she/ her. scorpio. 22. mclaren + ferrari girl. lando norris enthusiast. nhl enjoyer. a writer who tries to perfectly portray the mind of a hopeless romantic. 🍊🐅🏁
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⊹˚₊ my message ⊹˚₊
the idea behind any and all of my work is to not write perfectly with perfect grammar and punctuation - my work is to portray the inner workings and chaos of a brain that is confused, excited, anxious, curious, angry, and above all in love.
I want you, the reader and/or casual viewer to feel immersed into this fictional world, and find yourself feeling like you're the main character in a movie - accompanied by your favourite nhi hubby;)
summary: you and ollie finally get a day where neither of you are busy—him with living in the fast lane as a formula 1 driver, and you completely engrossed with school—so what better way than to spend the day with fall baking.
[word count] 1.03k
warnings: fluff | pre-established relationships | kissing | ollie being a sweetie | grinding if you squint | cliches + humor | read at your own discretion
pairing: ollie bearman x reader
a/n: have had so many request for our little sweetie bear! so why not make it cozy for fall! enjoy ❤️
🎶 apple pie by lizzy mcalpine
late afternoon light filters through the kitchen window, casting soft golden streaks across the flour streaked tiles. the smell of cinnamon and browned butter fills the cozy kitchen, and that combined with the trees outside—littered in rust and amber—provide the most pleasant, cozy feeling.
it’s one of those perfect fall days where the world feels like it's slowing down just enough for you to catch your breath, with loose leaves blowing past the window and your half dunk pumpkin spice latte sitting on the island between flour and sugar.
you and ollie are both standing barefoot in the kitchen. you’ve got your (his) hoodie sleeves pushed up, a wooden spoon in one hand and an old charlie brown themed mixing bowl in the other.
where as ollie's leaning far too dramatically over the counter, tongue poking out in concentration as he tries to read the recipe on your phone. he’s squinting like it's a classified document, and you can’t help but to giggle into your chest. he’s always been dramatic—with everything. but that’s one of the things you love the most.
"you do realize you're not performing surgery, right?" you tease, flicking a bit of flour at him. it catches in his mop of waves, and he freezes like you just launched a personal attack.
"oh, it's war now," ollie says, slowly turning toward you with mock offense. "I fly halfway across the world, take one day off from saving my team's championship dreams, and this is how I'm treated?"
you roll your eyes at his dramatics—his team is far from championship reach, and you both know it—but you grin fondly nonetheless. your faux annoyance facade slipping away.
"don’t act like you haven't missed this," you chime with a grin, nudging him aside to grab the vanilla extract to add it to the bowl. "you love baking with me."
"I love you, and you happen to bake," he corrects smugly, slipping behind you to wrap his arms around your waist before you can escape.
he rests his chin on your shoulder, swaying you both gently side to side. "although, i’ll admit, you being in flour-smudged sweatpants is now my new favorite look." ollie teases you like a teenage boy then—by pressing his semi into your ass.
you laugh, dropping the back of your head lightly into his chest. "flatter me all you want, you're still on clean up duty."
ollie groans, "and here I thought love was unconditional."
you elbow him, and he lets go with another exaggerated groan, moving back to the counter where he's supposed to be rolling the dough into perfect little spheres.
you eye the misshapen blobs suspiciously.
"ollie," you start, hands on your hips like a school teacher. "why does that one look like a deflated football?"
he shrugs innocently, "it’s art, babe, you wouldn't understand."
you toss the pumpkin printed dish towel at him, and he laughs, ducking behind the fridge door just in time. "okay, okay! i’ll redo them."
“no,” you protest meekly, patting his chest affectionately with your palm—his hard muscles very much welcomed by your hand. “I like the deflated ones.”
ollie grins and kisses your cheek once. then twice. and then again until you’re giggling.
once you finish the next batch of dough and have ollie roll them and place them onto the silver baking tray, he moves to take them to the over—while trying to mimic the michelin starred chef obviously.
"hey," you warn gently but pointedly, gesturing with your index finger at the tray he's balancing like a pit crew with a death wish. "if you drop them, I swear—"
"you’ll kiss me," ollie interrupts with a cheeky grin—cocky and warm—dimples on full display as he slides the cookies into the oven. "admit it, you're weak for a man in oven mitts."
you shoot your boyfriend a deadpanned look, but you don't deny it—not when he steps closer and presses a flour-dusted kiss to your nose, then your lips, slow and sweet and a little bit like home.
when ollie pulls back, there’s something quieter in his gaze. something softer.
"you know," he mutters, stepping closer and taking your hands into his. "I really missed this. I missed you.”
you nod in gentle agreement, fingers lacing with his easily. "me too."
"I hate that our schedules are so—" he pauses and exhales like he’s only just finding his breath. “this feels like the first time in weeks i’ve been able to just...be with you."
you squeeze his hand and tip your head up, the corners of your mouth curving. "so be with me, then."
he kisses you again—warm and slow, hands finding the small of your back. you taste your latte and ollie tastes like the cookie dough he’s been sneaking all afternoon. and maybe love, too. but you’re biased.
when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
"you smell like cinnamon," you murmur, nose brushing along his in a soft gesture.
"you smell like the love of my life,” he teases, and you groan out loud at how cheesy it is—but then ollie grins and adds, "also, you totally measured the brown sugar wrong, but I'm letting it slide because you're cute."
"you—!" you shove him playfully, but he catches your wrist and kisses your knuckles before he’s darting away to check the oven, laughing like a school boy.
and in that tiny, cluttered kitchen filled with warm light, golden leaves outside, and the scent of cookies baking, you realize that maybe fall isn't your favorite season because of the weather or the colors or the cozy clothes.
maybe it's your favorite because it brought you back to this.
to him.
to home.
you share cookies on the still messy kitchen island a little later, stealing chocolate chip laced kisses from one another like little kids. and you’re pretty sure there’s more flour on ollie’s shift than in the actual cookies, but you wouldn’t of had it any other way.
summary: one of monaco’s finest wedding planners is hired to plan formula one’s most handsome drivers—carlos sainz—wedding. it’s just…his bride to be is the worse and you’re pretty sure you have a crush on the groom. and yeah! everything is totally not fine.
[word count] 17.3k
warnings: forbidden relationship | mentions of cheating | infidelity | wedding planner! reader | angst angst angst | mentions of weddings | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | carlos fiancée in this fic is completely made up and an original character | read at your own discretion
🎶 strawberry wine by noah kahan, i wish i knew how to quit you by sombr, it ain’t over, till it’s over by lenny kravitz, song for lovers by bachelors of science, peace by taylor swift, vodka cranberry by conan gray, don’t worry i’ll make you worry by sabrina carpenter, + halley’s comet by billie eilish
contrary to popular belief—and the title of your job—you actually hate weddings. maybe that's dramatic or controversial or whatever, but seeing crazy brides and uninterested grooms day in and day out for as long as you have—it's completely turned you off of weddings.
sometimes, after hours upon hours of near disasters and hearing the same cheesy bruno mars song and having your client—typically the one in white—shout at you throughout the reception because the flowers look weird, you really think about packing it up.
no more weddings. no more brides. no more eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the broom closet every summer evening, while the wedding party dances and indulges in lobster rolls and other delicious foods.
but then you get the good clients—the grateful brides who thank you with tears in their eyes and grooms who's shoulders aren't tense when they send you kind smiles. and that makes your job worth it.
it's moments like this very one—sitting in a quaint cafe, switching between sipping your latte and nibbling away at the fresh blueberry muffin while reading a grateful brides thank you email—that put a smile on your face, and make you think, yeah. you love your job.
the sun glints off the mediterranean, casting a golden glow over the glamorous streets of monaco. people move all around you—talking with one another and on phones—while the cafe you're in only increases with people.
you pay them no mind—not besides the occasional break of responding to emails to people watch. however, as the volume of people entering and exiting the cafe swells, it becomes increasingly harder to concentrate.
the cafe feels more like a train station at rush hour than a cozy place to work. when you really start to pay attention, you see that people are pressed into every corner—laptops open, coffee cups clutched like lifelines.
you got lucky with the corner window seat, your little oasis with just enough light and just enough space to breathe. unlike everyone else in this cafe, it seems like you beat rush hour.
you're scribbling half-hearted notes in your planner when a shadow passes across your table. you don't look up, not until you notice it lingering.
"do you mind if I sit here?" the stranger asks, his voice calm but threaded with hesitance—or perhaps something you can't decipher.
you glance up, a little caught off guard by the tone—and by him. he's annoyingly good looking, the kind of handsome that makes your cheeks heat up and palms turn clammy. tousled dark hair, matching stubble like he didn't bother shaving this morning by somehow makes it work, and big dark eyes that aren't afraid of the contact.
he's dressed in an unassuming black hoodie, cap pulled low, but there's something about him—something practiced and unbothered in the way he moves. like he's used to taking up space. like people usually say yes.
the stranger continues, "every other seat is taken."
you look around even though you know it's true. you arch a brow, a little taken back by him actually asking. handsome guys who live in monaco don't ask. they take.
you arch a brow. "you're not gonna just sit anyway?"
he chuckles, lowering into the seat effortlessly. "I mean, I could. but I like to think i'm more charming than that."
"jury's still out." you muse.
his takeaway cup hits the table top with a dull thump in favour of extending his large hand across the table. "carlos," he offers—not overly confident. just warm.
you shake it politely. his hand is calloused in a way you'd expect from someone who works with them in some way—but his grip is easy, no pressure. just present.
"y/n," you reply, and he repeats it like a secret.
“nice to meet you, y/n who’s saved me from standing with my coffee like a fool.”
you notice an accent then—warm like thick honey and most likely some kind of spanish. a smile pulls at your lips in spite of yourself, “well, now I feel like I need a medal.”
carlos tears a piece off his muffin and pops it into his mouth, eyes scanning your table. "planner or student?" he asks, nodding at your color coded notes and scattered to-do lists all around your laptop.
"planner," you say, closing your mac with a sigh. "weddings, primarily—the occasional corporate event—but mostly weddings. lots of white fabric, panicked brides, and relatives who think it's their day too."
he winces. "sounds... intense, no?"
"it’s a circus," you reply, a breathless laugh leaving your chest. "but I kind of like it. sometimes. I get to control chaos for a living…and making brides dreams come true is pretty spectacular.”
carlos’ eyebrows lift—like he maybe wasn’t expecting such a wistful response. either way, he doesn’t touch of the latter of your answer, instead he says—"control chaos. that’s a superpower."
"what about you?" you ask, sipping your half-melted latte. "professional seat stealer?"
he grins around his coffee cup, amused. "no, that’s just a hobby. my real job is kind of... fast paced."
"ah," you say, not pushing. "let me guess. you’re one of those people who jumps out of helicopters to snowboard down mountains."
carlos laughs, loud enough that the woman at the table beside you glances over. neither of you notice. "I wish. that would probably be less dangerous."
you tilt your head. "so mysterious. should I be concerned?"
"only if you're allergic to adrenaline."
you shake your head, pretending to scribble a note. "noted: mysterious adrenaline junkie who drinks his coffee black and takes up space uninvited."
he leans in a bit, eyes dancing. "you’re writing about me already? thought that was supposed to begin once I leave.”
"of course. I need something to mock in my memoirs."
there’s a pause—a beat of silence where the noise of the café fills in the space between you. the espresso machine hisses. a baby cries somewhere near the door. but carlos is still watching you, elbows on the table, fingers absently spinning his cup.
"you’re good at that," he says finally.
"what?"
"this. talking. making people laugh. you’ve got a bit of fire."
you raise an eyebrow. "is that your way of saying I seem difficult?"
he shrugs. "I like difficult."
you laugh, shaking your head. "what a line."
"I'm not trying to pick you up," he says, and that may be true, but there's a slight smile tugging at his mouth that has your heart thumping. "you just seem like the kind of person who doesn't get surprised very often. that’s all."
that has you pausing. he’s not wrong. you’re used to being five steps ahead, and you’re used to being in charge. but there's something about this stranger who's easy in his own skin—and on the eyes—whose identity you still can't quite place, that makes you curious.
you check your phone, then sigh and gather your planner.
"I should go," you say. "bridezilla at 4:00."
carlos chuckles. "godspeed."
you rise—alas reluctantly—and sling your tote bag over your shoulder. "thanks for imposing.”
he tilts his head, eyes tracking your every move as you push your chair in. "are you actually gonna write about me?"
"depends." you hum.
"on?"
"if you did something memorable today."
carlos tongues his cheek for a moment, and then—“and? is the jury still out?”
you laugh, but don’t respond—ha ha! you can do mystery too.
he watches you walk away, a smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. you don't look back. you don’t need to. besides, if you did, that would give carlos a chance to see the way your face has heated up and that your smile has grown times 10.
⸻ 4 WEEKS LATER
the air smells like roses and wealth—sweet, crisp, and mildly intimidating. intimidating yes, but also familiar. so with that, you tug at the hem of your navy pencil skirt and continue to walk the length of marble hallway, heels tapping against stone polished so smooth you're convinced slipping is a liability.
it's another wedding. another high-profile client with a pinterest board and most likely impossible standards. you can already see the vision—crystals, polished, white. a bride who's giving constant stink eye and her future husband who's blood pressure is too high for his own good.
it's a carousel, one you never seem to really step off of.
the last 4 weeks have consisted of four different things—eating, sleeping, planning, and being unable to stop thinking about carlos.
your interaction at the coffee shop almost a month ago had left you feeling off kilter and weak in the knees—in the best way. for the first time in a long time, it felt like you were making a real connection.
because carlos wasn't a drunk groomsmen who wanted to get in your pants, or an uncle with no filter commenting on the size of your breasts. he's real and funny and was looking at you like...maybe.
you didn't google him. too nervous about what you may find. you also don't have his last name, but a handsome spaniard living in monaco can surely only mean fame.
you don't see him again.
you go to the coffee shop every sunday afterwards, hoping you'll run into him again—or that carlos would interrupt your day and plop down across from you once more. but it never happens.
he haunts every thought in your mind—even now as you approach the lounge of the castle like building dubbed as a wedding venue, carlos is there—in the back of your mind serving as a persistent reminder.
you spot the bride immediately: tall, striking, and dressed like she's about to accept an award—not plan a wedding. her platinum-blonde hair is twisted into a sleek chignon, makeup flawless, posture sharp as a blade.
she's scrolling through her phone like it personally offended her, and from this distance, you can already hear the barely concealed sighs of superiority.
and then—your stomach drops.
because there, leaning casually against the window, his silhouette framed by soft morning light, is him.
carlos.
you blink once. and then again, as if your brain is trying to reboot itself.
at first, you think you may be seeing things. it's early and you haven't had coffee because you were too afraid of your breath smelling like vanilla creamer. maybe—just maybe—you're hallucinating.
but then in some cruel way, the light shifts, further illuminating his profile and yup. it's carlos.
same tousled curls. same easy, boyish posture. same damn smile you've been seeing in your sleep—because life is cruel. and apparently, so is fate.
"brilliant," you murmur to yourself, straightening your spine. "just... brilliant."
after taking a few and much needed deep breaths, as well as adjusting your top in a bad attempt at appearing put together (news flash! you're not), you step through the threshold.
the only thing that separated you from carlos.
"good afternoon," you say smoothly, clipboard tucked under your arm, smile firmly in place.
the bride looks up slowly, her gaze sweeping over you like she's evaluating a contestant on a baking show. her lips twitch into something that might technically be called a smile, but it doesn't make it all the way to her eyes.
"you're the planner?" she asks, her tone somehow both curious and vaguely disappointed.
you nod. "y/n. lovely to meet you."
she offers her hand like it's a royal decree, and you really have to force a smile while politely shaking it. the bride hums. "you're... younger than I expected."
you smile, professional and unbothered. "I get that a lot. I make up for it by being annoyingly good at my job."
she doesn't laugh, just tilts her head in that bless your heart way. "well, I hope so," she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "because this wedding is not just an event. It's the event. I want it to feel effortless, but unforgettable. luxurious, but...with restraint. think vogue meets ancient rome."
and yup. you could've guessed that.
"well, that's a very specific vibe. one that I think will bode well in this location if that's what you both settle on."
before she can respond, carlos turns away from the window he was previously leaning against—and when your eyes meet, for the first time since the cafe a month ago, your breath stupidly catches.
you hadn't looked in his direction since walking through the doors. you couldn't. but now, he sees you, and he's moving towards you and his bride like someone who's entirely at ease—confident, unhurried.
"sorry about the chaos," he says with a crooked smile, nodding toward her with that teasing glint he'd shown you a month ago. "she's on a bit of a warpath today. full bridal offensive."
carlos' voice hits you in the chest. it's ridiculous. it's just a voice—low, calm, dusted with something coastal. but you know it. you remember it from that late morning and blueberry muffins and that bustling hour in a too-small café where everything almost meant something.
but this carlos isn't the one you know. because this carlos is getting married to a beautiful woman.
clearly, you misread the entire situation in the cafe. your heart sinks down to your kitten heels, but you don't allow yourself to show any emotion. instead, you force a polite and professional smile.
"i’ve seen worse," you say, offering your hand. "y/n."
there's a part of you then—a part that hopes carlos will laugh and shake off your introduction. he'll say I remember you, y/n or maybe something like how could I forget you and your hazard work space.
but, he doesn't say that. instead, carlos takes your outstretched hand—his grip form and grounding. "carlos," he replies, like it's brand new.
you withdraw your hand first, fingers tingling stupidly and heart aching. he doesn't remember you.
there's a pause—something unspoken hovering—but he only cocks his head slightly, eyes flicking over your face. you think that maybe he's trying to place you and can't.
and for some reason, that's worse than him completely forgetting.
the bride—who's name you briefly recall being rachel—rolls her eyes at carlos’ teasing and then mumbles something about needing fresh air and a glass of wine.
it has you blinking again, watching helplessly as she excuses herself and waltzes up to the bar on the other side of the lounge. and when carlos follows her, you finally exhale.
the next hour consists of a lot of bored expressions from the bride to be, basic wedding time scheduling and pretending not to catch carlos’ eyes. it keeps happening though, and like that time in the cafe, carlos doesn't look away.
you wonder if he remembers you now, or if he's simply just listening to your planning while rachel seems to not care less.
the table is covered in textured linen samples, a half-melted pillar candle, and three vision boards that you'd carefully assembled over the last week. you're halfway through explaining the tonal palette—blush, olive, terracotta—when rachel sighs as if you've offered her a sack of potatoes.
"these colors are..." she trails off, searching for a word, "...domestic. like something you'd see in a commercial about homemade jam."
you blink. "the intention was to create a sense of warmth and earthiness. a sort of understated elegance—"
she hums, cutting you off and already lifting another card. "I just think we should elevate. this feels like a vineyard wedding for people who read magazines about chickens."
carlos lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and turns it into a throat-clear.
you say nothing. not because you agree, but because you've learned there's power in silence.
"and this cake design?" she gestures to a minimalist sketch. "isn't the naked cake thing kind of... over?"
"we're also working on some architectural options," you reply evenly. "think sculptural tiers—like edible modern art."
rachel perks up, nodding slowly like she invented the concept. "now that's interesting."
moments later, she disappears into the hallway, phone pressed to her ear, muttering something about a missing seamstress and a possibly pregnant maid of honor.
you exhale for the first time in 45 minutes.
"she's... got vision," carlos says carefully.
you spin around to find that your ears aren't playing tricks on you—because there he is. carlos has stayed behind this time, and he's standing near the sample boards like he's done this before—hands tucked into his pockets.
his gaze flicks over the designs, then back to you, the smallest grin pulling at his plump lips.
you glance at him briefly before looking away, pretending to shuffle aorund some papers in an attempt to seem busy. "she's got something," you mutter.
carlos chuckles, then picks up a swatch of linen and runs his fingers over it absentmindedly. "do you believe in coincidences?"
that has your gaze flickering towards him. like you were expecting, carlos is looking at you. something unreadable in his eyes. you tilt your head. "sometimes."
"because this feels like one. you being the one here."
you feel your heart thud once, hard. but you keep your tone neutral. unwilling to get your hopes up over something as silly as a wistful remark. "people cross paths. that's not anything abnormal."
he nods slowly, like he's accepting that. but then sets the swatch down and leans against the edge of the table, and completely flips you on your head. "do you ever go back to that cafe on the strip? the one with the expensive drinks and dry muffins."
your stomach flips and your breath catches in your throat. the papers you'd been fiddling with fall back down between the pages of your notebook with a small patter, completely disregarded.
you look at him. really look.
carlos is watching you like he's waiting for you to remember. like you're the one who forgot. and suddenly it all feels too much—the planning and the lattes and the chocolate brown eyes boaring into yours.
shyly, you tuck some loose hair behind you ear. "I didn't think you remembered that."
he shrugs, but there's something in his eyes—warm and unapologetic. "hard to forget someone who most definitely wrote about me in her flamingo printed notebook."
you laugh—"you remember that do you?"
"I remember you," he says, voice low.
you don't know what to say to that. so you just smile—this time, real—and shake your head slightly. "this might actually be the weirdest consultation I've ever had."
carlos grins, letting a thick beat pass between you before speaking. “so am I right?” he muses, voice thick with a playful curiosity that has your toes tingling.
you raise a brow and start piling a few planners on top of one another. “about?”
“the notebook thing.” his dark eyes dart between yours and the books on the table—and that conversation at the cafe a month ago comes flooding back to you. his cheeky remarks, your blooming cheeks. all of it.
instead of answering, you laugh—short and a little breathless. “are you usually this self centred?”
you give him a knowing look—one that says a combination of different things. things like I haven’t stopped thinking about you. things like your fiancé will be back any moment. things like I can’t believe you’re getting married. things like yes, I totally wrote about you in my diary.
you really aren’t planning to answer, but then carlos starts pleading all quiet and playful and you crack. “okay. okay. yeah I mentioned you in something.” clearing your throat awkwardly, you look back at your notes and scattered fabric samples—too overwhelmed to look him in the eye after admitting that.
but carlos is fazed. “what was it?”
you snort in a combination of disbelief and complete amusement—“don’t be nosy.”
“too late,” he smirks, intense gaze unwavering from your face. unwilling to give up.
you sigh, “I wrote how I should never let strangers sit at my table again—especially prying ones with flirty eyes.”
he squints, “are my eyes flirty?”
you face heats and you stammer “they're...intriguing.”
carlos hums thoughtfully, and then softly and full of something you can’t decipher, he says—“like yours then.”
you blink, breath catching in the back of your throat in a way that makes breathing feel near impossible. carlos is close—close enough that you can smell his cologne and feel his body heat. it’s too close—too close to be to a near groom. especially a groom that you’re planning a wedding with.
you step back, eyes darting away. carlos seems to do the same—but you don’t notice. not really. “I should make sure the garden is ready for the walk through,” you mumble, sliding your laptop into your briefcase.
“right,” he rubs the back of his neck, “okay.”
the garden is glowing under the late afternoon sun. honey light pours through the canopy of cypress trees, dappling the stone path beneath your heels, while the sea breeze carries hints of blooming lavender and citrus from the nearby grove.
you’re leading rachel and carlos through the terraced garden where the ceremony is set to take place—all while pretending that less than ten minutes ago you and carlos weren’t sharing the same air. it’s fine. really.
"it’ll all be lined with lanterns," you explain, gesturing down the aisle. "we can install soft uplighting through the hedges, a string canopy over the altar, and if you time it right, the sun will set just as you say your vows."
carlos walks a few feet behind you, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes flicking around with genuine interest. "this is kind of incredible, no?" he looks at rachel, and then at you—humor dancing in his eyes. "can I be a guest at my own wedding?"
you glance at him, a small smile pulling at your lips. "if you bring a good enough gift."
next to carlos, yet still trailing a few steps behind, rachel walks with her arms crossed delicately over her designer shawl—staring at a flowerbed like it just insulted her mother.
"I was hoping for something more... polished," she huffs, voice high and a little nasal. "this is very... countryside inn."
you turn to her with practiced poise. "that’s part of the charm. it’ll be elegant, but organic. romantic without being fussy."
she hums without enthusiasm, tapping at her phone.
you blink but keep moving toward the stone gazebo where the ceremony would take place. it’s a beautiful venue really, but this section takes the cake—birds chirp from the branches, and butterflies drifting lazily past your face.
this could make or break the deal, you think. just as you go to speak again—something about colour palette matching the wood—you hear it.
a sharp, click-hiss, like something waking up beneath the soil.
and then it happens.
jets of water shoot from hidden sprinkler heads, hissing to life in a perfect, timed sequence. one erupts directly next to you. another near carlos. a third sprays in a wide arc toward the bride.
you freeze mid-step as cold droplets hit your legs, then your back. and then a full blast soaks your blouse like someone dumped a bucket over your head.
carlos lets out a yelp that turns into a loud, guttural laugh. "oh my god!" he howls, stepping backward into another jet. "what is happening?!"
you sputter, trying to wipe water from your eyes, but you're laughing now too—half in disbelief, half in surrender.
"well," carlos says, water dripping from his nose, shirt clinging to his chest. "that’s one way to cool down."
you blink water off your lashes and swipe your hair back with a laugh. "talk about timing."
and then comes the shriek, rachel’s already insufferable voice becoming even more so. “are you kidding me?!”
you turn through the spray of water, a half mortified half amused look on your face. rachel though—there’s no amusement laced expression there. she standing there, completely shocked with her arms raised like she’s in a bad horror movie.
her white linen dress is plastered to her frame, hair dripping into her eyes, mascara beginning its slow, tragic descent.
"this is a disaster!" she wails, backing away from the nearest sprinkler like it's attacking her. "this is supposed to be my day! my hair—this dress cost more than your car!"
she spins toward you, dripping and furious. "how could you let this happen? what if this was the actual wedding?!”
you press your lips together, trying to keep a straight face—but it's useless. a giggle escapes. you’re soaked to your bra, your shoes are squelching, and honestly? you don't care. not when carlos is snickering and the water is still soaking you.
you shrug, wiping your cheeks. "they’re just doing gardening marianne—it would never go off during a ceremony."
her mouth falls open. "and how would you know that?"
carlos steps forward then, still grinning, water beading on his jaw. “come on," he says, voice calm. "it’s just water. you’re going to be the center of attention either way. might as well have fun with it."
rachel glares at him like he's just joined your mutiny. "unbelievable." and without another word, she turns and stomps off down the garden path—her heels slipping once, then again, until she kicks them off completely and storms off barefoot.
you and carlos watch her go, soaked and steaming with indignation.
he glances at you, eyes twinkling. "so... is now a bad time to ask for a towel?"
you snort lightly, pushing your hair back. "sorry, we only provide those to clients who survive the tour."
"fair." he laughs again, full and warm, his shirt half-transparent now—giving you a nice view of his defined muscles and dark chest hair. good lord.
there’s a beat of quiet as you catch his gaze and realize, with a weird twist in your stomach, how close you're standing once again. how your hair is dripping water down your arms. how he's looking at you like this whole fiasco might be the best part of his week.
you swallow anxiously and start speed talking about needing to find towels. then, as you attempt to turn on your heels, everything gets turned upside down. your shoe catches muddy grass, soaked from the ongoing sprinklers, and you stumble. and stumble. until your completely falling and flailing.
you yelp—expecting to hit the grass in a damp heap. but before you can, carlos hands grab you—one grabbing your bicep firmly while the other naturally steadies on your hip—keeping you from completely face planting.
expect it’s never that easy, because the grass is apparently the devil and has tuned into a slip and slide from hell.
carlos stumbles with you, and the next thing you know, you’re both falling, landing on the glistening grass with a dull thump.
your back sinks into the ground, soaking your shirt even further, while carlos hovers over you—his expression filled with concern and something else.
“are you okay, y/n?”
you nod—a little embarrassed and even more dumb—peering into his eyes life it’s your only life line. “I can’t promise that won’t happen on the wedding day. the grass is slippy.” you’re trying to make a joke, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
carlos breathes, “yeah. it is.”
you grin, soft and a little unsure. “i’m not sure rachel will keep me around after this. i’m sorry.”
carlos cocks his head. "you’re the only one who can keep up. who has good options—she’ll have no choice but to keep you around." he laughs, eyes glinting, “even if that means I get uninvited to my own wedding.”
you laugh, deep and real, chest brushing his as you both lay in the grass—dripping wet. carlos joins in, holding himself up with one hand while the other wipes at his tan face.
the sprinkles hiss to a stop around you and the sun keeps shining like nothing's wrong. and somehow, everything feels just a little too right.
—
the hot water from your shower steams the bathroom mirror, fogging away the memory of being doused like a plant in peak bloom. you scrub garden mud off your calves and untangle a tiny leaf from your hair—where did that even come from?—trying not to dwell on what happened.
but of course, you do.
because despite the soaked shoes, the mascara tragedy, and the looming threat of a complaint email typed in all caps, you can't stop thinking about him.
carlos.
laughing under the garden sprinklers like a kid on summer break. shrugging off chaos with a crooked grin. stealing glances at you like he was in on some inside joke.
and that look he gave you—right before the reality of the situation came to and he helped you off the grass before stalking off to try and find rachel—that’s the thing plaguing your mind.
you towel off, throw on an oversized shirt, and collapse on your couch with a glass of wine. you only get 5 minutes into an episode of the summer I turned pretty when your phone buzzes.
[carlos s.]
so... do your packages usually include a surprise baptism or was that just a one-time deal? 😂
you blink at the screen. obviously you had to exchange numbers with the bride and groom—you always do—as it makes it easier to plan and connect while trying to coordinate a wedding.
however, you weren’t expecting to hear from carlos. not about today.
a beat passes before your thumbs begin rolling over your keyboard.
[you]
only for clients who don't complain about soggy socks.
[carlos s.]
in that case, you're gonna have to step up the perks. like free blueberry muffins or a dry shirt.
you snort into your glass.
[you]
were a full-service operation.
next time I'll bring a towel and an apology letter.
there’s a pause while you wait for his reply, eyes locked on the bubbles as they move across your screen.
[carlos s.]
honestly, best part of the planning process so far.
you, soaked head to toe, laughing like it wasn't a complete disaster. kinda made my week.
you stare at the message. longer than you probably should. his words have your stomach doing that thing—tightening like a knot pulling at both ends.
[you]
careful, you're starting to sound like someone who enjoys my company.
his reply comes too fast.
[carlos s.]
what if I do?
you blink. re-read the message. and then read it again for good measure. your wine sits in your mouth—throat too constricted to swallow. you don’t know know how to respond to that—you don’t know if you should.
but before you can decide, another message flashes:
[carlos s.]
hey—sorry. ignore that last one. too much wine. 😅 see you at the vendor walk through friday.
you stare at the screen—and suddenly the silence in your apartment feels too thick. too loaded.
you type something.
delete it.
then type again.
[you]
i’ll bring an umbrella. just in case. ☔
you hit send before you can change your mind.
that night, you go to bed before you do something crazy—crazy like tell carlos you are definitely crushing on him. because that's totally normal.
warm monaco air floats through your open bedroom window in the morning, softly waking you from a dream filled night like a greeting kiss. you grumble to your yourself and drag a hand over your face, wiping away sleep and longing thoughts.
you go through your morning routine quickly once you realize the time—you've only got 30 minutes to get to villa belle mer to meet with rachel and the man who occupied your dreams last night.
brushing your teeth like nobodies business and slicking back your hair at the speed of light, you leave your apartment with 5 minutes to spare—thank god.
you arrive early, clipboard clutched in hand like usual, and ready to refocus. the day is all about finalizing vendors, confirming rentals, and pretending last night's text exchange with carlos didn't make your stomach flutter like it's in butterfly sanctuary.
rachel arrives fashionably late as always, wrapped in a silky black trench with sunglasses too large for human proportion—probably a brand you can't even begin to pronounce.
she barely glances at you before saying, "so. the garden."
you brace yourself for the worse, fingers tightening around the clipboard like it's your only lifeline. is she going to mention how you slipped under her groom? is she going to question your professionalism? does she know about your conversation last night?
but instead—"i've decided I don't want to get married there."
you blink. "oh?"
she slips off her sunglasses and pins you with a sugar-sweet smile. "it's too... exposed," rachel hums. "all that nature. all that sun. and don't even get me started on the sprinklers."
"those are on a timer," you explain calmly. "it wouldn't happen again."
"yes, but I can't risk it," she says, waving a manicured hand. "that moment was supposed to be mine. and somehow you were the one sharing it with my fiancé."
her eyes flicker towards you and holds your gaze knowingly. rachel is accusing—that much you can tell—but she’s also definitely warning, and that hangs in the space between you like a thick fog.
you holds her gaze. "I was trying to keep the mood light. that's part of the job."
her expression sharpens, just slightly, like she's mistaken your professionalism for snark. "well. this is reminder for you to remember whose wedding this is."
before you can reply, carlos walks up next to rachel, a unaware, sleepy grin on his face and,in hand, holding a coffee for each of you. "morning," he greets cheerfully. "peace offerings?"
rachel plucks hers with a sniff.
you take yours with a quiet, "thanks."
carlos doesn't notice the tension lingering. of course he doesn't. he catches your eye inconspicuously, a familiar glimmer there. his look is brief, but meaningful.
he remembers your texts last night. no amount of wine could make him forget.
you both remember.
and you hate it. you hate how guilty you feel, and you hate the way your heart increased when your fingers brushed over carlos' when he passed you the takeaway cup.
most of all, you hate that rachel doesn't want the garden venue. because now, you have more work to do with not only her, but carlos as well.
and yup, your back to really hating weddings.
⸻ LA PÂTISSERUE DU SOLEIL
the bell above the door jingles softly as you step into the bakery, and immediately, the world changes.
gone is the pressure of deadlines, the polite warzones of flower consultations and seating chart drama. here, everything is warm, rich, and smells like sweet vanilla.
golden light filters through lace-curtained windows, spilling across rows of delicate cakes and pastries behind polished glass. the scent of sugar, chocolate, and espresso swirls in the air like a whispered promise of peace.
you spot carlos almost immediately. it's hard not to. not when you see how he leans against the marble counter—one hand resting on the edge, the other loosening the collar of his shirt like he belongs in an ad for expensive cologne and questionable choices. dressed in his usual yacht vibe aesthetic. rich, expensive and completely off limits.
his shoulders loosen when you catch eyes, a visible sign of relief—like he's been waiting for you to walk through the door for years.
and your heart, uninvited, does a little flip.
as you walk further into the bakery, you notice the absence of rachel, and suddenly your heart leaps into your throat—knees going weak and blood running cold.
your eyes narrow in on carlos, "where's rachel?"
he snorts and pushes off the counter, "hello to you too."
"sorry," you breathe, "hi."
"hi," the half smirk on his mouth should be illegal. "she can't make it. dress fitting got moved up." carlos waves his hand in a combination of confusion and dismissal—like he didn't just turn the day on its head with those words.
you almost want to laugh. "great."
"but don't worry, she sent me with a very specific list of what she wants for the cake." your eyes flicker towards his—swimming with what can only be described as amusement—and you may just die.
jaw clenched, you take a deep breath. you'd only prepared to deal with rachel and her undoubtedly picky palette today—not to be the fill in while carlos picks a wedding cake flavour alone.
he's still looking at you—something almost pleading about his expression that has you softening.
you exhale, and loosely gesture to the sheet of paper carlos has in his hands. "let me see." he grins and quickly passes it to your outstretched hand, and you take it easily—scanning the rather long list of specific requests.
"mirror glazed?" you question, brow quirked as you peer back at carlos.
"that one was a deal breaker," he hums, pointing at the words that rachel had made bold and in all caps. jeez. "she said it's classy."
"right."
just then, a staff member slides up to the counter—a middle aged woman with striking hair, wearing a dark apron caked in flour and an accent thick enough to butter toast. "welcome—I presume you are the 2:30 cake tasting appointment?"
you confirm with a firm nod and a even more firm yes—all while carlos is leaning across the counter like he's at home. the baker continues, "any specific samples you two are wanting for your big day?"
your eyes widen comically, spluttering out—"oh we're not—"
before you can utter any sort of continuation, carlos cuts in, smooth as honey. "nothing specific. let's try them all."
"wonderful, we have plenty of different samples and combinations to go through." she beams, continuing to gesture you both towards the tasting table with a pep in her step that you could only dream of.
"thank you," carlos grins, pulling out your chair. you sit down, a little dazed, and watch half heartedly as the baker prepares some samples behind the counter while you both settle.
the table is finished with white lace trim table cloth, fine china, and one of those cheap and corny bride and groom cake toppers in a faux display cake. if you think hard enough about his this looks—and carlos' lack of correction when the employee assumed you were the bride—you may be sick.
