the way anyone expected.
THE FIRST TIME SHE SAW LANDO NORRIS, he was moving into her apartment, the one she'd shared peacefully with just her brother and his teammates for a year, carrying a ridiculously expensive fiddle-leaf fig like it was a designer accessory, and she knew immediately they were going to have a problem.
Two years later, they still did.
"You're in my spot." She didn't look up from her laptop, fingers still flying across the keyboard. Linear algebra didn't solve itself, and she had exactly three hours before her study group met.
"There are four other chairs." Lando's voice had that particular morning rasp that she absolutely did not notice. She didn't.
"That's my spot. I sit there every morning. You know this."
"It's a kitchen chair."
"It faces away from the window. No glare on my screen."
She heard him sigh, that long-suffering sound he'd perfected like he was the victim here, and then the scrape of wood on tile as he moved to another chair. Small victory. She'd take it.
"Coffee's fresh if you want some," he offered, because he couldn't help himself. Lando Norris, eternally friendly, pathologically optimistic, even at 6am on a Tuesday when any reasonable person would have the decency to be as miserable as she was.
"I'll make my own, thanks."
"It's literally the same coffee maker—"
"I don't want your coffee, Norris."
From the doorway, she heard her brother's footsteps pause. Listening. Always listening to their daily Cold War, like it was entertainment instead of exhausting.
Lando was quiet for a moment, and she could feel him looking at her. She knew that look, confused, a little hurt, mostly annoyed. Good. He should be annoyed. She'd been annoyed for two years.
"You know what," he said finally, his voice losing that friendly edge, "I genuinely don't understand what I did to you."
"You exist. In my space. Loudly."
"Our space. I pay rent."
"Of course you do." She couldn't help the bite in her voice. "Spending daddy’s money is so easy, isn't it?"
The kitchen went cold. She'd crossed a line, she knew it immediately, but she wouldn't take it back. Wouldn't look up. Wouldn't acknowledge the way the air had changed.
"Right," Lando said quietly. His chair scraped back. "Fuck this, actually."
He left his coffee on the table, grabbed his bag, and walked out. The front door closed with a controlled softness that was somehow worse than a slam.
Oscar appeared in the doorway, hockey hoodie and disappointment. "Really?"
"Don't start."
"He's up at 5am every day studying because law school is kicking his ass even with the accommodations, and you just—"
"I have a midterm—"
"You always have a midterm. And he always makes coffee. And you're always mean about it." Her brother grabbed an apple from the counter. "Logan and Franco are betting on you two, you know. I told them they're idiots."
"They are idiots."
"Yeah, but I'm starting to think they see something I don't want to see." He paused at the doorway. "Or maybe something you don't want to admit."
She finally looked up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
But he was already gone, and she was alone with Lando's abandoned coffee and the creeping feeling that she was the asshole here.
She hated that feeling almost as much as she hated him.
She could hear them downstairs. The particular chaos of four hockey players trying to figure out the TV, Logan’s laugh that carried through walls, the smell of whatever overly ambitious pasta dish her brother was attempting.
She stayed in her room.
Her linear algebra textbook was open on her lap, but she'd read the same problem three times without absorbing a single word. The coffee comment kept replaying in her head. Spending daddy’s money is so easy, isn't it?
She wasn't wrong, but—
A knock on her door.
"Go away."
"It's Love Island night!" Franco’s voice, way too cheerful. "You can't miss Love Island night!"
"I have an exam."
"You always have an exam," Logan chimed in from the hallway. She could picture them both out there, probably grinning like idiots. "Come on, we got the good snacks. The ones you like."
"Those spicy chips—" Logan started.
"I'm studying."
A pause. Then Franco, quieter: "Is this about this morning?"
Yes. No. She didn't know.
"I'm fine. Just—tell them I'm studying."
"Lando's not even down here," Logan said, and she could hear the careful way he said it. Like they'd discussed this. Like they knew. "He went to the library after practice."
Of course he did. Because Lando Norris was at Harvard Law, studying his ass off despite his dyslexia, probably on track for some ridiculous honour she'd never admit impressed her, and she'd thrown his family's money in his face like it negated all of that.
"Have fun," she managed. "I'll be down later."
She wouldn't be down later.
Downstairs, Logan dropped onto the couch next to Oscar with a heavy sigh.
"She's really staying up there?"
"Yep." Oscar didn't look away from his phone.
"Dude, aren't you gonna—"
"Nope."
"But they're both miserable—"
"Not my circus." He finally looked up. "You two made your bets. You deal with it."
Franco came back from the kitchen with loaded nachos. "Lando texted. He's staying at the library until close."
"So we have both of them sulking in separate locations," Logan said. "Great. This is great."
"This is what happens," Oscar said, grabbing the remote, "when two stubborn people who are clearly into each other decide to die on hills nobody asked them to die on."
"You think she's into him?" Logan asked.
Oscar just looked at him.
"Okay, yeah, stupid question," Logan admitted. "The real question is when one of them is gonna crack."
"My money's on him," Franco said. "He's got that golden retriever thing. He'll apologise first."
"Nah, she will. She knows she went too far this morning." Logan crunched a chip thoughtfully. "Give it two days."
Oscar finally smiled, just a little. "You're both wrong."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. They're both too stubborn to apologise. Something's gonna have to force it." He unmuted the TV as the Love Island theme started. "And honestly? I'm gonna enjoy watching it happen."
She gave up on studying around 9pm.
Her brain wouldn't cooperate, and she'd just been staring at the same equation, thinking about Lando at the library, alone, probably exhausted, definitely still pissed at her.
Good. He should be pissed. She was pissed.
Except she was also hungry, and the house was quiet now, everyone probably in their rooms or out. Safe.
She crept downstairs in her Harvard CS hoodie and sleep shorts, heading for the kitchen. The light over the stove was on, casting everything in soft yellow.
And Lando was at the table.
Of course he was.
His laptop was open, about fifteen color-coded tabs spread across the screen, and he had that particular exhausted focus that meant he'd been working for hours. His hair was a mess, like he'd been running his hands through it. There was a cold cup of coffee at his elbow and highlighters everywhere.
He looked up when she stopped in the doorway.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
"Thought you were at the library," she said finally.
"Came back an hour ago." His voice was flat. Tired. "Thought you were studying."
"I was."
"Cool."
He looked back at his laptop. Dismissal.
She should go back upstairs. She should definitely go back upstairs.
Instead, she walked to the fridge.
The silence was oppressive as she grabbed the orange juice, poured a glass. She could feel him not looking at her. Could feel the weight of this morning sitting between them like a third person.
"I'm—" she started.
"Don't." He still wasn't looking at her. "If you're about to apologise because you feel bad, don't. We both know you meant it."
Her hand tightened on the glass. "You don't know what I meant."
"Spending daddy's money is so easy?'" Now he did look at her, and his eyes were harder than she'd ever seen them. "Yeah, I think I got the message pretty clear."
"You don't—you don't know anything about me. About why—"
"Because you won't tell me!" His voice rose, just a little, and she saw him force it back down. Saw him choose control. "You've hated me since the day I moved in, and I have never understood why. I've tried to be nice. I've tried to give you space. I've tried to figure out what I did, and you just—" He laughed, sharp and humorless. "You know what, forget it. Study your linear algebra. I've got Con Law."
He turned back to his laptop, and she stood there with her orange juice, feeling like she was losing something she'd never had in the first place.
"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I am sorry. About the money thing."
He didn't respond.
She went back upstairs, and she didn't sleep at all.
Thursday evening she came home from her algorithms study group to find a stranger in their living room.
Not a stranger, one of those girls. The type who wore Alo like a uniform and had that effortless Harvard glow that came from never having worked a service job in their life. She was perched on the arm of the couch, leaning toward where Lando sat with his Contracts textbook, her hand on his shoulder.
"Oh my god, you're so funny," the girl was saying, her laugh like wind chimes. Delicate. Practised.
Lando looked up as she walked in, and something flickered across his face. Something she couldn't read.
"Hey," he said.
She didn't respond. Just headed for the kitchen, but she could still hear them.
"Is that your roommate?" Wind Chime Girl asked, not quite quiet enough.
"Yeah. Oscar’s sister."
"Oh, she seems... intense."
She gripped the refrigerator door handle hard enough to hurt.
"She's fine," Lando said, and she hated how diplomatic he sounded. How careful. "We're just—it's complicated."
"I bet," Wind Chime Girl purred, and oh, she was definitely touching him again. "You're so patient. I could never live with someone that negative."
She slammed the fridge shut.
Walked back through the living room without looking at either of them, heard Wind Chime Girl's intake of breath like she'd committed some crime by existing in her own house.
"Sorry about her," Lando said quietly.
Sorry about her.
She took the stairs two at a time.
An hour later Logan found her rage-studying at her desk, Spotify blasting through her headphones.
He knocked on her doorframe until she looked up.
"You good?"
"Why wouldn't I be good?"
"Because Lando's study buddy just left and you looked like you wanted to commit murder when you walked through earlier."
"I don't care who Lando studies with."
"Uh huh." Logan leaned against the doorframe, entirely too knowing. "For the record, he wasn't into her."
"I literally don't care."
"She was definitely into him though. Very into him. Very—"
"Loga—"
"Touching his arm, playing with her hair, the whole thing." He was grinning now. "And he kept glancing at the stairs like he was waiting for something."
"Get out of my room."
"Just saying. Boy's got options. Smart, pretty law student who thinks he's funny? That's like, a catch."
She threw a pen at him. He dodged, laughing.
"You're the worst."
"And you're jealous."
"I'm not—I don't—" She couldn't even finish the sentence. "He can date whoever he wants."
"So can you."
"I'm not interested in dating."
"Didn't say date," Logan said, eyebrows raised. "But hey, keep telling yourself whatever you need to."
He left before she could throw something heavier.
She wasn't eavesdropping.
She'd come downstairs for her laptop charger, left it in the living room last night like an idiot, and the guys were in the kitchen. She heard Lando's voice and stopped.
Not eavesdropping. Just... pausing.
"I don't know what else to do, man." Lando sounded exhausted. Frustrated. "I've tried being nice. I've tried giving her space. I've tried ignoring it. Nothing works."
"She's just protective of her space," Oscar said. Diplomatic as always.
"It's been two years." Franco’s voice. "At some point it stops being about space and starts being about something else."
"Yeah, well, whatever it is, I'm done trying to figure it out." Lando again. "I'm tired of walking on eggshells in my own house. I pay rent. I do my share. I'm not the asshole here."
Silence. Then Logan: "You think she's the asshole?"
"I think—" Lando paused. She could picture him running his hand through his hair, that thing he did when he was thinking. "I think she decided who I was the day I moved in, and nothing I do is ever gonna change her mind. So yeah. Maybe I'm done caring."
"Bro, you so clearly still care—" Franco started.
"I don't." Sharp. Final. "Isla asked me out yesterday. From my Contracts class. I'm thinking about saying yes."
Isla. Wind Chime Girl.
"Oh, you're doing the rebound thing," Franco said. "Classic."
"It's not a rebound if there was never anything to bounce from," Lando shot back. "She hates me. Fine. I'll stay out of her way, she can stay out of mine, and maybe I'll actually have a normal senior year."
"Good luck with that," Oscar muttered.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Means you're both idiots, but sure. Date Isla. See how that goes."
She didn't wait to hear more. Grabbed her charger from behind the couch cushion as quietly as possible and went back upstairs.
I'm done caring.
Good. She was done too.
She wasn't done. She was the opposite of done, and that made her even angrier.
That night the group chat was blowing up.
Logan: party at theta tonight. everyones going. NO EXCUSES.
Franco: especially you, Oscar 👀
Oscar: i'll be there
Logan: bringing the whole house??
Oscar: lando's bringing isla
Franco: OH SHIT
Logan: lol
Franco: im gonna win this bet aren't i
Logan: absolutely not. my money's still on them hooking up by thanksgiving
Oscar: you're both delusional
She stared at her phone.
Lando was bringing Isla. Of course he was. Because he was "done caring" and she was just his teammates’ annoying sister and nothing about this should bother her.
It bothered her.
She opened her closet.
If Lando Norris wanted to move on, then fine. She could move on too. She could go to this party, look hot, ignore him completely, and prove that she didn't care either.
She cared. God, she cared so much it was making her insane.
The party was already packed when they arrived and it was only 11pm.
She'd worn the black dress, the one that her friend from freshman year had called "devastating", and fought her hair into submission. Franco had wolf-whistled when she came downstairs. Logan had immediately started taking bets on how long before "something happened."
Oscar had just looked tired.
Lando had already arrived with Isla an hour earlier.
The house smelled like cheap beer and expensive cologne. Bass rattled the windows. She accepted a drink from someone she half-recognised from her Data Structures class and tried to look like she was having fun.
Then she saw them.
Lando and Isla, near the makeshift bar in the kitchen. Isla was laughing again, that wind chime laugh, her hand on his chest. He was smiling, not the bright, genuine smile she'd seen him give her brother or the guys, but a polite one. A going-through-the-motions one.
Their eyes met across the room.
His smile faltered.
Isla said something and he looked back at her, nodded, but his jaw was tight.
"You gonna stare at him all night or actually enjoy yourself?" Logan appeared at her elbow with two shots.
"I'm not staring."
"You're literally staring."
"He brought a date."
"You noticed."
"I don't care."
"Sure." Logan handed her a shot. "To not caring."
She took it. Then another.
She'd lost count of drinks around midnight.
The party had gotten louder, hotter, more chaotic. She'd danced with some guy from her linear algebra class, nice, boring, kept trying to talk about derivatives. She'd taken more shots with Franco and Logan. She'd successfully avoided Lando for over an hour.
Until she couldn't anymore.
She was coming out of the bathroom when she saw them on the stairs. Isla pressed against the wall, Lando's hand beside her head, leaning in close. They weren't kissing, not yet, but it was clearly heading there.
Something in her chest cracked.
She walked past them, deliberately bumping Lando's shoulder.
"Excuse you," Isla said, all fake-sweet venom.
She stopped. Turned.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I in your way? In this hallway? In this house that neither of you live in?"
"What's your problem?" Isla’s eyes narrowed.
"I don't have a problem." She looked at Lando. "Must be nice."
"Must be nice what?" His voice was low. Dangerous.
"Having girls throw themselves at you. Having everything be so easy. Law school, hockey, random hookups at parties—"
"Are you serious right now?" He stepped away from Isla, toward her. "You're seriously doing this here?"
"Doing what? Observing reality?"
"You're drunk."
"I'm fine."
"You're not—" He reached for her arm and she jerked back.
The girl huffed, pushed past both of them down the stairs.
They were alone in the hallway, music pounding below them, and everything was too hot, too loud, too much.
"What is your deal?" Lando's voice was rough. "You've been avoiding me all week, you look at me like I killed your dog, and now you're—what, jealous?"
"I'm not jealous."
"Then what is this?"
"This is me pointing out that some of us have to actually work for things!" The words exploded out of her. "Some of us don't have trust funds and connections and girls lining up to—"
"Oh, here we go again—"
"You don't get it! You've never had to get it! Everything is just handed to you, like you, like Oscar, and you act like—"
"Like what?" He stepped closer. "Like I don't spend every night until 2am studying because my dyslexia means I have to read everything three times? Like I didn't have to fight for my spot on this team? Like my parents didn't make it very clear that if I don't graduate summa cum laude, I'm a disappointment?"
She faltered. "I didn't—"
"You don't know anything about me. You decided who I was two years ago and you've never bothered to question it."
"That's not—"
"My friends hate you." His voice was quiet now. Lethal. "The guys are tired of this. Your brother's tired of this. And yeah, I'm tired of this too. You want to make everything a competition but nobody's playing your game."
"Fuck you—"
"You don't actually hate me." He was so close now she could smell his cologne, see the gold flecks in his eyes. "You just like having someone to be angry at. It's easier than dealing with whatever's actually going on with you."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?"
The air between them was electric. Charged. His eyes dropped to her mouth and her breath caught and for one impossible second she thought he might—
"This is–," she whispered.
"Yeah," he breathed, not letting her finish. "It is."
They were inches apart. The music faded to background noise. She could feel the heat coming off him, could see his chest rising and falling, could feel her own heart hammering—
His phone buzzed.
They both jumped back like they'd been burned.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen. Isla’s name. She saw it.
Everything came crashing back.
"You know what," she said, her voice shaking. "Just fuck off."
She pushed past him, down the stairs, through the crowd, out into the cold November air.
Behind her, she heard him say her name, but she didn't stop.
She didn't stop until she was three blocks away, and by then she was crying, and she didn't even know why. Why did she fuck things up. Why was she like this.
It took Oscar three days to realise the house was suspiciously quiet.
Not the normal quiet, the kind punctuated by his sister's music bleeding through her door or Lando's late-night stress-pacing. This was a different quiet. A strategic quiet.
The kind of quiet that came from two people actively avoiding each other.
She'd started leaving for class twenty minutes earlier than necessary. Came home after dinner. Studied at the library until close. When she was home, she stayed in her room with her headphones in.
Lando had switched his entire routine. Suddenly he was a morning gym person instead of an evening one. Ate breakfast on campus. Studied in the law library. When he was home, he wore his headphones like armour and never looked up from his laptop.
They moved through the house like ghosts who'd signed a non-haunting agreement.
Oscar watched them not-watch each other over his cereal on Monday morning. His sister came down, saw Lando at the table, turned around and went back upstairs. Five minutes later, Lando left without finishing his coffee.
"Okay," Oscar said to the empty kitchen. "This is getting ridiculous."
That evening, Oscar had an announced an "Emergency house meeting," blocking the doorway to the living room where Logan and Franco were playing FIFA.
"Can't, I'm winning," Franco said, not looking away from the screen.
"Now."
Something in his voice made them both pause the game.
"What happened?" Logan asked.
"What happened is that our two favorite idiots had some kind of nuclear meltdown at Theta on Friday and now they're doing this—" he gestured vaguely, "—avoidance Olympics thing, and I need intel."
"Oh." Logan and Franco exchanged looks. "Yeah, we noticed."
"Care to elaborate?"
"They had a fight," Franco said. "Big one. Hallway outside the bathroom."
"Isla left crying," Logan added. "Well, annoyed-crying. That angry-girl cry."
"And Lando?"
"Came back downstairs looking like someone had just told him hockey was cancelled forever," Franco said. "Took three shots in a row and didn't talk to anyone the rest of the night."
"And my sister?"
"Left. Just walked out." Franco finally looked away from the TV. "Logan tried to follow her but she texted that she was fine and going home."
Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. "What did they fight about?"
"No idea. But it was intense." Franco leaned forward. "Like, we-almost-kissed-but-then-didn't intense."
"How do you know they almost—"
"Dude, everyone saw it. They were like, magnetically pulled together and then she just... ran."
Oscar was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm going to kill them both."
"Or," Logan said slowly, "we could help."
"Help how?"
"Force proximity," Franco said, grinning. "They can't avoid each other if they're stuck in the same place."
"That seems like a terrible idea."
"All of our ideas are terrible ideas," Logan pointed out. "That's what makes them fun."
Oscar looked between them. "What did you have in mind?"
She was in the kitchen making tea, strategic timing, Lando should've been asleep by now, when she heard his door open upstairs.
Shit.
She moved faster, grabbing her mug, but he was already on the stairs. They stopped at the same moment, locked eyes, and the air went sharp.
"I'm just—" she started.
"Yeah," he said. "Me too."
They moved around each other with the precision of people who'd studied each other's patterns. She went left, he went right. She reached for the honey at the exact moment he turned for the fridge. Their hands didn't touch.
The kettle whistled.
She poured water over her tea bag, hyper-aware of him behind her, the sound of him getting water, the careful way he was also not-looking at her.
"How's Isla?" The words came out before she could stop them.
She felt him go still.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do this. Don't—" He set his water glass down hard enough that it clicked against the counter. "We're not doing this."
"Doing what?"
"This. Whatever this is." He finally looked at her, and his eyes were tired. So tired. "I'm done. You wanted me to fuck off? Congrats. I've fucked off."
"Lando—"
"No." He grabbed his water. "You don't get to, we're not friends. We're roommates. That's it. I'll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine."
He left.
She stood there with her tea, watching the steam rise, and felt something crack wider in her chest.
On Wednesday Oscar found Lando in the garage at 1 AM, stickhandling in the dark.
"You're gonna wake the neighbors."
"Can't sleep." Lando didn't stop moving. The puck clicked rhythmically against his stick.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Nope."
"Want to talk about the fact that you and my sister are doing this weird cold war thing that's making everyone uncomfortable?"
"Also nope."
Oscar leaned against the doorframe, watching. Lando's form was perfect, it always was, but there was an aggression to it tonight. Like he was trying to outskate something.
"Isla texted me," Oscar said finally.
That made Lando stop.
"Why would Isla text you?"
"Wanted to know if you were okay. Said you've been weird since the party."
"I'm fine."
"You're practicing in the dark at 1 AM."
"I'm fine."
"You're also lying." Oscar crossed his arms. "Look, I stay out of this. You know I stay out of this. But you're my teammate, she's my sister, and whatever happened on Friday is clearly eating both of you alive."
Lando was quiet for a long moment. Then: "She hates me."
"She doesn't—"
"She does." He turned, and in the dim light from the street, Oscar could see how exhausted he looked. "And I'm tired of trying to figure out why. I'm tired of walking on eggshells. I'm tired of—" He stopped. "I'm just tired."
"Did something happen? At the party?"
"We fought. Like always." Lando's jaw tightened. "And then we almost—and then she told me to fuck off. So I am. Fucking off."
"Lando—"
"I'm gonna finish up here. See you at practice."
Dismissal. Oscar recognised it.
He went back inside, climbed the stairs, and stopped outside his sister's door. Light was still on underneath.
He knocked softly.
"Go away, Oscar."
"Can I come in?"
Silence. Then: "Fine."
She was at her desk, laptop open, but he could tell she wasn't actually working. Her eyes were red.
"You've been crying."
"I have allergies."
"It's November."
"Indoor allergies."
Oscar sat on her bed. "What happened with Lando?"
Her hands stilled on her keyboard. "Nothing."
"That's not what Logan and Franco said."
"Franco and Logan should mind their business."
"They said you two almost kissed."
She spun around in her chair. "We didn't, it wasn't, there was no almost anything."
"But there could have been."
"Oscar—"
"I'm not stupid," he said quietly. "I've watched you two dance around each other for two years. And yeah, most of that time you've been at each other's throats, but Friday something changed."
"Nothing changed."
"Then why are you crying over a guy you supposedly hate?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I don't know," she whispered finally. "I don't know and that's the problem."
Oscar stood up, walked over, hugged her even though she tried to wave him off.
"You're allowed to like him, you know," he said into her hair. "I won't be weird about it."
"There's nothing to be weird about."
"Okay." He didn't believe her. "But if there was... he's a good guy. Even if he drives you crazy."
She didn't respond.
He left her there, went back to his room, and texted a new group chat:
Oscar: operation force proximity is a go. but we're doing this MY way.
Logan: FINALLY
Franco: what's the plan boss
Oscar: thanksgiving break. logan’s cabin. all of us. they can't avoid each other if they're trapped in the woods.
Franco: GENIUS
Logan: your sister's gonna kill you
Oscar: probably. but at this point i'll risk it.
The cabin was absurdly nice, because of course it was. Three floors of wood and windows overlooking the lake, a hot tub on the back deck, a dock stretching into water so clear you could see the rocks below.
"Your 'cabin' has a wine fridge," she said flatly, dragging her bag through the door.
"And a sauna," Logan said proudly. "And the hot tub fits eight."
"Of course it does."
Oscar appeared behind her with his duffel. "Okay, so. Rooms. There's four bedrooms upstairs—"
"I call the one with the balcony!" Franco yelled from somewhere above them.
"Already claimed it, asshole!" Logan yelled back.
"—so we'll figure it out," Oscar finished. "Lando's not here yet. He's driving up with the beer run."
Her stomach dropped. "Lando's coming?"
"Did I not mention that?" Oscar's face was too innocent. "Weird. Must've slipped my mind. I’m sure I told you.”
"Oscar—"
"It's Thanksgiving weekend! The whole house goes on Thanksgiving weekend. That's the tradition."
"We’ve never done that. You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?" He smiled. "Come on, I'll show you your room. It's got a great view of the lake."
She was unpacking when she heard the car pull up. Heard Logan and Franco greeting Lando downstairs. Heard his laugh, the real one, not the polite one he'd been using lately, and something in her chest twisted.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Oversized hoodie, leggings, no makeup. Safe. Invisible. Out of his path hopefully.
Her suitcase sat open on the bed. On top: the red bikini her friend had convinced her to pack. "You're going to a lake house," she'd said. "Live a little."
She shoved it under her other clothes.
Dinner was a chaotic affair, Logan grilling steaks, Franco on music duty, Oscar making his famous garlic bread. She'd volunteered for salad prep, which kept her in the kitchen and away from the deck where Lando was helping with the grill.
Except then Logan needed more beer from inside.
And Oscar needed to check on the bread.
And suddenly she was alone on the deck with Lando and two steaks.
"They're not subtle," Lando said without looking at her.
"Not even a little bit."
Silence. The sun was setting over the lake, painting everything gold and pink. It was objectively beautiful. It was also objectively awkward.
"How's Isla?" she asked, because apparently she was a masochist.
"We're not—that's not happening."
"Oh."
"Didn't feel right." He flipped a steak. "How's... anyone you're seeing?"
"I'm not seeing anyone."
"Oh."
More silence. A bird called across the water.
"Look," Lando started, then stopped. "This weekend. We don't have to be weird. We can just... coexist. Like adults."
"We are adults."
"You know what I mean."
She did. She hated that she did.
"Okay," she said. "Coexist. Sure."
He finally looked at her, and she made herself hold his gaze even though it hurt.
"Truce?" he offered.
"Truce."
He held out his hand. She stared at it for a moment too long, then shook it. His hand was warm, calloused from hockey sticks and law textbooks, and she pulled away as soon as she could.
"Steaks are done! Lando move them!” Logan called from inside, timing impeccable as always.
They carried the food in together, and she tried not to notice how careful they were not to touch.
Later that night, she couldn't sleep.
The cabin was too quiet, her thoughts too loud. She kept replaying the handshake. The way he'd looked at her on the deck. Didn't feel right.
What did that mean?
She gave up around 11, pulled on her swimsuit, the black one-piece, not the red bikini, and a cover-up, and snuck downstairs.
The hot tub was on the back deck, steam rising into the cold November air. She'd have it to herself, could clear her head, maybe actually relax for once—
"Can't sleep either?"
She nearly jumped out of her skin.
Lando was already in the hot tub, arms spread along the edge, head tilted back. The underwater lights cast shadows across his face, his bare chest, his chain. She very deliberately did not look at his chest.
"I can go—"
"Don't." He opened his eyes. "Truce, remember? There's room."
There was room. There was a lot of room. The hot tub was huge and he was on one side and she could easily stay on the other side and this was fine. This was totally fine.
She dropped her cover-up and climbed in.
The water was perfect, hot enough to sting, cold air on her face. She sank in up to her shoulders and tried to pretend this was normal. Just two people who lived together, in a hot tub, at night, alone.
Completely normal.
"Stars are insane out here," Lando said, still looking up.
She followed his gaze. He wasn't wrong. The sky was dense with them, no light pollution for miles.
"Yeah," she managed.
"I forgot how quiet it gets. Away from the city."
"Mmm."
Another silence, but this one felt different. Softer. The water bubbled between them.
"Can I ask you something?" Lando's voice was careful.
"Okay."
"Why do you hate me?"
Her breath caught. "Lando—"
"I'm not—I'm not trying to start a fight. I genuinely want to know." He looked at her now, and in the low light his eyes were unguarded. Vulnerable. "Because I've spent two years trying to figure it out and I still don't understand."
She could deflect. Make a joke. Get out and go to bed.
Instead, she heard herself say: "I don't hate you."
"Could've fooled me."
"I thought I did. When you first moved in." She stared at the water. "You were just, you were everything I wasn't. Confident and charming and everyone loved you instantly. You made friends in five minutes. You made my brother laugh. You had this easy way about you, like the world was just... welcoming you."
"That's not—"
"And I was jealous." The words tumbled out. "I'd worked so hard to get here. To prove I deserved to be at Harvard. My dad isn’t as cool as Oscar makes him sound, not to me at least. And you just... existed, and it was enough. Or that's what I thought."
Lando was very quiet.
"I know that's not fair," she continued. "I know you work hard. I know about the dyslexia, the pressure from your family, all of it. But by the time I figured that out, we were already..." She gestured helplessly. "This."
"Enemies."
"Yeah."
"Except we're not really enemies."
"No," she whispered. "We're not."
The air between them changed. Charged. She could feel him looking at her, could feel the weight of two years of unspoken things pressing down.
"I never hated you either," Lando said quietly. "I was confused. And frustrated. And yeah, sometimes you made me so angry I couldn't think straight. But I never—" He stopped. "You terrify me, actually."
"What?"
"You're brilliant. And stubborn. And you don't take anyone's shit. You've never once been impressed by me, and I think—" He laughed, short and self-deprecating. "I think that's why I couldn't stop thinking about you."
