A long time ago, in a galaxy far far away... @obislittleone - Tumblr Blog

Dec 11, 2025

almost, always (part two) 𖦹 oscar piastri x reader.

🏁 pairing: oscar piastri x reader. 🏁 word count: part two 10.5k. part one (here) 10.6k. total: 21.1k 🏁 genres/warnings: childhood friends to strangers to lovers. angst and miscommunication and a slow(ish)-burn romance. emotional cheating. brief mentions of alcohol/being drunk. semi non-linear storytelling, flashes back and forth between 2026. as this is a work of fiction, there will be minor inconsistences with karting/racing terminology and 2026 race results are made up. reader insert but no use of y/n. though not directly some descriptions of reader are feminine. 🏁 summary: you rebuilt what you lost. but the truth between you still burns. 🏁 author notes: thank you all for the love on part one!!!!! i hope i did the end justice! i wont lie i let my delusion get the better of me but i hope you enjoy, please like and reblog if you do <3 also on ao3 here. divider used from here.

July 2026.

“Do you even believe in love?”

It was a question you’d been asked before. Loaded. Complicated.

And the answer had shape-shifted throughout your life. If your younger self had been asked - cooing over your baby brother - you’d have said yes without hesitation. Love was the warm pressure of his tiny fingers curled around yours. If you’d been asked on the day you found your mum curled up on her bed, crying, you’d still have said yes - because when you wrapped your arms around her, that same warmth bloomed again, softening her pain.

Love had grown with you. Shrunk with you. Morphed into something you could never fully hold.

But as you got older, the question changed. Or rather - you finally understood the one hidden inside it.

Did you believe you deserved love? Were you worthy of its warmth?

Had anyone asked you that a year ago, your answer would’ve been the same as it had been for the past decade.

No.

Because you never took those chances. Because you ran from love whenever it came close. Because how could you deserve something you didn’t fully understand? How could you deserve what never arrived wrapped neatly with a bow, urging you to open it?

But the you of the past - fearful, regretful - is not the you standing here now.

On the very porch you’d avoided since you were fourteen. Outside the house that haunted every version of you that believed you weren’t enough.

All because of the boy - now a man - who had never meant to become your entire being, but somehow had. Your sun, your earth, your stars.

You stood on that porch again, part of the family you once fled from. Wrapped in a woolly jumper, hands cold, but heart impossibly warm.

You held one side of a banner, paint splashed across the fabric. The other side was held by someone you'd tried to avoid - not out of dislike, but fear. Fear of revealing just how stained and scared your heart felt. Someone whose connection to you went far deeper than you ever admitted. Someone who should always have been in your life, and finally was again.

Hattie’s pink hair glowed against the sunlight as she admired your work, then glanced at you with a grin that eased every old worry you’d had about not fitting in anymore.

Behind you stood Nicole - soft-eyed, proud, your relationship with her stitched back together now that your fear had stopped ruling you.

Because now it’s July 2026. Summer break. And you’re not the scared child you once were - you’re the steady, bright best friend of the Formula One World Championship leader.

Who was coming home for a week.

Who was coming home to his family.

Who was coming home to you.

Your friendship was still a little complicated, but stronger than it had ever been. You’d re-joined the fold completely: races, dinners, calls, texts - and everything in between.

He was back. For a short break before the chaos of the season resumed.

You still felt a quiet regret that you’d missed his first three seasons. You’d never tell him you’d watched through your dad, lingering in doorways, pretending you were reading while highlights replayed. That you’d always been cheering for him - just from the shadows.

So you made him another promise: you’d follow him until he retired. (You added forever in your mind, but that was a secret you’d keep.)

The sun was low - peach and gold leaking across the sky - warming the bricks of the houses around you. You tapped your foot anxiously, waiting for the car to arrive. Chris and Mae had gone to collect him from the airport; the rest of you stayed behind to finish the banner Edie declared “absolute perfection.”

So much had changed since you last saw him in person - though it hadn’t been as long as it used to be. With texts, calls, and FaceTime's, it was almost like you were right beside him as he chased the dream you once whispered about together in a treehouse.

You were there for his birthday in April. He helped you move in January before testing. You’d settled into an easy rhythm again - one stitched with trust and care and something that made your chest ache if you thought too hard about it.

You kept boundaries. You valued the friendship more than the risk. You played the role of dutiful best friend.

It should’ve been a perfect moment.

Except a small, familiar ache pressed at your ribs - the reminder that he still had a girlfriend.

That she was part of his world in all the ways you weren’t allowed to be.

That whatever almost bloomed between you last year had been tucked carefully away, unspoken, dormant.

You didn’t resent her. But the ache existed all the same, quiet and stubborn.

And as the breeze lifted the corner of the banner, brushing cool air against your neck, you felt something else too - something you couldn’t name without risking everything.

A fear.

A wish.

A want.

You swallowed it down just as headlights appeared at the end of the street.

A car turned onto the road.

One glimpse of his soft curls through the window - barely a flash - and your heart leapt in that painfully familiar way.

Because dormant didn’t mean gone.

And you weren’t sure it ever would be.

January 2026.

The apartment had seemed perfect at the time. You and Alex had fallen in love with it the moment you stepped through the doors. Big bay windows flooded the room with sunlight, illuminating the aging wooden floors. An open-plan kitchen sat to the right, marble counters and pale coloured cabinets giving the space a warm, lived-in cohesion. Alex had screeched - actually screeched - over the size of the bedrooms.

It was almost brand new. Affordable. Central Melbourne. Close enough to both your jobs, close enough to home.

It was perfect.

Suspiciously perfect.

The catch?

Fifth floor.

No lift.

But even that hadn’t seemed like a problem - not while you were signing the lease, giddy off cheap wine. Not even when you started buying lamps and plates and cushions you didn’t need.

It still didn’t seem like a big deal when your parents helped drag boxes up all those stairs on move-in day, adrenaline cushioning the burn in your lungs. “Think of the exercise,” your mum had chirped.

It was only Oscar who pointed out the insanity of it all - pressed against the stairwell wall, hands wedged beneath the couch you’d scavenged from the marketplace. You were in the middle, supporting most of the weight and turning progressively more tomato-coloured.

Alex was on the end, claiming to support weight but mostly shouting, “Left! No, other left!”

“Did neither of you think this through?” Oscar huffed, face flushed as he heaved the couch up another step.

“Well, weirdly enough - can we fit a couch through the stairwell - wasn’t on my list of priorities!” you snapped back, breathless but playful. You didn’t need to see him to know he was rolling his eyes.

“Besides - this is basically training for you,” Alex called. “Core strength and all that.”

Oscar had offered to help nonchalantly over coffee, and at the time he’d meant it. He just didn’t anticipate burning through an entire workout before he’d been there half an hour.

