eleanor

[mattsfrenchtoast]

eleanor. lando norris. ln1. formula1. matt sturniolo. angry ginge. franco colaptino. max fewtrell. jakey davies. heinz baines. billie eilish. renee rapp. role model. noah kahan. sam fender. drew starkey. italian bach + arthur tv. arthur hill. gold jewellery. clarinet. boys of tommen. uk.

[buttlesbunnie]

andy burnham ya scared the shit out of me pal with your cheeky little alert x

[mattsfrenchtoast]

chat I loved the bovathon so much 🥹🥹

[23fallencomets]

GEORGE AND CARMEN GOT ENGAGED

[loveqnai]

GEORGE RUSSEL AND CARMEN GOT ENGAGED 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍 WHOLE F1 FANDOM HAPPY

finally something going right for him this year 😭🙏 the year of love better be true for him as well

[lecmonica]

honestly kinda iconic that the whole twitch quartet is married or engaged except for lando who’s having a hot girl summer in the clubs like at least SOMEONE is still making it interesting for us

[axo4027]

AWWW GEORGE IS ENGAGEDDD

[mvclrc]

✦ across the hall — lando norris/reader

it's summer when lando norris moves in opposite you. you remember because it'd been 35 degrees celcius that day, you'd already been pissed, and he'd knocked on your door and had the nerve to stare at your tits.

 ever since then, you haven't been able to get rid of him. he teases you in the hallway, calls you pet names, brings girls home at two in the morning.

 you don't like lando norris. but it doesn't erase the fact that he's right across the hall, and he likes you.

includes — fem!reader, cocky, arrogant, obsessed lando norris, neighbours, unrealistic/inaccurate f1 calender, bad first impressions, slowish burn, pining, tension, eventual smut, p in v, LOTS of flirting, nicknames (baby, gorgeous, etc.), max fewtrell + pietra pilao appearances, misunderstandings, lando's incredibly bad at expressing his feelings, mild angst, alcohol usage radio check — first post in about a millenia but it's finally here!! i seriously had so much fun writing this one, thank you guys so much for waiting <3 word count — 15k

MONACO IS STUPIDLY HOT IN SUMMER.

It’s the one thing you’d quickly learnt after moving here years ago, after realising your French lessons from high school would not help you at all. 

You’re in a halter neck, strings tied around the back of your neck, shorts stopping just before midthigh. You’d never wear it out in public of course, considering it’d probably make the nearest Monegasque auntie faint, but you were safe in your apartment, where the only other apartment opposite you was empty.

The TV in your living room is playing some soap opera, background noise as you try figure out how the new blender you bought works in the kitchen. The buttons are all in French, incredibly unhelpful considering the fact this was supposed to be one of your first steps to ‘self-improvement’. 

“Eat healthy,” one of your friends had told you a couple days ago. “Or drink healthy. Helps with stress.” She’d downed a shot of vodka a second later, so you weren’t sure why you’d taken her up on her advice.

Maybe it’s because you were getting desperate. Moving to Monaco was supposed to unlock new opportunities, especially considering the fact you’d scored a contract with one of top modeling agencies in Europe. Your family and friends thought you were doing well—if your Ferrari sitting downstairs in the underground car park wasn’t indication enough, and in financial terms, sure. 

But you were stressed, loosing any kind of love you had for your career, and currently really wanted to figure out how to work this stupid, overpriced blender.

A fresh wave of mediterranean air breezes in through the open window. You frown, blindly reaching across the kitchen counter for the instructions again as if it’ll magically appear in english. It won’t. You know it won’t, but the same desperate delusion that’s taken over your life makes you reach for it anyway.

Your gaze is still on the blender, hand blindly searching through the mess on the marble countertop. The lid, perched dangerously close to the edge, makes contact with your arm, tumbling to the herringbone floor with a loud clatter. 

“Fuck me,” you mutter, running your hands through your hair. The TV is still playing—you think the lead has just confessed her love to the love interest, her voice high and whiney and dramatic. Hastily, you switch it onto the next channel, a news outlet with monotone speech and dull colouring.

“I think the word for it is burnt out.”

That’s what your agent, Emilie, had told you over the phone a couple days ago. You wanted to scoff at it now—throw the stupid remote on the floor too as a petty release for your frustration. 

Burnt out. You wouldn’t be burnt out if the entire universe seemed completely set on your demise.

Just as you’re about to snatch the lid back up from the ground, a sharp knock pierces through your apartment. You rise halfway, gaze snapping to the door, motionless like you’re trying to figure out if this is your mind playing tricks on you.

A minute later, there’s another knock, a little louder, one you do when you don’t think anyone is home.

Immediately, you drop everything else in your hands, ecstatic at the excuse to leave the blender behind and shove it away in the back of your cupboard.

You smooth out your shorts, trying to make them look a reasonable length, fiddling with the strap of your top. Probably another delivery guy, you think, delivering yet another impulsive purchase you’d made to make yourself feel better. 

You swing the door open.

Fuck.

“Hey.”

There’s a man standing there, someone who isn’t in the typical delivery guy getup like you’re expecting. He looks your age, relaxed, familiar. Familiar in the way you knowyou’ve seen him somewhere, maybe passing by on the street, on an advertisement, maybe. He looked like he could model too. 

You tilt your head, leaning against the doorframe.

Yeah, he could definitely fucking model.

“Need something?” you ask, and your voice comes out harsh, still not over the shitty day you’re having. It doesn’t click in your head that he’s a new face, standing on your apartment floor that only has one other, unoccupied, apartment on it.

“No—yeah,” he blinks, and you let your gaze stray, surveying his plain, white shirt, the grey joggers. “Was just saying hi.” You look up at his face again. He’s got tan skin, brunette, curly hair, a small scar on the bridge of his nose. 

He looks really fucking good, but you’re too annoyed to care. 

“Why?” you ask, frowning. You see him give you a once over too, eyes dragging up from your thighs, all the way up to your face again. “Bit creepy, no?” “I was just—” he moves aside, and that’s when it clicks. You see the luggage, the open apartment door with boxes strewn about inside. “We’re neighbours now. There’s only two apartments on every floor. Probably going to see a lot of each other.”

Some of the annoyance simmers, realisation taking its place.

“Oh,” you say, and he smiles. “Right.” “Lando,” he says, offering his hand. “Norris. Lando Norris.” “Have we met?” you ask, shaking his hand. “I know you from somewhere.” “Probably work.” “What do you do?” “Cars,” he shrugs, and you shift on the spot, head tilting. “I work with cars.”

It's a vague answer. Everyone you asked in Monaco 'worked with cars'. It's how you managed to get your Ferrari in the first place.

You watch his gaze stray again. You watch it stray to your chest.

“I—” “Are you staring at my fucking tits?”

He freezes, eyes snapping back up to your face.

“Well—” “Seriously?” “They’re right there.” “What?!” “How do you expect me not look? You’re hot, and you’re in shorts and a freakin’—” “Have some decency!” you say, already moving to walk back inside your apartment. “Jesus.” “No, wait,” he catches your wrist, pulling you back. “C’mon. I’m sorry. What’s your name?” “I’m not telling you. Not after that.” “Then what do you want me to call you?” you tug out of his hold, and he grins, like this is the funniest thing in the world. “Baby? Gorgeous? Prettiest girl I’ve ever—”

You slam the door shut. 

He doesn't don’t retreat for a good few seconds, though you hear a low laugh before he does. It’s silent after that. Silent enough you could pretend that some ignorant, asshole hasn’t just moved in opposite you.

You glance at the TV, face flushed red, hands slack at your sides. 

“On the topic of sport—Mclaren move up in the constructor standings with another win from their golden boy, Lando Norris.”

There’s a faint ringing in your ears, a mix of horror and disbelief. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

That’s where you know him from. Lando Norris. A fucking Formula 1 driver, who’s picture you’ve probably passed countless times on the street. You hear him now, in an interview, that same laugh filling your apartment.

“I mean, that’s life. Almost costed me a win but I guess I'm just that good.”

You look at the TV, the door behind you, at the blender lid that’s still on the ground, and decide your life really couldn’t get worse than this. 

The next time you run into Lando is in the elevator, at 12 in the morning.

You’re in heels, a short minidress, head buzzing with alcohol from a post-shoot dinner. The strap around the back of your ankle digs into your skin, the minidress keeps falling and you’re so tired you’re half-inclined to let it.

The elevator doors open with a quiet ding.

Lando’s leaned against the wall, phone in hand when you walk in. You see him see you. You see his gaze drag over the hem of your dress, your sides, then back up to your face. He’s in jeans and a plain hoodie. You look like polar opposites.

Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you stop next to him, pointedly staring straight ahead.

“Hey,” he says, and you hear the smug grin in his voice. “How are you?” “Good,” you answer, short, sinking further back against the wall. “You?” “You’re not angry anymore?” “At you? Yes. I am.” “For what? Staring at your tits?” he crosses his arms, frowning. “I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.” “I don’t give a shit.” He laughs again, the slight rasp in his voice sending something fluttering down your stomach.

“Where’d you go?” he asks, and you glance at the elevator panel. You and him lived on the 17th floor, one you’d specifically chosen because of the gorgeous view. You were regretting it now though, more every second as you feel his gaze burning into your skin. “You look good.” “Just out,” you choose to ignore the compliment. “Why do you care?” “I’m curious.” “Why are you out this late? Don’t you have some kind of strict, training regime to stick to?”

His eyebrows raise in a way that makes you want to take back the words. “So you know who I am.” “Hard not to. Monaco loves cars.” “And what do you think?” “About what?” “Living next to a Formula 1 driver. A good Formula 1 driver. A hot one.” “Shut up,” you mutter, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “You’re not that good.” “Yeah? Who won the last race?” “How would I know?” “Don’t lie to me, babe,” he grins, hand tapping against the metal railing around the elevator. “You’re a bad liar.”

You hate the way the nickname makes your skin prickle, the way it makes heat crawl up your neck. Like he senses it, he moves closer. “You never told me your name. What else am I supposed to call you?” he says, amused. “No, that’s a lie. I asked the girl down at reception.” “You what?” you frown, turning to look up at him. “Surely that’s got to be illegal or something.” “Not when you promise her an autograph,” he shrugs. “Easy work.” “You’re a prick.” “Am I?”

The doors open with a quiet ding, and you rush to walk out, heels clicking on the marble flooring beneath you.

“But seriously, where’d you go?” “I said out,” you fumble for your keys. “Dinner.” “You’ve been drinking,” he observes, leaning against the wall. “Are you drunk?” “Get inside your apartment, Norris,” you say, sliding your key into the lock. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.” “Mm,” he hums. “No.”

You look up at him again, just before you open your door.

He’s smiling. Of course he’s fucking smiling. He smells like cologne, probably that Ralph Lauren one—you passed his advertisement on the way home for it. You’ve been noticing him everywhere now. Advertisements, posters, his last win replaying on screens.

“Fine,” he says, pushing off of the wall, moving to his own door. “Night, gorgeous.” You scoff out a laugh, turning the key and slipping into your apartment.

The door shuts, sending one last draft of cold air and cologne past. You don’t listen to him go this time. You drop your bag on the kitchen counter, kicking off your heels in the living room, before falling straight onto the couch in exhaustion.

The silence aches. You stare up at the ceiling, gaze tracing the ornate plaster moulded in the edges. The aperol from an hour ago is dull, barley buzzing anymore. 

You hate silence. It’s one of those things you career had conditioned—the fast paced model environment since your teenage years. There was always the click of a camera, the shouting of a director, the house music that for some reason seemed mandatory for every shoot you went to. 

Silence was uncomfortable. 

You shift your head to look at the door again, barely visible above the back of the couch. 

Maybe that was why coming home had always felt bittersweet. You’d finally get some rest at the cost of pure silence. Now though, Lando had moved in—loud, insufferable, Lando, and for some reason, it felt like something pivotal. Something incredibly major.

“Morning.”

You’ve dragged yourself through another night of endless doomscrolling, of fixed routine. Sun seeps into your apartment building’s hall, the silver numbers on your door glinting. 

You pause for a beat at the door, still not quite released from the grasp of sleep, staring ahead of you.

Lando’s shirtless. 

His tan skin is bare, toned, disappearing beneath the prominent lines peeking above his joggers. Like usual, he’s got a protein shake in one hand, looking completely refreshed like he’s been up for hours already.

“Sleep well?” he asks, watching you chuck something into the rubbish chute near both of your doors. “Looks like it.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, dusting off your hands. You glance over at him, eyes narrowing. “Why are you even out here? Do you just listen and wait for me?” “I’m not that obsessed,” he smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “Do you wish I was?” “No.” “Shame.”

You look past, at his open apartment door. It looks well furnished for the short amount of time he’d spent living there. You catch a glimpse of marble countertops like your own, a pictureframe off to one side of a Formula 1 car, clothes lazily thrown over the back of the couch. Cleaner than you expected for a cocky, millionaire-status athlete.

“Wanna come in?” he opens the door wider, voice teasing. “I see you staring.” “I’d rather drink acid.” “Liar,” he calls when you turn away again. “You know what we should do? Go out or something. Get to know each other." “Why would I ever do that?” “I’ll give you an autograph.” “That doesn’t work on me,” you glare. “Go bribe the receptionist downstairs.” “I’m not offering because you’re hot, sexy, and gorgeous,” he says, making you stop at the threshold of your door. “I’m asking because you’re my neighbour. I don’t plan to move anytime soon and I don’t think you do either.” “Are you calling me hot, sexy, and gorgeous?” “You are,” he says, then he smirks. “And I can say that without looking at your tits. I’m a changed man.”

The laugh that comes out of you is real. Slightly startled. Lando smiles wider at that, his hand mindlessly sliding up to rub at his shoulderblades.

“I can’t,” you say, and his smile falters slightly. “I’ve got work.” “Work?” he frowns, like he’d forgotten it existed. “Right. What do you do?” “That’s personal.” “Oh c’mon,” he says, dragging out the syllables. “That’s unfair. You know what I do.” “Everyone in the world knows what you do, Norris.” “So?” he steps closer, hand falling back to his side. “I’ll guess. Surely it’s something big if you can afford an apartment like this.” “I’m not telling you.” “Finance? Daddy’s money?”

You scoff, leaning against your doorframe. “Modeling.” “Oh?” he says. “Go figure.” He cocks his head, taking another sip of his protein shake and glancing over you like he’s observing, “You’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Makes sense you model.” 

You’ve gotten the compliment thousands of times before. It sounds no different coming from him, and yet you’re instinctively standing straighter, thank you on the tip of your tongue.

Lando shifts too, tongue poking at the side of his cheek, a slow grin taking over his features. 

You’d found yourself watching his interviews last night. He’s got a tendency to smile when things he says anything remotely personal. To laugh, scoff, redirect the conversation into something comedic. It makes you think it isn’t just a one-liner. Maybe he really does think you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. 

But you know better than that.

He opens his mouth, about to say something you know will be incredibly idiotic.

“Are you being serious? Or do you just want to have sex with me?”

Lando blinks, mouth closing, words dying in his throat.

“Well—you can’t—” he lets out an exasperated noise. “Obviously I want to have sex with you. But I swear I’m—” “Unbelievable.” “Baby, c’mon.” “I’m going to be late.”

You turn away, and he lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh.

“When will you admit you like me?” he calls, hand gripping your door to keep it open. You’ve got one hand on the door handle, giving it an experimental nudge. It doesn’t move an inch.

“Lando.”

He grins, slowly letting go. “Have a good day, gorgeous.”

You smile back, saccharine, before slamming the door shut in his face.

It’s been three days. 

Three days of Lando accidentally showing up in the hallway whenever you do. Three days of his teasing, his faux pleading to make you like him. You hear him at four in the morning, that low voice of his followed by someone else. A girl.

You weren’t jealous. Why would you be? You were more so annoyed at the fact it’d been four in the morning, and they weren’t exactly being quiet. She was nowhere to be seen the morning after, but he’d been there. In his doorway, shirtless, with a protein bar in his hand and a half-assed apology about the noise.

The elevator opens and you sigh, making your way down the hallway. Your clothes feel like they’re sticking to your skin, the leftover photoshoot makeup on your face is uncomfortable. 

Fucking Monaco heat.

Lando, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen for once.

You glance in your bag as you walk, sifting through for your keys. The bag—your first ever designer you’d bought with your own money, is full of items that have no business accompanying you to a photoshoot. There’s a sim card from France, an empty box of matches, a forgotten hotel room keycard from your last stay in Italy. More evidence that your life is currently a complete and utter mess.

Your fingers close around your keys just as you make it to your door. There’s no welcome mat outside, just plain, boring marble. You’d never bothered, considering the fact that it’d just been you coming home and you’d felt weird greeting occasional hookups with a fucking welcome sign at the door. 

You slide your key into the lock, turning it, hand instinctively already heading in the direction of the light switch. You’re a creature of habit. Of routine. Of the belief that there’s not a mat outside the door, but you’re heel catches on something there anyway.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, glancing down at the marble floor. It’s not a doormat. It’s a thick, glossy magazine, a note on the top and a paperclip marking a specific page. 

You snatch it up, the shiny cover smooth against your fingertips. 

You snort, plucking the note off of the cover.

Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart? 

He’s smiling in the picture, trophy clutched against him, champagne in his free hand. His race suit is half off, tugged down to show the black fireproofs below clinging to his skin. He looks smug, egotistical, like he’s saying I’m better than you even though the camera is looking over him.

You look at every inch of the cover, studying it, gaze greedy though your fingers are already sliding between the pages to the one he’d marked. 

Finally, you flick it open. Another podium picture takes up the entire page. It’s softer. His head is tilted back in pure relief, the smile on his face relaxed, eyes shut.

You skim-read the article beside it. The words compassionate and caring making a few appearances, followed by ‘what’s not to like?’. It talks about his rookie year, his home race win, the generic career-oriented stuff, but there’s a specific section towards the end that catches your eye.

“How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life?” “First off,” Lando laughs, looking away. “I have to admit I don’t think I’m too good at relationships in the first place. I’m much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text—a weakness of mine, actually.” He looks flustered to admit it, a slip in the usual playful person we see out in the paddock.  I ask, “Then what’s your ideal type in a person? Someone equally as bad at replying to text messages?” Again, he laughs, “Sure. I guess. Probably someone who can even put up with me in the first place. Someone who doesn’t just let me get away with everything all the time. Maybe bullies me a little. Also ideally someone who doesn’t know the first thing about racing—I wanna come home and not talk about freakin’ cars all the time, you know? ” “I see. And, I apologise if this is intrusive, have you found that person?” He smiles, leans back in his cushioned chair. It’s more of a smirk.  “No. Not yet. I—”

You stop there, at the end of the page, itching to flip over and finish the section. Instead, your gaze snags on the picture again. It’s perfect, really. His smile, the expression on his face. Probably would’ve fooled you if you didn’t know him.

“Asshole,” you mutter, shoving the magazine in your bag and hastily stepping into your apartment. You throw it onto the coffee table in the living room, tucked away like all your other problems. It doesn’t make a reappearance until a few hours later, when you’re in the kitchen, attempting to make one of those ‘nutritious, protein-filled’ meals off of social media that’s probably a sham.

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. Mindlessly, you swipe it off the surface, lazily throwing in more pepper into the pot on the stove. It wasn’t like you were too focused on cooking anyway. There was a 90% chance you’d give up and order takeout.

Unknown number —  like the gift?

You slam the pepper back onto the counter before you've even read the last word.

You —  why the fuck do you have my number?

Unknown number — guess jfc that girl at the reception is incredibly easy to convince should really learn her name

The pot hisses, spitting boiling hot water against your arm, throwing a tantrum you’re not paying attention to it. You curse and turn it off all together.

You — i need to file something against her what’d you bargain this time?

Unknown number —  another autograph and a picture this time

You — you’re insane strangely obsessed

Norris — but did you like the gift? thought it was a really good article if i’m being honest i look fuckin mint

You — sure

Norris —  don’t tell me i didn’t look hot did you stare at it?  for how long? 

You — two seconds max

Norris —  haha still a bad liar babe are you home?

You — might be why do you care?

Norris —  just curious fewtrell and his gf just landed in monaco  i’m waiting in the airport rn

You aren’t sure why he’s telling you that. It seemed too personal, like an update you’d tell your friend for no reason at all. 

You —  right are they staying with you?

Norris —  for a week gonna stream you should watch

You — i’m busy

Norris —  boooo fine

You chew the inside of your cheek, liking the message, before putting your phone face down on the counter.

He gets home an hour later. You hear another British accent, suitcases against marble, a feminine voice before it disappears into the apartment. Lando laughs, loud, making a joke with a very audible shut up in response. 

It makes you glance up from the couch at the door. There are boxes of takeout scattered on the coffee table in front of you, half eaten and waiting to be packed into the fridge. A bottle of wine is leaned against your side. Your laptop is open with a new campaign proposal, something to do with a Euro Summer, all prestigious exclusivity. 

Your gaze strays again to the hardwood coffee table, the magazine sitting there among the mess of takeout.

Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart? 

His perfect face, that trophy in his hand, the glint of pure happiness in his eyes.

You blame that smile when you open up Twitch on your laptop, half an hour later. You blame the wine, the stress that isn’t making you rational. You blame Lando Norris’ frustrating likeability.

He’s already live when you search his name.

As soon as you click onto it, his voice fills your living room. You can see his apartment clearer now, his office by the looks of it. He’s got helmets lined up on one of the shelves, racing sim behind him, trophies scattered here and there like he doesn’t know whether to display them or not. ‘Fewtrell’ is sitting beside him, whispering something that makes Lando let out a loud laugh you think you can hear through the walls of your apartment.

It sinks in then. 

You’re watching Lando Norris live, when he’s quite literally right next to you.

“Is this a new setup?” Lando reads from the chat, leaning back into his chair. He smiles, and it isn’t the smile from the magazine. It’s the one he uses in the interviews. “Yes. Yes it is. Moved recently.” “That’s why it looks so much cleaner,” his friend cuts in. “Cause you haven’t even fully unpacked yet.” “Fuck you,” Lando scoffs, nudging him in the side. “I’ve unpacked plenty. Everyone tell Max to shut up.”

You mindlessly click onto your phone, the live still playing on your laptop. 

Norris — gonna stream you should watch

Your fingers ghost over the keyboard.

You — its been a week since you moved in should really unpack

He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms up, a silver of tan skin revealed beneath his hoodie before he snatches up his phone. You watch as he reads the message, eyes flickering to stare straight at the camera, before he starts typing. 

Your phone buzzes again.

Norris —  knew you weren’t busy how long have you been watching?

“What’re you smiling about?” Max asks, and Lando shrugs, muttering ‘mind your business’.

You — barely a minute don’t get cocky

Norris — never could come over yknow i should introduce everyone to my gorgeously sexy stunning model neighbour

You glance at the live again. He’s smiling wider now, turned to the side like he’s hiding his phone.

“Lando, mate, can you focus?” “I am focused.” “No, you’re texting your freakin’ girlfriend or whatever.” “I don’t have a girlfriend.” “Sure looks like it.”

Lando scoffs, quickly typing something else before sliding his phone into his pocket.

Norris —  girlfriend, huh?

Your fingers clench around your phone, heart slamming against your ribs. 

“You’re washed,” Max says, and you slowly glance to the screen. “So fucking washed.” “I haven’t played this in like, a year,” Lando answers, dragging his chair closer to the table. He glances at the camera, smiling. It’s triumphant, like he knows you’re sitting there, flushed pink, unable to come up with a reply.

You slam your laptop shut, his voice cutting off mid sentence. The wine bottle beside you tilts, almost falls, until the world decides you’ve been through too much today and lets it perch on the edge instead. 

“Fuck,” you say, and it comes out breathy and dry, barely making a sound. There’s a muffled shout from his apartment, a bark of laughter. Clearly, he wasn’t affected as you were.

The thought makes the heat sink into your chest. It makes you snatch up the bottle of wine, turn on the TV to drown out the noise, and throw your phone somewhere else. Somewhere far out of reach.

Everything goes quiet two hours later. You hear his apartment door open, footsteps, the rubbish chute opening and closing, a pause just as he passes by your door.

His door slams shut. Yours doesn't open. Your agent texts you about another project, and you hate how you’re disappointed by the fact it isn’t him.

Lando likes you.

It’s obvious—probably clear as day to anyone who’s ever seen the two of you interact, which currently only happens to be the walls of your apartment hall. 

“Have you met your neighbour yet?” 

Max is sitting at the kitchen counter, a piece of toast in one hand. Lando’s blood goes rushing to his dick at the mere mention of you, and his hand tightens on his cup of protein.

“Yeah—she’s, um, yeah.” “Yeah?” Max frowns, taking a bite of his toast. “She nice? Rude? Fangirl?” “It’s complicated. We didn’t get off to the best start.”

He wants to say you’re everything he’s ever wanted in a girl. You’re gorgeous, to your eyes, your voice, your sharp, dry humor that no one else ever uses with him.

He’d been expecting some old couple—maybe a stuck up businessman, to open the door the day he’d moved in. Instead, he’d hit the fucking jackpot and found you. A girl his age, who was wearing the shortest shorts he’d ever seen in Monaco, and a face that looked straight from his dreams. 

The only problem was that you didn’t exactly like him back. 

Lando screws on the lid of the cup, eyebrows knit, a frown on his face. 

The girl of his dreams, who couldn’t stand him. His luck had to run out somewhere.

“Who’s this?” Pietra asks, sitting down beside Max. “New girlfriend?” “My neighbour.” “The girl you sent that magazine of yourself to?” she snorts, taking a sip of Max’s drink. “No wonder she doesn’t like you.”

Lando turns around, focusing on mixing together his protein shake. “I might’ve stared at her tits the first time we met.” Max lets out a heavy sigh, the kind that he uses on stream when Lando makes a stupid, un-media-friendly joke.

“I’d slap you,” Pietra says, serious. “Then find a way to kick you out of the building.” “I apologized!” Lando argues, turning around again. “And she’s a fucking model. She’s hot. She wears these tiny shorts around at home and fuck they’re—” Max raises his eyebrows, spreading butter onto his toast, “So you’ve got a crush? That doesn’t excuse staring at her tits, by the way.” “I think anyone who sees her would have a crush, honestly,” Lando says, leaning against the counter. The marble digs into his side, and he grimaces. “She still hates me though.” “I wonder why.”

Max sets down the knife to take a bite of his food, and Lando rolls his eyes, sliding his phone out of his pocket, swiping onto the messages with you like it’s second nature. He’s done that a lot recently—reading through each text with you, trying to figure out what you mean by every word you say.

You haven’t replied to that last comment. 

Lando — girlfriend, huh?

He winces, fingers hovering over the keyboard, debating on whether you’re too flustered or too creeped out to answer. 

Lando — morning

“You could always apologize again,” Max muses, reaching for his mug of coffee. “Buy her something. Take her out for dinner for a proper start.” “I offered breakfast once.” “In a polite way? Or in a ‘I’m inviting you over because I find you attractive’ way?” “Probably the second.”

Pietra shakes her head, muttering something under her breath before disappearing into the hallway. Lando watches her go with a frown.

“Try invite her out again,” Max says, and Lando’s phone buzzes in his hand. “Ask nicely. Explain why you want to take her out.”

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — finally stopped stalking me?

“Mm,” Lando hums, attention already slipping. “I will.” “Will you?” “Yeah.” Max scoffs, “Liar.”

Lando’s too focused on his phone to bother defending himself.

Lando — what’s that supposed to mean?

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — didn’t see you this morning weren’t standing outside waiting for me like a dog like usual

Lando — disappointed? knew you’d miss me

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — miss you? you can’t stay away from me for more than a day might as well have you on a leash

Lando — buy me a collar and i’d wear it

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — you wouldn’t

Lando — i would make sure it’s got your name in bold on the front

He smiles when you pause.

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — are your friends still over?

Lando — changing the topic? and yeah they’re still here did you wanna meet them?

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — i’m good

Lando — you could always come over y'know

You stop again. He watches the type bubble pop up, disappear, then start again.He probably sounds creepy. Like a weirdly obsessed neighbour that lived right opposite you. 

He frowns at that.

“Lando.” “Yeah?” “Are you gonna eat anything?”

Lando — what are you doing this morning?

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — i’ve got a shoot at 11 and no you’re not coming over

Lando —  want breakfast? seriously fresh start or whatever

Max is still talking. Lando can hear the scrape of his knife against ceramic, his cup of coffee thudding onto the table every time he sets it down. His heart is beating faster every second those chat bubbles start up again.

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — where?

“I’m making plans,” Lando finally answers, and Max stops mid bite. Lando raises his phone, waving it at him as if he can see the text on it. “Apology, right?” “You made plans with her?” “Yup.” “She said yes?” “Sure.”

Lando — there’s a few nice cafes by the port meet you outside in ten?

hot, sexy, and gorgeous — if you’re late i’m calling this off

Lando — couldn’t be late even if i tried

He shuts off his phone, sliding it into his pocket with a satisfied grin. Max frowns at him with mild disdain.

“You’re an idiot,” his best friend says, and Lando’s grin fades. “This is the worst way to pursue a girl.” “I think this is perfect.” “You stared at her tits the first time you meet her, you flirt and clearlydon’t do anything to back it up—you sent a magazine of yourself to her door—” “She kept it.” “Could’ve thrown it away.” “I would’ve known if she’d thrown it away.” “How?” “Because she throws her rubbish out every morning, and I watch her do it,” Lando answers, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “And she hasn’t thrown it out.”

Max stares at him in silence for a few beats.

“You’re insane.”

Lando shrugs, turning, “Got a breakfast date to get ready for.” “It isn’t a date, it’s an apology. Remember that,” Max calls.

Lando lets the words go in one ear and right out the other.

It’s nine-thirty in the morning, you’ve got a campaign to shoot in an hour and a half, and you’re sitting at a table across from Lando Norris for fucking breakfast.

He’s in jeans, a loose, button up shirt, the top few undone to show perfect tan skin. There are sunglasses resting on the top of his head, colorful fan-made bracelets stacked on one wrist, pink Richard Mille on the other. He cocks his head as he flicks through the menu, tongue darting out every now and then to lick his lips.

He looks unbelievably good. 

You shift on your chair, rustic iron scraping on the brick, outdoor flooring. Port Hercule sits right nearby—you see yachts pulling out of the dock already, a sign of Monte Carlo waking up. There’s french chatter, the occasional rumble of a sports car.

You’ve been pretending to look through the menu for the last five minutes. You know what you want already: the usual iced coffee and light meal you get before every shoot, but still pretend nonetheless.

“You’re staring.”

His voice still has the rasp of sleep at the end of it, and when you focus on his face again, he isn’t even looking at you.

“How would you know that?” “I can sense it,” he says, letting the menu fall back onto the table with a quiet thud. He grins, cocky like he always is, “You know I look good.”

You snort, settling back into your chair.

Egotistical, arrogant, idiotic.

Those three words you’ve been repeating to yourself are fading by the minute.

“You look hot. What shoot do you have to be at today?” “Some campaign,” you sigh, also setting aside the menu. “Clothing thing.” “I could probably get you into some F1 promo.” “And end up in the same magazine you were in? I think not.”

His smile widens, and he leans forward. “Did you keep it?” “Keep what?” “The magazine. With my face on the cover.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep any blush from creeping onto your face. The magazine is still sitting where you left it on the coffee table, like an accusation, like something so pointed that you don’t want to address.

“You kept it.” “Would be a waste of money if I threw it out,” you lie. “And it matches the colour scheme of my apartment anyway.” “When am I ever going to see your apartment?” “Never.” “You’ve seen mine.” “I’ve seen the door and the hallway.” “And the office,” he adds, eyes glinting with amusement. “Remember?”

You clear your throat, glancing over at the port. He laughs, his chair scraping back as he settles into it again.

“I’m not trying to tease you. This is supposed to be a fresh start, remember?” “Is it?” “I’m trying,” his face turns serious when you look back at him. “I’m formally apologizing for staring at your tits the day we met. It’ll never happen again. Unless you let me.”

You suddenly understand why people let Lando get away with being him. You’ve seen his interviews online—the ones post-race where he’s cocky, high off a win, grinning with sweat glistening down his neck. You’ve seen how he says the most arrogant lines, makes inappropriate jokes, and no one ever seems to reprimand him for it.

He picks up the menu again, only to thumb at the corner of the card, still staring at you. 

“Can we start over?” he asks. “Properly. Disregard everything you know about me—pretend I met you yesterday and asked you out.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, “Was this your plan? To lure me out under the ruse of an apology, then turn it into a date midway?” He grins, and you laugh despite yourself, reaching for your glass again.

Maybe if you’d met him earlier—maybe if he’d knocked on your door a mere ten minutes before he did, things would play out different. Maybe he would’ve actually complimented you and asked you out normally. You weren’t sure if Lando Norris was capable of asking a girl out politely, but just for now, you were choosing to believe he could.