Her heart was hammering. "Lando—"
"I know. Trust me, I know how fucked up that is. You can't stand me, and I can't stop—" He cut himself off. Ran a wet hand through his hair. "Forget it. Forget I said anything."
"I don't—" She had to force the words out. "I don't want to forget it."
He looked at her. Really looked at her.
And then he was moving through the water.
And then he was right there.
And then his hand was on her jaw and—
"We shouldn't," she breathed, even as she leaned into his touch.
"Probably not."
"This is a terrible idea."
"Definitely."
But neither of them moved away.
His thumb brushed her cheekbone. Her hand found his chest, she was touching his chest, she was touching him, and she could feel his heartbeat, fast and hard.
"If we do this—" Lando started.
"I know."
"It changes everything."
"I know."
His forehead touched hers. The world narrowed to just this: his breath on her lips, his hand in her hair, the heat of him that had nothing to do with the hot tub.
"Tell me to stop," he whispered.
She kissed him instead.
It was, god, it was everything and too much and not enough. He made a sound low in his throat and pulled her closer, her legs wrapping around him without thinking. His other hand found her waist, her back, her hair, like he couldn't choose where to touch her, like he wanted to touch all of her at once.
She'd thought about this. Late at night when she hated herself for it, she'd wondered what kissing Lando Norris would be like.
It was better. It was so much better.
"We should—" she gasped when they broke apart. "We should stop."
"Okay." He kissed her again, deep and slow.
"Lando—"
"I'm stopping." He kissed down her jaw, her neck. "I'm definitely stopping."
She laughed, breathless, and tugged his hair to make him look at her.
"Inside. Now."
His eyes went dark. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
They barely remembered to grab their towels.
They were halfway up the stairs to the main floor, his hand in hers, when they heard it.
The kitchen light flicked on.
They froze.
"Shit," Lando breathed.
"Back door?" she whispered.
"Too late."
They could hear footsteps. The fridge opening. They were still dripping wet, clearly just came from the hot tub, her lips were swollen and his hair was a mess from her hands and—
"Oh hey," Franco said, appearing at the bottom of the stairs with a water bottle. "You guys were in the hot tub?"
"Couldn't sleep," Lando said, too quickly.
"Yeah, me neither." Franco looked between them, taking in their wet hair, the towels, the way they were standing just slightly too close. "Weird that you were both out there."
"Not that weird," she said. "It's a big hot tub."
"Right. Yeah." Franco grinned. "Did you guys, like... talk? Work stuff out?"
"Something like that," Lando muttered.
"Cool. That's cool." Franco was still grinning. "I'm gonna, yeah, I'm gonna go back to bed. You guys have a good night. Or morning. Whatever."
He left, but the damage was done.
She could feel the moment slipping away. The heat replaced by awkwardness, by the reality of what they'd almost done.
"I should—" she started.
"Yeah." Lando's voice was rough. "Me too."
They stood there for another second, not touching, not looking at each other.
"Goodnight," she finally said.
"Goodnight."
She went to her room. Closed the door. Pressed her back against it and tried to calm her racing heart.
Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of
The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.
And then — chaos.
Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.
“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”
A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.
There’s a crunch of expensive heels.
A thud.
A gasp.
And then-
“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”
You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.
And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.
"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."
You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”
“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”
You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.
You take his hand.
He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”
“You’re more of a menace than you look.”
He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"
“Not even remotely.”
You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.
“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”
“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”
You smirk. “You might.”
He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.
“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”
You blink. “Are you always like this?”
He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”
You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.
“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.
“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”
“And you are Lando Norris.”
He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”
“You ran me over.”
“Right. Nevermind.”
You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.
Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”
You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”
“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”
You snort. “What a deduction.”
“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”
You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.
You smile. “I would tell you …”
“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.
“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”
He grins. “Love a challenge.”
You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”
“Only one?”
“One.”
“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”
“Very astute.”
He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”
You blink. “That’s your guess?”
He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”
You purse your lips. “Close.”
“Seriously?”
“No. Not even remotely.”
He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”
You just start walking again.
“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”
“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”
You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.
“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”
“You flail very naturally.”
“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”
“Isn’t it?”
He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”
You freeze for a split second.
He catches it.
“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”
You raise a brow.
“Oh shit,” he whispers.
You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.
He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”
You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”
He’s silent.
For about three whole seconds.
Then, “I’m going to jail.”
You burst out laughing.
“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”
You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”
“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”
You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”
“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”
You roll your eyes.
He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”
“You’re telling me.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”
You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”
“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”
You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”
He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”
You both laugh.
***
The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.
“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”
You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”
“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”
“Marginally.”
“On a good day.”
The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.
“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.
He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”
“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”
He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”
You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”
“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.
And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.
“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”
You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”
You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.
And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.
Of course, neither of you notices.
“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”
“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”
There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.
“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”
You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”
“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”
“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”
He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”
“Thank you.”
“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”
You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”
“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”
“Shockingly, no.”
He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”
“It is.”
“And exhausting.”
You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”
He raises a brow. “Even hats?”
You don’t even flinch.
But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.
“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”
You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.
You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.
You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.
“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.
He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”
“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.
You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.
Then he turns to you again.
“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.
You blink. “Of what?”
“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”
That one hits.
You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”
He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”
You glance over at him.
“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”
You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.
And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.
“I like this,” you say softly.
He looks up. “This?”
“This. Just talking. Not performing.”
He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”
Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.
You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”
He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”
You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”
And so he does.
He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.
You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”
“No way.”
You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.
You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.
“You’re really keeping that, huh?”
You shrug. “Finders keepers.”
“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”
“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”
He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”
You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.
You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.
But right now? In this moment?
You don’t.
You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.
Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.
But for now, you just look at him and smile.
And he smiles back.
***
It starts early.
Too early for a Sunday race day.
Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.
First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.
He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.
And then-
Cabrón. WHAT have you done?
Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.
Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.
A blurry photo from yesterday.
It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.
And the headline-
HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?
He blinks again.
“…What the fu-”
Another buzz.
ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.
ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.
GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.
MUM: We need to talk ❤️
He stares at the screen like it might bite him.
The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.
Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.
Royal family confirms no comment
McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?
He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”
Carlos sends another message.
CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?
CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.
Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.
He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?
He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.
Not an international incident.
There’s a knock on his apartment door.
He opens it.
Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.
“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”
“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”
“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”
Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”
Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”
“No! Because it’s insane!”
Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”
Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”
Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”
“I hate all of you.”
Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”
***
By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.
He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.
One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.
Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.
He’s never living this down.
The only thing he wants is to find you.
And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.
Lando jogs up to you, breathless.
“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”
You turn, startled. “Good morning.”
“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”
Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”
He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.
You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”
Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”
You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.
He stares. “Why are you laughing?”
You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”
He pauses. “… What?”
“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”
He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”
You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”
He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”
“I think it’s hilarious.”
“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”
“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.
He splutters. “What-”
You grin. “I’m kidding.”
You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.
Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.
He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.
You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”
“You really think that?”
“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”
He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”
“I’ve had practice.”
“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”
“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”
Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.
There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.
He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So are you.”
“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”
“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.
He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”
***
Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.
The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.
But Lando?
Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.
Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.
And for some reason … he’s not mad.
He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”
Absolutely fine.
Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.
***
You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.
Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.
You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.
“Oh, no,” you mutter.
Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”
You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”
He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”
“She’s here to kill me.”
“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.
Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.
She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”
You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”
“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.
Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”
Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”
“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”
You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”
Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”
“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”
Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.
“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”
Lando stares. “What does that mean?”
You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”
Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”
“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”
Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s ancient tradition!”
Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”
“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”
Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”
You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”
Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”
Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”
You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”
Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”
Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”
Martine nods once. “Exactly.”
“Temporarily?” You ask.
“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”
Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”
“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.
You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”
Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”
Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”
You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”
“How?”
You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”
He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”
***
The rest of the morning is a blur.
Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.
Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”
Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.
Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.
Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.
“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”
You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”
He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”
You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”
He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”
“Only if you want bonus points.”
He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”
You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”
He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”
“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”
There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.
***
By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.
You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.
“What do I do?” He mutters.
“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”
He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.
It’s perfect.
He leans toward you. “Like this?”
You nod. “Exactly like that.”
The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.
Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”
Lando opens his mouth to panic.
You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”
“Have you met each other’s families?”
Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”
“How did the proposal happen?”
Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.
You answer, “It was spontaneous.”
And that’s how the day goes.
Flash after flash. Smile after smile.
And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.
You don’t know what’s coming next.
You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.
But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.
Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.
***
The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.
You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.
She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.
And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.
And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.
It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.
For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.
- Your Devoted Fiancé™
You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.
The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.
The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.
- His Royal Himbo-ness
Then come the messages.
LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?
YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.
LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.
YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.
It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.
You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.
But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.
He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”
You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”
“And she runneth on pure love.”
He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.
You take it.
***
It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.
The quiet moments.
The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.
It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.
You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”
You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.
He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.
“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.
You glance over. “Of course.”
And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.
***
The idea comes to him in a flash.
“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”
You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”
“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”
You blink.
“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”
You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.
But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.
You shut the door behind you.
“Let’s go.”
***
He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.
“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.
“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”
“And how’d that end?”
“In a minor fire.”
You blink. “Wait, what?”
He just grins.
Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.
“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”
He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”
You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you remain seated.”
You roll your eyes but don’t argue.
He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.
“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.
“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”
“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”
He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”
You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”
He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”
You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”
He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”
You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”
There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.
And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”
You nod.
“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”
You pause.
“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”
He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”
“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”
He nods, thoughtful.
Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”
You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”
“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”
Something in your chest squeezes.
You don’t say anything.
Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”
“I like it,” you interrupt.
He blinks.
You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.
He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”
You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.
And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.
Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.
***
There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.
It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.
Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”
You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”
He chuckles. “I make no promises.”
The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”
You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.
When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?
You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.
But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.
Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”
You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”
“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”
“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.
You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”
His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”
After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.
“What?” You ask.
He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”
You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”
He grins. “The best catch.”
It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.
***
You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.
You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.
Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.
You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.
The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …
Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.
You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.
Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.
And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.
***
You don’t tell Lando right away.
You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.
The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.
You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.
“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”
You freeze. Your chest does something strange.
“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”
“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”
He looks up.
Sees you.
His mouth shuts instantly.
You turn on your heel before he can say your name.
***
He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.
“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”
You don’t look at him. “You should go.”
“Please don’t be mad-”
“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”
He slides in across from you. “About what?”
You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.
“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”
His eyes widen. “What? No!”
“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”
Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”
He fidgets. “I don’t know.”
You let the silence settle like dust between you.
“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”
“No, of course not-”
“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”
Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”
“Well, you did.”
You stand.
He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.
“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”
Your voice cracks a little on the last word.
And then you walk away.
You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:
Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.
***
Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.
Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.
He’s holding a paper bag.
Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?
He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.
When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.
“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.
He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”
You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”
“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”
Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”
He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.
“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”
You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”
“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”
You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”
He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”
Silence.
You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”
Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.
“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”
“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”
You huff a laugh. He presses on.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”
That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”
“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”
You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.
“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”
You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.
“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”
“Of what?”
“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”
You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.
It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.
His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.
When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.
“That,” you say, “was not fake.”
He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”
You snort. “Please don’t.”
“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”
You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.
Then your smile fades, just a little.
“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”
He nods. “Neither do I.”
“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”
“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”
You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.
Then you reach for his hand.
“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”
Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”
You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”
He beams. “Always.”
***
An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.
You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.
“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”
You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”
He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”
You stop walking.
“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”
You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”
Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”
You hesitate. “Sometimes.”
“Because it’s lonely?”
You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”
He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”
You look up at him.
And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.
This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.
***
The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.
Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.
You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.
“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.
He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”
“You look great.”
“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”
You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”
“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”
“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”
He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.
Because everyone is watching.
Every. Single. Person.
Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.
And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.
Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.
He just smiles.
“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.
“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”
“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”
“I swear to God, Lando-”
“Just checking.”
You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?
When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.
He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”
You almost choke on champagne.
Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.
He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”
“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.
You open a door.
The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.
Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.
Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”
“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”
He blinks. “So … yours.”
You nod.
He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”
“That’s the gold.”
“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”
You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”
His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”
“Absolutely not.”
He grins. “So obviously I have to.”
You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”
He hesitates. “Like, actually?”
“If you want the crown, yes.”
He kneels.
It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.
“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”
He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”
You lift the crown carefully from its stand.
It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.
You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.
Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”
He blinks.
Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.
“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.
Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.
You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.
And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.
You want it to be true. All of it.
Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.
You want him.
The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.
You set the crown down beside him.
“Too heavy?” He asks.
You sit across from him. “Too real.”
Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” you admit.
“Because I said something dumb again?”
You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”
He rests his chin on your knee.
“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”
You meet his eyes.
And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”
You don’t kiss him this time.
You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.
The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.
And him.
The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.
***
Silverstone is humming.
The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.
And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.
Again.
You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.
Lando is glowing.
Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)
He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.
“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”
Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.
“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.
You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”
“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”
You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”
“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”
You reach into your bag.
He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”
“A surprise.”
“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”
You pull out a hat.
Not just any hat.
It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.
Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”
“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”
His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”
“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”
He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.
“Try it on,” you say.
He does.
And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.
The way he did with you in Monaco.
The way you now know means something in your culture.
It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.
It’s a statement.
There’s a beat.
A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.
Someone’s camera shutter clicks.
Then another.
Then three more.
Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.
Lando stares at you under the brim.
“You just …” he starts, voice low.
“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”
His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”
“You would make a terrible duchess.”
He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”
“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”
“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”
You both dissolve into laughter.
The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.
The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.
***
Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.
“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.
He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.
Lando shrugs. “Gift.”
“From the Duchess?”
His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”
“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”
He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”
The clip goes viral before the session even starts.
***
After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.
“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.
“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”
You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”
“Even with P2?”
“Especially with P2.”
He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”
“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”
“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”
Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”
“Hm?”
“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”
You smile. “And what would you say?”
“That I’m doing my best.”
You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.
“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”
Lando’s eyes soften.
“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”
The cameras catch you leaning into him.
Not for show. Not for press.
Just because.
And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.
Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.
But maybe, just maybe …
For the real thing.
***
It starts like a joke.
The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”
You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.
Until now.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.
“You’re sweating.”
“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”
“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”
“First of all, rude.”
You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”
His grin flickers. Just for a second.
Then he exhales.
“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”
Your eyebrows rise.
“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”
You blink. “Are you okay?”
He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.
And pulls out a hat.
Not just any hat.
The hat.
The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.
“Is that-”
He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”
“You stole it.”
“Temporarily.”
“Lando!”
“I had a plan!”
You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”
He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.
“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”
You stop breathing.
He takes a breath for you.
“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”
You blink fast.
“Lando …”
“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”
He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.
“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”
Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.
And kneels.
Not dramatically. Not performatively.
Just … reverently.
Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.
“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”
Silence.
Except your heartbeat.
And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.
You don’t care.
You kneel, too.
And kiss him.
Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.
“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”
***
The palace releases a statement two hours later.
Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.
You pass the phone to Lando.
He stares at it like it might explode.
“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”
And then he pulls out his phone.
“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.
“I’m absolutely tweeting.”
You watch over his shoulder as he types.
@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀
also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life
brb crying 🧡👑
You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”
“Of course I did.”
“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”
“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”
He turns to the camera crews still filming.
“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”
You bury your face in your hands.
It’s absurd.
It’s embarrassing.
It’s … perfect.
Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”
Hi! I have an idea — what if Lewis has been in a relationship with the Princess of Wales for years, and they got engaged a few months ago? I’d love to see the others’ reactions when they find out.💗💗
royaltea — lh44
smau + written blurbs
lewis hamilton x !princess of wales reader
it all began in 2021, when lewis hamilton knelt before the prince of wales to be knighted. what no one knew then was that it was also the moment you first met — a meeting that quietly changed everything.
for years, your love stayed hidden behind palace walls and away from the spotlight, protected from cameras and speculation. but now, with an engagement ring on your finger and an official announcement from the crown, the secret is finally out.
the world is stunned. the grid is in chaos. and soon, you’ll be marrying the man who stole your heart.
fc : random pinterest gals
(a/n) : this idea was so so cute I LOVE. i wanted to do it justice so it took me a while. love you love you love you and i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
theroyalfamily
liked by lando, georgerussell63, charles_leclerc and 25,000,000 others.
theroyalfamily : Kensington Palace Official Statement.
“Their Royal Highnesses are delighted to announce the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales to Sir Lewis Hamilton. The couple became engaged earlier this year during a private holiday abroad, and both families are said to be overjoyed. The wedding will take place in London in the coming months, with further details to be released in due course.”
tagged : princessofwales and lewishamilton
—
view 4,500,000 other comments.
lando : bro. what.
↳ lando : WHAT IS HAPPENING
↳ lando : DO I GET TO MEET THE PRINCESS
↳ lando : INVITE TO THE ROYAL WEDDING??!!
↳ oscarpiastri : not if you keep behaving like a threat
username00 : he went from knighted to ENGAGED TO A PRINCESS… sir lewis the overachiever.
georgerussell63 : SIR lewis hamilton and the princess of wales?? hold on. i need a moment to breathe and process. i will be back.
charles_leclerc : I WAS NOT READY FOR THIS INFORMATION TODAY. OR EVER. Congratulations to both! ❤️
isackhadjar : excuse me. PRINCESS?? like… actual royal family?? AND I DIDN’T KNOW????
olliebearman : nahhhh there’s no way this is real. they are trolling us. RIGHT⁉️
kimi.antonelli : bro i thought he was joking when he said he was busy with “family stuff” 💀
gabrielbortoleto_ : HOW did he keep this secret?? i can’t even keep it quiet when i buy new shoes.
kimi.antonelli : WAIT IM CIRCLING BACK. does lewis have to wear a crown now???
↳ olliebearman : lowkey idek but imagine asking “what do your in laws do?” and the answer is “rule the country.”
↳ isackhadjar : and he is already a 7 time world champion
username75 : safe to say the grid did not know
username55 : the grid rn trying to figure out how to curtsy.
↳ isackhadjar : i will not lie. we are all panicking.
↳ carlossainz55 : group chat is up in FLAMES
badgalriri : omg yes this is iconic. I LOVE.
liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales
serenawilliams : i KNEW something was going on 👏🏽 congrats friends!
liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales
zendaya : a fairytale couple if i’ve ever seen one. congratulations to you both!!
f1 : congratulations to sir lewis hamilton and her royal highness the princess of wales on their engagement 💍👑
liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales
mercedesamgf1 : once part of the family, always part of the family. congratulations lewis & hrh on your engagement 💙
liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales
scuderiaferrari : the whole team sends their warmest congratulations to our lewis and the princess on this incredible news ❤️
liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales
sebastianvettel : incredible news. wishing you both all the happiness in the world.
liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales
jensonbutton : wow. didn’t see this one coming — huge congratulations lewis 👏🏻
liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales
georgerussell63 : ok im back after my meltdown and the post is still up so it HAS to be real.
↳ lando : no bc HOW did we not know. like he kept THIS from us??
↳ charles_leclerc : i feel betrayed ngl.
↳ pierregasly : bro you can’t even keep your own relationship secret for 2 weeks.
↳ charles_leclerc : at least i tried.
↳ isackhadjar : IM STILL PROCESSING THIS.
↳ olliebearman: bro same. imagine calling him “your royal highness.”
↳ kimi.antonelli : i’m practicing my bow already.
↳ gabrielbortoleto_ : where is netflix
↳ danielricciardo : all i know is im making a toast at this wedding whether they ask me or not 🥂
↳ lewishamilton : no you’re not.
↳ danielricciardo: try and stop me prince charming.
↳ maxverstappen1 : still processing how im going to explain to my kids that i raced with a royal
liked by lewishamilton
raye : so when’s the wedding and can i sing? congratulations my beautiful friends!
liked by lewishamilton and princessofwales
↳ princessofwales : absolutely! we would love that ❤️
liked by raye and lewishamilton
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flashback
You’d stood at countless ceremonies before, posture perfected, smile practiced, the weight of the crown a constant companion. But this one felt… different.
The grand hall was hushed, the scent of polished wood and centuries-old stone lingering in the air. The Prince of Wales moved through the ritual with his usual dignity, the ancient words rolling off his tongue as another deserving recipient knelt before him. You stood just off to the side, where you always did, your presence ceremonial, supportive, expected.
And then it was his turn.
“Sir Lewis Hamilton,” your father announced.
The name echoed through the hall, heavy with its own kind of history. You’d heard it before, of course—on televisions, in newspaper headlines, spoken in admiration at dinner tables. The man who had rewritten the record books of Formula 1. The man who carried himself with a kind of quiet pride, never just an athlete, but a symbol.
When he stepped forward, the air shifted.
He moved with that same unmistakable presence, though there was humility in the way he bowed his head, in the way he knelt on the crimson cushion. For a moment, he looked every bit the knight in waiting, and something in your chest tightened.
You told yourself it was the ceremony—the grandeur, the tradition—but then his eyes lifted.
And they met yours.
The world seemed to still.
It was just a glance, a heartbeat, the space of a breath—but it was enough. His gaze was warm, searching, almost startled, as if he hadn’t expected to find you there either. And in that instant, there was a recognition neither of you could name, an unspoken pull that felt both new and impossibly familiar.
You smiled before you realized you had. Not the polite curve of lips you reserved for public duty, but something softer, something real. His eyes flickered, and he smiled back, the kind of smile that carried secrets.
The sword was laid on his shoulder, the words of honor spoken, the applause rising around you. Yet, all you could hear was the echo of your own heartbeat, all you could see was the way he stood again, taller somehow, though still looking at you as if the entire hall had disappeared.
And you knew, as surely as you knew your own name, that this moment was the beginning of something you would never be able to hide.
The reception that followed the ceremony was filled with the usual grandeur—crystal chandeliers glowing above, champagne glasses clinking softly, polite laughter weaving through the hall. You’d been through so many of these evenings that they often blurred together: the endless pleasantries, the conversations that skimmed the surface but never reached the depths.
But tonight, your attention wandered—no, anchored—to one person.
Lewis Hamilton.
He was surrounded at first, of course—dignitaries, officials, admirers eager to congratulate the freshly knighted champion. Yet even from across the room, you could feel it: his eyes found yours whenever he could, lingering just long enough to send a rush through you before the crowd pulled him back.
It was almost ridiculous, the way you felt like a teenager stealing glances. But then, fate—or perhaps courage—brought him closer.
“Your Royal Highness,” he greeted softly when there was finally no one between you. His voice was low, steady, but you could hear the slightest edge of nerves beneath it.
You smiled, feeling something loosen in your chest. “Sir Lewis.”
His lips curved into the smallest grin. “That still feels strange to hear.”
“And yet you wear it well,” you teased gently.
There was a pause, one of those silences that wasn’t uncomfortable at all, but charged, full of meaning. His eyes searched yours as though he were memorizing every detail, and you wondered if anyone had ever looked at you quite like that—unfazed by titles, by duty, by the world that always seemed to stand between you and anyone else.
“You know,” he said finally, voice soft enough that only you could hear, “I didn’t expect today to change my life quite like this.”
Your heart skipped. “And how has it changed?”
Lewis leaned just slightly closer, careful—always respectful, but honest. “I met you.”
The words landed with a weight you hadn’t expected, simple yet profound. And instead of brushing it off, instead of hiding behind formality, you let yourself meet his gaze fully, your voice steady but warm.
“Then perhaps,” you whispered, “today has changed mine too.”
It was the first secret you shared together—unspoken, hidden in plain sight, but undeniable. A promise wrapped in the quiet of a crowded room, the beginning of something neither of you would ever truly be able to walk away from.
—
It didn’t take long. A handful of days after the knighthood, a quiet message reached you through trusted channels: a discreet invitation, phrased carefully, but its intent clear. Lewis wanted to see you—not at a palace, not in public, but somewhere away from the endless eyes.
You’d never broken protocol before. Not like this. But something about him made you braver, softer all at once.
So you agreed.
It was a small café tucked away in a quiet London street, the kind of place that smelled of coffee beans and old books, where the hum of conversation was gentle enough to disguise anything. Lewis was already there when you arrived, cap pulled low, hoodie simple, but nothing could dim that presence.
When he looked up and saw you, the smile that spread across his face wasn’t one of practiced charm or polite courtesy. It was pure, unguarded happiness.
“You came,” he said, standing as though he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Of course I did.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but there was no hiding the warmth in it.
The table between you was small, intimate. You sat, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t the Princess of Wales. You were just… yourself. And he treated you that way—asking about your favorite books stacked on the café shelves, laughing when you admitted you hated tea but drank it anyway at royal functions, listening intently to every detail like each word mattered.
And you listened to him. Really listened. To the way he spoke about racing, not as fame or glory, but as freedom. To the loneliness behind his achievements, the sacrifices no headline ever truly captured. To the quiet dreams he carried, ones far beyond the track.
Hours passed unnoticed. At one point, your hands brushed on the table, an accidental touch that lingered just a second too long. Neither of you pulled away.
By the time you left, slipping back into the anonymity of the night, there was no denying it anymore.
Something had begun. Not a duty, not a performance, but something real. The kind of connection you’d never been allowed to hope for. The kind of love you’d spend years protecting.
—
It was late, the kind of late where London was quiet and the streets were washed in the soft glow of lamplight. You’d slipped away together after another carefully arranged meeting, one more evening stolen from the world.
You walked side by side, his hoodie pulled up, your coat wrapped tight around you. There were no titles here, no cameras. Just two people.
Lewis stopped suddenly, turning to face you. His eyes were softer than you’d ever seen them, yet burning with something that made your heart race.
“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.
“Of course.”
He hesitated—just for a breath—then smiled that rare, unguarded smile. “Be mine.”
It was simple, stripped of grandeur or ceremony. No practiced lines, no polished gestures. Just Lewis, standing on a quiet street, asking you for the one thing that mattered most.
Your chest tightened with an ache so sweet it almost hurt. “Lewis…”
You wanted it. More than anything, you wanted it. But reality pressed in, cold and unrelenting. You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.
“I want to,” you whispered. “More than I can say. But if we do this… it has to stay ours. Private. Hidden. For now. The world wouldn’t understand, and the palace—” You broke off, shaking your head. “It wouldn’t be easy.”
For a moment, you feared you’d see doubt flicker across his face. But instead, Lewis only stepped closer, closing the space between you until his presence wrapped around you like warmth.
“I don’t care,” he said quietly. “Not about the press, not about the rules, not about any of it. I just care about you. If keeping us private is what it takes, then that’s what we’ll do. No hesitation.”
Your breath caught.
“You’d really do that?”
His hand brushed against yours, fingertips grazing, a touch so delicate it felt reverent. “I’d wait a lifetime if it meant I got to call you mine.”
And just like that, every wall you’d built crumbled.
“Yes,” you whispered, the word carrying more weight than any vow you’d ever spoken. “I’ll be yours.”
His smile was small, almost disbelieving, but when he leaned in and pressed his forehead against yours, the world around you seemed to disappear.
It didn’t matter that you’d have to hide. It didn’t matter that duty and expectation loomed like shadows. Because in that moment, it was just you and Lewis. And the quiet, unshakable promise that you belonged to each other.
—
It happened quietly, just as your love had always been. No palace ballroom, no flashing cameras. Just the two of you on a sun-drenched hillside in Italy, where Lewis had taken you under the guise of a short holiday.
You were walking together through the olive groves when he slowed, his hand tightening around yours. When you turned, he was already looking at you with that steady, soul-deep gaze you knew so well.
“Do you remember that night in London,” he said softly, “when I asked you to be mine?”
You smiled, your heart skipping. “Of course I do.”
“Well…” He exhaled, a nervous laugh escaping. “I don’t want to keep you hidden anymore. I don’t want to just call you mine in secret. I want the world to know. I want forever.”
And then—before you could even catch your breath—he was kneeling again, not on a crimson cushion this time, not under the eye of tradition, but on soft earth, sunlight catching in his hair.
He opened the small velvet box, the ring gleaming inside.
“Will you marry me?”
The tears came before the words did, your hands flying to your mouth as your chest ached with joy. You’d imagined this moment, dreamt of it, but nothing compared to the way it felt, raw and real, right here in his eyes.
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking with laughter and tears all at once. “Yes, Lewis. A thousand times, yes.”
He slipped the ring onto your finger, and when he stood, you were already falling into his arms, both of you laughing, kissing, holding on as though the world could fall away and you wouldn’t notice.
For the first time, forever felt possible.
Sharing the news with your family was nothing short of terrifying. Not because you doubted them, but because it made everything real in a way hiding never had.
You sat together in a private drawing room, your fingers twined with Lewis’s. The ring glimmered on your hand, impossible to miss.
The silence lasted only a beat.
And then your mother gasped, your father broke into the warmest grin, and suddenly you were wrapped in embraces, kisses on your hair, words of congratulations tumbling out all at once.
“They’ll adore you,” your brother told Lewis with a clap on the shoulder, voice thick with emotion. “We already do.”
Lewis, who had faced down rivalries and podiums and a lifetime under the harshest spotlight, looked more overwhelmed than you’d ever seen him. His eyes were bright as he held your hand tighter, his voice quiet but steady.
“Thank you. For trusting me with her. She’s my everything.”
And in that room, surrounded by love and laughter, it finally sank in: this wasn’t just a secret anymore.
This was the beginning of forever.