You were still rebuilding your friendship, technically. But if there was a deadline for “back to normal,” you’d passed it months ago. After he left last year, he kept every promise - messages, calls, updates between races. You’d watched each race with bated breath, listened to your dad rehash every highlight as if he were commentating live. It hadn’t ended the way Oscar wanted - runner-up to his own teammate - but you could hear the fire in his voice whenever he talked about next season.

And he’d come home for Christmas. You’d been so nervous to see him again, terrified everything you’d rebuilt had only existed through screens.

But then he smiled at you - really smiled - and every last fear dissolved.

You even met Lily. And yes, seeing her hurt in a way you’d never admit aloud, but she was kind, and warm, and undeserving of any resentment you tried not to feel.

You’d promised yourself you would be the best version of you this year. Brave. Open. Steady. So you and Alex decided to move in together. A new chapter.

“God, we have to be there by now,” you whined as your foot slipped on a stair, nearly pitching you forward.

“You alright?” Oscar asked immediately, concern snapping his eyes toward you.

You nodded, breathless. “I will be.”

But his voice - soft, worried - unlatched something deep.

A memory, warm and unbidden: his small hand wrapping around yours after you scraped your knee at eight; him pressing tissues to your cheeks at twelve when you cried over not getting a role in the school play; the way he always looked at you like your hurt mattered.

He still looked at you like that.

And the familiar twist in your stomach returned - the one you’d promised yourself you’d ignore.

By the time you reached the fifth floor, you all collapsed against the railing, panting. Sliding the couch through your front door was almost too easy after that. You thanked the gods for open-plan living.

You flopped onto the leather cushions, legs dangling, head pressed back as you caught your breath. Oscar sank beside you, cap shielding his tired face.

“Okay,” Alex announced behind you. “I officially feel terrible for suggesting we do this ourselves.” She raised her hands. “So lunch is on me. Anything you want.”

Neither you nor Oscar objected.

Once she darted out, you stretched your legs and groaned, “I won’t lie - hauling a couch up five flights has given me an appetite I shouldn’t be proud of.”

Oscar laughed. “Yeah, I know I said I’d help, but some kind of warning would’ve been nice.”

“I really don’t think this is my fault when Alex accepted full blame,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder.

“Yeah, but you live here. Did it not occur to you that couches can’t fly?”

You smacked his arm, lingering a little too long. “Don’t pretend you’re not thrilled to be spending your last full day at home helping us move.”

“Whatever.” He grinned. “Still can’t believe you two are living here alone. Dangerous.”

“Hey!” You hit him again, but your hand slid from his arm like you didn’t want to let go. “We’re adults now. Not all of us can be famous Formula One drivers.”

He laughed - soft and warm.

“So,” you said, turning toward him fully, “talking of that, how are you feeling about the new season?”

His expression shifted. “Different. Last year didn’t go how I wanted. And now… I don’t know. Expectations feel higher. It’s scary.”

“Of course it is.” You scooted closer without meaning to. “But Oscar… you’re brilliant. You always have been. You get it. And even when things don’t go your way, you come back stronger. You always do.”

He let out a heavy breath, shoulders sinking.

You nudged him gently. "Osc," You said softly, waiting until he looked at you. "Hey, breathe."

His eyes flicked to yours.

"You know, there was a reason I used to call you Ace before every race," you said with a small smile. "Remember? Because you always rose to it. Even when you were terrified. You were always the one person I believed in without question."

He blinked - slow, surprised - before a faint laugh escaped him. It was quiet, almost stunned - like he was remembering something he'd forgotten he needed. "God, I haven't heard that in years."

"Well," you shrugged, "It still applies. You're good, Osc. Scary good. And you're going to handle whatever comes next the same way you always have."

His expression softened - eyes warm and lingering - the nickname settling between you like a spark you both pretended not to see.

Your hand found his arm again.

He looked at it. Then back at you.

His smile grew, almost shy.

And then silence settled - warm, humming, dangerous.

You felt it immediately.

The shift.

The spark.

The slow, simmering gravity pulling you both in.

Your hand stayed on his arm.

His hand lifted, almost unconsciously, resting gently over yours.

His thumb traced your skin in a slow, tender arc.

The electricity between you crackled - alive, bright, aching.

Moments like this had been happening more often.

Too often.

The quiet kind you never acknowledged. The kind that whispered don’t ruin this.

The kind that reminded you, sharply - Friendship first. Friendship always.

Because wanting more had almost destroyed you once.

“Alex will be back soon,” you whispered, pulling your hand away before your heart betrayed you.

“Yeah,” he murmured. But you felt his gaze linger.

Minutes later, Alex burst through the door and the moment snapped like a stretched rubber band.

You ate lunch. You talked. You laughed.

But that moment - the spark, the near-something, the almost - settled in your chest like an ember.

And later that night, lying awake in your new room, you could still feel the ghost of his touch on your hand.

Still hear his laugh.

Still see the way he’d looked at you.

And if you sent him a late text - Safe flight xx - just to quiet your spinning thoughts…

Well. That is what best friends do.

July 2026.

Oscar had been back for less than five minutes before the usual chaos had started.

And god, had you missed it.

The way Hattie immediately launched herself at him, tussling his hair and calling him “Racer Boy” as though she wasn’t almost two years younger. The way Edie and Mae teased him about his mismatched hoodie and shorts combination, insisting they take him shopping. The low hum of your parents and his parents catching up, laughter echoing between the walls like nostalgia made warm.

You’d forgotten how easy it was to be swallowed back into this house - how the Piastri's were less a family next door and more an inevitable extension of your own. Noise, warmth, teasing, affection. It wrapped around you like muscle memory.

Now that your friendship had been stitched back together again - slowly, carefully, stronger than before - these dinners were something you no longer avoided. Especially nights like this: the kick off of the summer break. Everyone home. Everyone loud. Everyone happy.

You sat at the end of the table, your brother to your left, Oscar to your right. Hattie animatedly told you a story about university life, hands flying, voice rising. Plates passed over heads. Bread was stolen off others. Laughter spilled like wine.

To anyone looking in, it was a picture of perfect, easy family bliss.

At one point, Oscar - mid-conversation with both dads - reached out without looking and placed potatoes onto your plate. You nudged him a soft thank-you. He nudged back. Neither of you broke rhythm.

But it was there. Somewhere beneath the chatter, beneath the clatter, beneath the familiarity - something restless began to hum.

Later, as dishes piled in the sink, you carried some more into the kitchen. Nicole was half in the freezer.

“Need any help?” you asked, leaning against the counter.

“I can’t find the ice cream,” she muttered. “I swear we picked some up.”

“I’ll run to the shop,” you said. “It’s just around the corner.”

She beamed her gratitude, already flitting off to reorganise something else.