“So,” you set down your glass, looking at him. “Lando, was it?” The look on his face is nothing short of delight, and he leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “Right,” he answers. “Lando Norris.” “And what do you do for work?” “I drive cars.” You smile, “What kind?” “Formula 1 cars.”

The waiter comes back around with your food. Lando leans back, eyes still on you, relaxed like he’s just taking you in. You don’t snap at him this time. You let him stare like you’d let someone you were dating, you let him appreciate the fact that you’d even agreed to come out with him in the first place.

The rest of your ‘date’ goes by quickly. He’s likeable. You’d learnt that a while ago, but just refused to let yourself believe it. You find out he’s leading the championship, that Max is his best friend from childhood, that he thinks you’re the hottest person he’s ever laid eyes on.

“I could drop you off, if you wanted.”

You don’t even realise you’ve been scraping your fork at nothing for the past ten minutes, subconsciously dragging out the conversation. His own plate is empty too, and his arms are crossed, another smile on his face.

“To my shoot?” “Yeah,” he answers, glancing further behind you at his car. It’s obnoxious. A McLaren P1, jet-black, the number plate a combination of LN and a bunch of fours. It screams ‘this car belongs to Lando Norris’, and the amount of stares it had gotten as he’d driven past only proved that further. 

“It’s only a ten minute walk.” “You’re in heels.” “Barely.” He frowns, like he’s genuinely offended, “I’m not letting you walk in heels. What kind of date would I be?” “You’re saying you’re one of those guys who’d carry me if my feet got sore?” “Of course,” he reaches for his glass of water, glancing over it at you. “You don’t believe I’d be a good boyfriend?” You raise your eyebrows at him, “I never mentioned anything about boyfriends.” “Still,” he sets the glass down again. “You don’t think I would?”

You’ve, reluctantly, been stalking his past relationships. You know the last two have been Portugese—both models, both the kind of gorgeous that seemed gifted by Aphrodite herself, and every single break-up addressment had said the same thing: praise and the stereotypical “we just want different things”. He seemed like a good boyfriend, but you weren’t sure if that was the PR talking or not.

“I don’t know,” you answer, truthful. “I’d give you about a six out of ten for offering to drop me off.” He lets out a laugh, laced with surprise, “A six out of ten?” “Point-five if you walk me in too.” “Seriously?” “No,” you scoff. “I’m kidding. You don’t need to drop me off.”

He sighs, heavily, and you hear the scrape of his chair before you register him moving to stand.

“What’s the address?” “Lando,” you start, but he reaches out a hand, holding it in the space between you. 

We’re still on a date, he seems to silently say, keep pretending you like me.

You haven’t been pretending. Not for the past hour. You feel like you should tell him—reassure him maybe, but then he’d tease you about it for the next month.

“Knew you’d cave,” he says when you let him help you stand. His hand trails to your waist, voice smooth in your ear. “You know, I think we’d be good together.” “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say as he guides you past the various tables, briefly stopping at the front counter to tap his card. “This is a one time thing.” His grip tightens, thumb grazing the skin of your waist.

“Sure,” he says.

There’s a feeling in your gut that this’ll be far from a one time thing. You know that he knows it too.

Lando’s halfway through your Instagram feed when there’s a sharp bang on his door.

He pauses, thumb hovering over a picture from about two years ago, dragging his attention to hallway. He’s leaned against his kitchen counter shirtless, cereal half-eaten next to him. Max and Pietra had left for their early flight an hour or two ago. His own empty luggage he’s meant to be packing for the next few races lays strewn around his living room.

It’s silent. Slowly, he glances back at his phone.

There’s another bang, louder, someone knocking impatiently, then—

“Lando! Open the fucking door!”

Ah, fuck.

He drops his phone on the counter, stretching as he makes his way to the hallway. 

“Morning,” he says when he swings open the door. He leans against the doorframe, smiling, trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You glare at him, phone in one hand, hair slightly messy like you’d just gotten up too. 

“What the fuck is this?”

He glances at your phone, at the picture sitting there. 

It’s the two of you, his hand around your waist, you glancing up with your eyes slightly wide. It looks strangely intimate, actually. Lando saw it about twenty minutes ago on his own Instagram feed.

“Was hoping you wouldn’t see that,” he admits, taking your phone and swiping through the rest of the pictures. There’s more of the two of you at the cafe, some in his car, photographed perfectly so the angle makes it look like you’re closer than you are. “If it makes you feel better, I had no clue.” “No, that doesn’t make me feel better.” He grins, handing it back and turning to walk inside his apartment. The door is left open like an invitation, and you follow him, glaring. 

“Lando.” “It’ll blow off within a couple of days,” he answers, returning to the kitchen counter. He picks up the spoon from his bowl of cereal. “I promise. Don’t stress your pretty little head about it.” “I’m not stressed. I’m pissed. You—” “Isn’t it your job to be photographed?” “Not while I’m having breakfast with an athlete.” “A hot athlete.” “Go fuck yourself.”

He huffs out a laugh, muffled by the spoon in his mouth. Your anger wears off a little when you tear your attention off of him.

It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his apartment, you realise. 

It looks the same as yours—the same layout, marble countertops, herringbone flooring. It’s messier though, more photographs on the walls, trinkets he’d presumably gotten from fans. His apartment looks more lived in than yours, though he’s only been here for a couple weeks. It smells like him too—cologne, linen, a hint burnt toast like he’d failed at cooking breakfast this morning.

“Where are you going?” you ask when you catch sight of the suitcases. “Moving again?” “You wish,” he says, still eating his cereal. “Nah. Race this week.” “You’re gone for a week?” “Three. Triple-header and I’ll be in London for conveniency. Closer to MTC.”

You don’t understand a word he’s saying, apart from the fact he’s gone for three weeks. Three. 

“Oh,” you manage, and he stops, spoon pausing in his bowl. “Right.” “Gonna miss me?”

Probably.

The thought isn’t as startling as you thought it’d be. You’d gotten used to him recently—relied on him in fact, to fill the silence you’d dealt with every time you came home. You wouldn’t tell him that though, of course.

“No,” you say, and he smiles like he sees right through you. He pats the countertop, and you move without realising, pulling back the stool opposite him. “Might have some peace and quiet for a little.” “You’re gonna miss me.”

You don’t agree or deny it this time. He finishes off his cereal, chucking his dishes in the sink before facing you again. You try ignore the fact that the sight of his back muscles moving sends a flush of pink crawling up your neck.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask. “Yesterday. That you were leaving.“ “Didn’t think you’d care that much,” he shrugs, resting his forearms on the counter. “Plus it’s only three weeks. You’ve lived without me for, what? Few years?” You don’t answer, and he stands up straighter, head tilting.

“I’m only gone for a little bit.” “I know.” “You seem—” he stops, eyebrows furrowing. “You seem like you actually care.” “Do you think I hate you?” “Sure looks like it.” “I don’t,” you say. “Hate you. I don’t love you, that’s for sure, but I don’t hate you.”

His head is still tilted at you, fingers mindlessly tapping on the marble countertop. 

“Will you watch?”

You blink up at him. He raises his eyebrows, fingers still tapping, restless. 

“Do you want me to watch?” “Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yeah. Obviously.”

His voice is softer than usual—careful, like he’s holding something in. You want to answer him, make a sharp comment that’ll ease the tension. Instead, you stay quiet, leaning forward the slightest inch without even meaning to. His gaze flickers to your neck, the thin strap of your top, stopping at where the counter blocks off the rest of you.

“You look good.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. 

“I just woke up.” “I know.” “You weren’t waiting in the hall this morning.” “It isn’t eight-thirty yet.”

The time you’re usually out in the hallway. Even you didn’t know that about yourself.

“I should go.” “Stay.” “I’ve got work.”

You push back your chair, and he’s instantly moving, trailing after you.

“Not even for another few minutes?” “I’m already off schedule.”

You pass by a framed picture of a car—his Formula 1 car. There’s a shelf next to it, one full of what looks like a bunch of magazines and decorative pieces. There are photos too, polaroids of his friends, a girl that you don’t recognize.

He catches your wrist just as you continue past it, almost at the threshold of the front door.

“Is there some kind of limit on how much you let yourself near me everyday?” “An hour. Max.” “It’s barely been ten minutes.” “More time for later, then.”

His grip tightens, and you swear you feel his thumb graze over your skin. “My flight is in two hours.”

He looks desperate now, his voice still soft, reasoning. 

“More time for when you get back, then,” you say, glancing at his hand. “In three weeks.”

Again, his thumb traces over your wrist. You swallow, an attempt at regaining any sense of rationality. His cologne is intoxicating now, and when you look up at him, his hand trails to your waist instead.

“You’re in my apartment,” he says, more to himself. “Jesus.” “I know that.” “Do you always look this good?”

You’ve learnt to stop expecting him to stay on a single thought. It’s like he says whatever crosses his mind first, without a care in the world about an answer.

His other hand settles at the small of your back, tugging you close. You can feel the heat radiating off of him—the tension, the intensity of him standing there.

“Lando.”

He hums in response, somehow not focused yet entirely fixated on you. 

You make the mistake of glancing away—glancing down, at his bare torso. At the defined lines disappearing beneath his joggers. When you look up again, a single thought runs through your head.

You want to kiss him.

You want to know how his skin feels, how he tastes, if his stupid, cocky exterior followed into his sex life. He lets his gaze roam too, and you know the same exact thoughts are circulating in his head.

Just at you move closer the slightest inch, he lets go.

“I think I’ll miss you,” he says, arrogance returning in full force. You’re still breathless, lips parted, heart pounding in your chest, but he’s already smirking, hands sliding into his pockets. “You and your gorgeous face.”

It’s silent for a few beats. He raises his eyebrows, standing there in all his infuriating glory, like he hasn’t just baited you into almost kissing him.

You can’t fucking believe him. 

“Fuck you.” “I’ll dedicate a win to you.”

You turn away, wrenching open his front door and storming out of his apartment. He follows, leisurely, stopping at the doorframe.

“Promise you’ll watch?” “Go fuck yourself.”

You slam your door shut, letting it ring in the hallway. It’s the last time you see him in a month.

Dates before hook-ups had never really been your thing.

Some people liked it—the whole package, being wined and dined before ultimately back to a hotel just to fuck. You liked getting it over and done with as quick as possible.

It sounded sad, and only after your friend from home had told you so, you’d decided to trythe entire process for once instead.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?”

You glance down at the man beneath you.

He’s got dark hair, dark features, the typical Monegasque, billionaire look. You think his name starts with an M. 

“Sometimes,” you smile, hands trailing up his chest. You resist the urge to look at your bedroom door, at the wall like you can see the apartment right across your own. You’d sat through an entire, boring dinner for this moment. You refused to let yourself get distracted.

It’s been three weeks since Lando left for his races in Europe.

You’ve settled back into normalcy. Routine. No one bothers you every morning in the hall, no one nags you with questions in the elevator. Your phone remains silent—your entire apartment floor remains silent.

It’s weird. 

Theoretically, it shouldn’t be weird. It should be the opposite of weird. You should be relieved, actually. Instead, you’ve been filling his absence with hookups, with the same impulsive purchases prior to him moving in, with races playing on your stupidly large TV. 

He’d won in the Netherlands. You’d wanted to text him then—to tell him you’d watched, that you were so happy you’d spilt a glass of wine as he’d crossed the checkered flag. But you hadn’t, and your last messages were still from when you’d scheduled that breakfast together a month ago.

You don’t realise your gaze has already strayed away from the man in your bed. He’s been talking this entire time, more compliments, probably. 

“Hello?”

You snap your head back to him, blinking. He’s got an irritated look on his face, and he sits up, making you fall onto the bed beside him. 

“Am I too boring for you?” “What?” “Clearly, I am, considering the fact a fucking wall holds your attention better.”

He stands, snatching up his discarded clothing around your bedroom. You sigh, heavily, watching him from your bed. You’re still in lingerie, a pale blue lace set, dainty, and something you probably shouldn't be wasting on a random hookup. 

“I knew you were entitled. An entitled, spoiled brat with an apartment she probably doesn’t even pay for herself.”

The man is still talking, and you roll your eyes, sliding off the bed when he walks out of your bedroom.

“You’re wasting an entire night, by the way,” you say, following him to the door. It wasn’t like you wanted to have sex with him anymore, but you did want an orgasm. You could probably shut your eyes and pretend it was someone else, and that was enough for you.

“I don’t care,” he says, and you stop at your front door, watching him tug on his shoes. “You’re a bitch.” You don’t answer that, stepping aside to let him pass.

“Spoiled fucking—” he mutters something else in French, shaking his head as he continues down the hall. You watch him, resting your head against your doorframe, still in your lingerie.

“Night,” you call, and just before he can press the button for the elevator, the doors open.

You freeze, blood turning cold.

Fuck.

Lando steps out of the elevator as the man steps in, suitcase and bag dragged next to him, hood thrown over his head like he’d just gotten off a flight. 

“Already called someone to replace me?” your hookup says, and you shut your eyes, sighing again. You want to die. You want to sink into the wall and disappear. “Real fucking classy.” “Shut up and go home,” you answer, and the elevator doors close. 

The hallway goes silent. 

You open your eyes again, and Lando is by his own apartment door, barely a meter away from you.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice makes something inside of you flutter. One hand is around the handle of his suitcase, the other slack by his side. He looks exhausted. You think there might be circles beneath his eyes.

“Hi,” you answer, suddenly too aware that you’re still in fucking lingerie. “You’re back.” “I’m back.” “And, um—” you gesture in his general direction. “Yeah.” “Who was that?”

You wince, looking away again.

“No one.” “Didn’t seem to like you very much.” “I know. I zoned out when we were about to have sex.” Lando laughs, and it’s raspy, tired—hot.

“Do you wear that for every hookup you have?” he asks. “Or did you know I was coming home tonight?” “I’m not wearing this for you,” you scoff, fixing the strap of your bra. “Do you wish I was?” “Obviously.” “Five minutes in and you’re already flirting.” “Negative,” he says. “You’re in a fucking lace set.”

A cold draft of air flits past, and you mindlessly wrap your arms around you. He tracks the movement, jaw flexing.

“You didn’t answer my question.” “Would you be jealous if I said yes?”

He releases his hold on his suitcase, stepping closer to you. 

This is what you’re used to now—what you’ve been missing for the past three months.

You know what you probably look like. The flush from earlier hasn’t exactly worn off yet, your hair is probably messy from hands tangling themselves in them, you’re in lace that you know makes you look good.

Lando smiles. It’s one of his cocky, smug, smiles. 

“Congratulations on your win,” you say, but it comes out breathier than you meant it to, softer. “And second place. Twice.” His smile falters a little.

“You watched.” “You asked me to watch.” “I know—I just—” he stops, glances at the strap of your bra, then turns away back to his suitcase. “Fuck.” “What’s wrong?”

When he turns back around, he’s got a shirt in his hands.

“Can’t focus when you’re dressed like that,” he admits, handing it to you. “Not that I don’t like it. Just wanna have a proper chat.”

It’s his Mclaren jersey, four clear on the back, black and orange. You thumb over the material for a second, before shrugging it on. 

Lando jaw flexes when you look at him again.

“Suits you.” “I knew you’d say that.” He scoffs, head tilting towards his apartment. 

“When did you land in Monaco?” you say, following him inside. “Couldn’t you have texted me?” “We haven’t texted for a month, gorgeous.” “I know, I just—” his door shuts behind you, leaving you still flushed, standing in the hall of his apartment. He throws his keys on the wooden console table by the door, lazily resting his suitcase against the wall. “Give me a heads up or something. So I don’t have a fucking hookup when you get back.”

He pauses, glancing back at you.

“You missed me,” he smiles. “Didn’t you?” “I—” “I missed you too.”

He moves closer, and it gives you a rush of familiarity. The blush on your neck must’ve spread to your face, because he lets out a soft laugh, hands settling on your waist.

“I thought about you a lot. On the plane home, on the podium,” one hand slides beneath his jersey, resting on your skin. “In my hotel at night.”

You try not to focus on his face too much. Ultimately, it doesn’t work, and you find yourself studying it instead. He looks exhausted, shoulders tense, his voice lower than usual. 

“What’d you think about?” you ask, but the words sound distant in your own head. “Coming home and tormenting me again?” “I thought about your pretty face,” he corrects. “The way you looked in my apartment before I left.” “When you baited me?” He smiles, palm warm on your waist, “I never baited you.” “Sure felt like it.”

You’re still mad at him for it. Mad that he hadn’t finished what he’d started. 

“Did you want me to kiss you then leave you for a month?” He says. “Would you have rather fucked and then lived through a month in silence?” “We wouldn’t have fucked.”

He laughs at that. It’s short and incredulous, so insufferably sure in himself it makes you want to slap him.

“Don’t kid yourself, baby.” “Fuck you.” “Is that your natural response whenever I know you’re lying?” “It’s my response when you’re being arrogant,” you answer. “You can’t just start something and not—” “You think I don’t want to finish this?” he says, still amused. “I want to kiss you more than anything—I’ve wanted to kiss you the second you opened the door two months ago. I want to fuck you and have you wear that set for me. Not some shitty fucking hookup you don’t even know the name of.”

You throat is dry, heart stuttering in your chest at the words. Heat spreads through you, through your thighs, still bare but covered by his jersey.

“Then why don’t you?” you ask, and it comes out softer than you intended. “Instead of waiting when you know it’ll happen?” “You deserve better than that,” he answers, and one of his hands move to your face instead, fixing your hair behind your ear. “You deserve to be obsessed over. Not to be taken out to dinner once just for the part that comes after.”

He pulls away, both hand sliding into his pockets. You take a step back, just to breathe, tearing your gaze away. His apartment looks untouched from a month ago, 

When you finally have the courage to look at him again, he’s smirking.

“I missed you,” he repeats. “I missed you a lot.”

Your fingers curl at your sides. 

“Congratulations on your win,” you end up on, reaching for the door. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t stop you. He stands there, relaxed in his ownapartment, gaze flickering to your thighs knowingly. 

“Goodnight, gorgeous.”

Lando hates being mature.

He hates making actual, rational decisions, ones that make him wait instead of giving things to him instantly. For example: not fucking kissing you when he’d had the chance. Twice.

He winces every time he thinks about it, sighs when he passes by the entry of his apartment. The image of you in his jersey, the pale blue set beneath it, continues to randomly flash in his head. Tormenting him. Except it feels less like torment and more like unshakable regret.

The stack of magazines in his living room seem to stare at him everytime he brushes past. Most are ones of himself, things he plans on planting outside your apartment with stupid notes attached.

The other half of the stack is magazines you’d sent him, back when everything had been fine. Magazines with you on the cover, so, incredibly gorgeous that he’d always stopped in his tracks when he’d picked them up. One of them is of Oscar. His teammate. Your own hand written note still attached: the better mclaren driver x, and he remembered immediately knocking on your door and playing hurt about it.

It was a joke. He knew it was a joke, but it didn’t stop the flare of jealousy that’d sparked inside of him anyway.

His gaze strays from the stack, to the white box on the table next to it.

It’s lingerie. Lacy, light pink, gorgeous, inside an equally as delicate box. It’d probably be even prettier on you—the whole reason he’d bought the damn thing anyway. It sits there like a shadow, like a guilty secret, waiting for the right moment he can give it to you and play it off like another fucking joke when you both knew it wasn’t.

He wants you. Badly. And yet he was holding himself back for some Godforsaken reason. 

He hasn’t seen or spoken to you for the past two weeks. The rhythm the two of you had settled into feels tense, throwing every possible interaction out of sync.

It feels like you’re avoiding him—it probably feels like he’s avoiding you. He’s not. He, for once in his life, just doesn’t know what to do or say.

It doesn’t help that another week later, you’re not even in Monaco.

He hears you leave, the sound of suitcases on marble, unfamiliar voices and laughter. Another two hours and, like some deranged, obsessed admirer, he finds out through your friend’s Instagram stories that you’re on a private jet halfway to Mykonos, Greece. 

When he drags himself through the rest of the day, through to the next morning, you’ve posted in a nightclub that he’s been to before. He studies the picture, the group you’re with, the men specifically. One of them is looking at you, but your eyes are closed, smiling, too caught up dancing with your friends to notice. Lando can’t tell if the man is staring at you in a casual, passing glance way, or a I wanna have sex with you way. 

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he tosses his phone out of reach, and decides he really needs to keep himself distracted for the rest of the time you aren’t here.

He does. Well, he tries. 

He focuses on the upcoming triple header. He focuses on fulfilling every single one of Jon’s insane, training requests. He lets himself scroll on Instagram for a maximum of ten minutes everyday, as if he owes it to himself. 

You post from clubs, from hotels, from yachts. Your skin glows, you look more carefree than he’s ever seen you. He’s never been so mesmerized in his life. 

It’s five days into your absence when you post the picture he’d subconsciously been waiting for.

You’re leaned against a man. 

Lando’s fingers hover over the picture, hood pulled over his head, sitting on one of the benches of his gym. There’s a drink in your hand—champagne, and you’re leaning back, the man’s arms draped over your shoulders. The coastline of Mykonos beautiful in the background, the kind of picture that unintentionally makes you feel inferior. The kind of picture he’d sometimes post, albeit without holding a girl against him.

He shuts his phone, shoving it into his bag, restarting his reps with a newfound sense of determination to get you out of his head.

You get back a week later There’s no laughter or conversation this time. Just your suitcase, your keys, the quiet shutting of your apartment door. 

His heart is instantly slamming in his chest again, and yet for another excruciating seven days, he doesn’t see you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, tilting his head back against his couch.

He feels like shit.

For the entirety of this past month, he's felt like shit. He knows he should just knock—just talk to you, but he's gone so long without that he thinks he doesn't know how.

His apartment is awfully quiet for ten o’clock at night, silent apart from his nagging thoughts of regret. 

He wants you to be the girl he’s spotted with in headlines. The girl people speculate about, instead of some random model he’d danced with at a club in Ibiza. He wants you with him on yachts, on planes, standing in parc ferme after a win. He’s wanted you since he’d stared at your fucking tits almost half a year ago.

It’s then that he realises he needs to do something. Something that doesn’t consist of sulking about you, thinking about you, or frankly, anything to do with you. Maybe an evening run, or a session on his sim. Maybe he could call up Max despite it probably being about two in the morning over in London. 

Or, maybe, he could just knock on your door, kiss you, and see what happened from there.

He glances at the white box on the coffee table, the magazines beside it.

The media had always called him blessed. Mclaren’s golden boy. Incredibly, miraculously lucky. As he finally stands, slipping out of his apartment, he thinks it might be true. 

Jimmy’z is as loud as it always is.

He’d called up Carlos, asking what he was doing and where he was, and it’d led him here. To the most exclusive club in Monte Carlo. It smelt like alcohol, like intoxicating perfume, the music pulsing so loud in his head he can’t think.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Carlos asks him at the bar, waiting for their drinks. “Surely can’t be the championship. You’re leading by a mile.” “No—it’s not,” Lando answers, staring ahead of him. “Something else. Personal.” “When’s the last time you had sex?” He winces, glancing over, “Seriously?” “Two months, then.” “Fuck you.”

Carlos laughs, taking their shots from the bartender and sliding one across to Lando. He downs it instantly, savouring the burn in his throat and praying it’s enough to ease his tension.

“How about—” Carlos’s hands are on his shoulder, steering him to look in the direction of a girl. “Her. Blonde on your left.” “I’m not doing this, Carlos.” “No?” he surveys the crowd, before steering him again. “Her?”

Lando freezes. Carlos, too busy with his ongoing bit of listing random women, doesn’t notice.

You’re standing there, in a dress that glints beneath the strobing lights, drink in your hand, a carefree smile on your face as you talk to a group of your friends.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck—

Lando’s heartbeat is so loud in his ears it drowns out the music. 

You look beautiful.

It's the first time he's seen you in almost a month, but that's all that's running through his head.

He can see the way you’re talking, using your hands, more animated than he’s ever seen you before. Just as he can even choose to tear his gaze away, for both your sakes, someone’s approaching you. 

He’s tall, blonde, frame nudging past people with the clear goal of getting to you. When he does, you blink, smiling and shaking his hand.

It’s nothing like the first time you and Lando met. It plays out perfect—the man makes you laugh, complimenting you by the looks of it, and you’re already pulling your phone out of your purse.

Something sparks deep inside of him. Jealousy. A pang of something possessive when he knows it isn't fair. Still, he’s moving, cutting Carlos off mid sentence.

“Where are y—” “I’ll be back.”

He reaches you in under twenty seconds, managing to catch the ends of your conversation.

“Did you want another drink?” “Yeah, that’d be—”

The man steps aside just as Lando stops in front of you. He watches your attention shift, watches the recognition flash across your features.

“Lando?”

The man blinks, head snapping towards him. You’re frozen on the spot, gaze darting between the two of them. 

“Sorry, man,” he says, and Lando straightens. “Kinda busy h—” “Leave.”

The command comes out short. Rude, but Lando can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m sorry?” “Leave,” he repeats, and you’re silent, hands lowering to your sides. “Now.” “Excuse m—” “Get the fuck out,” he says, stepping closer. You tense, but stay quiet. “Do I have to make you?” The man scoffs, muttering something and disappearing into the crowd.

It leaves you and Lando silent again.

“What the fuck are you—” “Not here,” he says, grabbing your wrist to lead you out the back. “Fuck.”

You stumble outside, glass still in one hand, a glare on your face. The heavy door slams shut, and Lando releases his hold.

“What the fuck was that?” “I dont—” “What gives you the fucking right?” you say, voice raising. “You think you can dictate who I talk to just because we live opposite each other?!" “No, fuck, baby—” “You’re a fucking dick, Norris.” “I know.” “You’re arrogant, cocky, egotistical—” you shove him, and he doesn’t resist, staggering back. “You ignore me for a month and this is the first thing you fucking do?!”

He winces, rubbing his shoulder. You’re breathless, face flushed pink, looking at him with disdain. “I wasn’t ignoring you.” “Fuck you.” “I wasn’t,” he repeats, moving closer. You step back, and he doesn't try again. “I was just—I didn’t know what to—” “Is this a game to you? Am I a game? Are you testing to see how long you can keep me waiting for and how long I’ll keep letting it happen?”

He shakes his head, and you lean against the wall, exhaling.

“Were you…” he starts, and you look at him. “Planning on fucking him? And the guy in Greece—” “You’re unbelievable." “Were you?” “Would it matter?” “Yes. A lot.” “Tell me why.”

Because I’m in love with you.

“Because you’re out of his league.” “Lando,” you laugh, disbelieving. “Don’t fucking lie.” “Were you hoping I’d say something else?” he grins, then immediately curses himself. What the fuck was he doing? “That I’d say because I want to fuck you?” “Don’t you?”

His smile falters.

“What?” “We’re unfinished, remember?” you say. “What happened to wanting to kiss me? To fuck me more than anything? No, I wasn’t planning on have sex with him, or anyone, but God I sh—”

He’s moving before you even finish the last word, hands fitting around your waist, lips crashing against yours with six months worth of want. Of need. One hand slides up from your waist to your jaw, the other sliding beneath your dress, warm on your skin.

You smell so good, like vanilla and lip gloss and champagne. Like everything he’s ever been searching for. It’s overwhelming. Filling his head until all he can think about is your lips, your tongue against his. He feels you chasing him back—nails digging into his shoulder, head tilting, lips parting so easily for him. 

It’s better than any other kiss he’s had in his life. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.” You let out something between a whine and a moan, quiet, probably accidental. He feels your hands tangle in his hair, the warmth of your body as you arch against him. Impulsive, his hand trails down again, skimming beneath the waistband of your panties. You whimper then, hand catching his wrist to keep it still.

“Lan—” you start, eyes shutting as his lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing beneath your ear. You find his lips again, and there’s a sense of desperation, urgency. “I—fuck. Just—”

He abruptly pulls away, breathless, stumbling. 

You stay still, face flushed pink, dress, creased from his roaming hands. He knows he probably looks the same, maybe worse. It’s silent, apart from the sound of ragged breathing and muffled bass from the club.

“Fuck. Sorry,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “I…” Your eyes are wide and startled, watching as he presses his fingers to his mouth, lowers them, then covers his face. “Lando—” “I’ve got a triple header this week,” he bursts out. “U.S, Mexico, Brazil. I leave tomorrow morning.”

You’re still panting, motionless, processing the words.

“So you’re gone for—” “Three weeks.” “A month.” “Almost a month.”

His heart is racing, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. Before you get to even open your mouth, he reaches for you again. You’re not even surprised, kissing him back with the same exact intensity. It feels different from the first two. It feels like another promise, one that he knows he’ll keep, one that says when I get back, you and me are real. 

“I'm not waiting for you any longer.” “I know,” he mutters, thumb grazing against your cheek. “I know that. I promise.”

He steps back again, and you’re already moving to your apartment door, pausing just as you turn the door handle.  You aren’t smiling at him. Your lips are parted, blush dusted across your skin. When he forces himself away, you stop him.

“Lando.” “Yeah?”

You smile then—pefect, fucking angelic, and he almost reaches for you again.

“I missed you.”

Fuck.

You’re not sure when you realised you might be in love with Lando Norris.

As far as you remembered, he’d always been the same. He’d run into you in the hall every morning, in the elevator, on the way in and out of the building. He’d make the same shitty jokes, flirt in the most arrogant way possible, slide his hand around your waist when you’d sift through your mailbox.

It’s hard to tell, because Lando is so, undeniably, him. 

You don’t know whether a shitty pick up line means something else. You don’t know if the small graze of his thumb on your skin is accidental or pointed. He calls you gorgeous, baby, a smile on his face that seems all too knowing, then you open your phone the next day to an article titled ‘Lando Norris spotted with model in Ibiza’.

You think you might’ve realised after that night in his apartment. It’d sat at the back of your mind like a shadow, a constant reminder that the two of you were ‘unfinished’. Whatever the hell that meant. 

Or maybe it’d been the silence that came after, the month of tension, of absence that’d felt like torture. You’d hated it so much you’d left for Greece in hopes you’d return home to normalcy. 

Mykono’s had been dreamlike. The coastline was gorgeous, you’d spent your days on yachts and nights in clubs. You’d met a guy called Elias—Greek perfection, and that had been it. You’d only met him. You hadn’t gotten his number, had sex, gone any deeper than knowing his name and age and the name of his dog.

All you could think about was home. Of your apartment and Lando, right across from it. You thought about his shitty pick up lines, his touch, the magazines always tossed outside your door. You thought about him, staring at the sea like you could see Monaco, and when you’d arrived home, he hadn’t been there waiting.

Naturally, you’d done the only thing you knew how whenever your life was thrown into disarray. You’d gone to Jimmy’z, with the sole purpose of getting wasted, but the universe, as you’d established almost six months ago when he’d moved in, absolutely hated you and you’d run into him anyway.

You remember being so, unbelievably frustrated. Frustrated at the sheer audacity of him, the shitty greeting after a month of pure silence.

But then he’d kissed you. You still couldn’t get the feeling out of your head—his hands on your waist, sliding up the planes of your stomach, your jaw, slipping down briefly to dip at the waistband of your panties. 

Then he’d fucking left. Again. Without another word. Leaving only another promise and a white box outside your door.

It’s been five days since the kiss. Four since he'd left, leaving another promise in his wake. Four since you’d opened that perfectly wrapped box he'd left outside your door.

Lingerie. Light pink, dainty, lingerie.

You were sure you were reading into it too much. This was Lando, after all. Someone who jumped at the opportunity to make things amusing when they got too personal—but the thought of it. The thought of him seeing the set and thinking of you.

You tear your gaze away from the box, over to the screen instead, the Grand Prix in Austin on lap 55. Lando’s leading, like you’ve discovered he usually is. When he crosses the line in first, you’re not even looking. Your gaze has slid over to the box again.

It’s then you decide you’re going to something completely and utterly stupid.

You —  [ 1 image attached ] congrats on the win

A wave of regret washes over you the moment you hit send.

The picture stares back at you on your phone: you, on your fucking knees on the plush, duvet of your bed, the pink lace flush against your skin. It’s a good picture. A really good picture, and yet you want to throw your phone off the balcony despite it.

He doesn’t answer for ten minutes. An hour. Two.

You swipe onto the messages again, debating whether to delete everything and block his contact, curled up in bed with the set still on, when—

Lando — fuck fuckfuckfuck what the fuck baby baby what the fuck

The torrent of messages makes you sit up, thighs pressing together, blush already making its way up your neck.

Lando — no you can’t do this not while i’m away for another two weeks i’ll book a flight back to monaco right now i’m not even fucking joking

You — be patient norris

Lando — are you still wearing it??

You shift slightly, debating on whether to send him another picture. 

You — [ 1 image attached ]

Lando — oh fuck  you’re gonna kill me

You —  what took you so long to answer earlier?

Lando — post race celebration debrief whatever the hell  knew i should’ve checked my phone sooner

You —  where are you?

Lando — hotel im meant to go out with everyone in twenty minutes fuck

You can imagine him in his room, his face tinted crimson. You can imagine his voice, picture his touch you so badly craved. 