—
The decision to tell your family had been daunting, but meeting Lewis’s parents? Somehow, that felt even more real.
You’d seen them before, of course—photographs, stories, the occasional glimpse from afar at a race. But never like this. Never as you, not the Princess of Wales, not the symbol the world saw, but as the woman their son loved.
Lewis was nervous. You could tell by the way his hand never left yours, the way he kept adjusting his cap and glancing at you as though to reassure himself you were truly there.
“They’re going to love you,” he promised, though his voice carried the same tremor as yours did when you spoke of introducing him to your family. “But, uh… just to warn you, Mum’s going to cry.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The moment you stepped into the cozy warmth of his mother’s home, she froze in the doorway. For the briefest second, she was every bit the picture of composure, but then her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh my goodness,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It’s really you.”
You barely had time to smile before she was reaching for you, pulling you into the kind of hug that was all warmth and home and unconditional love. You melted into it, the formality of your upbringing stripped away in a heartbeat.
When she finally pulled back, she cupped your face gently as though she still couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re even lovelier in person,” she said through a watery laugh. “Lewis, you didn’t tell me…”
“Mum,” Lewis groaned softly, but he was smiling, his cheeks pink.
Across the room, his father watched in silence at first, his eyes wide, his expression somewhere between shock and awe. You could see him searching for words, see the way his chest rose and fell as he tried to make sense of the moment.
Finally, he shook his head with a quiet chuckle. “My son,” he said, his voice thick with pride, “you’ve always surprised me. But this…” He looked between you and Lewis, his eyes softening. “This is something else.”
He extended a hand, formal at first, but when you took it, his grip lingered. There was no hesitation, no distance. Just warmth. “Welcome,” he said simply. “Truly.”
The evening unfolded gently from there. Over dinner, Lewis’s mother asked you every question under the sun—what you liked to read, your favorite food, whether you had a sweet tooth (she insisted on sending you home with a tin of her biscuits, regardless of the answer). His father listened more than he spoke, but his quiet glances of approval, the occasional smile when Lewis reached for your hand, spoke volumes.
At one point, you excused yourself briefly, and when you returned, you caught Lewis in the kitchen with his mum.
“She’s the one,” he was saying softly, his back to you, his voice carrying the kind of certainty that sent shivers down your spine. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
His mum sniffled and laughed at once. “I can see it. You glow when she’s in the room, Lewis. You always wanted to make history… but I think this is the part that matters most.”
Your heart ached in the best way. And when you walked back in, pretending you hadn’t heard, Lewis’s smile found you instantly, his hand reaching for yours like it was second nature.
By the end of the night, when his mother hugged you again at the door and whispered, take care of my boy, he deserves every bit of happiness, you realized something:
You weren’t just stepping into Lewis’s world. You were becoming part of his family. And in their warmth and wonder and quiet pride, you felt more at home than you’d ever imagined.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
present day
theroyaltea
liked by lando, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 and 15,000,000 others.
theroyaltea : the Princess of Wales making her first public appearance since the Palace confirmed her engagement to Sir Lewis Hamilton. and in true fairytale fashion, she chose an all white ensemble. understated. classic. and yet impossibly regal. but let’s talk about what everyone is whispering about: the ring. 💍✨ sources confirm it was custom designed by Shaun Leane in collaboration with Cartier (yes… you read that right—two houses working together for the first time in history). the stone? a flawless 15-carat, sustainably sourced diamond from Botswana—where lewis has often spoken about his ties and passion for conservation. the setting? whispers say it incorporates subtle motifs of wings to honor both lewis’s racing career and the princess’s family crest.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
The announcement had gone live just hours ago, and the world had officially lost its mind. Your phone buzzed endlessly, a chorus of notifications that seemed to vibrate in time with your heartbeat. Paparazzi lenses flashed outside the window, social media feeds exploded with every detail of your engagement, and news channels ran endless coverage, dissecting every possible angle.
But none of that mattered—not really.
Lewis pulled you close on the couch in the quiet corner of the penthouse you had claimed as yours for the night. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you like you were the only person in the world, and you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
“Can you believe it?” you murmured into the fabric of his hoodie.
“Believe it?” he chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I think the world is about to implode before we even make it to the wedding.”
Even as he said it, the buzzing of his phone grew louder. He finally gave in and glanced down. His F1 group chat was going absolutely insane.
Lewis let out a low laugh, the sound vibrating through you as his thumb scrolled over the messages. He shook his head, exasperated but grinning. “They’re ridiculous,” he said.
You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his chest. “And yet you love them.”
“I do,” he admitted, voice muffled against your hair. “Even when they’re losing their minds because I’m marrying a princess.”
Your laugh was quiet, a bubble of warmth in the middle of the chaos. “It’s… a lot. They’re all freaking out. The fans, the drivers, the internet—it’s everywhere.”
“Exactly why we stay right here,” he said firmly, tightening his hold. “All the noise, all the flashing cameras, all the chaos… it doesn’t touch us here.”
You nuzzled closer, savoring the safety of the moment. Outside, the world was spiraling, with tweets and articles dissecting your every move, memes flooding every corner of the internet, and his phone still buzzing nonstop with group chat notifications. Inside, you were tucked against him like nothing could reach you.
Lewis pressed his lips to your forehead, soft and grounding. “They’re excited,” he murmured. “But this—us—it’s ours first. And that’s what matters.”
You smiled against his chest, feeling the rise and fall of him, and whispered, “I like it here, with you. Away from everything. Just us.”
He grinned, a playful lift at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me, whether the internet likes it or not.”
You laughed, soft and warm, and let yourself melt further into his arms. Outside, the world could scream, the grid could freak out, and the press could chase every detail—none of it mattered in this bubble.
Here, in his arms, time slowed. Here, you were just you and Lewis. Just love, quiet and steady, against a world that had suddenly gone completely, wonderfully insane.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
The London sky was a soft gray outside the window, rain pattering faintly against the glass, but inside the flat it was warm and still. You sat curled up in Lewis’ lap on the sofa, his hoodie swallowing you whole while his fingers absentmindedly traced shapes on your knee. The engagement whirlwind had finally settled into a manageable hum—still noisy, still everywhere, but quieter now that you’d both spent a few days hiding away.
“Mm,” you murmured, leaning back to look at him, “Silverstone’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”
His brows lifted, just a flicker, and his hand stilled on your leg. “Yeah. Two weeks.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “So… maybe I could come with you this time?”
Lewis blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Come with me? To the race?”
You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Yes. To support you. And to meet everyone. You’re always coming into my world—family dinners, palace obligations, charity galas. But I’ve never stepped into yours like that. I want to see it. I want to see you there.”
For a long moment, he was quiet, his thumb brushing over your hand like he was buying time. “It’s… Silverstone, love. It’s a madhouse at the best of times. And now with the engagement out, it’ll be…” He trailed off, exhaling a little laugh that held more nerves than amusement. “It’ll be another level.”
You squeezed his hand, tilting closer. “Then let me be there with you through it. Let me take some of that weight off. I don’t want you facing all of it alone.”
His gaze softened, though you could see the hesitation still flickering in his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want you there. God knows I’d love nothing more than to look over and see you in the garage. But…” He paused, searching your face. “I don’t want it to overwhelm you. The press, the paddock, the chaos of a home race—”
You cut him off with a grin, brushing your nose against his. “Lewis Hamilton, I was raised with palace press packs, royal protocol, and entire countries watching my every move. You think I can’t handle a few overexcited fans and some nosy journalists?”
That finally earned you a laugh—low, warm, and utterly fond. He shook his head, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you love it,” you teased.
“I do,” he admitted without hesitation, pulling you tighter against his chest.
“So it’s settled then,” you said, smug and final. “I’ll come with you. I’ll sit in your garage, I’ll cheer for you, and I’ll finally meet all these friends of yours that keep blowing up your group chat.”
He groaned softly, resting his forehead against yours. “God, they’re going to lose their minds.”
“Good,” you whispered, smiling as you kissed him. “Let them. I want them to know how much I adore you.”
Lewis melted into the kiss, the last of his resistance slipping away. When he pulled back, his smile was boyish, almost shy, but his eyes sparkled with something brighter. “Alright then. Silverstone, you and me.”
“Silverstone,” you echoed, curling into him again with a happy sigh. The world could spin as wildly as it wanted—soon you’d be by his side, not just in private but in the heart of his universe.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
princessofwales
liked by lewishamilton, charles_leclerc, lando and 18,000,000 others.
princessofwales : such an incredible experience getting to support the love of my life this weekend<3 you did incredible, lew. love you always
tagged : lewishamilton and roscoelovescoco
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⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
The private jet hummed softly beneath you as you sank into the plush seat, Roscoe—the ever-opinionated bulldog—curled up comfortably in your lap. You had a small plate of fresh fruit balanced on the armrest, carefully feeding him tiny bites while Lewis lounged opposite you, one hand propped under his chin, watching with amusement.
“Careful,” Lewis said with a mock-serious tone, his brows raised. “I think he might be judging your plating technique.”
Roscoe let out a contented snort, chomping gently on a piece of strawberry. You laughed, tickling his belly with one hand while offering the next bite.
“Judging my fruit?” you said, smirking. “I think he likes it.”
Lewis grinned, leaning forward slightly. “Or he’s giving you the side-eye because he knows what this trip really means. You know, paddock chaos, shouting mechanics, drivers losing their minds…”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “I’m excited, Lewis. Absolutely. Besides, Roscoe’s here to keep me safe.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “It’s not too late, you know. You could still—”
“Oh, don’t even start,” you interrupted, waving a finger with exaggerated mock-seriousness. “I am coming. I’m very excited to meet all your friends, your colleagues, your team. And yes, even Lando.”
Lewis chuckled, pretending to groan. “I should’ve seen this coming. The princess of Wales, terrified of nothing, marching straight into the paddock. You’re braver than I thought.”
“Or maybe I’m just hungry,” you teased, holding up the slice of kiwi as Roscoe snuffled eagerly.
He laughed again, reaching over to scratch behind Roscoe’s ears. “Fair enough. But I swear, if you steal his attention the way you’ve stolen mine…”
“Lewis,” you said with a grin, leaning closer so your head rested against his shoulder. “You’ve already lost him. I think we can safely say that battle’s over.”
He kissed the top of your head, his laughter soft against your hair. “You’re impossible. But I love it.”
Roscoe snorted again, as if to punctuate the sentiment, and you laughed, offering him another bite of fruit. Outside the small window, the clouds blurred by as the jet carried you toward Silverstone. Inside, though, it felt like a world unto itself: warm, safe, and filled with quiet excitement for the adventure that awaited—and the inevitable chaos you’d encounter together.
“You ready for the circus?” Lewis whispered.
You laughed, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Completely. Let them freak out. I’m ready to meet everyone—and I have Roscoe on my side.”
He pulled you closer, kissing your temple. “Then I guess we’re really doing this.”
“Absolutely,” you said, smiling down at the little bulldog, who seemed to nod in solemn agreement.
And with that, the jet soared on, carrying the two of you—and Roscoe—straight into the chaos and joy of Silverstone.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
You step into the Ferrari garage with Lewis, Roscoe trotting happily at your side, and you instantly feel the atmosphere shift. It’s as if the entire room collectively inhaled at once and then forgot how to exhale.
The first person you lock eyes with is Charles Leclerc. Usually Mr. Cool-Charisma, he’s standing stiff as a statue, a coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips. His hazel-green eyes are wide, his brain clearly buffering.
“Charles,” Lewis says smoothly, as if introducing you to an old friend and not the man currently malfunctioning in front of him. “This is YN.”
Charles just blinks. Then blinks again. Finally, he blurts, “You’re… real?”
You laugh, extending your hand warmly. “Last time I checked, yes. Lovely to meet you.”
Charles stares at your hand for a second too long before practically launching his own forward, nearly spilling his coffee in the process. “Sorry, sorry—yes—bonjour, hello—uh, hi!” His words trip over themselves like dominoes, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling.
Behind him, Alexandra Saint Mleux is standing with a notebook tucked under her arm, eyes wide in awe. She’s clearly trying to stay composed, but when you smile at her, she flushes bright pink.
“And this is Alexandra,” Charles says quickly, motioning like a magician’s assistant presenting his co-star. “My… girlfriend.”
You offer Alexandra a genuine smile and lean in slightly. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard wonderful things.”
Alexandra squeaks—literally squeaks—before quickly covering her mouth. “Oh my god, sorry. I don’t usually… squeak. I mean—hi! You’re beautiful. And I love your… shoes?”
You glance down at your very normal shoes, then back up with a soft laugh. “Thank you. Roscoe picked them out.”
Roscoe snorts loudly, almost on cue, and Alexandra giggles like she’s just heard the funniest joke in the world.
Meanwhile, a cluster of Ferrari engineers—men and women you recognize from TV—are hovering awkwardly nearby, whispering frantically in Italian. One of them, braver than the rest, steps forward and bows. Actually bows.
“Your Highness,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “It is… uh… honor for Ferrari to… meet.”
You immediately wave your hand, smiling warmly. “Please, none of that. Just YN, really. I promise I don’t bite.”
Another engineer, flustered, blurts, “But you are… a princess!” like it’s a contagious condition they’re not sure how to handle.
You laugh, reaching down to scratch Roscoe behind the ears. “Yes, but also someone who loves dogs, coffee, and Italian food. Which means I think we’ll get along just fine.”
That cracks the tension. Half the group chuckles nervously, and the other half looks as though they’re trying to memorize every single word you say.
Charles, finally regaining some composure, sets his coffee down before it can do more damage. “Lewis, mon dieu, you could have warned us,” he mutters under his breath, though not quietly enough.
Lewis smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Alexandra, now more relaxed, edges closer to you. “Can I just say… you are so calm. I really respect you for it.”
You tilt your head with a small smile. “Oh, believe me, I’m nervous too. But if I can survive meeting the Ferrari team, I can survive anything, right?”
Charles laughs finally, the tension breaking fully. “She’s good,” he says to Lewis, shaking his head in disbelief. “Really good. You’re lucky.”
“Don’t I know it,” Lewis murmurs, slipping an arm around your waist.
That, of course, sets off another round of chaos—the engineers whispering again, Alexandra hiding a lovestruck smile behind her notebook, and Charles sighing dramatically like he’s just witnessed the greatest power couple of all time.
You lean down to give Roscoe a blueberry from the snack plate someone nervously shoved in your direction, and he happily chomps away, tail wagging. “See?” you grin at the group. “Roscoe approves. And that’s all that really matters.”
Everyone laughs this time, genuinely. And just like that, the Ferrari team isn’t staring at a princess anymore—they’re staring at you.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
You barely make it two steps into the Mercedes motorhome before chaos begins.
George Russell, all six feet and then some of nerves and enthusiasm, spots you instantly. He goes stiff, blinks once, twice, and then, in a voice about three octaves higher than normal, blurts:
“NO. BLOODY. WAY.”
Half the hospitality area turns to stare. George, already regretting the volume, waves his arms like he’s shooing invisible bees. “SORRY, EVERYONE, nothing to see here, carry on! Just—just a princess in the room, that’s all!”
You can feel Lewis pinching the bridge of his nose beside you. “George.”
George spins toward him, wide-eyed, hands flapping helplessly. “Mate, you didn’t tell me! You—you can’t just—this is—oh my god, I’m sweating, am I sweating? I’m sweating.”
You smile kindly, offering your hand. “Hi, you must be George.”
Instead of shaking your hand like a normal person, George bows at the waist. Actually bows. Then realizes what he’s doing and jerks back upright, smacking his knee on the coffee table in the process. “OW—yep, no, normal handshake, yes, of course—” He grabs your hand with the desperation of a man clinging to a life raft.
Behind him, a teenage-shaped bundle of nerves is hovering. Kimi Antonelli, clearly torn between bolting and trying to behave, shuffles forward like he’s being led to execution. He opens his mouth, shuts it, tries again—then abruptly bends his knees and attempts… a curtsy.
An actual curtsy.
You blink in surprise before bursting into laughter, clutching Lewis’ arm for balance. “Oh my goodness, that’s adorable.”
Kimi goes scarlet, springing back up like he’s been burned. “I—I didn’t know if you bow, or shake hands, or—or if I should call you ‘Your Majesty,’ or—oh god—”
You crouch slightly to soften your voice, smiling warmly at him. “Kimi, you can just call me YN. And I promise I don’t bite.”
He blinks at you, stunned, then glances helplessly at Lewis. “Are you sure?”
Lewis chuckles, patting the boy on the back. “Pretty sure, mate. She’s survived me this long.”
Before you can say more, Toto Wolff strides into the room, tall and commanding as ever. He takes in the scene—the red-faced George, the mortified Kimi, you scratching Roscoe’s ears like this is the most normal day of your life—and exhales slowly, like he already has a migraine.
“George,” he says sternly, “stop shouting. Kimi, stop curtsying. Everyone, for the love of god, breathe.”
Then he turns to you, softening instantly. “YN. Welcome. I apologize for… this circus.”
“It’s charming, really,” you assure him, lips twitching. “I think I like Mercedes already.”
Kimi, still jittering, blurts, “You’re like, even prettier in real life, and I didn’t think that was possible, no offense to the internet, but it doesn’t do you justice—”
“KIMI!” Toto barks, as if redirecting attention will help. “Say something normal.”
Kimi, eyes wide as saucers, blurts the first thing that comes to mind: “Do princesses like… pizza?”
There’s a beat of silence before you grin. “Only if it has extra cheese.”
George lets out a strangled laugh, Kimi looks like he might actually faint, and Toto just mutters under his breath in German. Lewis squeezes your hand, clearly amused.
“See?” you say, scratching Roscoe’s head again as he wags his tail. “This wasn’t so bad.”
George groans dramatically. “Not bad? This was a disaster! I curtsied with my words, he curtsied with his knees, Toto’s blood pressure spiked—this is the worst first impression in the history of first impressions!”
“Don’t worry. You’re all unforgettable. And that’s the best kind of first impression.”
Lewis shakes his head, grinning down at you. “Told you she’d handle it better than all of you combined.”
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
You and Lewis are strolling through the paddock when you hear the loud, unmistakable voice of Lando Norris cutting through the hum of engines and chatter.
“LEWIS HAMILTON! Oi—Lewis!”
You both turn just in time to see Lando jogging toward you, his curly hair a mess under his cap, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. Behind him trail three rookies—Ollie Bearman, Isack Hadjar, and Gabriel Bortoleto—like ducklings who’ve just realized they’re about to walk straight into chaos.
Lando skids to a stop, hands on his knees, panting dramatically. Then he looks up—and sees you.
His jaw drops.
“NO. WAY.”
The three rookies nearly pile into the back of him, stumbling as they try not to trip over each other. Ollie, the tallest, blinks once, twice, like his brain’s rebooting. Gabriel smacks Isack’s arm hard enough to make him yelp, hissing, “That’s her, that’s the princess, oh my god, that’s actually her!”
You smile, amused, giving a little wave. “Hi.”
It’s like dropping a bomb in the middle of them.
Isack, usually quick-witted, makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and a cough. Gabriel starts speaking rapid fire Portuguese to no one in particular. Ollie just stares, face flushed, as though words have completely abandoned him.
Lando, of course, recovers first. He straightens, throws his arms out theatrically, and declares, “Lewis, mate, you’ve been hiding a literal princess from us? This is betrayal of the highest order.”
Lewis groans. “Lando…”
“No, don’t ‘Lando’ me!” he says, spinning dramatically to face the rookies. “Do you lot understand what’s happening? That’s an actual royal person. Here. Standing. With Lewis. Casual as you like.”
Isack nods dumbly, still starstruck. “I—I thought she’d have bodyguards. Or, like… a tiara?”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry to disappoint. The tiara’s at home.”
Ollie finally finds his voice, though it comes out in a strangled rush. “It’s—it’s a huge honor to meet you, Your—Your Highness—Your—Ma’am?—Princess?—what do we—what do we say?!”
Gabriel smacks the back of his head lightly. “Shut up before you call her something dumb and we all get executed.”
You giggle, covering your mouth. “Relax. I’m just YN. No titles needed.”
Roscoe chooses that moment to flop dramatically onto Ollie’s shoes, tail wagging. Ollie goes rigid, then slowly crouches down, as though touching Lewis Hamilton’s dog and a princess in the same day might be too much for his heart to take.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, stroking Roscoe’s head. “He’s real. He’s actually real.”
You grin. “He’s very real. And very spoiled.”
Lando claps his hands like a proud teacher. “Alright, boys, lesson of the day: princesses are present, Roscoe is royalty, and Lewis is officially the luckiest bastard alive.”
The rookies glance between you and Lewis, clearly still processing. Gabriel blurts out, “Wait—so you’re engaged to him?!”
The way he says it—like it’s the plot twist of the century—makes you laugh so hard you nearly double over. “Surprise?”
Lando groans, ruffling his hair. “This is insane. I can’t believe this. Silverstone hasn’t even started and already the paddock’s biggest headline is you two.”
You shrug playfully. “At least it’s entertaining.”
“Entertaining?” Ollie echoes faintly, still petting Roscoe like his life depends on it. “This is history.”
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
Lewis’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, the screen lighting up.
“Do I even want to know?” he mutters, glancing at you where you’re curled up on the sofa with Roscoe’s head in your lap.
You lean over to peek. “Who is it?”
He sighs. “Ollie, Kimi, Isack AND Gabriel.”
You grin. “Oh, I definitely want to see this.”
Against his better judgment, Lewis swipes to accept, and immediately his screen fills with four tiny squares of very excited, very loud rookies.
“LEWIS!” Ollie practically shouts, hair sticking up like he’s just sprinted a mile. “Finally! We’ve been waiting for hours!”
“Put her on the phone,” Isack demands, waving frantically. “We need to speak to the princess. Urgently.”
Lewis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why?”
“Royal. Wedding. Protocol.” Gabriel enunciates each word like it’s life or death. “We’re not about to embarrass ourselves in front of an entire kingdom.”
Kimi, normally the quiet one, pipes up in a nervous rush, “I googled it, but the internet said something about tails and medals and hats and I don’t own any of those—”
“Relax,” you laugh, already leaning over and snatching the phone from Lewis before he can protest. “Hi, boys.”
The effect is immediate—four rookies freeze, eyes wide, as if you’ve just materialized out of Buckingham Palace itself. Then all hell breaks loose.
“YOUR HIGH—uh—YN!” Ollie stammers, cheeks flushing crimson. “We—we didn’t mean to bother you, we just—”
“Do we need top hats?” Isack blurts, eyes wide. “Because I’ll get one. I’ll wear it on the plane. I don’t care.”
“Do we bow before we sit down?” Gabriel asks, deadly serious. “Because if I bow, I’m dragging Ollie down with me. He’s tall enough to block the entire ceremony.”
Kimi frowns at his friends, then blurts nervously, “Can I just curtsy again? Because that worked last time.”
At that, you can’t help it—you throw your head back and laugh. “Oh my god, you four are adorable.”
Lewis groans in the background. “Don’t encourage them.”
But you’re already leaning closer to the camera, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “Okay. Step one: no bowing. No curtsying. No hats with feathers. Unless you really, really want to, in which case I’ll support it.”
Kimi exhales in visible relief, though Ollie mutters, “Kinda wanted the top hat…”
“Step two,” you continue, “you just wear something nice. Suit, tie, shoes that aren’t sneakers. That’s it. That’s all the protocol.”
“Wait, that’s it?” Gabriel looks betrayed. “But I was ready to rent a whole morning coat!”
“You can if you want,” you say warmly, “but I promise, no one’s going to judge you if you just look clean and respectable.”
Isack narrows his eyes, like he doesn’t quite trust how simple this sounds. “So no gold trimmed capes? No ceremonial swords?”
Lewis finally cuts in, exasperated. “It’s a wedding, not a Marvel premiere.”
“Speak for yourself,” you tease, shooting him a grin.
The rookies all break into laughter, but Ollie sobers enough to lean forward, his face filling the screen. “Okay, but, um—just so you know—we’re really, really honored to be invited. Like… really.”
The other three nod furiously, suddenly shy, their earlier chaos softening into something much sweeter.
Your heart melts a little. “I’m really honored you want to come. Honestly, having you all there will make the day even more special.”
Kimi, still red in the face, blurts, “We’ll be on our best behavior. Promise.”
“Speak for yourself,” Gabriel mutters, though he’s grinning.
You chuckle. “Don’t worry. You already passed the test. Asking about top hats? That’s peak royal wedding enthusiasm. I think you’re more prepared than half my cousins.”
They all beam like you’ve just knighted them, and Lewis mutters beside you, “I’ve lost control of this entirely.”
“Correct,” you tell him, handing the phone back. “They’re mine now.”
The rookies cheer at that, and Lewis can only shake his head while you and Roscoe sit there giggling like it’s the best thing you’ve ever seen.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
f1gossipgirls
14,700,000 likes.
f1gossipgirls : In a crossover none of us had on our 2025 bingo cards, the F1 grid has officially traded helmets for suits at the royal wedding of the year! From tuxedos to tails (and a few questionable tie choices 👀), current drivers were spotted arriving together, with the rookies buzzing like schoolboys on their first field trip. Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux looked picture-perfect, while George Russell (unsurprisingly) seemed to be taking the event as seriously as a Grand Prix. Not just the current grid either—several legends have been seen slipping through the grand cathedral doors, including Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, and even Nico Rosberg (!!), who was caught smiling for cameras. A true timeline reset moment.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
The cathedral was alive with quiet anticipation, the kind that hummed in the bones rather than rang in the ears. Morning light poured through the stained glass, spilling jewel tones across polished stone and carved pews lined with guests who were still struggling to believe what they were witnessing. Royals and dignitaries sat beside racing drivers, engineers, and old friends, the unlikely combination creating a sense of wonder that matched the occasion.
At the front of the aisle, Lewis stood tall in his bespoke black morning suit, the silver embroidery of subtle Hamilton family crest details glimmering in the light. His nerves weren’t for the cameras or the countless sets of eyes staring—he had been under bright lights for two decades. His hands flexed slightly at his sides as though he was waiting to grip the steering wheel of his car, except this time, it was the moment before his life changed forever.
Roscoe, wearing a tiny velvet bowtie, was curled quietly beside his feet, almost as if he understood the magnitude of what was about to happen. Then, the music shifted.
The organ swelled into something rich and timeless, and the cathedral rose to its feet. Every head turned, a hush falling so quickly it was almost holy. And there you were.
Walking down the long aisle, every step measured and poised, but your smile gave you away—it was radiant, soft, completely unguarded. You wore white that gleamed under the light, a gown with a modern silhouette threaded with the faintest touch of heritage, a nod to the history you carried on your shoulders. The diamond tiara perched delicately on your head was understated compared to others in your family’s vault, chosen purposefully, because today wasn’t about opulence. It was about love.
Lewis’ chest rose sharply the second he saw you. He had rehearsed not crying, but the tears threatened anyway, blurring the edges of his vision as you came closer. He wasn’t just marrying a princess—he was marrying the woman who had been his best-kept secret, the love that carried him through heartbreak, losses, wins, and long nights.
As you reached the altar, your eyes met his. Everything else—the cathedral, the guests, the pageantry—melted away. The officiant’s voice was calm and clear, but to Lewis, it was background noise until he heard the words, “Do you take this woman…”
“I do,” he said, his voice steady, certain, the same tone he used when he knew he had a race in the bag.
When it was your turn, you didn’t even let the officiant finish the question before answering, “I do,” with a smile that broke him open completely.
The rings were presented, and there was a murmur through the cathedral when yours caught the light—a custom design, a band of platinum wrapped around with rare yellow diamonds, symbolic of warmth, light, and the sun he always called you. On the inside, engraved so only you and Lewis knew, were the coordinates of the place you first met.
As he slid the band onto your finger, his hands trembled, not from nerves, but from the overwhelming need to be gentle with something so precious. Then came the vows.
You spoke first, voice steady though your eyes were misting:
“You were the only secret I ever wanted to keep. And now, you’re the only truth I’ll ever need. You’ve been my anchor, my safe place, and my best friend. Today, I give you my hand, my heart, and everything in between—for this life and whatever comes after.”
Lewis blinked hard, a tear rolling down his cheek before he laughed softly, shaking his head in disbelief at how lucky he felt. He took a breath, then said:
“I’ve raced all over the world, and I’ve been told I’m relentless. But you—you stopped me in my tracks. You taught me that slowing down doesn’t mean losing, it means living. I promise to love you fiercely, to protect you, and to stand beside you through every finish line and every storm. You are my greatest win.”
The silence after his words was thick with emotion. Even some of the stoic royals looked teary-eyed, and the F1 drivers—especially the rookies—were openly sniffling in the pews.
The officiant gave a small smile, his voice carrying: “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss—”
Lewis didn’t wait. He pulled you close, cupping your face with both hands, and kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered. It wasn’t a restrained, royal kiss meant for tradition—it was real, tender, full of years of hidden love bursting into the open. The cathedral erupted into applause, the sound echoing through the vaulted ceilings.
Somewhere in the chaos, you heard Lando whistle obnoxiously, George clapping too aggressively, and the rookies cheering like schoolboys at a football match. A few engineers cried into tissues, and even Toto Wolff was seen wiping his eye before quickly pretending otherwise.