You slipped back through the hallway, pulling on your shoes and coat - only to feel a hand tug your sleeve.

“I’ll come too,” Oscar said, grabbing his own coat.

The cold air nipped as you stepped outside. The walk was short, but your chatter stretched it out - teasing, bickering, stories you’d already told each other but he still insisted on hearing again. He tried to trip you. You elbowed him in the ribs. You’re laughing before you realise you even started.

It was easy. Unsafe, maybe. But easy.

Inside the shop, you took your time. Vanilla ice cream. Snacks he definitely didn’t need. You tried to stop him from paying; he beat you to it. Of course.

When you stepped back outside, the dark sky had opened into a full downpour.

“Shit,” you muttered, watching rain bounce violently off the pavement. “Come on, if we run, it’s not that bad.”

“That bad?” Oscar scoffed. “We’ll be drenched.”

“Says the one with a hood.” You shoved his arm. “We’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look convinced.

You grinned.

Then you ran.

He groaned behind you - loudly, theatrically - before his footsteps splashed after yours, catching up easily.

“You’re an idiot!” he called, breathless and laughing.

“Rain never hurt anyone!” you shot back.

“Hypothermia might!”

A hand tugged your arm, pulling you suddenly under the protection of a tree. You stumbled into him, laughing as he steadied you, both of you heaving breaths.

“Oscar,” you whined, pointing toward the house. “We’re literally right there.”

“Yeah,” he said, still breathless, still smiling. “But you’ll get sick if you keep sprinting like that.”

He nudged you back against the trunk, half-shielding you from the worst of the rain.

And then - the laughter faded.

Rain drummed softly on leaves above you. Breath misted between you.

You looked up at him and realised just how close you were.

His hair dripped rain. His freckles glowed warm against the cool air. His eyes - those deep, familiar eyes - scanned your face with something hesitant, something unguarded, something you had spent years pretending not to understand.

You could have sworn he leaned in.

“Osc…” your voice barely existed.

He raised a hand, fingers brushing your cheek, gently tucking a strand of wet hair behind your ear. His touch was warm. Too warm.

Your breath stuttered.

His dropped.

“I need to tell you something,” he whispered. “It’s about me - and Lily.”

And your heart dropped clean through the floor.

You pressed your hand against his chest, firm but hesitant.

“Oscar… you don’t owe me the details of your relationship.” It came out sharper than you intended. Immediate regret burned through you.

He flinched - subtly, but enough. His hand fell away.

The rain filled the silence between you, steady and merciless.

You swallowed, cleared your throat.

“We should get back. Rain’s easing.”

And you turned.

You made it three steps before realising: He hadn’t followed.

You slowed, glancing over your shoulder.

He stood under the tree still - hood down, rain running through his hair, hands braced on his hips like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

He looked like he wanted to speak. He looked like he already had.

For a second - one suspended, aching second - you saw everything in his expression: confusion, frustration, longing, something breaking open and something breaking apart.

You opened your mouth.

He took a breath - one of those steadying, right-before-he-says-something-important breaths.

But when he exhaled, it came out small.

Defeated.

“Never mind,” he murmured.

And somehow, those two words hurt more than anything else could have.

Finally, he stepped forward.

Caught up.

But he didn’t walk beside you.

Not close enough to brush your arm.

Not anymore.

Neither of you spoke the whole way back.

And for the first time since rebuilding your friendship, the silence didn’t feel safe.

It felt like something cracking quietly between you - and you didn’t know how to stop it.

April 2026.

The heat pressed into you like an old friend, warm and heavy against your skin as the last of the Bahrain sun filtered through the hotel window. Heat wasn’t unusual - you’d grown up battling the Australian summer - but paired with nerves, the combination left your pulse a little too loud, your palms a little too damp.

You’d landed the night before, dragging a suitcase filled more with presents and decorations than actual clothes. You’d hoped to keep your arrival a secret for as long as possible - your idea, yes, but one Nicole and Lily had practically orchestrated.

You may have missed Oscar’s actual birthday (your boss refusing to approve time off was a personal betrayal), but you had vowed you’d make this one special.

And this time, you were determined not to miss a single celebration.

The plan had started months earlier, blooming in the giddy aftermath of watching Oscar race in front of his home crowd. You’d rattled off apology after apology for missing so many birthday's; he’d shut down every one of them with a smile.

“I’ve got you back. That’s all that matters.”

But it mattered to you anyway.

So: Bahrain. A surprise. One small gesture to make up for ten years of lost time.

Nicole had secured your weekend pass (“You can thank Lando for that.”).

Lily had handed over the spare key to their hotel room - her room with Oscar’s - with a casual, “We’ll take him out for dinner so you can set everything up.”

Your heart had dropped at the word ours.

But you’d smiled anyway.

Because she was kind. Because she had done nothing wrong. Because she made him happy.

Because that was enough.

Or at least, you told yourself it was.

The room was decorated now - balloons tied to chairs, streamers draped over the doorway. Your presents sat stacked neatly on the table. You sat on the couch, knees bouncing, checking your phone every twenty seconds.

Any minute now.

Your stomach twisted as your gaze drifted across the room. His things were scattered everywhere: shoes by the door, a hoodie on the chair, headphones tangled on the bedside table. Normal. Messy. Him.

And then there were hers.

A toothbrush resting next to his. Two sets of shoes lined neatly together. Her scarf draped over the back of the couch.

Domestic. Soft. Intimate.

It shouldn’t sting.

You should be happy.

You were happy.

But the ache still bloomed, quiet and traitorous.

Your phone buzzed sharply. Nicole’s name flashed. They’re on their way up.

Your breath hitched. You stood quickly, smoothing your clothes and stepping into the shadowed corner near the entryway.

Seconds stretched themselves into years - then finally: voices in the hallway.

The click of the key card.

Low laughter.

The door opening.

Oscar stepped in first, mid-sentence - then stopped dead.

The decorations caught his eye immediately. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face.

You stepped out.

“Happy belated birthday, Ace.”

His reaction was instant - a full-body jolt, disbelief exploding into joy so bright it made your chest ache.

“What the-” he laughed, before rushing forward and pulling you into a tight, crushing hug.

Your arms wrapped around him on instinct. He smelled like heat and jet lag and something unmistakably him.

“You flew all the way here?” he murmured against your shoulder, almost breathless.

“I told you,” you said softly, pulling back just enough to see his face, “I’m never missing a birthday again.”

Behind him, Lily smiled - warm, encouraging, but with a faint softness in her eyes you couldn’t quite read.

“I’m glad it worked out,” she said gently. “We wanted to make it feel special for you.”

The four of you settled onto the couches, Oscar tearing into his presents with a grin that never dimmed. He thanked you for every one, voice earnest, eyes lingering on you just a second too long each time.

You felt each look in your bones.