"carlos," you whisper helplessly, "i'm not sure if rachel would be happy with us spending this time together."
his dark eyebrows pull together as he sits next to you, "what? why not?"
your lips part, but nothing comes out. for a moment—just a split second—you think about telling him what rachel insinuated at the vendor event the other week. but then you remember that this whole thing is about you. or you and carlos—because in reality, there is no you and carlos.
he's simply just a guy you met once at a coffee shop and are now planning his wedding.
so, you say—"nothing." you look away from his warm gaze before you change your mind. clearing your throat—and your head—you dig through your bag and pull your clipboard out. "alright, let's try not to get you too sugar-drunk."
slowly, his expression of concern shifts, a grin taking over his face. "no promises."
before you know it, the baker is bringing out six different samples, presented on a fancy white plate in a lineup esq. way. the scent of different chocolates and thick caramel invade your senses, making your mouth water automatically.
regardless, you don't make any moves to pick up the spare fork, not even when carlos makes some comment about how divine the raspberry glaze looks and forks off a piece.
he chews thoughtfully, making dramatic little noises that have you closing your eyes. carlos tilts his head, turning towards you suddenly with the fork pointed in your direction.
"here," he gestures, a new portion of raspberry glazed chocolate cake on the end of the utensil. "chocolate first. for the lady."
your eyes widen, a few spluttering words coming out before any real kind of scentence—earning you an amused look from carlos and a slightly concerned one from the baker.
"oh no," you protest with a weak laugh, "that's okay, you can have it."
"what?" his eyebrows pull, "no, c'mon I can't make decisions by myself." he waggles the fork
playfully for emphasis, and the baker makes a cooing noise like this is cute—and you want to crawl under the table and hide.
"carlos," you warn.
"y/n." he breathes a laugh, "just a little taste, yes?"
a beat passes, one that includes carlos looking at you like a hopeful puppy with a fork covered in cake that truly does look yummy.
you sigh reluctantly, "okay fine," your eyes fall to the utensils and then back to carlos'. "are you going to at least let me hold the fork?"
"no. what if it's so delicious you try and eat it all on me?"
"you're ridiculous."
the baker makes another cooing noise before you can taste the cake—"you two are so cute. how long have you been together?" her hands are clasped over her floury apron, cheeks red and lips curled…and you totally lean in and fill your mouth with carlos’ cake before you're forced to answer.
he snickers, watching you with a half quirked grin as you chew frantically. there's dark icing smeared across your teeth and some raspberry clinging to the corner of your mouth, and carlos can't help but to laugh.
he tells her some kind of made up meet cute as you swallow roughly—you're only half listening while the other half of you attempts to not choke on the dark chocolate.
"and?"
you up at carlos, "okay. it's not bad. what do you think?"
"I think you have chocolate all over your mouth."
slowly, just like the melted desert there, you watch carlos eyes trail down to your mouth. for a moment, he holds. staring at your lips. the space between you feels nonexistent, and you're frozen. not breathing even.
you know this is wrong—whatever you would classify this as. but when carlos eyes meet yours, you simply forget every rule and boundary. because he's looking at you like you're the one he wants.
carlos eyes find yours again, and something shifts—just for a second, but you catch it. a flicker of something real beneath the bravado. not just a man who flirts for sport, but someone who's watching you—carefully, curiously. like you're the one who might actually surprise him.
his hands lifts, reaching towards you like he's going to wipe the chocolate form your lip—and that's when you finally blink, turning away from him in a rush that feels almost impossible.
you take one of the napkins on the table—completed with a cartoon bride and groom in the top corner—and furiously wipe the desert from your face.
you don't look at him—not right away—but he can feel the tension lingering in your chest. shoulders tights and spine ridged. you smile politely when the baker gestures to the next sample. strawberry and something else that carlos doesn't hear.
he's too busy watching you, a small furrow to his brow that makes him look endeared.
this time, you taste the sample without being asked, urging your hands to do something other than tremor.
an engaged man almost just wiped frosting off your mouth with his thumb. even more morally dubious, he was staring at your lips like he wanted to taste you. and you think you would've left him. that's the dangerous part.
she waltzes away to retrieve something from the back, and the silence of the bakery engulfs you like an unfamiliar song.
"hey," carlos starts lowly, "i'm sorry."
you don't ask what he's sorry for. you don't need to. you both know.
you don't let your hand stop from moving with the pen across your clipboard—you're making some side bar note about how tart the strawberry cream is—as you respond. "it's fine."
"i'm serious—y/n, just", his fingers gently wrap around your wrist. halting you and successfully rendering you shocked.
your eyes dart towards his, disbelief and something else swimming in your gaze. "carlos-"
"i'm sorry," his voice is a little rough but still laced with his usual smoothness. "I don't mean to make this weird." licking along his bottom lip, he lets a beat pass. filled with unsaid words and something thick.
"this is probably a lot for you," carlos' fingers gently squeeze around your wrist. so soft you're pretty sure it's subconscious. "it's a lot for me."
you breath hitches, "i'm not sure what i'm supposed to do carlos."
he keeps his eyes trained on yours, like eye contact is the only thing keeping him afloat. it's intense and a little bit romantic and definitely scary, but you don't look away.
carlos lips part, once, and nothing comes out. not at first, but then—"get coffee with me after this? we can talk."
"last time we talked i'm a coffee shop we were different people." it's subtle truth, one that you and carlos have been dancing around for the last few weeks—since you started planning his wedding for damn sake.
he shrugs a shoulder, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with a napkin. tearing it apart piece by piece. "i'm still the same guy," carlos swallows gently, "let me show you."
everything in your brain is screaming at you that having coffee with carlos again is a bad idea. the last time it happened—mind you, completely unexpected as he in fact totally intruded on your alone time—it only ended with your heart cracking and a wedding to plan.
but there's something in your in gut—in your heart, even—that is contradicting every single thing happening in your head.
so you sigh, a little reluctant but also not at all. "fine," you say, "one coffee."
so now—the sidewalk glistens faintly from the earlier downpour that unleashed during mouthfuls of vanilla frosting and bitter fruit—every step soft with the sound of damp soles.
carlos walks beside you, close enough to feel the ghost of your warmth when the breeze leans just right, far enough that it could still be called appropriate. safe.
you don't say anything. just walk, your gaze shifting calmly between the wet pavement and the streaked sky overhead. your hands buried in the pockets of an your oversized blazer, sleeves almost pulled halfway down your fingers, like you don't even notice you were doing it.
but carlos notices. the smallest smile pulling at his lips. he hates how that feels illegal.
carlos kept his eyes forward, but every few steps he, unknowingly to you, steals a glance. the soft, absent crease between your brows. the way your mouth presses together while you're deep in thought—what are you thinking? or are you simply just walking? focusing on keeping one foot in front of the other.
god, he wants to ask. he wants to know every idle thing about you.
his hands stay stuffed deep in his jacket pockets. If he lets them move—if he lets them drift toward you the way they wanted to—he wouldn't stop them.
don't be stupid, he tells himself. you're not allowed.
your shoes make rhythm on the sidewalk, yours just slightly ahead of his. you glance at something in a shop window and carlos swears he will always remember the tilt of your head, and the curve of your shoulder as you pause.
to him, every little thing you do seems choreographed by accident, and he is helpless when it comes to looking away.
and then, as you reached the corner, you turn slightly toward him, just a flicker—maybe to check for cars, maybe not—but your eyes met for half a second.
carlos doesn't smile. couldn't even if he tried—he's too busy trying to hold himself together.
because even that tiny glance felt like a wound. a beautiful one. like you've seen through him—like you know.
but you didn’t know. you couldn’t. that was the line. and carlos—he knows that. knows better. he knows what it would cost to cross it. he also knows he sort of already has.
you looked away, and you kept walking. no words, just the steady hush of the world around you. and carlos, drowning quietly in the silence between your steps, follows easily right into the bustling entrance of the coffee shop.
carlos orders two lattes for you both while you grab a small table in the back corner of the cafe—although, you're not complaining because you can smell the fresh pastries and brew. if it wasn't for the summer heat, you'd think it was fall.
for a passing second, you wish it was fall—that way you'd be done with this wedding. more specifically, having to see carlos day after day like it's nothing.
he places the cup softly in front of you, snapping you out of the storm whistling around your brain. you watch him as he takes his seat across from you, getting comfortable with an arm slung over the back rest—raising his takeaway cup to his lips to take a sip.
you're briefly taken back to last month in a different coffee shop—the same man across from you with those very same flirty eyes.
"so when we met...were you engaged?" the question, firm and something almost demanding about it, slips out before you can properly think it through.
regardless, you don't back track. you simply just wait for a response, eyes a little wide like a deer caught in headlights, fingers picking at the latte sleeve.
carlos purses his lips, "no."
"planning to be?" your brows draw inward, a clear indication of confusion. and he can't blame you, because a month ago wasn't long. quite the contrary.
"honestly no."
"really?" you drawl, skepticism highlighting your features, "because one month isn't very long."
he can't help the smirk that pulls across his plump lips, "depends on how you're spending the month."
above, the sun catches the light fixture, momentarily casting a golden hue over you, carlos and the restaurant. something soft is humming—taylor swift most likely—beneath the quiet clatter of mugs and low conversation.
the table between you and carlos is suddenly too small—too small for this kind of conversation—but neither of you has made any kind of indication that's it's too much. because you know that this conversation is a must. one that you've skirting around for weeks.
your hands wrap around your cup. it's warm, a good anchor.
carlos is still leaning back slightly in his chair, but now, you can tell it's forced—like he's trying to give you space he doesn't really want to.
the silence that ended your last conversation continues to hang between you until you break it, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder.
"I came back every sunday." the admission lands in carlos chest—sharp and subtle. he stiffens, his gaze narrowing in a mixture of curiosity and something else.
"you did?"
you nod, looking down at your drink. there's a layer of foam still untouched, still too nervous to move and take a sip. "yeah. but never saw you."
his fingers tap once against the side of his cup, eyes staring likes he's debating on what to say next. "sundays are work days," carlos settles on, "i'm usually out of the country."
that makes you glance up. his tone is steady, but there's something else under it—something brittle. the kind of tension that carries too much memory.
"I see," you nod once, "is that where you met rachel then? out of the country?"
you almost regret asking that too, but it's already out there, floating between you like steam off the cup.
he huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, not bitter, just... knowing. "yeah, actually. she was one of those special guests under william's that I never heard of, but totally pretended I did. 'oh yes, I saw that ralph lauren ad. very inspiring.'"
you smirk, almost involuntarily. "pretentious."
"no. easy." he shrugs. "we were dating a week later."
you pause. it's the kind of statement that hits somewhere low in your chest, even though you told yourself it wouldn't. you swallow before continuing, "and when did you meet mrs. ralph lauren then?"
he lifts the cup to his mouth, but doesn't drink. he just holds it there like armour—and he's preparing for battle.
"about four months ago."
you blink. too fast. too recent. too much to process without showing something. "four months?!"
"too fast for your liking, y/n?" he raises an eyebrow at your tone. but it's not accusing, but rather telling.
immediately it makes you shrink back into your seat, cheeks warming. your cup suddenly feels too heavy in your hands. "no, just... wow. I'm sorry. I suppose when you know...you know."
he studies you a moment longer than necessary. you feel it everywhere—from your toes to the tip of your nose.
"something like that."
then the question comes—too easy to be casual, like carlos didn't just drop the bomb that he barley knows the girl he's planning to marry—"and you?"
your smile is soft, self-deprecating. "what about me?"
"married? dating? complicated?" carlos lists them off like a game and not your love life. you can't help but to laugh at that, light but tired.
"so single that it's embarrassing," the truth always sounds a bit sadder out loud. "i'm not sure—it's just, with work, i'm never available for casual dating. besides, i'm not looking for casual. I want something real. something that I see in most of the couples I help get married every day."
carlos tilts his head slightly, amused. "most? Is this a call out?"
you raise an eyebrow, a little smile tugging at your lips. "wouldn't you be so lucky."
It's easy, suddenly. dangerous, how easy the air has shifted between you and carlos. this conversation—the playful banter and wide smiles—is all too familiar. it's not just the first time you met. it's the sprinkler tumble and cake tasting.
he leans forward, elbows on the table now, as if forgetting his need to hold back. "how long have you been planning weddings for?"
you blow out a breath dramatically, "almost 10 years. back when I was fresh out of school and had a side bang that would make you roll in your grave."
carlos actually laughs at that—deep, genuine, almost surprised.
your smile softens, and the laughter dies down between you—once more replaced by the comforting noses of the cafe. you and carlos choose to finish your drinks in comfortable silence, sharing amused glances over the rim of the cup when the couple beside you starts fighting over pasta shapes. like actually arguing
you both skip out of there with masked grins and concealed laughter before you both loose it.
the sun is shining again, almost completely drying the last of the puddles sitting on the side of the street.
you eye him curiously, "how long have you been racing?"
"how'd you know?" carlos mouth curves, like he's trying not to be smug.
you gesture vaguely behind you, toward the cafe that's slowly becoming further as you and carlos make your way back in the direction of the cake shop. back where your cars are.
"there's a framed picture of you in that coffee shop back there—looking very fast, may I add."
carlos nods slowly, clearly entertained. "alright. the same as you. about 10 years back."
"you like it?"
he meets your eyes again, and this time the answer is quiet. sure. "love it more than anything."
but there's something in his eyes. something that says that's not true. but you know, deep down, this isn't about rachel. it never is.
your throat tightens slightly. you speak before you can stop yourself. "not sure rachel would practically enjoy that comment."
his smile is faint, but there's a flash in his eyes that makes you forget how to breathe. "well, good thing she's not here then, yes?"
the tension thickens, and your next words slip out like a misstep: "too busy running around in jeans too loose and a polo shirt too expensive?"
then instantly, as the words reach your ears, you start stuttering. "that was... inappropriate. i'm sorry."
carlos laughs again—not mocking. not distant. "no. you're funny."
you exhale, but not entirely in relief. "I just sort of made fun of your fiancée."
he shrugs, and the way he looks at you then makes something in your chest ache.
"you did," carlos hums before looking at you again, "you're probably right though—running around in baggy jeans and all."
you snort, "what is with the baggy jeans anyways?"
"I ask myself that every day." and this time, when he laughs, you join in—pushing away any guilt or doubt and letting yourself bask in the feeling. the feeling of carlos, warm at your side and looking like the perfect romance movie character.
⸻ THE NEXT MORNING | VILLA BELLE-MER
you weren't expecting to already be dealing with rachel the second you opened your eyes this morning—but there you were. half asleep in a pair of pyjamas that half a rip in the armpit, reading her text like it's holding some cryptic meaning.
and knowing her, it probably does.
"quick check-in," it read. "just the two of us—want to talk about the cake."
carlos must've told her he picked a flavour, and already you know something must be wrong with his choice. that, or this one on one meeting has nothing to do with cake.
now, you sit at the long marble table in the villa's sunroom, pen poised like a weapon you're not allowed to use. the air is warm, touched faintly with citrus and lavender, the scent curling in from the open windows. outside, the manicured gardens are all blooming color and late afternoon sun—but inside, everything feels hushed, tense.
the silence is broken only by the slow, deliberate tick of the antique clock on the mantle. every second feels like it's counting you down to something.
across the table, rachel flips through your printouts. one page at a time. her perfectly manicured fingers graze each sheet as though she might catch a mistake simply by touch. her nails are painted the exact shade of soft white roses—too neutral to offend, too sharp to miss.
she hasn't looked at you once—not even when she first walked in and demanded to look through the book to make sure everything was up to her standard.
rachel is dressed like she owns this villa. like she owns the day. tailored cream trousers, a bone-colored silk blouse that gleams slightly when the light hits it, and a pair of heels so thin and punishing they belong on a runway, not stone tile. not a single strand of hair is out of place. not a single crease in her expression.
when she finally speaks, her voice is smooth—like a polished floor you're meant to slip on. "so..." she begins, eyes still scanning the page, "i've been thinking about the cake."
yes, the cake—the reason she wanted to meet but has yet to bring up to know. that cake.
you blink. your pen doesn't move. "of course."
her eyes lift to yours then—slowly and deliberate—and when they meet yours, it's like the temperature in the room drops just a few degrees. her smile isn't really a smile—it's too tight at the corners, too precise. it's the kind of smile that prefaces something sharp.
"I don't want the chocolate anymore," she states simply.
you nod once, pen finally moving to your notepad.
"alright. would you like to go back to the lemon mousse or revisit the seasonal options?"
she makes a small humming sound, thoughtful, like she's considering the philosophy of dessert rather than the flavor. then she tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing with intent.
"lemons fine," she says. "it's light. clean. simple." rachel's gaze lingers on that last word—simple—and you feel it hit like a whisper meant to wound.
you almost say that carlos didn't like the lemon—almost. but you stop yourself with a harsh swallow and a pointless note on your book. "i'll notify the baker."
silence returns, thick and stretching. another second, another tick of that goddamn clock.
then, slowly—like a hunting feline—rachel leans back in her chair. folds her hands in her lap like she's about to begin a boardroom negotiation. the air shifts. her posture changes from disengaged to decisive.
"you know," she says, tone light, conversational, "carlos mentioned the bakery was fun."
you hand stills instinctively.
you don't move. you don't even breathe too hard.
"he said you two were laughing."
your throat tightens. still, your voice stays smooth. "he was... joking around. trying to keep the energy light in your absence."
rachel watches you then. really watches. like a hawk circling a mouse that hasn't figured out it's in the open yet. her next words are honeyed—almost amused.
"interesting. was he missing my absence when he fed you cake? or was that just the whole fake fiancé thing getting into your heads?"
a beat.
"the baker messaged me last night. said that she was excited to make the cake for us. she said that she couldn't get over how cute we were in the bakery."
the breath you take is careful. quiet. your stomach dips, slow and cold, but your face doesn't move.
you keep your expression neutral. professional and composed as possible—even though your instincts are telling you to run. "i'm not sure what you're implying."
her lips curve, just barely. a fraction of a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"oh, come on." she almost laughs. "don't insult both of us."
you set your pen down gently. you don't clench your jaw. you don't speak. you just sit still as stone and let her speak the truth dressed like venom.
rachel leans forward, the click of her bracelets faint as they brush the table's edge. her voice drops lower, "let's be clear, y/n."
your name in her mouth feels like something stolen.
"i'm not threatened by you."
you tilt your head slightly, matching her calm. "I didn't say you were."
she crosses one leg over the other with surgical grace. "I couldn't be," she adds, tone silk-smooth. "because I know how this ends. carlos may like to flirt, but he always comes back to me."
you swallow, quiet.
"people like you?" she smiles now, wide and cruel. "you're just a detour. a moment. something he'll forget by the honeymoon."
her words cut with such precision it almost doesn't hurt right away. It just lands—cold and final—behind your ribs.
for a moment, you're not the wedding planner.
you're just a woman. a sad excuse of a woman.
after a beat, you lift your gaze, meet hers, and let silence speak for you. then, you slide your pen aside with quiet finality.
"I think we're done here," you say.
she smiles like someone who's already won the game you didn't know you were playing.
"of course." rachel rises from her chair without a sound—no scuff of the leg against the floor, no falter in her posture. she smooths her blouse, gathers her things.
at the door, she pauses to look over her shoulder like she almost forgot. "oh—and don't forget to adjust the seating chart."
your eyes narrow just slightly.
"I need to cut two people from his side. friends who don't know how to behave at formal events."
her heels click out of the room—sharp and deliberate—and then just like that, you're alone.
sunlight still pours through the windows, warm and golden, falling across the white marble, the pale florals, the delicate paper designs you labored over.
but somehow, it all feels dim.
like someone turned out the lights and left you sitting in the afterimage. you can't stop the tear from slipping down your cheek. then another, and another until you're silently crying into your chest.
you're embarrassed, guilty, and above all, confused.
⸻MONACO 11:07P.M.
the air is thick with heat, even this late.
the city pulses with a quiet sort of electricity—the kind that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel just a little too close. you weren't planning on going for a late night stroll tonight. you really weren't. but then you started thinking about your conversation yesterday with rachel, and the whole situation and carlos and you thought some fresh air would do you good.
regardless of the humidity and busy streets, your alone time was chalking up to be pretty refreshing. peaceful even. for a brief moment, you forgot about carlos and rachel, focusing only on your feet and the distant music from the night clubs.
but then you spot him.
carlos is propped against a lamppost like he'd been placed there by fate or drunken geometry—tie loose, collar open, hair messily damp with sweat. his cheeks are flushed, half from the heat, half from whatever he'd been drinking inside the sleek bar behind him.
your feet falter, breath hitching in a way that feels illegal. at first, he doesn't spot you, too busy scrolling through his phone with a drunken pace that has you feeling a little weary. you think about walking past without so much as a second glance—but he looks up before you can blink.
finally, you exhale. you wave, a little awkwardly and with a sweaty palm—carlos' face lits up regardless. like he manifested you from memory.
"you," he half slurs, pointing with the slow, dramatic clarity of a tipsy man trying to seem sober. "I was just thinking about you."
you raise an eyebrow, arms crossed loosely over your sundress as you approach him. "are you drunk or just in an aggressively good mood?"
he grins, that sideways kind that always hits a little too deep. "why can't it be both?"
a cheer sounds from inside the bar, and it subconsciously grabs your attention. there's people dancing and singing and wearing sashes that say things you can't make out.
you look back at carlos, "where are your friends?"
"inside."
"and you're out here?"
his grin deepens and he sways a little on his feet. "just needed some air—all the celebrations and talks about being with the only girl i'll ever marry talks...got overwhelming."
you swallow, unsure what to say when you see the hint of vulnerability linger beneath his gaze. once again, you think about walking away. this time, with a breezy goodbye and a promise to have him enjoy himself.
it would be easy. it would be right.
but he takes a step toward you before you can, stopping whatever goodbye was on the tip of your tongue. whatever restraint you have left.
all vulnerable aspects are gone as carlos smirks, hand brushing yours in a gentle reminder. "come with me. i'm on a mission."
"a mission?" you breathe.
"for gelato," he clarifies, already turning down the dewy street—already assuming you'll follow. "bachelor party tradition."
you walk quickly to fall into step with him, dress swinging around your damp legs. "carlos," you start, voice firm, "maybe you should be doing this with your friends...not me."
playfully, he rolls his dark eyes. "my friends are too distracted by randos inside the bar that they haven't even noticed i'm gone."
you grab his wrist, "but what if they do notice?" your eyes are slowly widening with panic, "what if they see you and me walking away and..." you trial off, not needing to finish. because carlos knows what this looks like.
"okay," he nods after a beat, eyes darting towards the bar before finding yours once more. "i'll give them 3 seconds."
"carlos—"
"1!"
you cover your face at the sound of his loud voice. he's practically shouting in the streets with that stupid smirk on his face—clearly, he's humoured himself.
"2!"
a few people lingering outside the bar turn in your direction. rushing forward, you cover his mouth before he can count any further, "okay, they're not coming."
he shakes his head under your palm.
slowly, you retract your hand, eyes never once straying from carlos and his tender gaze. for a moment, you both get a little lost. lost in the monaco nightlife and the unspoken words lingering between you.
but then the music begins to vibrate through the concrete and you're both looking away.
you walk side by side down the quiet cobblestone street that curves along the old part of the city now. the stars above are faint through the city lights, but there's something about the glow of the streetlamps and the echo of your footsteps that feels separate from the rest of the world.
"I never took you for the midnight wanderer type," you tease gently, shoulder barely bumping his bicep. it's been a while since you've spoken, not because you didn't want to, but rather because the silence was too comfortable to break.
carlos shrugs, an easy smile curling on his lips as he slurs—"i'm full of surprises."
you snort, foot almost slipping on a damp section of sidewalk. a fountain murmurs nearby, the sound of running water a familiar one in the night.
carlos watches as you flex your fingers through the cool mist, a fond smile pulling at his lips. "do you ever feel like you're just...pretending?"
you look at him, meeting his eyes. they're serious now, deeper than before—like the booze he's been drinking has turned him into a philosopher. you swallow harshly. "every day."
you're pretending even now, you think. pretending that his finances didn't reem you out over assumptions. pretending you're not falling for carlos. pretending like this conversation means nothing.
pretending more than you know.
carlos hums thoughtfully, running a hand through his tousled hair. "it's exhausting, no? keeping it all together when everything feels like it's falling apart under your feet."
"that's...oddly accurate." you laugh softly, bitter but real. "like i'm an actress in an one woman play. or a really sad romantic comedy."
he smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and softens the lines on his face, "yeah, but you make it look effortless."
you shake your head. "i'm terrible at this."
he shuffles closer as you walk, the space between you shrinking to a breath before continuing, voice no louder than a whisper. "maybe you just don't give yourself enough credit."
your heart thuds, loud in the quiet night. "I don't even know what I'm doing half the time," you swallow, the confession weighing heavy in your throat.
carlos's gaze flicks to your lips, then back to your eyes. "doesn't matter," he states gently. sure. "you're still here."
he's looking at you—truly looking at you—like you are something precious. or fragile. or maybe like you mean something to him, and suddenly, the night feels completely electrified, charged with something unsaid.
the back of his hand brushes yours, fingers barley dancing around yours—the contact as light as a whisper—but it makes your skin prickle like he's just kissed you.
a beat passes, and then carlos looks back at you. "be honest," he prompts, words slurring in a sympathy. "what's the hardest part of all this. planning the wedding."
you don't need him to clarify. you know he's talking about his wedding—more specifically, him being the groom, and you working around him.
you hesitate for a moment, looking away, the city lights painting soft golden light over your cheeks.
"feeling like a stranger in my own home," you say finally. "like everyone expects me to be this unshakable force, but inside? I'm just barely holding on."
carlos' expression softens, not expecting the magnitude of the moment. his steps falter, and you don't really notice until you're looking back at him, a curious pull to your eyebrows.
he swallows and walks back up to you. "I see you."
carlos doesn't elaborate, and you don't ask him to. you don't need him to. without further doting on the conversation, you and carlos begin the walk to the shop again, twisting through streets and hidden courtyards—the city unfolding in ways you never noticed.
he points out details you've never seen before. the faded fresco on a crumbling wall, a vine of wild jasmine clinging to wrought iron—conversation between you flowing like two old friends.
you tell him brief stories from your childhood, little pieces of yourself you rarely share with anyone—and carlos listens. truly listens.
when you finally reached the gelateria, carlos turns towards you with a deep, playful grin, palm hesitating over the door handle.
"promise not to judge me when I get pistachio all over my face."
"oh, I plan to judge you mercilessly," you shoot back, bumping your shoulder against his. "but i'll share some of mine to make up for it."
he chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. "deal."
the bell chimes softly as you walked in, you before carlos. the owner greeted you like old friends, scooping generous portions into crisp sugar cones that smell fresh.
you insist on paying, carlos doesn't let you.
now, you both sit on the stone steps outside, city lights that twinkle in the distance illuminating you. carlos watches as you lick a strip up the gelato, eyes lingering.
you catch his stare and smile, a little shy and lips sticky with desert.
the gelato cone in your hand has started dripping down your fingers, but you don't mind. the cool sweetness lingers in your mouth—delicate strawberry swirls layered with soft cream—and it anchors you in a way nothing else has tonight.
carlos licks a stripe up his pistachio gelato through a always present grin, mint-green flecks glinting against his lips. his laughter fills the quiet night air, softer here under the streetlamps than it ever was behind the chaos of the planning desk.
"so, is this what you imagined your bachelor party would look like?" you ask, licking a drip off your thumb.
he shrugs, pausing mid-bite. "honestly, I thought i'd be passed out on a boat or lost in some neon lit nightmare of bad choices."
you snort, "very on brand for you."
he nudges your arm with his elbow. "and yet, here I am. eating overpriced dessert in the street with a woman who looks way too good for midnight."
your heart constricts, flicking over to him with a sense of urgency. but carlos doesn't even realize that he said it, he just licks some ice cream from the rim of his slightly soggy cone.
"carlos," you warm, voice so delicate it reminds him of glass.
the breeze stirs his shirt, plastering it lightly to his chest. the light from the nearest shop window casts golden shadows along his face—tired, flushed, real.
it's not the polished version of carlos you've gotten used to at rehearsals and tastings and checklists. this is someone else. softer. looser. the carlos that only comes out when rachel is away.
he hesitates for a second—not fully, just a slight pause in his breathe like you've caught something he didn't mean to let slip.
carlos looks at you over his gelato, eyes a little glassy but focused. "you're dangerous, you know that?"
you blink. "me?"
he shuffles, turning his body towards yours on the stone step—close enough that you can see the way his pupils dilate under the streetlight. "yeah. you keep showing up when I least expect it. and it messes with my head."
you attempt to laugh, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and caution. "you asked me to gelato. this is your doing."
"you could've said no."
"you looked too pathetic." you tease, waiting and gauging his reaction.
"wow." carlos smirks, shoulders nearly brushing. "brutal."
"you like it."
his gaze dips—not subtle, and not fleeting like all the times before. carlos looks at your mouth like it's something he's been imagining for longer than he should. then back to your eyes.
"I really do."
and you feel it again—that same dangerous current that you've been desperately trying to push through. the slow melt of tension that lives in the space between what you want and what you can't have.
clearing your throat, you break eye contact, looking down to your cone and attempting to breathe through scattered thoughts.
eventually, you look back at him with a tilt of your head. "so, what now?"
he looks at his melting gelato, then at yours.
"now," carlos starts, "we race to see who can finish without it spilling all over themselves."
you stare. "you're literally not even giving your gelato time to even think about dripping."
he grins, mischievous and unrepentant. "afraid i'll win?"
"no. I just don't want pistachio on your very white shirt. or my dress."
"fair."
you both continue down the narrow, lamp-lit boulevard, cones—and challenge—nearly forgotten in your grasp as the city's hum fades to a gentle rhythm around you.
your steps fall in sync, side by side, with nothing but the soft click of cobblestones underfoot and the distant murmur of night life.
carlos licks the tip of his gelato cone, eyes never leaving the glowing dance of his melting dessert. the faint breeze pulls at his hair, stirring a strand loose that catches the light just right.
you consider saying something witty—or wise—but it feels better to just breathe in the moment.
after a few minutes, the street begins to open into a tiny piazza, its center dominated by a quiet fountain whose water glints under the lamp's amber glow.
unprompted, carlos stops.
you look up and there he is—turned toward the fountain, as if he's trying to hold this moment like a photograph. something soft and urgent flickers in his expression.
then he speaks, softer than ever before—like he's realizing something only just. "you know... I can't remember the last time I laughed this much."
you glance at him. his gaze is already on you—something raw behind it.
you don't say anything, but your silence says enough.
his fingers brush yours again. at first, on accident. and then not.
for the rest of your walk, carlos can't help but to keep stealing glances at you, like he's trying to memorize every detail. the way your dress clings to your frame, and the way your eyes catch the light when you smile.
you catch him, because tipsy him isn't as subtle as he thinks, and carlos looks away like a caught schoolboy, cheeks faintly flushed.
you tease him naturally, "what? something on my face?"
he clears his throat. "no, nothing. just—you look... pretty. different. I don't know. better, I guess."
you feel a warmth creep into your cheeks, an unexpected flutter behind your ribs. "is that your smooth line for late night strolls or are you actually sincere?"
he grins, eyes dancing. "i'm full of surprises. but this one's genuine."
you bump his arm playfully. "good. i'm going to hold you to that."
but, because carlos is a weak man, he can't help but to continue stealing glances. he can't help but to admire the way you glow, even in the dark, like your lit form within.
"think the groom should be getting home soon?" you ask with a grin, glancing up at him.
humidity drapes over you both like a silken shawl—heavy, warm, but not unwelcome. a hint of sea breeze teases around corners, weaving cool fingers through your hair.
carlos chuckles softly, dipping his head toward your cone. "if being led away by 'the gelato whisperer' counts as a detour, then yes—he should be."
you playfully swipe the last dribble of melting pistachio from his wrist, and his grin stretches wider, mischievous and warm.
your steps slow as the street opens into a square—an oasis of tile and soft chattering fountains and illuminated by soft lanterns.
carlos turns to you, the glow flickering across his cheekbones and hair, tousled from the heat and revelry. "you know," he starts, voice drifting soft, "when I saw you walking tonight...I thought maybe the night was turning to be unfair."
your breath catches. "unfair how?"
"that," he says, sweeping his gaze from your face to your hands wrapped around the cone, and back again, "you're effortlessly captivating."
your chest warms for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, and you catch your breath. just then, he reaches out, brushing a stray curl behind your ear.
the touch is electric, feels like the air between you is rewiring.
they say summer nights in monaco rarely cool off in the way inland cities do. it's a constant gray of warmth, a carrying of midday heat into the small hours. on nights like these, the air clings.
but somehow, you've got goosebumps. a soft breeze drifts over the square, and he steps closer—you can feel the tension pull taut between you.
everything is truly changing.
you laugh again, softer this time. "stop messing with me.
"i'm not." carlo's eyes search yours, fines long forgotten as they hit the concrete with a gentle splat. he gently takes ahold of your slack chin, "talk to me." he whispers.
but you can't. your heartbeat is suddenly in your ears.
you're still the wedding planner, the professional, the one with the to do list and the timeline. but right now...you're just you. fragile and hopeful and wanting.
you pause, the words gathering behind your teeth until something inside says speak.
"I don't know what to say without ruining everything."
carlos's eyes soften, and he leans in a breath.
you stand inches apart under the golden haze of the streetlamp, the fountain murmuring behind you like a breath that won't settle. you can taste sweetness on your lips—his gelato, your breath, the wordless possibility between you—and the world hushes, locked on this moment.
he leans in again, slower this time, closer, palm resting at the small of your back, holding you gently, as if you're the most precious thing in an overflowing world. all your instincts are shouting to retreat, but your feet are frozen: rooted by something that feels like both promise and peril.
and then—footsteps. a distant laugh. life moving again around your pause.
you blink.
carlos pulls back, his breath soft against your cheek. the colours of the night blur for a heartbeat—your hair backlit with streetlight, the sheen of his skin from the heat, every detail seared into your vision.
you swallow so hard your throat almost catches.
and suddenly, the world shifts in dimension. the city isn't just cobblestones and light anymore—it's memory in motion. and this—this is where something begins.
he steps even closer, enough that you can feel the pulse fluttering beneath his collarbone.
but instead of saying more, he just breathes your name—your name like a secret confession between two people stealing time.
it's not a question. it's a punctuation.
you close your eyes, because you're too afraid to see the longing there, and then you do the only thing you're certain of—you tilt your lips toward his, soft and slow, giving yourself permission to feel.
the kiss doesn't solve anything. of course it doesn't.
it doesn't fix the months of silence, the timing that was never right, the promises made to other people. it doesn't erase the rings or the vows or the weight of the weddings in three days.
but it's real.
it's warm.
unexpected. unplanned. a truth you didn't mean to speak with your mouths but did anyway.
when you pull back—just a breath, lips barely parted—you see him in the spill of the streetlight.
his eyes find yours like they've been searching for years.
a question lives there. unspoken. raw. hopeful.
"god," he whispers, voice thick with something close to awe. "y/n..."
you can't answer—not yet—your throat is too tight, your chest too full of everything you don't have the right to feel. so you swallow, rough and clumsy, trying to force down the words you know you'll regret.
because now—now?
you're utterly screwed.
the reality of what just happened slams into you like a wave—cold and sobering.
your breath shudders, heart lurching like it's trying to run before your body catches up. "I can't—" you choke, stepping back suddenly, like the ground beneath you just shifted. "I shouldn't have—this was a mistake."
you turn, already moving, already running, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.
but you only make it a few steps before his hand wraps gently, but firmly, around your wrist.
"no," carlos pleads, his voice quiet but charged. "don't do that. don't disappear."
you freeze. not because you want to, but because the ache in his voice is too much to bear. "carlos-"
"tell me," he interrupts, voice full of urgency as he steps closer, "tell me not to marry her."
his grip loosens, fingers sliding from your wrist to your hand like he's scared you'll bolt if he holds on too tight.
"please," he adds, almost broken. "just say it."
you shake your head, the motion frantic, and desperate and a million other things you can't put into words.
"I can't be the reason," you whisper, eyes wide. "I won't be the reason you burn your life down."
"what if it's already burning?" he shoots back, voice rising, eyes glinting beneath the streetlight. "what if you're the only thing that feels real in all of this?"
"then that's not enough." you retort, voice firm despite the way it wavers—you say it like you mean it. like it doesn't kill you.
a beat passes and you take a deep breathe, "you're drunk."
"i'm not," carlos says, his face twisting like you've cut him, like you've handed him truth when he was begging for permission.
"you kissed me," he says, voice cracking. "you kissed me."
"and I'm sorry."