When you and Lewis finally pulled apart, grinning at each other like you were the only two people in the world, you realized it didn’t matter how loud the world outside was. You had each other, forever.
And as the choir sang, you took his hand, and together, you walked down the aisle, not as a secret, not as just two people in love—but as husband and wife.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
The palace ballroom glowed with golden light, every chandelier sparkling as though it had been polished just for tonight. Round tables gleamed with fine china and crystal glasses, but the real magic came from the way the room pulsed with warmth. Royalty in elegant gowns sat side by side with drivers in crisp suits, engineers whispering wide-eyed at their table settings, and somewhere near the back, Roscoe lay sprawled on a velvet cushion as though he too had been formally invited.
At the far end of the hall, a stage had been set. Raye, elegant in satin, was already singing a slowed-down version of Worth It blended into something soft and jazzy, her voice floating above the low hum of conversation. It wasn’t the booming, headline performance of a festival — it was intimate, deliberately understated, meant to let the night breathe.
You and Lewis entered hand in hand to a round of applause that felt more like the cheer of a family than a formal salute. The rookies were the loudest — Ollie let out an almost football-chant “LEWWWWISSS” before Isack elbowed him and hissed, “Mate, you’re literally in a royal ballroom.” Gabriel still clapped far too loudly, while Kimi Antonelli just sort of… stood there, frozen, trying not to breathe too much in case he did something wrong.
Dinner passed with speeches — Toto gave a surprisingly sentimental toast, Charles stood and delivered a heartfelt little note about love being a race worth losing, and even George managed to avoid being overly dramatic.
But then, the chaos began. The rookies had decided they needed to make sure you had the “proper rookie initiation” into marriage. Which, apparently, meant demanding your first dance… with them.
Lewis had barely led you into the center of the ballroom when Ollie appeared at his side, tapping him on the shoulder with mock seriousness.
“Excuse me, Sir Hamilton,” Ollie said, bowing dramatically. “Tradition dictates the rookies dance with the bride.”
Lewis gave him a flat look, half amused, half protective. “Tradition where?”
“Er—rookie handbook,” Isack chimed in, already halfway out of his chair. “Page six.”
Gabriel was worse. He literally tried to slide in between you and Lewis, grinning ear to ear, and said, “C’mon, boss, share the love!”
You were laughing so hard you could barely stand straight. The image of four boys — barely out of their teens — earnestly trying to steal you from your new husband in front of royalty was so ridiculous that you let them pull you into their little circle.
Kimi, shy and red-faced, didn’t say a word but awkwardly shuffled up behind Ollie, clearly peer-pressured into this. The second you caught his eye and asked, “Kimi, would you like to dance with me?” he nearly combusted, nodding so quickly his curls bounced.
Lewis threw his head back with a groan, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Fine,” he muttered, stepping back toward Jenson Button, who had been watching the entire display with raised eyebrows and a smug smile.
The four of them tried to coordinate, but it was immediately clear none of them had any idea what ballroom dancing entailed. Ollie tried to lead, Gabriel attempted a twirl that nearly sent Isack into a waiter carrying champagne, and poor Kimi was so stiff you had to gently coax him into moving at all.
“Relax!” you giggled, holding their hands one by one, showing them the simple sway of the music. “It’s just one-two, one-two.”
“But what if I step on your dress?” Isack asked, horrified, staring down at the sweeping train.
“Then we’ll call it intentional,” you teased.
At some point, Charles and Alexandra had joined in, rescuing the rookies with practiced ease, and soon half the Ferrari table was out on the floor. Alexandra pulled Gabriel away before he elbowed another guest, while Charles twirled you gently back toward Lewis — who was watching, arms folded, from the edge of the dance floor, pretending to be annoyed but clearly charmed.
As the chaos unfolded, Nico sidled up to Lewis, champagne glass in hand. “So… married man now,” he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Lewis chuckled, eyes still on you. “Guess so.”
For a moment, there was silence — not awkward, but loaded with the kind of history only the two of them understood. They’d gone from teammates to rivals, to enemies, and now, here they were, standing in a palace watching rookies nearly trip over royalty.
“You know,” Nico said finally, softer now, “I didn’t think I’d see the day. But I’m glad I did. She suits you.”
Lewis turned, surprised at the sincerity. The two clinked glasses, the old competitive spark replaced with something warmer, like two veterans who had finally laid down their swords.
“Thanks, man,” Lewis said, and Nico nodded once, satisfied.
Meanwhile, Raye’s velvet voice had shifted into something more upbeat. Guests began filling the floor — George had convinced half the Mercedes garage to attempt a waltz, though it ended up looking more like synchronized chaos. Lando, of course, had already snuck behind the DJ booth to “help” with the playlist after Raye’s set, nearly causing a feedback squeal before being dragged away by Max, who muttered something about “don’t embarrass me in front of the crown.”
At one point, you caught sight of Ollie trying to ask Alexandra for a dance, Charles dramatically pretending to scold him like a protective older brother. Isack was explaining to a very confused minor royal how DRS worked, and Gabriel was eating cake directly with his hands because “no one told me there’d be three forks.”
Through it all, Lewis finally got you back in his arms. The two of you swayed slowly as Raye’s last song — soft, dreamy, almost lullaby-like — wrapped around the room. For a moment, it felt like you were the only two there.
“Worth the wait?” you whispered.
Lewis smiled, pressing his forehead against yours. “Every second.”
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
By the time the last song faded and the ballroom emptied, the world outside had gone still. The rookies had finally stumbled off to their rooms, still buzzing with adrenaline and sugar, George had tearfully declared himself the “guardian of love” before being dragged away by Carmen, and even Roscoe had been carried upstairs, snoring softly.
Now it was just you and Lewis. The two of you slipped away down one of the long palace corridors, the kind that stretched endlessly, lined with portraits and gilded sconces. The silence was strange after hours of music and laughter, but it wasn’t empty. It was heavy with comfort, with the warmth of knowing you were alone, together.
Lewis led you into a smaller drawing room, the kind of space that had been lit for centuries with candles and whispers. Tonight, only a single lamp glowed, throwing soft golden light across the antique furniture. He closed the door gently behind you, shutting out the rest of the world.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, the weight of the day finally settling into your bones. The vows, the ceremony, the chaos — it all seemed to drift into something hazy and dreamlike now.
Lewis crossed the room slowly, undoing the top button of his shirt, bowtie long discarded. He stopped in front of you, his hands brushing down your arms until they found your waist.
“Finally,” he murmured, voice low and a little rough, “I get you to myself.”
You smiled, fingers reaching up to smooth the curl that had fallen over his forehead. “Was it everything you imagined?”
He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Better. You looked… unreal tonight. But it wasn’t just that. Seeing you laugh with everyone, dance with those crazy rookies, light up the room—” He broke off with a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “I kept thinking, that’s my wife.”
The word sent a shiver through you, grounding the night into reality. Your wife. His wife.
You slid your hands around the back of his neck, drawing him closer until his lips brushed yours in a kiss that was unhurried, sweet, full of all the tenderness that the night’s chaos hadn’t allowed. His thumbs rubbed gentle circles at your waist, steady and grounding, as if he needed the reassurance that you were really here, really his.
When you pulled back slightly, your eyes caught the glimmer of his wedding band. It was so simple, yet it felt like the most precious thing you’d ever seen. You traced it lightly with your fingertip.
“Lewis,” you whispered, voice soft, “I’m so happy.”
His arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him. “Me too, love. Happiest I’ve ever been.”
The two of you sank onto the couch, still wrapped around each other, the glow of the lamplight wrapping the room in a cocoon of warmth. Outside, the palace stood grand and eternal, but here, in this small, quiet corner, time seemed to pause — just for the two of you. For the first time all day, there was no audience, no laughter, no chaos. Just you and him, tangled together, whispering promises you didn’t need to speak out loud anymore. Because tonight, everything had already been said.
⊹₊♚₊⊹ ⊹₊♚₊⊹
theroyalfamily
liked by lando, charles_leclerc, georgerussell63 and 37,000,000 others.
theroyalfamily : It is with great joy that we share that Her Royal Highness Princess of Wales and Sir Lewis Hamilton were married yesterday in a ceremony surrounded by family and close friends. The couple exchanged vows in an intimate service filled with love, laughter, and music, followed by a celebration that brought together loved ones from around the world.
“We are deeply grateful for the outpouring of love and support we’ve received,” the newlyweds shared. “Our wedding day was everything we dreamed of and more — a day full of joy, family, and the beginning of the rest of our lives together.”
HRH wore a custom gown designed by Maison Aurelia, while the groom wore a classic tailored tuxedo.
We are delighted to share a few moments from their special day with you.
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 :)
You and Lando deal with the fallout from Silverstone celebrations, both physically and emotionally. Stuck in a vulnerable aftermath, you are forced to put aside your bantering and arguments to confront the genuine emotions between the two of you. Can you finally accept the kindness you’ve always believed you didn’t deserve?
(a/n: I live for a good bit of hurt/comfort...and I really love the ending for this one. I hope you guys like it :)
Part 1 | Part 2
Your head felt as though it were swimming, your eyelids heavy as you attempted to open them.
What had happened?
Where were you?
Blinking suddenly felt as though it were a monumental task, and when you finally did manage to get your eyes open, the lights nearly blinded you.
The second thing you realized as you drifted back into consciousness was that you were incredibly nauseous. Not just that, but before you could really even get the thought through your head, you were gagging.
Suddenly a bucket appeared in front of you, and you felt a hand gathering your hair at the nape of your neck. You barely had anything in your system, but you dry heaved heavily. Sweat began to bead at your hairline, and it took you a few moments before you were able to lean back.
Your chest heaved with the effort, and you tried to bring a hand up to wipe the back of it against your mouth, only to find that very act incredibly difficult. You felt sluggish, like your whole body was forced to buffer before you could do any action.
But perhaps the biggest surprise of all was that sitting in front of you sat Lando Norris, who passed the bin with your vomit off to a nurse.
“Lando?” Your mouth felt like it had cotton stuffed into it, the word shaking and unsure as you spoke. His head turned on instinct at the noise, and his eyes met yours.
You could see it all there - the surprise, the concern, the worry. His eyebrows were furrowed together with nerves as his eyes roved over your whole body, as though he was afraid you were going to break right there in front of him.
You didn’t need to be told exactly what happened for you to realize that whatever it was, it had been bad.
Earlier that evening…
Lando had tried, really tried, to get you involved in the celebrations. Secretly, you were the only one he really wanted to celebrate with, despite how many people were there around him.
He wasn’t entirely sure what about you had drawn him in. Perhaps it was the way you never treated him any differently than the other kids when you were still in school. Maybe it was the fact that even now, you still treated him the same.
With you around, he didn’t feel like Lando Norris, the F1 driver. He just felt like Lando, the kid who loved racing karts and struggled to correct his own spelling on his English essays.
But you seemed hellbent on keeping him at arms length. He had thought that maybe the two of you had a breakthrough earlier today when you congratulated him on winning the race. He’d hoped that maybe you’d softened, maybe you’d start to let him in a little bit.
He knew that with you, trust was earned. But what he hadn’t accounted for was the fact that your walls were nearly impenetrable. He had spent months, years practically trying to get in your good graces. But all you ever seemed to do was tease him, and even when he tried to be serious, you deflected.
Which had led him to tonight, in this particular bar, chatting with some blonde girl with a Scouse accent who he simply couldn’t care less about. Her name had been Grace, he was pretty sure, or maybe Gabrielle. Something with a G, he was certain about that.
He’d spent basically the whole conversation staring at you, and still the girl seemed unperturbed. It wasn’t like it was something he wasn’t used to. The celebrity effect, where people focused more on who you were rather than what you truly were. He barely even needed to engage with her in order for her to be enthralled.
Lando had watched as you stalked over to the bar. He watched as the guy approached you. How he chatted you up, how you’d tipped your head back in laughter. It seemed superfluous, over exaggerated, stubborn. As though you were trying to prove that you were having a good time.
He wasn’t sure who exactly you were trying to convince. He forced himself to look away, because he didn’t feel like spending his whole night being a masochist.
The driver had gotten lucky that he’d glanced over at you when he saw you try to stand. It felt like ice cold water had been poured down his back when he saw the way you had staggered forward unnaturally.
You’d barely had two drinks. Lando had watched, had seen you sip your first drink, and he’d seen the empty glass of your second. No refills.
He didn’t even say goodbye to the girl in front of him as he moved forward, right as the guy you were with grabbed you and began to lead you towards the exit.
“Hey!” Gracie or Gabrielle had called out insistently, whining, and the noise caught the attention of Max. His best friend immediately saw the look on his face, and he was moving right along with Lando towards you.
It was just before you and the guy got to the door that they reached you.
“Hey, get off her!” Lando practically shouted as he ripped the guy away from you. Your head turned lazily in his direction as you swayed like a feather in the breeze, your knees buckling under you.
Lando caught you around the waist as the guy leaned forward, getting up in his space with a murderous look on his face.
“My girlfriend and I were just leaving,” he snarled, and Lando fought the urge to lean forward and do something he probably wouldn’t actually regret. He knew you’d kill him if they got into a fight, but for you? He’d do it in a heartbeat.
“She isn’t here with you dipshit, she’s here with us,” Max snapped, and the guy turned towards him with a smirk on his face.
“Oh really? Then where have you been all night?” He taunted, and if it weren’t for the way your entire weight was leaning into him, Lando would have made the man see Jesus a lot sooner than he was expecting.
“You’re done. Get away from her before we make you regret having ever laid a single pinky on her,” Lando ordered firmly, and he saw the guy leer towards you, looking you up and down once more. Like you were a piece of meat he was purchasing at auction rather than a human being.
“Fine,” he submitted, tossing his hands up. “Bitch wouldn’t have been a decent lay anyways.”
It didn’t even matter that you were still pressed into his side. Lando surged forward, only pulled back when Max grabbed his shoulder. When the driver turned to look towards his friend, he saw the same anger he felt reflected back at him.
“Get her out of here. I’ll deal with this,” he seethed. Lando didn’t need to be told twice, and he didn’t turn around to watch the commotion as he heard someone throw a punch. He chucked the doors open, dragging you through them and out into the brisk nighttime London air.
You slumped against him, and he fell to his knees on the sidewalk as he cradled you against him. You were dead weight, your head slipping sideways as though you had no control of it. He pressed his hand against your cheek, righting your head so he could look down at you properly. When you managed to blink your eyes open, he saw the way your pupils were completely blown wide.
If his heartbeat had been rapid before, it was bordering on blistering when he fully took in what kind of state you were in.
“Fuck, fuck! Help! Please! Someone call 999,” he begged two girls who were smoking a cigarette outside the club, his voice pleading. They took one look at you before they were frantically reaching for their cell phones.
“Oh my god!” Lando heard Mavis exclaim as she exited the club, followed swiftly by Max and Pietra. The former of the two had bleeding knuckles, but he hardly seemed bothered by it. All attention was focused on you as you fluttered in and out of consciousness, unable to answer the questions people were frantically asking you.
Everything around the group of you blew up as security threw out the guy who had drugged you, the police finally showed up, the ambulance service arrived. You were immediately being hoisted onto a gurney as the paramedics barked orders at one another, loading you into the vehicle.
Lando hardly spared a glance at the others as he hopped into the ambulance with you, the unspoken promise that the rest of them would meet you two there. You’re bustled away towards the hospital with blaring sirens, and Lando tries not to let the panic within himself surge uncontrollably.
A sudden, splitting ache cut through your head, and you hunched over in on yourself with a yelp. Your whole body felt aching and exhausted, like all of the energy had been drained out of you. Bits and pieces of your memory began to drift through your mind.
Enough for you to at least get the general picture of what happened.
You could hear Lando above you as he called for the nurse to help you swiftly. He kept a hand at your back, running soothing circles against the hospital gown you were in as they pressed a new round of medication into your IV.
It took a good minute or two before the ache began to subside, and you leaned back with a soft exhale on your lips. Lando had pulled a chair right up to your bedside, and when you finally began to calm, he sat down next to you.
Your eyes searched his for a moment, surprised by the sheer amount of emotion you found there. He was staring at you as though he really cared, and you weren’t sure what you had ever done to deserve that.
Your brain was foggy, and you struggled to understand why he was here with you, why he ever would have stayed. Or why he was staring at you with so much concern in his expression.
You’d been nothing but cold and calculating towards the man. You berated him in public, never said a nice word about him, never did anything to indicate that you cared. You had done nothing but try desperately to keep this solely professional.
And yet here he was, sitting at your bedside in the hospital like he belonged there. Sitting there like he cared for you far beyond what you’d ever expect.
“What happened?” You asked, your voice hoarse and rasping. It wasn’t like you really needed to know, you could make an educated guess based on what you remembered. But you didn’t want him to stare at you like that for any longer.
You weren’t sure you could handle it.
“The guy you were with slipped some drugs into your drink. He tried to leave the club with you but Max and I intercepted him before he could do anything,” he explained slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. He kept a comforting hand over your own that laid on your thigh, and you stared down at it.
“Oh,” you replied after a moment. Your voice was small, unusually so. “Thank you.”
You weren’t sure what to say. There was no guide for how to handle this, how to act when your boss saves you from being…you shivered just at the thought of what that man would have done if he hadn’t been there.
It isn’t lost on you that Lando saving you also meant that he had to be paying attention to you, despite the fact that you were on the complete opposite side of the club.
You tried, and failed, not to read into it.
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe,” Lando’s voice was a touch more insistent, and you realized as you looked over that he was sitting at the very edge of his seat. As though he ached to be closer to you, but was physically unable to do so.
“You stayed?” You asked, looking around at the hospital room. There was no window, no way to tell what time it was. When you finally managed to locate a clock, you realized that it was nearly quarter to noon.
Had he really been here all night?
“Of course I stayed,” Lando answered, as though it was a stupid question. As though he had nowhere else to be. Like he wasn’t one of the most in demand people in the whole entire world.
You allowed your eyes to close for a second, trying to catalogue all of your thoughts. Your confusion, your hope, your fear. You let him get too close to you. You allowed yourself to grow complacent.
People like you didn’t deserve people like him. You didn’t deserve someone with a heart of gold, someone who oozes kindness as though it costs him nothing.
You were nothing but sharp corners and biting remarks. What could someone like him possibly want to do with something like you? Not when he could have any woman he wanted, someone who would be considerably less complex of a pain in the ass.
It was easy for you to hide behind the mask of this being an employee and employer relationship. That was easy. There were boundaries to stick to. No room for grey area.
“You didn’t have to stay. I appreciate your commitment as an employer to making sure that the health and wellbeing of your employee is taken care of,” was what you settled on. That seemed to be the wrong response.
Lando flinched as though you’d slapped him. You felt your heart shrivel even more than you ever thought possible. Still, you refused to allow yourself the softness that he managed to continue with.
The driver leaned forward, his fingers twitching as though he had to fight against himself not to reach for you.
“I’m not here because you’re my employee. I’m here because you’re you, and I ca–”
Lando was interrupted by a knock on the door, and he slumped back in his seat for a moment as the doctor came through the door. You watched as he ran a hand through his hair, and he suddenly looked as though he’d aged fifteen years.
Just as soon as you saw it though, he sat right back up, his eyes focused on the doctor in front of him. His fingers twitched though, the remnants of his frustration bleeding through as he calmed himself.
“Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Campari,” the doctor began, and you rattled off your own quiet greeting.
“You were brought in under what we determined to be Gamma-Hydroxybutyrate, commonly known as GHB. It was likely ingested via an alcoholic beverage, which usually covers the slightly salty or soapy taste of the drug. We’ve hooked you up with some fluids that have helped to keep you hydrated and flush out your system.”
“You’re looking a lot better already, and based on your blood tests we’re feeling confident to discharge you. You’ll need someone to look after you for the next 24 to 48 hours, just to ensure that there aren’t any adverse reactions to the drug,” the doctor explained, and you swallowed thickly.
How were you supposed to find someone on such short notice? And in the middle of the work week at that?
“She’ll be staying with me,” Lando explained, and your head snapped towards him as you fought the urge to let your jaw drop open.
“Perfect. We’ll get your discharge paperwork in here for you to sign and you two should be good to go. Any other questions?” Dr. Campari asked, and you were so flabbergasted that you simply shook your head dumbly. This was dangerous territory.
You didn’t remember what it felt like to be cared about without politics behind it. What it felt like to be cared for because of who you were, and not because you could offer a certain thing to others. Advice, expertise, tutoring. A sharp remark that made them laugh, but left you feeling bitter in the mouth.
And this man, this wonderful, stupid, empathetic man was exceptionally close to tearing down the walls you’d spent a decade building up. You wouldn’t allow yourself to be undone for someone who wouldn’t ever want someone like you.
Who couldn’t ever want someone like you.
When the door was firmly shut, you turned towards Lando with a fire behind your eyes.
“What are you doing? I’d never ask you to look after me for two whole days! You’re a busy man, and this is hardly within the requirements of your capacity in the business–” you began, but Lando snapped back before you could continue your tirade.
“Stop talking about the fucking business. My care for you had nothing to do with a stupid contract, so just stop. Just let me help you for once, please,” he insisted, and you stared back at him with hard eyes. Almost as though you were sizing him up, expecting him to back down just from your expression.
But the man stood his ground, and though you didn’t exactly agree, you didn’t argue either. The exhale you let out was long and slow, as though you were fighting to keep from flinging out another argument.
He took that as a yes.
The drive home was quiet, and you did little else but stare out the window and try not to look as brooding as you felt. You tried to fight against his help, but Lando was quietly resolute in making sure you were okay. You muttered how you were completely fine as he opened the car door, but he was silent as he held your elbow as you stood on shaking legs.
He didn’t call out your bold faced lie, just helped you walk towards his house.
He brought you into his flat, leading you in and getting you settled on the couch. You barely had time to look around before a fluffy blanket was being thrown over your lap, and a glass of water appeared beside you.
“You need to stay hydrated,” was all Lando said softly, and you nodded in response. Still, no other words were exchanged.
You, honestly, weren’t quite sure what to say. What there was to say.
Lando settled across from you when he came back, carrying a plate of berries and biscuits. You reached forward tentatively, stealing a raspberry before you popped it into your mouth.
“Thank you,” you rasped, and it earned you a little smile from Lando. You searched for anything to talk about, anything that was easy and light. Anything that would get you back into old patterns, and away from the softness that had characterized all of his actions this afternoon.
“I love your flat,” you continued, and you meant it. You had been here once before, to get him to sign a contract, but you hadn’t taken the time to appreciate it.
You would have expected for it to feel like a bachelor pad, but it was…lighter than that. There were throw pillows and artwork of oceans and meadows on the walls. It felt like a home, not some throwaway house that was only used a few times a year.
“You sound so surprised,” Lando challenged gently, and you rolled your eyes as you chuckled gently.
“I mean, you don’t exactly give off interior designer energy,” you countered, your voice more playful than cynical. The laugh Lando let out as he tipped his head back was real, and you felt your heart flutter in your chest.
It was a dangerous line you were riding, but for a moment you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not when he smiled at you like that, and looked at you as though you were a real person and not just some…business professional.
“I will have you know I am very well respected for my interior design choices,” he teased, and you shot him a look.
“Oh yeah, by who? Max?” You riposted, and Lando froze before his shoulders began to shake with the effort of keeping his laugh in.
“Oh, you’re evil,” he smiled, and you shrugged loosely. This was easy and simple, and you relaxed because of it. You felt sleep tugging at the corners of your mind, and Lando leaning forward to speak to you. You ignored the way that your heart skipped a beat at the action.
“The doctors said you’d be sleepy. You’re safe, you can sleep,” he promised, his voice barely audible. You vaguely recalled nodding in response, but that might have been all in your head.
The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was the feeling of hands at your back and under your knees, and a strange sense of weightlessness.
The scent of sandalwood and citrus, the solid press of something against the side of your body.
Sleep pulled you under with Lando’s name on your lips and deep within your mind.
You reared back, scrambling for purchase as the man lunged for you. His hands stretched out towards you, a wicked smile on his face as he came closer, closer, clos–
You woke with a start, a scream dancing on your lips as you clamped your mouth shut. You clutched at the duvet that was over you, your knuckles turning white with the effort to calm yourself down.
It was dark out, and it took you a few moments to remember where you were. You looked around, remembering that you were in Lando’s guest bedroom. You didn’t remember getting from the sitting room to the bedroom, but it was blatantly clear that it was no longer afternoon. The curtains were pulled shut, but there was no light spilling from the edges of them.
Terror clung to the remnants of your mind, sticking with a ferocity that you found impossible to shake. You tried to focus on your breathing to no avail.
In for three, hold for three, out for three. However, nothing seemed to work in calming you.
Your heartbeat was erratic in your ear, and you finally tore the covers you were under off with the goal of getting a glass of water. In reality, you couldn’t spend another second feeling as though your body was trying to climb out of your skin.
You tried your hardest to open the door as silently as possible with trembling hands. You knew it was late, and you didn’t want to risk waking Lando up. You kept your arms wound tightly around yourself as you looked up and down the hallway, attempting to figure out where the kitchen was.
You chose to turn right and padded silently down the hallway before you stumbled upon the kitchen. You tried, you really did, to keep quiet.
But no matter how hard you tried, your hands trembled incessantly. The glass rattled in your hand as you brought it down to the counter, and you gripped the marble with shaking hands, fighting to calm yourself.
“Hey.”
You weren’t exactly surprised to hear Lando’s voice, but you still jumped as though you’d been caught red handed. You turned towards the driver slowly, still fighting to keep calm. To keep up the illusion of control.
You were sure you looked crazed, with shaking hands and wide eyes. But still, you clung onto what little dignity you still felt that you had.
He seemed surprisingly alert, as though he hadn’t even fallen asleep yet. He wore a pair of flannel joggers and a sweatshirt that looked annoyingly cosy.
“Sorry if I woke you,” you mumbled, your voice practically dripping with shame. Lando shook his head before he stepped into the kitchen.
“I was still awake,” he promised, taking another glass down from above you and reaching for your own before he filled them both with water. He offered you one of the glasses silently, and you reached out to take it from him.
If he noticed the quivering of your hands, he didn’t mention it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” He asked, and you swallowed thickly, forcing your gaze away.
“Something like that,” you offered in reply, and it was confirmation enough for Lando. He might be aloof sometimes, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what the aftermath of a nightmare looked like.
“I promise that he didn’t do anything but try to lead you away. Max and I got there before he even made it to the door. I never would have let him do anything to hurt you. I couldn’t…I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if he had done anything to you,” he insisted softly, but there was a darkness, a seriousness to his tone that caused you to pause.
What would it be like to accept the fact that Lando loved you?
What would it feel like to allow someone to care about you without asking for something in return?
You clung uselessly to your premonitions of what you deserved.
“I wasn’t your responsibility, Lando. It wouldn’t have been your fault,” you replied diplomatically, almost robotically. As though you truly believed those words. You couldn’t meet his eyes.
Not when tears shone in your own. You felt weak, weak and stupid for having ever let your mind get this far.
Nobody else owed you a single thing. A part of you couldn’t understand how anyone would ever do something to help you for no other reason than because they cared about you.
But that’s all you saw when you allowed your eyes to rove over Lando’s expression. He was staring at you with an expression that was empathetic and unrelenting. Almost as though he was trying to understand how best to explain himself to you.
“You don’t get it, do you? It was never about responsibility. It was never about doing something because I owed it to you. You never had to do anything for me to care about you. I care about you because it’s you, and whether you like it or not, I care about you. So no, I never would have forgiven myself if something bad had happened to you and I hadn’t done everything in my power to stop it,” he answered, his gaze unwavering. The steadiness of his words had you looking up, your eyes meeting his own.
You stared at him for a long moment, right there in that kitchen in the middle of the night.
Every moment from now to when the two of you were seventeen years old flashed across your memory. All of the study sessions, the late nights working, the endless meetings. The teasing, the poking fun, the exasperation that hid laughter.
You spent all these years surrounded by an illusion that this was just about business. All of this time, when in reality Lando had spent years showing you just how much he cared.
Because even when your relationship was still just arguing and teasing and filled with thinly veiled hate - he cared enough to meet you toe for toe.
Even when you told yourself that it was hate, he cared enough to hate you back.
You weren’t sure where along the line you’d fallen in love with this man, but you realized for the first time in this moment that you wanted it.
You wanted him, desperately and hopelessly and all encompassing.
He watched as the emotions passed over your face, as you almost seemed to be sizing him up. As though you were weighing his commitment to you, whether it was safe to trust him or not.
He took a step closer towards you, and you didn’t move towards him but you didn’t move away.
After a long moment, you let out a shaking sigh as you hung your head. It seemed as though the weight of the world had settled back on your shoulders, and Lando would have done anything in the moment to make it go away.
To give you just an ounce of the care you so desperately deserved but had deemed so unimportant.
“Please,” his voice cracked over the word, but he didn’t care about the desperation in his voice. “Just let me help. Let me in.”
Your head shot up in surprise at his words. Your face was filled with surprise, almost as though you were shocked to see that someone could read you so well. But Lando had spent the better part of a decade learning how to do exactly that, and he found that he was finally getting somewhere.
Your expression cracked just slightly, and you looked down for a moment before making eye contact with him once more.