Eventually, Nicole stood and stretched. “Right, I’m going to call Chris before I go to bed. I'll see you back in the room?” She smiled at you before taking her leave.

Lily rose too. “I’m just going to freshen up.”

But when she stepped toward the bathroom, she paused - just long enough for her gaze to flick between you and Oscar.

Something unspoken crossed her expression.

“You two look really… happy to see each other,” she said softly.

Your spine straightened instantly. Your hand fell from the cushion between you and Oscar. You stood up - subtle but sharp.

Oscar didn’t move.

And Lily noticed.

You cleared your throat. “I should go anyway, let you both rest. Big day tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Lily murmured, though her eyes lingered on Oscar for a beat too long. “Take your time.”

You gathered your things with shaking hands. Oscar stood beside you, closer than he should be. Closer than you should let him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly - a private gratitude just for you.

You swallowed. “Always.”

You slipped out of the room, closing the door behind you.

The air in the hallway was cooler - but your pulse still burned hot.

Behind the door, you heard a soft laugh.

Oscar’s.

Warm.

Bright.

The kind of laugh he only ever made for you.

And now Lily, too.

July 2026.

There was something different in the air, but you couldn’t place it.

Not wrong. Just… off.

You’d barely heard from Oscar since the night under the tree - the night you kept replaying in your head like a song you were embarrassed to admit you still loved. His excuse had been jet lag. Needing rest.

But you felt the distance like static.

Sparks in the air.

Sparks everywhere.

Alex kept watching you like she knew something had happened, even though you hadn’t told her. You were still trying to convince yourself you’d imagined it - the lean-in, the look on his face, the way his breath had mixed with yours.

Then your phone buzzed.

[13:52] Oscar: You free later?

Your heart lurched.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

You typed back quickly, trying to sound casual.

[13:53] yeah i am :-) where?

[13:54] Oscar: Cool. Track?

Of course. The track.

By the time you got there, the winter wind had settled sharp against your skin, your breath brushing out in little clouds as you pulled your coat tighter.

The karting track looked exactly the same as every memory - the chain-link fence, the quiet hum of old engines, the ghost of eleven-year-old him flickering behind your ribs. So much of your friendship lived here.

And then there he was.

Leaning against the fence like he had never left.

He looked… breath-taking. Moonlit. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

“Hey,” he said softly, smile barely there.

You raised a brow. “Are you trying to be inconspicuous? Is this the price of fame?”

He huffed a laugh. “It’s winter. I’m freezing.”

“Then why did you ask to meet me here?”

He stepped closer - not quite as close as under the tree, but close enough that you could see the flecks in his eyes.

“I wanted to show you something.”

When he held out his hand, everything in you went still.

It was stupid - just a hand. A familiar gesture in a familiar place. But it felt like something new, something dangerous. His eyes were soft but daring, like he already knew you’d take it.

And you did.

His hand was warm. Too warm. You forced your lungs to keep working.

He tugged gently. “Come on.”

You followed him through the fence and down the gravel path. The small white building came into view, its door slightly warped from years of heat. It smelled like rubber and sun-bleached leather inside - the scent of childhood.

The walls were covered in photos. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Frozen moments of kids chasing impossible dreams.

“Every time I come home, I come here,” Oscar said quietly, leaning against the doorframe as he watched you roam the room. “It reminds me why I’m doing this. How far I’ve come.”

Your chest tightened. Of course he had this place. Of course he kept coming back.

You drifted along the wall until he nodded toward the far left.

“My favourite one’s over there.”

You recognised it instantly. Little Oscar, gap-toothed grin, red and white suit unzipped, a first-place trophy almost too big for his hands. Pride radiated from the photo like sunlight.

“I remember this day,” you whispered, smiling. “We were all so proud of you.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t turn, but you felt him - the warmth of his body at your back, the faint brush of air as he leaned in.

“Every time I think I’m not good enough,” he murmured, “I think of this photo.”

A shiver ran through you.

“You know what I love most about it?” he asked.

“Winning?” you teased, voice breathy.

He huffed a soft laugh. “No.”

He reached forward, his arm brushing yours, and pressed his finger to the glass just beside the frame.

You leaned in.

Squinted.

And then-

There. A small arm, a half face, mid-jump, pigtails flying.

“Me?” you breathed.

“You,” he whispered. “You’re always there. You always have been.”

You held still. Too still. Your chest tightened with every second his breath brushed your cheek.

“Can you look at me? Please?” he whispered.

You turned slowly.

He was close again. Too close. His eyes were warm and wrecked all at once. Like he was begging you to hear something he didn’t know how to say.

“You’ve always been there,” he repeated, voice barely a whisper. “Even when you weren’t.”

Your eyes burned.

“Every time I doubted myself… I thought about you.”

Your breath hitched.

Something in your chest cracked open.

He stepped closer.

“Last year - your letter-”

“Osc,” you whispered desperately. “Please.”

“Just let me-”

“No. Please.” You took a shaky breath. “We promised we wouldn’t do this.”

He looked confused. Hurt. “I just want to-”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” Your voice rose, cracking. “You’re going to talk about the letter and about Lily and about how you need me and I can’t - Oscar, I can’t keep doing this.”

He froze.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” you went on, tears finally spilling. “I’m happy she’s good for you. But this - whatever this is - it’s confusing and unfair. To me. To her.”

He stepped forward, enclosing you between him and the wall, voice strained. “If you would just let me finish, I could tell you-”

“I don’t need to hear it.”

He stared at you. Really stared.

The hurt in his eyes was sharp.

Too sharp.

“Fine,” he said quietly. "Forget it."

His voice was rough, angry, a voice he had never used with you before. He brushed past you - gentle, always gentle - and opened the door. Winter air flooded in.

He didn’t look back when he left.

You stayed frozen, tears blurring the photos on the wall, your breaths shallow and uneven.

Only when he disappeared from view did your legs finally give in, and you sank against the cold wall.

You’d wanted to protect yourself. You’d wanted to protect him. You’d wanted to protect her.

But all you’d done was break him. And he didn’t wait for you this time.

Not like he always did before.

May 2026.

“Happy birthday.”

Oscar’s voice filled your dark bedroom - soft, warm, and half-whispered - right as the clock blinked 00:01.

You smiled into your pillow, tired but lighter than air. “You didn’t have to get up early for this.”

“Yes, I did. Plus It's like nine here, I didn’t even get up that early,” he beamed, sitting up straighter. His hair was mussed, the skin of his shoulders flushed from the Miami sun. “I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday.”

You’d never admit how your heart reacted - how it ricocheted against your ribcage, how the sound of his voice made the distance between continents feel like nothing more than a thin sheet of glass.

“Thank you, Osc,” you whispered, voice low and blurry with sleep. “Means a lot.”