Your phone lights up again.

Lando — if i win all three of my races  you wear that set for me when i get home

Your fingers clench around your phone.

You — deal

Then you slide your phone onto your bedside table, silent, like it’ll soothe your racing heart.

The day of the Brazil Grand Prix, two weeks later, you’re curled up on the couch, anxiously biting the pad of your thumb as you watch. You’d found yourself watching the recent races with more attention than any other. Probably because of the looming shadow of the deal you’d made with him, growing closer with every lap he spent in P1. He’d won Mexico last week with a 25 second gap, Austin with 10, but this one was different. It held more weight. 

The commentator raises his voice, saying words that have no meaning to you, until—

“Lando Norris wins the Brazilian Grand Prix!”

You can’t breathe. Your body rushes with adrenaline, with anticipation, heart thundering against your ribs.

An hour later, you get the text.

Lando — i’ll be back on monday

The day Lando Norris had moved in across the hall, you knew your life would change.

Did you think it’d change this much? No. But you knew it’d change, and the revelation gave you a sense of unexplainable comfort.

He gets home on Monday, eight pm. You’d spent the entire day pacing, then attempting to be productive, then pacing again. The lingerie had stared at you from its spot on your chair, accusationally, waiting for the moment you reached for it again.

You hear him walk into his apartment. You count the minutes until he comes out again, until he knocks. 

Lando’s already smiling when you open the door.

He’s in joggers, a cotton tee, backwards cap. He looks how he usually would on a regular day. One where he didn’t have a very blatant deal to have sex with you.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out quiet. “Miss me?”

You drag your gaze up to his face, taking a step closer. It’s silent for a few seconds, weighted silence, before you give in.

“Yeah,” you breathe, and he’s already moving, hands on your hips to press you against him.

He kisses you soft. 

You sink into him, lips against his, letting him guide you. His tongue licks into your mouth—not desperate like the first time, but slow. Savouring. The surface of your door is cold against your back, and you blindly reach for the handle, turning it and sending the two of you stumbling inside.

He doesn’t comment on the interior, the stack of magazines, the box still on the couch. He just keeps kissing you, hands roaming idly, beneath your shirt and brushing against the lace of your bra.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes when he feels it, pulling away to catch his breath. “You wore it.” “That was the deal, wasn’t it?” He groans, muttering, “you’re killing me, baby”, hand sliding to your jaw.

Your hands reach up to his hair when he leans again, tossing his cap off to the side, tangling in the soft curls. A helpless moan escapes you when his hips move against yours. You can feel how hard he is, the pent up frustration and longing. You wonder if he’s been like this since Brazil, since his flight, and the thought sends heat pooling at your core.

“Bedroom,” you say between kisses, though you make no move to stop. “On the left.” You don’t register the length between the door and your room. You don’t register him nudging you onto your bed either, only the warmth of him on top of you, his hand tugging your shirt off. 

He pulls away again, just to take you in. His gaze surveys every inch of you, roaming freely, turning you inside out though he hasn’t said a word. He looks dishevelled—awestruck, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

“You’re—” he blinks, like he can’t believe he’s even here. “Gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous—” “Off,” you say, and your voice sounds so far away. You lean forward, pulling at his shirt. “Take it off.” He immediately shrugs it off, and you scramble to tug your own shorts off too, about to reach for his joggers until he does it for you. You let yourself be greedy, taking in the sight of his tan skin, the curve of his muscles, the lines that disappear beneath his boxers.  “Please,” you say, quiet. You don’t know what you’re saying please for. It might be please kiss me, please fuck me, please don’t keep me waiting any longer. Probably a combination of all three. “Lando.”

His palm skims up your thighs, tugging you effortlessly closer. You can see how hard he is now—the prominent outline of him against his boxers. It makes you clench around nothing, fingers curling in your bedsheets. 

“What do you want?” he asks, and you whine, his fingers toying with the waistband of your panties. “Tell me.” “I want you.” “Where?”

Everywhere, you want to say, thighs pressing together when he tugs the lace down. His hands push them apart again with a small murmur of stay still for me, and you think you might come right then and there.

“Lando,” you whine when he moves away, sliding up the planes of your back to the clasp of your bra. “Just touch me. Anywhere. Fuck me.” He laughs then, low, his touch so gentle and only adding to your desperation.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, then he’s back to your thighs, tracing idly. His fingers—finally, graze over your clit, and you immediately arch into him. “So wet and I’ve barely touched you.” He circles it, featherlight, making you gasp. His fingers move quicker at the noise, slipping down to your folds.

“Is this what you’ve been thinking about?” he asks, leaning down to trail kisses at your jaw. “These past three weeks—past few months?” His finger slides inside of you, barely, but it makes you moan, hips jerking in an attempt to pull him in deeper.  “I know you have, baby,” he says, slowly pulling out, just to fuck in deeper. “And I’m sorry for making you wait. Fuck.”

He moves swifter, thumb pressing against your clit, slipping in a second finger. It feels overwhelming already—too much, and yet you want even more. He curls his fingers perfectly, like he’s already learnt you. You already feel so full, his thick fingers quickening when he feels you tense. 

“Lan,” you say, and he groans at the name. “Please—” You come abruptly, hard, body trembling. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise in your ear, even as tears spring at your eyes in overstimulation. 

You whimper when he slowly pulls his fingers out again. Wordlessly, he taps the side of your cheek, and you open your mouth instinctively. 

“Jesus,” he rasps when you take his fingers into your mouth. You open your eyes to look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and he looks devastated. Utterly ruined at the sight of you. “You’re perfect.” You keep your eyes on him, still slightly shaking, licking over his fingers and tasting yourself on your tongue.

His next movements are a blur. You watch him tug his boxers down, cock hard and leaking. It’s big. So fucking big and all it does it make you impatient. He grins when you try move closer, stopping you halfway.

“Relax for me,” he says, and you’re falling back onto the mattress, head hitting the plush pillows. He reaches over, grabs a condom from God knows where, rolling it on and settling between your thighs. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, but you relax, letting him guide you exactly where he wants. “That’s it, baby.”

He nudges against you, gentle, and you both tense. 

“Breathe,” he says, but it comes out strained, like he’s holding himself back. He pushes in, slow, stopping at just the tip. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.” You whimper, hands fisting in the sheets, head tilting back when he eases in deeper.  “You okay?” he asks, stopping to brush your hair out of your face. “You look—insane. So fucking unreal.” “I’m fine,” you gasp, one hand moving to tangle in his hair. He leans forward, kissing you, reassuring. “Move. Please move.”

His hands settle on your waist when he slides all the way in, and you both groan at the feeling. You turn your head to bury it in the pillows, but he immediately tilts it back towards him. “Let me hear you,” he murmurs, starting to thrust in and out. “It’s just us. C’mon, gorgeous.” You moan at that, and he pushes in harder, deeper, hitting all the right spots inside you. 

You can hear his ragged breathing, your own name on his lips. He sets a rhythm, steady, the bed frame knocking against the wall with every moment. Your hands move to his shoulders, nails digging into his back, and he groans, thrusts turning rougher. 

“You take me so well, baby,” he says, and he sounds breathless, hoarse. “So fucking well.” “I can’t—” you clench around him, overstimulated. “Lan—I can’t—” “You can,” he breathes, sinking impossible deeper, filling you perfectly. “Come for me. I know you can.”

It feels so good, like heaven, like the world really only consisted of the two of you. He moves your leg higher, and you let him, pliant, overwhelmed with pleasure. You’re sure your nails have left scratches, deep marks, but it only seems to encourage him more. 

“Feels good, huh?” he says, and he’s grinning. You roll your hips against his in response, and the flash of confidence shatters, turning into something that sounds like a whine. “You’re so good—you’re so fucking good to me.” He ghosts his lips over your neck, and you turn your head to kiss him. It’s messy, hungry, his tongue against yours and his cock relentless inside you. 

The second time you come feels euphoric—dizzying, knocking all the air out of your lungs. All you can think about is Lando, his name, his touch, the months of craving of him all for this exact moment.

He shudders a second later, hips stuttering, grip bruising on your skin. “Fuck,” he groans when he comes, panting. He thrusts in again, rhythm faltering, his face pressed against your neck. “Fuck—I think I’m in love with you.”

Then he collapses, gasping, flushed a pretty shade of pink. You lay there, chest rising and falling, eyes half lidded, not yet processing his words. 

You’re not sure how long you stay there, trying to regain your breath. You whine quietly at him pulling out, barely sensing him moving to toss out the condom.

“Everything okay?” he asks, quietly. You’re too spent to answer, so you move towards him, letting him press kisses on your forehead, your neck, down your shoulder.

He looks completely wrecked, hair tousled and messy. When he turns away again to presumably find tissues, you see the marks on his back, the indents of your nails. You’re sure you don’t look much better, but you know if you asked he’d say you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

I think I’m in love with you.

“Lando,” you say, softly. He blinks, glancing back at you, concern in his eyes. “Did you mean that?” He cocks his head, like he’s trying to figure out what you mean. You see when it clicks, when the blush deepens into crimson.

“Yeah,” he says, and you sit up, flinching at the ache in your muscles. “I mean—I think so. You’re all I ever think about. Ever since I moved in.”

You study his face, the expression on it. He’s studying you back, looking for a reaction, a response in your eyes.

“I think I might be in love with you too,” you answer, and his shoulders physically relax. He falls back onto the bed, on top of you, face burying in your neck. “Even though you’re a cocky, arrogant, piece of shit.” “Thanks,” he mutters. “I try.”

You laugh and feel him smile into your skin. “Stay tonight,” you tell him, gently running your fingers through his hair. “If you want.” “If I want,” he repeats, grinning. “Right.” You scoff, settling back into the pillows. He kisses you, muttering something about finding a towel, and you let him go.

You wonder if all those months ago, if you’d opened the door to him in a better mood, if he hadn’t fucking stared at your tits, you would’ve had this sooner. Maybe you would’ve kissed him the first time you’d had the chance to, maybe you would’ve said yes to every single date he’d asked you on, and almost 10 months of wait would turn into one.

But it didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter because now, you finally had him.

It’s summer in Monaco, three months later, and there’s a magazine outside your apartment door.

The glossy cover is smooth on your fingertips, there’s a note stuck to the front, and a paperclip marks a specific page. You smile, leaning against the doorframe, plucking the note off and staring at the cover.

It’s you.

Well, not just you. It’s the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, it’s Lando in his race suit, it’s the two of you kissing after he’d just won the championship. 

You’re crying—you remembered crying, but hadn’t realised how obvious it’d actually been. There are tears streaks trailing down your face, his hand is resting on your jaw to tilt your face towards him.

Lando Norris — An Interview with Formula 1’s newest World Champion

Though the championship has been the center of attention for Lando Norris, it isn’t the only thing people have been talking about. We sat the British F1 driver down almost a year ago with the question: How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life? 

Back then, he’d responded with his usual, boyish charm—claiming he thinks he’s ‘much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text’. But now, after the events of his championship-winning Grand Prix, it seems as though that wasn’t entirely true.

“You said in a previous interview you wanted someone who can put up with you—who doesn’t let you get away with everything. You also said you hadn’t found them yet. What about now?” We ask Lando, fresh off his championship win and the reveal of his girlfriend.

“Now? Yeah. I’ve found her.” “And is she ticking all your boxes?” “Every single one. She puts up with me—she has since we met a year ago, actually. She doesn’t know a thing about Formula 1. She’s hot, sexy, and gorgeous—ticks all my boxes.” “And how did you meet?”

Lando smiles at the question, blushing.

“I mean—fuck, I wish I could say we met somewhere romantic, but no, it was quite the opposite,” his smile grows. “No further comment.” “Alright. Final question: Any messages for her? For anyone?” “No. She’ll get a message when she reads this interview anyway.”

You close the magazine, glancing at the note he’d attached on top.

© mvclrc 2026

[mattsfrenchtoast]

i love cocky lando norris. this was so goodd

[mickyschumacher]

desi girl - AL41

pairing: arvid lindblad x desi!fem!reader

summary: another cousin, another wedding. that was arvid's current lifestyle. racing and goddamn weddings. the only difference about this one was that this one had you.

warnings: fluff, poor humour, desi culture, really bad interpretation of a (hindu) indian wedding, yearning, flirting, reader has a little brother, arvid falling hard // poorly proof read as usual

word count: 8.6k

a/n: this was so cute ahhhh. as a person who doesn't wanna get married, i write too many wedding-themed fics but i can't help itttt. // kinda in time for his birthday too!

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Arvid Lindblad had always been decisive. He was a man of opinion, unafraid of the words that had come out of his mouth. And for him, there were two truths in the world. One: it was racing or nothing. Two: wedding season happened between the months of October and March.  

And while his Formula One debut had gone swimmingly, contrary to the non-existent headlines about him, Arvid had found his second truth crumbling in the matter of seconds this year.  

He wasn't sure how it was possible.  

Somehow, every break he had had was filled with a circled date and blank's wedding attached to it. Even during the unexpected month-long break at the start. It was bizarre.  

The questions came flowing naturally, of course.  

Do we even know these people? To which his mother responded, "Of course, we do. This is your cousin's neighbour's wedding." 

Do we have to go to it? "There's no question in it, beta." 

Can't we at least leave early? "Fine. Might as well commit a crime while we're at it." 

And the merciful look to his father had done nothing. It was final. Arvid was absolutely helpless. Even now.  

Sixth. This was his sixth goddamn wedding of the year as he stood in front of his mirror, lamely adjusting the scratch of his brighly yellow kurta against his skin, gold embellishments throughout. He sighed tiredly.  

"I thought these weddings happened in like November," Amil, his younger brother mumbled as he walked into his room, flopping onto the bed with a dramatic groan. "It's August," he lamented.  

His eyes flickered to his younger brother through the mirror, also dressed similarly to him. 

"You're telling me," Arvid muttered, head shaking. This was supposed to be his summer break. He had it mentally planned. The few odd karting races, lounging by the pool, trying new restaurants and cafés, training (obviously), and some contractual obligations.  

A wedding-free summer break was what he had planned. That was until his mother had burst his bubble a few days into his temporary safe haven. Another wedding. And not belonging to some fifth cousin of their family doctor or anything.  

His very own uncle's.  

The only one Arvid had added into his calendar and forgotten about amidst the plethora of ceremonies.  

He was horrible for it. Yes. But could you blame him? Sure, he'd never turn down the disgustingly delicious wedding food. But another whiff of some special chicken biryani or even freshly made jalebi... God, the thought alone was beginning to activate his gag reflex. 

Arvid sighed yet again, turning from the mirror, head tilting at the blank expression on his brother's face. "Do you think mum will let us leave early?" 

Amil's head peeked up slightly, loose grin sprawling onto his face. "I knew you had some comedic talents." 

Arvid rolled his eyes, shifting on his feet as he opened his phone, eyeing the dates blocked out on his calendar. It was just a few days. He could do this. It'd be just like the others and then boom—freedom.  

What could possibly be so different about this one? 

Addington Palace was only what could be described as a dream. Landscaped gardens, the grand staircase, endless mounds of grass, and a beautiful gazebo perfect for the seven rounds to be taken in the next few days.  

But twisted with the Western architecture were the various shades of yellow and pink in decoration formats. 

Flower garlands of white, yellow and pink blanketed the walls, intertwined with faint yellow fairy lights. Yellow and white curtains flew in the breeze as intricate patterns decorated the garlands. Stations of food and drinks were set one corner of the lawn while in the other was pots of yellow turmeric paste and water near a stack of towels. And in the air was a fresh herbal fragrance combining with the aroma of the jalebis, kulfis, vada pav slides, and chaat masala 

A historic venue turned desi in all its glory.  

And while Arvid could appreciate it all, the restlessness to escape it all was felt in his bones. 

"How many guests are there?" Amil queried to his father as they entered the venue. 

"Uh... a hundred and forty?" His father answered unsurely, looking over at his wife to confirm before nodding. "Yup. A hundred and forty." 

Amil hummed silently, nudging his brother with his elbow. "Smaller than the last one at least." 

"Thank God," Arvid mumbled while he continued to walk.  

That had been the main source of the problem. It wasn't just the long hours, the fact these weddings were held over a week and that they seemed to be endless. But it was more about the amount of people he encountered, asking about Formula One or racing.  

Yes, he loved his job with his entire heart. Not to be dramatic, but it was his whole world. But it came to a point when forty people asked the same question the entire evening for an entire week.  

Maybe it was a selfish thing to say because he was living his dreams, but it got tiring. 

And it would be on a day like this. The choice of yellow attire across his family intentional as everyone else's. A requirement of the haldi ceremony. Because nothing screamed more fun to Arvid than applying turmeric paste onto his face and walking around to answer the same question over and over again.  

God, how he wished he could just go home.  

"Hey! Naksh! Stop eating all the jalebis!" 

It was fast for a moment. The passing of a small kid with his hands full of the crime in question—sweet, sticky jalebis escaping the confines of his fingers while a young, evil laugh fell from his lips.  

But the world seemed to slow before Arvid even really knew it. Your voice in the air having his head turn as the kid bristled past him. And as his eyes fell to you, double-take immediate, the first glance of you had his soul fluttering. 

Your long tresses seem to float in the air while you passed them. The drapes of your simple saree, yellow and pink, brushed past his skin, sending goosebumps sprawling across his body. The chime of your anklets tingled in his ears and the grin on your face sent a shiver down his spine. 

Arvid watched silently as you finally captured your thief, hand wrapped around the kid's arm. You seemed to heave lightly while you gave the smaller boy a playful glare. "Naksh, put those back. They're for the guests. We'll have some later," you promised, voice coaxing.  

Those big, brown eyes of your own younger brother seemed to pout back at you warily, clutching the food tighter to himself. "But I wanna eat them now!" He whined, stomping his foot on the grass.  

You looked at your brother blankly, smile tight and barely patient. Wedding logistics were already tough enough and they only got more difficult with the young ones roaming around carelessly.  

"We have to wait. It's important you eat with everyone. I'll save an extra one for you as well. Okay?" You added through gritted teeth.  

Naksh tilted his head, letting a feigned pondering expression fall into his face. He hummed before stopping, letting his pursed lips drop into a cheeky grin. "No!" He stated before running off, escaping the grasp of your hand.  

Your mouth fell open with disbelief. This kid... "Naksh!" You stepped out to run after him, hands tightening around your skirt as you did.  

Arvid pressed his smile down, forcing himself to peel his eyes away as the figure of his uncle came nearby. He tried not to laugh so obviously as he heard your voice fade in the air, still yelling for your brother.  

"Hey! I'm so glad you guys made it," his uncle breathed with a wide smile, hugging Arvid's mother as his eyes flickered over to him. "I know you're busy and all. So I appreciate it." 

Arvid laughed softly, shaking his head as he brought his uncle into a hug. “It’s your wedding, mama (uncle). How could we miss it?" 

His uncle inhaled slowly, nodding along with his nephew's words. "That is true, isn't it?" He teased, ruffling Amil's hair playfully. "Now come on. Let's get this started." 

Arvid only smiled, brown eyes darting around the numerous guests to find you. He frowned quietly when he didn't. All shades of yellow and pink bland all of a sudden. He blinked and breathed out. Whatever. This was still going to be the longest few days of his life.  

Your stink eye was ever apparent. Even as your oldest cousin, the bride-to-be, dragged both you and your brother along to officially meet some of your new additions to your familial circle. A brother whose hands were empty only for the same reason his mouth was now full. Comedic if it wasn't for the occasion.  

"Naksh," you hissed, glaring shamelessly while you traversed the endless crowds of guests. "Spit it out." 

Naksh only shook his head, cheeks full of sweets, small hand wrapped around your cousin's tightly.  

You huffed while she chuckled. "Let him be. He's a kid," she pointed out as if you didn't know.  

You narrowed your eyes. "You'll feel differently when the guests arrive to an empty food stall." 

Your cousin simply rolled her eyes, smile stretching onto her face as she spotted those familiar faces you had all yet to meet. "Look who it is!" She gasped, sizing the thirteen-year-old in front of her. "Amil, have you grown taller since the last time I saw you?" 

Amil cleared his throat, broadening his shoulders in his kurta. "Definitely a possibility," he affirmed with the nod of his head making you snigger quietly. Now this was comedic.  

She only grinned, looking over at you and your brother. "Amil. Arvid. Meet ___ and Naksh and vice versa." 

You smiled politely, giving a small wave as you skimmed over the older male in front of you, cheeks almost instantly burning once you locked eyes. Swallowing tightly, you eyed the grass beneath you awkwardly, feet shifting. Hmm... yellow was a good colour on him.  

"You're an F1 driver, right?" Naksh asked Arvid enthusiastically, mouth still full of food.  

"Naksh!" You and your cousin both chided, giving him a pointed look. You sighed at the slowly bulging cheeks and wary glance from your brother.  

Arvid only chuckled, not as perturbed by the question as he thought he'd be. "It's fine," he waved his hand in dismissal. He bent down, meeting your brother's height. "You watch?" 

Your brother nodded, taking a big swallow of God knows what. Jalebi... laddoo... samosas. 

"I like Liam." 

The brief silence was cumulative for you, your cousin, and Amil—all three of you trying to hold in your laughter as Naksh blinked as blankly as the driver in front of him.  

Arvid's brother breathed out quietly, corners of his mouth still teetering. "Naksh... has anyone ever told you you're the funniest person ever?" He queried with raised brows, receiving the shake of a head. "No? Walk with me." 

Your own brows rose as Naksh and Amil began walking away, undoubtedly up to no good and you were almost certain it had all to do with the male still bent down, frozen with embarrassment.  

Your cousin smiled, evidently amused as her eyes flittered over to you. The gesture only ran a little deeper. Drawing in a quick breath, she feigned the explorative expression on her face. "I think someone's calling me, hmm?" 

Your eyes widened in horror. She wasn't... was she? Your head slowly tilted towards her, capturing the cheeky glint in her own eyes. You glared at her, practically begging her with your gaze to not do this. 

"You guys have fun!" She said, patting your shoulder as she scampered bast you, quick and fast before you could even retaliate.  

You blinked almost confused, watching your cousin's retreating figure while Arvid stood back up, tugging on his kurta as he looked over at you. He smiled quietly at the clear flush to your face, distracting him from his own momentary lapse of mortification.  

Your ears perked at the sudden sound of Arvid clearing his throat. You slowly drifted your eyes towards him, breath caught at the sight of his hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, head tilted at you.  

"You watch Formula One?" Arvid asked, almost instantly regretting the question. He sure didn’t feel as smooth and suave as he looked on the outside. Well yeah... he wasn't a goddamn shampoo ad.  

You pursed your lips before giving him a fretful smile. "Would it hurt if I say I don't?" You queried.  

He winced with all the theatrics he could muster, standing with his hand over his heart. "That is slightly hurtful," he grunted lowly, eliciting a small chuckle from your mouth.  

God, your laugh sounded like some beautifully pieced music. With the cadence of spring in summer. Honey-soaked notes and all. 

You breathed in quietly, watching his grin etch into his face. God... maybe you should start watching Formula One. You blinked, shaking the thought away. You eyed him carefully yet again. "This your first Indian wedding?" 

Arvid paused, grin falling off of his face, replaced quickly with confusion. "No? Sixth of the year actually." 

You mended your brows almost disbelievingly. “What? No way," you huffed, folding your arms. "You're standing like a noob," you retorted.  

He blinked with surprise, brown eyes checking over his stance with hurry. "I... what the hell gives you that impression?" 

"Hands in your pockets, the distanced look in your eyes... you look... I hate to say it, but you look detached if anything," you pointed out.  

Arvid swallowed tightly at your comment, unable to really comprehend how you, a stranger, had read him in the matter of seconds. And by all means, he was unsettled. But nothing quite quelled the curiosity beginning to unfurl in his chest.  

A sigh fell from his lips after a moment, hands raising with a small defeat. "Okay. You're right. You got me," he mumbled, giving you a light glare. "Look, it's a sweet occasion and all but after the second one, you kinda get a bit used to it. That’s all it. They're all the same. The food. The ceremonies. All of it." 

You tilted your head, looking at him like he had just begun explaining the ins and out of an engine. Used to a wedding? You had never heard of such a thing. Every wedding you had ever been to had its own story. Its own moments. Its own colour. How could one get used to such a thing? 

You hummed decidedly, clicking your fingers at him like a light bulb had just lit up in your head. "I know what it is... you don't get it." 

Arvid narrowed his eyes on your face. Its blank and slow. "You're right," he nodded vaguely. “I really don't get it," he chuckled almost dryly.  

What on earth were you on about? 

You tilted your head, hands on your hips. "Arvid, how much do you really know about an Indian wedding?" 

The sound of his name seemed to roll of your tongue sweetly, strangely making his body churn. But rather than staying fixated on it for too long, he blinked and sucked in a sharp breath. His shoulders slumped resignedly. "I'm practically an expert, ____." 

You raised your brow. "Right then... so you know why the bride and groom go around seven times? Or what it means to put mehndi on the bride's hands?" 

Arvid's throat dried, unable to peel his gaze away from the big doe eyes staring back at him. Your amusement evident and remarkably beautiful in this light. "I..." 

"Let's stick with today then. The meaning behind applying haldi?" You queried, unable to stop your lips from quirking as he clearly struggled to come up with an answer: mouth parted like a fish, opening and closing around nothing in particular.  

You failed to stifle your chuckle, elicting a small glare from him. Clearing your throat, you nodded markedly to yourself at this undertaking that had fallen into your hands. "Well, You're in luck. I'm a real expert." 

He snorted, rolling his eyes despite the strange tingle in his body. "What? You're gonna teach me weddings?" 

"Teach you?" You grinned loosely, head already shaking as you spoke. "Lindblad, I'm going to make you fall in love with weddings." 

Arvid blinked, brain failing momentarily. You were going to do what? He swallowed tightly, braving a stoic face as your grin only widened and made it difficult for him to think.  

Days... hours... all about to be spent with you.  

God have mercy on him.  

Arvid had been cautious from the moment you had stepped away from him, inevitably whisked away to participate in other wedding logistics that were beyond him. And while he should’ve been relaxed about it, something about you being so far away had kept him on his toes. 

Nervous.  

He had never felt this way at a wedding.  

Even as he stood with his family and some nearby guests to apply the haldi, his brown eyes lurked around the crowd. Heart and mind waiting to see that familiar shade of yellow and pink of your saree.  

"You didn't think I forgot about you, did you?"  

Arvid blinked, heart practically leaping from his chest as he turned his head and found you on his right side, still grinning from the last that he had seen you. He swallowed hard before huffing. "Here's to hoping." 

You rolled your eyes, folding your arms as you turned to find your cousin and her fiancé sat in the middle of what seemed to be mounds and mounds of turmeric paste. You pushed aside the sudden surge of heat as your arm rested against his.

"Lesson one," you murmured, clearing your throat. "The haldi ceremony offers the couple our blessings.  When we apply the haldi, it cleanses their bodies before they get married." 

Arvid mended his brows, looking at the yellow-filled bowls with sudden curiosity. He had seen then time and time again. But now they seemed to look a little different with you. "Like protection or something?" 

You hummed with a little surprise. "Faster learner, aren't you? Yeah, like protection," you nodded. "Wards off any negative energy or omens that could damage them before the wedding." 

Time seemed to fly by with the endless amounts of guests coming up to apply the haldi to their faces. You weren't sure when you had gotten so close to Arvid, you were cackling half into his shoulder at some of things you had seen.  

And his brother was no better than the others. 

You both laughed hard when Amil's turn came, leaving the bride and groom as what you could only describe as minions. The gasps were beyond theatrical amongst the crowd as their uncle only retaliated with the same enthusiasm. You practically winced at the copious amount of yellow smeared onto the poor boy's face. Minions or Jake the Dog... you couldn't tell.  

Arvid sighed with a small grin, looking over at you when it came to be your turn. He gestured with his hand. "Ladies first." 

You rolled your eyes yet again, taking a step either way. "Arvid Lindblad... a gentleman. They don’t put that in the headlines," you clicked your tongue teasingly as you both inched closer towards the couple.  

"You keeping an eye out for me, ____? Thought you didn't watch," Arvid teased.  

You only snorted. "Like my brother said... I like Liam," you shrugged, lifting the skirt of your saree up before you spotted the cheeky look on your cousin's face. 

He narrowed his eyes, head shaking with disbelief. Yet the grin never quite fell off his face. He watched you scoop up a generous amount of haldi onto the tip of your hands, rubbing the paste before you applied a distasteful layer onto your cousin's face. 

Your cousin gasped from the umpteenth time that day while her fiancé only burst out laughing. "You little minx!" She grumbled, not wasting a second to grab a handful of the paste before smearing it onto your neck and arms hastily.  

You blinked at her choices of area. Not the face? That seemed like a pretty easy target in your opinion. 

But as your eyes drifted to her face, your brows seemed to raise at the mischievous glint settled in her own. You blinked once again, cogs in your brain turning slowly as you took another second to realise why she had missed the free real estate.  

You huffed, head shaking like you were disappointed as you stepped back, letting Arvid move his haldi-coated hands towards your cousin while you shifted towards his uncle, taking more paste onto your hands.  

"Cupid at her own wedding," Arvid's uncle clicked his tongue, head shaking with a grin on his face.  

You gave him a pointed look, applying the yellow paste onto his face. "Don't you start now too," you sighed.  

Arvid smiled, happy with the damage he had created as you both stepped back in front of the couple. You silently watched your cousin share a smug smile with her fiancé. Like telepathy, both of their hands reached out to grab some haldi before leaning up to smear some onto both of your faces.  

Your eyes snapped to the couple in disbelief as the obvious cheers and awes filled the air. You made your playful glare obvious while your cheeks warmed impossibly. Arvid only looked confused, slowly retreating away with you as you grumbled something incoherent under your breath.  

Arvid nudged you when you both came to a halt amongst the crowd, registering the grins and teasing eyes falling the both of you as everyone eventually reverted back to the ceremony. "What was that? What just happened?" 

You shook your head, hand waving in dismissal. "Nothing. That was nothing," you mumbled, taking a deep breath in, eyeing the grass heavily. God... it was getting hot in this open air.  

"I thought you were going to be my teacher. Make me fall in love with weddings," Arvid teased, not particularly thinking (how could he when you look so flustered) as he tilted your chin up to look at him. "You're not going to make me fall in love?" 

Your skin only burned even more if it was possible. A point past the boiling point. Hotter. Scarier.  

You swallowed hard, gaze shaking at the brown eyes that never seemed to steer away from you. Sucking in another sharp breath, you cleared your throat, shifting your head swiftly to leave his hand falling from your face. "It's just something stupid," you shrugged, feeling the traces of turmeric seep into your boiling skin.  

"Well?" He queried when you hoped your silence would make him give up. But he was a Formula One driver for crying out loud! Giving up wasn't in his name. 

You sighed, eyes rolling begrudgingly. "They say if the bride or groom applies the haldi onto… single friends or relatives, those people will soon get married or together," you muttered so quietly, you hoped he wouldn't hear.  

But the etching grin on his face told you otherwise.  

Goddammit. 

"So they purposely did that?" Arvid queried, leaning in, face teasingly closer, brown eyes watching your every move.  

You grunted with annoyance, pushing his head away with your turmeric-stained fingers. "They're idiots. Ignore them," you mumbled.  

Arvid supressed his chuckle, taking a step back. You were cute when you were flustered. "Can I ask a question? Purely educational," he maintained, hands intertwining behind his back. 

You gave him a blank look, clearly not believing him. "If you have to," you sighed dramatically, drifting your attention to the couple momentarily. You blinked when Arvid retook his step towards you. Your eyes flickered up hesitantly, spotting the smile lines on his face easily.  

"If the bride and groom bestow someone... does that mean anything?"  

Your breath caught. What kind of question was that? Had you been duped? Was Arvid really the expert he claimed to be? 

Your fingers tightened into your palm while you nodded slowly. "It would mean the relationship would be stronger," you shrugged like it was nothing. As if your chest hadn't suddenly tightened or your lungs didn't burn. 

Arvid hummed softly, watching your eyes flicker nervously around your surroundings. Anywhere but him. "Good to know." 

"So..." Arvid said after a long period of silence as he sat in front of you, head tilting at the scene before him: you sat with your legs folded, light blue shahara spilling across the blanket underneath you while your arms laid over a pillow.  

Today was the mehndi ceremony. Yellow and pink decorations upheld with every other bright colour known to mankind. The music was upbeat, a mix of old and new for the range of guests. People mingled and ate; the kids ran around enthusiastically while some danced... all while you were sat getting your own mehndi done.  

"Does this count as educational material?" Arvid queried, pulling his knees to his chest, grin loose on his face. "Homework, even? Because this is out of class stuff." 

You gave him a pointed look, peeling your eyes away from the intricate designs beginning to form on your arms. "I told you already," you sighed, narrowing your gaze on him. "You don't have to stay." 