"are you?"
you blink. your lips part, but no words come.
because no. you're not sorry. not really.
you're sorry it had to be now. you're sorry that you couldn't have been something before everything got so complicated. you're sorry he's getting married tomorrow, and that you're planning his wedding.
but you're not sorry it happened.
and that's what scares you most. that's what's making you freak out.
carlos steps forward again, until he's barely a breath away. "tell me to stay," he pleads, softer now. "please. just say it once, and I swear to god, I'll call it all off."
your bottom lip trembles as you look up at him, and in his eyes is everything he's too afraid to do unless you tell him it's safe.
but it's not safe. none of this is.
"I can't," you whisper, voice hollow. "I can't ask you to do that."
his hands drop—slowly—like he's just now realizing you won't catch him. "why not?"
"because I'm not sure i'd stop you." you break then—just a little. a breath hitched. a tear blinked away.
and then, quietly, you do the only thing you know how to do—you step back.
once pace. then two.
your shoes echo softly on the stone as you retreat—slow, not running now, but leaving all the same.
you don't look back.
and behind you, carlos doesn't follow.
the air stays charged, heavy with what almost was, and what still might be—but not tonight.
not yet.
maybe never.
⸻ AUGUST 28th | THE WEDDING
the highest floor of the villa is silent.
not calm—but silent. the kind of silence that screams under your skin. sitting heavy with everything unsaid.
carlos stands in front of a mirror in a crisp white shirt, half-buttoned, the collar wrinkled where his hands keep running through his hair instead of finishing what he's supposed to be doing.
he hasn't slept. sleep has felt impossible for days.
his room still smells faintly of the cologne he put on last night and of rachel's perfume when she kissed his cheek before heading off to bed, laughing, saying "tomorrow's going to be perfect."
he didn't answer her.
didn't know how.
because outside—three days ago in the dim party streets of monaco and soaked in starlight—he'd kissed someone else.
and not just someone. you.
carlos' hands shake as he finally finishes the buttons down his shirt. the ring on his finger—just a placeholder until the real one is slipped on later today—feels like it's burning against his skin.
he closes his eyes in a desperate attempt to clear his thoughts, but the image of you doesn't fade.
the way you pulled back, lips parted, like you couldn't believe what you'd just done.
the way your eyes said don't do this while everything else in you said don't stop.
and then you ran. because of course you did. because you're smart—smarter than him. braver, too. brave enough to walk away from something they both wanted—because it wasn't right.
he should have followed you.
he should have let you go.
he did both, but somehow also neither. carlos stood there like a goddamn idiot and let you vanish into the night while his heart tore itself in half.
and now?
now it's the morning of his wedding and he hasn't seen you since that night.
now the sun is rising over monaco like it's mocking him, and someone is knocking on his door asking about boutonnières and bowties and which cologne he wants to wear when he becomes someone else's husband.
and all carlos can think about is how your lips tasted like regret and strawberry and something terrifyingly close to home.
downstairs, the rooms hums with quiet chaos.
muted voices ripple through the halls, punctuated by bursts of laughter—the unmistakable sound of nerves dressed in silk and perfume. bridesmaids flit in and out of rooms like restless birds, arms full of curling irons and champagne flutes, while photographers hover, capturing fleeting moments as if they can trap time between shutter clicks.
everything moves forward with purpose—relentlessly forward—as if nothing splintered under the weight of tequila lips and desperate pleas.
carlos falls still at the top of the staircase, one hand resting on the banister like he needs the grounding. he watches it all with the hollow stillness of a man watching someone else's life unfold.
then he sees you.
at the far end of the hallway, your clipboard tucked against your chest, and head tilted as you discusses final details with a caterer. your hair is swept up in a no-nonsense knot, stray curls escaping to frame the face. you're nodding, smiling faintly—controlled, professional.
it’s like everything is fine. like this is just another wedding. a day on the job. like you didn't kiss the groom three days ago and walk away as if your heart wasn't in pieces—just as his is.
but, carlos catches something else on your face. the deep lines indenting your soft forehead. the dark bags weighing under your eyes. your tired. not physically, not quite. but it's something in your posture—the way your shoulders carry a weight no one else sees. but your face is calm, composed.
too composed.
that's how he knows you're unraveling—just as he is.
and that's how carlos knows what he's about to do is impossibly selfish, but he's going to do it anyways. because if he doesn't, how is he supposed to know.
he waits until the catering team walks away and the bridesmaids have re-entered the brides suite without so much as glance up the stairs.
he watches you move down the corridor toward the garden, offering a quick nod to a passing florist, pausing only to adjust a crooked ribbon on one of the ceremony chairs.
you're alone—just for a moment—but that's all carlos needs.
he forces his legs to move down the grand stairs, feeling a whole lot like a brand new deer as his knees wobble. but carlos pushes—pushes until he steps right into your path.
the sound of your name on his lips makes your freeze—barley a second—but it's enough for everything to shift.
your spine straightens, grip tightening on the clipboard, and then you exhale like you've been expecting this. dreading it even. which, carlos thinks is fair. because despite what you've claimed, you do know him. you know he would've tried again—tried for you.
you don't turn right away, "you shouldn't be down here," you mumble quietly, still fiddling with the chair sash. "not before the ceremony."
"I needed to see you."
"that's not helping," you reply, finally looking up. your voice is steady, but your eyes betray anything and everything you've said. because carlos can see it. love.
he steps closer. not enough to touch you, but enough to invade the air between you—enough that your breath hitches and you turn your face ever so slightly, like you can't afford to breathe him in.
"you kissed me." carlos whispers.
"don't." your voice cracks around the word.
"you did."
you face him fully, something he can't describe sitting heavy in your gaze. your eyes burn into his, "you're getting married in three hours."
"I know."
"then act like it." you snap.
your hands tremble slightly, just enough that the clipboard shifts in your grip. so you hold on tighter, knuckles ghostly pale because of it.
carlos searches your face like he's looking for permission to fall apart. "tell me not to go through with it," he says again, voice breaking. "please. i'm begging you."
you close your eyes for a second too long. when you open them, they're shimmering with unshed tears. carlos' stomach lurches at the sight.
"you can't put that on me, carlos." her voice is quiet but sharp, like a wire pulled too tight. "you don't get to kiss me, shake everything loose, and then hand me the fallout."
"it's not just fallout," he breathes, full of desperation, "it's us."
"no. it's you." your voice rises, fierceness overtaking the emotion. "you're the one at the altar. you're the one who proposed. and now you want me to carry the guilt of stopping it? of breaking her heart instead of you doing it yourself?"
"you think I can walk away from all of this without knowing if you'd be there?" he retorts, voice frantic and just as sharp as yours. but his eyes never loose sight of the end goal.
there's silence then—thick and heavy.
your jaw tightens like a vice. "I can't promise you that," you whisper. "not like this. not when you're still halfway hers."
the words land hard between you.
carlos looks at you like you're already walking away again. he's back to that night, after the kiss—just watching you crumble and unable to catch the pieces.
deep down, he knows you're right. and you are right—you're the one being honest.
because you want him—god, do you want him. you want the what ifs, you want the life that follows after carlos asks you out in that cafe months ago. you want the almosts, and the things unsaid between them still echoing in every glance.
but not like this.
not in a moment stolen from someone else's vows.
you blink, fast, trying to hide the shine in lingering in your eyes. "I have to finish setting up," she says, her voice quiet again, polite. deatched. "the guests will be here soon."
you turn, ready to leave him behind, but carlos steps closer, grabbing your wrist and halting you. this time, he can't let you go that easy. his heart won't allow it.
"do you know why I proposed to rachel?"
your eyes flutter around flowing tears. you don't turn around—you can't without risking everything you've built up. instead, you focus on the heat of his palm on your skin. the determination in his voice.
you know that if you turn around that's it. he'll tell you he wants you. not her. in this moment, it doesn't matter what you think of rachel or her relationship with carlos. it doesn't matter what you're feeling, because this is not your story.
"don't." you interrupt, voice all kinds of desperate and final.
with a tug, you pull away from carlos, and this time when you walk away, he doesn't follow.
he just watches you walk with practiced grace and professionalism, every step you take measure, spine straight like you're trying to keep it together.
like you haven't just gutted both of you with the refusal to fall apart.
you don't allow yourself to look back. not even once. not for a second.
your legs move on autopilot, carrying you down the gravel path toward the rose-lined pergola, where centerpieces need adjusting and candles still need to be lit. the clipboard digs into your palm, sharp and grounding.
you focus on the checklist instead of the ache blooming beneath your ribs—you don't allow yourself attention to drift to that.
there's a small part of you that thought maybe. maybe carlos would've tried one more time. called your name in in the thick way he does, chase after you and tell you what he wants. not ask you to do it for you, but do it himself.
but he doesn't. you don't know if that's mercy or cruelty, you just know it's over.
even if the wedding isn't.
even if the words weren't final.
because they don't need to be.
some things end quietly. without thunder and lightning and without a real goodbye. they wither out like grapes, pruning up under the sunlight until they're thrown away.
you remind yourself of that as you kneel beside the nearest table, smoothing a linen that doesn't actually need smoothing. your hands are shaking. of course they are. you curl your fingers into fists until the tremor stops.
no one notices.
they never do.
you've built your life around being unnoticed. efficient and unshakable. the one who makes things happen, not the one things happen to.
and then carlos kissed you back, and for the first time in years, you forgot how to keep your balance while also remembering that this is also your life. your story.
you remembered when carlos looked at you like he wanted to choose you and still wouldn't.
you remembered that love means nothing without follow through.
and he won't follow through.
not for you.
not really.
carlos wanted you to say it. to pull the pin for him and break the promise he's too cowardly to undo himself. and yeah, maybe if you'd asked him not to marry her, he would've said okay. maybe he would've turned around and left chaos in his wake.
and maybe he would've resented you forever for it. for making him give up a life of models and beautiful children for a girl who's supposed to watch behind the scenes.
you're not going to let him make you the villain in a story he won't even own.
so you do what you're best at—you fix things and keep moving.
you smile at the florist when she asks if the archway looks all right. you nod when the venue coordinator tells you the officiant has arrived early. you keep your voice calm, and your expression neutral.
you disappear into the background again.
like you were never part of the story at all.
⸻ 9 YEARS LATER
it’s not something you think about much anymore. not really.
you live in another city now. far enough that no one from that life bumps into you at the grocery store. you rent a small apartment with tall windows and too many books. you drink your coffee black. you keep your hair a little longer. you smile more easily. eventually, you cry less.
you are, in most measurable ways, okay.
and sometimes, you even believe that.
—
you see him on a tuesday.
of course it's a tuesday—utterly ordinary, undeserving of gravity.
you’re at a bookstore downtown. there’s rain outside, soft and persistent. you’re holding a novel you've already read before, turning it over in your hands like muscle memory.
you glance up at a sound near the entrance.
and there he is.
carlos looks older, but not in a bad way. softer around the edges. a little more tired. a little less golden. like the weight of his choices settled in and never really left.
he doesn't see you right away.
you have the unfair advantage—his profile, the tilt of his head, the way his hands are still too expressive when he talks. he’s with a child. a girl, maybe seven or eight, tugging on his sleeve and pointing toward the children's section. he smiles at her, distracted.
you wonder if that's his daughter.
you assume it is.
you don't know if he's still married. you’ve never looked him up, rarely return to monaco unless it’s for holidays. you don't want to know if he’s married, so you don’t allow yourself to look for a ring.
for a brief moment, you wonder why he’s here. then you can assume one of two things. either he’s still racing and is traveling for the season with his family, or he’s retired. happy. vacationing with his family.
you can’t decide what hurts more.
you think, absurdly, of that day—the day—and how close he came to not going through with it. and then, just as quickly, you remember how easily he did.
you wonder if he still thinks about it. If carlos remembers your voice shaking when you told him you couldn't be the one who broke it all apart. if he ever wondered what would've happened if you had.
but mostly, you wonder if it was worth it.
not to him, but to you.
then, in he blink of an eye, carlos turns.
instantly, he sees you.
there’s a pause, a flicker of recognition that hits his face like a ripple in water—unexpected, soft, but impossible to miss.
you offer a small smile and he mirrors it.
but no one moves.
you don't walk over. you don't speak. you don't owe each other anything anymore—not words, not closure. you gave that up the moment you let each other go in silence.
still, the air shifts. just a little.
the little girl pulls at his arm again, and just like that, he's gone—back to the bright colors of the children's section, to storybooks and small voices.
you stay where you are, novel still in your hands. you swallow, and then slip it back onto the shelf like it’s the reasons for this feelings.
before you run into him again—something you’re not sure you’ll be able to stomach for a second time—you leave the bookstore without anything. walk out into the town without an umbrella and let the warm water soak your clothes.
you don't cry because you haven't in a long time.
but the ache is still there, tucked somewhere deep beneath your ribs.
some loves never leave you, even when you never speak of them again.
summary: one of monaco’s finest wedding planners is hired to plan formula one’s most handsome drivers—carlos sainz—wedding. it’s just…his bride to be is the worse and you’re pretty sure you have a crush on the groom. and yeah! everything is totally not fine.
summary: y/n and oscar, two competitive co-workers who can’t stand each other. as they fight for the same promotion, their rivalry takes an unexpected turn—from hate to something much more complicated.
[word count] 16.7k
warnings: MATURE! angst | fluff | office job!oscar piastri x office job!reader | humor | cliches | kissing | swearing | lando norris haunting the narrative | mentions of sex | mature themes and dialogue | based off the novel by sally thorne the hating game
🎶 crush by ethel cain, cupids chokehold/ breakfast in america by gym glass heroes, imgonnagetyouback by taylor swift, loved you first by one direction, iris by the goo goo dolls, back to friends by sombr, I wanna be yours by arctic monkeys, pink lemonade by james bay + fool for you by zayn
there's always been something off about the elevator at work.
it could be that no matter how many times maintenance replace the lights, they continuously flicker. not enough to be concerning, but just enough to be annoying.
it could also be the mirrors that line every single square inch of the elevator. it looks fancy sure, but you're tired of wiping off finger prints and oil marks of others off the glass—are you the only one who values cleanliness in this place? seriously.
or it could be—yes, most definitely could be—the way oscar piastri stands beside you in it, shoulders back, dress shirt perfectly tailored and ironed, that is the most sinister of it all. because every single day, monday to friday like clockwork, oscar piatsri stands exactly 3 feet away from you on the elevator ride up to your shared space.
neither of you speak. not in the elevator.
it's like a game really.
you both arrive to the lobby at the same time and then wait for the elevator to pick you up. oscar presses the correct button, and you pretend to not notice him eye you irritably when you apply lipgloss in your compact mirror and then smack your lips together for an even spread.
then the doors slide open and you're both walking.
it's been like this for almost 8 months. 8 long months of pretending like oscar piastri doesn't make coming to work feel like entering a war zone.
there are three certainties in your life.
1. you are very good at your job.
2. you loathe oscar piastri.
and 3. oscar piastri knows it, and he despises you just as much.
he works in strategic development for the publishing company you're under, while you work in creative marketing for said company. both used to be very separate sections of publishing, meaning you and oscar used to be blissfully unaware of each other existence—until the third floors pipes combusted leaving no option but for both sections to merge together.
you weren't happy with having to share a space with a development team. mostly because they are all frat bros turned developers who reek of misogyny and cockiness, but also because merging together meant having to share an office space with one of them.
and that one ended up being oscar piastri.
it was a decision that still reeks of bad karma and even worse interior design.
that first day, you'd stepped out onto the second floor with a smile and your desk fern in your hands. despite your distaste for the new arrangement, you wanted to get off on the right foot. after all, you didn't know how long this would last, and being friendly with your office mate was the first step in making it more tolerable.
but when you walked in, introduced yourself to him with an outstretched hand and cardigan, the man who's name you now know is oscar, looked you up and down. slowly. and then walked out of the office space without uttering a single word.
from that moment on, you and oscar have turned into mortal enemies.
your desks face each other. directly. sitting six feet and three inches apart—yes, you measured—separated by nothing except a tasteful area rug and enough shared tension to kill a houseplant.
it's fine. really.
⸻
the morning starts the same as every other morning. you're already waiting by the elevator doors by the time oscar walks over—2 minutes after you—with a steaming coffee in a starbucks takeaway cup in hand, and an expression on his face that suggests he's recently been told emotions are contagious.
he doesn't look at you. just takes a slow and steady drink of his coffee.
the doors open with a rhythmic ding and you step in first—like usual—long winter coat swinging around your sheer tight covered calfs as you spin to face the doors.
oscar presses the button to your floor and then leans back. his coat is open, revealing his black button down and the tie he always wears slightly loose—like he just walked off a damn magazine cover for men who are too handsome to smile.
screw him and his sharp jawline.
but unlike every other morning, the tension filled silence doesn't linger between you. instead, oscar piastri must have decided that he wants to start your daily battle early.
he doesn't look up from his phone when he speaks. "morning sunshine," your shoulders tighten with irritation as the demeaning nickname rolls of his tongue—one he's been referring to you as for months now.
his eyes flick towards you. warm brown. just a flick. "try not to blind anyone with your optimism today."
quickly, you recover from the shock of his voice already, and snap into defensive mode just as fast. "oh, I brought extra sunglasses. want a pair?" you hold your oversized purse, digging around theatrically. "I think I've got a pair next to the hopes and dreams you crushed yesterday."
oscar doesn't even blink. "those weren't dreams. that was a poorly written pitch deck."
"a pitch deck with personality," you retort, "you should try it sometime."
he snorts—his version of laughing. maybe. possibly just a nose issue.
the elevator dings, doors opening again before oscar can respond. and thank god, because you think if you have to hear anything else come out of his mouth before having your own coffee, you might just kill him.
in sync you both step off—like two sides of a coin destined to never face the same way. co-workers all around send you both curious glances, no doubt wondering what kind of blow up between you and oscar will unfold today.
will it be another stapler heist like a few months ago when oscar swore you took his stapler—you did, but denied it anyways. that day turned into both of you taking turns swiping the stapler from one another while the other wasn't paying attention.
will it be him stealing the last keruig pod—lightly roasted. your favourite. and then smugly drinking it while looking at you over the rim of his mug like he's done too many times to count.
or maybe it will be a repeat of yesterday where you and oscar spent the entire 8 hour day sending each other revised versions of the same report back and forth just to prove a formatting point.
only time will tell.
it's 2 hours after you join oscar in your shared space—and only after making that cup of coffee you were needing, while dealing with the rush of morning editing and responding to overnight emails—does the day truly begin.
the afternoon lulls and the fluorescent lighting above hums. you slide a report into the outbox tray with a little more force than necessary, the thunk echoing slightly too loud in the otherwise quiet office.
oscar doesn't look up from his keyboard. "wow. dramatic. did the paper personally offend you or are you just naturally heavy handed?"
you don't miss a beat, "i'm trying to match the energy of your typing. you sound like you're threatening the keyboard into submission."
oscar smirks faintly, but doesn't look up. "it sbmits because it respects me. you could try that with your reports sometime—instead of letting them look like a printer throw up on them."
you spin in your chair, leaning on the backrest with a sweet, venom-laced smile. "funny coming from someone who's last presentation had a typo in the title slide."
that makes oscar glance up. briefly. fingers faltering over the keyboard for a passing beat. "and yet, I still got complimented by upper management. maybe they like their work with a little personality. unlike yours, which is always so clinically precise and painfully dull."
your jaw clicks. god, he's insufferable, you think. always so smug. so composed—like he's never spilled coffee on a single spread sheet in his life. you'd bet money he alphabetizes his groceries.
oscar leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, giving you a once over that borders dangerously close to assessment. "you always get this twitchy when I outperform you, or is this a new shade of professional jealousy?"
you scoff, "please. if I wanted to compete with mediocrity, i'd race a printer."
that makes oscar laugh—low and unexpected and you have to blink a few times to digest the sound. "you're obsessed with printers today," he teases, "you okay? or do you miss the days when you could hit the 'staple' button without overthinking your entire career?"
you're trying to rile him up, oscar decides. you always get a certain glimmer in your eyes when you're about to say something brutal—kind of a smug little glint like you know exactly how to draw blood with words.
and yet, he keeps sparring back. he could ignore you. he should ignore you. but then you bite down on your bottom lip, like you're waiting for his response, and oscar completely forgets what spreadsheets are.
you pick up a glittery stress ball from your desk—something someone decided was a suitable gift during a team bonding seminar that ended it someone crying and oscar rolling his eyes—and toss it lazily up in the air.
"I don't need to overthink my career," you sigh, "unlike you, I'm not coasting on charm and generic cologne."
oscar raises an eyebrow. "so you've been thinking about my cologne?"
your mouth parts in shock for a moment before you compose yourself—narrowing your eyes in his direction. "only because it smells like you bathed in the men's section of abercrombie."
he grins like you've slipped up. you haven't—not really—but oscar takes it in stride and uses the opportunity to rage bait you further. shifting in his chair, he leans further back, hands clasped behind in his head in a way that makes his biceps look huge. "so you've imagined me bathing?"
there's a pause. slight. barley half a second. but enough.
without knowing what to say, you hurl the stress ball at his face.
oscar catches it, smug and unbothered. "aggressive. is this how you express affection?"
"if I ever feel affective towards you, you'll know. i'll send a fruit basket. with a bomb in it."
he smirks. barley. "so dramatic."
"so punchable." you mutter before hastily pushing off you desk, kitten heels clicking against the wooden flooring as you walk out of the office. oscar's triumphant sigh invades your ears and—yup, you definitely need more caffeine.
⸻
you end up leaving only an hour after your tiff with oscar that day. claiming a headache and waltzing out of there without so much as a second look in his direction.
when in reality you couldn't stand to look at oscar's face for a second longer—all smug smirk and annoying typing. it was driving you mental. you had to get out, and prepare for the process to repeat the following day.
it's a thursday now. almost a week later. you're halfway through pretending to work—highlighter in hand as you drag the neon yellow colour across paragraphs that don't really need to be highlighted—when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye.
it's not oscar—who sits silently across from you—but instead, it's lando. from marketing. he's leaning casually against the corner of your desk, a half shy smile on his face. his tie is loose, sleeves rolled up just enough to look intentionally effortless.
"hey," he says, paper bag clutched tightly in his hand. "just got back from that vendor meeting. they brought extras. grabbed your favorite—a chocolate croissant."
lando sets the bag down on your desk next to a mini captain america action figure you got in a kinder surprise egg, like it's a gift wrapped in gold. his fingers brushing the edge of your notebook—a little too close to casual. you blink, caught off guard.
"no way," you say, surprised. "you remembered?"
he shrugs, like it's no big deal. "told them we had someone on the team who actually appreciates flavor. had to balance out the robots in developing."
lando glances pointedly toward the desk directly across from yours, and you don't even need to look to know that oscar heard that. the subtle twitch in his jaw confirms it.
still, he keeps his eyes glued to his screen—"we may be robots," he mutters without looking up, "but at least we submit reports on time."
you give a light laugh, distracted as you open the paper bag. the buttery scent of the croissant wafts into the air, warm and rich. you bite into the warm croissant. it's buttery, flaky, perfect and you almost groan out.
lando chuckles like he's in on some private joke, eyes dancing between you as you wipe croissant flakes off your top, and oscar's deadpanned expression.
when oscar doesn't join in, lando clears his throat awkwardly, turning his attention back to you.
"you just saved my afternoon. seriously." you moan between bites.
"you can pay me back," lando suggests, leaning in slightly, a hopeful tilt to his smile. "maybe...dinner sometime? just the two of us."
completely oblivious to his suggestion, you nod enthusiastically. "sure! i'm always up for food."
lando seems to linger a beat too long, waiting for something else—maybe a blush, maybe a spark—but you're already halfway through your croissant, more focused on the chocolate than his eyes.
with a small, slightly disappointed smile, he gives a nod and strolls off. it's not like you don't like lando—he's great and handsome and nerdy in a way that all your exes were—you're just...totally oblivious to his flirting and don't see him as anything other than the guy from two rooms down.
you're barely two bites in when oscar's voice cuts through the quiet. "wow," he says, voice dry. "that was subtle."
you look up to see that he's swiveled around in his chair to face you fully, his arms crossed like a shield. oscar's expression is unreadable—part amusement, part judgment, part something else you can't place.
you can't help but frown, confusion lacing your drawn eyebrows. "what?"
"lando. the guy practically wrote 'please love me' across his forehead," he snorts, "you just... accepted the pastry like it was a proposal."
you set the croissant down with exaggerated care. "he's just being nice."
oscar raises an eyebrow, his voice low and annoyingly calm. "sure. because 'dinner sometime' is absolutely what friends say. right before they schedule their wedding."
"you're being ridiculous," you laugh—sharp and humorless. "It's nothing."
he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on top his knees. his eyes are dark, narrowed, searching. "I didn't realize your standards were that low."
the words hit harder than you would expect. you blink, "excuse me?"
something flashes on his face, but he doesn't act on it. oscar just shrugs, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. "lando's fine, I guess. If you like guys who say 'teamwork makes the dream work' and thinks bringing you a croissant is some grand romantic gesture."
you rise slowly from your chair, heart thudding. "why do you even care?"
"I don't."
"you clearly do."
oscar stands now too, almost mirroring your movements like he can't help but to match your energy. his arms cross tightly again, mouth pressed into a flat line.
"I just find it interesting," he notes, voice clipped, "that someone who's constantly harping on me about professionalism is two seconds away from dating the human version of a self-help podcast."
you step around your desk, closing some of the space between you. "are you jealous or something?"
there's a pause. a flicker of something in his expression—surprise, maybe. guilt. resentment.
oscar's jaw clenches so tight that it looks painful. his eyes dart away for a beat, a deep breath expanding his chest. then, what feels like hours later, he looks back at you. voice quieter.
"If you had half a clue," he says, "you'd realize I'm not concerned about his intentions."
the space between you changes, shrinking and weighing down on your chest. you stare at him with confusion coupled with disbelief. "then whose are you worried about?"
he looks at you like he's trying not to say something. like if he says what's on his mind, it'll burn everything to the ground. oscar's eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes and back again.
your breath catches in what feels like surprise.
and then oscar exhales through his nose and turns back towards his desk. "forget it," he picks up his pen, muttering as he gets back to work without sparing you another look. "enjoy your croissant."
you watch him silently, analyzing his odd demeanour—the tension lingering in his shoulders. the rhythmic click of his keyboard picks up speed, a little too harsh. a little too loud.
eventually, you too drop back into your own chair, heart still racing—and all you can do is stare at the half eaten pastry in front of you like it's the problem.
what the fuck was that? that wasn't teasing—you note. that wasn't oscar's usual easy smugness. that argument was...quick. something real. something too sharp and way too complicated.
across from you, oscar still doesn't look up, not even when he hears the croissant hit the bottom of your garbage can with a dull thump.
⸻
you and oscar don't really speak all day friday. you're both too stubborn and way too competitive to break whatever weird cast as been over your shared office since lando's surprise pastry drop off.
yesterday, before you left work for the day, lando caught you in the parking garage, asking if you wanted to grab dinner the following evening.
and maybe because you were tired or maybe because you were picturing oscar's face—jaw all tight and clicking—as you walk into work in the morning wearing something date worthy. whatever it is—you act on it, and agree to meet lando at a local bar about a 5 minute walk down the street from the office.
now, almost 8 hours into your shift, you're definitely regretting walking to work in pretty yet impractical heels. your toes are so smooshed that they've probably morphed into one big toe.
it's also raining now, which is great because not only do you have to walk in death heels, but you'll be soaking yet while doing so.
the office is quiet saved for the coffee machines whirling and your pen hitting the edge of your notebook as you finish up your report. most of the staff clocked out hours ago, leaving behind the low hum of overhead lights and the rain pelting against the windows.
it's only you and oscar left—well, maybe clara from HR is still reading up on reports down the hall. but she's so quiet that you don't even remember she's here half the time.
once you've sent off your work to diane—the head of your department and one of the most fashionable 60 year olds you know—you move. the chair shoots back and almost hits the wall.
obviously it catches oscar's attention. he doesn't lift his head, but his eyes flicker over in your direction.
you don't look. instead, you shrug on your pea coat with an extra sense of pride, brush off a speck of invisible lint from your plaid skirt, and adjust your collar like it matters. you apply a layer of lipgloss in your compact mirror, right by your desk and then smack your lips together like always.
without a glance in oscar's direction, you start to walk out.
you don't get halfway across the floor when you hear his voice behind you. "that look for a client dinner, or are you finally moonlighting as a bond girl?"
his tone is light, sardonic—that trademark mix of charm and irritation he seems to reserve just for you.
you roll your eyes because you can't help it. you haven't spoken all day and he's acting like nothing has changed from your usual banter. he's got to be fucking with you.
"do you rehearse those lines or do they just fall out of your mouth like that?" you spin in your heel and prop a hand on your hip—clearly unimpressed and even more so annoyed.
"It's a gift," he says, pushing off his desk.
you don't respond before turning away again, making your way out of the office—cursing silently when you hear his shoes following close behind. it's doesn’t take long for oscar to fall into step beside you, both of approaching the elevator.
guess he's also done for the night.
"so... where are you going all dressed up?" oscar's question fails at hiding his disgust—and based on that, you're pretty sure he knows the answer already.
"lando," you say simply.
oscar snorts like his suspicions were confirmed. "of course. that guy's got a type, and apparently it's women who are too easily distracted by croissant to understand what he really wants"
you give him an incredulous look. "takes one to know one."
he chuckles a laugh under his breath, but there's something tighter about it this time—like the joke only half-landed. you push the elevator button and cross your arms tightly, trying not to let your expression soften.
he always does this—picks and prods until you give in and snap back. It's a dance, and you're both too stubborn to sit it out.
rain lashes against the windows as crack of thunder booms in the distance. a storm has moved in properly, fast and loud. you glance outside with a gentle gulp.
"fucking rain."
"worried your hair might actually frizz?" he teases, but it's gentler this time. when you look at him, he's already watching you—not with his usual smirk, but with something unreadable.
something quieter.
you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and pray for the elevator to hurry. "no umbrella," you mutter. "guess I'll have to call an uber."
oscar hesitates for a second, some internal battle clearly happening in his mind. and then—"I'll drive you."
you blink. "what?"
"you heard me." he shrugs, like it's not a big deal. "where are you headed? i'm sure it's close enough if you were planning to walk."
you don't answer—still too confused at oscar's sudden shift to properly address him. "since when are you nice to me?"
he smirks again, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. "let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm just not in the mood to watch you melt in the rain like a particularly sarcastic wicked witch."
the elevator dings.
you step in without responding, heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with the storm. oscar follows, and the doors slide shut with a soft hiss.
the silence stretches— heavy and humming with something unsaid.
he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, glancing sideways. you watch the floor numbers blink overhead, each one slower than the last. you cross your arms and then immediately uncross them when you start to feel hot.
"just davids bar," you swallow, eyes flickering over to him. "that's where i'm meeting him."
oscar purses his lips and nods. doesn't say anything else.
"you don't actually hate me, do you?" you ask quietly. you're unsure where the question came from—or the vulnerability that laces is. you surprise yourself, quickly averting your eyes.
oscar looks at you then—properly. his eyes scan your face, lingering at your lips for a second longer than they should.
"no," he admits after a beat, so gentle that it almost doesn't seem real. "but it's easier than the alternative."
your throat tightens. "which is?"
he shifts closer, the space between you disappearing inch by inch. oscar's voice drops low, like it's not meant for anyone else—like it's a secret, or a confession.
perhaps is it.
"wanting you."
your breath catches. he's standing so close now you can smell the clean scent of his cologne—something warm, like cedar and citrus, subtle but intoxicating. you stare up at him, pulse thudding in your neck, your chest, and your fingertips.
you try to be flippant, but your voice is softer than you intend. "that's not funny"
"no," he murmurs. "it's not."
you laugh, breathless and laced with hesitance. "you're ridiculous."
oscar doesn't miss a beat. "you're stalling."
you back hits the mirrored wall of the elevator. without noticing, you and oscar have drawn closer. you blink, lips parting in something you can't decipher as you search his expression—searching for any traces of humour.
you find none.
one of his hands braces beside your head, palm flat against the mirror while the other lightly brushes your waist under your coat. you almost jolt at the feeling.
his eyes flick from yours to your mouth and back again.
"I should go," you whisper, though you make no move to leave.
"yeah," he agrees. "you really should."
then, like the elevator has stopped off in some alternate universe, oscar piastri kisses you.
It's not tentative. It's not polite. It's months of tension and banter and unresolved want, crashing into one desperate, breath-stealing moment. his mouth is hot and insistent against yours, and you melt into it, fingers curling in the front of his shirt like you've lost your grip on logic—or never had it to begin with.
you're kissing him. kissing oscar.
and he's kissing you back like he means it—like it's been eating him alive. his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer, anchoring you there like he's afraid you'll vanish.
then—too soon, and somehow not soon enough—the elevator dings.
the sound of the doors whirling open is jarring. It slices through the haze like a knife.
you pull back, dazed and hot and even more confused than before.
oscar's hands linger for a second longer at your waist, then after a beat, fall away.
he’s looking down at you, chest heaving, eyes wide, lips slightly parted—not with heat this time, but something closer to disbelief. the kiss flashes through you, and you can feel your breath catch again, pulse racing in places that have nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with what the hell just happened.
neither of you speak.
the silence stretches, thick and awkward in a way that feels brand new. not sharp, not hostile, just raw.
you glance down, quick and little unsure, smoothing the front of your top even though it doesn't need it. maybe you're tying to erase the feeling of oscar's hands. or maybe you're trying to hold onto the feeling a second longer.
"I..." you start, but the words die before they can form.
oscar swallows hard, backing up a step into the open parking garage. you watch nervously as his jaw clenches and unclenches like he's thinking of something to say but can't land on the right version.
"oscar-" you start again, but this time it's him that cuts you off.
"you said david's bar?"
you nod slowly, hugging your arms across your chest. "yeah."
oscar doesn't look at you as he unlocks his car, the fancy beep echoing through the empty lot and over the hammering rain.
the air between you still buzzes—not with tension now, but with something fragile. like whatever just broke open might shatter completely if one of you breathes too hard.
neither of you say a word as oscar holds the door open for you to climb in. hell, he doesn't even look at you. and now, on top of everything else, you feel embarrassed.
the rain continues to drum steadily against the windshield as oscar pulls out of the parking garage, wipers slicing across the glass in quiet, rhythmic swipes.
the air inside the car is warm, almost stifling.
you stare out the window, arms crossed tight over your chest. you can feel the ghost of his hands still on you—the heat of his mouth still pressed against yours—and it's making your skin burn for all the wrong reasons.
the silence gives you time to properly think—about the kiss and the silence that followed suit. about oscar and you're bickering. it doesn't make sense, and the longer you stew on the pile of endless possibilities about what oscar kissing you could mean you can't help but to think of worse case scenarios.
he shifts in his seat. you catch the way his jaw is locked again, and how his fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
"look," he says finally, voice low. "about what happened—"
you cut him off, "don't. seriously. I don't need you pretending it was some accident."
oscar's brows furrow. "I'm not pretending anything.”
you let out a bitter laugh. "right. you just happened to kiss me 10 minutes before I'm supposed to walk into a date with someone else. how convenient."
he glances at you through the glow of street lamps, incredulous. "you think I planned that? you think I kissed you to ruin your night?"
you don't answer. you don't want to say yes, but it would be easier than facing what it might actually mean.
"jesus, y/n," he mutters. "you really think that little of me?"
"I don't know what to think, oscar." your voice shakes, and you clear your throat before continuing. "you argue with me, you roll your eyes every time I speak in a meeting, and then you... kiss me like that? you don't get to act like it didn't mean anything, and expect me to just sit in your car like nothing happened."
he's quiet, and that silence speaks louder than anything.
when oscar pulls up outside the bar, the rain's slowed to a mist, and you're already reaching for the door handle.
"thanks for the ride," you mutter. and then you're out of the car—heels clicking across the wet pavement, heart racing, and chest aching with something you don't understand.
the bar is warm and softly lit, filled with quiet clinks of glassware and murmured conversation. it envelops you like a warm hug as soon as you walk in.
you spot lando almost immediately—tucked into a corner booth, relaxed. he smiles once when he sees you.
"hey," he says, standing to greet you with a friendly hug. "you look... wow."
you smile, but it feels thin. "thanks. sorry I'm late."
"no worries," he gesture towards a glass of white wine on the table. "I ordered you a glass—figured you'd need it after work. hope that's okay?"
you nod, sliding into the seat across from him. lando continues to talk—something about work, some funny thing he saw earlier, but it washes over you like static. you nod, smile when appropriate, but your mind is still trapped in the elevator.
still trying to decode the look on oscar's face after he kissed you. still wondering why it hurt that he let you walk away without saying anything else.
lando tilts his head at you after a pause. "you okay, y/n?" he asks.