“Did you get your gift?” he asked immediately, eyes sparkling like he couldn’t hold the excitement in any longer.

You nodded, shifting upright so the screen wouldn’t fall onto your face. The box of sweets he’d sent sat beside you - every packet from a different stop on the calendar. Things you’d mentioned once, casually, months ago. Things he’d remembered.

Of course he had.

“I can’t believe you actually bought all of these,” you laughed. “Though the signed McLaren cap was a bit much.”

He sighed dramatically. “Blame Lando. He thought it was hilarious.”

“Well, it’ll fetch a good price on eBay,” you teased. “Could pay my rent.”

Oscar laughed, soft and genuine, warming your chest. “You don’t have to sell it. I’ll get you something proper when I’m home.”

“This is a proper present.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes lingering just a moment too long. “But I want to do more.”

Silence bloomed - comfortable, intimate, terrifying.

Birthdays had always been your soft spot with him. He’d been there for every one until the years you stopped speaking. You used to stay up until midnight as kids, counting down the seconds. He used to draw handmade cards. You used to sneak out to stare at the stars because he’d said birthdays felt bigger under the night sky.

And now he was here again - at midnight - like nothing had changed and everything had.

You swallowed. “How was Miami?”

His face lit up as he talked about the race weekend - the speed, the atmosphere, the sun. You listened with your cheek pressed to your pillow, half-dreaming, half-awake, watching the way his face animated when he talked about the thing he loved.

He asked about your plans with Alex, teased you for letting her throw a party, joked about the chaos that would inevitably unfold.

Then his voice dropped - barely a breath.

“I wish I was there.”

Your stomach tightened.

“It’s probably for the best,” you murmured. “You’d get mobbed the moment you walked in.”

“They wouldn’t get the chance,” he said, softer than soft. “I wouldn’t leave your side.”

The breath caught in your throat. He didn’t sound like he was joking. He didn’t sound like the boy you used to know. He sounded like a man trying to say something without the courage to say it.

Your pulse tripped.

“Um- how’s Lily?” you blurted out, desperate to break the tension building in your voice.

You saw it immediately - the hesitation. The way his eyes dropped. The tiny exhale he didn’t quite hide.

“Yeah- she’s good,” he said. “Fine.”

A beat.

“Actually, I- We- I don’t want to talk about her. I want to talk about you.”

Your heart stuttered. But you didn’t let yourself think. Didn’t let yourself fall into the space his words created.

So you pivoted. Fast.

Another story, another distraction.

He let you - he always let you.

Even when it hurt him.

At some point between his recount of qualifying and a dumb story about Lando, your eyes drifted shut. Your breaths evened out. You didn’t realise sleep had won until you woke the next morning to the sharp buzz of your alarm.

Sunlight crept through your curtains. Your phone buzzed with notifications - texts, DMs, birthday wishes flooding your lock screen. You rubbed your eyes and smiled softly at each one.

Then you saw it.

A message from Oscar. A single photo.

You opened it - and your breath caught.

It was a screenshot.

Of you. Asleep.

Face pressed to your pillow, hair messy, lips parted.

And Oscar smiling at the camera - soft, warm, eyes full of something you didn’t have the courage to name.

He looked happy.

Not race-win happy.

Not McLaren-media-day happy.

But something else. Something gentle.

Something meant for you.

Below it:

[01:51] Oscar: Happy birthday. P.S. You snore when you sleep xx

Your heart clenched so painfully you had to grip your sheets. Because for a moment - just a moment - it felt like he was yours.

And that was the best and worst birthday present of them all.

July 2026.

You could tell Oscar was mad at you.

He’d texted to make sure you got home safe - but after that, nothing. Silence thick as fog. You’d replayed every second from the track, trying to pinpoint the exact moment he shifted. But your mind kept circling one thing:

His eyes.

The way they glistened like he was holding something back. The way they begged you to listen. The way they undid you.

It reminded you of being twelve, when he’d asked you to spend the holidays with his family, and you’d chosen instead to wait for some boy in your class to text you. You still remembered the wobble of Oscar’s lip, the hurt in his eyes. He didn’t speak to you for three days until he finally cracked, apologising even though you were the one who’d hurt him.

And now, twenty-four hours since the track, you felt like you’d hurt him all over again.

You lay sprawled across the couch, buried in a blanket, while Alex hummed in the kitchen, the smell of her pasta sauce filling the apartment with warm, homey comfort.

You checked your phone again.

Still nothing.

You groaned loudly into a cushion. When you pulled it away, Alex was standing over you with her arms crossed.

“What?” you deadpanned.

“Are you planning to be this dramatic all night? I worked eight hours and I’m still making you dinner, so I think you owe me eye contact.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled, giving her a pathetic smile.

“So?” she prompted. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or just pout into that cushion until morning?”

You sighed. “He hasn’t texted me back.”

“Who?”

“Oscar.”

“So?” she said again, returning to the stove.

“Well… it’s not like him.”

“Is it not?”

You threw your arms out helplessly. “I think I upset him.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And will you stop being annoying?”

She rolled her eyes but came to sit beside your head on the sofa. “I can’t help you if all you give me is ‘he hasn’t texted.’ You need to actually tell me what happened.”

You exhaled, long and defeated. “He tried to bring up the letter again… and I shut him down.”

Alex stared at you. “Did he say anything else?”

“I didn’t exactly give him the chance.”

She blinked once. Then burst out laughing.

“This is not funny.”

“It is,” she insisted. “Because you’re both idiots.”

You glared. She ignored it.

“Look,” she said, “I get wanting boundaries. But he’s clearly trying to talk to you. And you’re clearly terrified of hearing whatever he has to say.”

“I’m not terrified,” you argued.

One raised brow from her proved you were.

You slumped deeper into the couch. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

“Talk to him,” she said simply. “Before he leaves again. Before this turns into ten more years of silence."

Her words hit you in the chest. She was right. You hated it when she was right.

So you made a decision.

After dinner, you texted him.

Nothing.

You paced your room.

Nothing.

It wasn’t like him. And worry gnawed at you more than anger ever could.

So you made another decision.

Which was how you ended up standing outside his house, breath fogging in the cold air as you knocked.

Warmth hit you immediately - the familiar hum of Piastri chaos behind the door. Nicole opened it with her usual sunbeam smile.

“Sweetheart! Come in, you must be freezing.”

You stepped inside, heart thudding. “Is Oscar in?”

“He’s out with Chris, but they’ll be home soon if you want to wait?”

You nodded, kicking off your shoes. You greeted his sisters - loud, bright, wonderful - before Nicole pulled you into the kitchen and handed you a mug.

You tried to sip. Tried to breathe. Tried to quiet the storm in your chest.

Nicole watched you too carefully. You knew that look.

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “is everything okay?”