“I don’t want to be alone,” you admitted, your voice small. You watched as Lando relaxed at the statement, as he reached for you nearly instantly. You found yourself offering him your hand on instinct. He led you down the hallway slowly, as though he was giving you time to pull back.
But you followed him step for step, past the guest bedroom and into what was presumably his own bedroom. You didn’t even bother looking around, not when exhaustion was beginning to pull on your subconscious.
You allowed Lando to lead you to bed, pulling back the duvet and holding it for you to crawl under. You did just that, and waited as Lando tucked the covers around you before slipping in on his own side, facing you.
He kept a healthy space between the two of you, but his hand laid gently on the mattress between the two of you. Slowly, carefully, you reached forward to place your own hand above his. He laced your fingers together loosely, allowing you to be the one to tighten them.
Everything around you smelled like Lando, something clean with hints of sandalwood. You felt your anxiety receding as your head swam with drowsiness. For whatever reason, Lando’s gaze on you wasn’t anxiety inducing but rather comforting.
“You can sleep, I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to your temple. The breath you took in was stuttering, and you exhaled all of the air in your lungs as though a weight had been taken off your shoulders.
With the knowledge that you were safe, you allowed sleep to claim you.
You weren’t sure of when during the night you and Lando had drifted towards one another, but you did know that you woke up tucked into the man’s chest.
And honestly?
You weren’t going to complain.
His body was warm and solid against your own, and it’s only with real focus that you lean back to look him properly in the face.
It’s early in the morning, sunlight pouring into the room. Lando is backlit, his curls a halo around his head as light spills all around him. You’re sure that you’ve never seen anything quite as gorgeous as he is in that moment.
You reached up, using the pad of your pointer finger to trace the line of his forehead, down his temple, running over his cheekbone. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
“Good morning,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. He smiled at the greeting, leaning further into your touch.
“You’re here,” you said after a moment. He opened his eyes slowly before he allowed his gaze to rove over your face. He took his time, unhurried in his exploration of the lift of your cheeks and the slope of your nose.
“I’m right where I want to be. I’m right where I’ve always wanted to be,” he responded, and your brows furrowed on instinct. The two of you had danced around this thing between you, and still you didn’t understand his side.
What could he possibly see in you?
What could this wonderful boy, this sleepy, soft, kind, passionate boy ever see in you? How could you ever compare to the perfection he deserved?
“I’m not like the other girls you could have. The ones that are kind and uncomplicated. All I’ve done is show you cruelty. You’re light, and I’m…so imperfect. So undeserving,” you breathed out, forcing the words out over the lump in your throat. Everything felt painful and tight.
It was one thing to think all of those things about yourself. It was another thing entirely to bare them in front of the person you feared might finally understand them.
How long until he realized that you weren’t worthy of him?
“Nobody is perfect. I never wanted perfection. You're passionate and considerate. You show empathy in all the places where others would never think to find it. You leave flowers on Mavis’ desk when she’s had a tough week. You do expense reports despite the fact that it’s not in your job description because you know the finance intern hates doing them. You keep Max running in circles on dumb tasks when he’s stressed about the business future because you know keeping his mind off it all helps him to cope. You joke with me to give me a reprieve from the craziness of my entire world,” he replied as though it was the simplest question in the entire world. As though he’d been waiting years to say these words to you.
“I want someone who is my equal, not someone who is just going to put me on a pedestal solely because of my career. Even when we were younger and I could barely string a five paragraph essay together, you were never unkind. You treated me just like you did with everyone else. It made me feel like I was worthy, like I wasn’t stupid. You cared before I was important to the world. You made me feel important just because of who I was. Who I still am.”
“You seem so very convinced that you must do something to earn my kindness, my love. But it’s always been there for you. I never needed you to do something to deserve it. You could lay everything you’ve ever done in front of me and I would still see you just as I do now.”
“I would still love you just as much as I do now,” he continued, bringing his hand up to cradle your cheek. Silent tears slip down your cheeks. Not huge sobs, just a quiet release as every single one of his words wash over you.
As he holds your insecurities in the palm of his hand delicately, allowing them to dissipate slowly.
“I’m not perfect either. I’m sharp around the edges in places. I’m sensitive and stressed and flawed. But I love you. I think that honestly I’ve loved you since we were seventeen. And I don’t need you to love me back, but I need you to know that,” he finished, resolute with security you never thought you’d be able to afford.
You didn’t know how to respond, or what to say. You weren’t sure what it meant to be cared for unconditionally, how to process everything that he had told you.
You allowed yourself to curl into him, to tuck your face into his chest and breathe in deeply.
In for three, hold for three, out for three.
Lando wrapped his arm around you, pulling you flush with his body. Something deep within you exhaled, and you moved closer to peace than you ever remembered being.
“I’m trying to believe you,” you revealed, and he just pulled you closer.
“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
When you woke up the next time, it was to an empty bed.
But the door was open, and light flooded in the room from the windows. You sat up slowly, allowed yourself to gaze out at the garden. The sun was shining and the leaves on the trees blew gently in the wind.
For the first time in you can’t remember how long, you think that maybe you might love yourself.
One thing you do know for sure though, is that you love him.
You’ve probably loved him for years, but you never allowed yourself to feel it. Every piece of banter, every snap, every chance he had to turn away from you, and it still wasn’t enough. You tried for years to show him how unworthy you thought you were, and he refused to listen.
Because for the right person, you’d wait a lifetime.
And he waited for you.
You got up slowly, but there’s a very certain premonition in your heart. You knew what you needed to do. You understand yourself, and you weren’t willing to let him get away from you.
Not when you have a chance to be happy. Not when you’ve finally decided that maybe love can rule you instead of fear.
He would keep you safe. He had always kept you safe. Maybe, just maybe, you could do the same for him. Maybe that somewhere within the banter and arguing was a levity, a breath of fresh air in a life that was cumbersome with responsibility.
You offered him reprieve in all of this, you realized, and you wanted to continue doing so.
You stood slowly, your legs still wobbling slightly. You set off towards the kitchen, your feet silenced by the carpet under you.
When you turned into the kitchen, you saw Lando standing by the window, facing away from you. He didn’t look towards you, but you saw the breath he took in, how his chest expanded.
He didn’t even need to see you to feel your presence in the room, and your heart ached. Your heart ached for this tether that had remained between the two of you. For several long moments you stood there, unmoving.
When he turned to look at you, you saw the hesitation in his expression.
The man had given himself to you, handed you his heart directly into your palm. It was your decision what to do with it now. And deep down, you knew he would accept whatever you told him.
He’d never done anything but give you your own choices. He offered his love to you unconditionally, without asking for a thing in return. What you did with that love was up to you.
And it was a decision you had to make right now.
He didn’t move. And for a moment, you didn’t either.
You loved him.
Hopelessly.
Desperately.
Indefinitely.
He waited for you.
And you found him.
He stood there, waiting for you to come to him.
And like a moth to a flame, you took a single step toward him. There’s a force bigger than gravity that pulls you towards him, as though you’re helpless to stay away. Maybe you are.
You saw the breath he sucked in, how his eyes widened at the action. Your steps were slow but insistent. As though you were achingly sure of your decision.
Closer, closer, closer.
You’re standing in front of him sooner than you expected. He looks down at you with wide eyes, as though he doesn’t know your next move.
You aren’t sure that you know your next move. All you know is that it’s him, and it’s always been him.
But still, he doesn’t rush you. Not when your hand comes up, sliding around to the base of his neck. Your fingertips brush against his curls, tightening at the nape of his neck.
You press him just slightly towards you, and he dips his face so that you can connect your forehead with his. Your eyes are shut tightly, but your heart is open.
“I love you,” you breath out, reverent and painfully honest. Your voice is quiet, trembling with sincerity. “I’m sorry it took me so long to see it. I’m so sorry I made you wait.”
“I would have waited another decade if you needed it,” he replies, and you believe him. His tone is heartbreakingly earnest, and god you believe him.
“Is this okay?” You ask, and he pulls back just enough to nod, to knock his forehead against your own. You open your eyes to find his dripping with affection.
You press up on your tiptoes, letting your lips brush against his softly. You can feel the way he smiles into the kiss, and you hold him tightly to you. It’s something soft and sweet, the press of mouths together that somehow represents years of love.
You’re pretty positive that you’ll never let him go again.
When you lean back, there’s a smile dancing across your lips. There’s an openness to your expression that nearly knocks Lando on his ass.
All these years, and that’s all he’s ever wanted - to see you happy. For you to allow yourself to be loved wholly.
“I have a workplace complaint,” you whisper, a grin tugging at your face. You’ve never felt this light, and the clear ease and devotion on Lando’s face is so thick you could drown in it.
Instead, you feel yourself floating. He holds you tightly, and you know he won’t let you drift.
And so, you float.
“Oh yeah?” His eyes fill with mirth at the way you whisper conspicuously.
“My employer is engaging in inappropriate workplace behavior,” you tease, unable to hide the fondness even in your teasing. It’s the same light you’ve always experienced with him, but just softer. Kinder. Sweeter, somehow.
Something that’s less sharp around the edges, and instead buoyed with empathy. Just as you are in this moment.
“I’d rather fire myself than leave you,” he replies, and you soften under his touch. He loops his arms around you, and you allow yourself to be pulled into his arms easily.
No one could ever love you like he could.
And luckily, you’d never have to know another love but this one.
In which Lando and Max are walking HR violations, Quadrant is pure chaos, and you’re the childhood acquaintance turned HR manager brought in to wrangle them. Armed with quick wit and a wide knowledge of business accoutrement, you see right through them and their antics. The only problem? They can't seem to get a read on you, until a night when everything goes sideways.
(a/n: About once in a blue moon I try to write something funny, so this is my yearly allowance. The first part of this is more haha funny up until the end and then that and the second part is more serious. Creative liberties were taken with certain aspects (ie. How involved Lando is with the business) but that’s why we have suspension of disbelief!)
Part 1 | Part 2
Lando and Max started Quadrant as a passion project.
Okay, they started it as an excuse to fuck around and make content, but really, they were passionate about it the more real it became.
They were smart enough to get a lawyer involved, a lawyer who they paid to help them iron out all of the necessary business details.
It’s only when they hire a second person, a communication staffer, that they realise something very important.
Neither of them knows how to work a payroll.
Which had led them straight to you.
Lando could remember when you had moved to their secondary school - he and Max were in year nine, freshly 13 years old. You were the American girl that came in during the middle of the term. You had a British father and an American mother, which led to a bizarre accent where you were somehow unable to say ‘water’ correctly, and yet pronounced ‘aluminium’ as though you’d lived in England your whole life.
Kids were relentless, teasing, vicious, circling you like you were prey to be torn apart and not a girl who had moved halfway across the world. Luckily for you, you pretty immediately got a reputation for being wicked smart. You dealt with absolutely no bullshit and were extremely straightforward in your mannerisms.
It was tough to bully someone who seemed unbothered about what everyone spoke about her. You built up a hard exterior shell, an impenetrable wall that served you well. Your friendships were somewhat transactional, but it worked for you. It was how you grew to operate, how you understood the world around you.
You and Max had always been on friendly terms, with several common friends between the two of you.
You and Lando were less so, not in a purposeful way, but rather a lack of proximity. He was focused on karting, perhaps even more than Max was at the time. The two of you just didn’t really interact at all, though there was no ill will.
That all changed in year eleven when Lando was deep in the trenches of studying for his GCSE’s and began to realise that he was far more behind than he had realised.
Which was where you came into things.
You were smart, razor sharp and quick witted. You offered tutoring to a select few students, ruthless in your commentary and effort to better your pupils.
You didn’t do it for the money. You did it because it genuinely brought you joy to help those around you.
Not that you ever let on to that fact. Your reputation was, at times, the only thing holding you together. You wore it like a shield. Never seem too weak. Never let them in on what you were thinking or feeling.
Lando had practically given up on even attempting to ask you for help, assuming that you’d take one look at him and deem him unworthy of your time. He had never been the best at school, and English language and literature, the very ones you offered tutoring for, were two of his weakest subjects.
Much to his surprise, you had said yes when he asked for your help. You met twice a week for months, navigating his karting competitions and busy schedule. You spent lunches together pouring over books and quiz questions. You met him at the library, the park, your home, his home.
You were relentless, critical, brilliant. You challenged Lando immensely. You weren’t one to give free passes - every improvement was something he earned. You didn’t cut corners, you encouraged him to raise to your standard of excellence.
You were kind where he didn’t expect it, taking the time to create examples that helped him understand more easily, researching ways to best teach him. You’d help him understand the English language by using karting references, compared literary references to different tyre compound material.
It went on for months, the longest tutoring stint that you had ever done with someone.
You both focused on the work, despite how desperately Lando tried to get you off track. He wanted to talk to you, get to know you. But you refuted his attempts, drawing his attention back to the work the two of you were doing.
He never could get a read on you. Unlike Lando, you did not wear your heart on your sleeve. A raised eyebrow might as well have been a love poem from you, given how withdrawn you could be. Nearly a whole year of time spent together and Lando only knew a handful of personal facts about you.
Not for lack of trying.
It wasn’t that you were unkind, not exactly. You were deeply empathetic, but leaned toward being more reserved of a person.
Lando remembered when he passed his GCSEs, and he’d hugged you as a thanks for all of your help. You’d stood there stiff as a board, almost as though you were surprised at the contact.
Furthering your own perplexion, Lando had seemed completely unphased by your bizarre response to a simple hug.
He was just as much of an enigma to you as you were to him. This boy who seemed like live sunshine, compassionate and sweet. His disposition was the antithesis of your own. He came the closest to anyone in your life who actually peeled back your layers.
He came dangerously close to knowing the real you, the one who was scared to strip herself bare to anyone lest they realise you were as inadequate as you felt.
After school ended, you and Lando went your separate ways. He and Max continued in karting, and you went off to uni. You thought the day that he hugged you would be the last time you’d ever see Lando Norris.
Nobody was more surprised than you when you opened your LinkedIn messages.
When Lando and Max realised that they needed help at Quadrant it was actually Max who remembered that you had studied Analytics with a specialization in Human Resources in university.
He and Lando had quickly fled to LinkedIn, and sure enough, there you were. They were surprised to find that you were working in London, and they had been quick to message you.
You looked between Max and Lando once, twice, three times.
“Norris. Fewtrell.”
Lando was smiling at you brightly while Max had a bit cooler of an expression on his face, but both seemed rather eager. You were tucked into a booth at a coffee shop in Chelsea, where the three of you had agreed to meet. The two of them looked a little too pleased with themselves as they exchanged a glance, before Max dug into his bag for a folder. He plucked a document from it, putting it down on the table.
He pushed the stapled stack of papers toward you, and you picked it up wordlessly.
They watched with baited breath as you read over the contract, your eyes skimming over the words on the first page, flipping, only to start reading at the top once again. Rinse and repeat.
The minutes passed painfully slowly, but you were nothing if not thorough. Lando and Max couldn’t help their fidgeting, but they remained perfectly silent.
When you finally placed the contract back down on the table, you looked up at them with a skeptical expression.
“You are both aware that you’re offering me over two times what my market value is, right?” You asked, your voice clipped and somewhat unconvinced.
Lando scrunched his nose, shaking his head slightly.
“You make it sound like you’re a prostitute,” he replied as your eyeline cut towards him with a murderous gaze, one eyebrow raised. Max froze next to his friend, unmoving and looking rather like a deer in the headlights.
“I didn’t mean–not like th–I would never!” Lando spluttered, almost as though he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
After a tense second you rolled your eyes, letting out a loud sigh as you raised your hand to cut him off from digging himself into a deeper hole.
“Enough Norris, I get your point.”
You never called him Lando. Always Norris.
“I mean twice more than the market value of my current role. Not me as a person. And this job you two have offered is going to require a lot less work than what I’m doing right now. If I took this role I’d be overpaid so much it’s practically gross negligence,” you explained with a flat expression, and Lando peered over at Max with a sheepish expression.
The driver didn’t really care if you were overpaid, he just wanted you to come work with them. And admittedly, they hadn’t done a ton of prep work when coming up with a salary to put on the contract.
Sure, the two of you had only been in one another's orbit for about a year for exam prep, but he missed your banter and quiet compassion. Luckily, Max seemed to be reading his mind on that fateful day.
“Well, the contract is already drawn, and the offer stands. Do you want to come work at Quadrant?” Max announced as he looked at you expectantly. You considered the two men in front of you with thinly veiled disbelief.
You peered down at the contract once more, and then up at the two de facto golden retrievers who stared back at you. Lando had his head cocked to the side, and the hope in his eyes was too much for even you to deny.
You’d always had a soft spot for the boy with the watercolor eyes who made you feel as though perhaps you weren’t the monster you thought you were.
“I’ll give my two weeks notice to my manager tomorrow,” you decided after a beat, and Max and Lando cheered as though you’d just handed them the winning lottery ticket.
“Welcome to the team sunshine!” Lando lauded, and you shook your head at the nickname, already reaching for your bag to hand the two of them your card.
You had a feeling that this was going to be an…interesting employment opportunity.
Max looked over at Lando, swallowing thickly.
Across from the two of them sat you and Mavis, their lawyer. The two of you had instantly hit it off, and Lando was pretty sure he’d never seen you smile in the year you’d tutored him as much as you had in the last fifteen minutes.
“And then they said, can you draw that up by this afternoon? A whole contract in two hours!” Mavis exclaimed, and you clapped your hands together as you let out a laugh.
“Where do they think this stuff is pulled from, thin air?!” You wheezed, and Lando blinked back at Max after he stared at the two of you for a beat.
“I don’t think we should have gotten Mavis a buddy,” the latter whisper shouted, and you shot him a withering look. Mavis rolled her eyes affectionately as she folded her hands on top of the table. You loved her energy already, and turned to watch how she approached the two boys.
“Listen you two. I know why you created this business, and I get what you’re trying to do. Sort of,” you snarked out a laugh that you passed off as a cough when Lando glared at you.
“But regardless of that,” Mavis continued. “This is a business, and we need to act like it. That means doing things through the proper channels, the correct way. You have to run stuff by the two of us, and give us an appropriate amount of time to execute tasks.”
“That also means that you have to abide by the proper workplace interactions. No being weird toward employees or saying questionable things. Absolutely no flirting. Do you understand?” You added on, voice serious.
Max and Lando both responded enthusiastically at the same time, happy to be team players.
“Yes!”
“Understood!”
You looked over at Mavis skeptically, and she was clearly trying to keep her own laughter in.
“I don’t think they understand,” you whisper shouted with a mirthful tone, and the lawyer broke down into laughter.
“Hey!”
“NORRIS!”
Lando shot up instinctively from his spot on the side of the track. He was here shooting content with some of the Quadrant guys, and cars occasionally would whiz past as they filmed for whatever promotional videos the team was doing this week.
He watched as you stalked down the side of the road in your slacks and blouse, kitten heels pounding the pavement. Your expression was near murderous, clipboard in one hand and your cell phone in another.
“Oh dude, what the fuck did you mess up?” Max grimaced when he caught sight of you, and Lando looked at him helplessly.
“It’s like watching a shark about to eat its prey,” he heard one of the guys whisper, and he decided to walk over to you as opposed to letting you come all the way here. If you were going to yell at him, he didn’t need everyone to overhear it.
“Good morning sunshine!” He called out easily, allowing any nerves to slip away in favor of a laid back, easy going attitude.
“Good morning? Really?” You huffed, unlocking your phone and shoving it in his face. “You sent me a text at 2:21 this morning that said nothing except, and I quote - you up?”
You set your phone down on your clipboard and simply stared at the driver. Lando just stared back at you, unmoving and overall rather unperturbed by your angry expression. If anything, he looked rather pleased with himself.
“Yes? I needed to talk to you about an HR question I had,” he clarified simply, as though you had just asked him about the weather. You gaped back at him, and Lando was pretty sure if your expression grew any more homicidal, steam would begin to pour out of your ears.
“You sent me a text at 2 in the morning…using the words that are commonly associated with a late night hook up…to ask about an HR QUESTION?!”
“Yes! You really are so intelligent, I’m so glad we pay you all that money,” Lando chirped brightly, and you scowled as you reached for the pen you kept in the pocket of your slacks.
You were still reaching for your pen when a car sped past the two of you where you stood on the edge of the track. You hadn’t really been paying attention to the road, and you flinched violently at the sound and wind that the car generated. Lando was quick to step in between you and the rest of the road, resting a hand gently on your shoulder to steady you.
You looked up at him for a moment, your expression unburdened by its usual scowl or exasperation. Lando softened, reminded of the young girl who held herself together with a trenchant tongue in a school full of bullies. For a split second your ragged, raw edges fell away, and in its place was a quiet, unguarded sort of warmth.
Someone down the road let out a loud cheer, and just as quick as it had come, you shifted back to your usual expression. You pulled the pen up as though it were a weapon of defence, unclicking it as you began to write on a post-it note.
“You are a walking HR complaint,” you harangued, and he shrugged, looking around comically.
“Where are all these complaints you’re talking about?” He quipped, and was almost instantly hit straight in the forehead as you slammed a post-it note to his forehead. He reeled back, barely recovering before you were speaking again.
“Here is the first one,” you explained with a clipped expression, and he could hear the scratch of your pen against paper before he could even really comprehend what had happened.
“And the second,” you announced as you slapped a second post-it directly on his chest.
“If you aren’t careful, there will be a third. And I’ll plan to aim lower for that one,” you finished, and your voice dripped with a saccharinely sweet kind of sarcasm.
Lando heard the clip of your heels as you walked away more than he actually saw you go. He reached up to grab at both of the post-it notes, and he ripped them away from his body. The first one said ‘get it’ and the second one wrote ‘together.’
Well, it wasn’t like you were exactly known for your subtlety.
“Thanks for the notes sunshine!” He called after you brightly, and you flipped him the bird as you walked away from him.
“Fuck off Norris!” You yelled back promptly.
“That doesn’t seem workplace appropriate!” He chided loudly, and he wasn’t sure if he heard you let out a huff in response, or if that was in his imagination. Regardless, he was quite pleased with his quick thinking.
He turned back to his friends, a smile splitting across his face.
“I feel like that went extremely well - what do you guys think?”
You were staring down the barrel of some expense reports. Given the company’s size, you often found yourself wearing multiple hats, though you had grown to focus more on the HR side of the business as the number of employees grew.
You were seated at Max’s dining room table as day bled into night, focused intently on your work. Sometimes the team would simply gather at someone’s home - Mavis or Max or Lando. Fewtrell was the lucky man today, and though other people had cleared up earlier, you still worked away. You simply needed to get this done today before you could call it quits.
You barely noticed Lando until he was sliding a plate in front of you and sitting down across from you at the table. He and Max had been streaming last you’d checked, but you honestly had no clue what the time was anymore.
You looked up to see that on the plate was a ham and cheese sandwich. The same one you’d always packed back when the two of you were at school together. You remembered a time where the two of you would split each other’s lunches as you poured over old English literature.
You’d steal his crisps, he’d eat half of your sandwich. It had been an unspoken rule between the two of you, for whatever reason.
Your heart constricted at the thought that Lando remembered something so miniscule about you all these years later. The realist that resided in your brain insisted that it was simply a coincidence, a lucky guess. Perhaps it was all Max had in the fridge.
The 2025 F1 season was starting soon, and Lando was due to leave for Australia in just a few days. Even if you would never admit it, you missed him when he wasn’t around. You knew that he had a championship to focus on, hell he had an actual job to focus on, but it didn’t mean you missed his presence around the Quadrant bunch more.
“Thank you Norris,” you acknowledged evenly without looking up at him, and you reached for the sandwich as you typed a few numbers into your laptop.
“You’re cute when you concentrate,” Lando stated as he leaned forward, his elbows on the table. You paused for half a second before you seemed to catch yourself, typing a few more numbers into the screen.
“You’re cute when you’re being appropriate at the workplace,” you retorted swiftly, and you didn’t need to look at Lando to know that he was grinning at you like a cheshire cat. You cringed internally at your choice of words, but you refused to let on to that fact.
“So you think I’m cute?” Lando inquired, and you finally did spare the man a glance over the top of your laptop.
“Is that really what you got from my comment?” You countered, a perfectly manicured eyebrow raised sharply. Lando met your gaze with an intent one of his own, unbothered by your withering expression.
“So, tell me. Do you always wake up and choose violence?” He asked with an overly dramatic voice, and you pretended to think for a comically long moment.
“That depends, really. Do you always wake up and choose stupidity?” You leveled Lando with a smug expression, and he cracked as soon as the words were out of your mouth.
You grinned unabashedly as he broke down into laughter, his joy radiating easily. It felt like it was infecting you, and you didn’t even bother with pretending like it irritated you.
“Touché,” he replied after a moment, his smile far softer than you deserved.
The table was no longer just you, Max, Lando, and Mavis anymore. There were several other people at these all staff meetings, and sometimes Lando wasn’t even present for them anymore.
But he was here today, and you were leading the meeting to discuss the next quarter of business operations.
You had been presenting for the last few minutes, talking about your proposal to shift from solely F1 focus to other aspects of motorsport. Your theory was that you guys could utilize the connections the company had gained to expand the business into different avenues.
“Ultimately, we’re staring down the barrel of needing to diversify in order to further the growth of the business,” you finished, looking around at your various coworkers as you completed your proposal.
“Oh god,” you heard someone whisper from your left, and you looked over to see Lando looking like a deer in the headlights. “She’s using the big words,” he whispered to Max, who shook his head.
You didn’t even bother in trying to stop the eye roll that comment produced. You turned fully toward Lando, unimpressed.
“You,” you pointed at the man, “no longer the star,” you explained as though you were speaking to a five year old, and you pointed back toward your slide deck. “More people equals more business,” you articulated slowly, gesturing in a circle to represent all these new proposed people you hypothetically had mentioned.
Lando instantly pouted, shaking his head.
“Well that’s no fun, I love being the star,” he grumbled, crossing his arms like a petulant child.
“You’re a walking cack attack,” Max announced in your general direction, and you shot him a glare as the other employees merely watched. The newer ones had wide eyes and mildly horrified expressions, but the seasoned members of the business were used to this level of psychological warfare.
“And you two are a lawsuit waiting to happen. Fork found in kitchen. Now, back to wh–” You were cut off as you attempted to steer them back to focus.
“I’m too handsome for anyone to sue us,” Lando cut in swiftly, clearly affronted.
"I'm gonna play sexy back!" Max cheered, and both you and Lando shut him down instantaneously.
"My point still stands," Lando challenged, and he tilted his chin up towards you.
You stared back at the man for a moment, and he swore that he saw your eye twitch. You released a deep breath, seeming to centre yourself as you closed your eyes for a moment.
The thing was, you actually didn’t mind this. You were sure there were plenty of women who would have been bothered with their interruptions and crude jokes. But you honestly loved it. You loved that you could speak freely, and that the whole thing felt more like a conversation than a stuffy office.
Lando and Max knew when to take you seriously, and you knew that in the end they would always listen to your ideas. They might joke, but if you asked them to take you seriously, they would.
And most importantly, you were the only person in the business they treated this way. You all knew there were lines that weren’t to be crossed, and what you had just worked.
Plus, it was so much fun to fuck with them.
They made it just…too easy.
You allowed your eyes to rove over Lando, pulling the most judgemental look you could muster to paint across your expression.
When you finished your assessment of the driver, you frowned and cocked your head to the side, tutting softly.
“I think we both know that’s not true Norris,” you said finally, your tone simply oozingly patronizing, and everyone in the meeting froze. There was a solid ten seconds where nobody said a thing, where they hardly breathed. And then suddenly Mavis cracked, and the entire meeting room was dissolving into fits of laughter. Even you cracked a smile, chancing a glance toward Lando to make sure it wasn’t too far.
But he was the one laughing the hardest, the tension completely broken by your quip.
The driver looked back toward your final slide on the presentation, nodding his head slowly.
“This seems like a brilliant idea, and just what we’ve needed all along. You’ve outdone yourself, as usual,” he said softly, dead serious. You softened, appreciating his ability to be genuine when necessary.
“Worth every cent we paid for you!” Max cheered, and both you and Lando blanched, the latter nearly choking on the water he was sipping.
“Now I really sound like a prostitute,” you muttered as you sunk back into your chair, allowing your head to fall into your hands.
You’d taken not two steps into the paddock at Silverstone on Saturday when you heard someone barking out your name.
You froze, turning towards the sound to see Max Fewtrell charging toward you with Pietra and Mavis right on his tail.
“What are you wearing? What the bloody hell is this?” Max exclaimed, gesturing to all of you. You looked down at your black blouse and slacks, scowling as you looked back up at the man in front of you.
“I’m wearing clothes?” You supplied, but Max simply scoffed, looking as though you’d personally victimized his family with your outfit choice.
“You look like you’re going to a business meeting that doubles as a funeral service!” You looked around the paddock with sweeping eyes, gesturing at the people around you.
“I’m representing the business!”
“Do you really think anyone here cares who you are?” Max replied evenly, and you huffed in protest at his statement.
“Okay, ouch!”
Max had the decency to look at least a little guilty at his statement, but he kept going. Whether it was to dig himself out of, or further into, the hole he was in, you weren’t sure.