"yeah. just... one sec." you rise quickly, forcing a smile. "sorry, I'll be right back."
you make it into the hallway near the restrooms before the weight hits you full-force. you press a hand against your forehead, the other clinging to your purse as your throat tightens.
tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them.
you don't even know what you're crying for exactly. maybe the confusion. or the frustration. or the fact that you let oscar get to you—again.
a part of you wanted the kiss, and now it feels like you've fallen for something that wasn't even real.
you're wiping your cheek with the back of your hand when you hear footsteps behind you. you spin around, expecting maybe a server—but it's him.
oscar.
he's holding your coat. the coat you'd taken off as soon as you got in the car because you were running so hot you felt like you had no choice—you barley remember taking it off.
but here he is, with it in the hand that 5 minutes ago was sliding over your body like a paintbrush on canvas.
but his expression changes the second he sees your face. "I came to return this," he says quietly—tentatively and assessing you—lifting the coat. "you left it in the car."
you stare at it for a tense beat, and then back at him. "of course you did." your voice cracks despite your best effort.
you hate that he's seeing you like this. falling apart outside a dingy bar bathroom like a mess. crying over him.
despite your clipped and dissolve tone, oscar doesn't move to leave. "are you okay?"
you let out a bitter laugh, wiping at another tear before it drips off your jaw. "do I look okay?"
he swallows hard. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"but you did," you snap. "you kissed me like you meant it, and then looked at me like it was some kind of mistake. like I was."
he opens his mouth, but you don't let him speak.
"I don't know what you were trying to do, oscar. if this was about getting in my head, or screwing with my night just because you hate the idea of me with someone else—"
"It wasn't," he cuts in, voice firm and unwavering. "It wasn't about lando. It wasn't a game."
you don't miss a beat, voice achingly telling. "it's always a game, oscar," shaking your head, you clutch your coat to your chest. "I can't do this with you."
he blinks. "y/n—"
"just leave." the words come out hoarse, but steady. you're not crying anymore, but your cheeks are stained and eyes rimmed with emotion.
oscar's expression falters—like he wasn't expecting that. like maybe he thought the kiss had changed something. that you'd want him to explain, or chase you, or admit something he's not ready to say out loud.
but you don't.
you turn away, pressing your palm against the cool wall, breathing hard through the lump in your throat.
behind you, you hear nothing at first—just the faint music from the bar, the soft click of glasses, the distant hum of life moving on around you.
then, finally, footsteps.
quieter now.
and then the door opens.
and then closes.
you're alone again.
sinking down against the wall, you hug your knees close to your chest and try and breathe through the ache sitting against your ribs.
you don't know what just happened—you only know that for the first time in a long time...you wish he hadn't left.
the days that follow pass quietly, each one folding into the next like pages in a book you're too tired to keep reading.
the dull and unfamiliar ache doesn't vanish—it just finds new places to hide. some mornings it wakes you before the sun. some nights, it drips from your words like venom. and somehow, that's easier. simpler. familiar.
whatever fragile thread had once tied you and oscar together has long since snapped, left to fray in the silence that followed his departure. neither of you mention what happened. or what was almost said. the glances are shorter now—sharper and measured like chess moves, delivered with the kind of cool detachment that used to define the two of you.
the worst part is how easily it comes back—the sarcasm, the side-eyes, the brittle edge in your voice when you say his name. like slipping into an old coat, one that still fits far too well.
oscar walks into the room now and doesn't look at you.
you don't look at him, either.
and somehow, that says more than words ever could.
still—sometimes, in the pause between your shared space, or in the kitchen waiting for the coffee pot to brew, you catch something in his eyes. a flicker. a breath. regret.
but then it's gone, and the game resumes.
like always.
it's monday now. exactly three weeks since the kiss in the elevator that you still dream about and then wake up in tears.
like a usual morning, you read through your overnights emails in silence and pretend that oscar isn't sitting across from you.
you've seen people get fired. promoted. break down over jammed printers. but nothing—and you mean nothing—sends the office into a panic spiral quite like an email with the subject line: "all staff mandatory meeting."
oscar must see it the same time as you, because in a blink he's strolling out of the office. you count to ten before following suit.
the conference room smells like stale coffee and glass cleaner. fluorescent lights hum above, buzzing like insects. you sit at the long oval table, back straight, pen tapping lightly against your notepad—more for focus than notes.
around you, the rest of the team fidgets with their mugs, papers, and phones. you can feel oscar across the table, just out of your line of sight. he's still. too still.
diane, your boss—your sharp, fearless, silk-blouse-wearing boss—stands at the head of the table like she owns the building. honestly, she probably does. emotionally anyways. she clears her throat, and just like that, the room falls into silence.
"effective immediately," diane starts, voice smooth, "we're opening a new role—executive director of brand strategy."
the words hang in the air like smoke, and instinctively your spine straightens.
a few heads turn. someone lets out a soft exhale. your stomach continues to tighten like a vice. you feel the shift in the room—a ripple of quiet buzz, the kind that precedes a storm.
but across from you, oscar doesn't even blink. he's composed. polished. his fingers are steepled under his chin like he's already strategizing how to own the title.
you hate how still he is. you also hate how your own pulse kicks harder in response.
diane continues, voice almost too casual.
"and we've narrowed it down to two final candidates."
then—like some twisted movie—she does it. she looks directly at you, and then directly at oscar.
of course.
"y/n and oscar."
there's no applause. no chorus polite "oh wow" or fake congratulations. just a sharp, invisible oh shit that passes through the room like a draft. the tension turns electric. no one breathes. not really.
oscar turns his head slightly, just enough to catch your eye. and like you've seen many times before, that smug, unreadable look already warms the edges of his expression. his mouth twitches—the ghost of a smirk or maybe a challenge.
you meet his gaze head-on.
you refuse to blink first.
diane, smiling like a lion with a full menu, continues like she didn't just restart world war 3 in the office. "final selection will be made in two weeks. In the meantime, both of you will continue working closely and collaborating on analysis and reports."
oscar speaks first. calm. smooth. predictable.
"looking forward to it." he even smiles when he says it—the kind of smile that says I'm already ahead of you.
you tilt your head, and smile sweetly. "same here. you'll need all the help you can get."
he raises an eyebrow. "that sounded like an insult wrapped in encouragement."
"because it is."
the meeting starts to dissolve around you—people shifting, gathering papers, murmuring things that sound like 'wow', 'good luck', 'yikes'.
you know, real good stuff.
chairs scrape. someone claps a little too enthusiastically, trying to lighten the mood.
you remain seated. so does oscar.
of all the people in this company, it had to be him pitted against you. just like usual, you and oscar will be battling for a top spot in this office. oscar—the man who always has one more slide, one more angle, one more clever comment about budget review.
he leans slightly over the table, voice lower now—just for you. "try not to sabotage me before lunch, alright?"
you lean in just as far. one bump and you're sure your noses could touch. "i'd never sabotage you. that would imply you're a threat."
his smile widens, but there's a flicker of something sharp in his eyes. something he tries to hide, but not fast enough. "you're going to make this fun, sunshine." he says.
you grit your teeth. "haven't you learned by now, oscar? I make everything more fun."
diane walks past, pausing just long enough to give you both a knowing look. "play nice," she says, not unkindly—but pointed.
you both mumble some version of "always" at the same time, with the exact amount of sarcasm that makes her chuckle as she walks off.
the room empties, the door swinging closed behind the last person, and still, you and oscar sit there—facing each other like it's a chessboard instead of a conference table.
"two weeks," he says, his voice is quiet now. measured.
"plenty of time to crush you."
he laughs—a short, amused sound. then he stands, smooth and unhurried. "then may the best liar win."
he walks out and you sit there for a second longer, staring at the empty chair he left behind like a moron.
the next morning, the office feels different.
colder.
sharper maybe?
every time you walk past someone's desk, they glance up like you've grown horns overnight. maybe you have. after all, you're in competition mode now. so is oscar. and everyone in the office seems hyper aware of the fact. hell, they parted like the red sea when you both stepped off the elevator this morning.
when you open your computer, your inbox is full. you slack is worse.but what keeps repeating in your mind—over and over like a curse—is the way diane said it.
"...both of you will continue working closely."
you assume that meant co-leading meetings, sharing slide decks, subtle sabotage over reports. what you absolutely did not assume was a 9:00 am scheduled calendar even for today tilted—"team building: offsite trust & resilience retreat (mandatory)"
"obstacle course challenge?" you read aloud, horrified. "what are we, army recruits?" you're not actually looking for an answer, eyes squinted as you re-read the words like they’re going to change.
across the room, oscar doesn't look up. of course he doesn't. he's probably already building a strategy to crush every single one of you and claim the metaphorical office flag.
"oh great," he mutters, tapping away on his laptop. "more excuses for people to fall and cry."
"It's not crying if you break your ankle, oscar. that's called pain."
finally, he looks up at you, one eyebrow lifted in a completely unamused way. "planning to injure yourself preemptively so I feel guilty and throw the game?"
"I don't need to fake anything. I plan on winning with flair, charm, and sheer chaotic brilliance."
"so... no plan at all, then."
before you can craft a suitably devastating retort, clara from HR starts calling through the office, telling everyone to get their climbing pants on.
you can feel oscar's eyes rolling.
twenty minutes later, you're in the back of a charter bus, surrounded by coworkers in branded hoodies and team spirit that makes your eye twitch. the air smells like overenthusiastic optimism and granola bars.
oscar takes the seat next to you without asking.
of course he does.
"assigned seating?" you mutter.
"just thought you'd appreciate a front-row view of my inevitable victory."
you turn your head, slowly. "oscar, if we end up on opposite sides of a rope bridge, I won't hesitate to 'accidentally' loosen your harness."
he chuckles, then leans back, arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched like he owns the bus aisle. "noted. you want to kill me, but only after the promotion's official."
"exactly."
as the bus pulls onto the highway and the skyline disappears behind you, you glance out the window, trying to push away the nerves humming beneath your skin.
promotion. competition. him.
you exhale as a wave of dizziness washes over you.
let the games begin.
by the time you arrive at the offsite location—a wooded "adventure center" that looks like it was designed by someone who hates introverts—you're already regretting everything.
there's mud—real mud—and it's already caked your boots. the instructors are wearing headsets and high five like it's a cult.
you look around with a grimace, already in your harness. you catch lando's eyes across the lot, and he waves, half in his own harness. you smile politely, but then oscar's by your side and you're annoyed with the world again. it doesn't help that he's stretching like he's warming up for the olympics.
"you ready, partner?" he asks, rolling his neck with a smug grin.
"we're not partners," you mutter, tugging on your gloves. "we're rivals with matching shirts."
"team yellow," he says, gesturing to the gaudy branded shirt you both had thrusted into your chest as soon as you stepped off the bus. "It's like fate dressed us the same."
"It's like fate wants me to commit a felony."
the first challenge is a giant cargo net wall. probably about 10 feet high. there's a lot of rope and even more mud. someone blows a whistle and you let someone else go first—some enthusiastic intern who yells, "let's crush this, team!" like he's in a commercial.
oscar glances sideways at you, a knowing look on his face. "don't tell me you're stalling."
you don't look at him. "don't tell me you're still talking."
you step forward and grab the net because you can't let oscar be right—even though you were most definitely stalling.
halfway up, your muscles burn hotter than expected and your head pulses behind your eyes, a subtle throb that started on the bus and hasn't gone away.
you blame the weather. and oscar.
he's right below you, moving quickly, climbing like he's done this before. because he probably is the kind of weirdo who has.
"struggling already?" he calls up, breathless but smug.
"no," you grunt, "i'm just enjoying the view from above you."
he laughs, and the sound somehow shoots directly down your spine.
at the top, you pause for a second too long. the wind hits your face and your balance shifts. the world tilts. and before you can register what's going on, your hand slips off the rope.
"whoa—y/n."
oscar's voice cuts sharp as he reaches up instinctively, grabbing your wrist—grip warm, firm, and grounding.
you freeze, eyes locked on his.
there's a beat where you're both breathing harder than you should be.
"let go," you utter quietly.
"you sure?" he asks, eyes flicking briefly down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. "because for a second there, it looked like you were about to fall for me."
you snort. "If I fall, it's because you keep breathing in my space."
still, you let him steady you as you climb down. neither of you mention the way your hand lingers in his half a second too long.
the next challenge ends ups being a low-crawl under ropes, straight through the mud. you drop to your elbows, oscar beside you in that god awful yellow shirt, and the two of you crawl like soldiers in some romantic comedy gone feral.
"you know," he says, "this is the most time we've ever spent face down in the dirt together."
"speak for yourself," you snap. "I work under you every time I have to fix one of your idiotic campaign briefs."
"wow. that's how you're gonna talk to your future executive director?"
you grunt, elbowing him in the ribs as you pass. "not if I get the title first."
oscar groans but lets you pass, mud splattering across both of you. your heads throbbing even harder now, like your skill is shrinking and has become too small for your brain. the pounding makes your stomach churn.
you wipe sweat from your brow and tell yourself it's just the heat.
after chugging water and breathing through nausea, you and your co-workers huddle around the final obstacle. you stare up at the two person rope bridge, suspended over a bit of water, and you're already feeling sick again.
you're paired with oscar, obviously, because apparently your two other yellow team members want you to suffer more than usual.
"this is a trust exercise," the instructor chirps. "you'll have to balance each other."
oscar glances at you. "you sure you can carry the emotional weight of this relationship?"
you step onto the first rope plank without looking at him. "I've been carrying this team since Q1."
halfway across, the bridge starts to sway. your knees buckle slightly—and not just from the height.
instinctively, your grip tightens on the ropes, knuckles turning pale. you breath shakily through your mouth, eyes closing for brief moment as you attempt to not pass out.
"fine," you snap, blinking hard. your vision is swimming now, and the pit below seems farther than it is.
oscar steps closer, one foot at a time, slow and steady. his eyes dart around your sickly pale and dewy complexion, "you don't look fine."
"well then maybe you should stop looking at me."
you glance up at him—sweat dripping down your temple, breath shallow. despite your snippy tone and inability to act weak in front of oscar, your eyes swim with the opposite.
and oscar sees it. he takes another step closer, hand brushing along your lower back as the bridge tilts again. "I've got you," he murmurs.
and for one stupid second—you let him. you let oscar touch you gently and breath over your helmet covered head like it's normal. you bathe in his warmth and presence like it's the same.
his palm stays there, warm through the soaked shirt. he doesn't push. he doesn't guide you. he just keeps you steady.
you don't speak, you just keep breathing in and out in a desperate attempt to not be sick.
and oscar notices. he always notices.
"you're pale," he notes quietly, lips close to your ear. "and you're shivering. this isn't just the mud and nerves, is it?"
you shake your head, too stubborn to fully accept his help. "It's nothing. I just—need to finish this."
"y/n." the way he says your name is different. like it costs him something.
you don't want him to care. you don't want you to care that he does.
but when the bridge sways again, and you stumble like a baby deer, he catches you, arms bracing you against him easily. the ropes creak underfoot but you barley hear it over the throbbing in your head.
"alright," he says. "you're getting off this bridge, and then I'm taking you to get checked out."
"you're not the boss of me," you mumble weakly.
"yet." he smirks teasingly, but it's gentler this time.
you let oscar lead the rest of the way, your hand gripping his wrist with more pressure than necessary. the bridge sways, but you don't fall.
at the end, when you step back onto solid ground, your legs wobble pathetically—but oscar's hand is still at your back, unwilling you to fall.
"I know you can," he says. "but for once, maybe let someone help."
you glare at him.
he stares right back.
neither of you move.
but then—the world tilts.
oh no.
not in the dizzy, dramatic way—no, this is worse. It's subtle. slow. your legs feel like soaked towels, and your stomach churns violently, rebelling against gravity.
you blink, willing the dizziness away, your fingers still twisted in oscar's sleeve.
"y/n?" oscar's voice sharpens. "you're not okay."
"I said I'm—"
your throat clenches before you can finish. the heat rushes up the back of your neck, and then it hits—that awful, final swell in your gut.
you barely make it two steps before you double over and empty the contents of your stomach. throwing up right into the bushes behind the rope bridge. mud splatters. your knees hit the ground.
It's not elegant. It's not dramatic. It's real and miserable and totally humiliating.
"shit."
you hear him more than you see him—his voice, low and urgent. oscar's at your side in a second, crouched beside you in the muck, hand on your back without hesitation. not hovering, but firm. supportive.
you cough weakly, spit, breathe. gag again but nothing comes up this time.
you want to say something. anything—joke it off, snap at him, pretend it didn't happen.
but you can't.
oscar doesn't say anything for a moment. he just stays there like a steady presence. he reaches up, yanks the stupid yellow branded bandana from his neck, and gently presses it to your forehead.
"you're really burning up," he says, voice low and careful now. "you're burning up. jesus. why didn't you say anything?"
"didn't want to—" you start, but your voice cracks before you can finish.
"—what? look weak? screw that."
oscar crouches lower, practically kneeling now, one arm braced around your shoulders as your head tips forward again. you expect him to pull back. to let go. to make a joke about bodily fluids or being stuck babysitting you.
but he doesn't.
he just holds you steady like he's done it before. like he's done it for you before.
"i've got you," he says again, quieter. no trace of sarcasm this time. "just breathe."
you hate this. the closeness. the kindness. the way your body leans into his because you can't stop it. the way he feels solid—maddeningly warm and real.
a small group of coworkers stop nearby, unsure whether to intervene or run in the opposite direction.
oscar throws them a sharp look, "someone get the medic. now."
they scatter.
you cough again, then groan softly, finally lifting your head. "this isn't... how I wanted today to go."
oscar looks at you. he's got mud streaked across his cheek and concern tightening the lines around his eyes. for a second, he says nothing.
but then he snorts—not mean, but soft—and his mouth curves at the edge. "well," he says, "if you were trying to distract me before the promotion, puking on my shoes was a bold strategy."
you glance down. you missed his shoes—barley.
"I could aim better next time," you croak.
his laugh is quiet, but real, "please don't."
there's another pause.
he still hasn't let go of you.
"y/n," he says, "you don't have to power through everything. you don't have to prove something all the time."
your chest tightens. not from sickness. not from fever. something else. "I'm not trying to prove anything."
"yeah," he says gently, "you are."
you don't have the strength to argue. not now. "I just didn't want you to see me like this," you admit. barely a whisper.
his expression shifts at your sickly confession. just slightly. there's a flicker of something behind his eyes—not pity. not amusement. something else. something quieter.
"too late," he says, voice steady. "and I'm still here."
the seatbelt digs into your shoulder as you lean your head against the cool window, allowing the march drizzle outside to cool your otherwise hot skin. you're still a little clammy, and your stomach has settled into something that feels like a truce rather than a victory.
the worst part of the whole getting sick at a mandatory work event, isn't that you threw up in front of everyone. and it's also not the fact that you're still wearing damp socks from the mud crawl, or that your yellow shirt has some puke on it.
it's that oscar offered to drive you home—and you said yes.
honestly, you'd been too dizzy to argue or to understand the repercussions that call come from this journey—and too tired to pretend that you didn't notice how his hand rested lightly on your back while you tried to breathe through the lingering nausea.
how he didn't say a single sarcastic word while you sat slumped on a folding chair in the medical room. your face in your hands, feeling humiliated and weak and seen in the worst way.
the car hums quietly now, filled only with the soft sound of tires on wet pavement and the occasional swipe of the wipers. it's not raining enough to be concerned, but the drizzle persists, leaving the streets shiny and grey.
you risk a glance at him, eyes still heavy and stomach even more so.
oscar's hands are at ten and two on the wheel. obviously. he's not looking at you—another obvious one—but there's something tense in his jaw. like he's deep in thought or trying not to be.
"you didn't have to do this," you murmur, swallowing roughly. your mouth taste like puke. it has you taking a sip of the gatorade oscar grabbed from his back seat before buckling you in.
your voice still sounds off. thinner. fragile in a way you hate.
he glances at you briefly, one eyebrow lifting. "yeah, well. no one else volunteered. and I figured you'd rather throw up in my car than in an uber."
you almost smile. almost. teasing words coming too easily. "you're all heart."
oscar exhales through his nose, and you think he might be fighting a smile too. "I know. it's exhausting."
silence again. it's not brittle like the past few weeks. this feels stretched thin, like an elastic band ready to snap.
you pull your coat tighter around yourself, the damp fabric cool against your arms. he notices—you catch the way his eyes flick over to you again, lingering.
"feeling any better?"
slowly, you nod. "yeah. mostly just embarrassed now."
"you don't have to be."
you look over at him again, flanked by the softness in his voice. oscar's fingers tap the steering wheel once, then still. "everyone gets sick. you pushed yourself too hard," his warm eyes find yours, a half smile tugging at his lips, "course was bullshit."
"you breezed through it."
he shrugs. "still bullshit."
you don't know what to say to that. he's being... kind. not in a loud, obvious way. just in the way he's always been when you weren't looking close enough to notice it.
the tension between you—the heat and confusion and whatever that kiss was—it's still here. barley, but still lingering. although, it feels different now. like you're both aware of it, but neither of you wants to disturb the fragile kind of peace that's settled between you.
oscar pulls up to your apartment building and shifts the car into park. the engine hums over the backstreet song playing through the radio.
you move to unbuckle your seatbelt, but he stops you with a quiet, "hey."
you freeze, eyes meeting his.
"about the other night..." he begins, then trails off. oscar looks down at his hands, then back at you—his voice is careful. "I've been thinking about it. about us."
your heart gives a slow, unsteady thud. "there is no us."
oscar nods, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes. "I know. but it doesn't feel like nothing anymore."
you don't answer because he's right. and because part of you still doesn't trust it—or yourself.
after a pause, he gestures to your building. "come on. i'll walk you up."
"I can manage."
"you're still pale." he counters. he's got a point though, and the chances of your knees buckling when you step out of the car are too high.
still, you send him a look. "you're still annoying."
oscar smiles, and it's real this time. it's not smug, and it's not teasing. just tired and warm and maybe a little relieved.
you don't argue again.
the two of you walk up the stairs side by side, quiet but not distant, letting this newfound peace settle between you. at your door, you fumble with your keys, and oscar stands just behind you, not hovering—just there.
you finally turn to face him, the key still in your hand. "you didn't have to take care of me today."
his gaze meets yours, and holds steady. "I wanted to."
there's a charged pause, and suddenly the space between you feels too close and yet also too far.
you take a tentative step back. "thanks for the ride."
"get some rest, yeah?" oscar nods once, hands tucked into his slacks while his eyes search yours. maybe looking for answers—maybe simply checking your wellness.
you're not sure. you just nod back, meekly. and as oscar walk back down the steps of your building, you feel that same aching confusion settle in your chest again. only now, it's heavier with the knowledge that something has truly changed now.
not in a dramatic, kiss in the elevator kind of way. but in the quiet way that feels harder to undo.
the following morning you end up calling into work. unfortunately for you, it was a stomach bug that you undoubtedly caught when you sister and niece visited your place on the weekend.
you try not to think about oscar, but it's hard when the only things you're doing include laying in bed, scrolling tiktok and dealing with cold sweats.
it doesn't help that around 11 a.m—the time at the office just before you would usually take lunch—you get a text.
drink water. at least one glass before your fourth coffee. don't be stubborn.
— o.
you blink at it.
then roll your eyes.
and then—you smile.
⸻
four days after the team building obstacle course, you're sitting back at your desk. your inbox is overwhelmingly full, the marketing team is two days late delivering added for a campaign that was already behind. your coffee from this morning sits cold and untouched as you attempt to sort everything out, and your stomach still hasn't properly recovered from your sick days.
and for some reason, about six feet and three inches away, oscar is pretending you don't exist. which would be easier if he wasn't doing it so deliberately.
you haven't made eye contact since you walked into the building this morning. not once. he was quiet in the meeting yesterday—unusually so. no snarky comments or passive-aggressive remarks that use to do your head in.
this morning, he even dropped a file on your desk without making a single joke about you throwing up on your shoes in front of everyone. and not even when an hour after that lando stops by and laughs about it.
not. even. then.
you should be grateful, but it feels like silence wrapped in barbed wire.
you're trying to focus on your screen. focusing on the empty document and trying not to glance across the office again.
you don't need this. you're over it. whatever it was.
still.
you keep seeing him in flashes—the way he looked at you that night after the kiss. the way his voice softened in the car. the quiet tension in his shoulders when he watched you walk through your apartment door.
and suddenly everything revolves around oscar. not loudly and not all at once—but just enough to notice. just enough to hurt.
"you good?" a voice says suddenly from the open entryway of your shared office.
you flinch and spin in your chair so quick it almost topples over. It's clara from HR, a coffee cup in hand, brows raised in polite curiosity.
"yeah," you lie. "fine. just... tired."
she nods sympathetically. "still recovering from the obstacle course from hell? because same."
you smile tightly and wave as she walks off. when you glance back at oscar's desk, he's looking right at you.
you freeze.
he doesn't look away. not this time.
he just stands slowly, grabs a folder, and walks toward the copy room. and then waits.
there's no words uttered under his breath. no subtle gesture—just a tentative glance over his shoulder before he disappears inside.
you don't even think before you follow him.
the door clicks shut behind you. the air in here is cooler, quieter—the kind of silence only offices and confessionals seem to master.
oscar's leaning against the counter by the printer, but he's not looking at it. or you, to be honest. his thick arms are crossed, eyebrows furrowed as he trains his gaze in his shoes—like he's figuring out how to start.
before you can stop yourself, you beat him to it.
"why are you avoiding me?"
his head snaps up, eyes sharp. "I'm not."
you laugh and it sounds low and bitter. "bullshit."
oscar exhales slowly. "I didn't know what to say."
"you didn't have to say anything," you pause to swallow through your tightening throat. "but I guess it's easier to pretend nothing happened, right?" you add on. bitter.
your voice is quiet, but it cuts through him like you’re shouting. you weren't planning to say that—or maybe you were. maybe it's been simmering too long to hold in for a second more.
oscar looks at you for a long moment. silent. but then—"it wasn't nothing."
the words settle between you like a drop in water. small, but echoing.
you swallow, suddenly unsure of your own footing. "then what was it?"
oscar steps forward slightly. still cautious. still not close enough. "I don't know," he admits with a breath. "but I'm not pretending it didn't mean something. I just..." he trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I don't want to mess this up. you and me. whatever version of this exists."
"there is no version," you say—too fast. too fake.
he looks at you, eyes narrowing knowingly. "you keep saying that, but you keep showing up."
his words hits harder than you expect. mostly due do the fact that they are unarguable. you fold your arms over your chest, trying to hold...something in. despite your best efforts to stay composed, you can't help the way you voice cracks. "you think I wanted to be driven home by you? or kissed by you? or cry in a hallway while you stood there looking like—"
"like I didn't know how to fix it?" oscar finishes knowingly, his voice is low now and steady.
you meet his eyes, and something about the way your eyes lock has you thinking back to the elevator. minutes before he kissed you—when oscar was simply just...looking. an unspoken gesture passes between you—not heat this time, but gravity.
"you scare the hell out of me," you admit before you can stop yourself, hugging your arms close to your body like you need a shield—not from oscar, but from the weight of change.
at that, his expression shifts— not smug or satisfied. something genuine. oscar steps closer, words coming out no louder than a whisper. "you scare me too."
there it is again. the silence. thick like usual, but with intention. you don't expect oscar to expand any further, but then softly, he does—"can we stop pretending?"
you blink in surprise, and take your bottom lip between your teeth shyly. you look away, "how?"
you question, so vulnerable and you, has oscar's heart clenching. he swallows, "come over to my place tonight. we can talk."
you meet his gaze and nod unsurely—like you're still trying to place the pieces together, "after work?"
"please."
that's how you end up pacing outside oscar piastri's apartment building—a tupperware container full of homemade cookies that you obviously panic baked after work, clutched in your hands.
you've been standing outside the building for seven minutes—to be exact. not knocking. not buzzing up. not leaving. just existing nervously on the sidewalk like a raccoon holding found treats.
you shift your weight to one foot, then the other while your fingers drum against the plastic lid like it might give you answers.
oscar invited you. even said please. you're not sure why you feel so nervous. or uninvited even. maybe because you know this could be it—the calm after the storm. or maybe you're nervous because there's a chance the storm hasn't broken yet.
regardless, you're panicking and psyching yourself out because it's oscar.
your eyes flicker up to the building, painted thumb hovering over the buzzer—then you pull back like it's about to shock you.
"this is stupid," you whisper. "you're being stupid. It's just a conversation. about...the kiss. the obstacle course. you know, the vibes. all of it. totally chill."
the front door swings open before you can hype yourself into pressing the button—or attempt to press, anyways.
and there he is.
oscar, in a dark navy hoodie, gray sweatpants, and that same unreadable expression on his face that makes your stomach do unathletic flips.
"I figured you were down here," he says. "you buzz like a scared raccoon."
you blink. "how do you know how raccoons buzz?"
"you tell me," he says, looking pointedly at the cookies. "you're the one holding snacks like you're about to beg me not to trap you in my backyard."
you roll your eyes, even as heat creeps into your face. "these are peace offerings. or...discussion fuel. I don't know. you invited me. you don't get to mock me for showing up."
he leans against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised. "I didn't mock. I described."
you hold out the container instead of nervously rambling further. thankfully, he takes it, barely glancing down before flicking his gaze back to yours. "chocolate chip?"
"Is there any other kind?"
oscar smiles all half lipped and handsome. "you didn't have to bring anything,"
you shrug. "yeah, well... I wasn't sure what kind of conversation this was gonna be. cookies are kind of a neutral third party."
he opens the door wider, stepping aside. "then bring your neutral party upstairs. let's talk."
you hesitate for half a second—eyes darting between the empty hall and his—just long enough for him to notice.
"hey," he starts, voice quieter now. "I meant it. I want to talk. you're not here by accident."
your eyes flick up to meet his. there's no teasing this time. just oscar, honest and a little nervous too.
"okay," you nod after a beat. "let's talk."
oscar's apartment is somehow nothing like you excepted but also so oscar that you should've. his place is tidy—not spotless, but that lived-in kind of clean that makes everything seem warm and domestic. clean lines, warm lighting, shelves lined with books and a few things you had to double take to comprehend; a record player, mismatched mugs, a pair of runners left by couch.
you slip off your coat, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.
oscar's in the kitchen now, pouring hot water into two mugs.
"I didn't think you'd actually come," he says over his shoulder. his voice is casual, but there's something careful tucked just under it.
you walk further in, the soft click of your boots echoing against the floor. oscar looks up at the sound, and you send him a closed mouth smile when your eyes meet. "I didn't either," you admit.
a flicker of a smile passes over his face before he looks down again, dropping a teabag into each mug.
he slides one across the counter to you.
"chamomile. best I could do on short notice."
"you're full of surprises, piastri."
"you have no idea."
you take the mug, letting the warmth settle into your palms. the quiet stretches out—not awkward, not exactly. just... full. like there's more neither of you is saying.
he nods toward the couch, "you can sit, you know. I don't bite."
you arch a playful brow. "lies."
that makes him laugh—a quiet, genuine sound that hits low in your chest. you sit anyway, curling one leg beneath you, tea balanced in your hands. still too hot to sip, you let its warmth envelope your hands.
oscar joins you after a moment, leaving just enough space between you to feel intentional.
the tv is off. no music. no noise. just the sound of your breathing, the hum of the radiator, and the rustle of oscar's hoodie as he leans back and glances at you sideways.
"you feeling better?" he questions. you think he's referring to a few days ago and the whole puking incident. you shudder just thinking about it.
you nod with a grimace. "mostly. still avoiding stairs."
"smart. stairs are a trap."
you smile, and oscar watches it happen. another beat of quiet settles between you and you take the opportunity to take a sip. it's still hot, but its comforting.
he taps the lid of the cookie tupperware that he'd previously put on the coffee table with one finger. "so, uh. these smell incredible, by the way. are these the 'please like me' batch or the 'this is fine and we're just coworkers again' batch?"
you blink at his bluntness, a little shocked as you string together a response. "...I didn't label them."
"tragic. would've made things easier."he gives you a quick side glance. you're not sure if he's joking, or nervous, or both. probably both.
"I panicked and baked. don't read too far into it."
he lets out a breathy chuckle, "too late."
you snort, finally relaxing enough to lean back against the cushion. "you said you wanted to talk."
he smiles, but it's brief. controlled. and his fingers stop moving. "okay, so. elevator."
your breathe catches—here we go. "right. the kiss."
oscar's eyes twinkle as if to say—yeah the kiss that was so much more than a kiss but rather months of built up tension coming to the surface against the wall of an elevator kiss. anyways.
"the kiss. which I initiated. while you were... very clearly going on a date. with lando. not me."
you cringe slightly. "yeah. I was definitely wearing date lipstick."
"I noticed. very powerful shade. extremely threatening." a beat passes free his teasing, and you take the time to try and find a way to sit causally while your heat ping pongs in your chest.
your lips part once, nothing coming out. but then, after a small breathe, you manage to speak. "I didn't stay."
oscar looks over, surprised. "you didn't?"
"no," you swallow, a little harsh because your throat feels like sandpaper. "no, I umm. after you left, I told lando I ate something funny at work and wasn't feeling well. which—not that i'm saying it out loud—feels like a bad excuse. especially after he saw you come after me."
his lip quirks up—just enough to let you know that he likes that. "I probably owe him an apology."
you almost snort. "me too."
another beat passes, this one lighter than the last. oscar studies you—not accusing, but rather observing.
and then, because you're kind of tired and a little high on the chocolate chips you'd been munching on while baking, you finally start to crack—"I never know where I stand with you," the words are sudden enough for oscar's spine to straighten.
you don't notice. you shift the mug in your hands, eyes trained on the tea instead of him. "It's like one minute we're arguing, the next you're taking care of me, and then you kiss me and pretend it's nothing."
oscar doesn't respond right away. and when he does, his voice is low and steady. "I never said it was nothing."
finally, you glance back at him—sharply, almost accusing—but he's not looking at you anymore. he's looking at the space between his hands, thumb brushing over the rim of his mug like he's trying to coax answers from it.
"you didn't say anything at all," you remind him, voice shaking in a way that you curse.
"because if I did, I wouldn't have known how to stop...saying."
that silences you.
you stare at him—really stare—and for once, he lets you. no deflecting. no half smirk. just him. quiet and real and so obviously holding something back.
and maybe it's the tea and cookies. or maybe it's the way you can still feel the way oscar's hands squeezed your flesh while his lips traced yours, but suddenly, you don't want space.
you don't want safety.
you want him.
you set your mug down.
he notices.
you move first—just slightly—shifting towards him like it's the only thing you know how to do. like you're testing the air between you.
oscar turns his head slowly, gaze flickering down towards your mouth and then back to your eyes.
"don't," he pleads quietly. but he doesn't move. he can't.
you swallow softly, fingers twitching at your side, "why not?"
"because if I kiss you again, I won't want to stop."
you whisper, "then don't stop."
and that's it. you words so desperate and pleading are the final nail in the coffin before oscar piastri is on you—or maybe you're on him. but either way, it's happens fast and slow all at once. like not molasses in a gingerbread cookie.
his hands finds your waist, sliding beneath your shirt like he's once again familiarizing with your shape. while your fingers bury themelsves in the curls at the nape of his neck.
this kiss is different than the one in the elevator. it's not as urgent or a mess of tongue and teeth. this kiss in controlled and intentional—like oscar's trying to show you what he voiding say before.
and you feel it.
all of it.
the pent up restraint and the undeniable want—the quiet truth hiding in every breath.
somewhere between the kissing and touching, you end up across oscar's lap, straddling him like you've done it before. it feels so good that you wish you had. his large palms slide over every curve and bump of your body, squeezing just often enough to have you gasping.
this is better than the elevator. because this time, you don't doubt that it's real.
when you pull back, your forehead pressed to his and still half grinding on his hard on, oscar's still holding onto your hips like he's not ready to let go.
you're both breathing hard—not from passion, but from everything being too much and not enough at the same time.
you don't say anything.
neither does he.
but he doesn't look away either, not even when he starts mouthing at your neck like a starved vampire.
for several long minutes, and after some more less than PG14 kissing, you don't say anything. you let the cirty glow outside his window and your breathy noises sit between you like a dream.
then—
"this doesn't mean I like you," he murmurs. his warm eyes flicker back to yours, and with the blush on his cheeks and fond grin pulling across his swollen lips, you know he doesn't mean a word.
you smile, soft and just as swollen. "god, I would hate that," you whisper back, as soft as the breaths between you.
oscar laughs against your shoulder lowly, and then presses a lingering kiss to the same spot.
and you realize: you're completely screwed.