“Yes,” you lied, staring at your mug.

She didn’t buy it. But her smile didn’t falter. It never did.

“I don’t like to meddle,” she began, and your heart clenched because the last time she said that, she handed you the postcard that changed everything.

“But I also can’t sit here and watch the two of you dance around each other forever.”

She left the room before you could speak, footsteps fading upstairs.

You blinked after her, confused - until she returned holding something white. Folded. Old. No, not old. New.

A letter.

Your stomach dropped.

“Now,” she said softly, “Oscar will probably kill me for this. And I know the two of you would have sorted things out eventually. But I can’t watch you keep hurting each other out of fear.”

She placed the letter in your hands.

“I think you should read this,” she whispered. “And then please talk to him.”

She squeezed your arm, then slipped into the living room, shutting the door behind her to give you privacy.

You stood alone in the kitchen.

Hands shaking. Breath trapped in your throat.

Slowly, carefully—

You opened the letter.

And the first line stole the breath straight from your lungs.

5th July 2026.

Your phone buzzed at your desk - once, twice, then continuously like it was trying to crawl across the wood. You frowned, pulling your eyes from a half-written email.

Oscar.

A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. He’d won yesterday. Silverstone. The kind of win that made nations shout and mothers cry. You’d watched the whole thing at two a.m., hands pressed to your mouth, heart rising with him on that podium.

You expected celebrations. Champagne. Press. A whole paddock swarming him.

You didn’t expect him to call you.

You answered immediately.

“Hello, Ace.”

A breath - then a voice, slurred and warm and absolutely not sober.

“I’m so glad you answered. Did I- did I wake you?”

You snorted. “It’s ten in the morning. I’m at work.”

“Oh. I forgot.” He laughed, loose and messy. “I wanted you to answer, but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

God, he was so drunk. That familiar ache pulled tight under your ribs.

“Are you still out celebrating?”

You hoped he could hear the pride in your voice.

“No, I’m back in my room.” A hiccup. Something thumped - him, probably hitting a wall or bed. “Lando gave me shots. Evil shots.”

“You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow.”

“I already hate myself," He paused. “Except right now. Because you answered.”

Your breath caught.

“I told you- I always answer.”

A quiet beat.

“I wish you were here.”

Your pulse stuttered painfully.

“You’ll be home soon.”

“It’s not the same,” he mumbled. “I want you here. I want to win and then see your face. I want-” He cut himself off abruptly.

“What?” you asked softly.

“Nothing.”

You waited.

Then, quietly:

“No one ever gets me like you do.”

A slow, dangerous warmth crawled up your spine.

“Oscar…”

“I mean it.” His voice dropped to something raw. “I miss you. I want to see you.”

“Oscar, you’re drunk.”

“I know.” A small laugh. “But I still miss you.”

Your throat tightened. You pressed the phone harder to your ear as if that would steady anything.

“Is Lil-”

“Don’t,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask about her.”

Your stomach dipped. “Oscar- she’s your girlfriend. I’m just-”

“You’re not ‘just’ anything,” he cut in, sloppy but sharp. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

“You don’t have to snap at me.”

“I’m not snapping, I’m-” He groaned, frustrated. “You always do that.”

“Do what?” Your own voice pricked; an old wound, touched.

“You act like I’m choosing everyone except you.”

You swallowed hard.

“You never choose me,” you whispered, trying - failing - to sound light.

“Yes I do,” he insisted, drunkenly earnest. “I always do. You just don’t see it.”

Silence stretched - thick, unsteady, filled with all the words neither of you had the courage to put into the light.

Then he spoke again, softer:

“She isn’t here.”

You froze. “Well… yeah. She probably went back to her room. It’s late.”

Another silence. Different this time.

Sad. Heavy.

“No,” he said quietly. “She’s… not here.”

Your stomach twisted - but you told yourself he meant physically. Not… anything else.

Before you could say anything, he whispered, almost desperate:

“Say my name again.”

Your breath hitched. “What-”

“Please. I… I like how you say it.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead. “You’re making this difficult.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t want to make it hard. I just-” He breathed out, shaky. “I want to talk to you. I always want to talk to you.”

Your heart felt lodged somewhere between your ribs.

“You should sleep,” you whispered. “You’re drunk. You’ll regret this in the morning.”

“I won’t,” he said instantly. “I’d never regret anything with you.”

It hurt. God, it hurt.

“Oscar… what are we doing?”

He let out a soft, tipsy laugh. “Talking?”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Talking.”

“I don’t want to stop.” His voice thinned, softened. “Stay on the phone. Don’t hang up.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.”

A rustle as he shifted. “Can you… keep talking? Just until I fall asleep?”

Your heart cracked open. “Of course.”

You whispered about your day, your job, the weather - nonsense that somehow felt sacred. His breaths grew slower, heavier, sleep-dragged.

He said your name once - soft, almost reverent.

Then:

“I want to tel-”

The words dissolved into a sigh.

A pause.

A soft snore.

You sat frozen, trembling, the phone hot in your hand.

And despite everything - despite the boundaries, despite the ache, despite the words that almost became something - You didn’t hang up.

You stayed. Listening to him breathe. Like you used to.

July 2026.

Your head was spinning.

Too hot, too cold, too everything all at once. Your pulse hammered against your ribs like it was trying to break free. The letter trembled violently between your fingers, ink blurring every time another tear slipped down your cheek.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

The kitchen felt too small, too bright, too alive with memories of him. You pressed your free hand to the table to steady yourself, but even the wood felt unsteady under your palm.

You read the letter again - or pieces of it - the words slashing through every fear you’d ever held:

He loved you. He loves you. He always had.

He tried to tell you. You never let him.

And worse - Lily was gone.

They’d broken up.

In April.

Because of you.

A sob ripped out of you before you could stop it, loud enough that you slapped a hand over your mouth to muffle it. You could hear laughter from the living room, distant, warm, a cruel contrast to the storm tearing through your chest.

You wanted to run.

Needed to run.

But your feet wouldn’t move.

Then - footsteps. Hesitant. Approaching.

You froze as the kitchen door handle turned.

Oscar stood in the doorway.

He stopped dead.

You must’ve been a sight - eyes swollen, cheeks wet, hands shaking, the letter limp and ruined in your grasp. His expression cracked in real time, confusion melting into guilt, into fear, into something deeper. Something raw.

“You… weren’t supposed to see that yet,” he said, voice breaking. He closed the door behind him softly, shutting out the noise from the rest of the house. Now it was just him. And you. And everything between you that had been buried for too long.

Your breath hitched into a sob.

“You should have told me,” you whispered, but the words scraped out sharp, wounded.

“I tried.” His voice shook. “God, I tried so many times.”

“You had a girlfriend, Oscar.” It fell out harsher than you intended, splintering in the space between you.