“Not like that. I mean, nobody is gossiping because the HR manager of Quadrant is wearing jeans!” He pointed out, but you clung to your (admittedly weak) argument.
“It’s unprofessional!” You tried, but Max wasn’t so easily swayed.
“It’s the weekend!” He refuted, and you let out a low sigh as you pinched the bridge of your nose. You took a deep breath before speaking again.
“Look, I did dress down a bit,” you explained finally, pointing to the trainers you were wearing in lieu of loafers or heels. There was a singular stripe of orange down the length of the shoe, contrasting the rest of the black material. “They have the Mclaren colour and everything!”
“I can’t even look at you. Go to Landostand and get a blob shirt. That is an order from your superior,” Max said with finality as he pointed toward the fluorescent green stands. You instantly opened your mouth to argue, but you could hardly get a word in edge wise.
“But–”
“Nope!” He cut you off before you could even think about protesting. “Go. Now.”
You turned around and stalked off toward the stands as you huffed with annoyance.
You got in line at the pop up stand, letting your eyes rove over the different merch options as you stood in the queue. You decided pretty quickly on doing the fluorescent green blob jersey, because you figured if you were going to wear Lando’s merch, you might as well go all in.
The queue took forever for you to get up to the top, and you passed the time by sending emails on your phone. You were still typing away furiously when the cashier of the store cleared their throat, and you finally looked up as you realised you were next in line.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
“Well, fancy seeing you here,” Lando drawled, leaning his elbows against the counters as he rested his head in his hands.
“What fresh hell is this? Decided to be useful for once?” You shot back, and there’s enough bite to it that you heard someone from behind you gasp.
“Careful there doll, or rumours are going to spread that we don’t like one another,” he whispered, and you tipped your head back jokingly.
“Oh thank god, finally people will get it!” Lando laughed at your words, hitting his hand lightly against the counter. You found yourself smiling in response. A real, proper smile. It was just so easy with Lando, so easy to have fun and be light like this, so much that you almost forgot yourself.
“What are you doing here?” He asked, and you eyed the merch behind him.
“Max sent me over, told me that I looked like I was heading to a funeral,” you grimaced as you looked down at your own outfit. Lando allowed his eyes to rove over you for a moment, not possessive but soft, kind.
“I think you look lovely,” he murmured, his voice low and earnest. You ignored the way that the tips of your ears turned pink and butterflies erupted in your stomach. He cleared his throat, turning back to the merch wall. Other attendants were beginning to help check other people out with Lando being so focused on you, but you found that for once you didn’t mind holding other people up.
Not when he looked at you like this. Like you were important and so worthy of his time. Like it was easy to be here with you.
“What would you like?” He inquired, and you pointed towards the jersey you’d been eyeing. He smiled, clearly pleased with your selection, and asked your size before he rifled through drawers to procure the very item.
You reached for your purse to pay, but Lando simply pushed the shirt towards you, shaking his head. One of the other cashiers eyebrows pinched together, moving to stop him.
“Lando–” he began, but the driver cut him off.
“She’s on my tab,” he explained swiftly, and the guy left it at that, turning back to focus on another customer. You tried and failed to keep the shock off your face, but Lando simply smiled at you.
“Thank you,” you said after a long bear, and he nodded his head once in acknowledgment.
“Can’t wait to see it on,” he replied, shooting you one last smile before you stepped out of line, gripping the shirt as though it were a lifeline.
“Oh my god?”
You turned around, grip tightening on your clutch purse you’d brought with you. It was Sunday, race day, and you’d just gotten here about fifteen minutes ago.
You lost the business attire completely, from head to toe. You wore the shirt you’d gotten yesterday, slightly oversized and tucked into a pair of light wash, straight leg jeans that hugged your hips and waist. You wore a pair of kitten heels, and kept your hair down once for a change. You’d added gold jewelry, a few necklaces, hoop earrings, and a slim wrist watch. A black leather jacket was laid in the crook of your arm for when it inevitably got cold.
Mavis was staring at you with her jaw practically on the floor. You shrank under her gaze, brushing a hand nervously over your outfit. It was something you readily wore outside of work, but you weren’t sure that any of your coworkers had ever seen you dress like this.
“What? Do I look okay?” You asked, voice uncharacteristically nervous.
“You look gorgeous!” She exclaimed, and you slumped with relief. The lawyer dragged you over to Max, who brightened at the sight of you.
“You look like a normal human!” He announced in lieu of a greeting, and Pietra smacked him in the chest indignantly.
“Good morning to you as well Max,” you deadpanned, but it didn’t hold the usual bite that characterized your interactions.
You were too excited and nervous for the race, and for good reason. With the rain this year, Silverstone ended up being quite the tale, but you were thrilled to see Lando win his home race. You smiled without shame, and nobody was there to question your enthusiasm in the way they usually did.
You and Max had gone to find Lando after the race to congratulate him, winding around the hallways of the Mclaren garage to find him. You let Max push through to see his friend first when you finally found him, and it was when he was pulling back from his best friend that the driver noticed your presence.
His whole face lit up at the sight of you, and before you could even question it, he had pulled you into a hug.
Your mind instantly slammed back to when you were both seventeen and he had just passed his GCSE exams. You’d been so surprised by the fact that he hugged you to really even hug him back.
But you were ready this time, and you allowed him to wrap you in his arms. He was sweaty and sticky with champagne, but you relished in the contact regardless.
“You did it!” You cheered as you pulled back, squeezing his side playfully. He let out a soft laugh at the action, smiling impossibly harder.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmured just for you to hear, and if you weren’t quite so captivated by his eyes, you would have been able to procure words to respond. But instead you just stared at him intently, as though you hoped that your unguarded expression was enough to express your own gratitude to him.
He’s swept away soon after that, but he pulled you and Max along with him. You were sandwiched between the two of them, and both you and Max were trying to step back to allow Lando to head towards the barrier to wave to some fans as you made your way back to the garage.
Cameras swarmed you from all sides, and shit really hit the fan when you saw a man in a pink hat fall back from the barrier, running right into Lando’s face.
The driver's body slammed back into your own, sending you straight for the ground as you got the wind knocked out of you. Your vision swam as you twisted your body inward, realizing swiftly that there were a shit ton of feet surrounding you as you hit the ground. You heard a strangled voice above you just as you landed on the concrete.
“Forget me - help her!”
Suddenly hands were gripping you, and both Max and Lando’s bodyguard hauled you up and propped you back on your feet. You swayed for a second as you found your footing, but you were fine other than getting the wind knocked out of you
“Are you okay?” Lando’s voice was soft in your ears, and you found him right in front of you. With a cut nose that was bleeding profusely. Still, he looked at you as though you were his only concern, his eyebrows pulled together with concern.
“Lando! You’re bleeding,” you exclaimed as you reached forward to examine the cut. He brought his own hand up to press against it, staving the bleeding and wincing all at once.
“You definitely need to get that checked out,” Max grimaced from behind you, and you nodded profusely. Lando told you both that he would find you later as he was led away towards the medic tent.
It’s an unspoken understanding that nose injury aside, the group of you are going out tonight.
And that meant that you needed to change clothes.
You should have known that going out would be a bad idea.
You wanted to have fun, you wanted to celebrate Lando winning. But you weren’t exactly the most fun person to club with, and the fact that you knew it only made you more nervous.
On top of that, you felt out of sorts emotionally. This whole weekend had seen you and Lando come closer together than you’d been since you were seventeen years old, and you really were not sure what to do about that.
It left you feeling more exposed than you cared to admit. You’d grown more and more anxious as you’d gotten ready to go out, your thoughts swirling around in your mind dangerously.
But still you came out with everyone, determined not to concern everyone by staying at home. You kept yourself tucked away for most of the night. Every time Mavis or Pietra tried to come and get you, you simply shook your head and stayed in the booth you were all at.
It only got worse when Lando arrived. You expected that he would be drinking up a storm, caught up in whatever celebrations were going on around him. You thought you could slip away quickly, feigning a headache.
But for whatever reason, he seemed completely sober. And completely intent on celebrating with you, specifically.
He kept coming to try and pull you into the fray, but you’d immediately pulled away whenever he attempted. The look on your face was one of pure hesitance, and he could tell. You clung to the emotional barrier you had created between you and him, between you and everyone really.
You claimed that it was professionalism, but you knew deep down it was more than that. You were scared to be close to the people around you. Scared that if they saw who you truly were, how insecure and unsure you were, that they would confirm the fears you’d held all along.
And you weren’t sure if you’d survive that.
Especially if it came from Lando.
And somehow, he seemed to see right through you. You refused to give in so easily, though, and worked hard to keep him at arms length.
So you pushed them all away, and slipped away towards the bar. You looked back as you walked to see that there was some blonde girl chatting with Lando on the far side of the club. She was gorgeous, leggy with bleach blonde highlights and perfectly styled hair.
It felt to you that she was everything you were not. And while you tried to tell yourself that this was good, that it was good that Lando was happy, there was a bitter taste in your mouth.
You sat down on one of the barstools heavily. Your satin black dress clung to your body, and you flagged the bartender down as a man sat down next to you.
“Tough night?” He asked as you looked over at him. He was cute enough, probably a little older than you, with a kind, sympathetic expression on his face.
You chanced a glance over at Lando, at the way the blonde’s head was thrown back in laughter. You swallowed thickly, and when you turned back to the bar, your drink was sitting in front of you, the bartender swept to your right.
“Yeah, something like that,” you admitted, slamming your drink back in one go. You grimaced at the taste, but refused to let yourself be annoyed by it.
“Sometimes those nights just happen, but I know it sucks,” he sympathized, and you turned towards him more fully. He was cute enough, and anything was better than staring at Lando and that girl.
“Right? Can’t say it’s anyone's fault but my own though,” you admitted, and he simply shrugged in response.
“What’s your name?” He asked, and you were quick to answer, striking up an easy conversation. You were so focused on the man in front of you that you completely missed the way Lando kept turning to look at you. At how he was hardly paying any attention to the people around him, instead focused on watching you.
But you hadn’t looked back over at him. You were all the way over at the bar, across the room from every single one of the people you were here with.
It had only been what felt like a few minutes of chatting with this man when a feeling of dread settled itself tightly in your gut.
You knew something was wrong. You said goodbye to the man sitting in front of you, but when you went to stand and return to your coworkers, your legs felt like jelly. You might as well have been on a boat with how unsteady you were, your tongue suddenly too big for your mouth as you tried to protest.
You took a singular step forward, your knee buckling and threatening to send you tumbling towards the ground.
That was, until a rough hand pressed into the small of your back, shoving you forward. Without even really being able to think of it consciously, you stumbled forward. You tried to open your mouth, to croak out that you needed help, but it felt as though cotton had been shoved in your mouth.
The last thing you remembered was being roughly shoved, but then a pair of arms wrapping around you gently, pulling you to the right. You weren’t sure who it was, but all you knew was that it was the scent of someone you recognized.
You didn’t have time to figure out who it was before you were falling to the ground, everything going black, unable to distinguish the muffled sounds being made above you.
Life for you and Lando after surgery, sweetness and healing abound.
Part 8: Epilogue
(a/n: Just a little wrap up for our favs! Thank you to everyone for coming along with me and loving these two ❤️ Spotify playlist can be found here.)
Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
Series Masterlist
Oliver had left to get some sleep, and Lando had gone home to shower and get some things that he needed.
You had been prepared to just spend the time alone. You knew that everyone around you was taking a breather now that you were out of the woods. It was the evening, the lights in your room had been dimmed somewhat, and you knew that you were heading to bed sometime soon.
You were reading your book when there was a knock on the door. You looked up, expecting that it was a nurse coming in to check on your vital signs.
But it was Cisca who was at the door, a small smile on her face.
“Cisca,” you greeted warmly, immediately setting your book down.
“Can I come in?” She asked, and you nodded instantly, gesturing to the chair that was next to your bed. You watched as the older woman came into your room, setting her bag down before she came over to your bed. She cupped your cheek gently and leaned in to kiss your forehead, and you melted into the action easily.
Ever since losing your own mum, Cisca had become your de facto parent. She was the one you called when you needed cheering up, or advice, or just a warm hug.
And while she hadn’t said it, you knew that it had been very difficult for her to see you like this. It had been hard on everyone, but Cisca was the person that people turned to in times of need. You only hoped that she got as much support from the others as she deserved.
“I’m so glad you’re still here,” she murmured softly, and you reached for her hand as she sat down. She took it in hers easily, and the way you smiled at her was knowing. Her other hand came up to run back across your forehead, pushing your hair back gently.
“You know how much I love you, right?” You inquired, trying to convey with your expression how seriously you meant what you said.
“I do, my love. And I hope that you know as well,” she promised, and you relaxed at her statement, your smile impossibly soft as you nodded.
And so the two of you sat there together, holding hands, not speaking but rather letting the stillness between the two of you hold the weight of the last few weeks. You let the silence hold all of the love and care you both held for one another, to maintain the promises you’d made to one another as parent and child.
You didn’t know what you would do or where you would be without Cisca.
Luckily you never needed to find out.
It was one of your physical therapists who recognized Lando that came up with the idea.
Her name was Dr. Moore, and you remembered the first day she came in to see you as though it were yesterday. Lando was supposed to be there for the appointment, just the day after your surgery, but he had been running late.
Oliver was still with you though, and the two of you had greeted Dr. Moore before beginning to discuss your care and next steps. It was about ten minutes in that Lando stepped into the room, apologizing profusely for being late to the meeting.
Dr. Moore had looked up and promptly dropped her clipboard, which in turn hit her directly in the feet. She’d protested in pain, clutching at her foot as she stared at Lando as though he’d grown a second head.
“You’re - Lando Norris?!” She’d exclaimed, and Lando looked like a deer in the headlights as he froze.
“Yes?” He said, though it came out sounding more like a question than a statement. You began to giggle, entirely too amused by the interaction. You had been around for more than a few fun interactions with Lando and his fans, and you were always amused by people's reaction.
You had been less than impressed when a woman asked him to sign her chest one time, but he’d looked at you with such panic in his face you didn’t have it in your heart to actually be mad at the poor man.
“Are you?” You teased, and Lando rolled his eyes as he relaxed, coming to stand next to Oliver by your bedside. He squeezed your hand in greeting and gave you a quick kiss to the cheek before you both focused back on your doctor.
“Yes, I am Lando Norris. Nice to meet you,” he explained calmly, and your doctor had managed to recover by then.
“Yes, same to you. Sorry for my reaction, it’s not usual that F1 drivers are walking through these doors,” she explained apologetically, and Lando laughed it off easily.
“Oh god, no worries. Wouldn’t be the first time someone was surprised to see me somewhere!” He chuckled, and the appointment continued. Dr. Moore it seemed was very good at her job, and therefore she had an idea when it was time to get you mobile.
She pulled Lando out of the room, and he quickly shut the door before turning to your doctor.
“Forgive me for asking a dumb question,” she began, “but am I right in assuming you do some serious weight training for your job?”
He nodded in response, still confused as to where this was headed.
“We need to get her up and mobile, so we’ll have someone behind her to help support her as she stands, as she’s going to be off balance. She's going to need someone to shoulder most of her weight so she is able to step forward on her remaining foot without it being too much pressure. Usually we have a physical therapist to do that, but I figured since you have the strength to do it, it might be nice for her to have someone she knows help to support her. Would you say you’re confident to hold her whole body weight if needed?” Dr. Moore questioned, and Lando was quick to nod in agreement.
“Yes, I definitely can, and I have before. I would love to help however I can,” he professed quickly, relieved at the idea and prospect of helping.
All of which led you to right now, where you sat in a wheelchair in one of the hospital corridors. You had a belt around your hospital gown that Lando would hold onto while you held on to a walker out in front of you.
“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly as Dr. Moore gets the walker set up for you.
Lando leans down next to you, and you look over at him with an expression full of worry.
“I’ll be right there, I’m not going to let anything happen. You’re a badass, you have got this,” he promises you, and you soften at his words. It’s the exact same thing you say to him before races, and you wonder silently if you sound as confident then as he does here.
You nod, a tiny smile dancing across your lips as he moves to help you up. Dr. Moore holds the walker while you get up, and Lando slips in behind you to hold the belt around your waist. It’s different, having all of your weight on your left leg.
It feels strange being upright. You’re saved by the fact that Lando is able to hold a decent amount of your weight for you so you’re able to take a few hobbling steps forward. Dr. Moore had begun to explain to you how your body as a walking system would begin to adjust as you became more mobile and were able to get a proper prosthetic.
But for now, you have Lando behind you like a solid wall of muscle holding you up, and your lovely physical therapist cheering you on.
You can only make it halfway down the length of the corridor before your knee wobbles and begins to buckle, but Lando swoops in and pulls your body into his before anything can happen.
You sag into him as your physical therapist cheers, going over swiftly to get your wheelchair.
“You did it!” Lando sings, pressing a loud kiss to your temple as you giggle into him despite yourself. He helps you into the wheelchair gently, crouching down in front of you with a smile so big you would have thought he just won a race. There was something about this smile, so raw and unfiltered, so becoming about seeing him this happy.
And to realize it was about you?
Well, you just felt like the luckiest person alive.
“See? Told you that you could do it,” he says smugly, and you can’t help the peal of laughter you let out. You swat at his shoulder teasingly, but lean in to kiss him sweetly either way.
You ended up spending about two weeks in the hospital after your surgery. Because your amputation had been the result of infection, your doctors wanted to remain cautious in their approach.
They followed your wound care closely, but everything had looked just as pristine as necessary. Lando and Cisca both had learned how to properly dress and care for your amputation site. You had shied away from it at first, worried that it would be too gross for them. The look that both of them gave you was so withering and identical that you had to hide your laughter in a cough, acquiescing rather swiftly.
Adam takes the charge in getting Lando’s flat set up for your return. He puts down non-slip mats in the bathroom, installs bars in the shower, and gets several different home mobility aids for you to use as needed. He placed chairs in different areas of the house he thought you would need them, like your closet for getting dressed.
He had also, with the help of your friends, gone into your apartment and moved the majority of the clothes you would need into Lando’s place. He had always kept half of his closet free for your stuff, but you had never fully committed to living there.
You weren’t sure you had any interest in having space from your boyfriend, ever again. You gave full permission for all of your things to be moved into his space, even if you didn’t terminate the lease.
Your brother had to return home to America after your first week in the hospital, but he checked in with either you or Lando constantly. You knew that he had to return home, but you missed him dearly. Luckily Lando and the entire Norris clan, alongside basically your whole friend group had stepped in easily to fill the cracks that his absence had unearthed.
Your physical therapy wasn’t objectively hard but was rather physically demanding for you, sapping a majority of your energy each day. You appreciated the challenge, even if the act of making it down a single hospital corridor exhausted you to tears.
Eventually you switch from mainly using a walker to crutches, which gives you a little more freedom but also requires more balance on your part. It’s a trade off, and you use both mobility tools at different times.
You’re released from the hospital just a day before the two week mark of your second surgery. Lando wheels you out to the car while joking about pulling a jail break. In reality, you’re just relieved that he is there with you. He helps you into the car easily, and you’re once again grateful that he has the strength to basically just maneuver you where needed.
He starts the car up, pulling out of the hospital car park and merging into the road.
You reach over the center console to take the hand he has sitting in his lap, threading your fingers through his own and looking over at him fondly.
“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice speckled with exhaustion but grateful nonetheless. “For everything you’ve done for me the last two weeks. For the last few months, really.”
“Always,” he replies without missing a beat. He pulls up to a red light, looking over at you for a long moment. His eyes rove over your face, impossibly soft. “Anything for you.”
He turns back to the road to continue driving. You let your head fall back against the headrest, your eyes fluttering shut. His hand squeezes your own swiftly, three beats.
You know you’re safe, and that he’ll be there when you wake up.
It hits you the morning after you get home that you only have one leg.
Realistically…this was something you already knew. You had seen the amputation yourself, you had heard the doctors discuss how the infection had forced them to just remove everything.
You woke up before Lando did the morning after you got home. He had you wrapped snugly in his arms, pulled into his chest. You had been able to feel his relief the night before, how he finally seemed to be able to relax when you pressed back into him, careful of your leg but still there.
Lando needed the sleep, and so you did your best to move as slowly as possible when shifting away from him. You had carefully wrangled yourself away from him without waking him up.
You needed to go to the bathroom.
A simple feat…but as you sat up and onto the edge of the bed, it suddenly felt like a monumental task. You had a pair of crutches sitting next to you in bed, and you reached down for them.
You passed your…stump…to do so, and you stared at it for a second too long as you reached down.
You were missing the lower part of your leg.
It felt weirder the longer you looked at it, and you sat up too quickly. You nearly rolled back into bed, but you were determined not to wake Lando up. It was still early, and god knew the poor man needed some rest. It was his first night not sleeping with you in the hospital, and you knew the cot they had him staying on was not comfortable.
Luckily, he stayed asleep as you placed the crutches in front of yourself and pushed yourself up to a standing position. It was stupid, but even just that nearly sent you tumbling over. It wasn’t a hard act, but you were still groggy from sleep and a little shaky in your balance with everything.
You hobbled to the bathroom, stopping to press the door shut behind you before you made your way to the toilet.
You looked up at yourself in the mirror, catching a glimpse of your reflection. You hardly recognized the woman staring back at you. Your hair had been braided back by Cisca so it was out of your face, but you looked…exhausted. The bags under your eyes were pronounced, and your skin was flat and looked quite dry.
Your mind momentarily flashed to all of the other WAGs, even just to Lily. She always had herself together, her skin perfect, her hair blown out or styled to perfection.
The insecurity felt like a knife had been stabbed into you and turned, something hot and infectious. Your leg nearly fell out from under you as you finally managed to sit down to use the toilet, but you weren’t sure if it was from exhaustion or discontent.
You hated comparing yourself to the other women. You knew that it got you nowhere in the grand scheme of things, but it was just so easy.
Maybe that’s why you couldn't get these other women out of your mind.
If Lando had specifically told you that he wanted no one but you, why did you feel so hell bent on trying to prove him wrong?
He had told you that you were enough, but you didn’t even feel complete right now.
Literally, you were missing half a leg.
You’d lost a piece of yourself, yes, but it also felt like with losing half of that leg you’d lost your security in yourself. Like your confidence had been drained from you once you realized that this was real life, and not just some fake reality that the hospital had felt like.
You hobbled to the sink after you finished, and the tears came when you were washing your hands. They rolled down your cheek silently but swiftly, and when you dried your hands you shuffled back to the toilet. You were going to sit down, but the wave of sadness felt like a train had hit you.
You backed yourself against the wall, and couldn’t help but slide down it until you were sitting on the ground. Your head was bowed, your legs slid out in front of you. Your crutches sat uselessly beside you, practically taunting you.
You really didn’t want to wake Lando up and bother him with this. He had been perfect, so wonderful and helpful and selfless. The last thing you wanted to do was add more to that pile, to force him to prove to you once again that you needed him so deeply.
Why couldn’t you just be okay with yourself? Why did this insecurity come in with such veracity?
It didn’t feel fair, and the breath you choked in wasn’t nearly as silent as you hoped it would be. You were crying in earnest now, tears streaming down your cheeks as your chest heaved with sobs. You both hated and loved your boyfriend as he knocked on the door.
“Daisy? Is everything okay?” He asked, his voice gentle but filled with concern.
You ached to call out that everything was fine. You ached to deal with this yourself, to keep your emotions in check and just go back to acting as though everything was normal.
You knew this would be hard, but you thought you could handle it.
You thought that you could handle it by yourself.
But the tears kept coming, and you knew that Lando would need to come in inevitably. You wouldn’t be able to stand by yourself. And you knew that if the roles were reversed, and it was him, that you would be beside yourself with worry.
So you let out a deep breath, trying to control the hiccuping sobs before you spoke.
Your call to tell him to come in sounded more like a sob than real words, but it got the message across. Lando was gentle in opening the door, but you could see the flash of surprise and worry that crossed his face when he saw you on the floor. Still, he was slow in making his way over to you, gentle in his mannerisms. He kneeled down next to you before he wiped the tears from your cheek.
“Whats going on?” He asked softly, and you looked up at him, your eyes swimming with unshed tears.
“I don’t have a leg anymore,” you cried, unable to get anything else out. Lando didn’t really understand what you were saying, but he knew you were upset. He knew it wasn’t something he could fix.
This was a part of it.
You don’t lose a limb and just accept that with complete ease. No matter how much you prepare for it. No matter how much gratitude it comes with, considering that it saved your life.
In order for there to be acceptance of this change, there had to be space for grief. There wasn’t anything Lando could do, not really. He couldn’t help you with this, not in any meaningful way.
But he could sit with you. And that’s exactly what he did, sitting against the wall right next to you, holding your hand in his.
It wasn’t much, not really. But it was a reminder that you were allowed to have feelings. Even when they were messy and big and fractured and didn’t feel like they had a purpose.
Lando couldn’t fix anything, but he wasn’t going to let you go through any of this alone.
And maybe, in a way, that meant more than someone trying to “fix this.” Because he recognized that you could do it, that you could handle things yourself. But he also knew that as long as he was here, you wouldn’t have to.
So the two of you sat, not exchanging words but sitting in the hurt together.
Lando had just run out to the shops to grab a few things, leaving you alone at home. You had been home for a few days now, and it had admittedly been a roller coaster of emotions.
Doctors appointments were near daily, wound care was a big priority, and you had begun discussing options for prosthetic limbs in a few weeks. It felt simultaneously like it was dragging by, and yet going so incredibly fast.
You had grown just a little bit more independent. Not enough to really get around very easily, but you could make it to and from the bathroom yourself, and from the bedroom to the living room. It felt like freedom after such a long stay in the hospital.
Physical therapy every day focused on helping you strengthen your upper body slowly, and worked on your balance. It was frustrating that such simple exercises could be so taxing, but your whole village never failed to shower you with praise about your strength and dedication. It was tough to feel bad for a long time with them around you, and you weren’t about to complain.
Lando had been a solid, steady presence for you. And while you struggled to open up to him at times, he met your emotional outbursts with patience and kindness.
Which was why he was entirely unphased when he returned home from the store to find you on the couch, fighting tears with the valiance of someone in the trenches of a war.
You didn’t even look up when he came in, staring down at your legs, which were outstretched on the couch. Your stump stared back at you, a frustrating reminder of this whole mess.
“Hey,” Lando’s voice was gentle, light hearted despite the fact that you looked as though you had a storm cloud over you.
You didn’t answer him, blinking furiously in an attempt to rid your tears.
Lando was quiet, not asking what was wrong but rather waiting for you to just be honest with him. You cracked rather quickly, not because you wanted to but rather because this had been bothering you for longer than you cared to admit.
“My…my foot hurts,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper.
“I can give you a foot rub if you’d like,” he offered, but you shook your head, still unable to meet his concerned gaze.
“No…it…well, it’s not that foot,” you admitted, finally looking up at Lando to see understanding wash over his face.
He held up one finger before he disappeared back into the guest bedroom. You fought the urge to call after him, but instead waited silently. He walked out of the room several moments later, a long mirror in hand and some lotion in the other.
“What are you…” you trailed off as he set everything down, helping you move until your back was against the arm of the couch. He moved your stump to be flush with the back of the couch, and then placed the mirror in front of it. You looked down at it, and you could see a reflection of your intact leg staring back at you. Lando pumped some of the lotion in his hand, and then began to rub your foot.
You stared intently at the mirror, and thought hard about the fact that he was rubbing both of your feet. It took a few minutes, and it was by no means perfect. But the ache began to subside, much to your surprise.
You released a deep breath, relaxing back into the couch.
“Is it helping?” Lando questioned softly, looking up at you with hope. You nodded quickly, and the relief was palpable on his expression. You softened at his excitement, your heart swelling.
“How did you have this ready, how did you know what to do?” You asked, and Lando ducked his head bashfully.
“I did a bit of research, just thought it would be good to be prepared,” he admitted, and you let your eyes fall closed for a second.
Oh, how you loved this man. When you opened your eyes, you watched as he intently rubbed your foot, gentle and precise all at once.
“Thank you,” you murmured, barely able to speak over the lump in your throat. Lando looked up at you, at the appreciation in your gaze, and simply rose to press a kiss first to your forehead and then your lips.
“Anything for you Daisy,” he said easily, returning to the task at hand.
You weren’t sure exactly what it was about this physical therapy session that had everyone acting so strangely. It was a Monday, okay, but that doesn’t explain away the strange feeling in the air.
Lando had been so fidgety dropping you off, and he had hardly been able to look at you all morning. When you asked what was going on, he just told you that work was stressing him out and he had a big meeting today. You kissed him sweetly on the cheek and told him that you hoped it went well.
The second oddity is that when you step into the office, Dr. Moore is there talking to your PT. You press the button to open the door, crutching your way inside with your brows already furrowed.
“Dr. Moore?” You asked, and she turned around and instantly smiled when she saw you, ushering you inside with poorly concealed excitement.
“Good morning!” She sang, helping you get your bag safely stowed away.
“You’re awfully chipper this morning,” you chuckled, beginning to walk toward the center of the office to stretch before your actual PT began.
“Yes! Lovely day for a walk, don’t you think?” She rushed out, and you turned your head back to look at her.