⸻
there's a new game now with oscar.
it's subtle and less obvious than the first. it's quiet looks across the conference table, the slight brushing of his hand when no one's watching, and his voice softening when he says your name. you pretend you don't notice. he pretends he doesn't care who does.
but unfortunately for the whole secretive thing you're trying to achieve, everyone's noticing.
clara catches you both coming out of the storage room one morning—your lipgloss slightly smudged and oscar looking far too pleased with himself. she raises a overplucked brow but says nothing, just sips her coffee like she's watching a show she's been invested in since season one.
then there's that meeting on wednesday.
oscar sits across from you, not beside you. the air between you hums with the weight of the night before—his mouth against your throat, his hands gripping your hips, the way he whispered, "you drive me fucking crazy" before pulling you into him again.
now you're trying to focus on the budget presentation and miserably failing because all you can think about is ripping his clothes off.
your pen taps a little too loudly on your notepad. it's gains oscar's attention, because it always has—he looks up—sharp, amused—and you catch his eye before quickly glancing away, heat rising to your cheeks.
afterward, clara leans in while everyone files out.
"you and oscar, huh?”
"what?" you blink and fain innocence which obviously sucks.
she just smiles knowingly. "okay, sure."
you brushed off her tone and the glimmer in her eye easily. but the pit in your belly only intensifies. nothings official with oscar. not really. there's been no definition to your relationship or post-sex 'what are we' talk.
it's just late nights, locked doors and whispers of things that feel too soft to be causal.
there are three new certainties in your life now.
1. you are still very good at your job.
2. you like oscar piastri.
and 3. oscar piastri knows it.
⸻
it's friday, two hours before you can clock out and undoubtedly end up wrapped in oscar's bedsheets.
the copy room smells like warm ink and fresh paper, and for the first time in a long time, you smile when you catch the clashing scents.
you're waiting for your papers to finish printing when your phone buzzes in your pocket. it's oscar.
meet me in ten. conference room c.
you smile before you can stop yourself. willing your reports to finish quicker, you impatiently stack them all in a messy, unorganized pile that future you will curse upon.
just as you begin to leave the room, two voices in the hallway stop you in your tracks. the conversation sounds casual. they're laughing about something.
but your stomach drops.
"dude, I'm telling you, he's got her wrapped around his finger."
"didn't even think he liked her."
"doesn’t have to. It's smart, right? get in her head, get her off her game. that promotion's basically oscar's if he keeps playing her like that."
you've completely stop breathing.
“you think that’s what he’s doing?”
“he didn’t deny it man.”
the words hit too fast to process, each one driving in deeper and deeper into your heart. you don't know who's talking and frankly it doesn't matter.
before you can will yourself to look, they're walking off, the sound of their footsteps and snickering fading into nothing but clicking keyboards and phones ringing.
you just...stand there, kitten heels glued to the worn tiles beneath your feet.
the air feels muggy now—too hot and sticky—clinging to your skin in the worse way. the printer is humming and you're gripping the edge of the counter hard enough for it to hurt.
suddenly, it's all too loud.
the way oscar never talks about what this is—or rather doesn't. the looks and the touches. the kisses that feel like confessions but never are.
you think about his deep voice in the dark, saying "If I kiss you again, I won't want to stop."
now all you can hear is: "It's smart, right? get in her head."
you blink hard to try and dissolve the sting behind your eyes, and swallow the lump in your throat. you can't help but to think that maybe this whole time, you, oscar and everything between you, was just another part of the hating game.
when you've finally calmed down enough to walk without your legs shaking, you find oscar by the elevator, bag hung over his shoulder casually. he's got his phone in hand, brows furrowed while he types away.
your chest tightens as you approach. "oscar."
the sound of your cracking voice has him looking up quickly, eyes a little guarded and wild and surprised. he tucks his phone in his pocket and begins reaching out for you.
you think he's saying something, but you're not listening.
"we need to talk. now." you state.
"what's wrong?"
you take a shaky breath and can already feel tears prick behind your eyes. you curse yourself internally, and place a palm to your chest to try and slow your frantic heart.
"about this." you gesture between you, "about whatever the hell this is. because I just overheard those guys in the copy room."
oscar's face shifts—confusion, frustration, something almost desperate. "what guys? what did they say? are you okay?"
"they said you're using me," you huff, "that this whole thing is just some game to mess with my head so you can get ahead."
oscar's brow furrows, eyes wide like you've just punched him. he whispers your name, "that's not true."
your laugh is hollow, bitter. "then why did they say it? they must've said something to you for them to believe it. why didn't you say anything?"
his jaw clenches. "a couple guys asked me about you, yeah. and I told them it's complicated. because it's non of their business. because I didn't want to make it harder."
"it's complicated? make it harder?" your voice rises, shaky but sharp. "do you think this is easy for me?"
he takes a step closer, voice dropping. "no. I'm just... trying to protect you."
you shake your head, tears slipping free now. you angrily wipe them away, gaze unwavering from his. "protect me? by pretending I'm a pawn in your game?"
his hands clench into fists at his sides, frustration bleeding into his words. "it's not like that, y/n. you don't know how much this—"
"don't." you cut him off sharply, voice trembling with pain and anger. "please don't."
oscar stares at you, like he's trying to read you—trying to find the part of you that'll listen. "I'm not playing you. I've never played you."
but you can't breathe. you can't think. you can't forgive him right now.
you turn away, voice breaking and another tear falling off your jaw. "maybe I was wrong about us."
the elevator dings behind you, the doors sliding open like a trap. you don't look back. instead of stepping onto the elevator with oscar like you've done everyday for the past 7 months, you walk away from him.
the office buzz hums around you, but it feels miles away. you drop down to your desk chair in a heap of weak limbs and tears—replaying the conversation like a broken record. his words. his eyes. the desperation and confusion within them.
maybe he's telling the truth—but the doubt's too loud. the voices from the copy room echoing in your mind like the cruel chorus to your least favourite song.
you close your eyes, fingers tightening on your phone. you want to text him, tell him to come back and explain. but pride stops you.
you let out a deep, shaky breath.
you wait at least 30 minutes until leaving, ensuring that oscar won't still be around.
⸻
the next morning you get to the office extra early and immediately drown yourself in promotion stuff. you're glued to the computer screen, jaw tight and fingers stiff over the keyboard—the sting of last nights confrontation still raw.
footsteps sound in your office. you don't have to look up to know it's oscar—you can smell his favourite coffee.
he freezes when his eyes land on you.
you look up, eyes cold, jaw clenched.
for a long moment, you don't say anything.
he clears his throat, voice tentative. "hi."
you don't reply, turning your attention back to your computer screen and praying for your tears to not fall.
he takes a cautious step forward, "look, I—"
you cut him off, voice sharp. "don't."
oscar's brows knit together, hurt flickering behind his eyes. you don't see it. "y/n, please. I'm sorry. I want to fix this."
you scoff, turning back to your screen, voice icy. "fix it? how? by pretending none of this ever happened? by lying about how you feel?"
he swallows hard, spine straightening. "I never lied about how I feel."
"then why didn't you say it? why let me drown in doubt and whispers?"
oscar's shoulders slump, full of defeat, "because I was scared you wouldn't believe me."
that has you finally glancing up, eyes blazing with a million emotions. "well, you were right."
the silence between you feels like a chasm.
oscar meets your gaze, voice low but steady.
"I'm here when you're ready to talk."
you take your bottom lip between your teeth and say nothing. you didn't mean it. of course you don't. it's just...a lot. and you're scared and hurt and have no idea what any of this means.
you watch oscar nod slowly, before turning and walking away, leaving you alone with the silence—and the storm inside your head.
but as soon as he leaves, you wish he was back.
⸻
the air feels thick—almost suffocating—with anticipation. your fingers clench at your sides, breathing shallow.
oscar stands nearby, but something's different: no spark of competitiveness, no fire in his eyes. just a quiet stillness that unsettles you.
it's the day of the promotion, and suddenly everyone in the office feels like they're at the oscars. kind smiles are sent your way and cautious looks sent to oscar. clara bought you a coffee this morning and lando patted your back and whispered good luck.
it all feels too much, and with the way oscar looks so unfazed by it all has you feeling even more unsettled.
diane clears her throat, holding the sealed envelope like it weighs a ton. "thank you everyone for the past couple weeks of hard work and dedication. i've been so busy with this promotion and putting out smile fires that I needed my staff to step up—and you did. so thank you."
everyone claps. you don't—too frozen.
"after careful consideration and, in all honesty, reading through a few applications from outside the company, i've come to a decision for a new head of the department."
time seems to slow and your heart hammers so loud you're sure it's audible. you can't decide if you're nervous about the promotion or if you're nervous because oscar hasn't looked at you.
diane smiles after what feels like an eternity, bright and genuine. "congratulations, y/n."
the room erupts in polite applause, but you barely hear it. your eyes immediately search for oscar. you're almost surprised to find him looking at you considering the morning, but he is.
he's not clapping. or smiling.
your stomach folds in on itself. but in reality—what could you expect. it all has you thinking back to that conversation you overheard. were you really just a pawn in oscar's game? and now that you've come out on top he's frustrated—too frustrated to send you a polite congratulatory nod?
you stand, mumble something about air and a rushed thank you before stepping out of the room. the weight of the announcement and oscar's reaction still hangs all around. suffocating you. your stride falters, and you press yourself to the wall.
your eyes flutter closed for a moment, as if gathering the courage to go back in there. your heart is pounding, and the last thing you want to do is join your co-workers again after looking like a fool and stumbling out of there.
after what feels like an eternity, you open your eyes again.
and that's when you see him.
it's like all the walls you've built around yourself come crashing down. the faux pride and shark looks that meant nothing—all fade into emptiness.
you should walk away. but you can't. because oscar's here. in front of you with apologetic eyes and flexing hands hanging at his sides.
"y/n," he starts. voice soft. he takes a deep breath a little unsteady but real. "congratulations. you deserve it."
"thanks." you mutter, arms crossed over your chest like an invisible shield.
a beat passes before oscar's swallowing again—running a hand over the back of neck like it might give him answers. "I need to be honest with you y/n."
here it comes, you think. the truth. the lies. the deception. the confirmation that your relationship with oscar—whatever it was—was nothing more than a meaningless game for him.
but then—
"I withdrew my application for this promotion weeks ago."
your breath hitches, disbelief and something tender swirling inside. "what?"
oscar meets your eyes, vulnerability cracking through his usual guarded expression. "yeah, I umm—I realized the promotion wasn't worth it if it meant standing in your way. you deserve this. you deserve everything."
his voice trembles, honest and fierce. your breath catches, new tears threatening to make an appearance. you don't say anything as oscar steps closer, the space between you growing fragile yet charged.
"I'm not perfect," he mumbles, eyes searching yours. "I'm terrible at this. but I can't keep hiding how I feel—I've been trying to find the right words for weeks, but somehow it never felt like the right moment."
he shifts, running a hand through his hair, "I wasn't sure if you'd even want to hear it, or if I'd sound like a fool."
"oscar," you cut him off gently—studying his vulnerability like it's a miracle. the oscar you thought you used to know—sharp and powerful and a little condescending—isn't here. instead you're met with this oscar. the one who kisses you softly, holds your hand back when you're sick and tells you things he had to build up courage to say.
"the truth is...from the moment we met, i’ve been completely captivated by you." he smiles softly, and it's genuine, not the usual smirk. he continues, "not just because you're smart or ambitious—though you're both, endlessly. but it's the little things. like how you bite your lip when you're thinking, or how you always tap your pen against your notebook during meetings. I notice when you get frustrated but don't want to admit it. the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. the stubborn way you defend your ideas, even when you know you're wrong."
oscar laughs quietly, shaking his head. "and god, are you stubborn."
you can't help but smile despite yourself, watery and genuine and oscar's heart thuds at the sight. he takes another step closer, more confident than before, his voice almost dropping to a whispers as he continues.
"I wanted to tell you all this the first day we met, but I was so damn nervous looking at you with your glossy lips and even prettier smile, that I couldn't even get a sentence out. I kept rehearsing what I'd say for weeks after that, but anytime I saw you, all the words just vanished."
he exhales, eyes locked on yours. "I wanted to be honest from the start, but I was terrified of messing everything up."
you feel something raw and real in that moment, something that makes the walls between you tremble.
"so I stayed quiet. and I let you think whatever you wanted. and that was the biggest mistake." oscar swallows hard, then reaches out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. "but I'm done hiding. I love you, sunshine. every part of you—the brilliance, the chaos, the stubbornness. I love it all. and I want you to have everything you deserve, because you deserve the world."
he's looking at you, waiting, hope and fear mingling in his gaze.
and without thinking you wrap your hands around his neck, pull him down and kiss him. and in this moment, that says everything.
⸻
the apartment smells faintly of lukewarm takeout and the lingering ghost of oscar's earlier culinary disaster—something involving burnt garlic, a suspiciously aggressive amount of paprika, and, tragically, shrimp. somewhere under the crusted frying pan in the sink lies the evidence, but neither of you have moved in hours.
you're both splayed across the couch like lazy cats, limbs tangled and half-covered by a blanket that insists on playing favourites—currently favouring oscar's legs and leaving your toes cold and exposed to the injustice of the living room draft. one of his socks is missing. he claims it's not a metaphor, but you're not convinced.
oscar is half-heartedly flipping through tv channels with a remote that's seen better days, landing on nothing long enough to commit. you scroll your phone without reading anything, stealing glances at him like some lovestruck teen in a coming-of-age movie. It would be embarrassing if it weren't so... nice.
he catches you—of course he does—and smirks without looking away from the screen. "stop it. you’re making me nervous," he says, voice lazy and smug.
you roll your eyes, biting back a grin.
"you? nervous?"
"what can I say, you keep me on my toes." he shrugs, his grin widening into something ridiculous—the kind that makes your chest ache in that inconvenient, happy way.
you laugh, soft and real, and nudge him with your elbow just hard enough to make him fake a dramatic wince. he retaliates by inching closer until his arm's around you, pulling you into the awkward warmth of two bodies trying to fit on a couch designed for one and a half.
"is that why you burned the shrimp? because I'm so intimidating?" you tease, setting your phone down on the coffee table.
"that shrimp burned itself. I was merely a spectator to its self-destruction," he says solemnly, which makes you laugh a real laugh, not the polite kind you use at parties or staff meetings.
"right," you say, shifting to rest your head on his shoulder. "just like how the rice 'mysteriously evaporated' from the pot?"
oscar gestures dramatically to the ceiling. "kitchen sabotage. I'm under attack. It's domestic terrorism in there."
"you're a menace to every spice rack you meet," you murmur, eyes half-lidded now, the weight of the day slowly dissolving under the rhythm of his heartbeat.
he turns toward you, lifting his arm to drape it around your shoulders with all the grace of a sleepy sloth. "yet somehow," he mumbles, leaning in conspiratorially, "you still love me."
"I never said that," you reply, but your voice is soft, too fond to sound convincing.
he presses a kiss to your temple. "didn't have to."
you roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. "don't go getting sentimental on me now."
"oh no, god forbid I express feelings." he clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "take it back."
"never. you'll have to live it now."
you're laughing again, and for a moment, it's just the sound of that—your laugh mixing with his—echoing quietly around the room like the softest kind of music.
then, in a quieter moment, he leans over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers pausing to linger at your cheek.
"deal," he murmurs, almost like a promise. "but only if you promise not to win every argument."
you grin, heart lighter than it's been in weeks.
"no promises."
oscar laughs—this full, unfiltered thing that starts in his chest and spills out into the room. the kind of laugh that makes your chest flutter and your brain short-circuit a little because it feels like home.
nor the neat, polished kind you imagined years ago. not the romantic comedy kind with string lights and perfect playlists. but the messy kind. the kind that smells like old takeout, has mismatched socks, and burns dinner twice in a row.
summary: it’s your first season back in the williams garage after your and alex’s breakup. a breakup for a relationship that you’ve kept hidden from almost everyone in the paddock—making it even harder to grieve. it gets even worse, because when you spot your awful ex, working in the williams garage, the first person you grab and claim as your new boyfriend just so happens to be alex.
[word count] 13.0k
warnings: second chance romance | fake dating | angst | humor | some fluffy moments | social media girl! reader | kissing | drinking | mature themes and dialogue | cliches!! | read at your own discretion
a/n: who doesn’t love a good exes to lovers fic—combined with fake dating hello! alex is very admirable to me and I think you should love him too💙 worked all day and night to pump this out — enjoy lovelies.
🎶 don’t forget you love me by calum hood, shameless by camilla cabello, third times a charm by megan moroney, devotion by justin bieber (feat. dijon), undressed by sombr + I miss you, I’m sorry by gracie abrams
part one: the worst plan you’ve ever had (and somehow the best one too)
returning to the williams garage for the new second half of the season should feel like coming home. it doesn't.
the familiar fluorescent lights above taunt you, the sound of drills and chatter filling the paddock with the usual buzz of pre-race energy. but beneath it all, there is the familiar weight in your chest—the one that hadn't quite left since silverstone.
since him.
alex albon stands merely twenty feet away from you, laughing at something one of his mechanics is saying, with his gangly arms crossed and his messy brown hair slightly tousled under his cap.
out of the corner of your eye, you can't help but to steal glances at him. much to your dismay, alex hasn't changed. he's still impossibly handsome, and definitely—devastatingly—no longer yours.
you haven't seen alex since the night everything went wrong. it happened during the weekend in silvertsone—during that lull of time between saturday and sunday. alex had a stressful week. you had a stressful week. things were changing and time was shrinking and before you could blink, you and alex were no longer...one.
there wasn't a dramatic fight, no shouting—just a quiet breakup behind the hotel door, full of things left unsaid. It was easier that way. clean. but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.
because holy fuck did it ever hurt. the ache in your chest as soon as you walked out of that dim hotel room—not even sparing a glance over your shoulder when you knew that alex watching you leave—was unimaginable. the months that followed even more so.
but this was good—you kept telling yourself. you and alex...you weren't meant to do this. it didn't fit and a relationship most definitely went against some kind of rule about drivers and staff being interpersonal. so it's...fine.
except it's not fine because now you're back in the garage, lanyard coupled with your camera strap hanging around your neck like a cruel reminder that you and alex won't be sharing little looks through the lens anymore. it's not easy and it's certainly not clean.
you sigh—reserved and a little exhausted. you avert your gaze from alex, duck your head and hide your eyes behind the william's branded cap sitting on your rain frizzled hair. because of course it's raining. seriously—the clouds have decided to open up and pour a rainforest level of perspiration on your already wet parade.
your thumb idly moves over the pad, scrolling through the pictures you'd snapped before you saw alex, and left your world tilted on its axis. it gives you something to do. something other than looking at your ex across the garage. something other than wondering if alex is still feeling the affects of your breakup as you are.
"y/n?"
you look up, too quickly, already forcing a smile—and then that smile freezes. your face falling flat.
because It was him.
your ex.
not alex—the other one. the one from before. the one who made you feel small, the one who cheated and then had the audacity to make you feel guilty for leaving. and now? liam is here, and he is looking down at you with some kind of smug grin and it has your heart racing. "well, well. didn't expect to see you here."
you swallow roughly, dropping the camera. it's hits your belly with a dull thump. your lips part, a million things you want to say—telling him to leave being the most prominent—but they don’t fall. instead, you blink and with a timid voice, you ask—"what are you doing here?"
he laughs like you're being funny. it makes you want to shrink away. it's not that you're scared of him, per say, but you're certainly not happy to be near him. liam ignores your question just because he can, "you're still running around garages? thought you would've moved on to bigger and more glamorous things."
the words hit harder than they should. you're working in your dream profession in the most important motorsport league in the world. fuck him. "william's hired me," you state, voice firm despite the way it wobbles. "so…I guess that's glamorous enough."
"right. yeah, i'm," liam pauses, straightening up like he's about to share something world changing. you doubt that. "i'm actually helping out with logistics here now. full time. it's a lot but...you know me. can't stay still for too long."
of course he works here—you've got to be kidding.
you nod shortly like you care. "that's ones word for it."
liam, seemingly unaware of your lack of interest, keeps going. that's just him though, too busy listening to himself to be socially aware of anything or anyone else around him. "I mean, it's wild. I've been flown out to four countries in two weeks. my name's on the operations board now. we're running tight this season, but I've got it under control." he pauses, and shrugs less than humbly. his smile too wide. "pretty different from the guy you remember, huh?"
"you always did like telling people how busy you are."
he tongues his cheek in an attempt to hide a satisfied grin. liam always knew how to get under your skin, and your snarky response is enough proof of that. "yeah, well, can't help it," he pauses. "life's been good though. actually met someone not long after our split. totally different vibe. no pressure, no "career tunnel vision"—just real connection."
you blink—is he really going there right now?
"anyways. what about you, y/n?" liam quirks a brow like he already knows the answer before he can finish the question. "are you seeing anybody?"
panic takes root before you can control it. your ex is looking at you like you're nothing. like working here—just as he is, mind you—is nothing more than a pointless hobby.
your body reacts before your head has a chance to catch up. without thinking—without even blinking—you reach out and grab the first arm within range.
"babe," you declare loudly—surely earning you a few concerned glances—almost too brightly, tugging on the sleeve of the fireproof blue and white race suit beside you. "there you are."
it's only then, when you feel those familiar fireproofs beneath your plan that you realize—realize it's not some hopeless mechanic or engineer you've claimed as your fake boyfriend, but instead it's alex fucking albon.
alex blinks, eyes zoning in on your small hand wrapped around his elbow and then trailing up to yours. "...what?"
you squeeze his arm—too tightly like it's a lifeline. leaning into his space, you smile sickly sweet up at alex. a desperate and pleading look in your eyes as you silently beg for his compliance.
he catches on quickly—of course he does. alex is smart. his brows lift, barely perceptible, before sliding an arm around your lower back, keeping you close.
alex still smells the same—earthy and with a hint of rubber tire—and it invades your senses like an old friend. you hate that you welcome it the same way.
"hey," he greets, voice smooth but low, almost unreadable. "everything okay?"
you nod quickly, flashing a grin so wide that it strains your cheeks—the kind of grin that could win an award for most unhinged display of coolness while also dying inside.
"just wanted to introduce you to my boyfriend," you say, way too brightly, looking back at liam who’s still standing across from you. "alex."
your ex's jaw twitches—barely, but you catch it. that tiny, involuntary spasm of someone trying hard not to react.
ha ha.
alex blinks once, then again, like he's still catching up — but his hand stays right there at the small of your back. if anything, his fingers press a little firmer. steady. present.
a pause stretches between the three of you, taut like a pulled wire.
liam’s eyes flick between you and alex, discomfort creeping into his posture. his hands drop to his sides, flex once, then disappear into his pockets.
"this is who you're seeing? a driver?"
there it is—the sneer buried inside the question. that same patronizing tilt you remember from all those old fights. your spine straightens.
you shrug like the question didn't even land. like your heart isn't slamming against your ribs, trying to claw its way out.
you lean—just a breath—into alex's side. like it's natural. like you belong there. you remember when you did.
"it's new," you say smoothly. "but serious."
another silence. heavy. awkward. you feel the tension bubbling under your skin, the old burn of shame you refuse to let show. your ex's eyes linger on alex like he's trying to intimidate him.
alex shifts beside you, standing just a bit taller. not showy. just solid. unbothered.
"we're actually headed to a briefing," you say— all too quick and clipped.
“driver stuff,” alex adds on knowingly. his voice is low, steady. like he weighed every word before letting it out.
you see the way liam stiffens at that. not because alex is showing off — but because he isn't. he doesn't need to.
your ex nods. mumbles something — "right. see you around." and finally, mercifully, walks off.
the second liam turns the corner, you step away from alex like he's suddenly on fire. you exhale hard and press both hands to your face in some lame attempt at calming down.
"oh my god," you groan. "i'm so sorry. I panicked. he—he’s the one who cheated on me. years ago. gaslit me so hard I questioned my own name. and now he's here. I didn't know what to do. and your arm was just there and i just—"
"hey." alex's voice cuts through the spiral —calm, a little amused in a way that has your mouth snapping shut. "so i'm your boyfriend now?"
you let out a strangled laugh, and peek at him through your fingers. "please forget I said anything."
he's smiling. but not teasing, exactly. more like... amused. and something else. something unreadable that makes your stomach pull tight.
"too late," he says. "i'm flattered, really."
you lower your hands and half-glare at him. "alex."
the smile softens. fading just a little at the corners. for a second—just one—something passes between you. quiet. familiar. dangerous.
dangerous in the way you remember how his hand used to find yours under the table during press conferences. dangerous in the you remember how he'd roll over in hotel rooms and whisper your name like it was a secret only he was allowed to keep.
"i'll play along if you need me to," he says, softer now. honest.
you swallow. look down at the dusty garage floor and then back up into his familiar eyes.
"you don't have to do that." you swallow.
"I know."
a long pause settles between you while the bustle of the paddock swirls around you—but in this small space between bodies, everything goes quiet.
"but I will," he finishes.
you look at him too long and suddenly, you're back on the edge of it—that same familiar, dangerous almost. not broken, but cracked. frayed at the edges. still warm.
still there.
what have you gotten yourself into?
part two: fake boyfriend rule #1: don't accidentally make it believable
by the time you stumble back into the media tent, your whole body is vibrating with secondhand humiliation.
you drop your gear to a unoccupied table with a thud, press your hands to your temples, and exhale like maybe you can sweat the whole moment out of existence.
two things are immediately clear:
one—you're going to spend the rest of the season hiding behind a lens and pretending you don't have functioning emotions.
and two—you are never, under any circumstances, making eye contact with alex albon again.
naturally, that lasts about three seconds.
he's already there, leaning against the espresso machine like he belongs in a magazine spread. arms crossed. one brow raised. watching you like he's been waiting.
"guess the briefing was cancelled?" he says, sipping from a paper cup. it must be green tea, you think. it’s always been his favourite. you haven’t been able to stomach the smell since silverstone.
you flinch. "we never had a briefing."
alex shrugs, annoyingly calm. "could've fooled me. you dragged me into a full-blown rom-com plot twist in front of your ex. felt like a scene partner."
you groan and sink into a chair, dropping your head back with a thunk. "I panicked, okay? I didn't mean to—god, I didn't mean for you to go along with it."
"you clung to my arm and called me babe," he says, deadpan. "in what universe was I just supposed to walk away after that?"
"literally any other universe," you mumble, rubbing at your eyes with the palm of your hands. "honestly, I was half expecting you to just laugh and leave me hanging."
alex’s expression shifts then, just slightly—the corners of his mouth curving into something halfway between amused and... wounded? no. that can't be right.
he steps forward, sets his drink on the table—you, you were right. green tea—and lowers himself into the chair across from you.
"if it helps," he says, voice quieter now, "I didn't do it to mess with you." you look up, startled. his eyes are steady on yours—not smug, not teasing. just alex. "I meant what I said," he adds. "i'll play along. if that's what you want."
your throat goes dry. "you're willing to fake-date me?" you ask, half-laughing. "that's...kind of insane."
alex smiles, slow and soft—the kind of smile that used to wreck you in hotel hallways and on long-haul flights.
"maybe," he says. "or maybe I know what it's like to stand across from someone who once wrecked you and feel like the only way to win is to look... completely unbothered."
that lands like a stone in your chest. that’s the thing about your silverstone breakup. you’re not exactly sure who initiated the end. you think it was you? but it all blurs together anytime you attempt at dissecting that night.
you blink once. twice. trying not to show how hard that hit. but he knows. he always knows.
before you can speak, alex reaches for his cup again and stands. "if we're doing this—and i'm not saying we should, just... if—we need ground rules."
you blink, brain still lagging. "you're serious?"
he nods. "no unnecessary touching in front of the crew. no weird, overly specific stories about anniversary trips that never happened. definitely no real feelings involved."
you snort. "right. because we're so good at keeping feelings out of things."
alex’s mouth twitches like he wants to say something more, but doesn't. "also," he continues, "if anyone asks, we've been together since... silverstone last year?"
your eyes go wide. "alex, that's the race where we actually broke up."
he tilts his head, grinning. "exactly. it's poetic."
before you can respond, the tent flap rustles and logan, the social admin who spends too much time on celebrity gossip, sticks his head in, grinning like a kid who just stumbled onto a secret.
"there you two are," he says. "I always knew something was going on."
you tense. "what?"
"I saw you earlier," logan says. "then alex told nicky you were together. the whole garage is buzzing. you guys are, like, disgustingly cute." and then he's gone—ducking out before either of you can react.
you turn toward alex, slowly, like your body is moving through molasses. "you told people?"
he doesn't flinch. "I didn't deny anything. there's a difference."
your head falls forward into your hands. "this is spiraling."
alex smirks, but it's gentler this time—like he's trying not to push too far. "welcome to the show, babe."
you peek at him through your fingers, giving him a withering glare. "you’re enjoying this."
he shrugs. "a little. but also... not as much as you think."
you sit up straighter, watching him.
alex doesn't look like he's joking anymore. his smile has faded, replaced by something quieter—something almost tender.
"you think this is a bad idea," you admit, “I should’ve just said I was single and drowned in humiliation.”
"I think it's a complicated idea," he corrects. "but I also think it might be the first time we've actually been honest about something in a while."
for a second, you just stare at each other—not with anger, not with bitterness. just the ache of two people who've circled each other for too long. who never really stopped caring, but don't know what to do with that care now.
your voice is soft when it finally comes out. "if we do this—fake or not—it's going to get messy."
alex nods in agreement. "probably."
"and you're okay with that?"
his answer is quiet. "i've been living in the mess ever since we ended. might as well make it worth something."
you don't have a reply for that—not one that wouldn't split you open. so instead, you stand. squeeze the strap of your camera like it might anchor you. then, almost without thinking, you glance back at him.
"i've got to shoot pit lane in twenty."
alex's smile returns—not smug, not performative. just soft and familiar in all the ways that make you feel soft.
"i'll walk with you."
and you let him.
for now.
part three: team dinners and terrible ideas
the next few days pass in a strange, surreal haze.
you'd expected the whole fake boyfriend thing with alex to collapse by tuesday at the latest—expected someone (most likely you if you're being honest) to crack under the weight of the awkwardness, or for the garage rumor mill to find something more interesting, and quietly let the story die.
but it doesn't.
instead, it grows.
not wildly—not dramatically. just enough to have you on the edge of your seat.
a hand placed gently on your back when you pass each other in the hospitality tent. shared looks from across the pit wall that linger a second too long. the occasional inside joke said just loud enough for someone else to overhear. it's convincing.
the worst part? it's not even that hard.
alex has always been easy. easy to fall into rhythm with. easy to trust. easy to miss.
too easy now, especially with the way he's slipped back into your life like he never left. alex still knows your tells—when you're tired, when you need water, when your shoulders are about to lock up from crouching behind your camera too long. he doesn't make a show of it. he just... shows up. quietly. constantly.
and that's the dangerous part.
you don't talk about silverstone. or the weeks after when you were left to wallow on your apartment couch and unfollow him on instagram. or the long, empty stretch of silence that lived between you since the breakup.
you just pretend.
by the time thursday rolls around, the whole team has gone full throttle into "bonding mode." or that's what logan calls it. you call it pointless.
there's a dinner booked at a quiet local restaurant after the press of media day—half casual, half corporate, with just enough pressure to show up looking vaguely put-together. the kind of outing where you'd usually blend into the end of the table, camera slung over the back of your chair, half-listening and half-editing photos between courses.
but tonight?
tonight is different. because now, no matter how hard you try to rationalize things, your stomach won't stop fluttering at the idea of walking into that dinner and sitting beside the boy who used to kiss your collarbone in parking garages between media calls.
the restaurant is tucked behind a narrow stone alley, the kind of place you'd only find if you knew where to look. warm light glowing against the windows, candle-flickers dancing across long wooden tables inside.
you hesitate at the threshold. you can already hear the laughter from within. the clinking of plates. someone doing a bad impression of someone important—you're pretty sure it's carlos.
you take one deep breath. it's just dinner. you've survived press days and pit lane stampedes. you can survive sitting next to your fake boyfriend and across from your cheating ex. easy.
with one more exhale, you push the door open.
warmth hits first—roasted garlic, butter, whatever wine they opened first. probably red if lisa from HR had anything to with it. your eyes scan the table automatically, spotting finalists engineers and mechanics, logistics crew, social media staff already two glasses in.
and then.
there.
alex.
he's sitting near the middle of the table, arm slung casually over the back of the chair beside him like he already knew it would be yours. once again—you could kill logan. alex’s got on a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled. a soft gold chain catching the light at his collarbone.
he looks up just as you step inside.
not a smirk. not a grin.
just that look. calm. soft. knowing. the same one he used to give you across hotel beds before whispering come here and pulling you close to kiss your neck.
you swallow hard. get it together, you tell yourself. he's pretending. you're pretending. this is fine.
before you can move, logan spots you—and lights up like a stadium floodlight. "she arrives!" he yells, throwing his arm out like you're royalty.
you cringe. "please don't start."
"oh, it's too late," logan says, patting the empty chair beside alex. "come sit, romeo's been saving you a seat all night."
alex grins while he stands—slow and easy—pulling the chair out for you with a maddening calm. "chivalry's not dead," alex teases, just loud enough for you to hear.
you arch a brow as you sit, voice dry. "you're enjoying this."
"i'm surviving," he replies, settling back into his chair, voice low enough that no one else hears. "you look good."
your breath stutters—just slightly. "don't start."
"i'm not," he chimes. "i'm observing."
your knees brush under the table, and neither of you make any moves to move.
soon enough orders get taken, more wine gets poured and bread sticks are consumed quicker than they are being restocked. the table comes alive, humming with stories and offhand jokes. carlos orders way too many appetizers and acts surprised when they barely fit on the table.
you keep yourself half-turned toward alex, hyper-aware of the space between your chairs—or lack of space, more accurately.
alex leans in when he talks to you, fingertips brushing your forearm once as he points at something on the menu. his hand rests on the back of your chair. not touching you, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.
and then you see liam.
two seats down. white button-down, sleeves pushed to the elbows. fork picking at food he isn't really eating. he's angled just enough toward you to be noticeable, but not obvious. he hasn't said much. but he's listening.
watching.
waiting.
you take another sip of wine and try really hard not to throw it in his face.
alex's voice finds your ear. "you okay?"
you blink up at him. he hasn't looked away.
"yeah," you say, almost convincing. "just... thinking."
he nods, but his hand shifts slightly, fingertips brushing your shoulder. barely there.
you don't flinch.
you’re not sure if alex believes you, but he doesn’t push it. and that’s enough for you now. you set down your wine and browse the menu again.
energy at the table ramps up again just as mains arrive. conversation shifts to race chaos, missed flights, media week horror stories. and then, inevitably—"so who made the first move?"
logan again, of course, grinning like a fox, white wine glass dangerously close to empty. "come on. spill. albon or the lens queen?"
you nearly knock over your drink, but alex doesn't flinch. he’ll, he doesn't even look up from his plate as he answers around a mouthful of carbonara. "she did."
"i did not—"
"she cornered me after qualifying in hungary," he says, smooth as silk and full of playfulness. "told me if I didn't kiss her that second, she was revoking my media privileges."
the table bursts into laughter.
you stare at him, half-horrified, half-laughing. "that's not even remotely what happened."
"i'm paraphrasing," he shrugs.
"you're lying."
alex leans in again, voice low, eyes glinting. "you never said it wasn't love at first insult."
you blink. because that? that didn’t feel scripted. that was you. and him. and it sure as hell felt real.
across the table, liam shifts in his seat. "must be nice," he mutters into his glass—low, but not low enough. conversation stutters. not a full stop. just a beat.
alex goes still beside you.
you swallow hard while your stomach twists—wine and butter smothered bread threatening to make a reappearance.
slowly, alex leans back again, his hand finding the back of your chair. this time, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric. a quiet claim, but also quiet reassurance.
you don't say anything and once again, you don't pull away.
dessert comes and goes.
coffee—green tea for alex like usual, which earns him a pestering from carlos—orders blur. plates clear. the team gets louder and softer all at once. that unique haze of long weeks and longer races.
your muscles are just starting to unclench when alex turns to you again. his voice is low, "you good?"
you nod once. "yeah. just...digesting."
alex doesn’t buy into your lame excuse of a deflection. “you want to go?" no pressure. just an offer, tucked gently inside concern.
you look at him—really look. at the line of his jaw. the crease in his cheek when he half-smiles. the soft warmth of skin where his shirt opens, the gold chain against it. he hasn't changed, not really. and that feels worse than it should. because he’s still your alex, even when he’s not.
your lips part. you want to say yes. take me away and show me how much you miss me.
but then liam stands from the table— all too quickly with his chair scraping the tiles. mumbles something about needing the bathroom. he sends you and alex one more harsh look before leaving.
with a flickering pulse, you send alex a look, "five more minutes. I just need to get some air.”
alex nods. doesn't look away. "okay."
something in your chest splinters—not sharp, but just enough to let something old, familiar, unfinished slip through. you stand before you do something stupid like tell him you love him, making your way through the dim restaurant the same way you came in.
outside, the air is cooler than expected and it hits you like a refreshing wave, brushing against your shoulders as you step out onto the sidewalk, arms folding across your chest like armor. behind you, the restaurant still hums—laughter, clinking glasses, someone yelling for the check. but it’s distant now.
you lean against the stone wall once you’re knees start to feel a little funny. it’s probably the wine and it’s also definitely alex.
a beat, and then the door creaks open. you don’t need to look to know that it’s alex. you know him well enough to know that your exit would’ve had him up and out of his seat only seconds after you. despite what it seemed like.
he steps out with that quiet, easy confidence—hands in his pockets, shirt slightly rumpled, a faint crease between his brows as he looks at you.