He flinched.

“I know. And I need to explain that-”

“You can’t just say you love me now. You can’t just - you don’t get to drop that in my lap like it’s nothing.” Your chest was tight, your throat burning. “It doesn’t work like that.”

He swallowed hard. He looked like he wanted to step closer - you saw the impulse in the twitch of his fingers - but he forced himself still.

Silence stretched.

Heavy. Breaking at the seams.

“Can I please explain?” he asked quietly. A crack in his voice. Bare. Vulnerable.

You nodded - barely.

“We broke up a few months ago. And I’ve been trying to tell you ever since. You wouldn’t let me speak, so I thought- I thought if I wrote it down, maybe this time you’d actually hear me.”

A tear slid down your chin. You scoffed, but it came out wounded, not cruel.

“I never wanted you to break up because of me," You looked down. Shame soaked every word. “I told you I don’t want a love I steal. I want to deserve it. I want to be loved because of who I am.”

“That’s why I didn’t want you to read that yet,” His voice trembled. “Because it wasn’t finished. Because I wasn’t done saying what you deserve to hear.”

He took one step closer. You took one back, chest heaving. If he stood any closer, you would unravel completely.

“Please,” Oscar whispered. “Just let me-”

“I can’t do this.”

Your voice broke on the last word. You dropped the letter on the table like it burned you.

And then you fled.

He tried to catch your arm - instinctively, desperately - but you jerked away before he could touch you. You couldn’t bear the weight of his hands. Not right now. Not with all this tearing through you.

You stumbled out of the kitchen, out of the hallway, out the front door into the cold night air.

The porch light cast everything in soft gold as you rushed halfway down the path, trying to breathe through the chaos in your chest.

Behind you, the door slammed open.

“Will you just-” His voice cracked loud and hoarse into the night. “Please stop running from me and let me speak!”

You froze.

Turned slowly.

Oscar stood in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes bright like he’d been fighting tears. His jaw was tight, but his expression wasn’t anger - it was heartbreak.

He walked toward you. Not close enough to touch.

But close enough that you could feel the heat of him in the cold air.

“I didn’t lose her because of the letter,” he said, breathing unsteady. “I lost her because I kept choosing you.”

Your breath caught.

“She broke up with me because every time something happened - a win, a bad day, a stupid joke - I wanted to tell you first. I always wanted to tell you first. I’ve been trying to stop doing that for years and I just… I can’t.”

His voice finally cracked.

“She saw us in Bahrain. She saw the way I looked at you. She saw the way you looked at me,” He laughed - soft, broken. “She knew before I did.”

You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you whispered, voice splintering.

“I mean every fucking word,” he said, stepping closer. “Everything I wrote. Everything I’ve been trying to say for months. For years. I just didn’t have the courage.”

You shook your head, tears falling faster.

“I don’t know if you want me, or if you just miss what we used to be.”

His expression shattered.

“Are you joking?” he breathed. “It’s always been you. Since we were kids. I just realised too late - and then I lost you. And I refuse-” His voice cracked fully this time.

“I refuse to lose you again.”

That broke you.

Your knees buckled - just barely - and he moved on instinct, hands reaching.

This time, you didn’t pull away. You collapsed into him, burying your face in his chest as sobs tore free. His arms wrapped around you immediately, fiercely, like he’d been waiting his whole life to hold you like this.

He held you.

Warm. Solid.

Breathing hard like he’d run through every version of the future that didn’t include you - and rejected all of them.

Your fingers curled into the collar of his coat, desperate, terrified, hopeful.

And he lowered his head, voice a soft wreck against your hair.

“You don’t have to say anything tonight,” he whispered. “Just… don’t run from me anymore.”

And in his arms - finally, finally - you let yourself sink into him.

Five days earlier.

Oscar couldn’t sleep. He’d been tossing and turning for hours, sheets twisted at his waist, the faint glow of his phone blinking at him like an accusation.

His childhood room felt too small, too heavy with memories. His coat hung on the back of the door, still damp from the rain. Every time he glanced at it, he thought of you - how soft you looked when he saw you again, how close he had come to finally telling you everything he’d buried for more than a decade.

The walls around him felt alive with ghosts. All the moments he’d been too young, too scared, or too stupid to say the truth out loud.

He thought of being six, when he’d realised your laugh made him feel something he couldn’t explain. How losing a game to you never felt like losing.

He thought of being twelve. How you cried after the school play cast list went up, and how something inside him cracked simply because you were hurting. How he’d walked home beside you, hands brushing, wishing he were brave enough to reach for yours.

A few weeks later, when you told him you were waiting for a message from a boy in your class, the ache in his chest had been sharp and unfamiliar. It wasn’t jealousy, not then. It was the dawning realisation that you might never look at him the way he looked at you.

He thought about the day he told you he was moving. How you hugged him like you were losing oxygen - and how he almost kissed you then. Almost.

He thought of every late-night call when he was lonely in England and how he wished, every time, that you’d call first.

He thought of seeing you again last year - how one look at you had knocked the breath from his lungs. Still you. Always you.

He remembered Bahrain, the surprise, how his whole chest had opened the moment he saw your face in his hotel room. Like something locked inside him finally clicked back into place.

He remembered Silverstone, calling you drunk, whispering your name into the speaker because it felt like the only thing in the world that made sense.

He thought about the kart track. Bringing you back to the beginning because he didn’t know how else to show you that every version of him - then and now - was yours.

And finally, he thought about your letter. The one you’d slid beneath his door all those years ago. The one he didn't read at first. The one he eventually memorised. The one he kept folded inside a worn wallet sleeve, carried across continents because it was the closest he’d ever been to knowing the truth about how you felt.

He sat up suddenly, breath shaking.

Enough running. Enough almosts.

In the quiet of his childhood bedroom, Oscar shoved back the blankets, opened his desk drawer, pulled out a pen and blank paper - finally began to write you back.

July 2026.

You were both sitting next to each other. Arms pressed together. Breathing uneven, like neither of you had quite recovered from everything that had just happened.

The treehouse didn’t offer much warmth, but it offered what you needed more - distance from the world. No eyes. No interruptions. Just you, him, and the quiet creak of old wood beneath too-long legs.

You’d finally stopped crying. Mostly. Just the occasional hiccup that came after you’d sobbed too hard for too long. Your eyes were raw, your lips bitten, your whole face warm and achey.

Oscar hadn’t let go of your hand.

He wasn’t squeezing, wasn’t clinging - he was simply there. A steady anchor pressed into your palm. His thumb brushed across your skin every now and then, like he was reminding himself you were really here.

His other hand rested in his coat pocket, but his body angled subtly toward you. Like he couldn’t help it.

You clutched his letter in your free hand. Crumpled and soft from being held too tight. He’d given it back to you the second you were both inside, almost pleading.