You had said that. Multiple times during the walk over to the many mehndi artists. But for some reason, the hour and a bit wait time didn't repulse Arvid. He didn't quite know why. But if he had to take a good guess, he assumed it had something to do with you and that weird magnetic pull you had over him.  

It was bizarre really.  

In the past two days, you had occupied more of his brain than he'd like. He went to bed thinking about you. He scrolled your Instagram after he found out Amil now followed you before he did. His eyes seemed to search for you before he could even really think.  

He had heard of it before. From the movies and the mouth of his grandmother... love at first sight.  

Was that what this was? 

But with enough mind wandering late at night, Arvid had decided it wasn't. This was just what happened when a tedious wedding finally had someone interesting at them.  

"Well, I'm more worried that you'll call me out and say I was skipping class," Arvid simply said.  

You blinked blankly at his determination. "Why would I—Fine," you sighed again. "You can sit here and be quiet then," you muttered, head shaking as you looked back at your arms.  

A small smile stretched onto his face. Kissing the front of his teeth with his tongue, he took no time to revel in the silence. He shuffled closer to you, crossing his legs the same way you had. "I don't want to be quiet. How 'bout we talk? You start." 

You turned your head slowly, brows raised while your ears perked at the poorly stifled laugh of your mehndi artist. "What am I supposed to say?" You huffed, looking at him incredulously. You swallowed tightly as he leaned on his knee, chin on the palm of his hand and smiled at you.  

You rolled your eyes. "Seriously? Oh, Arvid, you have a very very nice smile?" You feigned a flattering tone. 

Arvid grinned at you, clicking his fingers with approval. "I knew you thought I did! Keep going," He egged teasingly.  

Your cheeks warmed, corners of your mouth teetering with amusement. "Right... Oh Arvid, what nice eyes you have! Oh Arvid, what big teeth you have–"  

"Okay, okay, Red Riding Hood," Arvid dryly interjected, making you laugh for a moment, and it was angelic as the first time he had heard you. The soul of everything good in the world. He could even see it in the way your eyes crinkled with joy. How your smile healed all the bad.  

He could remember the numerous moments where he had dreaded attending this wedding. But in this particular one, he thought it would’ve been a travesty in of itself to miss you.  

A misalignment of fate itself.  

"So you think I have a nice smile?"  

You blinked at the sudden question, smile settling down as the heat instantly poured back into your face. Clearing your throat, you shrugged ever so casually. "It's okay," you mumbled, looking over at your arms. "I've seen better. Liam's is nice." 

An offended but entirely theatrical gasp fell from Arvid's mouth. "Take that back," he huffed, lips already forming into a small pout while his chest thrummed at your grin. "I never pegged you as a liar," he sighed, shaking his head.  

You raised a brow, turning back to him. "Who says I'm lying?" You retorted challengingly. 

"These cheeks," Arvid simply said. 

You swallowed hard at the gentle graze of his hand against your searing cheek. Pointing it out as if he wasn't making matters worse. Your fingers itched to move his hand away from you for the sake of your sanity. But all caught up with the ropes of henna on your skin, you remained frozen in your seat.  

Your eyes, for the first time, didn't move away from his. It was as if they were stuck in this warm chocolate brown vortex. The silence between you so comfortable, it was nowhere reflective of the nervous rhythm in your chest.  

"There you guys are!' 

Arvid's hand snapped back to his leg while you looked away instantly, blinking rapidly as you spotted your cousin. You pulled on a tight smile. "What's up?" You queried, eyes falling to her own mehndi-covered arms, designs etched in such a way you were sure it was the most beautiful labyrinth of art you had ever seen.  

Your cousin suppressed her own grin, spotting the awkward look on Arvid's face from a mile away. Eyes wide, cheeks slightly flushed, body rigid as though he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have.  

"Nothing. I was just checking up on you guys. Making sure you're having fun," your cousin shrugged casually.  

You raised a brow. "Well... it's hard with this one being so annoying but I'm coping. He's even worse than Naksh," you whispered loudly, lips curving into another grin.  

"___," Arvid groaned, clearly fed up with your own teasing. He supposed it was true. He didn't like the taste of his own medicine.  

A chuckle fell from your cousin's mouth. "Well as long as you're doing something," she sighed, shaking her head as she watched the both of you begin to argue back and forth in short huffs. Smiling to herself, she quietly bent down next to your mehndi artist and whispered something gently. 

Before you or Arvid had even realised, your cousin had disappeared with one last grin as she looked at the both of you. "Cute." 

The sangeet had been as loud and cheery as all the other ones Arvid had ever attended. Separate from the mehndi ceremony, the music was thriving in the smallest of corners, groups dancing, laughter a new harmony in the air, and the smell of food whirled deliciously. 

And yet, despite all of that richness, it was you Arvid's eyes couldn't peel away from.  

You had been in conversation with a few people for God knows how long. Too long, if you had asked him.  

The more Arvid leaned against the nearby pillar and watched the sky and grass wrap around you, the more things about you he seemed to like.  

You were quite expressive. He knew that. But watching you animatedly talk with people was a pleasure of his he didn't know he had. Your eyes seemed to light up whenever someone brought up something you enjoyed. Your smile deepened with agreement. Hands flailing when you laughed too hard.  

Your laugh... God, your laugh. 

It was driving him crazy. Haunting him if anything. Even when you weren't around, he could’ve sworn he had heard it in the far distance.  

Expressiveness aside, he found you were still cautious. One of those people who couldn't stop worrying when you were assigned with responsibility. For every other second you weren’t talking, you were marching to do something else. Driven with the need for everything to be right, leaving you with this crease between your brows that he wanted to smooth out with the pad of his thumb.  

"Are you going to stare forever?" 

Arvid's shoulder almost slipped at the sudden sound of his younger brother's voice. And beside him, your own brother, evidence of laddoo on the sides of his mouth. His cheeks flamed with an embarrassing heat despite his shift in posture. He cleared his throat, straightening his back. "I'm not staring," he said. 

Amil raised a brow. "You are. You look like a creep." 

Arvid gave his brother a small glare. "No, I don't," he gritted out, fingers itching with the urge to give him a brotherly whack to the head. Because aside from the pure annoyance his brother brought him, he hadn't accounted for your brother to be present. The mere idea of Naksh going back to you with this terrible recount of him... God, it was mortifying.  

"Well... are you gonna stop being a scaredy cat and talk to her?" Amil queried, folding his arms like the movement was backing up his point.  

Arvid's eyes twitched before he sighed deeply and bent down to wipe your brother's mouth with the edge of his sleeve. "I talk to her," he muttered, gently ruffling the kid's hair, pursing his lips at the big wide eyes looking back at him. 

"Sure, you do," Amil mused. "Is it telepathy from here?" 

"Do you have nothing better to do than piss me off?" Arvid grumbled, disbelieving of this situation as he stood back up. 

"Not really," his younger brother confirmed with a smug grin. "Oh look. Another person about to talk to ___ who isn't you." 

The glare from Arvid was beyond heavy. “Okay, okay," he huffed, pushing his legs forward with a propelling force. He muttered some unkind words under his breath, still spotting the grin as he walked away. Little piece of— 

"Whoa!" 

Arvid's hands stretched out almost instantly as you both bumped into one another, falling to your arms to keep you steady. He blinked rapidly, feeling his brother's grin deepen from the back of his head. "Shit. I'm sorry," he apologised, sheepish and awkward smile stretching onto his face.  

You swallowed tightly, shaking your head as you both stepped away from each other with the feel of his touch still searing into your skin. "It's okay. It gets so busy around here," you waved him off.  

His eyes fell to the dark red lines suddenly flourishing into the air. It was almost natural the way he caught your hands, gaze falling to the intricated designs stained onto your skin. "Wow... that's a lot darker than I thought it would be. Another person's was faint orange," he murmured, pads of his fingers trailing over the patterns.  

You could feel the hairs on your body stand up as the goosebumps littered your skin through his gentle touch. You hummed quietly in response, breath struggling when he tried to get a closer look. "Must be a McLaren supporter," you joked lightly, eliciting a soft chuckle from his lips.  

Your throat tightened as he continued to navigate the patters with what you could only decide was genuine interest. As if he was mystified, unable to look away. It was so strong it made your hands burn. It made your brain turn into much, leaving the words flying off your tongue before you even knew it.  

"They say that the darker the colour on the bride's hand, the deeper the groom's love is for her," you murmured, heart stilling when those brown eyes snapped up to yours. You cleared your throat, giving him a small shrug. "Trying to make up for our lost class time," you teased quietly.  

Arvid stared at you for a second longer than you’d liked before returning his gaze back to the flowers stained onto your palm. "Really? Yours came out really dark," he whispered. "You must have one crazy lover." 

You blinked, heart now skipping one too many beats. There was something about watching the sun set behind him as people danced in the background that made you shiver. While your cheeks warmed impossibly, you only snorted in response. "Yeah right," you chuckled dismissively, hands curling to move out his grasp, but he had caught them once again.   

"Is that... is that my name?  

"What?" Your eyes widened, flickering down to where the tip of his index finger ended. Where his name was indeed painted into your skin. And you knew it had to do with the bride cheerfully dancing nearby. Goddammit...  

Arvid smiled at your flustered face; your lips parted with not a single idea of what to say or how to respond. He drew in a quick breath. “My dadi (grandmother) told me that this signifies love and bonding," he murmured, brown eyes meeting yours, sending a jolt through your body. "That it gives sweet energy to the couple. You know... to the ones getting married." 

You watched with large eyes as Arvid brought your hand near his breath. His warm breath grazed your skin. And yet his gaze never quite seemed to shy away from yours. No matter how ridiculous your heart seemed to thud in your chest as he pressed his lips right over his name etched onto your hand.  

Your faint gasp, although barely audible, rung in his ears loudly. Like the echo of a clocktower that had struck midnight.  

The beat of a heart.  

Arvid knew he shouldn't. But he let his eyes drop a little further down, the glisten of your lips oh so enticing... the smell of jasmine wrapping around him a little stronger and it made his stomach churn.  

The clink of your bangles erupted into the air as you pulled your hands away from the hues of devotion. You swallowed once again, breath shaky while you struggled to find the words. "I... I... I should probably go. I think someone's calling my name," you so obviously lied.  

The curve of Arvid's mouth lifted upwards. “Okay. It’s not like I'm keeping you or anything," he teased, voice thick.  

You nodded slowly, taking an unstable step back. "Y-Yeah," you chuckled awkwardly, body burning with a warmth you had never felt before. Strong and all-powering. "I would tell you off for getting a new teacher but she's your dadi," you shrugged with a small, tight smile.  

"My dadi never lies you know," Arvid gave a slight shrug.   

You bit your lip, suppressing your full-blown smile. "I'm sure she doesn't, Arvid," you remarked, turning on your heel to leave him.  

Arvid grinned shamelessly at your retreating figure. God... you were killing him. Did you know that? 

"You know..." Amil's voice suddenly broke the warm trance his brother had fallen into, standing next to him. Folding his arms, his eyes narrowed scrutiny. "As disgusting as that was to watch... I have to give it to you. You do talk to her." 

Arvid looked down at his brother, glare instant despite the teetering grin on his face. "Shut up," he huffed, pressing his lips as he watched you walk off, replaying the moment in his head already.  

There was no denying it now.  

Not really.  

He liked you.  

Sure. Maybe he had known it from the first glimpse of you just days ago.  

But this weird, mushy feeling in his chest confirmed it. With the overwhelming need to kiss you right here and now and the desire to sit with you and talk for hours on end... yeah, he liked you.  

Out of all the wedding Arvid had been to, he had never been quite as nervous for this one. Today was the actual wedding. Where the bride and groom actually became one. And where he usually didn't really care, he found himself caring so much he didn't know how to act.  

Arvid wasn't sure if he was going to be able to handle you in an actual wedding setting. It made his mind wander a little too far when it came to you. Even when you were both on the precipice of something and nothing all at once.  

A gruelling reality.  

He had had the daring thought—replacing his uncle and your cousin with him and you in his head. It was brief and immediately shot down. The sliver of a nanosecond. Faster than any timing on any leaderboard. But God, it was electrifying.  

One thing that hadn't changed, however... weddings did make you go crazy.  

The venue had been dolled up to the max. It almost didn't look like the same place. The wedding planners had combined the classical outdoor architecture with Indian decor; colourful garlands, shining lights and candles, all guest tables littered with the intricate designs of his uncle and your cousin's heritages.  

The whole place just felt like... love.  

His uncle stood at the front of the venue, near an elevated foundation with the priest close by, waiting for his wife-to-be with an eagerness unlike anything Arvid could imagine. Arvid stood next to his brother, both of them watching with mystified eyes as the once chattering room had gone quiet at the entrance of your cousin at the opposite end of the room. 

Your cousin, of course, looked gorgeous as she trailed out with a red veil hovering over her head. The veil was upheld by her bridesmaids, which is where he had spotted you. 

You walked alongside your cousin with a heartwarming smile, murmuring encouraging and comforting words the suddenly nerve-ridden bride.  

Arvid could feel his heart pace and then come to a stop before repeating the cycle. You looked like... well, what he had so dared to imagine—the woman of his dreams. And when you came closer down the aisle, he could look at you more closely: the warmth of your rosy cheeks against the lights; the thicket of curls that swayed upon your lengha; the small crinkles near the corners of your wide doe eyes as you smiled. 

And upon nearing his uncle, when you had caught Arvid’s eyes, you could feel your heartbeat spike and freeze over. His gaze, fixated on you, was glowing with a kindling fire. Warm and heavy. In such an intimate and touching atmosphere, Arvid made you feel bare despite not lurking anywhere other than your eyes. 

You averted your gaze nervously, focusing back on your cousin. You came to a stop with her and the other bridesmaids as you strived at the breathtaking taking temple that had been set up. The fire in the middle had been lit, roaming at a constrained height in the open air. You took off the veil while your cousin lifted the skirt of her lengha to walk up a small flight of stairs, coming to her glassy-eyed lover. 

You grinned at the two of them as they found themselves stare at each other like there was no one else in the room. You followed after your cousin, grabbing her veil and his husband-to-be's dupatta, tying a firm knot between them before gently navigating the nearby crowd of guests, returning to sit next to Arvid on the floor nearby. 

You both said nothing for moment. Watching his uncle and your cousin participate in the flower garland exchange. It was playful. Some their closest family members and friends lifting each one of them up, preventing the other from putting on the garland.  

"They say that whichever partner place the garland on first gets the upper hand in the relationship," you quietly chuckled to Arvid, grinning at the couple. "But that's just a myth. It's more about the formal acceptance of each other as partners." 

Arvid and his brother snorted once your cousin placed the garland first minutes later, eliciting a chorus of groans and cheers from the crowd as you clasped your hands. "That's my girl," you muttered proudly.  

Arvid raised a brow at your compliment, giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow. "I thought you said it was a myth." 

You pursed your lips sheepishly. "Doesn't mean I can't believe it, does it?"  

He chuckled softly, returning his gaze back to the altar. "It's seven rounds, right?" 

You nodded, doing the same as the couple sat down to retrieve the next line of blessings and wishes from the priest. "The knot I made is to unify them as they walk around the fire. Each round is a promise. You know what each one means?" 

Arvid shook his head; smile strung onto his face as he turned to you. "But I have a feeling you're going to tell me." 

Rolling your eyes, you drew in a quick breath at his lingering gaze. "The first round has them pray for the welfare and happiness of their families and to promise to share their responsibilities. Then to be each other's strength, loyal, and provide stability for one another. The third round asks for prosperity for the family." 

Arvid nodded slowly at your commentary, watching your doe eyes glaze over with that same animated look he had seen before. The one with immense happiness, leaving him in a situation where he could only nod for you had stolen every breath.  

"Fourth round is about commitment to one another. The fifth asks for the blessings to have healthy children. Sixth, they vow to love and respect each other in times of happiness and sorrow. And lastly," you murmured fondly, corners of your mouth lifting. "They promise to have an undying friendship and ask for divine blessings to unite their souls." 

Arvid swallowed tightly. Five. He had been to five wedding this year alone. And not once had he truly understood the reason behind each trip around the ceremonial fire. He simply assumed it was a religious... cultural thing he wouldn't get. But they were vows strengthened by this fire. By a knot of unity.  

And it was beautiful.  

Soon enough, you, Arvid, and your siblings stood and held grains of puffed rice and flower petals in your hands, throwing them in unison over the fire and the couple. You explained to Arvid that this symbolised prosperity, a prayer for a long and happy life, and a lasting promise of support from your cousin's family. 

After the seven rounds, the groom and the bride stopped in front of the priest, standing facing each other. They beamed at each other as more petals fell on them. His uncle smiled gently, pushing aside the maang tikka on your cousin's head and painting the front of her hair-parting with sindooram with his thumb. 

"They look so happy," Arvid whispered into your ear, making the hairs on your body stand.  

You looked at Arvid, eyes searching him deeply. It was as if he was in some sort of trance or daze. You averted your gaze and smiled at the couple. "That's because they are," you hummed quietly. "You know... this morning, she said that this would be the happiest day of her life," you whispered. 

"I can see it on her face," he agreed with a small nod before looking down at you. "One would say it's the happiest day of your life too by that smile," he gently teased.  

You smiled deeper, ignoring the flush on your cheeks. "I just love weddings," you shrugged, eyes sparkling. 

Arvid only returned the gesture, keeping quiet as you both watched. So he did he, apparently. At least that was what the lurch in his chest told him.  

Just days ago, he had been full of dread, resenting the idea of coming to another wedding.  

But you were right.  

You hadn't taught him weddings.  

You had made him love weddings.  

Arvid's eyes flickered over the slowly emptying venue. Most of the guests had returned home after the newly married couple had left, leaving him appreciating all the decor in all its glory against the darkened skies.  

He leaned on the pillar, looking up at the full moon with a unexplained tightness in his chest. His ears perked at the sound of your anklets chiming in the bare air. He smiled quietly as you stood next to him, doing the same as him. "Hey." 

You returned the gesture, shivering at the slightly cold night air. "Hey," you greeted back, folding your arms for a little warmth. You chewed your lip, watching the same scene Arvid had just been eyeing. The sparseness of the event suddenly weighing on your shoulders.  

"So... this is it, huh?" 

A frown immediately made its way onto his face. His brows mended. "What?" 

You shrugged, throat awfully tight all of a sudden as you kept your eyes trained on your surroundings. "The wedding's over. You'll be back racing. I'll be back home. Back to our normal lives," you sucked in a sharp breath.  

Arvid blinked. There it was. The explanation for the constricted ache in his chest. This had an ending. And it wasn't one he liked. He swallowed thickly. "At least I had a good teacher this time round," he joked quietly.  

"I'm your only teacher, Lindblad," you huffed despite the corners of your lips tugging upwards. His chuckle felt warm in your ears as you took a moment to think. "Can I tell you something, Arvid?" 

He shifted against the pillar, head nodding. Always, he wanted to say. Tell him something. Anything to make this a little longer.  

The silence was long. Heavy and thick as the remnants of what had happened today. Of the promises that had been made. Of how much they weighed.  

"I don't want this to end." 

Your whispered confession made his brows raise and his lips part.  

Maybe he had misheard you.  

"You mean the wedding? Kinda hard to rewind this," Arvid teased almost cautiously. "I need to get a time machine, but I mean... I could make it work." 

You gave him a pointed look, skin now impossibly warm against the cold air. "You know what I mean. This. Whatever this is," you murmured, pointing between the both of you. "But I... I don't think it'll work." 

Arvid caught your hand with a smooth ease, fingers trailing your mehndi-stained palm almost instantly. His chest warmed as your admission. “We’ll make it work. I'll make it work," he promised with a firm nod, lips leaning down to ghost over the heat of your palm.  

You breathed in at the softness of his lips against your hand. "Will I get to meet Liam?" 

You could feel his grin on your palm. "Here I am being pouring my heart out and you wanna talk about Liam?" Arvid raised his brows, leaning his cheek onto your hand while his brown eyes holding yours.  

You pursed your lips, gaze narrowing. “Oh so you are pouring your heart out?" You teased. 

Your heart echoed in your ears as Arvid took a step closer to you, leaving barely any room between the both of you as he kept your hand to his chest. He grinned quietly, eyes dropping to your mouth. "Wanna test that theory?" 

Your cheeks burned as he leaned in closer. Your free hand fell over his mouth without a second thought. "Geez, take a girl out first, Lindblad," you huffed, grinning widely before moving your hands to hang around his shoulders.  

Arvid smiled as he pondered. "You free on Wednesday?" 

"Depends... is meeting Liam still on the table?" 

God, you were impossible. That Arvid was sure of.  

But for the first time in a while, it felt like he had known peace. So if all he needed to take was a little impossibility, he would gladly do so.  

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[finchytv]

bambino becky I love you so much you can do no wrong in my eyes

[patchoff1]

sweep you off your feet ✶ op81

—

oscar piastri x reader

university au.

summary: oscar piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis. oscar piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year. oscar piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.

contains: university au, swimming team captain!reader, pre-med student!reader, cricket team captain!oscar, engineering student!oscar, rivals to lovers, fake dating, a lot of cursing, suggestive themes, slight angst with a happy ending, use of y/n and l/n (sparingly)

word count: 15k!! + social media au.

a/n: I have no idea how university sports actually work in other countries so just bear with me here I just made it up okay. also the BIGGEST thanks to @starry-132173 for reading this first, hearing me yap about this fic for WEEKS and contributing with GREAT ideas <3 lots of love

masterlist!

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"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend until the season ends."

You're sure he hit his head really hard. He must have a concussion. He must have.

"Piastri, no one's going to believe that."

"Not with that attitude, they won't."

You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year, when both of you joined your respective teams.

Oscar Piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.

What the actual fuck?

"Did you hit your head?" You finally ask, leaning closer to look at him across the cafeteria table, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and a hint of worry. "Are you okay? Are you maybe hallucinating right now?"

He rolls those brown eyes of his as if you're the one suggesting the craziest thing the whole campus has ever heard.

"Look, I just need the guys to get off my back. I need them to stop saying I'm married to cricket, you need the band, why not?"

"Why not?!" You repeat, still checking his face for any concussion signs. "Piastri, if you just need your stupid friends to stop commenting on the fact that you're a virgin, maybe just go ahead and fuck someone," your voice turns bitter as you hiss out the next words, "I'm pretty sure any girl from the stupid band you keep stealing from me would be up for the challenge."

"First of all, I'm not a virgin," he glares at you when you snort, "second of all, I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my degree and on the cricket team. That's the point of getting a fake girlfriend, I don't have to put any effort into it."

You wonder if he'd let you do a quick examination to make sure he's actually not concussed. He must be.

"No one's going to believe that," you shake your head, repeating your words from before, "it makes absolutely no sense for us to start dating out of nowhere. We can barely stand each other."

"Well, why would anyone think we're fake dating in the first place? It's not exactly common."

"Yes, because it's fucking insane," you lean even more towards him, still shaking your head in denial, "and why me, of all people? We're not friends. Why the fuck would you want to fake date me?"

"Because I'll definitely not put any effort into it if it's you, so it's not going to affect my real priorities."

You're not offended.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

"No."

He furrows his eyebrows, and you wonder how the fuck he has the nerve to look confused, "no?"

"For half the band? For one competition? No. That's not worth it."

He blinks.

"Okay. The entire band."

"No," you cross your arms and lean back against your chair, eyebrows rising as you stare at him, unimpressed, "I've done most competitions without them. It'll suck, yes, but still not worth it."

Piastri pauses. The air between the two of you is filled with tension, as it usually is. It feels like a battle, and the two of you bargain like politicians like you always have.

"Every competition for the rest of the season."

That grabs your attention.

"Every competition?" He nods and your eyes narrow with suspicion. "Every competition? Every round through nationals? Every single one?"

He nods again.

"Even if there's an important cricket game on the same day?"

His nose twitches in annoyance at the question. "If we get through the quarter and semifinals and the finals are on the same day, we split the band."

You stare at him. Wonder for the fifth time if he's having some sort of psychological crisis. If he's concussed.

The band for every competition for the rest of the season.

You see, getting the band to play at a game or a competition is a privilege team captais fight tooth and nail for. It boosts morale, hypes up the teams, and usually makes the opponent feel a little more tense.

If there were two games or competitions in the same day, fucking Charles Leclerc, who all the team captains jokingly called band captain, liked to say it was first come, first served.

And you and Oscar Piastri had been fighting over the university band ever since you got into college — and God, was it a losing game for you.

Sure, there's a slight chance other teams may need the band on the same days the two of you did, but it never usually happens. Other sports have games and competitions on other days of the week.

Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

"So we get the entire band for the rest of the season and split the band if you guys get to the finals."

"We will get to the finals, but yes."

There's a quiet beat as you just look at him, thinking, pondering.

"And we just have to date until the season ends?" You uncross your arms slowly.

"Fake date."

"Don't get technical on me now, Piastri."

You think you see a shadow of smile on his lips before it disappears.

"Yes, just for the next two months or so, and then you're rid of me. We can act like none of this ever happened."

"Okay," he perks up at the word, but you shoot his hope down quickly, "I'll think about it," he deflates, "I can give you an answer on Thursday."

He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.

"Charles won't like it if he has to change plans for the band too close to Sunday."

You stand from your chair, already grabbing your backpack from the floor while he watches you. You look down at him.

"That's Leclerc's problem. Thursday, Piastri."

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liked by alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes and 1,478 others

yourusername practice day❤️

tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes

kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux ay ay captain 🫡🫡🫡 ♡ liked by yourusername

freshman1 sooo cool!!

freshman2 YESSSS

pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!

↳ kikagomes darling don't say it like that it sounds weird af ♡ liked by yourusername

francolapinto I leave early ONE DAY and you post pictures without me. I see how it is.

↳ yourusername yes that's exactly how it is!!!!!

liked by landonorris, olliebearman and 3,214 others

oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing

landonorris LESGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

olliebearman THE QUARTER FINALS ARE OURS BABYYYY

freshman1 sooo cute

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"Okay, so we need to set some ground rules," you tell Piastri later that evening, when you meet at the campus café to discuss the details of this mess you've gotten into. "And we can't be long, because I have to be up at 5 for tomorrow's practice, so try not to waste too much of my time."

"You know, if you're going to be my fake girlfriend, I think you'll need to be a little nicer to me," he raises his eyebrows at you, crossing his arms and watching quietly as you order a cappuccino at the counter.

"Alright, I'll be nicer to you in public," you answer when the barista starts making your order, turning your body away from the counter and towards him, "what else?"

His eyes narrow in suspicion.

"You're serious about setting rules."

"Obviously," you roll your eyes, "I'm not letting you just do and say whatever you want about this fake relationship of ours, Piastri. I don't trust you like that."

He hums in acknowledgement, the quiet whirring of the coffee machine comfortable inside the warm establishment.

"Fine. You can't tell your swimming friends the relationship is fake."

Your eyes widen. "Piastri, I can't keep that from them. This is for your friends, not for mine, and those guys see me basically every day and know me better than everyone, even the freshmen — they're not gonna believe me if I say we just started dating out of nowhere.”

"We’ll make up a love story, I don't know," he shrugs, "but they can't know. Alexandra would tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone, and then my plan would be ruined."

You sigh deeply before nodding, uncertain. You’re not sure how you feel about lying to your swimming friends — your best friends.

… but he is right. Alex would definitely tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone.

"Okay. Alright, okay. I'll figure it out."

The barista calls out your name and you turn to grab your hot drink, smiling at the barista before turning to Piastri again.

"Aren't you gonna get anything?"

He shakes his head. "I don't drink coffee."

"You engineering freak," is your muttered answer, moving towards one of the small tables and immediately sitting down, watching him as he sits across from you. "Anything else?"

He seems to think it over for a second, gaze going from you to the coffee machine behind the counter and then back to you again.

"If any of my game dates don't match yours, you'll have to go watch me play. Supportive girlfriend and all."

"Well, only if you watch my swimming competitions as well," you twitch your nose at him, bringing the mug to your lips, "supportive boyfriend and all."

You don't notice the way his eyes focus on your mouth as you take a long sip. Piastri clears his throat loudly, looking away. You don't notice how a light flush paints his cheeks either.

"Sure, I can do that," he nods, clearing his throat again before his tone takes a condescending turn, "what about you? No rules?"

"Oh, I've got many rules," your smile is so forced even the barista, from the other side of the café, can see through it, "first things first, I want flowers. Once a month, at least."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"I told you I didn't want to put in any effort."

"I literally couldn't give less of a shit," you take another sip, clearly unimpressed, "I told you you're not going to be a deadbeat fake boyfriend. There's only a couple of months until the season ends, you can do flowers."

He sighs loudly, leaning his back against the chair and staring at the ceiling.

"Of course you'd be a high maintenance fake girlfriend."

"Don't piss me off, everyone knows I wouldn't have a disinterested boyfriend," your eyes are filled with amusement, "you have to make me swoon, Piastri. I wouldn't date someone that isn't willing to sweep me off my feet."

"Sweep you off your feet, got it," his eyes lingered on the curve of your smile, "go on."

"Okay," you set the mug down, "you have to pick me up from swimming practice every morning."

"Are you serious?" He all but moans, staring at you in disbelief. "You guys practice at the crack of dawn."

"It's called discipline," you snap back, "yes, I'm serious.”

He groans.

“Fine.”

“And you have to post me somewhat regularly. I'm not willing to be someone's secret fake girlfriend."

He sighs again, but nods in agreement.

"And you can't fuck anyone while we're doing this. I mean, not that I think you're capable of fucking anyone, but I don't want any gossip about getting cheated on."

He scoffs at the insult, but doesn't seem too offended.

"I wouldn't do that to you," he rolls his eyes, "obviously."

Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.

You’re vaguely aware that Piastri isn’t devil on Earth, much less that bad of a guy. Still, you don’t expect the readiness of it — the obviously, the consideration. It sends a tingle through your chest.

You elect to ignore it.

"You have to volunteer at my lab."

"What?"

"We don't have enough volunteers for our current research," you shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, taking another sip from your drink, "I'd clearly make my boyfriend do that for me. It's nothing much, we'll just make you run and do a few exercises. You'll be fine. And, at last — no kissing."

Piastri lifts his eyebrows.

"No kissing?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," you kick him beneath the table, rolling your eyes when he glares at you, "I don't want to kiss you, period."

"That's gonna ruin our plan," he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "what, I win a game and don't kiss my girlfriend in celebration? That's ridiculous."

You ponder it for a second. A slight breeze comes through the window and you sigh at the feeling. Piastri watches it carefully.

"Okay," you concede, "you can kiss me after the finals, if you win and I'm there."

"That's ridiculous," he repeats. "Just the finals?"

You nod.

"Just the finals."

He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine, okay. But you have to be nice and affectionate with me when we're in public, even if we don't kiss. Hold hands, hugs, all that stuff."

"You're really greedy for someone who didn't want to put in effort, you know?" You lean forward slightly, eyes focusing on his.

"Aren't you the one who wants to be wooed?" There's no friendliness in his teasing, and you roll your eyes again.

"Oh, you're not gonna woo me. You'll just act like you can, Piastri."

He scoffs.

"I guess we'll see about that."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you have a pretty nice car."

He does. The seat is cushioned to no end, the drive is almost silent, and, even though the music volume is low, you can tell the sound is insanely good.

You wouldn't be able to say what car it is, but it did make your eyes widen when it stopped by the pool's entrance, and the silence is so awkward you can barely handle it.

Not that you feel any joy in talking to Piastri, of course. Still, the discomfort of it all is getting to you.

"Thanks," his tone is dry, but you can hear the hint of confusion in his voice.

Maybe he's as surprised as you are that you're trying to, what? Start conversation with Oscar Piastri of all people?

"How was practice?"

Your eyebrows shoot up at the question. His furrow. Neither of you expected him to keep the conversation going either.

"It was okay," you answer carefully. It feels weird to talk to him without trying to start a fight. "We're taking a rest day tomorrow so we aren't too tired for the competition on Sunday."

"Cricket takes two rest days before games," he mutters, eyes on the road.

"Are you trying to compete with me over rest days, Piastri? I didn't ask."

Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.

You're not sure why you do it. He's being exceptionally polite, and he got out of the car to open the door for you even though no one could see it, which was, perhaps, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to you.

He'd actually shown up, as well. Right on time as practice ended. You don't even think you told him what time you'd be done with swimming for the morning.

Maybe you just feel defensive. Maybe you just don't know how to act in this situation, don't know how to talk to him.

His gaze flies towards you for a mere second before focusing on the campus streets again.

"You're insane," his expression doesn't even change when he says it, and somehow that makes it worse.

Well. You started conversation and then immediately shut him out the moment he tried to keep it going.

Maybe you are insane, and you definitely feel a little bad about it, but not enough to apologize or say anything else.

The last minutes of the ride are spent in that same awkward silence. When he stops the car, you move to open the door on the passenger side, but he moves quicker — in a couple of seconds, he gets out the car, around it, and opens the door for you.