"you ran."
you huff, a little incredulously. "I stepped out."
"looked like running."
"don't flatter yourself."
he smiles—just a little. it’s crooked and familiar. the kind of smile that used to unravel you at 3 a.m. "thought you liked dramatic exits."
you roll your eyes, look toward the street. "I like controlled exits. that was more of a flight response."
he nods like that tracks. "was it the bread pudding? I warned them it was suspiciously wet."
you snort. "i've eaten track food in the rain. I can survive damp dessert." a beat passes. the kind that hovers.
alex rocks slightly next to you, close enough to share body heat, but not touching. "liam looked like he was trying to vaporize me with his mind," he says casually, like it's just another debrief.
your jaw tightens. "liam can choke," you say flatly.
he blinks. "wow."
you don't elaborate.
he waits and then, "that's not even your creative insult voice. that's just pure hatred."
"because I do," you say, turning toward him. quieter, but sharper. "I hate him. I hate the way he makes me feel like I still owe him something. hate that he acts like none of it happened."
alex doesn't move, but his eyes darken. his jaw flexes once. he doesn't touch you. he just stands there, steady but also ready to turn heel and punch liam out of you gave him permission.
you breathe in and out. long drags that almost have you feeling wobbly. "anyway," you mutter. "not here to spiral. just here to not punch anyone in front of pr."
"proud of you," he murmurs. "growth."
you elbow him. "you're annoying."
"yet here you are. on a chilly sidewalk. with me."
"believe me, i've had worse company."
he glances down at you, amused. "like who?"
your mouth twitches. "want a list? liam's got a permanent spot at the top." you make an imaginary ranking with your hands, earning a fond smile from alex.
"I could've guessed. at one point I thought he might’ve jumped over the candles in order to choke us out.”
you huff a laugh because you could see it. a beat passes, a car horn honks down the street, and then, quieter—“I don't get how I ever believed him."
alex doesn't answer right away—he can’t—he just nudges your foot lightly with his. "people like that are good at sounding true," he says. "until they're not."
you look at him, and for a second, there's no act. no joke. just street noise and the ache of history between you, not full covered by the months and months of burying.
your voice is softer when you respond. "yeah. well, never again."
"good," he notes. another beat and then—“so do we think logan's still in there giving his ted talk on pasta shapes or did someone finally cut his mic?"
you snort. "he tried to argue tortellini is an 'elite-tier personality food.' I almost threw a knife at him."
alex grins. "that's the woman I remember."
part 4: if this is gake, then why does it hurt?
the sun isn't fully up yet, but the garage is already stirring with low voices, soft clangs of metal, and radios crackling faintly with logistics chatter.
you move quietly behind the lens, slipping through the garage like a shadow. the camera hangs in a familiar weight around your neck, and the steady click of the shutter is the only thing keeping you grounded in the early haze. you focus on the details—a mechanic's gloved hands tightening bolts, steam rising from a half-drunk coffee, glints of light off carbon fiber.
you keep working. you keep moving. you don't think. you certainly don’t feel. you round a corner, eyes on your viewfinder—and nearly walk straight into him.
alex, of course.
you go to apologize, some half joke about him taking up too much space for his own good ready to roll of the tongue, but that all stops and your stomach sinks the moment you see who he's with.
a woman in black clothes. tall. ridiculously pretty. she’s blonde, with one of those confident laughs that belong to people who've never been heartbroken. her hand rests casually on alex's arm. it’s looks easy, intimate, like she's done it before. like she has every right to.
you freeze. just half a second. but it's enough for heat to rise along the back of your neck like an unwanted spike.
alex hasn't noticed you yet. he's smiling—a real and relaxed smile. his head tilts slightly toward her, eyes crinkling at the corners.
and just like that, something inside you twists hot and mean. god, get over it. he's not yours. not anymore. maybe he never was. despite what your brain is saying, your heart still beats wildly, and your grip tightens around the camera until your knuckles go white.
you mutter something—half apology, half excuse—and move past them before either one can say a word. your shoulder brushes his as you pass.
you don't look back. not when he says your name and certainly not when the girl beside him asks what happened.
it doesn’t take long for alex to follow your footsteps, and by the time he catches up to you, you're halfway down the back corridor, scrolling through your sd card with all the frantic focus of someone pretending they're not spiraling.
he falls into step beside you, close enough that you catch the faint earthy smell of his aftershave. "hey," he says, voice careful.
you don't look up. "busy."
alex almost snorts. "I can tell." a beat passes before he continues, quieter. "you okay?"
you give a humorless laugh under your breath. "peachy."
he looks at you like he doesn't buy it for a second. "she's from pirelli. we were talking tires."
you stop walking and turn to him, slowly, and your eyebrows drawn with caution. your voice is calm—too calm—in a way that makes alex gulp. "why are you explaining that to me?"
he blinks and doesn't answer right away. much to your dismay, the pause—that second of hesitation—says more than you want it to. finally, alex swallows, eyes soft. "because you looked like you cared."
your heart drops straight into your stomach. you stare at him, throat tight. his face is maddeningly unreadable. it’s too open, too steady, like he's waiting for you to say something he already knows you won't.
"I don't," you mumble, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the strap of your camera.
you hate how quiet it comes out—how timid you sound. how much it sounds like a lie. alex doesn’t push—just nods once. slowly.
"okay," he says, softer now. "but if you did...I wouldn't mind." the words land between you like a weight. solid and impossible to ignore.
your chest tightens—not from panic, not with alex—but from something far more dangerous. the kind of ache that lives between denial and want.
he steps in, not close enough to touch, but just close enough for you to feel him. to feel that pull that never really went away. "you've got that look," alex murmurs, eyes dancing around your expression like you’re painting.
you narrow your eyes. "what look?"
"the one you get before you do something reckless. or throw something."
you huff. "you're not that important." but you don't move. you don't leave. because he is that important.
alex’s gaze flicks toward the empty photo bay—it’s quiet, tucked behind equipment cases and fluorescent shadows—then back to you.
"five minutes," he says. it’s not a question, it’s just an offer.
you hesitate, pulse kicking up, hard and sudden.
you should say no.
you have work. you have boundaries. you have no business wanting five more minutes with someone you're not supposed to miss. but.
your voice barely makes it out.
"okay."
you end up settling onto an old crate, tucked away just far enough to avoid most eyes—or at least the ones that might ask questions you're not ready to answer.
the thwack-thwack of impact wrenches and the soft hum of paddock chatter fills the background, steady and strangely calming.
you lean back, balancing a lukewarm paper cup between your fingers. alex had handed it to you a few minutes ago, and somehow it feels like the only tether holding the two of you in the same orbit. it’s something sweet and warm. you drink it in small sips.
out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him.
he's not looking at you—not yet. his eyes are fixed on the cracked pavement, thumb tapping a restless rhythm against his own cup's rim.
then he speaks. his voice low and a little rough—like it's been sitting in his throat too long. "I hated pretending you didn't exist last year. when we were together."
your breath catches. you turn slowly toward him, pulse hitching.
he still doesn't meet your eyes. "i'd be walking past you on the grid," he says, just above the garage noise, "and you'd smile like we were just coworkers. like it was nothing. it felt... wrong."
your chest tightens—that same old ache folding into something more fragile. you want to be sharp. or say something clever. but all that escapes is a quiet, "you were the one who said we had to keep it quiet."
it’s then that alex finally looks at you. his eyes are shaded—not just tired, but heavy with something softer. something that lives between guilt and memory. "I know," he swallows, voice gone thick. "I thought I was protecting you. from the noise. from the press. from all the questions. but mostly... from me."
you blink. eyebrows lifting, surprised. "from you?"
a small, almost broken smile curves his lips. "I thought i'd mess it up.” he sends you a gentle look, one that holds even more truth that words. “and I did. in silverstone. I gave you no other option.”
your heart slams against your ribs. maybe because you know exactly what he means. or maybe because deep down, you've been waiting to hear it.
you don't think, you just reach out, brushing your fingers against his hand around the cup. barely a touch. it’s hesitant but it’s alive.
his fingers twitch and then—then—curl gently around yours.
you don't say anything.
neither does he.
you don't need to.
in that quiet space between breaths, it feels like the world shrinks to just this—the weight of old truths, the warmth of his skin, the closeness you swore you wouldn't miss and somehow always did.
you almost laugh. not out of humor, but out of disbelief. because here you are, fake dating for the cameras, sitting in a garage full of noise, and somehow this feels more real than anything's felt in months.
alex clears his throat, like he's trying to shake it off. "so, uh... the espressos not terrible, huh?"
you grin and some of the tension slips loose. "better than I expected."
he bumps your shoulder, light and easy, "see? progress."
and just like that, the silence changes. it’s still full and most definitely still complicated, but... not final.
part 5: one bed, too many feelings
the paddock fades behind you, replaced by the soft mechanical hum of the hotel elevator as the day finally comes to a close. the chaos of race day slips away bit by bit, leaving just silence and nerves. your shoulders still ache from crouching to capture the perfect image, and as you reach out to press the button for your floor, your muscles cry.
your eyes stay fixed on the little screen counting floor numbers, but your mind's occupied with the familiar stature of the man next to you. alex. he had caught up to you before you could escape the paddock—fans and reports still lingering around as he grabbed your elbow. with a soft grin and squinting form the setting sun, he insisted to walk back to the hotel with you.
and you let him.
if you knew what mishap was waiting for you at the reception desk, you may of just stayed overnight in the williams garage and prayed no janitors thought you were dead.
the receptionist had frowned, clicking around for a bit too long, and then said the words that made your heart stutter: "looks like there's been a mix-up — only one room left on this floor."
alex raised an eyebrow beside you, spun the room key once between his fingers, and shrugged. "guess we're roomies."
you had stared at him. the disbelief, the exasperation—and, fine, the flicker of something else—all twisting in your chest. "great," you muttered, tone flat, but something in your face betrayed you.
he flashed you that crooked grin. "hey, at least it's not carlos—he farts in his sleep."
so here you are, replaying everything—the weight of his words, the way his fingers brushed yours, the stupid crooked smile that still makes your chest twist.
alex stands still next to you, hands shoved into his pockets. he watches the numbers, too—or pretends to always. he doesn't look at you. okay he does, but only when he thinks you're not paying attention.
when the elevator dings, the hallway unfolds quiet and soft, muted hotel lighting casting everything in beige and cream. a world away from the sound and sweat of the circuit.
you glance at the door number engraved on the silver key dangling from alex’s long finger.
412.
alex leads you to the room with a hand hovering near your lower back. he unlocks the door in silence, just the clinking sound of the lock unlatching to be heard in the otherwise quiet hallway.
once it opens, you step in and alex follows suit. the door shuts behind you with a soft click that sounds louder than it should—like it just locked in something you can't quite name.
your eyes dance around the space. crisp paint, even crisper bedding. a bathroom and a nice chair. but there's one bed. of course there's only one bed. and it's king-sized, which somehow makes it worse. like the universe had a sense of humor and was currently laughing its ass off.
you stand there for a second, just staring at the bed. your heart does a weird, awkward flip and you inhale slow through your nose so you don't turn heel and run. it's just a bed. you're a professional. you've shared hotel rooms before. just... not with an ex who you're still holding on to.
alex leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching you. his smirk is infuriatingly calm. he knows exactly what you're thinking. and he's definitely enjoying it. at least, on the outside he is.
"well, this is... cozy," you chirp, trying for breezy, but your voice catches slightly at the end.
he pushes off the wall and gestures toward the bed. "you can have the window side."
"how generous," you deadpan. "i'm sure you'll be stealing the blankets by midnight."
"probably," he says. "don’t know if you recall, but I snore like a dying engine."
"I remember," you mutter, already regretting everything. you climb onto the edge of the bed like it might bite you. your camera bag stays between you like a buffer zone.
alex sits on the other side, long legs stretched out, keeping his distance. for now. he's still in his team kit, and his hair has curled at the edges caused by the humid rain that drenched the track earlier.
"so what's the plan?" you ask, voice lighter than you feel. "we just... pretend this is totally normal?”’
he glances over at you. "isn't that what we're good at?"
your lips twitch into something half between a laugh and a sigh. "we're going to regret this."
"probably," he says again, voice edging with exhaustion. "but i'm too tired to care."
the air conditioner hums. the silence stretches.
you turn away first and tuck your legs under yourself, desperately trying to ignore the fact of how your pulse won't calm down.
"you don't usually share beds with your exes on race weekends, right?" you ask, more to fill the quiet than searching for an actual answer.
he laughs softly. "nope. you're a first."
you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "don't get cocky."
"too late." god, it's so dangerous—how easy this still is. how he can sit next to you like no time has passed, like nothing's broken.
you pull your knees closer. a beat passes, and you take the time to let your eyes wander further. a tv remote, faded curtains and a room service menu. a smile automatically tugs across your face, your voice is quieter now. "you remember japan?"
he turns slightly toward you. "which part?"
"the night after the race. the room service. the natto."
he groans through a laugh. "it tasted like something that should've been banned by the fia."
you laugh too—real, reluctant. "you made the worst face."
"you were laughing," he says, his voice softer now. "I remember thinking that was it. like... that was the happiest i'd ever been."
you freeze.
it's too much. too honest. too real.
you meet his eyes. "alex."
he doesn't move. his voice drops lower, almost a rasp. "i'm not pretending right now."
you swallow hard. "I know," you whisper back, just as quiet and hopeful.
the air between you tightens, turning electric. you lean in—just a little. barely enough to count. but he mirrors the motion, slow and careful, like the slightest wrong move might shatter everything.
your noses nearly touch. you can feel the warmth of his breath, the tension from the race still lingering in his shoulders. his eyes flicker to your lips and back again.
your heart is hammering. you stop breathing. and then—you pull back. just a few inches. your breath leaves you in a tremble. you’re not sure why you feel like crying. "this is a bad idea."
alex watches you for a beat, expression unreadable, and then nods. "I know."
but neither of you move. seconds stretch. your fingers twitch at your side. his jaw clenches, and then loosens. you glance down at his hand—so close to yours. too close.
the silence isn't empty—it's full of things neither of you say.
you turn your face away, but not fully. just enough to break the spell. "we should go to sleep."
alex doesn't answer. just looks at you like he's memorizing something. and slowly, quietly, the moment fades—like warm breath on cold glass. "yeah," he murmurs.
part 6: the things you don't say out loud (until you do)
the morning light slices through the curtains in soft, fractured beams. it catches on the tangled sheets around you, on the curve of your shoulder—on the shape of his absence.
you wake slowly, blinking quickly to discover that you're alone in the bed. your heart drops before you can stop it—some ridiculous flare of disappointment that makes you feel silly almost instantly.
just before you can reach for your phone, you hear it—the soft creak of the bathroom door opening, followed by the sound of a toothbrush working.
alex steps out a moment later, hair damp form the shower and, toothbrush handing form his mouth. "oh," he says around the handle once he sees that you’re awake. "sorry. didn't mean to wake you."
the relief at seeing him is almost as embarrassing as the where are you text you planned to send him in a desperate panic. you sit up, rubbing at your face. "you didn't."
but your voice betrays you. it’s hoarse and uncertain and it’s definitely a tell that you’ve only been conscious sub 30 seconds.
alex notices. of course he does.
neither of you mention the night before. not how close you were. not how close you still are. not the way it almost felt like nothing had ever ended.
once he spits his toothpaste in the sink and wipes his mouth with a towel, alex crosses the room, and grabs a hoodie from the back of a chair. he tosses you a glance. "tea?" he prompts like it's any other morning.
all you can do is nod. but you're still carefully watching him—and alex knows it.
because whatever happened between you last night, even if you didn't say it, even if you didn't touch...it still happened.
and it's still happening. and you’re not sure when it’s going to burst out the seams.
the paddock is already buzzing by the time you get there. sunday mornings always carry that low-grade tension—early press huddles, fans behind the barriers, pr people power-walking through garages with phones glued to their ears.
you hang near the media tent, adjusting your camera strap like it's armor, trying to ignore the extra attention that seems to follow you now.
people nod at you more than usual. a ferrari photographer winks. someone from alpine throws you a thumbs-up like you're part of an inside joke no one told you about. even logan, across the garage, catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows like a kid who definitely knows something he shouldn't.
perfect. the entire paddock thinks you're starring in a romcom you didn't sign up for.
you duck behind one of the support trucks, and lift your camera, adjusting the lens for the morning light. you focus on the movement—pit lane crew working on piastri’s car, glints of chrome, the way the sun skims across the front wing of the williams car.
focus. breathe. this is your job, not a soap opera.
"hey."
the sound startles you, nearly colliding with alex as you turn fast on your heels. he's close. just inside that invisible boundary line, leaning in so his voice doesn't carry.
"you okay?" he asks, brows furrowed, eyes scanning yours.
you nod too fast, heart beat recovering from the scare. "yeah. just avoiding logan's smug face and trying not to become the lead in the group chat this weekend."
a flicker of a smile tugs at his mouth. "he does have a flair for drama," alex notes, stepping slightly closer as someone walks behind you both.
his hand brushes the middle of your back so light that it’s maybe nothing. or maybe too much. either way, it sends a ripple through your spine.
thankfully, you don't react. not visibly anyways.
alex tilts his head, watching you. "for what it's worth... I think we're pulling it off. the couple thing."
you shoot him a deadpanned look. "great. i've always dreamed of being pit lane's most convincing pr stunt."
he grins. "you're a natural."
you roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you with the faintest twitch.
a pause settles between you. alex watches you for a beat longer, and there's something different in his eyes now. softer. also heavier? like he's debating whether to say what he really wants to.
and then, in a voice quieter than before, he admits, "i'm glad it's you."
your brow lifts. "what?"
he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "just... if i've gotta fake-date someone on the grid, i'm glad it's you."
you blink, surprised. caught off guard by the honesty of it. "okay," you say slowly. "that might be the nicest weird compliment i've gotten all weekend. but i’ll take it, considering I put us in this mess.”
before alex can respond, someone shouts his name from across the garage—a team comms person pointing toward the media pen, no doubt waiting for him to hurry the hell up. alex gives you a small nod and that signature half-smile. "catch you in a bit, fake girlfriend."
you call after him, "try not to fall in love with me mid-interview."
he tosses a wink over his shoulder without missing a step.
and then he's gone. swallowed back into the noise and speed of race day, leaving you with a camera full of photos and a stomach full of butterflies you definitely did not invite.
part 7: caught staring, caught feelings
the week between race weekends passes in a blur of flights, overflowing laundry, packing cubes, deadlines, and pretending like everything's totally fine.
you barely see alex after austria. a few texts here and there. mostly logistics. timing. one half-joke about shared hotel rooms again—neither of you really reply to that one.
but the silence isn't awkward. it's worse than that.
it's deliberate.
like you both know exactly how close you got in that hotel room—under thin sheets, too many inches stolen between unspoken things. every brush of his hand, every quiet breath in the dark, none of it was in the script. and neither of you stopped it.
now, silverstone looms.
his home race. big crowds. bigger press. and all eyes on him. which means all eyes on you, too.
you show up early, camera slung over your shoulder, lanyard bouncing against your chest as you weave through rows of fans crowding the barriers. the energy hits different here. louder and deeper like the track itself is holding its breath.
you haven't seen him yet, and honestly, you're not sure if you want to.
which makes it all the more jarring when you step into the williams hospitality tent and walk straight into carlos sainz mid-bite—and somehow still smirking.
the spaniard he leans back in his chair, fork dangling lazily from his fingers, that familiar gleam in his eyes. "well, well," he says, tone already smug. "the famous girlfriend.”
you freeze mid-step, camera swinging at your side. "excuse me?"
carlos gestures with his fork, like he's presenting hard evidence. "alex. he told me. you two've been keeping secrets, no?"
you open your mouth, then shut it again. breathe. play it cool. "we're... private," you say eventually. tone neutral, but not entirely convincing.
he raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. "ah," he says, stabbing at his pasta. "so private you forgot to tell half the paddock for a year. must be very real." he's not being rude, you know that. carlos is just blunt, and in turn, very intelligent.
you're still trying to come up with something halfway decent in response when a voice cuts in behind you—low, dry, and unmistakably alex.
"carlos."
you turn just as alex steps up beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, expression pulled tight like he's fighting a smile.
"what?" carlos shrugs, far too pleased with himself. "I like her. she's honest. and clearly too good for you."
you almost laugh. almost. but you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. not from carlos, but from the way alex is standing a little too close, his hand hovering at the small of your back.
like a reflex and habit.
"you didn't deny it," carlos points out, clearly enjoying himself.
alex smirks—calm, controlled, practiced. "didn't have to." and that? that lands right in the center of your chest. not a full ache, but definitely not nothing.
carlos grins. "fine. don't tell me. but i'm bringing this up at the next drivers' dinner."
"please don't," alex mutters.
"too late," carlos says, already typing something into his phone. when carlos turns his attention back to his food, alex leans in just a little, voice soft near your ear.
"you okay?"
you nod, even though you're not sure. maybe because if you don't, you'll say something you can't take back.
alex watches you for a second longer, eyes scanning like he's searching for the truth underneath your silence. but whatever he sees, he doesn't push. "i'll find you after practice," he says, even quieter. "if I don't get mobbed first."
you offer him a crooked half-smile. "tell your fans to chill. you're spoken for, remember?"
he chuckles as he backs away—but the look he gives you isn't staged. no, it's something that's been building long before the fake dating started. maybe even before the breakup.
and just like that, he's gone— swallowed up by the buzz of debriefs and interviews and everything else that keeps this world spinning.
you exhale, adjust your lens, and pretend your heart isn't racing just because of a look.
qualifying day — morning
the paddock pulses with energy, the kind that vibrates through the soles of your shoes and makes your chest shake. silverstone's always been a beast—home crowds, unpredictable skies, and more cameras than common sense.
you move through the chaos with your own camera slung across your body like usual, caffeine buzzing in your veins. your lanyard bounces with every step, and your hair's already a mess from ducking under scaffolding and sneaking between barriers for the right shot.
you don't see alex until you turn a corner and nearly run straight into him. he's leaning against a stack of tires, helmet tucked under his arm, grinning like he's been standing there just long enough to wait you out. knowing alex, he probably was.
"you always film me when i'm sweaty and sleep-deprived. it's targeted."
you raise your camera. "it's authentic. be grateful."
"i'm a driver, not a documentary."
"you're both now. sorry." there’s not hint of an apology in your voice as you lift the viewfinder and snap a few frames all while he mock-grimaces.
he steps a little closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes his when you adjust the lens. his voice drops—low and soft under the hum of the paddock.
"you nervous?"
"why would I be nervous?"
he tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to read through you. "because today's going to be loud. for both of us."
you keep the camera up. "i'll survive."
his eyes linger, like he wants to say more. but instead, he just taps the front of your lens gently.
"get my good side, alright?"
"you only have one side," you deadpan.
"which is devastatingly handsome. I agree."
you both laugh, too loud for how close you're standing, too easy for people pretending this is nothing.
later, back in the garage, everything tightens. the air feels heavier and more focused. qualifying's coming fast, and every person here moves like they've got a stopwatch ticking in their head.
you sit tucked into a narrow desk station between two walls, downloading footage from earlier. your focus is clipped, sharp, jaw tight as you scan through frame after frame of alex in motion.
you hear footsteps. and then your name.
"didn't expect to see you here still."
you go still and the turn in your seat slowly, stomach sinking as an all too familiar and unwanted sight greets you.
liam.
he's wearing sunglasses even through its just been pouring, and his team branded zip up has a coffee stain near the logo. he's still smiling like you're together. like you're friends.
"get some good shots?" he asks, nodding at your gear. but his words hold no weight. liam doesn't care, he never has.
your jaw tightens. "I'm happy with them, yes." you mutter, turning back to your screen.
liam's eyes flick to the far end of the garage where alex is adjusting his gloves, laughing with one of the engineers. "I honestly didn't think albon would be your type." he steps in closer. "can I ask," he doesn't wait for you to speak before leaning in too close, almost bumping your camera off the table in the process. "was he your first choice? or did sainz blow you off and leave you with no choice?"
you stand abruptly, chair scraping across the floor with a loud, sharp noise. "what is your—"
"hey, relax," he interrupts, smirking. "i'm just saying... you always hated the spotlight. and now look at you. all over the paddock like some trophy girlfriend."
before you can utter a word, you feel someone step up beside you. a quiet and steady presence that comes as an immediate relief.
alex doesn't speak right away, and he doesn't touch you. he just stands there, like a wall between you and the echo of everything liam still knows how to twist.
"everything alright?" alex questions, voice low and unreadable. he's not looking at you though. no—his sharp gaze is set on liam.
liam scoffs. "wow. you really trained him, huh?" he glances alex up and down. "didn't know you were into playing guard dog."
alex's jaw ticks, but his voice stays level and cold. "she doesn't need anyone to guard her," he states. "but if you keep talking to her like that, i'll stop pretending to be polite."
the silence that follows is thick and tense—like the whole garage is holding its breath.
liam glances between you both. then shrugs, fake-casual. "touchy, touchy." and then he walks off like he won something.
you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, eyes fixed on the floor. you can feel that your face is hot with rage, and your eyes burn with unshed tears from your exes awful insinuations.
"you didn't have to do that," you say, quieter now.
alex keeps looking in the direction liam disappeared, his expression unreadable.
"yeah," he says finally, voice softer now. "I did."
you don't know what to say to that. not when something heavy is pressing behind your ribs—something like guilt, something like gratitude, something you don't want to name.
alex turns to you, gentle now. he reaches out, and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear like it's the easiest thing in the world.
"you okay?" he asks again.
this time when you nod, a shaky breathing leaving your chest that tells the opposite, alex doesn’t believe it. he pulls you in for a sweet hug—pressing a kiss to your hairline that says more than words could.
late night — post-qualifying, hotel rooftop
you found yourself outside only a few hours after the saturday evening bleeds into night. your hair is still wet from your shower, pyjamas clinging to your skin in a comfortable way.
the hotel rooftop was mostly empty, the city's neon lights flickering distantly, traffic humming far below. it's a quiet and much needed relief after a day that felt like being microwaved inside a media cage.
you don't know why you came up here. maybe to breathe? maybe to be alone? maybe because a part of you hoped he'd follow.
and, of course, he did. it's like alex knew that you were awake even despite your usual early bedtime. he steps out onto the rooftop minutes after you, two mugs in hand and his hoodie zipped only halfway up. you catch sight of the t-shirt you used to steal adorning his chest.
"I come bearing tea," he breathes, holding out one mug like a peace offering. "because coffee at this hour felt like a crime."
you took the mug wordlessly, fingers brushing his briefly. your hands are cold; his aren’t. probably due to the fact he made drinks.
"I would've taken coffee."
alex grins, "I know, that's why I didn't make it."
you sip instead of answering him, letting the steam warm your face before continuing, "shouldn't you be asleep?"
he shrugs, stepping beside you but careful not to crowd your space. "couldn't. brain won't shut off." he paused. "you?"
you gave a half-smile, eyes on the glittering city below. "same." your response is quick. posed and breezy. it’s easier than trying to explain how you’re really feeling—how your fake relationship with alex feels so identical to your past real one, that it’s almost cruel.
for a few seconds, the only sound between you was the whistle of wind and distant bass from the hotel below.
then, just before it gets too quiet, alex speaks. "carlos asked me if we were in love."
you nearly choke on your tea. "what?" you splutter, wiping a dribble of tea that escapes form the corner of your lips.
"you know carlos. subtle as a tire wall." alex laughs softly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes as he continues. "he cornered me in the cooldown room. asked if we were real, or just good actors."
your chest tightens incredibly fast. "and you said?” you trail off, something like hope lacing your tone.
alex glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "I said no."
his answer hits like a dropped wrench—sudden, ugly and almost makes you jump. your grip tightens on the hotel mug in your clutches as you turn back toward the skyline, trying not to let anything show.
of course he said no.
this whole thing is fake. pretend. a performance. any word of the sort. you can’t curse yourself too hard though, not when the line between real and fake has blurred into nothingness.
just as you go to excuse yourself to go cry silently against the crisp hotel pillow you left behind, alex steps a little closer, just close enough for your breath to catch and shoulders to tighten.
"I said no," he repeats, slower this time, "because I didn't want to lie."
you turn toward him, brows furrowed. you’re not sure how this is better—and clearly alex sees your distraught eyes, because he holds your gaze, steady and sure. "I didn't want to say we were in love like it was some joke. not when I mean it."
your mouth opens, but no words come.
alex exhales through his nose, suddenly feeling awkward as he runs a hand through his unruly hair. "god, that was... not smooth."
"no," you answer quietly. "but honest."
there was a pause.
then.
"say it," you whisper.
alex blinks. "what?"
"say it." your voice is steady now, tinged with hope and something promising. you don’t know where the courage came from, only that you needed it. needed to hear it in something more than touches, glances, and almosts.
he stares at you for a long moment, like he’s searching for an escape. searching your eyes to ensure that yes, you want this. want him. after a second that feels like a thousand, alex steps in. he’s close—close enough for your pulse to jump and breath to catch.
"you know I always look for you," alex’s words are no higher than a whisper, voice almost lost in the wind. "in every paddock, every crowd, every press line. even when I act like I don't care. especially then."
your chest aches.
he doesn’t touch you—not yet. his hands stay wrapped around the mug, like it was the only thing holding him together.
"I wanted to say something that day," he admits, “as soon as you walked out that door. but I couldn’t. not when i’d just broken your heart.” alex sighs shakily, eyes locking with yours as he continues. "and then we were halfway across the world and pretending to be fine. I didn't want to add to the noise. or say the wrong thing. or make you stay when you didn't want to."
"you think I didn't want to?" you asked, stunned.
"I don't know." his voice cracks just enough for you to notice. "you left. I let you. that's on me."
your breath hitched, tea was cooling fast under your hands, but you don’t care. "you didn't stop me either," you whisper sadly, “I wanted you to stop me.”
"I thought i'd already lost you," alex sighs.
the silence that followed was louder than anything either of you could say. then, carefully, like gravity gave up holding you apart, he stepped into your orbit. you watch carefully through tear filled eyes as alex sets his mug down on a ledge, between flower pots like it belongs. he takes yours next, sitting it next to his with a dull clink.
this time, when alex reaches out, it’s not for the mug. it’s for you. his touch is gentle—thumb brushing along your cheek, fingers settling against your jaw. you lean into the touch like it was instinct. mostly because it is.
and when he kisses you—quiet and slow—it doesn’t feel like a grand gesture, and it’s certainly doesn’t feel like an act. it feels inevitable. it feels like a hundred wordless sorries spoken against your lips.
the kiss—you and alex—feels like something you've both been circling around since the start. no cameras, no lies, and right now, certainly no pretending.
part 8: now what?
next morning, race day, austin TX
you'd slept, technically.
your eyes were shut. your body still—letting the weight of the duvet press you into the mattress. but your mind replayed last night on an endless loop. the rooftop, the tea, his voice, the kiss—over and over until dream and memory blurred.
by the time you stepped into the paddock, like usual, everything was already moving full throttle. race day. cameras flashing everywhere. fans chanting from behind fences, waving flags like lifelines.
you pull your cap lower, trying to focus. camera? check. lanyard? check. resolve not to combust every time you saw alex? well, that’s still pending.
he spots you before you spot him.
you’re by the williams garage, adjusting light settings on your camera and completely encapsulated by the lens.
he passes you by with his trainer talking about something alex doesn’t really care to hear. his fireproof undershirt is tucked messily into his race suit, zipper halfway down, hair still damp from running drills.
when your eyes catch his, alex is already smiling. the eye contact is brief, and he looks away like if he stares too long you might blind him.
your stomach flips. because alex is acting like normal. of course he is. you'd only kissed, not rewrite the laws of physics. no big deal. just two exes faking a relationship who maybe weren't faking anymore and also maybe still wanted each other and—
you nearly walk into a cart stacked with tires.
"you good?" logan appears beside you like some chaos-summoned spirit. you wouldn’t be suprised if he is.
you blink at him, brushing imagine dust off your shirt. "fine."
he raises a brow. "you look like you saw a ghost."
"just...pre-race nerves."
"you're not the one driving."
you mutter something incoherent under your breath and pretend to scroll through photos. but logan would never let you get away that easy. he leans in, conspiratorial. "so... is it weird if I say you two actually seem more believable now?"
you freeze. "what?"
"you and alex. the fake dating thing. didn't buy it at first, but now? there's like... a vibe."
you gave him a half mortified look. "what kind of vibe?"
"like..." he pauses, clearly enjoying this, "'i'd fight someone in parc fermé for you' vibes."
before you could respond, you felt it—that prickle at the back of your neck, that sudden awareness you always get when alex is near. he’s across the garage now, leaning over the nose of the car, deep in discussion with an engineer. but his eyes find you anyway. just for a second.
you look back, and this time, neither of you look away. not until someone calls his name and alex has no choice but to turn, slipping into driver mode like it’s second skin.
you exhale shakily, hand pressed to your stomach like that will make everything feel better.
the problem with kissing alex albon is that now you remember exactly how it felt. and the problem with pretending is that, suddenly, you don’t know what part is real anymore.
austin – mid race
the pit wall buzzed like it had a heartbeat of its own. telemetry data streamed across the monitors. radios cracked and chimed. engineers shouted lap times, tire wear, gaps. you stood just behind the controlled chaos, headphones on but turned down low—enough to catch alex's voice when it filtered through comms, smooth but taut with focus.
you usually don’t wear the headphones. not because you don’t want to, but because hearing alex’s voice used to make you want to die. but now—with him slipping them over your ears before the race with a half lipped grin—you don’t ever want to take them off.
so you half pretend to take photos of inside the garage while you’re actually listening to every complain, praise and breath fall from his lips.
twenty-five laps in, and alex is holding p7. grinding it out on aging mediums, defending like hell from george in the mercedes behind him, and chasing hamilton ahead.
every time his name flashed on the timing screen, your heart stutters. not because it’s your job to care, but because it’s him.
the same man who kissed you like you were the only real thing left in the world last night. the same man you'd once left, terrified he'd forget you in the next country. the same man now threading a car through corners at 190mph like it was nothing—trusting you'll still be there when it stopped.
"box, box," came the call on lap 27.
in the blink, he was in. the garage exploded into repetitive movement. tires, jacks, and helmets all snapping into place. you step back, camera raised to catch the choreography with the detachment of a professional.
but your hands trembled.
alex's car hit the marks perfectly.
the stop was fast—2.3 seconds—the cleanest of all the stops so far.
until it wasn't. a rear tire gun jammed. only for a beat, but it was enough to fuck everything off.
2.3 seconds turned into 4.8.
you felt it like a punch to the chest.
"go, go, go." alex peeled out of the box with a certain pull, already yelling over the radio. not furious. just frustrated—controlled but frustrated—you could tell that by the edge in his voice.
"what happened with the left rear?"
no one answers right away. you look over at the crew. everyone back in position, reviewing footage and telemetry. fixing. adjusting. pretending like they aren’t holding their breath.
alex was back out in p9.
you lower your camera slowly, and then glance at the monitor again. you see him taking copse flat, no lift, chasing time like he could will it back.
and he did. sort of. he finished p8. it wasn't a disaster but it wasn't what it should've been either. the whole garage buzzed with what-if energy.
you wait by the monitors, unsure if you should stay or go. unsure if alex wants to deal with you and whatever weird state you’re both hovering in.
the paddock is thinning, the crews already packing up their things and heading to their hotels. somewhere nearby, champagne pops from another team's podium celebration.
you don’t move, not until—"you're still here?"
it’s alex's voice, left hoarse from the race, but unmistakably his. he’s still suited, fireproof top clinging to him and sweat caked in his hair. he looks tired, yet also wired—and something else you can’t name.
"you usually disappear right after interviews," alex adds, stepping closer.
"I was going to."
he raises a brow. "but?"
you exhale slowly. "you looked like you needed someone to be here."
his expression softens. "I did."
for a second, the noise of the track seemed far away. like the whole world has been pressed on pause. there’s no screaming fans or lando’s laugh between chugs of champagne. just your breathing and alex’s heart beat.
you study his face—flushed, raw, and real. so much left unsaid.
"that stop... wasn't your fault," you say quietly.
alex scoffs under his breath. "tell that to the two places I lost."