“Read it again,” he’d whispered. “Read it properly.”

So you had.

Now you were sitting in the same place you once sat cross-legged at ten years old, eating melted ice lollies and promising you’d always be best friends.

Somehow, it felt like you’d been making your way back to this moment ever since.

The boards groaned as he shifted - inching closer. Your knees touched now. The warmth there was small but electric.

Your gaze traced over the carvings in the walls - initials you both etched with blunt pencils, posters that had aged and curled, still clinging on. Still surviving.

Just like you two.

“I always thought…” he said softly, voice just above a breath, “if we ever figured it out, it would be here.”

You let out a tiny, shaky hum. Your fingers curled tighter around his.

“I’m sorry for running,” you whispered. “I’m sorry I always run.”

He shook his head immediately. “Don’t apologise. I’m not angry you ran.” He paused, swallowing. “I was scared you wouldn’t stop.”

You let out a laugh - small, broken. “My head was a mess.”

“So was mine,” he admitted, voice low. “Every time I thought I was over you… it wasn’t real. It was just buried. And when I saw you last year- it all came back at once. And I missed you. Us. But I think…” he huffed out a quiet, helpless laugh, “I think deep down, it’s always been more.”

The air between you shifted - warm, tight, trembling.

You stared at your joined hands, then slowly lifted your gaze to his.

“I was scared you’d lose someone amazing because you were stuck in something that should’ve stayed in the past.”

He shook his head hard - resolute. “I didn’t lose her because of you. I lost her because I never stopped choosing you.”

Your breath caught. Something inside you clicked into place - a truth you’d been circling for years.

The wind rustled outside the treehouse. Neither of you moved.

“Are you going to run again?” Oscar asked quietly. And God - his voice was terrified.

“Not if you ask me to stay.”

His exhale was shaky. His eyes softened, almost shining. He lifted his free hand, hesitating for a heartbeat - giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers brushed your cheek. Tentative. Reverent. Like he was memorizing you all over again. The touch was warm and grounding.

You raised your own hand - paused - then touched his face. A feather-light graze of fingertips along his jaw.

For a moment you pulled back, instinctively protecting yourself.

But he caught your wrist gently. Brought your hand right back to his cheek.

“Don’t look away from me,” he said softly. “I’m not going to kiss you until you tell me you want me to.”

Your breath faltered. Your heart punched against your ribs. His eyes were impossibly tender, patient and so full of want it nearly broke you.

You leaned forward.

He did too.

Your foreheads touched first - the quietest collision. Your noses brushed. Your breaths mingled in warm clouds.

“Oscar…” you whispered.

His thumb swept across your cheek, slow and steady.

“Let me love you,” he murmured, “the way I’ve always wanted to.”

Your answer was a nod. A silent yes. A surrender.

And he finally closed the distance.

The first touch of his lips was barely a kiss - more like a question. A breath. A tremble. A promise.

You let out a small sound - a squeak, a sigh, something helpless and wanting - and that was all he needed.

He kissed you properly then. Soft, slow, reverent. A decade poured into a single moment.

Your hand slid into his hair, fingers curling, pulling him closer as the years you’d both spent holding back snapped like overstretched thread.

And the kiss deepened - not frantic, but sure. Certain. Like finding home after being lost too long.

He tasted like mint and winter and everything you’d ever wanted. Everything you were terrified to hope for. Everything that had been waiting for you.

And you knew - with absolute clarity - you weren’t running anymore.

December 2026.

The noise was indescribable.

You’d thought you understood paddocks by now - the chaos, the electricity, the roar that lived in the ground itself - but tonight was different.

Tonight, every heartbeat in Yas Marina felt synced to one thing.

Him.

You stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Nicole and his sisters, Oscar’s cap pulled low over your eyes. Your shirt had his number printed across the back, the fabric clinging to you in the desert heat. Cameras swept the pit wall, teams pressed so tightly together it felt like the air itself was holding its breath.

And then you heard it.

“Piastri, last lap - bring it home.”

Your stomach twisted, but your mouth curled into a smile because you knew that tone - calm, controlled, reverent.

They already believed in him.

You did too.

You always had.

You leaned forward against the barrier as the cars tore down the straight, the final lap unfurling beneath the floodlights. Purple sectors flashed across the screen.

Your pulse raced with him.

Nicole grabbed your hand.

“Breathe,” she whispered, laughing through nerves. “He’s got this.”

And you did breathe - barely - as the final corner approached.

A heartbeat.

A blur of papaya.

Then-

“AND OSCAR PIASTRI IS YOUR 2026 FORMULA ONE WORLD CHAMPION!”

The world detonated.

Screams, cheers, arms thrown into the air. Mechanics surged forward. Orange confetti fell from somewhere you couldn’t see. You felt your own knees wobble as adrenaline crashed through you like a wave.

You didn’t even realise you were crying until Edie threw her arms around you.

“He did it!” she shrieked in your ear. “He actually did it!”

And he had.

Oscar Piastri. World Champion.

You pressed a hand over your mouth, trembling as the team sprinted toward the pit wall, everyone desperate to be the first to reach him.

But he wasn’t running to them.

The second he climbed out of the car - helmet off, hair damp, grin wide and disbelieving - his eyes swept the crowd like he was searching for air in a burning room.

And then he found you.

Your breath left you completely.

His whole face cracked open - relief, pride, joy, and something softer. Something older than all of this.

He moved before you did.

Through mechanics. Through cameras. Through chaos.

Straight to you.

You met him halfway, legs barely steady as he laughed - a broken, joyful sound - and pulled you into him with such force you were lifted off the ground.

“I told you,” he whispered against your neck, voice shaking, breath warm. “I told you I wanted you here.”

You smiled through your tears, fingers curling in the back of his race suit.

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

He pulled back then - just enough to look at you. To really look at you.

The floodlights caught on his freckles, the ones you used to count in the treehouse. His chest was rising fast, but his eyes… His eyes were steady.

And full.

He cupped your cheek with one gloved hand.

“You were the first person I ever wanted to win for,” he said softly. “And the last.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in.

And under the roar of thousands of fans, under fireworks and champagne spray, under the culmination of a decade-long desperation - he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t loud.

It was everything.

Full-circle.

Inevitable.

Yours.

His arms tightened around your waist, holding you in place as if anchoring you to this moment - the moment he’d dreamed about long before he even had the language for it.

When he finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, he whispered: “We started here,” he breathed, “and we’re not even close to finishing.”

Your smile grew impossibly wide.

“So what now?”

His grin was boyish, breathless, grand.

“Now?” He laced his fingers with yours. “Now you come celebrate with your world champion.”

And you did.

Hand in hand.

Into forever.

obislittleone

This was so good p1 and p2 😍😍