“What?” You questioned, nearly losing your balance as you turned around. You would be getting your prosthetic fitted later this week, but for now you were semi-mobile on your crutches. You couldn’t go super long distances, but your balance and strength in your left foot was growing rapidly.
“Come on, it’ll be fun!” She cheered, and you looked between your doctor and your physical therapist like they had both grown a second head.
“O-okay?” You replied, and were quickly ushered down the hallway and out of the building.
There was a lovely trail back behind the office, and the three of you slowly made your way down as you sneaked glances at the two women. Your physical therapist, Ashley, looked like she was practically vibrating.
“Okay, this is weird,” you decided after a few minutes of walking, and Dr. Moore nearly tripped over her own feet.
“What's weird? We aren’t being weird,” she declared, and Ashley swooped in quickly to add to the sentiment.
“If anyone is being weird, it’s you!” She exclaimed, and you stopped in your tracks, flabbergasted.
“What on God's green earth are you talking about?” You cried, and both women shot each other a nervous look before they turned and started to walk faster.
“Come on, we still haven’t gone far enough,” Ashley declared, leaving you to crutch after them.
“If we keep going at this pace I’m going to get all sweaty,” you moaned, more complaints readily available to share with the group. But neither woman seemed to be listening to you at all, shushing you as you rolled your eyes in annoyance.
All of the sudden, both of them slammed on the breaks, and you narrowly avoided crutching right into them.
“We’re here,” Dr. Moore said gently, and the awe in her voice caught you off guard. Your two doctors parted to allow you to see, and just like that your breath was stolen away from you.
A park laid in front of you, quiet and foggy. There was a large oak tree in the middle of it, and a path that wound toward it in gentle curves. Flower petals were scattered among the path, all leading up to the head of the trail.
Where he stood.
Lando smiled at you, bundled in a thick jacket with his hands in his pockets. When you made eye contact, his smile only seemed to grow as he took his hand out of his pocket and waved.
You nearly sobbed with relief at the sight of him, despite the fact that you’d seen him not thirty minutes ago. You looked back, realizing that alongside Dr. Moore and Ashley stood Cisca, Adam, all of Lando’s siblings, and a few of your own friends.
“Go on,” Cisca urged you softly, and you didn’t need to be told twice.
It was probably painfully slow for everyone watching as you crutched your way over to Lando, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was him.
He allowed you to come to him, and you were grateful for the way he didn’t immediately step in to help. He knew you wanted to be independent where you could, to challenge yourself when possible.
He was there to support you, and that was something he had always been exceptional at. It was something that you cherished.
Almost as much as you cherished him.
“Hey you,” he said over his smile as you crutched right up to him, leaning forward to rest your forehead to his. He cupped your face in his hands reverently, pulling back to press a soft kiss to your forehead.
You were already crying, tears streaming down your face and coming close to blubbering territory.
“I know I already asked, and you already answered, but I thought you still deserved a special moment,” he insisted, and you leaned into him, fighting to maintain your breathing.
“Every moment with you is special,” you croaked, and he smiled broadly as he fished into his pocket for a little velvet box.
“It is. I want forever with you, and I still don’t think it’ll be enough. Will you keep making every moment of my life special, just by being in it? Will you marry me?” He asked as he got down onto one knee, and you cursed your lack of hand availability as you yearned to reach down and tug him up to you. You hardly even looked at the ring, too focused on looking at him to even bother.
He was all you had ever wanted anyways.
“Yes, yes I will marry you!” You sang, and he surged forward to wrap you in a tight hug. You chucked the crutches out of your hands and clung to him, tucking your head into his neck.
“I love you,” you murmured into his skin, pressing a kiss to the column of his throat. He just held you tighter, holding your waist with security and reverence.
“I love you so much,” he concurred, and you could hear the chorus of excitement from your friends and family.
You weren’t sure you’d known happiness like this, here with him.
And luckily for you, you’d never have to consider a life without him anymore.
When you finally leaned back, he helped you with your crutches before showing you the ring. It was absolutely gorgeous. There were two pear shaped diamonds set in a gold band, one chocolate and one that was baby pink. The chocolate diamond was about twice the size as the pink one, and the two stones leaned into one another, giving the illusion of a lopsided heart. There were three small white diamonds that were set into the band on the side of the pink diamond.
You weren’t sure you’d ever seen something so gorgeous in your entire life.
“Oh my god, it’s gorgeous,” you exclaimed, and Lando didn’t even spare a second glance at the ring as he just watched you.
“Just like you,” he whispered, and you looked up at him with a roll of your eyes for his mushiness, but you really couldn’t find it within you to actually care.
You placed your left crutch so that it was leaning against your leg as you held out your fingers expectantly.
“Probably a good thing that I lost a leg and not my hand!” You decided, and Lando couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in him. You grinned as you held your hand out in front of you. It fit surprisingly well, just a little bit too big for you.
You finally turned toward the small group of people that had been watching, and with perfect clarity you yelled out toward all of them, nothing but sheer joy in your voice.
“It’s perfect!”
They all cheered, and you leaned into Lando as he laughed loudly beside you.
It was the first race of the 2025 season, and despite the rain that had impacted the race, the sun shone down on all of you as you watched Lando at the top step of the podium.
You stood with Max and Cisca at your side, though you were quite solid on your new prosthetic leg. The last few months had been full of adjustments, ups and downs, but through it all, Lando was completely consistent.
The two of you were steady, and he was your calm through the storm of relearning how to walk, drive, navigate your entire life again.
It was so worth it too, to be here to watch him win, to see the smile on his face as he popped the bottle of champagne and sprayed it all around. Your laugh was loud, your smile so big it nearly split your face in two.
The three drivers on the podium were just going to take a photograph when you felt a tap on your back, and you turned to find Sophie standing with a bag in her hand, her smile equally large.
"You found them!" You nearly squealed with delight, and she nodded.
"I did! Come on, we don't have much time before he's back in the garage," she exclaimed, and you quickly said goodbye to Cisca and Max before you followed the Mclaren staff member.
It was just fifteen minutes later that found Lando hurrying back through the hallways of the paddock looking for you. He was moving so fast that when he finally found you he nearly bowled you over, gripping your elbows to keep you upright.
When you looked up at him in surprise, you realized just how close he was to you.
"Hey winner," you whispered sweetly, and the crinkles beside his eyes only deepened as he grinned back at you. "I got something for you."
Lando could have sobbed when he looked down to see that you had a daisy chain resting in the palm of your hand. He took it from you with a gentle hand, setting it atop his curls as he pulled you in for a kiss.
You could feel the way he smiled into the kiss, as he murmured how perfect it was against your lips.
"I love you," you murmured, and his grip on you only tightened as he replied.
An end of season racing triumph is shattered when Lando learns of your critical condition. He holds vigil, grappling with uncertainty and the depth of his devotion while everyone waits for you to wake up.
Part 7: We'll Be A Fine Line
(a/n: Final part!! I did decide to write a little epilogue so that will be coming in a few days. I’m working on my next fic but it’ll probably be a bit before that’s out! Chapter title is from Fine Line by Harry Styles. Spotify playlist can be found here.)
Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8
Series Masterlist
Everyone in the Mclaren garage would have been celebrating if it weren’t for the fact that Lando Norris blasted right past them with all the grace of a brush fire. He sprinted through the hallways with a deadly expression on his face that flattened every person he passed.
None of them had ever seen Lando Norris look like that before. Every single one of them knew that something was seriously wrong, though.
“I don’t care, get me on a flight!” He barked out to the person on his right who was holding a tablet and running beside him. On his other side, his press secretary tried to cut in.
“But Lando, if you don’t do press there will be a fine yo–” Sophie began, only to be swiftly and sharply cut off.
“I’ll pay it, I don’t give a shit, just get me back to London,” he snapped as he flung the door to his driver room open with a bang.
He barely paid any mind to if the door was shut or not before he was stripping himself of his fireproofs. When his brother came in to say that their flight was in an hour and the car left in ten, Lando fought the urge to snap at him and instead jumped into the quickest shower of his life in a desperate bid to get the champagne out of his hair.
Sepsis.
Emergency surgery.
Amputation is her best option for survival.
Doctors are unsure of what went wrong.
All of that, and he’s sitting here with champagne in his hair and the ghost of a trophy in his palm. It all feels so stupid now. Especially since he’d had no idea of what was going on.
He’d allowed himself to relax. You were doing well. The season was almost over. He’d go home to you and spend the next few months helping you recover and spending every single second with you.
Now he wasn’t even sure if you’d be alive when the plane landed in London.
His mind reels with nothing but memories of the first time he’d lost you. How it had torn him apart from the inside out. And that wasn’t even permanent, just a blip.
He’s heard of people dying of a broken heart. Not a medical diagnosis per se, but true nonetheless. And he’s a fit guy, healthier than most. But he can’t help but feel like that would be his fate, if everything well and truly fell apart.
Clothes are thrown into a bag, and he barely has time to grab his wallet before he's running out of his room and into the car. His mother is still on the phone, Max sitting with a tight jaw as he looks out the window. Adam and his siblings are in another car as they screech toward the airport going well past the speed limit.
Lando doesn’t care. He’ll pay them extra if they can get them there even faster. He wishes he were in his own car so he could drive as recklessly and quickly as he wanted to.
He distantly hears his mother get off the phone, but she looks almost too shell shocked to speak. Lando isn’t sure he wants to hear what she has to say, anyways. It won’t change the fact that he’s not there.
God, how could he have ever left? How could he have ever thought that it was more important to race than to be with you?
His mind spins back to the last time when he saw you. He can’t remember the last thing you’d said to him. You had fallen asleep before he’d left, before he could tell you one final time that he loved you.
You had to know that he loved you, right?
Max interrupts his thoughts as he lets out a low sigh, shaking his head. Lando looks over at him, and finally really takes the time to look.
The expression on his friend’s face is one of guilt, and suddenly he can begin to put the pieces together. He remembers their phone call earlier in the week, how Max had sounded so strange.
“You didn’t have food poisoning, did you?” Lando questions softly, not accusatory. His voice is filled with exhaustion that wasn’t present just a few hours before, a heaviness that only came from intense concern. Max glances over at him as though he’s been caught red handed. Lando isn’t prepared for the way his best friend's head bows, or for the tears that he speaks through when he responds.
“I stayed because she had a fever. She didn’t look right, wasn’t acting right. But they gave her antibiotics, and by the time I left she was feeling better. She told me to go and I…I saw that she was better. She was supposed to be better.”
His voice cracks painfully over the last sentence, like it had cost him a year of his life to force out. He looks broken, like somehow this is all his fault. Like him leaving was the reason that she went downhill afterward.
“I’m so sorry,” he rasps, barely even audible.
Lando shut his eyes for a second tightly, trying to bring himself to find a hatred for your selflessness. You were so focused on the season end, on everyone getting to be with him, that you’d lost the support when perhaps you needed it most. His best friend looks him dead in the eyes, and he can see the pain and guilt there. He can’t fault Max for his decision at all. Lando put his hand on Max’s knee, squeezing it tightly.
“If she told you to go, then you made the right decision. There is no way you could have known what would happen. Even if you were there, you couldn’t have done anything. It’s okay, Max,” he promises, even though it isn’t okay.
Max knew that, and Lando knew it too. None of it was okay.
But it was also true that Max being there wouldn’t have really done anything. There wasn’t a magic wand he could have waved in order for this to suddenly be better. And if you wanted him to go, he knows that you would have been devastated for him to miss out on this moment.
“What did Oliver say?” He finally turns to address his mother, who looks over at him with hollow eyes.
“She’s still in surgery. They don’t know much,” is all she says, her voice soft. Seeing Cisca like this scares Lando even further, edging him into fully fledged panic territory.
Cisca was like the flight attendant you looked to when things got rough. She always had a smile on her face, a solution to be offered. She was the calm in the storm through everything. But now she sat there with a grim expression on her face, staring out of the window blankly.
Lando had only seen her like this once before - when your mother had passed away. She had lost her best friend that day, and now she was potentially losing someone who had grown to become her fifth child.
It felt like the universe was trying to test just how much it could make her hurt. She closes her eyes to keep the tears at bay, her conversation with Oliver swirling around in her mind.
Lando turns away if for nothing other than the fact that he cannot stand to look at the emptiness in his mother’s expression. You’d always been like a daughter to her. Lando knows that as much as this was killing him, it would feel just as bad for her.
Everyone boarded the plane with the urgency of people headed for asylum, and were up in the air promptly. Lando had no clue whose plane this was, or how it had been procured in record time. With the readiness of the crew he had to assume that their ride had been stolen from someone else. Planes can’t be chartered this quickly, this easily.
But he didn’t care about that.
He’d given up on trying to seem like he was okay. He wasn’t.
Plain and simple, he was not okay.
His leg bounced the whole flight, his hand hovering over a bag just in case his nausea actually produced anything. It felt like his throat was closing up on him, like he was seconds away from a panic attack that never fully actualized.
Oliver sent him a message when they had just gotten up to the air. He read it off to the rest of the plane passengers, who hung onto every word he said with desperation.
“She made it out of surgery okay. The amputation was clean, but they had to take more off than they were expecting. Still below the knee which is better for recovery. Her body struggled with the surgery on top of the infection. They’re going to keep her asleep to allow her body to heal.”
His voice was monotonous, but there was a small exhale of relief from those around him.
Lando had never been so glad that someone hadn’t died on the table of an operating theatre.
If you survived this, he would give you anything and everything you’d ever wanted. He’d hand build an F1 car for you to drive if it meant he got to see you laugh again.
Lando fights the urge to charge into the hospital demanding answers. He knows that part of his sheer amount of urgency is rooted in the fact that he is (what feels like) the least prepared of everyone.
Almost as if everyone else had considered this possibility that he hadn’t allowed himself to believe - that you wouldn’t make it out of this.
You had to be okay. That was the only answer here. That was the only possibility he allowed himself to believe out of all the options.
Lando was the first in the door, followed closely by Max. The rest of the Norris family had let them off before they went to park the car. The driver spotted Oliver in the waiting room, and he turned on a dime and booked it over toward him.
“How is she?” He asked breathlessly, and Oliver looked up at him weakly. The man looked like a shell of himself, eyes red rimmed and swollen as he sat awkwardly in the chair. Like he’d spent far too long trying to get comfortable and had eventually given up on trying.
“She’s in post-op right now, we should be able to see her soon,” he reported flatly, and Lando fell heavily into the chair next to them. Max mumbled something that sounded vaguely like coffee, but his words were too tear filled for them to be able to tell fully.
Neither Oliver nor Lando said anything as they sat there.
Lando is reminded of something you told him once, earlier on. It had been just after the two of you had gotten back together, as you snuggled against him on the couch. Some old proverb or something, he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the semantics to really care. But he remembered your words loud and clear.
Joy shared is doubled, and grief shared is halved.
If this is what half of the grief of the moment is, Lando doesn’t want to even imagine being here by himself. And selfishly, the physical manifestation of angst on your brother’s face that matches exactly how he feels on the inside makes Lando’s panic subside just slightly.
True to his word, not fifteen minutes after his arrival do the doctors arrive to give all of you an update. At this point, his whole family alongside Max and Oliver are waiting for news from the doctor with baited breath.
According to your surgical team, you struggled with low blood pressure and some excessive bleeding in the surgery, but it went well considering that it was emergency surgery. Only two people are allowed back to see you in the ICU, and both Oliver and himself step forward instantly.
They follow the nurse back with bowed heads, both of them fighting tears. It feels strangely like a funeral procession, and Lando bit his lip hard enough to draw blood at the thought.
People would joke sometimes about your size – calling you pocket sized or small statured. It was true, you were quite short. But you had always been so animated, so full of life that your height never seemed to matter.
But now, with you unconscious in a hospital bed surrounded by tubes and wires, Lando’s heart is beating so quickly he’s concerned it might burst out of his chest. He can’t comprehend that the tiny body surrounded by medical machines is you. The love of his life.
He wants to vomit, to run away from this room as fast as he could, to proclaim that this was too much. To wake up from whatever terrible, horrible nightmare this is.
But it’s you in there, and so he stumbles into the room with a pull stronger than the force of gravity. Oliver trails behind him, and the two of them take either side of your bedside.
Lando looks down at the foot of the bed, at the bandage that covered what used to be your right leg, and is now just…an abrupt stop. He doesn’t focus on it, instead looking back up at you. He wants desperately to reach out and hold your hand, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
Oliver is staring at you with a heartbreaking reverence. Lando feels like he’s interrupting something by bearing witness to it, but he forces himself to turn away and look back at you.
He finally reaches for your hand with his own, picking it up with trembling fingers. It’s warm but completely limp, and Lando feels both sick and relieved at having a piece of you tethered to him, even if it isn’t terribly life-like.
It’s the beginning of a vigil he never prepared to make, but does all the same.
Lando simply…never leaves. Oliver makes way for Cisca, who makes way for Max, who makes way for Adam, and then Oliver again. Your entire time in the ICU is just spent with everyone coming to see you and…Lando.
Oliver cycles between having to be next to you and needing to leave, too nervous and fidgety to simply sit and stare at your unmoving figure. Lando doesn’t fault him for the manifestation of his extreme stress. When he shut down, Oliver seemed to light up. It was all coping, and it wasn’t exactly healthy but it was all they had right now.
Cisca whispers to you in soothing Dutch, narrating everything that is going on as though you need to be kept in the loop. Your friends come in and read to you, or help to braid your hair back, or talk to your medical team. His siblings filter in and out, but he hardly even notices their presence next to him.
Adam comes in and simply sits, staring at you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything at all. Lando has no clue what is going through his Dad’s head, but he’s just grateful the man is there to give him a hug before he leaves.
Max comes in and sits next to Lando, who is holding your hand. The driver’s best friend places one hand gently over your thigh, and takes Lando’s free hand in his own. The three of you had always been the three musketeers, the troublemakers, the trio. And while he and Max did plenty of stuff by themselves, hell they dealt with all the Quadrant stuff without you, there’s something hollow about the room. Almost as though the world is holding its breath, waiting to see if balance will be restored.
He doesn’t sleep. Hardly eats or drinks. Only moves when physically necessary.
When the doctors come to speak about your progress, he hangs off their every word like they’re dictating the journey to heaven. Like if he just pays enough attention, that he can jump in and save you himself.
He’d swap places with you in a heartbeat if he could. God, he wished he could.
When you’re moved from the ICU to a step down unit, he trails after your hospital bed like he’s tethered to it. Everyone tries to get him to step away, but he flat out refuses.
It’s on the fourth day they take you off the ventilation after you’ve shown signs of breathing on your own. But you still never wake up, body healing incredibly slowly from the infection. Lando sees it on the doctors faces, the nerves. How they are polite but withdrawn when discussing your care.
He hates it. Hates it more than life itself.
He hates when the doctors begin to suggest that they might need to prepare for the worst. That they might need to discuss the option that you don’t make it through this complication, that you won’t wake up.
“No,” Lando snarls, his voice borderline vicious. It’s Max who spares him an uneasy glance, attempting to reason with his friend.
“Lando–” he tries, but his best friend whirls toward him with a crazed expression in his eyes. He’s gone on three days now with basically no sleep, and it shows.
“No, Max, no! This is her we’re talking about, not some hypothetical. We’re not discussing that option because it isn’t one,” he shot back, but his tone is caught somewhere between a forceful plea and a prayer.
Like even if he’s the one saying it, he doesn’t quite believe himself. Because as the hours drag on, the thought of losing you looms larger and larger in his mind.
It overwhelms him, clouding his judgement and every single emotion in his mind. It was never supposed to come to this.
It’s on the fourth night that he finally decides to say something. He’s been told by the nurses that people can sometimes hear their loved ones in a situation like this.
But he’s been hesitant to do so.
It didn’t feel like talking to you.
It felt like talking to a shell, and he didn’t really know what to make of that exactly.
But he also refuses to believe that you’re not there. You’re going to be just fine, he tells himself over and over and over again.
You have to be fine.
He’s sat by your bedside for four days now without speaking or moving. He held your hand like it was a lifeline. His hands trembled around your own, but he refused to let go.
God, how he wanted to reach out and just hold you. What he wouldn’t give to be able to climb into the bed with you and wrap himself around you. To feel the way your breath tickled the nape of his neck, the warmth of you seeping into him as your breathing evened out and you fell asleep.
He would just do it, if it wasn’t for one thing.
You get hot sometimes.
At night.
Sometimes when you sleep, you overheat. You ran cold every single day of the year, but sometimes once you fell asleep you would turn into a furnace, kicking off the covers and complaining that you woke up sweating.
And…you can’t tell him if you’re hot or not right now.
He can’t get in bed with you if you can’t do that. Not when you’re not there to communicate that with him.
Oh god, what if you never complained about being too hot again at night? What if you never whined to him at three in the morning again to take off his hoodie? What if you never got to lay in bed with him again?
The sheets had just been washed, so they didn’t smell like you. His heart plummets at the thought, his eyes filling with tears at the thought of having to sleep in that bed without you.
He’d have to sell the flat here in London. The apartment in Monaco.
But they’re also the last physical link he would have to you. They have your shoes on the rack, your clothes in the closet, your skincare in the bathroom.
His mind goes to the bathroom in his flat, where two toothbrushes sit in a cup on the counter. He imagines having to pull one of them away, throwing it out in the bin. The thought makes his chest feel like it’s actually going to cave in.
He’s speaking before he can spiral any further.
“Uhm…hi,” he started weakly, trying to reassure himself. It’s nearing two in the morning, and he steels himself to continue, knowing that he needs to get this out there.
“It’s me, Lando.”
He felt dumb doing this, looked around as though he expected someone to come in and tell him off for speaking.
“I um…well, I just wanted to say that I love you,” he paused for a second, feeling the pressure in his head explode as he forced the tears back. When he spoke, it was so soft that it was barely audible. If he spoke any louder, it would have turned into sobs.
“I just wanted you to know that if you can’t do it, it’s okay. If you have to go, it’s okay. I don’t want you to be in pain if you can’t do it,” he rasped, tears streaming down his face of their own accord. He might have snapped at anyone who suggested it, but he knew there was a possibility that this was too much for you. For your body to be able to handle.
God does the thought destroy him from the inside out, though.
He takes a stuttering, choking breath before he’s able to continue.
“But I know you’re strong enough to fight this. I know you can do it, I believe in you. Please, I need you to. I need you here with me. It’s selfish, I know it is, but I can’t do this without you, please. I’ll get you whatever you want,” he promised, and it’s more feverish begging than anything else. He doesn’t care.
“I’ll buy you a flat. Or ten of them. I’ll buy you a horse or let you drive whatever car of mine you want, even if I swore I would never let you drive it. You can steal all of my hoodies and redecorate the Monaco apartment however the fuck you want. I’ll even let you press your ice cold feet–”
He stopped, glancing down at your legs before he shook his head slightly.
“I’ll let you press your ice cold foot against me whenever we’re in bed together and I won’t complain. I’ll be your human packhorse. I’ll quit racing and be a slave to you, twenty four seven. Whatever it is, Daisy, whatever you want. Just come back to me, please come back to me.”
“I lost you once, and it made me realise how everything in my life is tied to you. My life is your life, and I don’t want it to be any other way. There is no me without you. To know me is to love you. You were never perfect, and I am certainly not perfect, but we are perfect for each other. That has to mean something,” he pleaded, as though he could convince your unconscious body of that very fact. As though someone were listening to the conversation and would decide your fate based on his words.
“If there is one thing I am sure of, it’s that you have always belonged here with me. This, us, didn’t happen by accident. Love has always been a choice, and my choice has always been you. Will always be you. No matter what Daisy, it’s just you. In every single universe or reality, you were always meant to be mine and I was always meant to be yours.”
“You’re my best friend and the unequivocal love of my life. And as long as the sun sets and the moon rises, you’re the only one I will ever want,” he insisted, tears streaming down his cheeks with reckless abandon.
“Just come back to me, please god come back to me. I love you too much to lose you again. I did it once and I can’t do it again. I can’t go one more day without hearing your laugh or seeing you smile. You’re the love of my life. You’re my person. I don’t…nothing else makes sense if you aren’t here to share it with me.”
“Please Daisy, please,” he begged, sobs wracking his entire body. “I love you so much.”
He leaned forward, pressed his forehead against the edge of your bedside.
Sobs overtook him with a vicious edge, and he succumbed to sleep out of pure exhaustion.
It was Max who staged the intervention, kindly telling Lando that he needed to “fuck off and go clean himself up for a minute” after he found his friend slumped against your hospital bed, asleep with eyes swollen from his persistent tears.
Cisca and Adam might have used different words, but their advice was one and the same to their son. Oliver concurs, even if he understands where Lando’s mind is at.
Lando’s too exhausted to put up too much of a fight. Every hour makes him more and more aware of the fact that he might have already lost you, and the fight is draining out of him faster than he can actually admit.
He’s fatigued both mentally and physically, and so he allowed his parents to stay with you while he goes home to nap, take a shower, and then come back to the hospital to grab lunch.
Oliver joins him in the canteen, and the two men sit down wordlessly to eat. The sandwiches they eat are somehow both dry and soggy from the tomatoes in them. When Oliver picks the onions out of his sandwich, Lando can’t help the tears that prickle in his eyes.
You did the same exact thing when you ate a sandwich.
When Oliver sees Lando start to cry, he can’t help but have tears begin to well up in his eyes as well. He doesn’t even know what the driver is thinking about exactly, but he understands it all the same.
It’s a heartbreaking sight, but one the walls of these hospitals have seen before. Two grown men, crying about onions, wrestling with the true mortality of one of the people they loved the most.
The closer they come to acceptance, the heavier the burden becomes. And really, would it ever truly be acceptance?
Lando’s sure that he wouldn’t ever truly accept it, if you were gone. He can’t fathom what it would mean for him to never see you laugh again, to never wake up next to you again, to never walk beside you again.
You’re buried so deep within his heart, he’s not sure he’d even survive it. Perhaps he would simply waste away, unable to understand how the person he loved the most could be taken from him.
How was he ever supposed to just move on from that? He was sure everyone would try to push him through his grief. That they would insist that you would have wanted him to live his life, but he thinks that is a load of bullshit.
You aren’t even gone yet, and the anticipatory grief is overwhelming. The thought of losing you is too much, but the actual act? Lando feels the threat of it pressing down on him with every passing hour, minute, second.
The driver is trying to compose himself when he hears it.
Footsteps.
A flurry of footsteps.
And they’re getting louder, as though they’re headed in his direction.
He looked up just in time to see Max fly into the cafeteria, his expression open and halfway to relief. His best friend doesn’t even need to say anything before Oliver and Lando both are standing, running.
Lando’s heart flies up into his throat with hope. He’s past Oliver, past Max, running like his life depends on it. He’s sure that someone in the hospital will scold them later, but he doesn’t give a flying fuck.
In reality, his life is sitting in a hospital bed, and if the look on Max’s face is any indication, he might be getting it back.
He barely slows down when he’s at the door, practically sliding into the room and stumbling toward the bed as quietly as he can.
His breath is held as Max and Oliver all but slam into him as they come in after him. The room is silent, as though the world is held at a pause whilst they look at you.
You turn your face just slightly, your face pinching together as you slowly blink your eyes open. A fresh sob tumbles out of Lando’s lips as he staggers toward you, all but collapsing at your side.
You turn toward the sound, and it takes you a second to blink before you can see clearly but suddenly your eyes are met with a forest green, and everything in Lando’s world stands still.
“Hey you,” you rasp softly, and he wipes the tears from his eyes furiously, desperate to see you clearly.
“Daisy,” he sobs, his head bowed to your own, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands come up to cradle your face gently, holding you with a reverence you didn’t realise was possible.
You let your eyes flutter shut at the feeling, and you’re still groggy and in pain but you can hear the way Lando chants IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou like it’s a prayer, and it feels like it’s breathed life back into you.
Your hand comes up to curl around his own, weak but there.
Alive. Awake. Present.
Oliver sits heavily in a chair to your right, and you open your eyes to look over at him. He gives you a watery smile, and you blink back at him in a silent moment of communication that means the world to you both.
When Lando shifts back finally, he can feel you wince beneath him. His face is blotchy with red, tears continue to stream down his cheeks, and his eyes are swollen, but he instantly is reaching for the nurse call button.
“Lost the leg?” You inquire, even if you already know the answer. Max nods tersely back at you, worried about your reaction. You shrug, at peace with the decision.
“It’ll be character building,” you joke, and the three of them laugh so hard they’re crying all over again.
“Sheesh, who knew all I had to do was lose a leg to make you all laugh at my jokes,” you deadpan, and the relief that is looking back at you gives you just the smallest indication as to the duress they’ve all been through.
You press your head back into the hospital bed as you feel a roll of pain go through you. You squeeze Lando’s hand tightly, and he pitches toward you, brushing hair back from your forehead with a worried expression on his face.
“Are you in pain?” Your brother asks as Lando holds your hand tightly in his. He looks over your face with the veracity of a man possessed, as though he’s just seeing you for the first time.
“A little,” you admit quietly, but you squeeze Lando’s hand once reassuringly as you reach your other one out for your brother. “I’m just happy to be here with you three idiots.”
“You have no idea,” Lando breaths out as he watches you, his eyes never once leaving you.