"you still drove the wheels off that thing."
he doesn’t answer right away, just nods once. and then, finally, he looks at you like you aren’t a ghost anymore. like he was still holding that kiss in his chest. "you helped today, you know," he murmured.
"I didn't do anything." you laugh shyly.
alex shrugs like it’s simple. to him, perhaps it is. "you stayed."
you swallow, pulse ticking louder than the fading engines. you want to touch him. want him to touch you. you want to say everything you aren’t supposed to.
instead, you shove your hands into your jacket pockets, voice light. "don't get used to it. I might disappear on you again."
alex smirks faintly, but his eyes? his eyes don’t play along. "if you do," he mutters, "i'll come after you this time."
evening — post-race team dinner, austin
the williams hospitality tent glowed under soft fairy lights strung across the ceiling. long tables were littered with paper plates, half-finished burgers, and flutes of bubbly champagne passed around like trophies. loud in that post-race way—adrenaline, exhaustion, and celebration all tangled.
you slip in late, camera still around your neck like it always is, hair windblown from standing trackside as the last drivers crossed the line. technically, you’re still working—someone always wants footage for socials—but your fingers haven’t touched the shutter in twenty minutes.
you spot alex across the room before he sees you. or maybe he did see you first, because he is already walking towards you.
there’s no hesitation in his steps. suddenly he’s just there. alex doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches over and takes the strap of the camera from around your neck. he lifts it off gently and then sets it on an empty chair even softer.
"you're done for the night," he breathes.
"you don't get to decide that."
"I do when your eyes are half-closed and your fingers are frozen."
you roll your eyes but don’t protest when he nudges a glass into your hand before tugging you toward the back table, away from the noise and the heart of the crowd.
you sit side by side on a bench, knees barely brushing—a closeness that doesn’t need announcing anymore. alex runs his finger over the stem of the glass in his hand, glancing at you sideways like he id trying to hide it.
you lean in, just slightly. "you always this twitchy after a top-ten finish?"
he scoffs but it has no bite. "it's not nerves."
"no?"
he looks at you—properly now—and something about the curve of his mouth makes your stomach flip. "you looked really good in that stupid team vest today."
you choke on your drink.
he continues like you didn’t almost just spit take, “and then with my headphones on. god.”
"you're unbelievable."
"i'm serious." he shrugs. "you wore it better than me, and that's saying something."
you bump your shoulder against his. "you're just trying to distract me so I don't ask how many places you could've gained if your left rear hadn't jammed."
"low blow," he murmurs, mock offended. his hand finds your knee beneath the table, and he just rests there, warm and steady. no drama, no show. just... easy.
your chest tightens with something unspoken. it’s something old and also something very, very new.
you and alex stay like that for a while, letting the the buzz of celebration, murmurs of post-race interviews, and even logan's obnoxious laugh from two tables away fade into background static.
and when you tilt your face toward his—just a little—he doesn’t ask. he just leans in without a blink and kisses you. it’s slow and casual, like the ones you’ve shared many times before.
like it didn't mean everything to you right now.
the kind of kiss shared with someone who already knew you—knew the things you didn't say out loud. familiar. certain.
when you pull apart, neither of you smile right away. you both just sit there—close, still, quiet and completely content.
eventually, you break the silence. "so should we just... talk about it?"
alex's lips quirk. "we are talking about it."
you huff, but don’t move away. his hand is still on your knee, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sleeve without thinking. "okay," you sigh happily, voice quiet as you peer up at him. "but... this isn't fake anymore, right?"
alex doesn’t answer. he doesn’t need to. instead he leans in again, pressing his forehead to yours before placing another chaste kiss to your lips.
he doesn’t even pull away before he answers. "was it ever?"
morning before zandvoort race day
it had taken you and alex months. a dozen cities, two hotel mishaps, and one very unconvincing fake relationship—and somewhere between a late-night balcony kiss and a quiet team dinner, something had shifted.
you never really said it out loud—not like people expect you to. no big declarations. no perfect moment with violins in the background.
but the world around you notice.
especially now.
the paddock at zandvoort was alive with heat and music and that strange electricity that only comes before lights-out. the sun split through passing clouds, flags waved, people shouting alex's name from the barriers, and still—somehow—you manage to forget it is all this big.
because when you spot him before the drivers' parade, leaning against the barrier with his helmet in one hand and eyes scanning the crowd—then inevitably landing directly on you—everything else fades to background noise.
that smile. quick, crooked, a little private.
the kind of smile he used to hide. but now? he gives it to you freely.
you lift your camera without thinking.
click.
you didn't even need to check the screen. you already knew it was your favorite photo of the weekend.
"still pretending?" came a voice beside you.
you turn, a little startled, to find carlos grinning, arms crossed casually next to you.
"sorry?"
carlos nods towards alex. "him. you. that look he gives you. it's different now."
you hesitate. "it's not a story."
"no," carlos hums, smiling softer. "it's something better.”
you blink. "what do you mean?"
carlos shrugs casually. "he used to look like he was running from something. now he looks like he's staying for someone."
you don’t reply. not because you didn't know what to say—but because there was nothing left to explain.
your answer is already written in the lines of alex's face, the ease in his shoulders, the way his eyes always find yours even in a crowd of thousands.
this isn’t some rom com. it’s something real. something chosen. and when alex catches your eye again from across the barrier with that same grin and same quiet certainty, you feel it fully—for the first time.
you lower your camera and take a deep breath, the noise of the paddock washing around you like a distant tide.
alex's eyes hold yours once more—steady, soft, and real.
no words were needed. not now. because for the first time in a long time, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be.
hi!! could you possibly write an ollie bearman imagine where you’re a driver / reserve driver for another team on the grid (doesn’t matter which one) and the f1 movie is being promoted. you know the moment where max and yuki are playing the heads up game and max asks if he’s beautiful and when yuki tells him he is very beautiful he says george russell? that moment except instead of max and yuki, ollie and ocon are playing. ollie has a crush on you and when he’s told that whoever he’s playing is very beautiful, he slips up and says you!
i am SO sorry this is so wordy! if you need any clarification on the request, i am more than happy to provide some hahaha. and no worries if you can’t fulfill it! have a nice rest of your day 😊
Hello!! this is super super cute and I’ll definitely be fulfilling this sometime soon❤️
you weren’t expecting company today, comfortable in an oversized hoodie with your hair thrown up in a loose bun. certainly not any company with a bouquet of assorted flowers and messy hair.
the knock startles your walk to the kitchen, internally weighing the pros and cons between making pancakes or being lazy and just having cereal for breakfast. you walk over to the door with a yawn, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you pull it open.
when you open your front door, you’re met with the sight of george, and a bouquet of flowers. your eyes widen slightly, straightening your posture as you study the myriad of flowers in his arms.
“hi,” george grins, slightly out of breath like he had ran here from whatever florist he stopped at. he’s wearing that gorgeous green collared shirt you love, the one that makes his eyes that much brighter when he smiles at you.
“hi?” you respond, brows furrowed. “what.. what’s with the flowers?”
he looks down at the flowers with a grin before meeting your eyes again. his cheeks are pink, and he tilts his head slightly before he speaks again. “do i have to have a reason?”
you blink at him, opening your mouth to say something before you press your lips together as your own face flushes. “no! i’m just.. surprised, is all. thank you,” you smile.
he hands them over with such care, like each petal might fall off if he isn’t gentle. the skin of his arms is a bit damp, but the heat outside the door explains enough of that. “i ran by that florist’s shop you always love to stare through the window of on my way here. i couldn't help myself.”
“you thought of me when you saw sunflowers?” you tease, pulling the flowers closer as you bury your nose in the center of one of the blooms.
“they were so bright,” he hums, dragging his fingers along the petals of one of the larger blooms. “they just made me feel happy. like you do.”
your face heats up as you duck your head to hide the stupid grin spreading across your face. the larger sunflowers are tucked in alongside stems of baby’s breath and eucalyptus, your favorites.
“i guess this is enough for you to be let in,” you sigh, biting your lip as his smile grows and he runs a hand through his hair. “come on in, flower boy.”
he chuckles as he follows you inside, taking off his shoes to put beside yours with a sense of domestic ease that makes your chest warm. he looks relaxed in your space, padding behind you to the kitchen where you grab a glass of water to stick the flowers haphazardly in to stop yourself from staring at him.
“i didn’t mean to interrupt your morning,” george murmurs, watching you fill up the small glass with water. “i was out and couldn’t stop thinking about you. figured that was a good enough reason for me to surprise you with flowers and my presence.”
you laugh quietly, unable to keep the smile off your face as you glance to look at him. “you’re disgustingly sweet,” you hum.
he chuckles again. “i try my best, love,” he says, bowing sarcastically toward you.
you roll your eyes, setting the flowers gently into the vase. “do you want pancakes?”
“are you offering or trying to bribe me for something?” he teases, walking into the kitchen to watch as you fiddle with the flowers, scrunching your nose when they won’t balance in the vase like you want them to.
“i’m offering,” you scoff, pulling out the mixing bowl from your cabinet. “but i can also bribe you with them so i can get some affection if i need to.”
george moves before you can say anything else, his lips brushing your temple as he presses his lips to the skin before trailing down to your cheek. his hands hold your waist gently, nudging your nose with his as he pulls you into him. “you never have to bribe me for that, darling,” he hums. “unlimited supply of it whenever you need it.”
your heart seems to stutter in response, blushing as you let yourself lean into his warmth. “you’re distracting the chef, mister russell,” you chide, pulling back as you kiss his cheek.
he makes a noise of protest, his hands lingering on your waist even as you pull away to grab the ingredients you’ll need for breakfast. “i bring my favorite girl flowers and she won’t even let me distract her from breakfast,” he sighs sarcastically, leaning back against the counter as you start pouring in the flour and spices into the bowl.
you let out a snort as you go to your fridge, pulling out the eggs and butter as well. the batter comes together quickly, though you’re aware of george’s gaze on you as you wait for the pan on your stovetop to preheat.
he walks over, nudging his hip into yours gently. “why don’t you go fix those flowers properly, hm?” he says, voice full of warmth. “they deserve a proper vase, not just a glass.”
you blink at him, raising a brow. “you’re kicking me out of my own kitchen?”
george grins at you, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear from where it fell out of the haphazard bun on your head. “well i can’t let you have all the fun today, can i?” he hums, kissing your forehead. “i’m a gentleman, let me provide for you.”
you snort as you roll your eyes, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. his hands wander to your hips again, but this time he pulls you away from the stove and pushes you toward your table where the flowers were put into a plain water glass.
“fine, fine,” you dramatically sigh, as if not having to actually prepare your own breakfast is a detriment to your day. “but if you burn my pancakes-”
“blimey, darling, try to have some faith in me, yeah?” he retorts, cutting you off as he turns to you. “you’re not the only one who knows how to cook here.”
“that’s debatable,” you mutter, still unable to keep the smile off your face. your face is warm as you pad over to your living room, digging through your storage cabinet for the vase you know you have. it’s pale blue and chipped but full of memories of past bouquets you’ve placed inside, carrying it over to the sink to wash off the dust.
you look to the side as you let the vase fill up with water, george’s brow furrowing slightly as he flips over a pancake, huffing as it splatters slightly at the corners. he pushes a curl back from where it fell down onto his forehead, and you’re vaguely aware of him humming something under his breath.
he looks like he belongs here, in your space with you, and your face burns as you turn back to tending to the flowers.
you set the vase down, untying the twine from around the base of the stems as you remove the brown paper wrapping. you trim the stems from all of the different flowers at a slight angle like you remember your mother always doing, arranging them with care in your vase.
you sit the finished piece on your counter, smiling to yourself as you mess with the layers of eucalyptus and baby’s breath between each of the large sunflower blooms. you step back to admire them, george turning around when you let out a sigh.
“they look gorgeous, love,” he calls over, and you blush as you turn to hide your smile in the flowers.
he’s so sweet, thoughtful, and stupidly handsome, his affection presenting himself in the form of gentle embraces and acts of service.
and apparently now, spontaneous flower deliveries when you weren’t even anticipating seeing him at all today. you touch one of the petals of the sunflower, your heart full of emotions that you can’t even start to untangle.
the sun filters through the petals and stems of the flowers, casting soft shadows onto the counter below. it makes the whole room warmer, almost as if george had brought the extra sunlight into your space with him.
“alright,” you sigh, looking toward george. “i’ve done my task. is my kitchen still inhabitable?”
“barely,” he calls, and you snort as you pad into the kitchen, watching him focus on plating the pancakes with a surprising amount of care. his tongue is poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, and the sight alone makes you blush.
the stacks of pancakes are perfectly imperfect, slightly uneven as they lean to the left. a few of the edges look well done and a bit crispy, but you don’t mind. not even a little.
he looks at you as you walk up beside him with a soft blush on his face. “i think i did pretty well, all things considered.”
you huff out a laugh, nudging his hip with yours like he did to you earlier. “lemme help you finish,” you hum, grabbing the maple syrup from the counter, reaching across him slightly to drizzle it over the top.
you pause when you look at him again, letting out a laugh. “you’ve got batter on your face, love.”
george blinks at you, brows furrowing as he reaches up to touch one of his cheeks gingerly, searching for the mess. “where?”
you reach up and wipe the smudge from his opposite cheek his own hand is resting on with your thumb, bringing it back to your lips to lick it clean without a second thought.
he stares at you with wide eyes, letting out a breathy laugh as he leans in to kiss you when you pull your thumb back with a soft pop. the kiss is languid and soft, one of his hands sliding to your lower back to draw you in closer until your chest is pressed against his. your arms relax around his shoulders, fingers tracing lazy patterns into the muscle.
his lips move against yours like he has all the time in the world to do this, to kiss you breathless in your kitchen as a lopsided stack of pancakes cools beside you.
you sigh and melt into him, content and warm, pulling back slightly when he goes to deepen the kiss as his arms draw you in that much tighter. “breakfast first,” you mumble against his lips.
he groans, burying his face into the crook of your neck. you can feel his smile against your flushed skin, shivering lightly. “that was cruel, darling.”
you hum softly, scratching one hand lazily through his hair at the nape of his neck. “you’ll live.”
“alright, alright,” he pulls back to look at you, his hands squeezing lightly where they rest on your waist as his grin widens. ”after?”
you snort, pulling back to take the plate over to your table, gesturing for him to grab the two smaller plates and the syrup. “after this, you’re all mine.”
“yes ma’am,” he murmurs, following you to the table with a lovesick smile on his face, kissing your temple once more as he slides into the seat next to you.
you weren’t expecting company today, but with the warm breakfast between you, your favorite flowers standing proud on the counter, and george’s hand resting on your thigh under the table, you wouldn’t want your morning to be going any other way.
summary: when lando norris keeps coming into your flower shop, you’re determined to figure out why he needs that many orders.
[word count] 6.1k
warnings: strangers to friends to lovers | flower shop owner! reader | fluff | humor | obvious and some not so obvious pining | kissing | humour! | cliches! | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion
a/n: hello!!! and welcome to my very first formula one fic 🙌🏻 I’ve been writing nhl fics for years now and i’ve decided it’s finally time to dip my toe into some new media! hope any devoted f1 readers and/or my previous followers take their time to check this out.
🎶 say you love me by fleetwood mac, message in a bottle by taylor swift + don’t dream it’s over by crowded house
lando norris has never been too fond about the smell of flowers.
it's not that there's anything wrong with the floral scent—it's just definitely, absolutely not for him. there's something about that light, almost crisp musty smell that rubs lando the wrong way.
or maybe it's perhaps what he associates with those smells. red roses? his primary school principal who very clearly had it out for lando. daisies? the single flower he picked for his 1st grade crush, and she threw the petals back in his face as some sort of childish rejection. lilies? his late grandmothers funeral. morbid, yes, but true.
so to say he was dreading walking into this monaco floral shop was an understatement. it's painted a pastel peach, windowsills just a few shades darker so that they stand out from the brick. not that you can really see them though, not with the abundance of flowers in the hanging window baskets.
lando has already passed the store twice in procrastination. the first time he claimed he needed a coffee from the cafe across the street—because if he had to go in a flower shop, he at least needed some caffeine to serve as a pick me up while he did so.
the second time—okay, well, the second time he didn't have a valid excuse. lando simply just kept trucking by like the peach coloured brick wasn't flashing at him. taunting him with its happy colour and girly smell.
it's just...it's his elderly neighbours birthday. his elderly neighbour who he adores and who always bakes cookies for him, and lando won't be home to wish her well because of traveling. and she loves flowers. lando knows this because they're always on her counter, and he can smell peonies on her clothes anytime she stops by for milk, pinching lando's cheek while she calls him adorable.
so he knows he has to do this. his displeasure towards the arrangements be damned. lando tells himself to man the hell up and do this one nice thing for the sweet woman across the hall.
lando inhales strongly, collecting as much monaco sea air as possible before entering the shop. the wooden door creaks as he pushes it open, and instantly lando is hit with a million pollen and petal particles.
"fuckin' hell." he mumbles to himself, voice barley audible as his green eyes trail around the shop. with something similar to a grimace on his face, lando takes in the overgrown space. flowers fill every available space, making it almost impossible for a normal folk—or clueless folk—like him to navigate through.
lando takes a step, and the floorboards groan under his weight, giving away how worn and aged this place is. it's been a flower shop for as long as lando has lived in monaco, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder how long before too. surely, years based on the way that the smell so practically oozing from the light blue striped wallpaper.
wallpaper he can barley see, mind you, due to the wall of roses.
"is there something I can help you find?"
lando blinks, head snapping away from a bright yellow bundle of...some kind of flower, and towards the direction of your voice.
there's a section of teal counter, an old fashioned register and company cards sitting on top, and that's where you are. you've got on a apron that's the same peach colour as the bricks outside. and your hair’s pulled back in an effortless kind of way, and lando already knows that you smell like the flowers all around.
he swallows roughly and blinks again.
you smile, almost in amusement, and that's when he realizes that he's been stroking a flower petal like a muppet. "sorry, yeah, actually."
lando weaves through the various display tables until he's at the counter. up close, he's able to get a proper look at you, and his mouth goes dry at the sight. you're ridiculously beautiful. like other worldly kind of beautiful that would make even the most charismatic and charming men fall to their knees.
also known as him.
lando pushes through the sudden school boy nerves that are threatening to climb up his throat, sending you a boyish—yet confident—grin. "I want to send my neighbour flowers for her birthday, but i've got no clue about flowers."
you hum, "okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"
he sends you a sheepish look, palms flat on the counter top. "all of them."
you giggle and lando swears he could faint at the sound.
"all of them?"
"yeah," he nods, "I swear that lady is like a bloody flower enthusiast. she's always got them on her island." lando pauses, a smile pulling at his lips, "and her windowsill. and her balcony. and her bedroom surely."
your fingers drum along the counter in thought. lando notes that your nails are painted a pink. it reminds him of the monaco sunset.
"and how old is said neighbour."
he blows out a breath and then grins cheekily, "elderly."
"i'd go with something classic," you tell him after a moment. you reach for a binder tucked between the register and the wall. it's blue and decorated with uniformed stickers and sharpie notes. you flip it open, swiping through a few sheets.
you point to a flower lando has never heard of, but he leans in and looks like he understands anyways. maybe—just a possibility—he was doing it so he could be closer to you. and yup, you smell like a flower field.
"i'd also throw some carnation in there. it's a classic flower for a piece. and beautiful."
lando's eyes dart away from the book and meet yours. they're swimming with passion and eagerness. it's cute, and lando can't help but to smile like a lunatic—teeth on full display. "I trust you, do whatever you think will make her happy."
your smile widens, "what's your budget."
he purses his lips. he hasn't really even thought about it. how much do flowers even cost? a beat passes, "don't have one."
your eyes widen briefly before you manage to control yourself. you're well aware that monaco is full of rich and wealthy people—even if you're not familiar with every single face that walks into your shop—but hearing those words never fails to suprise you.
flowers are expensive, and someone as clueless about flowers as the man in front of you seems to be, would have no idea.
"okay, that's great." you grab a form from behind the counter and then reach for a pen. you click the top a few times, the sound audible over the radio playing softly in the background. "when do you want the flowers to arrive?"
he tells you the date and you neatly write it down.
"and what's the name of the recipient?"
repeat.
"and the name of the sender?" you question after jotting down the previous answer. your eyes flicker up towards his green ones, a hint of personal curiosity in your gaze.
he takes his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to contain the embarrassing grin wanting to take over his face. "lando."
"lando." you repeat.
"and your name?"
the pen in your hand almost falls away, your eyes quickly finding his once more. "y/n." you tell him timidly, warmth collecting high on your cheeks as he repeats your name, slowly, like he's testing out how it sounds.
his eyes don't stray from yours, gaze tense and fond in a way that makes you positively squirm. you clear your throat, ball tip of the pen hitting the paper once more. "and the address?"
lando recites his neighbours address with ease, and you write down it just as quick. you question him on a few more basic things; phone number for contact purposes, if he’d like a card with the arrangement, and if so what he’d like to say, and you even asked him what day he’d prefer for delivery.
he asks if you do the deliveries, and you get warm again—lando wants to bathe in the pink of your cheeks. you tell him you have a driver who does it for you.
after he signs his name on the form, you take it back from him, moving towards the register between you. it’s silent for moment while you presumably log in, nails tapping rhythmically on the screen while you do so.
“can't make her birthday?”
your question has lando momentarily confused, brows pulled tight. it’s only when you raise an eyebrow in silent amusement that lando remembers who he’s getting the arrangement for—and why he’s here in the first place.
“oh, right,” he swallows roughly, “no I can't, i'm traveling for work.”
you hum and shoot him a curious glance. “what do you do for work?”
he laughs once and breathy, eyes falling down towards the floorboards for a few moments. once he meets your gaze again, he notes that you haven’t look away—and you look more intrigued than before.
lando grins, “you're not going to believe me if I tell you.”
“are you putting on some kind of mysterious act?” your fingers halt on the screen—hovering over the baby breath button—and you squint hesitantly.
“depends?” he hisses through his teeth, “is it working?”
“I suppose so,” you breathe a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, eyes darting away before quickly darting back to his. “i'm definitely curious now.”
“wasn't before?”
you kiss your teeth to keep a fond smile from blossoming on your face. you’ve dealt with flirty customers before, obviously, but there’s something about the curly haired, gap toothed smiley one in front of you now that has you actually flustered.
you decide to not answer right away, clicking a few more flowers on your computer for the order print. finally, after what feels like an eternity for lando, you answer.
“you're cheeky,” you muse.
he’s still grinning. “it's a part of my charm.”
you bark a laugh, “I bet it is.”
the door creaks open, breaking whatever trance the both of you had been in. a customer, a few years older than you, walks in causally—moving towards some daffodils you’d potted this morning.
you clear your throat, looking away from lando’s green gaze, and back towards the till. he watches you click a few more buttons and type some codes in—and then the printer is whirling to life.
the customer picks a bouquet and moves to wait behind lando.
his heart pings at the time being interrupted.
“i'll just take your card information then,” you say promptly, “my machine takes a picture of it for billing, if that’s okay with you?”
lando slides his credit card over the counter, “yeah, sure. thank you.” he watches as you carefully take his card—like it’s made of gold—and place it on some fancy machine lando couldn’t even attempt to dissect. it makes a few clicking sounds, presumably capturing the information, and then you pass it back to him.
“all right, you're all set.” your fingers brush his when lando takes it back.
“I appreciate this.” lando shoots a glance over his shoulder once the guy starts impatiently tapping his foot. and look at that—he’s suddenly got the urge to punch out your next customer!! without hesitation, lando looks back at you, continuing like nothing. “I think I would've been completely lost without you.”
you grin, smoothing down the front of your apron like a nervous habit. “we'll, it is my job.”
“you're good at it,” he compliments with an earnest smirk.
it makes you laugh awkwardly, absentmindedly reaching out to straighten up the stack of local business pamphlets. you keep them there for weddings as it helps local venues get recognition. “i'm not sure one could really be good at taking information for a floral arrangement,” you mumble modestly.
“well I think you're great.” lando answers quickly.
the guy behind him clears his throat and lando has to stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull.
you smile politely and lando, despite the annoyance for the douche waiting in line, follows suit, his own toothy grin reappearing. “i'll be seeing you, y/n.”
—
almost a month passes before you see lando again. despite the hopes of him walking back through the front door of your flower shop again, you didn’t believe the day would come.
but here he is, clad in a branded sweatshirt and shorts with his curly hair all unruly like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way over.
lando has some dignity, so he pretends to look very interested in the rose display before letting his eyes wander in search of you. yeah well, that whole self dignity thing lasts 20 seconds before his sights are set on you in your peach apron.
you can’t help but grin once you feel his gaze land upon you. like him, you also wanted to seem casual, so as soon as you realized it was him walking through your door, you reached for a book, and flipped it open to a random page in some attempt to appear scholarly.
you can’t even remember if this book is yours or the delivery guys.
“back for more flowers?” you ask, eyes flickering up to his approaching figure.
lando grins, “yeah.” no.
you close the book and put it back in the half dusty corner you found it. “the neighbour again?” you question, placing your palms flat against the counter.
he rubs the back of his neck. “not this time, but she loved them so much—sent me cookies as a thank you and everything.”
“i'm offended that you didn't bring me one,” you tease him quickly and easily, making lando’s stomach do that funny drop you get on a carnival ride.
you log into the register and lando laughs, answering you with an impressed raise to his eyebrows, “they barley lasted 10 minutes.”
you snicker at that. opening up a new order form in his file, you ask—“so who are these ones for?”
lando almost curses aloud. he really hadn’t thought this far ahead. when he woke up this morning he had a plan. he really did. despite the jet lag he’s still battling from three weeks of consistent travel paired with inconsistent sleep, lando was going to get up early and come visit your shop.
he was going to turn on his natural flirtatious side and ask you to dinner or something just as chivalrous—perhaps the new cocktail lounge that opened up just down the street from your shop.
but then you asked him with a pretty smile if he was back for more flowers and he just said yes without a second to process the question.
you wait patiently, fingers still—and now a bit longer and painted a sky blue—for his answer. an answer that’s taking a suspiciously long time for a person who supposedly came in here to but flowers.
lando clears his throat, “my...sister.”
“your sister?”
“yeah,” he nods, “it's her graduation.” she’s only in second year at uni, you idiot.
your eyebrows draw together with confusion.“in august?”
lando rubs along the back of his tanned neck once more, and you pick up that it must be an anxious habit. “yeah,” he winces, eyes trickling back to yours from where they briefly settled on the worn wood beneath his feet. “i'm a little late.”
“alright well,” you exhale, bringing out that same binder from last time. “let's do something simple, and something that says sorry for the late arrangement.” your teasing tone has lando smiling softly. you don’t catch it, too busy flipping through the pages in search of the flower you’d thought of it your head.
“yeah,” he breathes, “sounds great.”
you make a little trumpet noise when you find the poppies, letting lando choose between the variety of colours. he picks orange, says it’s his favourite, and you think that, oddly enough, it suits him.
you repeat the same process as before, and when you ask for a delivery address, lando just spews out his own. it’s not like you’d know anyways—besides, he can’t tell you that his sister actually lives in the UK and will not be receiving these flowers period.
so yeah, his address will do.
“okay, these will only take me 20 minutes tops. would you prefer delivery again? or would you like me to text you when they’re done and you can come pick them up?”
lando stutters for a moment, the excitement that settles in his chest at the thought of seeing you again today almost too much for him to bear. “I’ll come back, if that’s okay with you?”
you grin with half amusement, “i’m definitely okay with that.” you print the order form and grab it from the printer once it’s finished up. “I’ll text your number on file when they’re done.”
and before he can’t say anything else, lando just smiles dreamily, “please.”
when you do text him 30 minutes later, he returns to the shop almost immediately after, a cheeky grin on his face and two takeaway cups of coffee in his hands, you can’t help but to accept one. it takes him another 20 minutes before he leaves again, both of you too distracted with learning about one another to notice the passing time.
—
a week and many daydreams of lando walking through the front door of the store later, does he actually walk into the shop. he's gotten a hair cut since the last time you saw him. it's neater, but still got that messy look that makes him look like the main love interest in a early 2000s rom com.
lando’s got a container in one hand and a smile on his face. unlike last time, he doesn’t even glance at the flowers, and instead makes a beeline right for you.
you’re fussing over some sunflowers that are beginning to wilt in a large mosaic vase set out in front of the large window—giving the shop most of the sunlight you crave.
“you're back,” you note, eyes closing in to the tupperware in his large hand. “and you've got...are those cookies?” you turn away from the flowers, gently crossing your arms just as lando comes to a stop.
he grins proudly, “I saved you some this time.”
the brief conversation about homemade cookies from his elderly neighbour crosses your mind, and your eyes widen in recognition. “you didn't need to do that,” you scold kindly, not yet taking the container lando is gesturing out to you. “I was only playing,” you admit shyly.
“it's no big deal,” he shrugs, smile growing once you timidly take the clear container that holds four cookies. “plus, it's a thank you for all your help.”
“well,” you laugh once as you walk towards the counter, placing the cookies down next to the register before turning back to lando. he’s not near the sunflowers like you expected. no, he’s followed you to the counter.
you smile shyly, “thank you for the treat.” lando runs his hand over his sweatshirt—it’s a chiller morning in monaco, oddly enough—and mumbles some kind of compliment.
your cheeks heat anyways. “have you only come here to bring me these?” you squint inquisitively after a beat passes, eyeing lando.
“what?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, leaving him no choice but to awkwardly clear his throat. “no.” yes. “I had to be in the area.” no he really didn’t. “met up with a friend for coffee,” oh did he now? “told him all about your shop.”
his awful lies are all worth it the second an appreciative look flashes over your face. “did you?”
“I did,” lando swallows roughly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “he said he'd have to check it out.”
your lips part, but the shrill noise of the mint green phone attached to the wall ringing stops whatever words you planned to say. you look away from the phone and back to lando, sending him a guilty smile. “duty calls. excuse me.”
he watches you round behind the counter and answer the phone. lando’s not too sure why he sticks around for the phone call to finish up. maybe it’s the way he’s too entranced watching you in your element to leave, or maybe because he still hasn’t asked you out, and was planning to do it today before the phone started to ring. lando’s not quite sure.
regardless, he’s still there once you’ve finished the call, and you send him a look. “everything okay?”
lando blinks, “I also came because I need another flower arrangement.” he wonders if you can actually smell the bullshit coming form his mouth.
“oh!” you emote, “really?”
“yeah, my race engineer is getting married.” no lando, actually, your race engineer has been married for 10 years.
your eyes flash, “race engineer huh? you work with cars?” you question while bringing up his file.
“something like that.”
you smile, nodding your head slowly like you don’t quite believe him. lando almost wants to shrink in on himself and hide from your gaze—but that means he wouldn’t be able to look at you, and that sounds downright dreadful.
“alright, well, let me get something together then.”
—
four days before lando needs to leave for the british grand prix, he's walking back through the front door of the peach painted brick building.
it's not like you were expecting him or anything, but you're not surprised when the door creaks open and you catch sight of a familiar head of curls. what does surprise you though is the two men he's with—you presume they are his friends.
your curious and intrigued eyes catch lando's. despite the smile he sends your way, you can see something that looks a lot like embarrassment coupled with annoyance twisted within his expression.
his friends though? they couldn't look further from annoyed if they tried. both tall men who look around lando's age, scan your overgrown floral shop with wide eyes and amused grins.
"hello." you swallow thickly as their gazes land on you. your body naturally wants to freeze in place, especially when lando's friends somehow grow more smug and excited at the sight of you.
"y/n, hi." lando speaks first, his greeting coming out in one long breathe of relief—like physically seeing you now is allowing him to finally exhale.
"hello," the one who previously stood on lando's left greets you, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes you heat up. you note that he's got a similar accent to lando. the guy leans against the counter—not intimidating, but rather casual—"so, you own this place, right? do your own arrangements?"
"I do," you nod, already itching to reach for your binder just to look busy. your eyes narrow, "do you need an arrangement?"
"I actually do," he says, inspecting one of your business cards next to the register. his eyes flicker back to yours, "it's my girlfriend and I's anniversary, so i'd like to get a few big arrangements."
the other friend walks up next to the other one, a wide smile of his face. he's got the same accent—you wonder if they all grew up together. "lando hasn't stopped talking about you and this place for weeks. and when george here mentioned his anniversary, we just knew we had to come see what all the hype was about."
your eyes flicker towards lando, who has now come to stand beside his two friends. lando's cheeks heat and his eyes briefly meet the floor like they've done many times in your shop.
"is that so?" you ask the nameless friend, a slight teasing tone to your voice that has lando grinning automatically. when he looks back up, his eyes naturally lock with yours.
he sends you a meek smile and it doesn't go unnoticed by his friends, the two giving one another a look as you return the gesture.
"don't listen to these muppets," lando grumbles, "they've been in one too many crashes."
you let out a quiet laugh, fiddling with the pocket of your peach apron. you force your eyes away from lando's familiar ones and back to george—or so you think the other one called him. "I've got a form to go over with you, if you'd actually like to place an order."
george smiles appropriately, "yes, thank you." like lando has seen you do before, you go through the entire process with george in a quick yet efficient manner, taking down his information and helping him pick out the florals for the two arrangements george plans on having delivered in two weeks time.
once it's all done and you've printed the order form, you turn your gaze back on lando, a half hidden smile instantly pulling on his lips as you do. "is there anything else I can help you guys with today?"
"i'm okay, thank you," his other friend grins and extends his large hand to you over the counter, "i'm alex."
you take his hand delicately and lando hates how a pang of jealousy hits his chest. alex is literally in a relationship you muppet. "y/n."
the process repeats with george, who makes some kind of lame joke that works in making you laugh in amusement. lando naturally shifts, practically shoving george out of the way so that he's the one closest to you instead.
"lando." you greet with a knowing smile, "are you getting anything today?"
"not today-"
alex interrupts before lando can continue further. "im sure he'll be back soon enough to place an order though," he knocks his shoulder into lando's teasingly, "he really loves your place."
"oh yeah, he really—"
"alright," lando smothers whatever annoying thing george was planning to add on to alex's comment. he sends both of his friends a warning look, "I'll meet you guys outside, yeah?"
the two of them snicker—alex even tosses his hands up in a mock surrender—while the two of them make their way back through the flower shop and in the direction of the door. before the door creaks back open to reveal the monaco skyline, both alex and george send you enthusiastic departures, followed by inaudible whispers and laughter.
silence fills the store once more. lando's face is still tinged red in a flustered and slightly embarrassed way, and it has a little giggle slipping from your lips.
lando's lips turn upwards immediately. "I'm sorry about them, again," he retorted his earlier apology. "they insisted on coming with me when I mentioned stopping by tonight."
well, not exactly the truth. in all honesty, george and alex had both grown sick and tired of hearing lando talk about you and your shop—constantly—and forced lando to bring them so they could see what all the fuss was about. on the way over to your shop, lando had made his friends promise to behave and not scare you away—because that's the last thing he needed.
but then they walked in, saw why lando was so fond of you, and all promises of good behaviour were left at the door.
"they're fine," you reassure truthfully, a small smile playing on your lips. "so there's really nothing for you today?"
lando ponders for a moment, lips pursed while his eyes dart around the shop. right next to the counter you've got a selection of pre-made arrangements, easy for grab and gos for last minute birthday dinners, and early morning stops. lando picks the one with the most orange and places it on the counter between you.
"i'll take these, actually."
your grin widens and in an attempt to conceal it, you duck your head, busying yourself with wrapping them in paper for departure.
after a beat, your gaze finds his once again, except this time, its swimming with hesitation and a pile of curiosity. you clear your throat, finishing the last fold on the arrangement, "so...are these for your girlfriend?"
lando's ears pick up the distaste and envy that laces your question, and his urge to smooth over the situation before you get the wrong idea comes automatically. "no,” he huffs, eyes searching yours, “no girlfriend here. if I did have one though, i'm not sure she'd appreciate how often I visit the nice pretty girl at the flower shop."
your eyes widen, “oh-wha-me?”
lando laughs softly while your shellshocked expression doesn’t waver. he palms the back of his neck, a teasing tinge to his tone. “you are the only one who works here, right?
“yes,” you breathe.
“then yes,” lando’s grin widens. “you.”
like clockwork, you duck your chin to hide your face and lando blushes—the two of you very much resembling nervous primary school children with crushes. we’ll, actually, that’s exactly what it feels like. and clearly, according to alex and george, it what it looks like as well.
lando pays for the orange flowers, and when you ask again who they’re for (this time), he just says one word: you.
lets just say, you keep them in the back office and grin like a manic anytime you go in there and catch sight of them.