You gape at him like a fish out of water as you slowly get out the car, his hand still firmly gripping the handle.

You look around. He drove you back to your dorm building as you had asked, and only a few students walk nearby, most of them not even noticing the two of you. Some stare.

He closes the door as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.

"You don't need to do that everytime," you mutter awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your cheeks, "I can open the door by myself."

Once more, Piastri is quicker than you. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on your warm cheek, ignoring the surprised gasp that leaves your lips.

"You're insane, but you also prohibited me from being a deadbeat fake boyfriend," he shrugs, but you see the way his mouth curves in a smirk at your startled reaction. "Have a good day."

And, in a second, he's back in his car and driving away.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Opening doors and kissing your cheek.

A sophomore you're pretty sure plays in the university band flashes you a smile as she walks by, but you don't acknowledge it nor do you move. You just watch his car get smaller and smaller as he drives it away.

God, you should not have agreed to this.

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days.

You joined the swimming team mere months after you started university, and it felt like a much needed outlet for any frustration you felt towards everything else going on in your life. Pre-med was no joke, and you were known for being either at the pool, at the library, or at the PT research lab.

Married to swimming and school work, just like Piastri's friends say he's married to cricket. You try not to dwell on that similarity.

Swimming is where you feel most at ease — it's where you can finally breathe, funnily enough, and mornings feel incomplete without it.

Of course you're passionate about the sport. More than passionate, if your frequent angry outbursts at Charles Leclerc are anything to go by.

You see, it isn't always Piastri's fault that the band doesn't show up to swimming competitions. The cricket and swimming calendars don't always align and, even though they do align enough to annoy the shit out of you, you have to admit Piastri can't take the blame every single time.

Sometimes they have to be somewhere else, sometimes they have their own competitions, and there was even a time or two when the university dean asked them to play at a board event. It all culminates in the fact the band hasn't shown up to any swimming competitions all season, which pisses you off to no end.

The swimming team has never gotten this close to nationals, at least not in recent history. This might be the most important competition day ever since you joined the team, bright-eyed, shy, excited.

You take your breakfast like you always do — not too light to be hungry, not too heavy to vomit into the pool, a lesson freshman you had to learn the hard way. You stretch before you even leave your dorm and you check your backpack a thousand times to be sure you haven't forgotten anything, rechecking for your lucky swimming cap a thousand times more.

When you finally meet the rest of the team at the state pool, your hands are trembling more than a captain's hands should. Alex and Kika are bursting with energy, and Franco all but jumps in his own spot. The new freshmen look ready to throw up.

"Okay," you clear your throat when your voice cracks, nerves fighting to get the best of you, "this is our most important competition to date."

"Damn, no pressure," Franco mutters, shrugging when you glare his way. For a semi-freshman, you're always surprised by how much shit he says.

"If we win, we go to nationals. The band is here," you wave towards the bleachers by the side of the pool, directly next to the other teams, which you suppose is purposeful, "and everyone expects us to do at least somewhat well."

"Again, no pressure," Kika rolls her eyes with amusement and directs a soft smile to the freshmen, "we'll just do our best."

"No," you shake your head, tightening your fists to stop their trembling, looking at each and every person in your team with determination as you take in a deep breath, pushing away your anxiety, even if you still feel it, "we'll do more than our best, and we'll win. We're fast as fuck and the best swimmers in the world and this competition will be a breeze. Leclerc will play trumpets on their ears and they'll be no match for us."

Alex lets out a laugh at that, but some of the freshmen puff out their chests.

"I believe in each and every one of you," you nod. "Don't let me down, and I won't let you down either. Now, let's get ready to win."

The team lets out cheers, clapping as they start moving toward their spots around the pool, some stretching, others sighing and trying to shake out the nervousness.

"That's why she's the captain," you hear someone mumble, and feel almost guilty over how untrue that sounds.

Saying it is one thing, believing it is entirely another.

If there's someone feeling the pressure, it's you. You, who committed to being team captain before you were even a senior. You, who pushed every teammate to their limit during pratice every morning. You, who agreed to fake date your archnemesis to make sure you'd have a supportive audience at this pool.

Minutes later, the whistle sounds.

You can still hear the band with your head underwater.

✶✶✶

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 9,987 others

swimteam Congratulations to all of our athletes for absolutely DOMINATING all swimming categories on the state competition today and therefore qualifying to NATIONALS!

And shout out to our captain @.yourusername for setting the new state record for the 800m front crawl category ❤️

yourusername FUCKING LOVE YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!! ♡ liked by swimteam

oscarpiastri What a great job from the team! ♡ liked by swimteam

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francolapinto first full season and already going to nationals maybe i'm a good luck charm? ♡ liked by swimteam

pierregasly YESSSSSSS ♡ liked by swimteam

charles_leclerc Congratulations to the team! I'm so grateful I was there to witness this ♡ liked by swimteam

↳ alexandrasaintmleux ❤️

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 5,321 others

yourusername feeling actually insane. what a crazy fucking weekend. thank you guys for everything @.swimteam ❤️ WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO NATIONALS

also thank you @.charles_leclerc and the whole band for being there, couldn't have done it without you

kikagomes BEST CAPTAIN THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEEEEEEEEEN ♡ liked by yourusername

freshman1 you are THE GOAT ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux OH HELLO STATE RECORD HOLDER ♡ liked by yourusername

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✶✶✶

✶✶✶

When you leave the pool on Tuesday, Alex and Kika walking beside you, Piastri is already waiting outside.

Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.

You stop dead in place at the sight, gaping at him as you hear Alex and Kika gasp.

Not any flowers, either. Pink camellias and a few white gardenias, all wrapped up in brown paper and a nice white bow. He smiles at you so wide when he sees you that you feel your cheeks grow warm.

"There's my girl!" He walks towards you in wide strides, immediately leaning down to kiss your face. You just stare as he puts the delicate flowers into your hands and turns his head toward your friends. "You guys did great on Sunday. Are you excited to go to nationals?"

Alex and Kika can't seem to speak, staring at him in utter shock as you look down at your flowers.

You suppose you did ask for it, yes. You didn't expect him to deliver, though, at least not like this. Perhaps some simple roses. Maybe daisies.

The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.

"Well. Should we... Go?" He looks at you when he asks it, uncertain, but you just look down at the pretty bouquet sitting between your hands.

He says your name quietly and that's what snaps you back into reality.

"Yes. Yes, of course," you shoot a smile to your friends, barely registering their shocked glances to each other, "I'll see you tomorrow, guys!"

The girls watch as he opens the door for you and walks around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat, waving at them before closing his own door.

"So," the car starts to move, "how was practice?"

You blink down at the flowers, and then back up at him.

"You got me flowers."

"Yes, I did," he nods and glances at you, "I didn't know which ones you liked, so I just picked the ones I thought looked nicer. Are they okay?"

You look down at the flowers again. Beautiful, fresh, colorful, staring up at you brightly.

"You could've just gotten roses or something."

"Nah," Piastri shakes his head, eyes focusing on the road, "roses are too basic, and we've already come to the conclusion that you're high maintenance."

"That's..." you open your mouth to speak and find yourself at a loss for words, "thank you?"

"Don't thank me yet," he glances at you again, "I have a favor to ask you."

You groan, setting the flowers down on your lap as your stare at him, grateful for the sudden annoyance that can distract you from how fucking flustered you are.

"Another one, Piastri?"

"Look, Lando is throwing a party this weekend to celebrate our quarter finals, since we couldn't celebrate on Sunday after getting the news that Jack won't be able to play for the rest of the season. I've told him I'm seeing someone, so they said I should bring you."

"Someone? You haven't told them it's me?" Your eyes narrow at him, gripping the flower stems a little tighter.

"No, I thought you'd prefer it if we told people on your terms," he glances at you again, "hence why the party could be a good place for it."

For what feels like the thousandth time during this car ride, you blink at him.

"That's surprisingly considerate."

He rolls his eyes.

"I am considerate, just like I am nice," you watch as he sighs, "you can invite the swimming team if you want."

"I never took you for a party guy," your eyes turn to your flowers again, chest tightening at how lovely they look, at how the colors complement each other.

"I'm not," Piastri agrees, and your focus moves to the way his hands turn the steering wheel, taking a right, "but it'd be awkward if the team captain doesn't go to the team's celebration party, you know? And, again, it'd be a good place for us to make it official."

"Make it fake official," you mutter, forcing yourself to look back at the flowers.

You don't miss the way his lips curl into a teasing smile. You hate the way your face tingles with warmth.

"Don't get technical on me now, L/N."

A chuckle escapes you, and his smile grows wider. He turns a left and you notice you're on your street.

"Fine," you sigh tiredly, "but you're picking me up for that too."

He laughs back and, for some reason, you hate it.

"Of course."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you could've just said we needed to meet to align what story we're telling everyone, you didn't need to scare the crap out of me."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

You throw a pillow at Piastri, who sits on your desk on the other side of your room, chair moved so he can look at you. You huff when he catches it.

"Besides, if it was something worth getting worried about, you're not exactly the person I'd be texting. We're not close like that."

You think you see hurt flicker through his expression, but it's gone before you can be sure.

Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.

Your roommate is out for the day, and never in his life did Piastri think he'd ever be alone in your room with you.

The dorm is surprisingly untidy. For all your talk of discipline, there's clothes hanging from the desk chair, a little pile of shoes on the floor. Your desk table is a complete mess — papers everywhere, books on top of each other, your sunglasses too close to the edge. By the desk, there's a duffle bag filled to the top with clothes, a couple of swimming goggles, a clean swimsuit, and an assortment of swimming caps.

"The party is tomorrow night," you remind him, "I won't be able to escape Alex and Kika there. What are we gonna tell them?"

"Well, I don't know," he crosses his arms, not a hint of emotion on his tone, "maybe you just fell for my crazy charm and begged to go out with me?"

You laugh so loudly the sound rings in his ears, and Piastri can't help but smirk.

"No one is going to believe that," you shake your head and he doesn't take it personally, "we need to think of something better."

There's a beat of silence as the two of you try to think of a good story to explain how, miraculously, you got together.

You and Oscar Piastri. Well, that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it? You hadn't liked him for years now, and what could have possibly changed that?

"Maybe we kissed at Gasly's party a month ago," he suggests, and you arch your eyebrow.

"The one where you looked uncomfortable the entire time and left early?"

He tilts his head in surprise. "You noticed?"

"I mean—not like that," you roll your eyes, but there's no denying the warmth on your face, "I just saw you a couple of times, that's all."

There's another beat of silence, and you wonder if you can swallow back your words and choke on them.

"Okay," he nods slowly. "Maybe you saw me leaving, went after me to see if I was okay, and we kissed."

"Why would I check up on you?" You blurt out and immediately wish you could swallow those words, as well.

"Because you're nice to people," he says quietly, looking away from you, "so maybe you were just being nice."

It's stupid, but you feel a pang on the left side of your chest.

"Yeah, okay. That seems fair," you swallow, and your throat hurts, "I was drunk and you looked sad and pitiful, so I kissed you."

There's a slight lilt to his lips. "You kissed me?"

"Obviously," you match his small smile, "I wear the fake pants in this fake relationship, Piastri. I kissed you."

He lets out a snort and your smile widens.

"Sure, okay. What then? You asked me out?"

"No, I didn't," you lean back against your bedrest, head turned to look at him, "I kissed you and you were so overwhelmed with joy that you asked me out on the spot."

Piastri really laughs this time, and you allow yourself to grin at him. He notices and grins back.

"Did you say yes?"

You shrug, but the smile stays on your face. "If you looked pitiful enough, I might have."

"Oh, so you only accepted because I looked pitiful?" The teasing tone to his voice sounds nice. You've never heard it from him, not without any annoyance behind it.

"Obviously," you throw another pillow at him and he catches it again, "I have a soft spot for sad men."

He throws the pillow back and you catch it clumsily. He shakes his head and lets out another chuckle. "Of course you do."

"We hung out in secret for a while," you keep the story going, resting your chin on your hands as you look at him, thoughtful, "I wasn't sure if it was serious or not, and you're married to cricket."

He nods, still smiling. The flowers he gave you on Tuesday are on top of your bedside table, he notices, inside a jar filled with water and still holding up. They bring some color to the space. He feels flattered you actually still have them.

"Maybe—" he hesitates, face falling, and you gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat, "maybe that day when you messaged me about the band, my favor was for you to be my girlfriend officially."

You study him for a second. The deep brown eyes, his strong jaw, his lips no longer forming that smile you were growing to enjoy. He looks a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, just like he had that night at Gasly's party. Some strange part of you wants to see him grin at you again.

"That's a good idea," you nod slowly. "Would make the timeline add up."

"Exactly," he nods back.

That awkward silence settles in again, the one that fills his car when he drives you back to your dorm, the one that swims between your text messages.

You don't know what it is. There are times when you talk and laugh and chat like normal people — acquaintances, at least. Other times, it seems you've never met before, like you just have no idea how to act with each other.

You don't know how to act with each other. It's been years of angry glances, sarcastic answers, underhanded compliments. Mainly from your part, you realize, even though you know for certain that he has gone after his way to get the band when he knew you wanted it for a swimming competition.

Even then, is that sufficient reason for the weird relationship you two have always had?

Piastri seems to be asking himself the same questions, because the next words out of his mouth are, "why do you hate me so much?"

You blink at him, surprised by the question.

"I don't hate you, Piastri."

"I mean, you sort of do," he crosses his arms again, almost as if trying to make himself smaller, "I know you're... Intense, but you don't seem to have this much of a problem with other people."

You think it over for a few seconds. It's true. While you've had issues with almost everyone in the student athletic association and in band, with Piastri it's always been personal — it's not just sports and business like it is with others.

"I mean, you do make it your mission to steal band from me all the time."

He shakes his head, "you know it's more than that. Yes, I do try to steal band from you every Sunday. I know how much you like the band, and in a selfish way I guess I want to upset you in the same way you upset me by— I don't know, just being mad at me all the time."

Your eyebrows furrow and your voice goes a little quieter. "It upsets you?"

"Of course it does."

You look at him closely, his arms still crossed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in your dorm, asking you questions that haunted him since freshman year.

"It's stupid," you murmur, and he immediately leans forward to listen, interested, "you pranked me in freshman year."

Piastri looks at your startled, eyebrows shooting up. "What?"

"When we started university," you start, feeling so embarrassed you wish you could bury yourself in a hole, "I met you at one of those welcome cocktails, do you remember?"

He nods, confused.

"Well, we talked a bunch that night. I had a lot of fun. I thought you were really cute, too," you look away, the embarrassment increasing tenfold as you avoid his gaze, cheeks glowing red, "so I asked for your number, and you gave me a fake one. I tried to text you and it just didn't exist. Never felt that humiliated in my life," you laugh humorlessly, "I know it's stupid, but I just could never really like you after that. It was awful because you were always so nice to everyone, and I didn't understand why you did that. You could've just said no, you know? And then the following year I became more involved with the swimming team and you were just a dick about the band. So yeah, I guess that's how it started."

When you finally gather the courage to glance at Piastri again, you don't think you've ever seen him look this confused in his life. It makes you feel even more embarrassed, the way his eyebrows furrow with no understanding.

"I remember that night," he concedes, and then shakes his head in denial. "We talked, and I gave you my phone number and you never reached out until sophomore year, when we started talking—well, when we started fighting over the band."

It's your turn to look confused.

"No, you didn't give me a real number, Piastri. I had to get your number from someone else later."

"I did not give you a fake number," his voice is solid, firm, and he stares at you with certainty. "Maybe you heard one of the numbers wrong due to the party noise, or I mixed something up, I had just changed numbers at the time. But I did not give you a fake number. I wanted to talk to you."

You stare back at him, unsure on how to answer. You weren't hurt by that anymore — it happened years ago and, at this point, you didn't care. But it was the starting point of your distaste towards him, and it had tainted the first following interactions. The image of him that stuck with you had been that one — smiling Piastri, sweet and polite, giving you hope and butterflies and a fake number, a dead end.

Polite enough to not be cruel to your face, to let you feel the humiliation and embarrassment on your own on the next day, seeing every message refuse to go through.

And to know that that wasn't what had happened? That maybe it had all been a silly misunderstanding, and you held a grudge over nothing?

Well, that was awkward.

"I—well, it doesn't matter," you try to shift the topic, letting out an uneasy chuckle, "it was years ago, and it's not like I'm still upset at you because of that. Nowadays, my only issue with you is the band and the fact that you're always a little shit about it."

"It does matter," he presses, and you notice the way his finger grip the edges of your desk chair so tight his knuckles go white, "it matters to me. I did not give you a fake number. It wasn't a prank."

"Piastri—"

"I promise you I didn't. I wouldn't have done that, even if I didn't want you to have my number, and I did."

"Piastri, it's fine," you insist, still avoiding his gaze, "I can promise you I'm over something that happened when we were 18." You pause. "But it's good to know you didn't do it on purpose. Makes it a little less embarrassing, I think."

He doesn't answer, just studies you quietly. Maybe he's waiting for something. You're not sure what it is. Your heart beats loudly inside your chest. You suppose this shouldn't change anything, but it does.

Not the fact that he didn't mean to give you the wrong number, no, but the fact he cares so much about it. About you knowing he wanted to talk to you, that he gave you the right number, that he waited for you to text him.

"So," you clear your throat, face flaming red, "the party this weekend."

✶✶✶

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oscarpiastri incredible night out with my girlfriend, the state record holder for 800m front crawl

tagged: yourusername

yourusername LMAOOOO

yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

↳ landonorris dating the guy and still calling him by his last name my man can never win

↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point

francolapinto still can't believe you refused to kiss for the camera i just wanted to capture this monumental moment

↳ yourusername weirdo

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kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

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yourusername coffee date

tagged: oscarpiastri

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oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

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landonorris i can't believe you guys are really dating we thought he was lying ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

A week later, Piastri waits for you to get ready for lab after bringing you to your dorm.

"I said I'd volunteer to help with your research," he explains when you stare at him quizzically, shruging as if it's just obvious.

And you guess it is. He did say he'd do it.

Besides, getting a ride to lab does feel quite nice. The awkwardness and silences from that first week seem to be dissipating slowly after you two managed to actually enjoy being together at Lando's party, even if you didn't do much besides dance with your friends and let him put his arm around your back a few times. You ask about cricket, he asks about swimming. He tells you about his engineering degree and how excited he is to get a job in the market, and you tell him all about doing physical therapy as pre-med and about how much work you're putting into it. He listens. He asks questions.

You find yourself enjoying those few minutes between the pool and your dorm more than you ever did. Worst of all, you find yourself looking forward to the way he laughs.

You're not friends, per se. You barely text outside of quick "I'm here" or "waiting for you" messages when he comes to pick you up, and your conversations don't ever stray much from your sports and your classes.

But it's nice to talk to him normally, to talk without feeling like there's a ticking bomb waiting for you to start an argument. You don't even feel angry or irritated at him anymore, not even when he jokes around too much or says something stupid.

When you arrive, your colleagues are absolutely ecstatic that you’ve brought them what is, essentially, a lab rat. Piastri barely introduces himself before they have him hooked up to a bunch of wires, monitoring his body’s responses as they make him jump, run, and do a thousand little exercises, moving his arms this or that way, flexing his legs.

You have to admit his calm demeanor and politeness are somewhat captivating. He’s extremely nice to everyone in your lab, and he asks them for details and information on your research, which, as everyone knows, is enough to make any academic’s heart soar.

Oscar smiles softly at you whenever you’re the one to come check on his wires, tell him to move in a specific manner. He obeys solemnly, calling you “doctor” and chuckling when you roll your eyes at him, unable to mask your grin.

Your colleagues make him promise to come back in the following week. He laughs and agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head and telling you to text him when you get home before leaving.

You still have a smile on your face after he's gone, making notes and studying the data with a lightness on your chest. When your professor clears her throat and your eyes meet hers, your face is bright.

"So, that was your boyfriend, huh?" She smiles knowingly, looking you up and down.

"Yeah," you smile back, glancing back at the numbers and lines on the lab computer, "you know me, I had to force him to volunteer."

She chuckles at your answer, leaning her hip against your work desk.

"I can tell he really likes you," you turn your face towards her again, "just by the way he looks at you. You've got that man hooked, Ms. L/N." She claps your shoulder. "Good luck with that data, let me know when you're done so I can look it over."

You try to smile back, try to take it in stride. She gives you a wink before walking away, asking someone else a question and leaving as if your heart wasn't breaking a little bit.

Oscar must be good at this pretending thing, if even your lab professor thinks he's in love with you. You do nothing but smile a little more at him and actually look him in the eye, while he's the one giving you cheek kisses, opening doors for you, and laughing at every joke you make.

You're not sure why it bothers you, but it does. A lot.

✶✶✶

Another week later, you're preparing for the first round of nationals.

And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.

The first time it happens, it's a Monday. During the ride back from the pool, he asks if it'd be a good day for him to volunteer at the lab again, because he did promise he'd come back and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do it another time. You tell him he can wait for you to get ready inside your dorm instead of outside, in the car. Your roommate is leaving for her morning classes when the two of you arrive and shoots you a knowing look when she closes the door behind her, but doesn't say anything.

You don't say anything either. You just let him into the messy room, let him sit on top of your bed and between your pillows, let him ask questions about some of the books on your desk.

He keeps coming back, starts coming in after swimming practice and driving you from your dorm to the physical therapy building as well. You start asking questions back. What's his favorite book, is his dorm also a little untidy, who's his favorite teacher.

You tell him about your lucky swimming cap — the only one you wear during tournaments, the one you can't compete without, the one you check your duffle bag for a million times before leaving your dorm on competition days.

He tells you he has a lucky pair of socks for cricket games.

"Do you wash them?" You ask him then, wrinkling your nose, a smirk on your lips.

"Only when we lose," an amused grin covers his face, and it opens up with laughter as you gag, throwing a pillow at him that he quickly catches.

"You're nasty," your whole face scrunches up with disgust, shaking your head as if trying to shake the information away.

"Hey!" He objects between chuckles, smile bright. "If it works, it works."

Around the same time, the lingering touches start. You suppose it makes sense, considering the fact you're technically dating.

Oscar starts sitting with you on the cafeteria, holding your hand on top of the table, leaning his shoulder into yours. The tender kisses don't stop, they increase in frequency — on your cheek while he waits for you to get into the car, on your forehead when he leaves you after lunch, on the top of your head while you're hanging out with others.

You don't go out on dates. You don't have to — everyone knows how busy your lives are, so no one questions the way you're never seen out for dinner. Even then, it feels adequate. You're seen together everywhere, and you actually show up to one or two cricket team night practices to watch them play and wait for him before he drives you back to your dorm after a hard day.

Neither of you mention the way his hand sometimes searches for yours while he drives. Neither of you mention the fact he kisses your cheek even when there's no one around.

You're not sure when Oscar Piastri went from your archnemesis to your sort of touchy friend. You're not sure when you started texting him about annoying teachers, boring assignments, muscle aches from swimming. But you do, and he answers every time — he entertains you, makes jokes, asks questions, complains about his own classes.

Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.

And he isn't there during the first round of nationals because the cricket team has a friendly game to practice for the semifinals in the following week, but he texts you a string of four-leaf clover emojis for good luck and asks you to send him a picture wearing your lucky cap, which you do with a big smile on your face.

Oscar is nice, and considerate, and funny, and charming. He's more on the quiet side, yes, but he's so expressive and attentive that you just can't help but think that, if he didn't steal the band so often and you hadn't developed a grudge from a misunderstanding, maybe you could've been friends through the entirety of your graduation years.

Maybe this could've been real.

You try not to dwell on these thoughts, but it's impossible. You can't stop yourself from looking forward to the small kisses, the hand holding, the hugs, the car rides, the lunches, the talking in your dorm. The lines become blurry — how much are you really friends, and how much is it just pretending?

✶✶✶

"So, you and Piastri, huh?"

You look up from your duffle bag, hair still dripping wet with pool water.

Alexandra stares at you from a few feet away inside the locker room, drying herself calmly. Some of the other girls chat, energized from a productive practice and the good results from the first round of nationals, and none of them pay attention to you.

You clear your throat.

"Yeah," you look back down, trying to find the clean shirt you know is somewhere among the mess of your belongings, "Piastri and me."

Alex closes her locker carefully before walking closer to you, tone careful.

"Why didn't you tell me anything? I mean, you're my best friend, and I never thought—" she furrows her eyebrows in something between frustration and confusion, "I guess I just didn't see it coming."

"Oh, come on," you try to smile it off, finally picking up your shirt and standing straight to look back at her again. Your chest clenches for a reason you can't quite explain, "why are you asking me that now? We've been together for, what, a month?"

"I have to admit I thought it was a joke," she crosses her arms, "you've never liked the guy, and you didn't mention it even once."

"Of course it's not a joke. I mean, if it was, why wouldn't I tell you?" You cross your arms again, feeling strangely defensive even though you knew from the start that it would be difficult to hide the truth from Alex and Kika, specially Alex.

They knew everything about you. Why didn't they know you had been apparently seeing Oscar Piastri for an entire month before the two of you were officially dating? You didn't have an answer for that. They would've known if it was real.

"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were going out with him?" Her eyebrows furrow further, asking the exact question you don't kno how to answer. "I just don't understand why you kept it a secret. It's not like I would judge you or tell anyone or anything. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," your fingers tighten over the shirt they're holding, "I—it was just complicated. I didn't know if it was just a casual thing, you know?" You lean into the excuse you and Oscar had thought of weeks ago. "And he was too preoccupied with his degree and cricket and everything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it if it wasn't anything serious."

"Oh, please," Alex rolls her eyes, "are you kidding? If you guys have always looked at each other the way you do, there's no way you thought it could be casual."

For a second, your entire body tenses, brain sending out sirens inside your head. You blink, and Alex looks at you expectantly.

"I—hum—what do you mean?" is all you can muster, feeling your face grow warm.

"You're joking, right?" She stares at you like you're stupid. You feel like it. "That man looks at you as if you hung the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. Whenever he has lunch with us, he just has eyes for you the entire time. Even when other people are speaking, he just keeps stealing glances at you. And you may not even notice, but he goes bright red whenever you smile at him. And the door opening? The cheek kisses? You cannot fool me into thinking you ever thought it could be casual when he's clearly head over heels for you."

A beat passes by. You just stare.

"And that's not even mentioning the way you look at him," she continues pointedly, "it's like he's the funniest, most brilliant person in the world, when, come on, he's nice, but he's still just Piastri."

"Oscar doesn't look at me like that," you answer late, mouth not quite catching up with your thoughts.

But did he? You never noticed. Did he look at you like that? Was he looking at you like that the whole time?

Was it even real? Did he look at you like that because he's supposed to be your boyfriend or because he actually couldn't help it?

No, it had to be because of your whole scheme. Oscar—Oscar was just now becoming your friend, he didn't—he couldn't—

Despite her growing irritation, Alex couldn't help but smile softly.

"He's really got you hooked, huh? I didn't think you'd ever be able to actually call him by his name."

Oh.

When did you start calling him Oscar? When did he become Oscar in your thoughts, and not just Piastri?

Did you look at him like that?

As if sensing your trouble, your phone starts to buzz. When you look down at it, laying on top of your open bag, his name pops up.

"He's... waiting for me outside," you stare up at Alex again. "I need to change and go."

"Look, you're my best friend," she repeats, small smile falling, "I just feel like there's something weird in all this, and I want you to know you can count on me, okay? I wanna hear all about this love story of yours. I just—I'm just really confused, honestly. Why didn't you say anything before you two started dating?"

Your phone buzzes again. You lean down to grab your bag, gesturing randomly towards the door.

"I'm gonna go change. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Why are you leaving like this?" She calls out, but you're already moving.

"I'm not," you call back, walking backwards so you can look at her, "I just can't do this right now."

You disappear before you can hear her response.

Ten minutes later, you're inside Oscar's car. He looks you up and down, your hair still dripping wet after running out without properly drying it, your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your mouth a straight line.

"Is everything okay?" He asks as he closes his door and starts the car.

"Alex cornered me to ask why I kept our relationship a secret from her."

You watch the way Oscar tenses.

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," you shrug, looking out the window, "I sort of just ran away and left her at the locker room."

He snorts at that, and even though you still feel tense, you can't help but smile at the sound.

"Why would you run away?" He asks with amusement, shaking his head.

"I didn't know what to say!" You throw your arms up and, despite yourself, you feel the panic and discomfort from the conversation with Alex wash away in his presence, smile lingering on your lips.

"You could just tell her what sounds more believable," he suggests, but the smirk on his lips makes your eyes narrow teasingly, "that you fell for my unbelievable charm."

You laugh and he grins, glancing at you from the driver's seat.

"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."

You move your eyes from the window to his face, finding his own eyes mid-glance towards you. He sees your smile.

For the first time, you notice the way his cheeks turn pink.

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

When Oscar parks his car in front of your dorm building on Saturday, you’re already waiting for him, face warm as you watch him grab his phone to text you, barely aware of your figure standing outside. He’s usually the one who waits for you.

You watch him look towards the sidewalk lazily. You notice that he’s already in his cricket uniform, shoulders straight, ready for the game. His demeanor is calm, but you’ve heard him grumble enough to know how important this is to him — how much he wants to win.

The moment his eyes meet yours, you watch him blank, skin growing impossibly red as he looks you up and down.

You’re wearing his jersey. His number. His name on your back.

The moment Oscar sees you, he’s usually out of the car, opening the passenger door. This time, he stares. You almost feel self-conscious under his wide gaze, his mouth open, expression painted with surprise and something you can’t quite read.

For a moment, you think it’s awe.

You aren’t sure that's not just wishful thinking.

He snaps out of it when you start walking towards the car, stumbling over himself as he climbs out of the driver’s seat to open your door. His fingers touch the small of your back as you turn it to him while you get inside, and it sends an electric current through your spine. He closes the car door and walks over to get into his seat.

Oscar sits down, turns his head to stare at you again, skin bright red, eyes wide. You feel yourself shrink under his intense gaze.

“Do you… not like it?”

His eyes widen even further.

“What? No, I—hum—you—that’s my—hum—” somehow, his face grows even redder, and he clears his throat before speaking again, finally taking his stare away from you. “You look great. I’m—yeah. I love it,” he starts the engine and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, but a feeling akin to amusement starts to crawl up your throat, warmth creeping up your chest. “How—where—”

“I asked Norris if you guys had a spare jersey so I could surprise you,” you answer calmly, watching the way his jaw works, the way he stares straight ahead as the car starts to move. “He told me he had the perfect one.”

He looks flustered.

And, God, you enjoy it. You savor it. It makes your heart soar.

Oscar Piastri is gripping the wheel, deep scarlet, stumbling over his words because of you.

You don’t dwell on what it means. You try not to think too hard about it or about how much you like it. But you notice the way he keeps stealing glances, the way his neck burns red whenever he looks at you, the way he can barely speak the entire drive.

Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.

“Beautiful, loving, and supportive girlfriend, huh?” You tease after a couple of minutes, turning your head to look at him. Somehow, his face turns an even deeper red.

“Shut up,” he mumbles in response, unable to hide his sheepish grin when you cackle at his answer.

And it's at that moment that you realize it, sitting on the passenger seat, watching him grin, wearing his colors, his jersey, his number, wishing he had his hand on your thigh the same way he did when the two of you gave Kika a ride after practice on Wednesday.

That moment while he groans something about annoying swimmer getting on my nerves and glances your way just to find you already studying him, while his fingers flex against the steering wheel, while he looks you up and down and blushes again at the sight.

It hits you hard, makes your breath catch, turns the corners of your vision fuzzy.

You're not sure when it happened, you're not sure how. You could barely stand him and, a month later, he's the one who makes you laugh, who gets you to relax after tense days with a cheek kiss and the sound of his voice as he drives you around. A month ago he was just Piastri.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who has pissed you off at every given opportunity since freshman year, who stole band every Sunday, who was never anything but annoying.

Oscar Piastri, who sits on the desk chair inside your dorm and catches every pillow you throw at him.

Oscar Piastri, who the colleagues in your lab adore and call their favorite volunteer.

Oscar Piastri, who smiles at you and lets his hand linger on the small of your back and kisses your forehead to say goodbye — never your mouth, because you told him not to. Never your mouth, and he still manages to make the soft kisses against your temple feel more intimate than any make out session you've ever had.

Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.

You're not faking anymore.

✶✶✶

liked by oscarpiastri, kikagomes and 987 others

yourusername MY BOY IS GOING TO FINALS BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (still unsure how this sport works tbh)

tagged: oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri thank you so much for being there ♡ liked by yourusername

oscarpiastri literal good luck charm ♡ liked by yourusername

oscarpiastri YOUR TURN TOMORROW ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you

kikagomes CUTIESSSS OMG OMG OMG ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days, and Oscar Piastri being attached to your hip feels like the weirdest and most welcomed disruption in the entire world.