Even when the nurses and doctors come in, and he’s forced to move back, his gaze never once leaves you. Through it all, you’ll look back at him and without fail he will be looking at you. Like he can’t even begin to think of looking away.
It’s reassuring in a way you can’t explain, to have him there. To know that he won’t miss anything.
The doctors are able to get a better handle on your pain management now that you’re awake. You take the news of the loss of your leg with stride. You always knew it was a possibility, and when you’d gone downhill you knew that the likelihood of it happening was high.
When the doctors finally leave the room, you’re exhausted. Completely and utterly spent, though you try valiantly to keep your eyes awake to spend time with your family.
“You can rest,” your brother suggests gently, seeing you fight sleep. You look over at Lando, who nods in agreement.
“You’ll be here when I wake up?” You ask quietly, and Lando nods his head without breaking eye contact with you.
“Yes,” he answers easily, and you finally let your body succumb to the rest it needs, Lando holding your hand tightly in his.
It’s dark when you wake up again, and you look lazily over at the clock to see it’s nearing three in the morning. Your body aches, but there isn’t any sharp pain like there was this afternoon.
Oliver isn’t anywhere to be seen, but Lando still has his hand in your own. He sees the question in your eyes, and brings your hand up to his mouth to kiss gently before he answers.
“Only one of us can stay overnight. He went home, he’ll be back in the morning,” he promises, and you nod once. Your eyes don’t leave his, and a smile tugs at your lips.
“I think you’re supposed to be asleep as well,” you joke, and Lando smiles for a second. But it looks hollow, and your eyebrows furrowed together in concern.
“Hey, talk to me,” you murmur, shifting toward him in bed. He bows his head for a moment, and you watch as his shoulders shake with quiet, gasping sobs.
You can’t really move very well, but you place your hand under his chin, gently lifting his face so you can see him properly. His eyes shine, tears tracking down his cheeks. You’ve never seen him quite so devastated, and it takes your breath away. You’d do anything to fix it.
“I almost lost you,” he rasps after a moment, and your expression softens in understanding. This was a problem that you could solve now that you were awake.
“I was so scared, so scared,” he admits, and you nod in understanding. If the roles were reversed, you would have been terrified. You tilt further toward him still, trying to move despite the stiffness in your body. You’d do anything to assure him that you’re alright, that you’re here with him.
“I’m right here, I promise. I love you, and I’m not going anywhere without you,” you promise him, trying your best to imbue him with the confidence you feel.
“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” you joke, a smile tugging at your lips. He nods, his breath leaving him in a rush that almost sounds like a laugh. Almost as though he realised that this was real, that you were here. You were going to be okay. His expression begins to lighten, and he runs his thumb over your knuckles soothingly.
He watches you for a moment, and he speaks before he can really think it through.
“Marry me,” he says, somewhere between a statement and a plea. Your eyes widen comically, and you shake your head slightly. You think that the pain medication might be making you hear things.
“What?” You ask, pitching your head forward as you wondered if you were hallucinating. You and Lando had sort of talked about marriage, in a very vague sense. Neither of you were particularly rushed to make anything happen. You’d always joked that you both needed for your prefrontal cortexes to develop before you’re making that kind of decision.
“I don’t want to live without you anymore. I spent the whole time you were here terrified I was going to lose you, and it just affirmed for me that there is no life for me without you in it. Be mine, please. You have my whole entire heart, and I want to have yours too, if you’ll let me,” he states, and you just blink back at him in awe.
“I want you next to me in bed every morning. I want to pull stupid pranks with you in the paddock. I want to come home to you. I want your shoes crammed in with mine at the doorway and your coats hanging next to mine. I want all the weird biscuits you keep in the cupboard because you always want to try new ones. I want your toothbrush next to mine in the bathroom, and your hair products overrunning the shower.”
“I want you to redecorate the Monaco apartment however you want because I want it to be your home too. I want us to have a home together, not separate places. I want to buy you a horse, and throw you a birthday party every year that’s more lavish than the last. I’ll do whatever I can in my power to see you happy, because when you're happy I am too. I love every last thing about you, and I never want to wake up without the knowledge that you’re there,” he continues, his voice hopeful and getting softer with every single word. He pauses for a moment, his whole body solemn.
“I thought I lost you, and it nearly killed a part of me. So please, say you’ll be mine. I could spend a hundred lifetimes with you and I don’t think it would ever be enough. All I want is you. All I’ve ever wanted is you,” he admits, and your chest heaves with the effort of holding your tears back.
“Marry me, please,” he asks you finally, and you bite your lip for a moment, simply watching.
“Even without a leg?” You joke finally, but there’s joy and relief so clearly twinged within your words that Lando already knows your true answer.
“Especially without a leg,” he laughs, and you nod your head insistently.
“Yes, yes I will marry you,” you agree, and Lando can’t contain himself from standing up and leaning in to press a kiss to your lips.
He can feel the way you smile into it, and he pulls back with a grin so wide it practically splits his face into two.
You begin to scoot over in bed, patting the place next to you. With an exhale full of relief, he slips into the space next to you. You press into him with reckless abandon, ignoring the flare of pain in your leg when you curl into him.
He holds you with a quiet reverence that is reserved just for you. He presses his lips to the crown of your head, drunk off the feeling of having you in his arms.
“You know you’re gonna have to get me a ring right?” You whisper as you curl into him. Your breath tickles his throat, and Lando is pretty sure that this is what heaven feels like. You can feel the chuckle he lets out, how it rumbles deep in his chest.
“I’ll buy you ten rings, a hundred of them. Whatever you want,” he promises, dead serious. You fist the material of his shirt in your hand, smiling so hard it made your face hurt.
“Alright spender, lets relax. I think one will do,” you tease, and he just holds you a little bit tighter.
“Anything for you,” he says with finality, his voice soft with affection.
It was the moment he realised that everything was going to be okay. It wasn’t perfect. You still didn’t have a leg. But you were going to make it, and he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure that you would never regret it.
To you, as much as it pained you, it was a reminder of the fact that you would always, always come back to him. Because when he said that there was no him without you, he meant it.
Forever might never be enough, but he was never ever giving up on this. Never giving up on his life with you.
A hidden truth shattered Oscar's world right as his career took off, leaving him devastated and without answers about your painful breakup. When he discovers the truth years later, is it too late to turn back the clock to what once was?
(a/n: I promise I write more than just second chance romance stories I stg...but I had this idea rattling around in my brain and I literally could not help myself! Plus Oscar is just so much fun to write. Work title is from 1 by T Swizzle :)
Masterlist
Have you ever gotten everything you ever wanted?
No, but I once got very close.
“What about you Osc? You seeing anyone?”
Oscar’s heart never got used to Lando calling him that.
Osc.
For a long time, you were the only person who called him that. You’d given him that nickname when the two of you had first met when he moved to the UK. You had been in the same year of school as him, assigned to show him around the campus of your school.
He had come in the middle of the year, and you were the official welcome committee. Oscar had liked you instantly, charmed by your quick wit and quiet disposition. You were kind and empathetic without being patronizing, listening with intent and asking questions that made him truly think before answering.
You were soft spoken, but when you did speak, everyone around you listened.
Oscar found himself gravitating toward you, even after time had passed and you were no longer required to help him out. There were only so many times he could feign being lost in the hallways before he seemed completely idiotic.
You were a boarding student as well, and Oscar could often find you on the grounds of campus surrounded by a pile of books. Always history books.
He’d ask if he could sit and work on homework with you, and you would always agree with a simple nod of your head. And then he’d ask the question you had come to love so much.
“What are you reading about today?”
The first time he asked you that, you had looked up at him in surprise. You were well liked in school, with no shortage of friends. But nobody in school, not even your friends, cared that much about history. Not in the way you did. You craved the knowledge, the strength and understanding it gave you.
Not that there was anything wrong with other books. You read your fair share of romance, fantasy, mystery.
But it always came back to these books.
And now here was the new boy, who somehow seemed to care about them as well.
“The Treaty of Kiel,” you’d replied evenly, keeping your excitement well contained. You expected Oscar to nod before returning to his work. Instead, he set his pen down and leaned toward you, some of his hair falling into his face as he leaned next to you to peer down at your book.
Your heart skipped a beat in your chest as he tilted his head to look up at you, his big, honey brown eyes filled with curiosity, a genuine interest in knowing about what you were reading.
And so you told him, right there on the lawn of your boarding school. For someone who was often quiet, you just talked and talked and talked. Explained the history of Denmark and Norway, the impact of the Napoleonic wars, what the fallout of the treaty meant for Scandinavia.
Oscar listened with unmatched patience and intrigue, asking all the right questions. When you couldn’t come up with an answer the two of you would consult your book together, digging for the truth.
It became a rhythm after that.
You both had your own group of friends, your own academic and social pursuits. But it was as though the two of you were tethered together, brought together again and again and again.
Oscar knew he loved you when he was fifteen. He had caught you reading, walked up behind you wordlessly. You were sitting with your back against a tree, the branches and leaves providing shade from the rare British sunshine.
“What are you reading about today?” He asked, and you all but jumped up into the air in surprise. You looked as though you’d been caught in the act, your cheeks painted with flush. You held the closed book in your lap, unable to meet his gaze.
“Nothing,” you suggested, your words unsteady.
You’d never been able to lie right to someone's face. It was both a blessing and a curse, your specific brand of candor. Oscar raised his eyebrow, in no way buying your story.
He reached down, unencumbered as you let the book slip from your grasp. He flipped it over, unable to hide the surprise that lifted his expression.
“Senna versus Prost by Folley?” He mused, and you shrugged noncommittally, though you looked over at him as he sat down next to you.
“Got it from the library when you were gone,” you explained simply, taking the book back from him. He’d been gone for a karting competition, one that he had won.
“Missed me?” He asked, a hint of teasing in his tone that masked his nerves. He had missed you.
He had missed seeing you in between his lessons, eating lunch together, hearing about whatever book you were reading that week. He had missed your teasing, how you never expected him to be anything but himself. You two were always on the same wavelength, calm and collected but not withdrawn.
“I did,” you admitted quietly, and Oscar lifted his gaze to meet your own. You were honest, almost achingly so, as though it had cost you something to say the words. As though you were holding your heart in the palm of your hand out toward him, waiting to see how he would react.
He felt a part of himself settle when he realized that perhaps he meant as much to you as you had grown to mean to him. And maybe at fifteen he didn’t fully understand all these emotions, but he did understand that you were something special to him.
“I missed you too,” he affirmed, watching as you settled slightly, your nerves showing only in the way you fussed over returning to the page of your book. Your fingertips shook slightly as the book settled into your lap, and Oscar leaned his shoulder into your own to soothe you in the only way he knew how.
And just like that, you were his and he was yours.
The two of you grew up together, and you grew with each other.
Oscar was popular at school, always playing some sport when he wasn’t jetting off to compete in whatever motorsport event he was working toward. He worked his way up through the ranks steadily, from Formula Four to Renault 2.0.
You were the first person to help him catch up on his lessons, making sure he never fell too far behind the rest of the school body. And while you missed him, you had your own life. You played tennis and were a member of the debate society.
You weren’t sure exactly when you and Oscar had gone from friends to something more, but you were unbothered with such specifics. All you knew was that he was yours and yours alone. It was shockingly uncomplicated when you considered how busy the two of you were, but something about it just worked.
When others teased Oscar for lacking emotions, you had learned to memorize the slightest twitch of his brows. You knew that he could talk for hours about tyre degradation as though it were the most fascinating concept in the whole entire world.
You knew that he grew especially soft and cuddly when he had just come home from a trip, oftentimes pulling you into bed with him and wrapping his whole body around you.
You knew that he held the ability to quiet every single thought in your mind just by pressing his lips to your own. How he held your face in his hands with the reverence of someone who was holding something holy.
You knew that you loved him with everything in you. And you knew especially that he loved you just as much, with a quiet ferocity that you’d long begun to associate with him.
Just because he was calm didn’t mean he wasn’t ruthless on the track. And just because he was calm didn’t mean he couldn’t love someone with intensity.
When the two of you had graduated, you had decided that you wanted to study law in university. Oscar was off, into Formula Three and Formula Two. He’d become a reserve driver for Alpine in 2022, his dreams of being in Formula One so close he could taste it.
And you were right there, supporting him in his pursuit with the same quiet confidence you had always held in him. You challenged him, loved him, bettered him. He’d been hopelessly yours since he was fifteen years old.
Which was why he didn’t understand when you’d broken up with him in May of that year.
You were crying even before you did it, as though it pained you to do it. You were in the airport, the two of you were supposed to be flying out together for Oscar to complete more private testing with Alpine.
But you’d halted before you could even get to security. Broken down in tears and told him that you couldn’t go with him. He’d thought it had just been the trip, offered to drive you home if you weren’t feeling well or something. He didn’t mind being late to the testing if there was something really wrong with you.
When you told him that the two of you needed to break up, it was like an arrow had been shot into his chest. You were crying so hard you could barely breathe, and Oscar could barely see you past the tears that gathered in his eyes. You refused to look him in the eyes, and Oscar knew that something was wrong. But you refused to tell him, your lips sealed tightly shut about whatever it was that had caused this all to fall apart.
He’d begged you to reconsider, to talk to him. He would have taken anything, would have taken the hurt or frustration or resentment or vexation. But you had no explanation, no words to offer him other than that the two of you were done, and that was it.
You’d walked away from him in the Heathrow airport, leaving him standing there as though it didn’t feel like his life was crumbling down around him. You quieted the sobs that wracked you with a hand over your mouth as you’d run away, and he had watched you go. Stood there for too long watching the door you had exited out of, as though he expected for you to come back.
As though he expected for you to come back through the doors and explain that it had all been a terrible mistake.
“Oscar?”
It was Lando’s voice that broke through the Australian driver's thoughts, and he shook his head slightly before turning to the Brit. Lando was looking at him with an open confusion, his head cocked like he was a golden retriever puppy waiting for Oscar to throw him his ball.
“No, I haven’t been dating anyone recently,” Oscar replied, his voice coming out flat and yet soft in a way he was unable to shake even years later.
It was the start of the 2024 season, the day after the Saudi Arabia Grand Prix, and the two McLaren drivers were on their way back to Woking for more testing before they left for Australia.
Apparently, multiple hours on a plane together meant that Oscar was reduced to playing twenty questions with Lando. Not that he really minded, all things considered he really quite liked his teammate.
“Still?”
Though at times, Lando could be quite nosy.
Oscar cringed as the word came out of the British driver's mouth, and he chanced a glance out of his window. They were nearing London, he could see it looming towards them in the window.
He knew it was pathetic, perhaps, that he was still in love with you.
But just because he couldn’t have you didn’t mean that he couldn’t keep loving you. Lord knows that he tried stopping, he really did. It was a useless pursuit, he had quickly discovered, so he didn’t so much as spare a glance at another woman in the year and a half since he’d lost you. None of them ever even began to compare.
“Yes, still,” he replied evenly, gritting his teeth together to fight the grimace that wished to work its way onto his expression.
Lando nodded several times, the bob of his head slow and even.
“I’m sorry Otmar was such a meddler. I never met her, but I’m sure that had to be hard on both of you to deal with,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet and thoughtful.
Oscar was almost so unfocused that he missed what Lando was saying entirely.
“Yeah…” he trailed off, before his mind caught up with him.
Meddler?
What did Lando mean by that?
What did the Alpine team principal have to do with this?
“Wait, what?” Oscar turned more fully toward his teammate, suddenly feeling incredibly alert. Lando looked up from his phone, his brows furrowed together. “What do you mean, Otmar was such a meddler?”
The old Alpine team principal had left in 2023, and Oscar knew that the whole fiasco the year before that with his contract negotiations and eventual exit hadn’t helped anything.
But he had no clue what role Otmar had in his relationship with you, or why Lando was bringing him into the conversation.
“You know, the conversation that the two of them had together? I was looking for Alonso and I heard them from where I was in the hallway. The door was left cracked open,” he explained simply, as though he was answering about the weather and not cracking Oscar’s whole world open. Oscar felt as though his focus was tunneling all at once, suddenly and completely focused on the words slipping past Lando’s lips.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar whispered after a second, his voice small. “What conversation? Between her and Otmar?”
Lando’s eyes widened suddenly, and Oscar felt his heart drop into his stomach. The surprise on his teammate's face was enough for him to know that Lando genuinely had no idea that Oscar didn’t know.
A year and a half, and still he had no explanation. No understanding of why you had left so suddenly. No words to placate the wound that had been permanently carved into the cavity of his chest.
“It was…we were in Miami,” Lando began suddenly, as though he understood why Oscar was suddenly so focused. His words stuttered, and it was clear he was pulling at a memory that was somehow sharp and hazy all at the same time.
“I was going to find Alonso to ask him something, I can’t remember what. I heard Otmar as I turned the corner, and he sounded mad. The door to his office was cracked open, not enough to see but I could hear him talking to her. He was…he was talking about how it was important that you stayed focused, that the hope was that you would be offered a contract soon. How it was critical that nothing stood in your way to do that.”
“He said that it was of the most importance that nothing, or nobody, stood in your way. How you couldn’t afford to be distracted by unimportant things when your career would be on the line. He said it would be a shame if something like that were to impair you from racing at the highest level.”
“I remember…he made her repeat it. Asked it like it was a question, but it didn’t really sound like one, you know? He asked her if she knew what she needed to do, and she said yes. I left after that, didn’t want either of them to come into the hallway and find me,” Lando explained in a rush, and Oscar felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him.
“Lando, are you sure that is what you heard?” Oscar’s voice was low, dangerous even. But when his teammate nodded insistently, it felt like a firecracker of pain burst within him.
Suddenly, everything made sense. How you’d tried to go with him, how you’d stopped before you even made it through security.
You were scared. You’d been intimidated into believing, somehow, that you were a distraction.
“You didn’t…you didn’t know?” Lando asked, swallowing roughly. Oscar shook his head, the devastation clear as day on his face.
“Oh my god,” he murmured, shifting to look out the window as his grip tightened on his arm rests. You hadn’t done this because you didn’t love him. It had been something else entirely.
It was seven in the evening. The last Oscar had known, you lived in London. You still lived in that little apartment he helped you move into, the one just a few blocks from LSE. Edie had told him a few months ago, off handedly, and he pretended like he hadn’t clung to the information as though it were a lifeline.
The break had been clean, civil. You’d never had much of a need to contact one another afterward, though often Oscar ached at the thought of texting you. At how much he wanted to do it, even if he knew he shouldn’t.
“She lives in London, right?” Lando asked, sitting on the edge of his seat despite the way his seatbelt tugged at him. They were descending soon, nearly there. Oscar nodded just once, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
“Dude, you have to go over there! Go talk to her!” Lando’s voice was resolute, encouraging. Oscar shot him a pained expression, fear gripping at the inner most parts of his heart.
“Lando, it’s been more than a year. What if she’s moved on, what if she wants nothing to do with me?” He practically begged, desperate for what exactly, he was unsure.
“What if she hasn’t moved on? What if she’s been waiting for you this whole time?” Lando challenged, his brow quirked. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and soothing, so unlike how he usually was. “I know you still love her. Maybe you never stopped. And maybe she did move on, or she doesn’t feel the same way anymore. But you’re going to kill yourself if you never find out. If you lose out on the chance of being with her again because you were too scared to say anything.”
Oscar looked up at his teammate, realizing with a startling clarity that everything Lando said was exactly correct.
“Do you um…” he cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “I don’t suppose I could borrow the car we were supposed to drive back in?”
The laugh Lando let out was loud and approving, just as he was.
It was late, nearing nine in the evening on that fateful Monday when someone knocked on your door.
You’d been studying all afternoon for an exam you had later in the week on tort law. You were lucky that you only had classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. You’d settled into your little one bedroom apartment with the goal of studying well into the night.
You hadn’t expected anyone to come over tonight, though you supposed it could be one of the neighbors. It seemed that it was once a week that your sweet old neighbor Thomas came over to ask if you’d seen his cat.
So that’s exactly whom you expected to be at the door now.
There was literally no portion of your mind that was expecting to see Oscar Piastri at your door.
Oscar, your Oscar, looking at you with a swirling mixture of devastation and hope.
Your heart skipped a beat at the thought, at the silly and reckless thought that perhaps he had come back for you. You shut the door on that feeling as quickly as it breathed life into you. It was a downright ridiculous thought, to wish for such a thing.
You’d given up any say you’d had in his life, in your love, when you walked away in the airport.
When Otmar had first spoken with you, you’d been filled with anger. You couldn’t imagine someone being allowed to speak to you in that way, in a manner in which you were certain was not appropriate.
You had planned to tell Oscar about it, at first. But when you saw him the next time, you kept your mouth firmly shut. You weren’t sure what compelled you, but you never said anything. It began to eat at you, the man's words in your ear.
You were intelligent enough to know that you weren’t a distraction to Oscar. But you were also smart enough to know a threat when one was presented, and you weren’t about to screw something up for Oscar that he’d been working toward his whole life. Even if it meant letting him go when you really, really didn’t want to.
You especially hadn’t planned to break up with him in the airport, of all places. You thought you were strong, that you could still go with him, but the fear that gripped you as soon as you stepped in Heathrow was unlike anything you had ever experienced.
You knew it was an extra shitty place to break up, but you literally couldn’t take a step further. The thought of getting on that plane, seeing that man, and messing up everything that Oscar had worked so hard for gripped you with terror.
You couldn’t do that to him, you wouldn’t do that to him.
So, you left. You gave him no explanation, walked away as though it was something you wanted and not a mistake you’d agonized over every day since. As though it were simply a choice you had made, and not everything.
A year and a half later and you still loved him just as much as the day you lost him.
You had tried not to follow his career. Tried to convince yourself that you didn’t care, that it didn’t matter. But the truth of it was that you did care. You cared more than you ever would admit to anyone.
For who else would you have ripped your heart out of your chest at the chance to let him accomplish his brightest dream?
You tried to make your peace with the fact that he was no longer in your life, that the chapter of it that included Oscar was closed. But it never stopped hurting, like a cut that could never quite seem to stop bleeding.
You still had some of his jumpers in your closet, and his favorite protein bars in the kitchen. You listened to playlists that he had made for you, and rewatched the movies he loved from time to time. You subscribed to watch his races, and kept an orange t-shirt with his number on it in your drawers.
You told yourself that even if you didn’t have him anymore, that you had played a small part in helping him accomplish his dreams. It was the only way to soothe the ache, to rationalize the decision that felt like it had split your life apart.
And still, despite all of this, you had absolutely no words when you opened the door to reveal the very person you had pined for, all this time. You gripped the doorframe, your knuckles turning white as you forced yourself to stay upright.
Normally you were so composed, unflappable and centered. But the earth felt like it was tilting, as though suddenly you realized for the first time that it was an object in motion. You were practically woozy, and your heart rate shot up instantly.
Oscar looked exactly the same as the last time you’d seen him, if not a bit more filled out. He was broader than he was before, but his hair still swooped down in the same way, and he still wore scuffed trainers despite the fact that you knew he made more money than you’d probably see in your lifetime.
“Oscar,” you finally forced out, hating how weak and aching your words were. His eyes roved over you as though he couldn’t quite believe that you were real, standing there in your pyjamas in front of him.
He opened and closed his mouth several times, as though he didn’t know exactly what to say.
“You left me in an airport,” was what he settled on, and you flinched as though he’d struck you. You turned your head, closing your eyes for a moment.
“Yes,” you said finally, because it was the truth.
“Why?” Oscar asked you, and it was the softness in his voice that had you turning back toward him.
“Oscar, you need to go,” you insisted, glancing down the hallway and towards the exit. But he didn’t so much as flick his eyes away from you. He was staring at you, as though he couldn’t believe you were real and standing right there in front of him.
It wasn’t judgement in his eyes, not one single bit. He looked like a man that wanted the truth. It was the same expression he used when he asked you about the novel you were reading, and the familiarity of it had you opening your mouth to obey before you even thought of the consequences.
“So that you could drive the car, so that you would get the seat. So that you weren’t distracted in doing so,” you replied automatically, as though you’d told yourself the same thing over and over and over again.
You had – a mantra to drown out the sadness in your tears. To rationalize a decision you had never wanted to make. You cringed when you said the words, how weak and stupid they sounded out loud.
“Is that really what you thought you were to me? A distraction?” Oscar pressed further, and you took a step back at the softness in his words. He was standing at your doorstep looking at you as though he still loved you, and the thought was enough to destroy your heart in one go.
It was too much softness, he was. It wasn’t something you deserved, not after how you had handled this. You didn’t get the nice things in life like a second chance with the love of your life.
Did you?
“Why are you here Oscar?” You questioned instead, searching desperately for a deflection. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Answer the question,” Oscar replied instead, and you pulled back a step as you forced your expression to remain neutral, uncaring. You’d worked too hard and too long to build a house of cards that allowed you to keep going.
The thought of him coming in here and destroying it all just to leave you again wrecked every other rational thought in your head. Tears were filling in your eyes despite yourself, and Oscar stepped toward you as though you were a frightened animal he was trying to soothe.
“I never saw you as a distraction. I saw you as someone who helped me be better, someone who made me laugh and kept my ego in check. I saw someone who was always so supportive, who was always in my corner rooting for me,” his words were light, soft, and yet held with them the weight of the world.
“I saw someone who was forced into an impossible decision, who made the choice that they thought was best for me,” he continued, and your head snapped toward him in a second.
Was it possible?
How had he ever found out?
“I see someone who did everything in her power to let me live my dream, even if it meant that I left her behind. I see someone who I still love, even if maybe it’s silly of me to still say. I see someone I never stopped loving, not even for a second.”
He was standing in front of you now, looking down at you as though he wanted to reach for you but had stopped himself.
You looked up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.
“Even after all this time?” You whispered, your voice equal parts raw and wrecked. This didn’t feel real, almost as though it were a dream. You yearned to reach out and touch him, but stopped yourself until he said the word you needed.
“Yes,” he breathed out, and you reached for him desperately as though a dam had broken within you.
He met you in equal measure, pulling you into his chest as you wrapped your arms around him. He was solid and warm and still smelled the same as when you’d last hugged him, standing in the airport.
Your chest stuttered as you let out a sob, and Oscar simply cradled the back of your head. You sagged into him, practically delirious with how relieved you were.
You whispered the words into his chest with what little oxygen you were intaking, over and over and over again.
Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry
He shushed you gently, rocking you back and forth just slightly.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I love you, I love you,” he insisted, meeting your fervent words with a calm security.
When you finally managed to pull back, he had tears of his own streaming down his cheeks. You reached a shaky hand up, using your thumb to brush them away from his cheek. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut.
“How did you…how did you know?” You croaked out, shaking your head just slightly as Oscar finally shut the door behind himself.
“Lando overheard you talking to Otmar,” he explained as he placed his bag down and toed his shoes off. “He had no clue that I didn’t know about the conversation.”
You turned away from him for a moment, suddenly self conscious. Would he be mad that you hadn’t talked to him? Where was all the anger that you were sure he held toward you.
But he simply stepped forward, using his fingers to gently reach out and pull your chin toward him, allowing your eyes to meet. His eyes roved over your entire face, as though he was memorizing every curve and juncture of your expression. You were sure you looked gross, swollen and red, but he looked at you with such an earnest expression that you were helpless but to stare right back at him.
“I understand what happened. I’m not mad. I was confused, and I wanted you back in my life, but I didn’t understand why you left. I do now, and I would give anything to be yours again. Please?” His words were barely above a whisper, a beg whispered in the space between the two of you.
You scrunched your face up in disbelief, but you were helpless to his pull. To the love you still felt for him.
“Yes, of course you can,” you insisted in a second, reaching to wrap your arms around him. The hug this time is more intentional, less frantic, and you feel rather than see the deep breath that Oscar lets out when he hears your answer.
The two of you stay in that embrace for a moment, simply reacquainting yourselves with the press of your bodies together. When you step back, you reach for one of Oscar’s hands. You place it right over your chest, right above your heart.
“This was always yours,” you admit, and a smile dances across his lips as he nods, curt and clearly trying to keep all of his emotions in check.
“I love you,” he murmurs, and you lead him back towards your bedroom. He stands there as you fish out pyjamas for him, and if he’s surprised that you still own some of his clothes, he doesn’t show it.
“Stay?” You ask as you offer them to him, and he nodded quickly before going to change.
When he comes back you’re already under the covers, and he slips to join you. He’s barely laid down before he’s reaching for you, curling his body around your own.
You’re turned toward him, your head tucked into the space between his neck and chest, his arm securely around your waist as your legs tangle below you. Your body relaxes almost of its own accord, warm and sleepy and suddenly exhausted.
“I missed you,” you said after a moment, and you tense as though somehow admitting that was a mistake. As though you don’t have a right to say such things because you were the one who left.
But Oscar just holds you tighter, not allowing for you to pull away. He let it happen once, and he knows deep down that he won’t let it happen again.
“I missed you too, so much,” he echoes, and his voice cracks just slightly with his honesty.
“Will you still be here when I wake up?” You ask, as though somehow this is all a dream. As though he would go anywhere but stay right here, with you. As though he wouldn’t follow you to the ends of the earth if you asked him to.
“Yes,” he answered honestly, pulling you in tighter and cuddling into you. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
How could I love you less now that I know you more?
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