—
after the whole buying flowers and gifting them to you exchange that happened two months ago, you never really expected to see lando again. well correction—you expected to see him, but you didn't expect him to keep buying arrangements.
oh, but did you ever assume incorrectly. sometimes it was twice a week he'd walk into your shop, a shy yet confident look to him while he ordered an arrangement for some random event—team dinners, galas or his mothers retirement party.
sometimes you wouldn't see him for three weeks. you didn't ask about his whereabouts—assuming he travels for work—but everytime without fail, his first day back in monaco, he'd come see you. smiling and with a pep in his step, always telling you in a quiet, intimate way that he missed you.
but that's all he says. much to your dismay, lando never asks you out. not to coffee or dinner or anything in between. it's gut wrenching, sure, and then you start overthinking every single interaction with lando. were you misreading the situation?
but then he'd come back all flirty and telling you he missed the smell of the shop and you'd think otherwise. plus, he keeps buying damn flowers.
so today when lando walks into your shop, you're determined to figure it all out—the flirting and the flowers and everything else that gets your heart thumping and mind wandering.
he waltzes right up to the counter that separates you from the rest of the shop, a cheeky smile on his face as he leans on top the counter with his elbows.
you raise a brow, “another arrangement?”
“you guessed it,” he smirks boyishly up at you.
you don’t move to grab the binder like you usually would, and that instantly has lando’s thick eyebrows furrowing. you continue to stare down at him, unamused. “who are these flowers for?”
lando blinks, stuttering while he tries to formulate some kind of plausible response. “ummmm...oscar.”
“who's oscar?”
“my friend.”
you make a noise, eyes narrowing in utter disbelief. “does oscar typically want flowers?”
much to your surprise, lando just shrugs a shoulder, and with his lips pursed, he tells you—“don't really know.”
you don’t answer. not right away. it’s now that you grab the sticker covered binder full of pages upon pages of different flowers, carefully flickering it open so that the cracked spine doesn’t obtain any further damage. you seem very calm, and that makes lando feel the complete opposite.
there’s something your eyes that has lando narrowing his gaze on you. you don’t look at him while you quickly and quietly fill out the information—after all, you’ve filled out enough of these for lando that you’ve got his damn phone number memorized.
finally, you turn your attention back to him. “and delivery adress?”
and it’s then. when lando easily recites that same adress he’s given you more times than you can count, does your curiosity come to a tilt. you softly drop the pen, “i've got a question lando.”
“yes?”
you kiss your teeth, “how come every single arrangement after the first one is being delivered to the same address?”
lando blinks a few times. swallows roughly twice. and then he lets out an awkward chuckle, finger absentmindedly stroking along a divet in the wood counter.
“would you believe me if I told you everyone I know all lives in the same place?” he grimaces, hopeful eyes twinkling with mischief.
your nose scrunches—half amused and half in confusion. “not too sure if i'd buy that.”
“no?”
“nope.” lando’s shoulders sag and an apologetic grin forms at your response. you let out a slow breath, crossing your arms over the apron lando has been dreaming about. he sees that peach colour everywhere now—it’s like a less than kind reminder of how badly he’s been fumbling you. for months now.
“you know you don't have to come in here and buy things all the time,” your voice is laced with masked disappointment, making lando frown. you continue softly, “it's okay if you want to just browse.”
“I don't want to browse.”
“oh?”
lando curses to himself, so softly that to you it simply sound like a heavy exhale. you wait patiently for his response, playing with your bottom lip between your teeth to keep any emotions at bay.
you watch with careful eyes as lando pushes off the counter, his back straightening. his eyes meet your again, and after a tension filled beat, he admits—“I really didn't like the smell of flowers, you know that?”
“i'm sorry to hear that,” your voice is cautious. confused. “why did you come here then?” a pause while your brain jogs with memories. “was the neighbour a real person or…?”
“shes real,” lando reassures you quickly, “and it was actually her birthday.”
“and the others?”
he takes a deep breath, and then finally, after months of months of practiced speeches in his bathroom mirror, and imagining this conversation while the country music you have playing in your shop plays through his headphones before a race, lando spews.
“my sister didn't graduate, no one was getting married and oscar is actually allergic to pollen.”
you complete idiot, he thinks. because instead of that clearing up any of your confusion—and why would it because what the hell?—lando’s words have only made your expression grow tighter. you blink, “so why'd you keep buying the flowers.”
“because of you.”
“me?”
okay, he thinks, this is it. it’s finally time.
lando’s plump lips part, “because I liked you or I still do.” he takes a deep breath, “like you.” when you don’t respond, he continues. “and I know that it's kind of crazy and i'm crazy and i disappear for weeks at a time and im flirty and have too much money to spend on floral arrangements for imaginary occasions…but I just wanted to come see you.”
“lando,” your shoulders drop, and lando’s heart does as well. is this rejection? has he been playing this weird, long game for months only to have misread the situation.
“you can kick me out,” he offers.
“no,” you shake your head softly, and the last thing lando’s sees is your shy smile before you lean over the expanse of the counter, and place a delicate kiss to his cheek. so close to the corner of his mouth that for a moment, lando’s knees go weak. “i'm not going to kick you out,” you promise as you drop back to your heels.
dazed and still reeling form the feeling of your soft mouth on his warm skin, lando can only manage to nod dumbly. “that's good.”
“and I like you too,” you grin, “and all your made up occasions.”
lando exhales with a wide smile, “that's really good.” and because he’s sure he’s finally got it right, lando takes his turn to lean over the teal painted counter, one large hand holding the side of your face while he brings his lips down to yours.
it’s not perfect in the sense of the movies, but it’s perfect for you and lando. you’re both grinning into it, making it hard to actual kiss like normal people, but somehow you still manage to capture one another’s mouths in fleeting, tender kisses.
you pull away after a few moments, a playful laugh passing through your kiss moistened lips. “you're a race car driver.”
lando blinks, forehead bumping your gently while his thumb strokes long your cheek. “huh?”
a giggle sounds between you and then your pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “that's your job.”
his eyebrows tug down towards his noise while an amused look crosses his face. “how'd you figure it out?”
“I googled you.”
he can’t help but to dip down and steal another kiss, muttering against your mouth—“cheeky girl.”
summary: when lando norris keeps coming into your flower shop, you’re determined to figure out why he needs that many orders.
[word count] 6.1k
warnings: strangers to friends to lovers | flower shop owner! reader | fluff | humor | obvious and some not so obvious pining | kissing | humour! | cliches! | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion
a/n: hello!!! and welcome to my very first formula one fic 🙌🏻 I’ve been writing nhl fics for years now and i’ve decided it’s finally time to dip my toe into some new media! hope any devoted f1 readers and/or my previous followers take their time to check this out.
🎶 say you love me by fleetwood mac, message in a bottle by taylor swift + don’t dream it’s over by crowded house
lando norris has never been too fond about the smell of flowers.
it's not that there's anything wrong with the floral scent—it's just definitely, absolutely not for him. there's something about that light, almost crisp musty smell that rubs lando the wrong way.
or maybe it's perhaps what he associates with those smells. red roses? his primary school principal who very clearly had it out for lando. daisies? the single flower he picked for his 1st grade crush, and she threw the petals back in his face as some sort of childish rejection. lilies? his late grandmothers funeral. morbid, yes, but true.
so to say he was dreading walking into this monaco floral shop was an understatement. it's painted a pastel peach, windowsills just a few shades darker so that they stand out from the brick. not that you can really see them though, not with the abundance of flowers in the hanging window baskets.
lando has already passed the store twice in procrastination. the first time he claimed he needed a coffee from the cafe across the street—because if he had to go in a flower shop, he at least needed some caffeine to serve as a pick me up while he did so.
the second time—okay, well, the second time he didn't have a valid excuse. lando simply just kept trucking by like the peach coloured brick wasn't flashing at him. taunting him with its happy colour and girly smell.
it's just...it's his elderly neighbours birthday. his elderly neighbour who he adores and who always bakes cookies for him, and lando won't be home to wish her well because of traveling. and she loves flowers. lando knows this because they're always on her counter, and he can smell peonies on her clothes anytime she stops by for milk, pinching lando's cheek while she calls him adorable.
so he knows he has to do this. his displeasure towards the arrangements be damned. lando tells himself to man the hell up and do this one nice thing for the sweet woman across the hall.
lando inhales strongly, collecting as much monaco sea air as possible before entering the shop. the wooden door creaks as he pushes it open, and instantly lando is hit with a million pollen and petal particles.
"fuckin' hell." he mumbles to himself, voice barley audible as his green eyes trail around the shop. with something similar to a grimace on his face, lando takes in the overgrown space. flowers fill every available space, making it almost impossible for a normal folk—or clueless folk—like him to navigate through.
lando takes a step, and the floorboards groan under his weight, giving away how worn and aged this place is. it's been a flower shop for as long as lando has lived in monaco, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder how long before too. surely, years based on the way that the smell so practically oozing from the light blue striped wallpaper.
wallpaper he can barley see, mind you, due to the wall of roses.
"is there something I can help you find?"
lando blinks, head snapping away from a bright yellow bundle of...some kind of flower, and towards the direction of your voice.
there's a section of teal counter, an old fashioned register and company cards sitting on top, and that's where you are. you've got on a apron that's the same peach colour as the bricks outside. and your hair’s pulled back in an effortless kind of way, and lando already knows that you smell like the flowers all around.
he swallows roughly and blinks again.
you smile, almost in amusement, and that's when he realizes that he's been stroking a flower petal like a muppet. "sorry, yeah, actually."
lando weaves through the various display tables until he's at the counter. up close, he's able to get a proper look at you, and his mouth goes dry at the sight. you're ridiculously beautiful. like other worldly kind of beautiful that would make even the most charismatic and charming men fall to their knees.
also known as him.
lando pushes through the sudden school boy nerves that are threatening to climb up his throat, sending you a boyish—yet confident—grin. "I want to send my neighbour flowers for her birthday, but i've got no clue about flowers."
you hum, "okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"
he sends you a sheepish look, palms flat on the counter top. "all of them."
you giggle and lando swears he could faint at the sound.
"all of them?"
"yeah," he nods, "I swear that lady is like a bloody flower enthusiast. she's always got them on her island." lando pauses, a smile pulling at his lips, "and her windowsill. and her balcony. and her bedroom surely."
your fingers drum along the counter in thought. lando notes that your nails are painted a pink. it reminds him of the monaco sunset.
"and how old is said neighbour."
he blows out a breath and then grins cheekily, "elderly."
"i'd go with something classic," you tell him after a moment. you reach for a binder tucked between the register and the wall. it's blue and decorated with uniformed stickers and sharpie notes. you flip it open, swiping through a few sheets.
you point to a flower lando has never heard of, but he leans in and looks like he understands anyways. maybe—just a possibility—he was doing it so he could be closer to you. and yup, you smell like a flower field.
"i'd also throw some carnation in there. it's a classic flower for a piece. and beautiful."
lando's eyes dart away from the book and meet yours. they're swimming with passion and eagerness. it's cute, and lando can't help but to smile like a lunatic—teeth on full display. "I trust you, do whatever you think will make her happy."
your smile widens, "what's your budget."
he purses his lips. he hasn't really even thought about it. how much do flowers even cost? a beat passes, "don't have one."
your eyes widen briefly before you manage to control yourself. you're well aware that monaco is full of rich and wealthy people—even if you're not familiar with every single face that walks into your shop—but hearing those words never fails to suprise you.
flowers are expensive, and someone as clueless about flowers as the man in front of you seems to be, would have no idea.
"okay, that's great." you grab a form from behind the counter and then reach for a pen. you click the top a few times, the sound audible over the radio playing softly in the background. "when do you want the flowers to arrive?"
he tells you the date and you neatly write it down.
"and what's the name of the recipient?"
repeat.
"and the name of the sender?" you question after jotting down the previous answer. your eyes flicker up towards his green ones, a hint of personal curiosity in your gaze.
he takes his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to contain the embarrassing grin wanting to take over his face. "lando."
"lando." you repeat.
"and your name?"
the pen in your hand almost falls away, your eyes quickly finding his once more. "y/n." you tell him timidly, warmth collecting high on your cheeks as he repeats your name, slowly, like he's testing out how it sounds.
his eyes don't stray from yours, gaze tense and fond in a way that makes you positively squirm. you clear your throat, ball tip of the pen hitting the paper once more. "and the address?"
lando recites his neighbours address with ease, and you write down it just as quick. you question him on a few more basic things; phone number for contact purposes, if he’d like a card with the arrangement, and if so what he’d like to say, and you even asked him what day he’d prefer for delivery.
he asks if you do the deliveries, and you get warm again—lando wants to bathe in the pink of your cheeks. you tell him you have a driver who does it for you.
after he signs his name on the form, you take it back from him, moving towards the register between you. it’s silent for moment while you presumably log in, nails tapping rhythmically on the screen while you do so.
“can't make her birthday?”
your question has lando momentarily confused, brows pulled tight. it’s only when you raise an eyebrow in silent amusement that lando remembers who he’s getting the arrangement for—and why he’s here in the first place.
“oh, right,” he swallows roughly, “no I can't, i'm traveling for work.”
you hum and shoot him a curious glance. “what do you do for work?”
he laughs once and breathy, eyes falling down towards the floorboards for a few moments. once he meets your gaze again, he notes that you haven’t look away—and you look more intrigued than before.
lando grins, “you're not going to believe me if I tell you.”
“are you putting on some kind of mysterious act?” your fingers halt on the screen—hovering over the baby breath button—and you squint hesitantly.
“depends?” he hisses through his teeth, “is it working?”
“I suppose so,” you breathe a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, eyes darting away before quickly darting back to his. “i'm definitely curious now.”
“wasn't before?”
you kiss your teeth to keep a fond smile from blossoming on your face. you’ve dealt with flirty customers before, obviously, but there’s something about the curly haired, gap toothed smiley one in front of you now that has you actually flustered.
you decide to not answer right away, clicking a few more flowers on your computer for the order print. finally, after what feels like an eternity for lando, you answer.
“you're cheeky,” you muse.
he’s still grinning. “it's a part of my charm.”
you bark a laugh, “I bet it is.”
the door creaks open, breaking whatever trance the both of you had been in. a customer, a few years older than you, walks in causally—moving towards some daffodils you’d potted this morning.
you clear your throat, looking away from lando’s green gaze, and back towards the till. he watches you click a few more buttons and type some codes in—and then the printer is whirling to life.
the customer picks a bouquet and moves to wait behind lando.
his heart pings at the time being interrupted.
“i'll just take your card information then,” you say promptly, “my machine takes a picture of it for billing, if that’s okay with you?”
lando slides his credit card over the counter, “yeah, sure. thank you.” he watches as you carefully take his card—like it’s made of gold—and place it on some fancy machine lando couldn’t even attempt to dissect. it makes a few clicking sounds, presumably capturing the information, and then you pass it back to him.
“all right, you're all set.” your fingers brush his when lando takes it back.
“I appreciate this.” lando shoots a glance over his shoulder once the guy starts impatiently tapping his foot. and look at that—he’s suddenly got the urge to punch out your next customer!! without hesitation, lando looks back at you, continuing like nothing. “I think I would've been completely lost without you.”
you grin, smoothing down the front of your apron like a nervous habit. “we'll, it is my job.”
“you're good at it,” he compliments with an earnest smirk.
it makes you laugh awkwardly, absentmindedly reaching out to straighten up the stack of local business pamphlets. you keep them there for weddings as it helps local venues get recognition. “i'm not sure one could really be good at taking information for a floral arrangement,” you mumble modestly.
“well I think you're great.” lando answers quickly.
the guy behind him clears his throat and lando has to stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull.
you smile politely and lando, despite the annoyance for the douche waiting in line, follows suit, his own toothy grin reappearing. “i'll be seeing you, y/n.”
—
almost a month passes before you see lando again. despite the hopes of him walking back through the front door of your flower shop again, you didn’t believe the day would come.
but here he is, clad in a branded sweatshirt and shorts with his curly hair all unruly like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way over.
lando has some dignity, so he pretends to look very interested in the rose display before letting his eyes wander in search of you. yeah well, that whole self dignity thing lasts 20 seconds before his sights are set on you in your peach apron.
you can’t help but grin once you feel his gaze land upon you. like him, you also wanted to seem casual, so as soon as you realized it was him walking through your door, you reached for a book, and flipped it open to a random page in some attempt to appear scholarly.
you can’t even remember if this book is yours or the delivery guys.
“back for more flowers?” you ask, eyes flickering up to his approaching figure.
lando grins, “yeah.” no.
you close the book and put it back in the half dusty corner you found it. “the neighbour again?” you question, placing your palms flat against the counter.
he rubs the back of his neck. “not this time, but she loved them so much—sent me cookies as a thank you and everything.”
“i'm offended that you didn't bring me one,” you tease him quickly and easily, making lando’s stomach do that funny drop you get on a carnival ride.
you log into the register and lando laughs, answering you with an impressed raise to his eyebrows, “they barley lasted 10 minutes.”
you snicker at that. opening up a new order form in his file, you ask—“so who are these ones for?”
lando almost curses aloud. he really hadn’t thought this far ahead. when he woke up this morning he had a plan. he really did. despite the jet lag he’s still battling from three weeks of consistent travel paired with inconsistent sleep, lando was going to get up early and come visit your shop.
he was going to turn on his natural flirtatious side and ask you to dinner or something just as chivalrous—perhaps the new cocktail lounge that opened up just down the street from your shop.
but then you asked him with a pretty smile if he was back for more flowers and he just said yes without a second to process the question.
you wait patiently, fingers still—and now a bit longer and painted a sky blue—for his answer. an answer that’s taking a suspiciously long time for a person who supposedly came in here to but flowers.
lando clears his throat, “my...sister.”
“your sister?”
“yeah,” he nods, “it's her graduation.” she’s only in second year at uni, you idiot.
your eyebrows draw together with confusion.“in august?”
lando rubs along the back of his tanned neck once more, and you pick up that it must be an anxious habit. “yeah,” he winces, eyes trickling back to yours from where they briefly settled on the worn wood beneath his feet. “i'm a little late.”
“alright well,” you exhale, bringing out that same binder from last time. “let's do something simple, and something that says sorry for the late arrangement.” your teasing tone has lando smiling softly. you don’t catch it, too busy flipping through the pages in search of the flower you’d thought of it your head.
“yeah,” he breathes, “sounds great.”
you make a little trumpet noise when you find the poppies, letting lando choose between the variety of colours. he picks orange, says it’s his favourite, and you think that, oddly enough, it suits him.
you repeat the same process as before, and when you ask for a delivery address, lando just spews out his own. it’s not like you’d know anyways—besides, he can’t tell you that his sister actually lives in the UK and will not be receiving these flowers period.
so yeah, his address will do.
“okay, these will only take me 20 minutes tops. would you prefer delivery again? or would you like me to text you when they’re done and you can come pick them up?”
lando stutters for a moment, the excitement that settles in his chest at the thought of seeing you again today almost too much for him to bear. “I’ll come back, if that’s okay with you?”
you grin with half amusement, “i’m definitely okay with that.” you print the order form and grab it from the printer once it’s finished up. “I’ll text your number on file when they’re done.”
and before he can’t say anything else, lando just smiles dreamily, “please.”
when you do text him 30 minutes later, he returns to the shop almost immediately after, a cheeky grin on his face and two takeaway cups of coffee in his hands, you can’t help but to accept one. it takes him another 20 minutes before he leaves again, both of you too distracted with learning about one another to notice the passing time.
—
a week and many daydreams of lando walking through the front door of the store later, does he actually walk into the shop. he's gotten a hair cut since the last time you saw him. it's neater, but still got that messy look that makes him look like the main love interest in a early 2000s rom com.
lando’s got a container in one hand and a smile on his face. unlike last time, he doesn’t even glance at the flowers, and instead makes a beeline right for you.
you’re fussing over some sunflowers that are beginning to wilt in a large mosaic vase set out in front of the large window—giving the shop most of the sunlight you crave.
“you're back,” you note, eyes closing in to the tupperware in his large hand. “and you've got...are those cookies?” you turn away from the flowers, gently crossing your arms just as lando comes to a stop.
he grins proudly, “I saved you some this time.”
the brief conversation about homemade cookies from his elderly neighbour crosses your mind, and your eyes widen in recognition. “you didn't need to do that,” you scold kindly, not yet taking the container lando is gesturing out to you. “I was only playing,” you admit shyly.
“it's no big deal,” he shrugs, smile growing once you timidly take the clear container that holds four cookies. “plus, it's a thank you for all your help.”
“well,” you laugh once as you walk towards the counter, placing the cookies down next to the register before turning back to lando. he’s not near the sunflowers like you expected. no, he’s followed you to the counter.
you smile shyly, “thank you for the treat.” lando runs his hand over his sweatshirt—it’s a chiller morning in monaco, oddly enough—and mumbles some kind of compliment.
your cheeks heat anyways. “have you only come here to bring me these?” you squint inquisitively after a beat passes, eyeing lando.
“what?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, leaving him no choice but to awkwardly clear his throat. “no.” yes. “I had to be in the area.” no he really didn’t. “met up with a friend for coffee,” oh did he now? “told him all about your shop.”
his awful lies are all worth it the second an appreciative look flashes over your face. “did you?”
“I did,” lando swallows roughly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “he said he'd have to check it out.”
your lips part, but the shrill noise of the mint green phone attached to the wall ringing stops whatever words you planned to say. you look away from the phone and back to lando, sending him a guilty smile. “duty calls. excuse me.”
he watches you round behind the counter and answer the phone. lando’s not too sure why he sticks around for the phone call to finish up. maybe it’s the way he’s too entranced watching you in your element to leave, or maybe because he still hasn’t asked you out, and was planning to do it today before the phone started to ring. lando’s not quite sure.
regardless, he’s still there once you’ve finished the call, and you send him a look. “everything okay?”
lando blinks, “I also came because I need another flower arrangement.” he wonders if you can actually smell the bullshit coming form his mouth.
“oh!” you emote, “really?”
“yeah, my race engineer is getting married.” no lando, actually, your race engineer has been married for 10 years.
your eyes flash, “race engineer huh? you work with cars?” you question while bringing up his file.
“something like that.”
you smile, nodding your head slowly like you don’t quite believe him. lando almost wants to shrink in on himself and hide from your gaze—but that means he wouldn’t be able to look at you, and that sounds downright dreadful.
“alright, well, let me get something together then.”
—
four days before lando needs to leave for the british grand prix, he's walking back through the front door of the peach painted brick building.
it's not like you were expecting him or anything, but you're not surprised when the door creaks open and you catch sight of a familiar head of curls. what does surprise you though is the two men he's with—you presume they are his friends.
your curious and intrigued eyes catch lando's. despite the smile he sends your way, you can see something that looks a lot like embarrassment coupled with annoyance twisted within his expression.
his friends though? they couldn't look further from annoyed if they tried. both tall men who look around lando's age, scan your overgrown floral shop with wide eyes and amused grins.
"hello." you swallow thickly as their gazes land on you. your body naturally wants to freeze in place, especially when lando's friends somehow grow more smug and excited at the sight of you.
"y/n, hi." lando speaks first, his greeting coming out in one long breathe of relief—like physically seeing you now is allowing him to finally exhale.
"hello," the one who previously stood on lando's left greets you, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes you heat up. you note that he's got a similar accent to lando. the guy leans against the counter—not intimidating, but rather casual—"so, you own this place, right? do your own arrangements?"
"I do," you nod, already itching to reach for your binder just to look busy. your eyes narrow, "do you need an arrangement?"
"I actually do," he says, inspecting one of your business cards next to the register. his eyes flicker back to yours, "it's my girlfriend and I's anniversary, so i'd like to get a few big arrangements."
the other friend walks up next to the other one, a wide smile of his face. he's got the same accent—you wonder if they all grew up together. "lando hasn't stopped talking about you and this place for weeks. and when george here mentioned his anniversary, we just knew we had to come see what all the hype was about."
your eyes flicker towards lando, who has now come to stand beside his two friends. lando's cheeks heat and his eyes briefly meet the floor like they've done many times in your shop.
"is that so?" you ask the nameless friend, a slight teasing tone to your voice that has lando grinning automatically. when he looks back up, his eyes naturally lock with yours.
he sends you a meek smile and it doesn't go unnoticed by his friends, the two giving one another a look as you return the gesture.
"don't listen to these muppets," lando grumbles, "they've been in one too many crashes."
you let out a quiet laugh, fiddling with the pocket of your peach apron. you force your eyes away from lando's familiar ones and back to george—or so you think the other one called him. "I've got a form to go over with you, if you'd actually like to place an order."
george smiles appropriately, "yes, thank you." like lando has seen you do before, you go through the entire process with george in a quick yet efficient manner, taking down his information and helping him pick out the florals for the two arrangements george plans on having delivered in two weeks time.
once it's all done and you've printed the order form, you turn your gaze back on lando, a half hidden smile instantly pulling on his lips as you do. "is there anything else I can help you guys with today?"
"i'm okay, thank you," his other friend grins and extends his large hand to you over the counter, "i'm alex."
you take his hand delicately and lando hates how a pang of jealousy hits his chest. alex is literally in a relationship you muppet. "y/n."
the process repeats with george, who makes some kind of lame joke that works in making you laugh in amusement. lando naturally shifts, practically shoving george out of the way so that he's the one closest to you instead.
"lando." you greet with a knowing smile, "are you getting anything today?"
"not today-"
alex interrupts before lando can continue further. "im sure he'll be back soon enough to place an order though," he knocks his shoulder into lando's teasingly, "he really loves your place."
"oh yeah, he really—"
"alright," lando smothers whatever annoying thing george was planning to add on to alex's comment. he sends both of his friends a warning look, "I'll meet you guys outside, yeah?"
the two of them snicker—alex even tosses his hands up in a mock surrender—while the two of them make their way back through the flower shop and in the direction of the door. before the door creaks back open to reveal the monaco skyline, both alex and george send you enthusiastic departures, followed by inaudible whispers and laughter.
silence fills the store once more. lando's face is still tinged red in a flustered and slightly embarrassed way, and it has a little giggle slipping from your lips.
lando's lips turn upwards immediately. "I'm sorry about them, again," he retorted his earlier apology. "they insisted on coming with me when I mentioned stopping by tonight."
well, not exactly the truth. in all honesty, george and alex had both grown sick and tired of hearing lando talk about you and your shop—constantly—and forced lando to bring them so they could see what all the fuss was about. on the way over to your shop, lando had made his friends promise to behave and not scare you away—because that's the last thing he needed.
but then they walked in, saw why lando was so fond of you, and all promises of good behaviour were left at the door.
"they're fine," you reassure truthfully, a small smile playing on your lips. "so there's really nothing for you today?"
lando ponders for a moment, lips pursed while his eyes dart around the shop. right next to the counter you've got a selection of pre-made arrangements, easy for grab and gos for last minute birthday dinners, and early morning stops. lando picks the one with the most orange and places it on the counter between you.
"i'll take these, actually."
your grin widens and in an attempt to conceal it, you duck your head, busying yourself with wrapping them in paper for departure.
after a beat, your gaze finds his once again, except this time, its swimming with hesitation and a pile of curiosity. you clear your throat, finishing the last fold on the arrangement, "so...are these for your girlfriend?"
lando's ears pick up the distaste and envy that laces your question, and his urge to smooth over the situation before you get the wrong idea comes automatically. "no,” he huffs, eyes searching yours, “no girlfriend here. if I did have one though, i'm not sure she'd appreciate how often I visit the nice pretty girl at the flower shop."
your eyes widen, “oh-wha-me?”
lando laughs softly while your shellshocked expression doesn’t waver. he palms the back of his neck, a teasing tinge to his tone. “you are the only one who works here, right?
“yes,” you breathe.
“then yes,” lando’s grin widens. “you.”
like clockwork, you duck your chin to hide your face and lando blushes—the two of you very much resembling nervous primary school children with crushes. we’ll, actually, that’s exactly what it feels like. and clearly, according to alex and george, it what it looks like as well.
lando pays for the orange flowers, and when you ask again who they’re for (this time), he just says one word: you.
lets just say, you keep them in the back office and grin like a manic anytime you go in there and catch sight of them.
—
after the whole buying flowers and gifting them to you exchange that happened two months ago, you never really expected to see lando again. well correction—you expected to see him, but you didn't expect him to keep buying arrangements.
oh, but did you ever assume incorrectly. sometimes it was twice a week he'd walk into your shop, a shy yet confident look to him while he ordered an arrangement for some random event—team dinners, galas or his mothers retirement party.
sometimes you wouldn't see him for three weeks. you didn't ask about his whereabouts—assuming he travels for work—but everytime without fail, his first day back in monaco, he'd come see you. smiling and with a pep in his step, always telling you in a quiet, intimate way that he missed you.
but that's all he says. much to your dismay, lando never asks you out. not to coffee or dinner or anything in between. it's gut wrenching, sure, and then you start overthinking every single interaction with lando. were you misreading the situation?
but then he'd come back all flirty and telling you he missed the smell of the shop and you'd think otherwise. plus, he keeps buying damn flowers.
so today when lando walks into your shop, you're determined to figure it all out—the flirting and the flowers and everything else that gets your heart thumping and mind wandering.
he waltzes right up to the counter that separates you from the rest of the shop, a cheeky smile on his face as he leans on top the counter with his elbows.
you raise a brow, “another arrangement?”
“you guessed it,” he smirks boyishly up at you.
you don’t move to grab the binder like you usually would, and that instantly has lando’s thick eyebrows furrowing. you continue to stare down at him, unamused. “who are these flowers for?”
lando blinks, stuttering while he tries to formulate some kind of plausible response. “ummmm...oscar.”
“who's oscar?”
“my friend.”
you make a noise, eyes narrowing in utter disbelief. “does oscar typically want flowers?”
much to your surprise, lando just shrugs a shoulder, and with his lips pursed, he tells you—“don't really know.”
you don’t answer. not right away. it’s now that you grab the sticker covered binder full of pages upon pages of different flowers, carefully flickering it open so that the cracked spine doesn’t obtain any further damage. you seem very calm, and that makes lando feel the complete opposite.
there’s something your eyes that has lando narrowing his gaze on you. you don’t look at him while you quickly and quietly fill out the information—after all, you’ve filled out enough of these for lando that you’ve got his damn phone number memorized.
finally, you turn your attention back to him. “and delivery adress?”
and it’s then. when lando easily recites that same adress he’s given you more times than you can count, does your curiosity come to a tilt. you softly drop the pen, “i've got a question lando.”
“yes?”
you kiss your teeth, “how come every single arrangement after the first one is being delivered to the same address?”
lando blinks a few times. swallows roughly twice. and then he lets out an awkward chuckle, finger absentmindedly stroking along a divet in the wood counter.
“would you believe me if I told you everyone I know all lives in the same place?” he grimaces, hopeful eyes twinkling with mischief.
your nose scrunches—half amused and half in confusion. “not too sure if i'd buy that.”
“no?”
“nope.” lando’s shoulders sag and an apologetic grin forms at your response. you let out a slow breath, crossing your arms over the apron lando has been dreaming about. he sees that peach colour everywhere now—it’s like a less than kind reminder of how badly he’s been fumbling you. for months now.
“you know you don't have to come in here and buy things all the time,” your voice is laced with masked disappointment, making lando frown. you continue softly, “it's okay if you want to just browse.”
“I don't want to browse.”
“oh?”
lando curses to himself, so softly that to you it simply sound like a heavy exhale. you wait patiently for his response, playing with your bottom lip between your teeth to keep any emotions at bay.
you watch with careful eyes as lando pushes off the counter, his back straightening. his eyes meet your again, and after a tension filled beat, he admits—“I really didn't like the smell of flowers, you know that?”
“i'm sorry to hear that,” your voice is cautious. confused. “why did you come here then?” a pause while your brain jogs with memories. “was the neighbour a real person or…?”
“shes real,” lando reassures you quickly, “and it was actually her birthday.”
“and the others?”
he takes a deep breath, and then finally, after months of months of practiced speeches in his bathroom mirror, and imagining this conversation while the country music you have playing in your shop plays through his headphones before a race, lando spews.
“my sister didn't graduate, no one was getting married and oscar is actually allergic to pollen.”
you complete idiot, he thinks. because instead of that clearing up any of your confusion—and why would it because what the hell?—lando’s words have only made your expression grow tighter. you blink, “so why'd you keep buying the flowers.”
“because of you.”
“me?”
okay, he thinks, this is it. it’s finally time.
lando’s plump lips part, “because I liked you or I still do.” he takes a deep breath, “like you.” when you don’t respond, he continues. “and I know that it's kind of crazy and i'm crazy and i disappear for weeks at a time and im flirty and have too much money to spend on floral arrangements for imaginary occasions…but I just wanted to come see you.”
“lando,” your shoulders drop, and lando’s heart does as well. is this rejection? has he been playing this weird, long game for months only to have misread the situation.
“you can kick me out,” he offers.
“no,” you shake your head softly, and the last thing lando’s sees is your shy smile before you lean over the expanse of the counter, and place a delicate kiss to his cheek. so close to the corner of his mouth that for a moment, lando’s knees go weak. “i'm not going to kick you out,” you promise as you drop back to your heels.
dazed and still reeling form the feeling of your soft mouth on his warm skin, lando can only manage to nod dumbly. “that's good.”
“and I like you too,” you grin, “and all your made up occasions.”
lando exhales with a wide smile, “that's really good.” and because he’s sure he’s finally got it right, lando takes his turn to lean over the teal painted counter, one large hand holding the side of your face while he brings his lips down to yours.
it’s not perfect in the sense of the movies, but it’s perfect for you and lando. you’re both grinning into it, making it hard to actually kiss like normal people, but somehow you still manage to capture one another’s mouths in fleeting, tender kisses.
you pull away after a few moments, a playful laugh passing through your kiss moistened lips. “you're a race car driver.”
lando blinks, forehead bumping your gently while his thumb strokes long your cheek. “huh?”
a giggle sounds between you and then your pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “that's your job.”
his eyebrows tug down towards his noise while an amused look crosses his face. “how'd you figure it out?”
“I googled you.”
he can’t help but to dip down and steal another kiss, muttering against your mouth—“cheeky girl.”
under the cut you will find all of my works linked, as well as the upcoming works that will be published in the near future !
under each title, you will find a brief summary as well as a set of symbols that correspond to a specific theme (see legend under the cut).
requesting is currently OPEN / closed → requesting rules
a majority of my fics will contain smut and mature themes and are marked as so. you are responsible for your own interactions with posts on the internet - with that being said, I strongly discourage anybody under the age of 18 from consuming my writing! check the symbols next to each link to see if it's appropriate for you or not.
✎ when lando norris keeps coming into your flower shop, you're determined to figure out why he needs that many orders.
trope(s); strangers to friends to lovers
Oscar Piastri
➱ it’s never over ✯ (coming soon)
✎ you and oscar. oscar and you. destined to be. always one step out of line with the other.
trope(s); slow burn + childhood friends to lovers
➱ the hating game ✯ ✿
✎ y/n and oscar, two competitive co-workers who can’t stand each other. as they fight for the same promotion, their rivalry takes an unexpected turn—from hate to something much more complicated. based on the novel the hating game by sally thorne
trope(s); enemies to lovers + office romance
WILLIAMS
Alex Albon
➱ don’t forget you love me ✯ ✿
✎ it’s your first season back in the williams garage after your and alex’s breakup. a breakup for a relationship that you’ve kept hidden from almost everyone in the paddock—making it even harder to grieve.
trope(s); second chance romance + workplace romance
Carlos Sainz
➱ straight out of a romance novel ✯
✎ one of monaco’s finest wedding planners is hired to plan formula one’s most handsome drivers—carlos sainz—wedding. it’s just…his bride to be is the worse and you’re pretty sure you have a crush on the groom. and yeah! everything is totally not fine.
trope(s); forbidden romance
FERRARI
Charles Leclerc
➱ mystery of love ✯ ♡ (coming soon)
✎ retuning to your late grandmothers place in monaco to revamp and take over the family restaurant, you don’t expect one of the locals to be so keen about helping you out. charles leclerc claims to have been close with your grandmother, having breakfast with her every morning, and is egar to help out—however, you can’t help but to be skeptical.
trope(s); strangers to lovers + found family
Lewis Hamilton
(…coming soon)
MERCEDES
George Russell
➱ the PR teams worse nightmare ✯ (coming soon)
✎ the story of george russell, the cocky mercedes formula one driver, and y/n y/l/n, the head of his public relations team. and spoiler alert! you two do not get along—which makes keeping him under wraps with the media, a very difficult task.
trope(s); enemies to lovers + workplace romance
Kimi Antonelli
(…coming soon)
HAAS
ollie bearman
➱ baking me crazy ✿
✎ you and ollie finally get a day where neither of you are busy—him with living in the fast lane as a formula 1 driver, and you completely engrossed with school—so what better way than to spend the day with fall baking.