He carries your bag for you while you find the rest of your team, cleans your swimming goggles when you aren't looking, kisses the top of your head softly before you put your lucky cap on, squeezes your hand when he finally has to leave your side.

None of it feels fake and most of it happens when you're sure no one else is looking. None of Oscar's friends are here to take note of how kind and caring he is towards you, except Charles and Pierre, who are both too busy with their own girlfriends.

It makes the soft spot he's been carving for himself inside you bigger.

The band is there, yes, but his cheering is the loudest thing you hear whenever your head comes up for air.

He doesn't need to do all of that. He does it anyway.

You don't dominate — the team does well enough, managing a few podiums, but no wins.

It's not the best prospect for the final round. You know so. The team knows so. You speak briefly about it, tell them it was good enough, that you'll train harder and do better next round.

Even then, Oscar hugs you close when you can finally go up to him, already out of your swimsuit and into warm clothes, pressing a kiss against your temple, and you feel any worry in your body melt away.

"You guys did amazing," he reassures as he holds you close, and you snort.

"You don't know much about swimming," you retort, but there's no bite to it.

"Well, I know the front crawl categories are only in the final round, and that's your specialty, right?"

You smile softly against his shoulder, breathing him in for a second before taking a step back.

"We'll see," you sigh as his hands linger on your arms, thumbs circling slightly, "it's a shame you won't be there. You were almost louder than the band."

Oscar chuckles at your teasing, and you almost miss the way his skin turns pink as he looks away from you, putting his hand on your back and starting to guide you towards the exist.

"About that, there's been talk about bringing the cricket finals forward by a week or so. I'd be—well, I'd be free to come, then."

You blink at him, but his eyes stay straight ahead.

"What? Isn't that really uncommon? Why would they do that? Did something happen?"

He clears his throat.

"I asked."

You blink at him again, stopping right in place. He takes a single step before he notices and turns to you.

"You asked?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing, heartbeat skyrocketing.

"I did," he answers sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I just—I'd like to be there. For the final round. And I'd like you to be there for the cricket finals as well."

You feel the air leave your lungs, heart ramming against your ribcage. He finally meets your gaze, and the look in his eyes is so intense you feel worried your legs might give out underneath you.

"Why?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the word, and his eyes turn impossibly soft. The sight makes your heart flip inside your chest, fingers trembling.

"You know why," is his quiet answer, hand reaching out so his fingertips touch yours, sending an electric current through your body while he keeps looking at you like that — like there's no one else in the entire world, like this is the most important thing ever, like this is real.

You open your mouth to speak when Franco calls your name from a couple of feet away.

The two of you look towards the sound to see Franco, Kimi, Alex, and Charles walking your way. You ignore the way Alex's eyes narrow, try not to remember she can probably read your expression like a book.

"Captain!" Kimi smiles as the four of them come to a halt in front of the two of your, "the band invited us to grab a bite together after this. Do you wanna come? Piastri too, obviously."

"I—yeah, sure, why not," you let out a breathy laugh, chest feeling impossibly tight. You can't get yourself to look at him properly, body tingling at the way you can feel him stare at you. "Oscar?"

He clears his throat again, but his voice comes out raspy. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

If anyone notices the tension between you, they don't mention it. Kimi asks if Oscar could give him and some of the other freshmen a ride, and you don't say anything while your fake boyfriend, who apparently asked the cricket organization to reschedule the final game's date for you, drives you and a bunch of freshmen to a restaurant nearby.

Neither of you mention it afterwards either, when he drives you home and the two of you are quiet for the entire drive.

You don't let him open the door for you when he parks in front of your dorm building — you almost throw yourself out of the car, ignoring the way he calls your name as you grab your duffle bag and speedwalk to your building.

You don't go straight to your dorm. Your mind is racing and you don't want to interact with your roommate right now, so you sit down in the building's empty lobby and breathe.

And then you do something you don't expect yourself to do.

You call Alexandra.

✶✶✶

"Why the fuck would he ask you to fake date him?"

"I don't know!" You throw your hands in the air, hair still sticky with pool water as Alex stares at you from the other side of the screen, shaking her head in disbelief. "He said he wanted his friends to stop annoying him about being married to cricket or something like that."

"I don't buy that for a second," she rolls her eyes, "why would he ask you of all people? No offense, but it's not like you guys had a good relationship or anything."

"I don't know, okay?" You repeat, throwing yourself back on the lobby's couch. "I don't know. I just wanted the damn band, and then he had to—I don't know, open every door for me and kiss my cheek. I don't know."

"Okay," you can hear her breathe deeply, "okay. I guess the reasoning behind it doesn't matter anymore. You're in love with him."

Your cheeks grow warm.

"I think 'love' is too strong a word, Alex."

"Is it now?" She rolls her eyes again. "If it's just a crush or whatever, why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not freaking out."

"Sure."

A quiet beat passes by.

"What are you gonna do?"

You sigh, closing your eyes tightly, hand coming up to your forehead.

What are you going to do?

"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"

"Maybe you should tell him."

Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.

"Are you insane? I can never do that."

You watch her shrug.

"Why not?"

"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."

"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."

"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.

"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."

You sigh again.

"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."

"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."

Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.

“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”

Alex offers you a sad chuckle.

“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”

You sigh back.

“Thank you.”

✶✶✶

You don’t tell him.

You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.

You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.

You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.

You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?

These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.

So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.

And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.

Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.

(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)

What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.

"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.

You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.

He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.

“Ready?”

You swallow dryly before nodding.

Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.

Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.

But, God, he met every requirement and then some.

“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”

You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”

“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”

“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”

“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”

“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.

The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.

As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.

“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”

He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.

“I’ll see you after the game.”

“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.

The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts. 

Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.

When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.

You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.

It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.

And you still cheer.

His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.

As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.

And it flies outside of the oval field.

You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.

You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.

It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.

Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.

His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.

You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.

Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”

The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.

The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.

It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.

When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.

You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.

After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season. 

Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.

The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.

He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.

The season is over.

He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”

You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.

“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”

It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”

“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”

An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”

"Can we talk? Upstairs?"

His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.

"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.

You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.

"Okay."

Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.

You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.

"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"

You blink at the question.

"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.

"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."

"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."

Oscar blinks down at you.

"What?"

"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.

In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.

"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"

"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.

"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."

"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.

"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"

You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.

"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."

You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.

He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.

"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"

"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"

"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"

You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.

"Yeah."

He lets out a shaky breath.

"You mean that?"

He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.

And he's holding yours in his.

"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."

He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.

"I don't think I was ever faking it at all,"  he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."

You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.

"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."

You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.

"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.

This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.

He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.

His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.

"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.

"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.

He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.

You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.

You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.

Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.

Oh, you're in too deep.

✶✶✶

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,024 others

yourusername no but like it's FOR REAL this time

tagged: oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri truly swept you off your feet, huh? ♡ liked by yourusername

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oscarpiastri ❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux CALL ME RIGHT NOW? ♡ liked by yourusername

landonorris what's that caption about

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 1,101 others

oscarpiastri well to ME it was real all along

tagged: yourusername

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↳ oscarpiastri she really does!

kimiantonelli literally my parents please give me more rides after competitions dad ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

yourusername well i DID kiss you first in the end ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri did i look pitiful at the time?

↳↳ yourusername just a little bit ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

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THIS TOOK ME A LIFETIME OMGGGG I'M SO GLAD SHE'S OUT IN THE WORLD <3 really hope you guys enjoyed, likes and reblogs are always appreciated :)

[chrepsi]

aw so cute so cute but can someone find noah’s shirt please my depop won’t fucking cooperate 🥹

[piastriscenes]

OPERATION: OSCAR PIASTRI (PART 1) ⭑ OP81

pairing: nerd!oscar piastri x popular!reader

your life is basically perfect. your grades are good enough. your friends are the prettiest girls in school. your wardrobe is color-coordinated, and if there's one thing you've never struggled with, it's getting people to like you. well... except for that insufferable, preppy brat, oscar piastri.

would one bet be enough to change your mind?

genre: 2000s inspired rom-com, slow burn, idiots to lovers, forced proximity, high school, comedy, slice of life, y2k aesthetic, pink everywhere, bubblegum energy.

warnings: harmless bet, reader makes terrible decisions, weaponized matcha, fake tutoring, one very persistent girl, one very tired boy, everyone ships them except them, mutual annoyance, awkward flirting, academic rivals, party planning, hockey, girls' soccer, mutual pining (eventually).

word count: 9.5k

a/n: hiiii, my friends! this one's looking pretty interesting (at least in my opinion). just wanted to clear a few things up: even though this is a romantic comedy centered around a bet, the bet has nothing to do with anyone's feelings. personally, i've never been a huge fan of romances where people gamble with someone else's heart. even if everything turns out genuine in the end and there's character growth, it's just never been my favorite trope. so i tweaked the concept to keep the bet while taking it in a different direction. i won't spoil anything, but you'll see what i mean once you read it! i really hope you enjoy it. part two coming soon... 🤭

thank you so much for your request, anon! i had so much fun writing a high school au 💖

Pink bubblegum, low-rise jeans, glossy smiles thanks to the most expensive lip gloss in the store, and strands of hair wrapped around your index finger as you chat, nodding every now and then as if this conversation is the most fascinating thing in the world.

That's you.

Those are your friends.

Leaning against the hallway lockers, you listen as Max Verstappen, captain of the hockey team, says something that earns him a small bite of your lip. Beside him stands Lando Norris, his teammate, who's spent far too long watching Destiny cling to your arm with a look that can't possibly mean anything good.

They're funny. They're handsome. Everything is going well. The conversation is actually heading somewhere you enjoy, not because it's serious. It isn't. But a girl is allowed to indulge in a little harmless fun, isn't she?

"I just ran into the teacher. He's on his way," says a voice you know far too well from behind you.

Both boys abandon the conversation the second Oscar Piastri appears, greeting him with handshakes and pats on the back as if you and your girl had never been part of it to begin with.

Friends. Of course. As if it made perfect sense that the two hottest guys at school would hang out with... him.

He glances at you and Destiny standing side by side, raising an eyebrow as though he'd only just noticed either of you existed. Oscar offers a brief nod in greeting, and you can tell by the look on his face that he's only doing it because some deeply ingrained sense of politeness refuses to let him do otherwise.

Well, thanks for the consideration, Oscar.

You roll your eyes.

"Come on," you say, reaching for Destiny's hand. She nods in agreement.

On your way to class, you tug gently on Alex's blazer sleeve. She'd been making out with Charles in the gap between the lockers, but she peels herself away with a small smile, wiping the corner of her mouth before falling into step beside you. He stays behind, taking a moment to compose himself.

Class is about to begin.

Everyone heads to their usual seats.

As you pass the teacher's desk, you toss your bubblegum into the trash and, without breaking stride, gather your hair into a messy bun. You hold out a hand without even looking; right on cue, Alex drops a glitter pen into your palm, and you slide it through your hair to keep everything in place.

Perfect.

The chatter in the classroom carries on. The boys are already seated on one side, you girls on the other, and the moment the teacher walks in, Lando flashes the three of you a wink, sending the entire group into quiet giggles, hands flying up to hide your smiles.

"I have a feeling something very amusing is going on," Professor Webber says, setting his materials down on the desk. "If anyone would like to share, now's the time."

"Lando, sir," Destiny replies. "He's very funny."

A few more students laugh, Lando included.

"A joke, Lando? I'd love to hear it," he says.

"No joke, sir. But I can wink at you too, if you'd like," Lando replies, doing exactly what he just offered.

The room erupts into laughter once again, but Professor Webber simply smiles and shakes his head before turning to write the date on the chalkboard.

"Very kind of you, Lando. I'm deeply touched by the gesture. Now..." he says, pointing the piece of chalk at the class. "Good morning, everyone. Shall we begin?”

In the seat in front of Lando, Oscar glances over at Destiny and wrinkles his nose, pulling a rather ridiculous face before turning back to the board.

You shake your head, resting your chin on your hand as you wonder how some people can be so unpleasant just for the fun of it.

The final bell rang overhead, and plans were already being made as backpacks were slung over shoulders, baseball caps were pulled on, and sticks of gum were passed between friends.

"We should do that candy salad trend tonight," Alex said as the three of you stepped through the classroom door. "I'll buy those new strawberry marshmallows. Destiny can bring the grape lollipops, and you..."

But she was cut off when Charles appeared outside the classroom, slipped an arm around her waist, and pulled her toward him. You and Destiny rolled your eyes in perfect sync, though you couldn't help smiling when Alex let out a surprised little squeal.

"She's mine now, girls," Charles announced, already walking away with her.

Alex laughed, barely bothering to resist as she intertwined her fingers with his.

"You bring the M&M's!" she called over her shoulder, letting him tug her down the hallway.

You give her a thumbs-up and watch her disappear down the hallway before turning toward the lockers with Destiny. There's no point lingering either. By now, Alex is probably already halfway to the parking lot!

"I think their relationship is so cute," Destiny says, punching in the combination almost from muscle memory as you do the same. "I'd love to have something like that someday."

A soft laugh slips past your lips. You glance at her over the edge of your locker door before turning back, pulling the glitter pen from your hair so you can fix it in the little mirror stuck inside.

"You'll find it," you say with certainty, giving the locker door a gentle push until it clicks shut. "Until then, we'll just have to settle for being the prettiest single girls in the entire school.”

Slowly, she turns to face you with a smile, holding out her pinky. You hook yours around it without hesitation, the same silent little ritual the three of you came up with years ago.

For a moment, neither of you lets go.

"Okay, okay. I should get going now. The girls are waiting for me," she says at last, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.

You wrinkle your nose, laughing quietly as you shoo her away with a wave. Destiny laughs too, adjusts the soccer bag on her shoulder, and finally breaks into a run, calling one last goodbye over her shoulder.

With a contented sigh, — because, really, how nice was it that your two favorite girls in the world were on their way to their own little moments of happiness? — you finally turn to head home.

The hallway is still fairly crowded. Students chat as locker doors slam shut, teachers hurry toward the parking lot, and you're too distracted to pay much attention. Your phone is tucked away in your pocket, and you pull it out to remind your dad that he still has to pick you up since your car's in the shop.

You're almost through the exit when your forehead bumps into… Someone's back.

Slowly, your gaze lifts to figure out why anyone would be standing right in the middle of the doorway. Of course. Of course it's Oscar. Of fucking course.

"I hope you realize you're not intangible," you say, irritation creeping into your voice.

Oscar mutters something unintelligible, something along the lines of, "Mm-hm." Your eyebrow arches. Apparently, you're not even worth eye contact.

"Hello? Excuse you?" you protest, planting your hands on your hips.

Without looking at you, he says,

"I hope you realize there's plenty of room around me.”

Oh. You see what he did there, the idiot.

You glance to the side. Technically, he's right. The doorway is wide. There's plenty of space. Still…

"And you do realize you're standing exactly where people are supposed to walk, right?" you shoot back in the same insolent tone, deliberately mimicking his. "I don't know if you can read, but it says Exit right there."

Oscar tips his head back to inspect the sign overhead, his brow knitting together in a performance of mock surprise that exists for the sole purpose of irritating you. A second later, his eyes find yours again as he turns to face you properly.

"Funny. I must've missed the announcement that Mrs. Becker retired and they'd hired a new hall monitor," he says, perfectly composed.

A slow breath slips out through your nose as you straighten your posture, lifting your chin.

"Oscar, you're blocking the way."

The corner of his mouth tugs into a faint smile.

"Oh. So the princess knows my name.”

You let out an irritated huff, clench your fists, and meet his gaze head-on. Oscar pouts for a second, a ridiculous little imitation of someone about to cry, before the smile is gone as quickly as it appeared. Your jaw tightens.

You march through the open space beside him, each step just a little heavier than the last.

Oscar watches you walk away for a moment, one eyebrow raised as he slowly shakes his head, then he goes right back to whatever he was doing.

That night, comfortably settled into your pajamas with face masks on, you, Alex, and Destiny are in the middle of one of your games. It's basically Truth or Dare, except there are no dares, just gossip, and then even more gossip about the same things you've been talking about for years.

Alex, who's painting Destiny's nails, blows softly on one foot before gently pulling the other into her lap to start on the next.

"We need to know when your next game is, Desty," you say, taking another sip from the can of strawberry Poppi in your hands. "We have to look like actual cheerleaders! The outfits we ordered in the team colors should be here any day now."

Alex nods, brushing the first coat of nail polish onto Destiny's toes.

"That's true! The boys were really excited. Charles said they watched your practices, and you guys have a really good chance of beating that other school full of losers."

A huge smile spreads across Destiny's face.

"Probably sometime next month. Coach is still sorting out the schedule and said she'd let us know. We've been training like it's tomorrow, though," Destiny replies, reaching for your Poppi. You hand it over without a second thought. "Did you hear Oscar joined the hockey team?"

Ugh. She just had to bring him into the conversation.

You climb off the bed and make your way over to the vanity, settling into the fluffy chair as you slowly peel off your face mask. It had done its job.

"And what exactly does he know about sports?" you ask, your tone as insolent as ever whenever his name comes up. "I thought the only things he cared about were knowing when teachers are about to walk into class and getting Aristotle's autograph.”

That earns a loud laugh from Destiny.

Alex buries her face against her own shoulder, squeezing her eyes shut as though she's desperately trying to hold back a particularly wicked laugh.

A small, satisfied smile tugs at your lips.

"I think he's just trying to add one more thing to his résumé. You know... the whole college thing," Alex says, still smiling to herself as she goes back to painting Destiny's nails.

One of your eyebrows arches. You reach for the moisturizer.

"Besides, Oscar looked over at you a few times during class today with that same disgusted expression, you know," she adds.

"That's true," Destiny chimes in. "He keeps looking over at us. He's not even ugly, to be honest..."

Your response is a look of utter disgust as you slowly smooth the moisturizer over your face with your fingertips.

"I think he's an ill-mannered, clueless brute whose favorite hobby is getting on my nerves," you say, rubbing moisturizer into your cheeks.

Alex and Destiny exchange a look, the corners of their mouths curling into the same quiet smile before they both look away. They have a habit of doing that, and for some reason, it almost always seems to be about you.

"Nah, he's not rude," Alex says softly, blowing on Destiny's nails as though it might somehow help them dry faster before looking up at you from beneath her brows. "And you know that."

Your silence is more than incriminating, but they don't press the issue, and neither do you. You're too busy taking the clips out of your bangs. Your peace, however, lasts all of two seconds.

"I've been thinking about something," Alex says, screwing the lids back onto the nail polish bottles as casually as if the thought had just crossed her mind.

A low grumble escapes the back of your throat. Behind the phone she's now scrolling through, Destiny lets out an amused little snort through her nose. Alex, completely unfazed, continues as though nothing had happened.

"Do you remember when we were talking about the hottest guys at school?" Alex asks, catching your eyes in the vanity mirror.

You blink.

"Yeah...?"

"You said you could get any one of them to do whatever you wanted."

"Ooh..." Destiny murmurs, shifting into a cross-legged position on the bed.

"Okay... and?" you ask, spinning the chair around to face Alex.

"You're so convinced Oscar hates you, and that you hate him," Alex says with a shrug, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I don't think you could be nice to him long enough to convince him to come cheer for Destiny at the game..."

You almost think she's finished, but then she narrows her eyes.

"...wearing our team's colors.”

A brief silence follows as the image slowly takes shape in your head. Once it does, it's so utterly ridiculous that you throw your head back, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep inside you.

Alex had officially lost her mind.

The only problem was that Destiny seemed to have lost hers too, because she was nodding so enthusiastically, smiling at Alex as though she'd just come up with the greatest idea in human history.

"There's no way you two are being serious," you say, the grin slowly fading into a look of utter disbelief.

Alex's smile turns positively mischievous. Destiny mirrors it, resting her chin on Alex's shoulder to create an image that will probably haunt you for the rest of your life.

You let out a slow breath.

"I can convince him to come to Destiny's game, even if I don't understand why she'd want him there in the first place," you say, looking from one amused face to the other. Your eyes roll for what feels like the hundredth time. "Being nice to him? That's another story.”

"We can work with that," Alex says. "But if you actually manage to get him to wear our team's colors..."

Destiny doesn't even let her finish.

"We'll pay for your matcha for the entire next month.”

Oh...

Oh.

That was a low blow.

Mean girls. Mean, mean girls... They knew exactly what they were doing.

"You... you're exploiting a very serious addiction," you say, pouting so dramatically it borders on childish.

They both stare at you hopefully.

You clap a hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut.

"I'lltrytogetOscartowearDestiny'steamcolors," you mumble in one muffled, impossibly fast breath.

They understand every word.

The very next second, the three of you are bouncing on the bed in a blur of squeals, hugs, and candy flying in every direction.

It doesn't take long before you start wondering whether matcha is really as good as you remember. And, naturally, questioning a few other life choices while you're at it.

Your friends are gathered on the other side of the cafeteria. You can hear Yuki laughing from here, and George looks one step away from a breakdown trying to figure out why Charles has that stupid I'm definitely hiding something look on his face.

From across the room, Destiny and Alex catch your eye, both smiling as they wave you over.

Then they look past you.

Oscar. Right there.

Alone, because Lando's serving detention and Max is off talking to the coach about... something.

You look back at Alex and Destiny, your shoulders slumping into a grimace.

They respond with silent little claps and two enthusiastic thumbs-ups.

Ugh. Fine.

You straighten your posture, put on your brightest smile, and, with the soft click-clack of your low heels echoing across the cafeteria, make your way to Oscar's table. Ten steps. They might as well be eighty.

After one particularly dramatic sigh, you chirp, "Good morning!”

Oscar looks up at you halfway through a mouthful of peanuts, his cheeks puffed out just enough to make him look like a squirrel. He immediately covers his mouth, his brows knitting together.

You remain completely unfazed. Sliding into the seat beside him, you set your tray down on the table without so much as asking for permission.

He slowly finishes chewing and swallows, his brow still furrowed.

"...Did I miss something?”

Your smile widens in a way that's just a little too suspicious, and your hand reaches for your wrapped chicken wrap. The laugh that escapes you is unmistakably fake.

"Hahaha... Oh, Oscar, you're so silly! I'm having lunch with you, duh," you say, unwrapping it.

His gaze flicks to the shrinking distance between the two of you. Without a word, he subtly scoots his tray a little farther away.

Your smile stiffens. It doesn't disappear.

"I don't think I invited you to have lunch with me," he says, lifting one eyebrow before reaching for his juice. "No offense."

You take another bite of your wrap.

"Is that illegal?" you ask around the bite, quickly covering your mouth with your hand.

His gaze sweeps across the cafeteria before settling on your friends' table. Alex and Destiny, who'd been watching the two of you with absolutely no shame, abruptly pretend to be in the middle of a conversation. You simply shake your head in disappointment.

"I think there are people over there who'd love to have lunch with you," he says, gesturing toward them with his chin. "You have... friends."

You set your wrap down on the table and fix him with a narrowed look.

"What's with the hesitation?”

He raises a hand between the two of you in a silent one second, taking his time finishing the last of his juice.

"Why aren't you sitting with them?" Oscar asks, setting his empty cup on the tray. A tiny smile lingers at the corner of his mouth because, naturally, he's doing this on purpose.

Again.

Every conversation with Oscar makes you feel noticeably less intelligent. Which is rather impressive, considering he's supposedly the smartest boy in school with his endless list of championships in... whatever it is. Math. Science. Robotics. Programming...

Anyway.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, take a deep breath, and meet his gaze again.

Rather than answer, you tilt your head.

"Do you like sports, Oscar?"

His brow furrows even deeper.

"...What does that have to do with anything?”

Your shoulders lift in a small shrug.

"It's a yes-or-no question. Do you?"

He doesn't even hesitate.

"No.”

"Liar. You're on the hockey team."

Oscar pauses, his lower lip caught between his teeth for a brief moment. He blinks.

"Have you been stalking me?"

A little "Pff." slips out before you can stop it, accompanied by a small smile and a shake of your head.

"We have mutual friends, in case you hadn't noticed," you reply, resting your elbows on the table. "People tell me things."

Oscar nods, rubbing at the corner of one eye as a quiet chuckle escapes him.

"They clearly have questionable judgment."

"Shut up," you say at once, quickly changing the subject as you lace your fingers together and rest your chin on top of them. "Oscar, the girls' soccer game is coming up. Are you going?”

"Why would I?"

"Because..." You gesture vaguely with one hand. "It's fun. It's a school event. Everyone's going."

"I don't know." Oscar shrugs. "I think I'll be busy that day."

"You don't even know when it is."

Oscar lets out the most theatrical fake sneeze you've ever heard.

"Wow. I think I'm coming down with something already."

He stands, picking up his tray. You roll your eyes.

"It's not until next month."

"A month-long flu." He nods gravely. "Tragic. I could die.”

You spring to your feet, fists balled at your sides, your expression bordering on desperation as you scramble for something, anything, to say.

Oh!

"I'm going!” you announce with a bright smile, as though that alone might be enough to convince him.

His eyes drift to you. One second… Two… Then a laugh slips out, surprisingly loud, at least by Oscar's standards.

"All right," he says, turning his back to you. "I'm pretty sure it's pneumonia..."

By the time you lift a hand to call after him, Oscar is already halfway to the tray return.

Damn.

Your gaze drifts across the cafeteria until it finds Alex and Destiny. They look at you expectantly, silently asking “Well?”. One look at the pout on your face is enough. They know it went horribly wrong.

You narrow your eyes at Oscar's retreating figure.

Oh, he wants a tragic problem? He just got one.

By four in the afternoon the next day, Oscar realized he was far beyond exhausted.

Learning how to skate wasn't the problem. His sisters had been using him as their skating partner ever since he was old enough, and just the right height, to accompany them to the skating rink at the mall. The problem was... hockey.

Skating from one end of the rink to the other with a stick, chasing a puck while trying to remember the team's strategy, all in enormous, heavy boots with literal knives strapped to the bottom. And, somehow, everyone else is wearing the same knives.

It seems like an extraordinary amount of effort to stay involved in an activity that could very easily kill you if you stop paying attention. Oscar couldn't help wondering whether anyone had ever considered that.

Either way, he wasn't doing particularly well. He'd fallen. More than once. One of those falls had earned him a nasty scrape just above his left eyebrow, now covered by a bandage. Max, standing beside him, insists it gives him a badass look. Oscar, meanwhile, thinks it looks rather pathetic. He decides to keep that to himself.

Lando was... everywhere. Tracking him with his eyes felt like an impossible task.

"Come on, Piastri! Life isn't just books and laptops..." the coach shouted from across the rink, blowing his whistle every now and then.

This guy… Oscar hated him. More than once, he had the overwhelming urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Why did he have to yell all the time?

With a few more steady strides, Oscar nudged the puck forward with his stick. Lando picked it up farther down the rink and the look he shot him wasn't intimidating. It was more of a Come on, you've got this.

Oscar chose to take it as encouragement.

Squaring his shoulders, he was just about to take the shot when… The coach's whistle shrieked across the rink.

Oscar nearly fell over from the fright. Jesus Christ.

"I'm heading out for lunch. You can stay and keep practicing, but try not to kill yourselves," the coach called.

Us? Oscar thought. You're the one trying to kill us. Lando was practically shaking with laughter, while Max simply shook his head.

"He's always like that, Osc. Don't let him get to you," Max said.

The laughter was still written all over Lando's face as he skated the puck back toward them, casually nudging it along with his stick. As ridiculous as he could be, it was genuinely impressive how Lando managed to do that without looking like he was one second away from having a stroke, unlike Oscar.

"He was nice enough to let us have this private practice, though," Lando said, nodding toward the goal. "Ready?”

Oscar tightened his grip on the stick and gave a small nod.

"Yeah. Let's go.”

From that point on, things actually went well.

Oscar wouldn't say he was a natural at it — Max wouldn't say that either — but he was dedicated. Attentive.

For someone who'd never imagined he'd find himself on a hockey rink, the progress was actually quite promising.

It wasn't that Oscar hated sports. He simply preferred watching them to playing them.

Oscar belonged with the school's academic crowd, one of the minds people naturally gravitated toward whenever they needed help. He enjoyed spending time with the robotics club, helping out with the debate team, and even volunteering as a tutor during detention, assisting the teacher.

Funny what the promise of an athletic scholarship can do to a person.

His balance had improved considerably, and his shot was surprisingly good — good enough to earn an enthusiastic round of applause from Lando. He could've kept practicing for another hour without complaint. That is, if one very specific figure hadn't appeared at the very top of the bleachers.

The door swung open without warning.

The three boys looked up in unison, curiosity giving way to a synchronized blink as you walked in.

Without the slightest concern for the attention you'd just attracted, you strolled over to the bleachers and settled into what you decided was the perfect seat. You rested your elbows on your knees and cupped your chin in your hands.

"Oh, hi, boys!" you said brightly. "Don't stop on my account."

Max was the first to react, gliding over to the glass that separated the rink from the stands.

"You know we're in the middle of a private practice, right?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

You casually adjusted your bangs, your smile widening as though he'd just paid you a compliment.

"I love private practices."

Instantly, Oscar felt exhausted all over again. Naturally, the Pink Panther had decided to show up and make things difficult. Fantastic.

Oscar skated over to Max and met your eyes with a look that couldn't have been more impatient. He was much too tired for... whatever this was.

"Don't you have a mall to go to? Or a salon appointment?" he asked, letting out a tired sigh. "Seriously, I need to focus, and having an audience isn't going to help."

"Oh, Osc, but I'm a great audience!" you said.

Lando immediately skated over to Max, leaning in to whisper,

"Did she just call him 'Osc'?"

Oscar, however, remained entirely unimpressed.

"Whatever," Oscar muttered irritably before skating back toward the middle of the rink.

Slowly, Max trailed after him, glancing back at you with an almost sympathetic look.

It was genuinely impressive how reliably you managed to get on Oscar's nerves. He'd give you that.

It had been this way for years. All the way back to when his family moved from Australia, when he and his sisters were still kids. Oscar couldn't quite remember the exact moment you became so insufferable, but he couldn't remember a time he'd ever thought you were particularly pleasant either. Lando and Max liked you, though, and apparently that meant you were always somewhere nearby.

Ridiculous.

Now he had to focus on skating the right lines while doing his best to concentrate without the arena lights reflecting off your million little gold accessories and blinding him every few seconds. What were you even doing here, anyway?

"Has she left yet?" Oscar asked, glancing at Lando.

Lando looked up, waved at you, and broke into a wide grin when you happily waved back, the bracelets on your wrist clinking together with a metallic jingle that made Oscar take a slow, steady breath.

"No, mate. She's writing something," Lando replied, resting his hands on his hips. "Just ignore her. Don't let her intimidate you."

Intimidate, pff. Oscar let out a quiet snort and settled back into position.

Max had the faintest smile on his face, but he didn't say anything. He simply pointed at Oscar.

Oscar nodded and started.

He knew how to focus. He knew how to concentrate.

Glide. Glide. Glide… Shoot.

Okay.

The puck landed close enough to the goal this time.

"Not bad, champ," Max said with an approving nod. "You just need a little more power behind it, but the accuracy's there."

Max glanced up toward the stands, then looked back at his friends.

"Break?"

Oscar nearly snapped his neck nodding.

Lando didn't waste a second before skating off toward the locker room as fast as he could. Max followed close behind, laughing as he caught him by the arm to keep him from wiping out when they reached the edge of the rink, the two of them already arguing about the upcoming scrimmage.

Letting out a long breath, Oscar made his way over to the players' bench along the boards and sat down, if only to give himself a moment to recover. For exactly three seconds, he managed the rare feat of thinking about absolutely nothing before tugging off his gloves, one finger at a time.

Everything was so strangely peaceful, so wonderfully quiet that, for a moment, he almost forgot that...

"So?" Your voice, far too bright and cheerful, cut through the silence, reminding him that you were, in fact, real. And right there.

Oscar reached beneath the bench for his water bottle and took a sip, deciding that if he ignored you long enough, you might simply disappear.

You took two small steps closer.

"I came to watch your practice!" you announced, clasping your hands behind your back.

He looked at you out of the corner of one eye, making no effort to turn around.

"I noticed," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Great." Your smile somehow grew even brighter. "I have something for you. Look!"

You finally brought your hand out from behind your back. A folded sheet of paper. Oscar eyed it for a moment before taking it with his free hand.

"So... Destiny's really excited about the game, and it would be really nice if everyone could—"

You had barely begun before Oscar cut you off.

"I'm not interested in Destiny."

You stopped so abruptly that all you could do was blink at him in complete confusion.

"...What?”

Interpreting your reaction as offense (because, really, only you could manage to look offended that someone didn't want to kiss your friend) Oscar set his water bottle aside and continued.

"You interrupted my lunch and my practice to talk about her two days in a row," he pointed out with a shrug. "I don't want to be rude. Destiny seems really nice, and... well, I don't know if flattered is the right word, but I'm fine if she likes me. I just don't feel the same way."

A small, almost apologetic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, the kind people wore when they genuinely believed they were being reasonable. And you… You simply couldn't believe what you were hearing.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, shaking your head.

"Oscar, I'm just inviting you to the game. Destiny doesn't want to kiss you."

A faint frown appeared between his brows.

Oscar didn't say another word. He didn't acknowledge the misunderstanding or try to explain himself. He looked at you, then at the paper in his hand and let the silence linger for a second longer. When every trace of tension softened from his expression, he finally said,

"I'll think about it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, shooting him a mildly annoyed look. That wasn't exactly the answer you'd been hoping for.

"Hm... can't you think about it now?" you asked, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "We're having a party afterward, and I'm putting together the guest list and everything..."

Oscar let out a huff through his nose, his smile returning in full force as he reached for his gloves on the bench and slipped them back on. Max and Lando were already gliding back onto the rink.

"I said I'll think about it," he replied.

Leaving you standing there with no comeback and a tiny pout, Oscar skated back onto the ice to rejoin practice. But not before glancing over his shoulder… and letting out a quiet laugh.

By the time you got home and threw yourself onto the living room rug, taking full advantage of the rare moment of solitude while everyone else was still at work, you barely had time to process what a disaster your second attempt at convincing Oscar to come to the game had been.

You grabbed your phone and immediately called Alex and Destiny.

"Hiiiii, gorgeous!" Alex greeted cheerfully.

Before either of them could steer the conversation in a completely different direction, you beat them to it.

"We need to plan a party after Destiny's game."

"...What?!" Destiny asked, completely bewildered.

You stretched out an arm to grab the cushion from the couch and pulled it against your chest.

"Yeah... well... I may or may not have crashed Oscar's hockey practice today and invited him to the game by casually mentioning we'd be having a party afterward as a persuasion tactic..." you admitted sheepishly. "And I know throwing together a party at the last minute is a lot of work, but just hear me out..."

"You crashed Oscar's practice?!" Destiny exclaimed.

Somehow, you knew she was still blinking in disbelief on the other end of the call.

"Wait, wait, wait. Start from the beginning, please," Alex said, making you take a deep breath before letting out a dramatically fake whine.

But of course you told them. That was the whole reason you'd called in the first place.

You started from the very beginning, explaining how the idea had popped into your head, how you'd asked the student coordinator if he knew where Oscar was, how he'd pointed you toward the hockey rink, and everything that happened after that — all the way up to Oscar saying he'd think about it.

Granted, you'd had to resort to some rather creative tactics. Namely, inventing a party that now actually had to happen because it had become part of the plan...

Alex and Destiny, however, didn't seem particularly impressed.

Well... except for the part where Oscar had convinced himself Destiny had a crush on him. That earned a few laughs and several incredulous grimaces.

"Okay," Alex said at last. "We're planning this party."

"Yeah, it could be fun," Destiny agreed. "If everything goes well, we'll celebrate. If everything goes terribly..."

"Nothing's going terribly. Don't jinx it," Alex cut in, sounding thoroughly offended.

You let out a long, relieved sigh, followed by the biggest smile. Outside, your parents' car doors slammed shut, and you quickly sat up to peek through the gap in the curtains.

"Girls, I love you. Seriously. Thank you," you said, pouting at your phone. "My parents just got home, so I have to go."

"Love you too, troublemaker," Alex replied with a quiet laugh. "Bye-bye, loves."

"Bye, cuties! Kisses!"

Beep. The call ended.

You had a whole lot to think about.

Being alone in the library the following afternoon wasn't exactly how you'd wanted to spend your day, but life isn't all flowers, matcha, and parties.

Midterms were just around the corner, and you'd sentenced yourself to a few hours without friends or fun because... damn it. This stupid physics just refused to stick.

Party planning had already begun that morning. The three of you had spent every free moment inviting as many people as possible, earning yourselves a scolding in the middle of English class for whispering far too loudly.

Unfortunately for your teachers, organizing parties — or organizing just about anything, really — was Alex's favorite pastime, so she never missed an opportunity to flip through the color-coded planner she'd created inside her binder.

But that wasn't the only thing on your to-do list. Unfortunately. Very unfortunately.

The stack of books kept growing by the minute, and your notes somehow made less sense the longer you stared at them. All you wanted to do was give up, leave everything right there, and do literally anything else. Even the community yoga classes your mom taught for the elderly at the park were starting to sound appealing. They even had afternoon tea afterward... Ugh.

Calculations. Calculations. Calculations. Formulas. Formulas. Formulas... Vectors, and some weird symbol you didn't even recognize… Before long, the ends of your hair became far more interesting than physics. Then the tiny fly that landed beside your book. Then the couple kissing behind one of the bookshelves. Your pen kept wandering across the page all the while. Who on earth was that?

There was just... so much... So much...

…

…

…

By the time Oscar walked into the library, it was nearly empty. He needed to pick up a book for one of his classes and, if he got lucky, maybe find something to read for fun too. God knew he'd earned it after everything his body had been put through over the past few days.

There was no doubt Oscar knew the library like the back of his hand. He spent an absurd amount of time there, whether he was reading, studying, or simply passing the time. It was quiet. Conversations were frowned upon. Peace. That was what he liked most about it, and it was one of the few places where he could almost always find it.

It took him all of two and a half minutes to find the books he wanted and make his way toward the end of the aisle. But when he turned toward the study tables, he spotted a very familiar figure bundled up in an oversized green sweatshirt, her hair spilled across a mess of notes... asleep.

Without making much of it, Oscar quietly walked over. He looked at you, then lowered his gaze to the sheet of paper tangled between your fingers. Trying not to make any noise, he set the books he'd been carrying on the empty side of the table.

Carefully, he eased the paper from your grasp, the cool brush of your fingertips against his making him pause for the briefest moment. The air conditioning was probably turned up too high.

You let out a slightly deeper breath, making him pause, but when he realized you were still fast asleep, he gently pulled the page the rest of the way free.

It was a page of formulas from the first few weeks of physics. Judging by the frustrated scribbles covering it, you were nowhere near understanding how any of it worked. But it was all so simple…

He'd listened to Lando complain about physics for what felt like hours on end, and somehow that had been how they'd become friends, but he hadn't realized it was this difficult. No wonder Lando, you, and half the class seemed to be struggling. The overall understanding of the subject was... disastrous.

Oscar reached for your pink-barreled pen, which, rather surprisingly, wrote in blue ink, and turned the sheet over to the blank side.

Casting one last glance at you, Oscar gave a small shake of his head before quietly getting to work.

Step by step, he rewrote the formula, breaking it down and adding little notes wherever he thought they might help, making everything as clear as he possibly could, the same way he always did during the tutoring sessions he volunteered for after school. He reached for your pencil case. There was one more thing he wanted to explain, but he couldn't find what he needed. Didn't you have any sticky notes?

As he searched through it, something slipped out of your pencil case. Oscar caught it before it hit the table.

He blinked.

Heart-shaped Post-its.

He honestly wasn't sure what he'd expected. With another quiet sigh, he peeled one off the pad and scribbled a few helpful shortcuts on them. By the end, he stuck them neatly across the top of the page.

Just as you let out a sleepy yawn, Oscar decided he'd done enough. Maybe, with all the notes he'd left behind, you wouldn't do quite so badly on that week's exam. It had helped him review a few things too. Nice.

He set your pen back down on the table. Then he noticed a tiny line of drool at the corner of your mouth and pulled a face. Not out of disgust. More out of amusement. You really did seem a lot more at peace like this. It was weird, but... it was okay.

With the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Oscar left the library, his books tucked under one arm, leaving you behind with your notes and your deep sleep.

"I'm telling you, I have no idea who did this!" you exclaimed to your friends as the three of you sat around one of the stone picnic tables in the school's courtyard.

Spread out between you were the miraculous notes that had appeared sometime that afternoon while you'd been asleep in the library.

Alex munched on the carrot sticks and green beans from her lunch container as she studied the page with a thoughtful frown.

"Do you think it's a girl's handwriting or a guy's?" she asked before biting into another carrot.

Destiny, who was practically lying across the table, leaned in even closer.

"This is the most androgynous handwriting I've ever seen. Seriously..." she murmured, squinting at the page.

You shrugged and picked the paper back up, bringing it closer to your face. A faint scent still lingered on it. Soft. Slightly woody. You couldn't quite place it, but if you had to guess… It smelled like something a boy would wear. A very good-smelling boy.

"Doesn't matter," you said dreamily, swinging your legs beneath the bench. "They're my guardian angel. There's no way I'm failing that exam now. If teachers always explained things like this…”

The three of you laughed. You smiled to yourself and slipped the page back into your binder. Ever since yesterday, you'd been protecting that little sheet of paper like it was your most prized possession, handling it with absurd care.

"I have to admit, whoever wrote these put an impressive amount of thought into explaining everything," Alex said, finally snapping the lid back onto her container of vegetables before tucking it into her bag. "But anyway, you still need to update us on your little Oscar adventure. And the game."

Your grimace was immediate, earning a knowing smile from Destiny, who rested her cheek in one hand as she took the party planner Alex held out to her.

"I think I've already told you everything," you said with a disappointed sigh. "He said he'd think about it. So... I'm waiting for him to think.”

Alex nodded.

"And what about the part where you're supposed to be nice to him?" Destiny added.

You rolled your eyes.

"I am being nice." You pulled the planner closer, scooting in beside Destiny so the two of you could look over the party details together. "Super nice. Really nice. Mega nice."

Your finger drifted down the guest list before stopping on the neat little check mark beside Lando Norris's name.

"Huh... That's interesting. Did Lando say he's coming?"

"He did," Destiny replied. "He found me before class this morning and said he couldn't wait. He even asked if he could bring something.”

Your finger drifted a little farther down the list, and you narrowed your eyes.

"Hattie Piastri's coming too?"

"You know she always comes!" Alex said. "And honestly? Her outfits are to die for."

Destiny nodded enthusiastically.

"Girl, did you see how she cut her hair short and bleached it?" she said. "That look would be awful on just about anyone else, but she looks absolutely gorgeous.”

The two of them kept talking about it, drifting completely away from your train of thought. You weren't paying much attention to the conversation either, but when you finally looked up and shook your head, they both stopped.

"What?" Destiny asked, looking genuinely confused.

"Guys, hello!" You snapped your fingers to get their attention. "Lando's coming. Max is coming, I just saw his name. Hattie's coming! Hattie is his sister! Hattie Piastri."

The two of them exchanged a look before nodding in realization.

"Oh... right. I always forget," Alex admitted, absentmindedly tapping a fingernail against her chin. "Oscar's just so... plain. In a good way, obviously.”

"But if everyone around him is going, then why wouldn't he?"

"He never said he wasn't," Destiny pointed out. "He said he's thinking about it. Twice, actually, if I remember correctly. And the second time he even smiled a little."

"Completely irrelevant detail," you muttered, dropping your gaze. You had no idea why you'd even mentioned that part the other day. "The point is..." You sighed. "I think he's messing with me.”

"Or maybe he just doesn't like parties," Destiny said with a shrug. "I mean, I love the whole filling-the-stands-with-people thing. But Oscar doesn't really seem like the crowd type."

You picked up your pen and tapped it thoughtfully against your chin. Think. Think. Think.

"I think..." you said slowly. "...I need to do something."

Alex and Destiny exchanged a look. That never meant anything good.

Hockey. Now golf.

For what had to be the billionth time, Oscar wondered how his life had somehow come to this.

He was even wearing proper golf clothes, courtesy of Lando's mum, who had kindly supplied outfits for him, Max, and Charles.

But they weren't the only ones caught up in this bizarre afternoon. Albon was there too, and everyone called him by his last name to avoid confusing poor Charles, who happened to be dating a girl with the feminine version of his name.

Naturally, Albon had brought George along.

Max looked annoyed.

Right.

So... these were the dynamics.

"Watch closely, little Oscar. Witness a master at work," Lando announced, swinging his club with the kind of wholehearted commitment people only ever showed on a golf course.

Beside him, Albon shaded his eyes with one hand, tracking the ball's arc as it landed barely an inch from the hole. Alex pursed his lips, genuinely impressed.

"Mate... that was badass."

He held out his hand, and Lando slapped it with a smug grin.

Charles wandered over, and now it was his turn. Slowly, he pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head and leaned into his stance.

"I'm pretty sure golf isn't exactly known for being a teenage pastime, you know," Oscar said, folding his arms.

"And I completely agree with that," Max cut in.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course you do," George muttered, looking up at the sky.

"You say something, Russell?" Max asked, narrowing his eyes.

Lando stepped between them, placing a hand against each of their chests.

"Gentlemen, not on my golf course. Leave that stuff outside," he said, trying to keep the peace. "As if dealing with Oscar and his little attachment wasn't enough.”

That was… Entirely unnecessary.

"What does that have to do with me?" Oscar asked, folding his arms.

Charles, who had just sent his golf ball flying spectacularly off target, straightened up with a grin.

"It's true, though. I heard you've got yourself a very close companion these days."

Albon craned his neck.

"Oscar's dating someone?"

"Almost," Lando answered.

Max finally cracked a smile, and George immediately drifted over to Albon, visibly intrigued.

"She was at hockey practice the other day," Max pointed out.

"Against my will," Oscar replied.

"And she invited you to the party," Lando added.

"Which I'm not going to."

"Oh, yes you are." Max slung an arm around Oscar's shoulders. "And you're gonna look nice while you're at it."

"Showing up to practice? That's girlfriend behaviour, mate," Charles chimed in.

"Exactly! And when we came back from the bathroom, she was down there talking to Oscar." Lando grinned. "She even had him laughing!"

The chorus of laughter, exaggerated “Yeah!”s, and relentless teasing confirmed that Oscar had been asking himself all the right questions: how had his life come to this?

He knew the truth.

He'd laughed because you was annoying. He hadn't wanted you at practice to begin with. And he wasn't going to the party. He knew all that. There was just no arguing with them.

Instead, he simply raised his middle finger at Lando. Lando raised his right back.

Pathetic. So much for golf.

On Monday, your Literature teacher asks you to stop by her classroom to talk about something you'd brought up before the weekend.

After coming up with your wonderfully complex and highly elaborate plan to get Oscar to both the party and the hockey game, you'd realised you needed a way to spend time with him that was slightly less pathetic than barging into places and sitting down without being invited. What was the best way to do that? Duh. Tutoring.

"Ah, hello, dear. Come in, please," Mrs. Wolff said, beckoning you inside as you stepped into the classroom, your books tucked against your side. "I followed up on your request, and I'm so pleased you're interested in exploring the subject further. You're already a wonderful student, but more knowledge, and discussion, is always encouraged."

"Yes, Mrs. Wolff. I completely agree. Literature is such an important subject," you replied sweetly.

Despite your utterly nefarious intentions, you genuinely liked Mrs. Susie. And you genuinely liked Literature. It was all part of the plan.

If your goal was to spend more time talking than studying, the sensible thing to do was pick a subject you already excelled at.

"Well, I spoke to the boys, and Yuki was willing to help, but..." she trailed off, frowning thoughtfully. "...No."

The mention of another name made your stomach tighten. It hadn't even occurred to you that it could be someone else. Mrs. Wolff pulled a face, and you instinctively took a step closer.

"Well..." she began. "Everyone else is busy, but there is one..." She paused. "One moment. I'll go get him."

Oh, God. You blinked, frozen.

With the particular sense of urgency only high school teachers seemed capable of possessing, Mrs. Wolff was already out the door to fetch this mysterious tutor.

Oh, crap. This wasn't exactly what you'd had in mind. Your logic had been flawless… If you needed a tutor, Oscar would obviously be the one, right? Wasn't he the school's tutor? So why was Yuki even on the list? Or anyone else, for that matter?

You didn't even want tutoring. And now you'd have to come up with a way to politely turn this person down because… No. You weren't actually interested in studying with a tutor.

That was the whole problem.

"He'll be here in just a minute," Mrs. Wolff said as she returned to the classroom with a small smile. "He's just finishing up an extracurricular activity."

She settled back behind her desk, gathered a few folders into her hands, and gestured for you to take the chair across from her.

"A-And... who is it, Mrs. Wolff?" you asked, unable to hide your nerves.

Mrs. Susie Wolff looked at you for a moment before raising an eyebrow.

"He's a lovely boy. I'm sure you know him, you’re in the same year," she began. "He's involved in just about everything, but he hasn't taken on any tutoring these past few weeks. It's something he genuinely enjoys."

She smiled.

"His name is—"

She never got the chance to finish.

Oscar Piastri appeared in the doorway.

His cheeks were slightly flushed, his hair neatly combed, and his uniform perfectly in place. He glanced around the room, spotted you, then looked at Mrs. Wolff with a slight frown.

"Can I help you, Mrs. Wolff?”

The mere sound of his voice seemed to delight her. She rose to her feet with the warm smile she appeared to reserve for only her favourite students and walked over to Oscar, beckoning him closer.

When he stepped forward and stopped beside her desk, she rested a hand on his shoulder and gestured towards you with the other.

"Oscar, I have a very special student here. Do you know her?" she asked, looking up at his puzzled expression.

Slowly, his eyes settled on you. Yours lifted to meet his, and at last, at long last, you smiled. A huge smile.

"Hi, Osc," you greeted in that unmistakably you kind of voice.

Despite everything, he gave you a slightly distracted nod before turning back to Mrs. Wolff, silently waiting for an explanation. Preferably immediately.

"She's looking for a Literature tutor. To prepare for university, isn't that right, dear?" Mrs. Wolff asked.

You nodded emphatically.

"There's no one better suited to help her than you."

Mrs. Wolff was already rifling through the folders on her desk for the tutoring schedule and a list of suggested topics when Oscar took a small, almost desperate step forward.

"Mrs. Wolff, I..." he began.

"Here we are!" She held out a sheet of paper for him and met his eyes. "Oscar, are you terribly busy at the moment?"

He blinked. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No, ma'am..."

"Excellent!" Then she turned to you, handing you a sheet of paper as well, which you accepted. "Classroom Eighty-One has been reserved for the two of you. You're welcome to use it whenever you'd like during this time slot. I've already told the coordinator you'd be using it today, so…” She smiled. "Off you go.”

Your smile slowly faded.

Wait… No. No, no, no. Today? But you had party planning to do, and… And you weren't ready for this. You'd thought—

"Mrs. Wolff, actually—"

"Ah, Madame Susie!" The hall monitor appeared in the doorway, cutting you off mid-protest and immediately stealing Mrs. Wolff's attention.

You had never hated anyone so much in your entire life.

Oscar noticed your panic, taking in your defeated posture and the way your arms hung limply at your sides, but he didn't soften. If anything, he simply tipped his head towards the door.

Mrs. Wolff was already engrossed in conversation with the hall monitor, who seemed to need her husband's help with something or other, while all you could think about was how everything was spiralling completely out of order. What a disaster.

Still, you hurried after Oscar. He walked much faster than you did, and it took a considerable effort to catch up with him in the hallway.

"Hey! You! Wait!" you called, your voice carrying a hint of irritation as your heels clicked louder than usual against the floor. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind, and..."

Oscar stopped so abruptly that you nearly walked straight into his chest. He looked down at you, his expression perfectly serious.

The silence stretched on. One second. Two.

He was still looking at you by the time you'd managed to notice the freckles scattered across his face. There was no way you could count them all. There were far too many.

"What?" you asked, straightening your posture.

"That's my question," he replied, folding his arms across his chest. "You're the one who came up with this whole tutoring idea, and now we're on our way to Classroom Eighty-One." He raised an eyebrow. "I think you're the one who's supposed to explain."

Your fingernails drifted to your forehead, scratching absentmindedly before sliding down to the back of your neck. Thinking about it now… This might not have been your smartest idea.

Your cheeks felt noticeably warm, and Oscar was witnessing every second of it. In fact, he frowned slightly, tilting his head to one side. He couldn't remember ever seeing you blush like this before.

"It's just that you're never anywhere, and..." you blurted out, folding your arms in return, your tone bordering on accusatory. "...I didn't want to keep barging into your activities! I need your answer about the party, and this seemed like the best way to get it.”

Oh, God… He'd actually heard all of that? Every single word? He… He couldn't believe it. Impossible. It was so utterly ridiculous that Oscar couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly. Of course, he didn't give you the chance to be certain you'd actually seen it. By then, he'd already turned away and started walking again, much to your obvious dismay.

It took you half a second to process what had just happened.

"Where are you going?" you asked, hurrying after him.

"The library," he replied. "We're going to pick up the books Mrs. Wolff recommended."

"But... I don't want actual tutoring," you protested, blinking.

Oscar glanced at you.

"And I don't want to go to the party." He shrugged. "I suppose we're both going to have to do something we don't want to do."

Wait. Wait a second. Was he saying what you thought he was saying?

"You're coming to the party?!" you asked, absurdly excited as you practically skipped after him.

"I'm going to the library," he replied, turning the corner.

A grin spread from ear to ear across your face.

"You're going to the party," you concluded, rounding the corner right behind him.

Oscar slowly shook his head and let out a quiet sigh. Oddly enough, he wasn't particularly in the mood for a mountain of library books to come crashing down on him and drag him straight into the abyss, so he simply kept walking.

TAGLIST: @a-new-chapter-a-new-beginning @lanpastry @freddiefromthefandoms @mclaeronautics @hannahbananababybanana @emzzn @luckysept @flwrhacker

[mattsfrenchtoast]

bless his little bow tie 🤏🤏

[purplekittiesdotcom]

✎ᝰ. THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS

Ever since you were a small kid, you've liked Oscar, your heart melts when you see him, you dream of him in your sleep. You try to show him your feelings, he deflects, and he can't tell you why, but maybe someday, he will, that is if he's not too late.

➳ PAIRING : BBF!Oscar Piastri x Female Norris!Reader

➳ INCLUDES (TAGS / WARNINGS) : non-f1 au, brother's best friend trope, slow burn (?), fluff, childhood crushes, pining, light angst (this has a happy ending, I promise), implied smut, heavy confessions, crying, alcohol use, eventual romance, talk/thoughts of marriage, talk/thoughts of having kids, talk/thoughts about hardships and different economic status. inaccurate information about engineering and med-allied studies. Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie mentioned multiple times. Pictures from pinterest.

➳ WORD COUNT : 6.3K

➳ RENATA HERE ! : This has been sitting in my drafts for too long, since before I created a tumblr account and initially planned to post it on ao3 or wattpad. I finally had the opportunity, boost, and motivation to edit and finish it, so here you go. Enjoy and happy reading!

+ I am working on your guys' requests, I just need to work a little harder on them so they'll come out nice. I'm sorry for the delays :(

When I was trying to finish this I couldn't help but think of stupid song by Olivia, and before that came out, I was thinking of the promise by When In Rome. Now, I'm thinking of both xD

— requests are open !

The first time you ever truly noticed Oscar Piastri, you were five years old, and he was seven, and the late afternoon sun was filtering through the oak trees in your parents' garden in a way that made everything look gilded and enchanted.

You had been following Lando and him around the perimeter of the garden for the better part of an hour, your small legs working furiously to keep pace with their longer strides, your white sundress catching on the brambles that lined the fence.

They were discussing something terribly important—perhaps paper airplanes—and you were simply trying to be included, to be seen, to be anything other than the little sister who was tolerated but never truly invited.

"Go away," Lando had said, not unkindly, when you tugged at the hem of his t-shirt. "We're doing big kid stuff."

You had felt your lower lip tremble, and had been on the verge of retreating to the sanctuary of the kitchen where your mother was baking something with cinnamon, when Oscar turned around. He had been a skinny thing then, all elbows and knees and freckles scattered across his nose like someone had flicked a paintbrush at him. His eyes, even at seven, held a gravity that seemed misplaced in a child's face, a seriousness that made him seem older, more substantial than the other boys Lando brought home from school.

"She can stay," Oscar had said, and his voice was soft, almost gentle in a way that made you go still. "She's not bothering anyone."

Lando had rolled his eyes but acquiesced, and you had spent the rest of that afternoon sitting on the grass at Oscar's feet, watching him fold paper into intricate shapes, occasionally glancing down at you to make sure you were still there, still following. When he smiled at you—a real smile, not the patronizing ones adults gave children—it felt like the sun had decided to shine only on you.

That was the beginning, though you didn't know it then. You only knew that when Oscar was in the room, the air felt different—charged, electric, filled with possibility. You followed him and Lando everywhere, became the proverbial shadow, the little sister who was always underfoot, always listening, always watching.

Your childhood was filled with you learning the cadence of Oscar's laughter before you understood what humor was. You memorized the way he pushed his hair back from his forehead when he was concentrating, the particular furrow that appeared between his eyebrows when he was solving a problem, the way his whole face transformed when he was truly happy.

By the time you were twelve and he was fourteen, the nature of your admiration had shifted into something more dangerous, more precarious.

You were old enough to recognize the flutter in your chest when he entered a room, the way your palms went damp when he said your name, the peculiar ache that settled behind your ribs when you watched him date other girls—girls his age, girls with developed figures and sophisticated conversations about things you didn't yet understand.

You were old enough to know that what you felt was not sisterly affection, not platonic adoration, but something sharp and hungry and terrifying in its intensity.

You told Alex about it one rainy afternoon in her bedroom, the two of you sprawled on her canopy bed surrounded by magazines and the detritus of early adolescence. Alexandra had been your best friend since primary school, fierce and loyal and terrifyingly perceptive, and she had listened to your confession with wide brown eyes before declaring, with the absolute certainty of a twelve-year-old who had read too many romance novels, that you were in love, capital L, and that it was both tragic and beautiful.

"He's too old for you," she had said, not unkindly, braiding your hair with nimble fingers. "And he's Lando's best friend. That's like... forbidden. Epic. Like Romeo and Juliet, but with less poison."

"He's not too old," you had protested, though of course he was (somehow). Two years was an eternity when you were twelve and he was fourteen. It was the distance between childhood and adolescence, between training bras and real ones, between thinking boys had cooties and desperately wanting one particular boy to notice you existed as something other than his best friend's annoying little sister.

But time, as it tends to do, marched forward with relentless indifference. You grew. The gap between you narrowed in significance even as it remained mathematically constant.

By the time you were sixteen and navigating the treacherous waters of sixth form, Oscar and Lando were both eighteen and in their first year at university, studying engineering. They had moved into a flat together, a cramped but charming place that smelled perpetually of microwave ramen and solder flux, and you visited often under the pretense of wanting to see your brother, though everyone—Lando, Oscar, even your parents—knew that you were really there for him.

Oscar had grown into himself in the intervening years. The gangly teenager had been replaced by a young man with broad shoulders and a quiet confidence that made him magnetic. He wore glasses now, thick-rimmed and serious, that made him look like an intellectual from a period drama. He was studying mechanical engineering with a focus on sustainable design, and he spoke about carbon-neutral technologies with a passion that made your chest tighten with pride and longing.

You were eighteen when you decided to stop being subtle. Subtlety had gotten you nowhere—eighteen years of glances and sighs and carefully orchestrated proximity, and Oscar still treated you with the same gentle, distant affection he had when you were five. He still ruffled your hair when he saw you, still called you by the childhood nickname he had coined when you were small, still looked at you with eyes that were fond but infuriatingly platonic.

So you changed tactics. You started wearing dresses that showed off the legs you had spent years running and swimming into shape. You learned how to do your makeup, not the heavy-handed attempts of your early teens but something softer, more sophisticated. You asked for advice from your friends, Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie—your university friends who were studying medicine and biomedical engineering respectively and who found your pining both hilarious and tragic.

"You've got to just tell him," Kimi had advised over coffee one afternoon, his dark eyes serious behind his own glasses. "From your and Alex's stories about Oscar, he sounds like a really good guy. He won't freak out. Probably."

"He's going to freak out," Ollie had countered, ever the pragmatist. "He's known her since she was in nappies. That's a lot of history to overcome."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," you had muttered, but you knew Ollie was right.

The history was the problem. To Oscar, you were frozen in amber as Lando's little sister, the girl who used to steal his action figures and cry during thunderstorms. He didn't see the woman you had become, or if he did, he didn't know how to reconcile her with the child he remembered.

But you tried anyway. You flirted with the desperation of the young and in love, which is to say: constantly, shamelessly, and with a complete lack of subtlety. You found reasons to touch him—brushing lint from his shoulder, adjusting his collar, letting your fingers linger on his arm when he made you laugh.

You complimented him in ways that were clearly not sisterly, telling him he looked handsome, that he smelled good, that you liked the way his shirts fit his shoulders. You stayed up late texting him under the covers, sending him songs that made you think of him, memes that were just excuses to start conversations, questions about his day that went on for hours.

And Oscar... Oscar deflected. He responded to your texts with polite enthusiasm, answered your compliments with "thanks, kiddo," tolerated your touches with a patience that felt almost parental.

He never reciprocated, never crossed the line you were desperately trying to erase, but he also never rejected you outright.

He existed in a liminal space of gentle ambiguity, always kind, always just out of reach, always looking at you with eyes that held something you couldn't quite name but that never blossomed into the words you wanted to hear.

"Maybe he just doesn't like you like that," Alexandra had suggested gently one night, the two of you drinking wine in your shared flat near campus. You were studying Psychology, drawn to the profession by some combination of genuine desire to help and figure out what people are thinking and having a hard time of by their behaviour, and yet, you can't seem to figure out Oscar. "Maybe he's being nice because he doesn't want to hurt your feelings."

"He likes me," you had insisted—maybe you've gone delusional—though the certainty was beginning to fray at the edges. "I know he does. I can feel it. He's just... I don't know. Scared? Obligated to Lando? Something."

But as the months stretched into years, as you turned nineteen and then twenty, the excuses began to wear thin.

Oscar graduated with first-class honors, a brilliant young engineer with job offers from three major firms. He and Lando moved to a better flat, one with actual natural light and a better view. You visited less frequently, stung by Oscar's continued distance, by the way he would hug you hello and goodbye with the same brotherly affection, by the way he never seemed to notice when you wore your best dress or styled your hair just so.

And then, gradually, he began to disappear.

It started small. He stopped coming to Sunday dinners at your parents' house, citing work deadlines. He stopped joining you and Lando at the pub on Fridays, saying he was too tired.

The texts became less frequent, the responses slower, until you were lucky to get a reply within a week. When you did see him, at birthdays and holidays, he seemed distracted, distant, his mind clearly elsewhere even when he was physically present. He had taken a position with a startup focused on renewable energy infrastructure, and he threw himself into it with the intensity that characterized everything he did.

"He's just busy," Lando would say when you asked, concern evident in your brother's voice. "You know how he gets. Obsessive. He wants to prove himself."

"Prove what?" you had asked, but Lando only shrugged.

"He's always felt like he had something to prove. You know his background—scholarships, state schools, the whole thing. He thinks he has to work twice as hard to be considered half as good."

You did know. Oscar had grown up differently than you and Lando, in a modest house in the suburbs with parents who worked long hours to give him opportunities they never had. He had come here on academic scholarships, had worked part-time jobs throughout university to supplement his loans, and had never taken a single thing for granted.

You understood, intellectually, that his drive came from a place of insecurity, of fear that he would somehow lose everything he had worked for if he paused for even a moment.

But understanding didn't stop the hurt. When he missed your twentieth birthday party, sending only a bouquet of flowers and a brief text, you cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes before plastering on a smile and returning to your guests.

When he didn't respond to your messages for three weeks, then four, you began to understand that he was not just busy—he was avoiding you. The realization felt like a physical wound, a hollow space opening in your chest where hope had once resided.

So you did what heartbroken girls have done since time immemorial: you tried to forget him.

You threw yourself into your studies with renewed vigor, determined to excel in your program, to become someone worthy of your own respect if not his affection. You went on dates—so many dates—with boys who were safe, boys who were interested, boys who didn't make you feel like you were constantly trying to measure up to some impossible standard.

There was Tom from your anatomy class, sweet and earnest and utterly devoid of chemistry. There was Marcus from the climbing gym, handsome and athletic and boring in bed. There was Julian, a medical student with brilliant prospects and a personality like wet cardboard.

You went to parties and clubs and pubs with Alexandra and Kimi and Ollie, drinking too much and dancing until your feet ached, laughing loudly at jokes that weren't funny, pretending that you were having the time of your life. You posted photos on social media—carefully curated images of you smiling, surrounded by friends, living your best life—hoping that somewhere, Oscar would see them and feel a flicker of regret, a moment of wondering what he was missing.

But the truth, which you confessed only to Alexandra in the small hours of the morning when the wine had stopped working, was that no one measured up. No one made your heart race the way Oscar did with a single glance. No one understood your references, your humor, the particular way your mind worked. No one felt like home, and you began to suspect that no one ever would.

Two years passed in this manner—two years of dating and forgetting and failing to forget, of watching Oscar's life from a distance through Lando's updates and social media posts. You learned that he had been promoted, that he was traveling for work, that he had bought a flat of his own in a trendy neighborhood east of the city. You learned these things the way one learns about distant relatives or former classmates—with a sense of detachment that masked profound grief.

And then, finally, you graduated.

It was a humid day in July, the sky threatening rain that never came, and you stood in your cap and gown with Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie, your family beaming from the audience, your heart lighter than it had been in years despite the persistent ache that had become background noise.

You were done.

You had your degree, your pin, your future stretching before you like an open road. You were turning twenty-two years old, an adult by any measure, and you were determined to start this new chapter with your head held high.

Lando had insisted on throwing you a party. He had rented out the private room of a gastro-pub, invited everyone you knew, decorated the space with fairy lights and photographs from your childhood that made you alternately laugh and cringe. Your best friends were there, proud and slightly tipsy. Some of your classmates, your internship friends where you had done your practicals with. It was supposed to be a celebration of you, of your achievements, of the woman you had become.

You had not expected Oscar to come. He had RSVP'd maybe, citing a work conflict, and you had prepared yourself for his absence, had told yourself that it didn't matter, that you were over him, that his presence or lack thereof was irrelevant to your happiness.

But he came.

You saw him before he saw you, standing in the doorway of the private room with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a gift bag in the other. He was wearing a navy suit that fit him perfectly, his hair styled in the way that made him look both professional and approachable, his glasses catching the light from the fairy lights. He looked older, somehow, though it had only been two years. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, a weariness in his posture that suggested sleepless nights and too much coffee.

Your heart, the traitorous thing that it was, stopped. Then started again at double speed.

He saw you then, and his expression shifted into something soft and complicated—pride, you thought, and something else, something that looked almost like pain. He crossed the room to where you were standing with Alexandra, and before you could prepare yourself, he pulled you into a hug.

"Congratulations," he said, his voice low and warm against your ear, and you smelled his cologne—something woodsy and clean, the same scent he had worn since university—and felt your knees go weak. "You did it. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," you managed, pulling back, hoping he couldn't see the flush on your cheeks. "I didn't think you'd make it."

"I wouldn't have missed it," he said, and there was something in his eyes, some intensity that hadn't been there before, that made you look away.

The party progressed in a blur of congratulations and champagne. You moved from group to group, accepting praise and advice and promises of future collaborations, but your attention kept drifting back to Oscar.

He was talking to some of your friends that approached him, charming them unconsciously, then to Lando, the two of them laughing about some shared memory. He caught you looking at him once and held your gaze for a long moment before smiling—a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes—and raising his glass in a silent toast.

You drank too much. You knew it even as you were doing it, topping off your glass again and again, accepting shots from Kimi and Ollie, dancing with Alexandra until the room spun. You were trying to drown the feelings that had resurfaced with violent intensity, trying to convince yourself that you were fine, that you were happy, that Oscar Piastri was just a man and not the center of your gravitational pull.

By midnight, you were thoroughly, impossibly drunk. The room had developed a pleasant blur around the edges, and your voice felt too loud in your own ears. You remembered talking to Alexandra, who had looked concerned and suggested you slow down. You remembered dancing with Lando, who had spun you around until you stumbled. You remembered standing at the bar, ordering another drink, and then—

And then Oscar was there, his hand on your elbow, his voice cutting through the fog.

"Hey," he said gently. "Hey, I think you've had enough."

"Oscar," you slurred, turning to face him, and the room tilted dangerously. "Oscar, you're here. You're really here."

"I'm here," he confirmed, steadying you with a hand on your waist. "Come on. Let's get you some water."

"I don't want water," you announced, though you allowed him to guide you away from the bar. "I want... I want to tell you something."

"Okay," he said, patient as always. "Tell me."

But the words were jumbled, tangled up in alcohol and years of suppressed emotion. You told him he was beautiful. You told him you had missed him. You told him that no one else had ever made you feel the way he did, that you had tried to forget him but it was impossible, that you were still in love with him, had always been in love with him, would love him until the stars burned out.

You were crying by then, you realized dimly, tears tracking down your face as Oscar stared at you with an expression you couldn't decipher. You said something else—something about him being the man of your dreams, about wanting him to see you, really see you, not as Lando's little sister but as a woman who loved him.

And then, mercifully, the alcohol pulled you under. The last thing you remembered was Oscar's arms around you, lifting you, the sensation of movement, the distant sound of him saying goodbye to someone—Lando, probably—and then nothing.

Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by the worst headache of your life and a mouth that felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.

You were in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, wearing a t-shirt that was definitely not yours. Panic surged through you until you recognized the space—minimalist, masculine, with a view of tranquility. Oscar's flat.

You sat up too quickly, and the room spun. Groaning, you collapsed back against the pillows, noticing for the first time the glass of water and bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. There was a note in Oscar's neat handwriting: "Take two. I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready."

You took the pills, drank the entire glass of water, and lay back down, trying to piece together the previous night. Fragments came back to you—your confession, your tears, Oscar's face as you poured out years of longing. Mortification washed over you in waves. You had told him everything. You had cried on him. You had probably drooled on him. You were never going to live this down.

But you couldn't hide in his spare bedroom forever. Eventually, you forced yourself upright, found your dress—newly washed, you could smell, you couldn't help but think if you had vomited, because that's embarrassing, and in front of Oscar, too—folded neatly on a chair with your shoes beneath it, and stumbled to the bathroom to assess the damage.

You looked like death warmed over—mascara smudged under your eyes, hair a tangled mess, skin pale and clammy. You splashed water on your face, rinsed your mouth, and tried to smooth your hair into something resembling respectability.

When you emerged, Oscar was in the kitchen as promised, wearing sweatpants and a faded university t-shirt, looking unfairly good for someone who had presumably spent the night caring for a drunk, crying woman. He was making coffee, the rich scent filling the flat, and he turned when he heard you enter.

"Morning," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I died," you croaked. "Oscar, I'm so sorry. I don't even remember everything I said, but I'm sure it was mortifying, and I—"

"Sit down," he interrupted, gesturing to the breakfast bar. "Drink this." He pushed a mug of coffee toward you, black with a splash of milk, exactly how you liked it. You hadn't realized he knew that.

You sat, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic, suddenly aware of how little you were wearing. His t-shirt hit you mid-thigh, and you were acutely conscious of your bare legs, your lack of makeup, your vulnerability in this space that was so intimately his.

"About last night," Oscar began, and your stomach dropped. Here it came—the gentle letdown, the "I care about you as a friend" speech, the careful extraction from the mess you had made.

"You don't have to say anything," you rushed to fill the silence. "I was drunk, I didn't mean to burden you with all of that, I know you don't feel the same way, and I'm sorry for making things awkward. I'll just... I'll get dressed and go, and we can pretend this never happened."

"Stop," Oscar said, and there was a note of command in his voice that made you go still. He set down his own coffee and turned to face you fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He looked nervous, you realized. Oscar, who was always so composed, so in control, was wringing his hands and avoiding your eyes.

"I need to tell you something," he said. "And I need you to let me finish before you say anything, because I've been practicing this speech for a long time, and if I don't get it out now, I never will."

Your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Okay," you whispered.

Oscar took a breath. "When you were eighteen," he began, "and you started flirting with me, I thought it was a phase. A crush. Something you would grow out of when you went to university and met boys your own age, boys who weren't your brother's best friend, boys who had less... baggage."

He paused, running a hand through his hair. "But you didn't grow out of it. And I realized that I didn't want you to. I realized that when you walked into a room, I looked for you first. I memorized your class schedule so I would know when you might visit.”

You were staring at him, your coffee forgotten, your headache suddenly irrelevant. "What?"

"Let me finish," he said, his voice strained. "I fell in love with you. I think that was when you told me a joke about penguins.” He laughs, but then clears his throat, retracing his purpose.

“If I'm honest, but I really fell when you came to that dinner party wearing that blue dress, and you talked about your program with such compassion, and I realized that you weren't a little girl anymore. You were this incredible woman, and I was completely unprepared for how much I wanted you."

"But," you said, because there was clearly a but coming.

"But," Oscar confirmed, his expression twisting. "I had nothing to offer you. I was twenty-two, buried in student debt, living in a flat that I couldn't thank Lando enough for paying the rent, working a job that paid barely enough to cover my loans. And you...you were raised in comfort. Your parents paid for your education. You had never known what it was like to worry about money, to wonder if you could afford groceries. I couldn't ask you to be with me when I was so...small. When I had no security to give you, no stability, no guarantee that I wouldn't fail and drag you down with me.”

"Oscar—" you started, but he held up a hand.

"So I did the only thing I could think of," he continued, his voice rough. "I distanced myself. I threw myself into work, hoping that if I built something, if I became someone worth having, I could come back to you. I told myself I was being noble, giving you space to live your life, to find someone better. But the truth is, I was terrified. Terrified that if I told you how I felt and you rejected me, I wouldn't survive it. Terrified that if I told you and you accepted, I would eventually disappoint you."

He finally looked at you, and his eyes were bright, wet. "Last night, when you told me you loved me, I wanted to tell you everything. But you were drunk, and it would have been wrong to confess while you were vulnerable, while you might not remember. So I brought you here, and I waited for morning."

He pushed off from the counter and took a step toward you, then another, until he was standing close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and you could smell the sleep and coffee on his skin.

"I bought this flat six months ago," he said quietly. "Paid off my loans. Built the career I dreamed of. And every step of the way, you were the ghost at the edge of my vision, the reason I was working so hard. Not to prove anything to the world, but to prove to myself that I could be worthy of you."

"Oscar," you breathed, tears pricking your eyes again, but this time from hope, from joy.

"I love you," he said simply. "I have loved you. I was just too stupid and scared to say it. And I know I've hurt you by disappearing, and I will spend the rest of my life making that up to you if you'll let me. I-I don't know if you have someone, so I might be making a fool of myself right now—”

You laughed, a wet, broken sound, and set down your coffee so you could reach for him. "No," you said, your hands finding his waist, pulling him closer. "There's no one else. There never was. I tried, God knows I tried, but no one was you."

Oscar closed his eyes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Thank God," he whispered, then laughed softly, relieved.

He kissed you then, and it was everything you had imagined and nothing like it at all. It was soft and tentative at first, a question asked and answered, and then deeper, hungrier, his hands coming up to cup your face as if you were something precious and fragile.

You melted into him, into the heat and solidity of him, into the taste of coffee and mint and Oscar. Years of longing crystallized into this moment, this touch, this man who had been the center of your universe for as long as you could remember.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, Oscar rested his forehead against yours again, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

"Marry me," he said.

You blinked, certain you had misheard. "What?"

"Marry me," he repeated, his voice steady despite the wildness in his eyes. "I know we haven't even dated, I know this is insane, but I've wasted so much time, and I don't want to waste another second. I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up every morning with you, in a bed we made, a home we built, I want to be in your life. I want to build a future with you, have children with you, grow old with you. I know I should ask you to be my girlfriend first, to date me, to let me court you properly, but I already know I want forever with you.”

You stared at him, your mind reeling. It was crazy. It was too fast. It was everything you had ever wanted.

"You never even let me be your girlfriend," you said, your voice trembling with laughter and tears. "We skipped right over dating, and flirting as adults, and meeting each other's friends properly. We went from childhood friends to... engagement?"

"I can do the whole thing properly if you want," Oscar said, his lips quivering in a smile that made your heart flutter. "I can take you on dates. I can bring you flowers and write you love letters and meet your friends and your parents as your boyfriend. But at the end of it, I'm still going to ask you to marry me. Because I don't want to be your boyfriend. I want to be your husband."

You thought about it—really thought about it. The years of pining, the heartbreak of his absence, the way no one else had ever compared. You thought about waking up next to him every morning, about building a life together, about the children you would have who would inherit his intelligence and your stubbornness.

"I don't have a ring," Oscar said, suddenly uncertain. "I didn't plan this, I just... I couldn't wait anymore. I can get one, though. Any ring you want. Or we can pick it out together."

"I don't care about a ring," you said, and you meant it. "I care about you. I care that you love me. I care that you finally see me."

"I see you," he promised, his voice fierce. "I've always seen you. I was just too blind to understand what I was looking at."

You kissed him again, soft and slow, and when you pulled back, you were smiling. "Yes," you said. "Yes, I'll marry you. But you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"Promise me you won't disappear again. Promise me that when things get hard, or scary, or uncertain, you'll talk to me instead of running. Promise me that you'll let me love you even when you feel like you have nothing to offer, because you are everything I want, Oscar. You.”

Oscar's eyes closed, and a single tear tracked down his cheek. "I promise," he said, his voice breaking. "I promise, my love. I'm never leaving you again."

You spent the rest of the morning in his bed—not the spare room, but his room, with its wide windows and minimalist furniture and the bed that smelled like him. You talked for hours, filling in the gaps you had spent apart.

He told you about his work, about the renewable energy projects he was passionate about, about the struggles and triumphs of the past twenty-four months. You told him about the three clinics who offered you jobs, about the patients who had touched your heart during your internship, about Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie and how they had kept you sane during your darkest moments.

You made love slowly, reverently, discovering each other with hands and mouths and whispered words. It was awkward in places—he knocked his glasses askew, you laughed when he tickled your ribs—but it was perfect because it was real, because it was you and Oscar finally, finally coming together as you were always meant to.

When you finally emerged from his bedroom in the late afternoon, showered and dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers because your dress was too wrinkled to wear, you found your phone on the kitchen counter where he had left it. There were twenty-three missed calls from Lando, and a text from Alexandra that simply read: "Did you die? Did you sleep with Oscar? TELL ME EVERYTHING.”

You laughed, showing Oscar the message, and he smiled that smile that had captivated you since childhood.

"We should probably tell your brother," he said, wrapping his arms around you from behind. "Before he files a missing persons report."

"Yeah," you agreed, leaning back against him. "He's going to freak out."

You turned in his arms, looking up at him—at the man you had loved for years, who had finally become yours. "I can't believe I'm going to marry you," you said wonderingly. "I spent so long dreaming about this, and now it's real, and I'm almost scared to believe it."

Oscar kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips. "Believe it," he murmured. "I'm yours.”

And as you stood there in his arms, in his flat, you realized that some dreams were worth waiting for.

That love, real love, was not always easy or straightforward or timely.

That sometimes it required patience, and sacrifice, and the courage to risk everything for the chance at happiness.

You thought about the little girl you had been, following two boys around a garden, her heart already given to one of them even if she didn't know it yet.

You thought about the teenager, watching from doorways, writing initials in notebooks, dreaming of a future that seemed impossibly far away.

You thought about the young woman, flirting and hoping and eventually despairing, convinced that her love was unrequited.

And you thought about now—about the ringless proposal and the promises made, about the man holding you like you were the most precious thing in his world, about the lifetime stretching before you filled with possibility.

"Hey," Oscar said, tilting your chin up to look at him. "What are you thinking about?”

You smiled, bright and true and full of joy. "I'm thinking," you said, "that you're the man of my dreams. And that I finally get to keep you."

He laughed, that rich, warm sound that had been the soundtrack of your life, and kissed you until you were breathless, until the past dissolved and the future shone bright and certain before you.

And in that moment, in that kitchen, in that love, you knew that you had finally come home.

The engagement ring on your finger caught the afternoon light as you unpacked boxes in the new house you and Oscar had found together—a place with enough room for both of your things, with a spare bedroom that you were already calling "the nursery" in your private thoughts, though you hadn't told Oscar yet. He knew, though. He always knew what you were thinking, sometimes before you knew it yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a message from Lando: "Dinner tonight? Bring your fiancé. I still can't believe I'm saying that."

You smiled, typing back a confirmation. Lando had taken the news better than expected—there had been a week of protective older brother interrogation, demands that Oscar treat you right or face consequences, but eventually he had settled into the role of enthusiastic supporter.

Another buzz, this time from Alexandra: "Final fitting for the dress tomorrow. Don't you dare be late or I will murder you.”

You laughed, sending back a string of emojis promising punctuality. The wedding was three months away, small and intimate, exactly what you both wanted. No grand spectacle, just the people who mattered, vows written in your own words, and a honeymoon somewhere warm where you could finally relax after the chaos of planning.

Oscar came home then, loosening his tie as he entered, his face lighting up when he saw you. He crossed the room in three strides and kissed you thoroughly, tasting of the London rain and the coffee he had undoubtedly consumed too much of.

"How was your day?" he asked, wrapping his arms around you, his chin resting on your head.

"Perfect," you said, because it was. Because every day with him was perfect, even the difficult ones, even the ones where you argued about whose turn it was to do dishes or what color to paint the bedroom. Because you were together, finally, completely, and that was all that had ever mattered.

"Mine too," he said. "I closed the deal on the new project. The one in Scotland."

"The wind farm?"

"The wind farm," he confirmed, his pride evident. "We're going to power half the Highlands with renewable energy. And I thought... maybe we could look at properties up there. For weekends. A cottage, maybe. Somewhere to escape."

You looked up at him, at the man who had built himself from determination and brilliance, who had made himself worthy not because he needed to, but because he had wanted to give you everything. "I'd love that," you said softly.

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, and you thought about the journey that had brought you here—from a garden in your childhood home to this moment, in this home, in this love that had been a long journey in the making.

And as the sun set over London, painting the sky in hues of gold and rose, you stood together in the home you were building, the life you were creating, the love that had finally found its way home.

The man of your dreams, no longer a dream at all, but real and warm and yours, forever.

➳ RENATA HERE ! : Guys, I actually cried while writing Oscar's confession 😭

[merakiletters]

TRAINING WHEELS

❝ is this coming off in a cheesy way? ❞

paring: professor!adapt x fem!streamer!reader

request: by anonymous / “can you do something where adapt and reader meet at streamer u and they’re both really flirty with eachother the whole time and it’s just lots of tension”

content: sfw

⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

you knew the hype around streamer university. you were grateful to experience this college-like setting, even with cameras following everyone’s every move.

the first day was definitely a little overwhelming, so many extroverts in one place at the same time. nothing you couldn’t handle, just something to adapt to over the next five days.

which, speaking of adapt, you were already late to his class.

you thought grabbing a quick iced coffee from the cafeteria would be no biggie. unfortunately, everyone else thought the same.

after meeting and greeting way too many people, your quick drink run turned into an unexpected meet and greet, making you ten minutes late.

figuring you were already behind, you got adapt a coffee, too. maybe it would help him let your tardiness slide.

“chat, do you think he’ll think i’m bribing him, or more like a ‘sorry i was late’ coffee?” you ask your camera, glancing down at your phone to read the scrolling chat.

“he’s nice, he’ll let it slide” your camerawoman, gianna, says as the two of you walk toward his classroom.

“really? i’ve heard he’s nice, but i’ve never met him. which is crazy because growing up, my friends would always watch him play video games” you say, checking the schedule picture on your phone. “wait, is this it? i think it is”

“this is bringing me school flashbacks in the worse way possible” you say as knock on the door, your nerves spiking as the muffled sound of laughter and talking filters through.

the door opens to reveal the professor himself.

“hello, i’m sorry i’m late” you say immediately.

“no worries, i’m adapt. nice to meet you” he says, offering a quick side hug.

you introduce yourself and gianna. as you step inside, the packed room erupts into a few teasing ‘ouu’s from your friends. you shake your head with a smile, glancing down at your chat.

the coffeeeeee!!!

girl was so worried abt entering class she forgot abt the coffee

adapt is so fine

“oh my gosh, wait,” you say, making adapt turn around. “here, i brought you this”

“w rizz!”

a voice screams from the back row. unfortunately, you know exactly who it belongs to. lacy is sitting in his wheelchair near the back, wearing a sly smirk. you glare at him, which only makes him laugh harder.

yooooo w assist lacy

w comms

I SHIPPPP

“oh, wow. thank you, that’s so nice” adapt says, taking the cup.

“yes, of course” you reply, your face feeling noticeably warmer.

you scan the room for an empty seat, but there are none left. “there’s no more seats” you whisper to gianna.

“oh, i know there aren’t any chairs left,” adapt says, pulling out his own desk chair. “here”

“oh, thank you” you say, pulling it to the back and parking it next to lacy.

as you sit down, lacy waits for you to look at him. you try your hardest to ignore his eyes, but fail and laugh quietly. “what do you want, lacy?” you whisper since adapt has already resumed the lecture.

lacy has collabed with you a time or two, alongside other core members like silky, who sits nearby and casually dabs you up.

“nothing, nothing” lacy whispers, pretending to wipe his nose while holding back laughter.

“whatever” you roll your eyes, glancing back down at your phone.

i ship her and adaaaa

you have to stay after class for that extra credih

i would be a teacher’s pet for him so bad

you cover your mouth and look up at the camera. “you guys are actually insane”

“what is your chat saying?” lacy asks from beside you.

you turn your phone so he can see the screen. he reads it, then repeats, “extra credih” but unfortunately says it just a bit too loud.

“what’s going on back there?” adapt asks, half-jokingly.

you shake your head, “nothing” but lacy chimes in right over you, “she said she needs to stay after class for extra help”

you cover your face as the class erupts into teasing laughs.

she’s highkey hella blushing

she wants himmmmm

w comms from lacy

adapt just smiles. “yes, i’m here after class if you need help with anything”

the rest of the lecture rolls by smoothly with a few more jokes, and adapt turns out to be a genuinely great teacher.

finally, class wraps up and everyone starts packing their things. you hear your name called from the front, it’s adapt, sitting at his desk. you tell gianna to wait outside, knowing your chat is already losing its mind.

she rlly wants that extra credih

omg i ship so hard

he’s rlly matter daddy

you roll the borrowed chair back up to the desk. “thanks for the chair”

“thanks for the coffee” he replies, smiling.

“it’s no problem”

with the classroom now empty, it’s just the two of you. “so, i’m really glad i got to meet you today” he says softly.

“ah, me too. i can’t believe we never crossed paths over at the core house before”

“oh yeah, sometimes i get busy, but here we are now” he says, holding your gaze just long enough to make your heart skip a beat. “though i'm thinking we should make up for lost time. maybe i’ll see you around later?”

your breath catches for a second, your face heating up all over again. “oh, yeah” you say, offering a shy smile.

“cool” he says, leaning back slightly against his desk.

“see you around, professor adapt” you say, turning the chair around and heading toward the door.

you push it open and step out into the hallway, immediately spotting gianna waiting against the wall with her phone out, a knowing grin already plastered across her face.

as your chat explodes with the absolute loudest messages you’ve ever seen, you let out a long breath, shaking your head as you walk over to her.

they took a lil too long

adapt rlly is Y/NB

unc still got game

i understand tho, she’s a baddie

⟡

the next day, there definitely was a clip or two of your interaction with adapt.

you didn’t really pay too much attention to it, being used to getting shipped if you shared air with anyone.

during adapt’s class, your chat was exploding with the same thing from the day prior even though not much happened.

“you need help over there?” he asks, pointing directly at you and your confused expression.

you were surprised he even noticed you were confused since you didn’t say a word about being confused at all.

omg he noticed herrrr

lowk i would stay after class again

why is he deadass a good prof?

he’s so different w her

by day three, it had died down a bit. your chat was mostly telling you to collab with some of the other streamers like yonna.

yonna was a sweet girl who had captured the hearts of many through her amazing and funny personality.

eventually, hanging out with her led you to meet up with plaqueboymax, marlon, and lacy as you helped them push lacy in his wheelchair. you guys were simply exploring the grounds of streamer u.

you were messing around with the guys and your camerawoman until you hear lacy scream, “daddy, daddy!”

you look up to find the culprit, and it’s no other than adapt.

he was dressed in all black, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander, taking a subtle second to check him out.

he dabs the guys up and makes his way over to you, pulling you in for an easy side hug. your chat immediately screams what’s practically echoing in your own mind.

HE GAVE HER A HUG

he looks so fineee

w y/n and adapt

“me and y/n got something for you,” lacy says, earning a puzzled look from you since you definitely don’t recall getting him a single thing.

lacy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tiny hot dog keychain. “look, it’s a hot dog”

“oh my god, let’s fucking go” adapt says, dabbing him up again before nodding his head toward you.

god, he looked too good with those glasses on.

“we got you a hot dog, that means you have to give her your hot dog now” lacy announces, and you seriously wished the earth would open up a massive hole and swallow you whole.

not only was the innuendo atrocious, but howling laughter erupted from practically all of your friends. you simply muttered, “oh my gosh” grabbed the handles of lacy’s wheelchair to push him far away.

YOOO w lacy

the sponsors are not liking this one

she HIGHKEY wants him

L lacy for doing my girl dirty like that

“wait, don’t go!” lacy protests as everyone starts to walk the same way you were, though they conveniently lag a little behind.

adapt breaks into a light jog to easily catch up to your pace.

“you good?” he asks, a hint of genuine amusement and concern in his voice.

you cover your burning face with a hand, feeling the heat creep straight up to your ears. “yes, it’s just lacy trying desperately to be the clip” you say with a flustered, soft laugh.

he chuckles softly, the deep sound doing entirely too many things to your nervous system. without you even noticing, your friends have completely stopped following you, staying back by the staircase.

adapt slows his stride to match yours, glancing sideways at you with a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “but honestly, if you wanted my attention, you didn't have to resort to pocket sized hotdog”

your eyes widening slightly at the direct hit. “i didn't buy you the hot dog” you defend quickly, though your voice betrays you, laced with a nervous smile.

“mhm, sure” he teases, stepping just a little closer so his shoulder brushes lightly against yours. “though if we're handing out trades? what's a guy gotta do to get your attention next time?”

you try to come up with a witty comeback, but your brain completely shuts down. your chat is undoubtedly losing their minds right now since gianna is probably just zooming into yours and adapt’s convo and letting lacy take over your stream.

“wow, okay. real confident, aren’t you?” you manage to say, shaking your head while trying to keep your composure, though you most certainly aren’t.

adapt laughs, a sound that makes your stomach do a stupid little flip. you two come to a complete halt, trapping you in your own little corner away from the group.

“only for you” he says smoothly, dropping his voice lower so it feels entirely meant for you.

you cant even focus on the way he’s looking at you, let alone maintain his eye contact. so instead, you focus entirely on the way the afternoon sun hits the frames around the building.

“you’re terrible” you mutter, there’s no real bite behind it. your soft smile slipping onto your face.

“more like, persuasive” adapt counters effortlessly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his black pants.

he glances back at the staircase where plaqueboymax, marlon, and lacy and the camera crowd are huddled together, making exaggerated whispering gestures and terrible kissing faces at the two of you.

yea, that’s definitely getting clipped.

“well,” adapt says, turning to face you fully, blocking your view from your friends, just enough to keep you looking right where he wants you.

his gaze is intense, locking onto yours with a playful challenge lingering in his eyes. “class starts early tomorrow. think you can survive another round of my class or are you gonna need another coffee bribe to save you?”

you cross your arms over your chest, biting your lower lip as you look up at him. “you’ll see, professor”

“can’t wait” he murmurs with a slow, wicked grin, before finally stepping around you to rejoin the group, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering in your chest.

⟡

the internet was going crazy with yesterday’s interaction of you and adapt.

clip after clip, edit after edit.

at first, you couldn’t believe he could actually be into you. just because you didn’t know each other so well, but now, there’s a possibility that he might most definitely be into you.

day four went by quick, everyone trying to make the most out of the day. meeting everyone they hadn’t, challenges, videos, clipfarming.

unfortunately, everyone was busy. and by everyone you mean adapt, you had hardly seen him after his class. not like you had anything specific you wanted to say, but it was nice the way he was making you feel.

by the last day, everyone was packing and recording their last moments.

you had skipped your classes, very carefully not to be caught.

kai is coming after her

nah fanum is running rn

look behind you 🤣

you went to the cafeteria after all classes were done, and it was pretty packed.

you met so many new people and definitely some potential new collabs.

as you made your way through the crowd, kai cenat’s voice was heard calling your name.

you were slightly scared, thinking you got caught ditching, but he simply asked you about your experience at streamer u.

“it was so much fun! thank you so much for having us, this was definitely a ten out of ten experience. can’t wait to see what’s for next year” you say as he places his arm around you and you speak into both your and his camera.

“of course, thank you for coming and putting your best foot forward” he says, and he smiles, “now what would you think if we brought some celebrities to next year’s university?”

“oh my gosh, that would be crazy, for sure. like who though?” you ask.

“some friends, you know,” he says. “you are definitely invited too” he adds, and you can practically hear his teasing voice as he says, “if you’re going to be there, i gotta bring adapt back too, huh?”

you try to ignore his comments by smiling, but you fail and laugh a little, “no, yea, back to the celebrities though, by bringing your friends, you mean like tyla?” you tease him back, emphasizing on friends.

“alright, well it was nice having you, okay? have fun” he says as he leaves immediately, smiling and understanding the joke too.

as he walks away he says, “also you gotta stop by the police department, you were caught at the party”

you turn to your camera and put a peace sign up, “fries, bro”

after some mingling is done, gianna stays back with the camera as she talks to some of the other camera crew.

you felt suffocated in the cafeteria due to the many people and stepped outside for a second.

unfortunately for you, your peace didn’t last long because you saw adapt walking towards the cafeteria with gilly, his cameraman.

he calls out your name as the two of you walk towards each other.

“hellooo” you say as you give adapt a side hug and dap up his cameraman.

“where are you heading right now?” he asks.

“um, i don’t really know. i just needed some air, it’s pretty packed in there” you say, “maybe i’ll go to the police department, though”

“why?” he says as both of you stand in front of the camera.

“the party” you say.

“ahh, yea. also, i know you weren’t in class today. what was that about?” he says, teasing.

you smile and shrug your shoulders.

“all right, flock. guess we are going to the police department, let’s go” he says as the two of you walk together, just talking and laughing with the camera following you behind.

once you reach the police department, you hear music coming from the outside.

“kai really popping off with security” you say as you knock, not even knowing if they could hear you.

fanum opened the door, “aye” he says as he steps to the side to let the three of you in.

“we know why y’all in here, just go take your mugshot, kids” he says as he grabs the handcuffs and walks over to the wall with the fake booking process.

“wait,” adapt says as he grabs the handcuffs from fanum and puts one on your wrist and one on his.

he hands you the placard, lifting it up along with your right wrist and his left one.

you treat it as if it were a photoshoot. three pictures are snapped.

one where the two of you pretend to be sad, another one where you two are mad, and the third one was where he made a joke and you are laughing while he’s just looking at you with a soft smile.

after that, you two head back outside where everyone is at the courtyard.

you’re still with adapt and gilly when you find gianna again and pull out your phone to actually read the chat again.

NAH she left us this whole time for adapt

they gotta be dating

Y/NB

that’s not teacher behavior

you laugh at your chat, explaining where you had gone and showing them the pictures.

adapt was now a little to the side on his own stream, some of the core boys having come up to him.

THOSE ARE SO GF AND BF CODED

ask him if he’ll miss u

im manifesting them tg

he’s the one, girl

“you guys are always easy as fuck” you say, giggling. gianna laughs too, knowing she’s reading the chat right along with you.

ron and jason move from adapt’s stream to yours and you guys start to chat.

“let’s go around to ask questions” jason says as he exchanges looks with ron.

they walk over to adapt, tapping him on the shoulder. “are you going to miss your favorite student?” he says.

you smack jason’s shoulder as ron laughs loudly in the background.

“bro” you say, that familiar heat rushing right back to your cheeks.

“and who’s that supposed to be?” adapt answers, a slow grin spreading across his face because he already knew who they meant.

“ouu, you’re not the favorite” ron teases, pointing right at you.

you roll your eyes, trying to look unfazed, but your smile gives you away completely.

adapt looks past jason and ron straight at you, his eyes locking onto yours as he steps a little closer.

CHAT ARE WE SEEING THIS!?!

my boy is STARING

SJHES SO STRONG

wait she’s actually blushing help

“i don’t have favorites, obviously, ” adapt says smoothly, his gaze never leaving your face, “but i guess i can make an exception”

your jaw drops slightly, your face burning hot as your chat goes completely crazy, spamming in all caps.

“oh, my god, you’re insufferable” you laugh, covering your hot face with your hands for a second before peeking through your fingers at him.

adapt just chuckles, stepping even closer so he’s right in your camera frame, lowering his voice just enough to tease you. “you can stick around after stream to argue about it, then”

the chat loses its absolute mind and even ron and jason start hollering in the background, completely satisfied with the chaos they just caused.

⟡

streamer university was over. and althought you made some really sweet memories, you were glad to be at the comfort of your own bed.

while reposting some videos on tiktok from your phone, you got a notification that made your heart drop a little.

thefazeadapt tagged you in a post.

you tap it instantly, scrolling through the photo dump. few selfies and pics where he somehow looks impossibly good, some group shots with the guys, and then you swipe to the very last slide.

it’s the photo of the two of you at the police department. the one where you’re laughing after his joke while he just looks at you, smiling.

the caption said, “if anyone knows anything about something (or abt her) lmk after class🫡”

your heart stutters for a second, that familiar, annoying pull in your chest snapping right back into place.

you bite your lip, thumb hovering over the comment section to type out a reply, when your phone buzzes against the mattress.

a text from an unsaved number flashes across the top of your screen, though you already know exactly who it belongs to.

july 2026 / merakiletters

[morganburtwistleswife]

Guys. Tears are running down my thighs.