Draco Malfoy has been your friend ever since you were kids and you’re always the one apologizing for him
Not your average Slytherpuff couple
A cute hogwarts au with Slytherin!Edmund and Hufflepuff!Reader
Lost time:
A kind of social media au about two friends realizing their love for the other and regretting the lost time they spent being just friends. —Finished series
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
warnings: emotional abuse, parental pressure, implicit arranged marriage, childhood emotional trauma, emotional restraint, disappearing acts, unresolved tension, quiet grief, royal duty vs personal desire, slow ache, soft devastation.
word count: 2.3k
TAGLIST: @ilocuras24
a/n: YAAAAY! I'M BACK. it was a really rough time, but it's over now! i was dying to update the series, and i really hope everyone likes what i've done here. it's a slightly longer chapter (and with more developments, hehe) to make up for the days without updates! comment below if you'd like to be included in the tags!!!!
PRESENT DAYS
The night drags on.
Now Max is in his penthouse, in his pyjamas, lying comfortably on the huge double bed with his cats and exactly three pillows.
He rolls over and almost crushes Jimmy.
The cat gets startled and jumps up, disturbed. He looks at Max with eyes full of surprise at the betrayal and gracefully gets out of bed. Sassy accompanies him outside, but not before casting an accusatory glance back over her shoulder. And Max watches as they leave in the dim light.
Dramatic kids.
His eyes close again and his hand goes to his forehead.
Max tries to block out the thoughts.
The position doesn't last long because he reaches out to turn on the lamp.
What is he thinking?
To be honest, not even Max knows.
You are on the other side of town, equally awake as you stare at the expensive dress you brought to the party in your hands.
Red with small orange gems.
It was supposed to look like fire, but now it just looks too colorful.
Your mind doesn't stop for a second. It's in the room, in the dress, in the palace, and especially in a few hours ago, when you got off the plane — uncertain, out of place, anxious, and a little flustered.
Your thoughts always take you to dangerous places. Places you've always avoided pursuing. Blue eyes full of an impersonality that is easily dismantled when seen up close.
You close your eyes tightly and bring the dress close to your face. Breathing in the smell of the new fabric grounds you for a brief second. You put your feet on the floor and feel the cold tile make your body shiver when the soles touch it.
You hang up the dress and let your forehead touch the wood of the wardrobe.
On the other hand, Max still struggles with insomnia. When he finally falls asleep, the childish anxiety that devours him leads his dreams to memories that should have been forgotten years ago.
PAST DAYS
The high society ball was happening and Max was watching.
He was a guest, he had the right to be there, it wasn't a working day. However, everything seemed so boring.
He was alone. Charles had been a jerk during riding practice that afternoon, almost causing him to fall off his horse and then saying it was no big deal. An incident that didn't need to be taken into account. Well, Max didn't want to talk to him now. So he stood there, leaning against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his perfectly pressed trousers, watching Victoria steal sweets from the tables as an excuse to look at something else.
You were talking to your group. The three princesses and two other girls he didn't recognise. You looked happy, light-hearted in a way that only you were. When your smile grew a little wider, Max had to look away.
He wasn't jealous, but he wanted you to be talking to him, not them.
Someone bumps into his elbow.
Max barely reacts at first, only shifts his weight, annoyed at the interruption — until he looks down.
Lando.
Too small for the room, too energetic for the occasion, weaving his way through the crowd with absolutely no regard for personal space. His mouth is stained purple from grape juice, and his bow tie is crooked in a way that feels intentional.
He stops right in front of Max and looks up at him, squinting.
“You’re doing the wall thing again,” Lando says, accusatory.
“I’m standing,” Max replies flatly.
Lando hums, unconvinced, then follows Max’s line of sight without being subtle about it at all.
“Oh,” he says. “You’re watching the girls.”
Max stiffens and grimaces in disgust.
“I’m not,” he says immediately.
Lando grins — sharp, delighted, dangerous in the way only children who notice too much can be.
“Sure,” he says, and then, mercifully, changes the subject. “Do you want to steal desserts with me? Victoria already took the good ones.”
Max exhales through his nose. “…Fine.”
He doesn't notice, but you see him leave where he was standing. Your neck stretches instinctively, trying to follow his path — the direction Lando is already pulling him toward. Something in your chest tightens, urging you to move.
When you look the other way, your family and the royal family are chatting animatedly about something.
You take a deep breath, look at Max one last time, then turn back to your friends — smiling at the right moments, saying the right things.
PRESENT DAYS
He didn't see you arrive.
Until that moment, there had been quick, curious glances towards the top of the stairs, pretending it was part of the security protocol when, in fact, he wanted to know when you would show up there. Max was waiting for you even though he consciously said he wasn't. Esteban noticed.
He didn't say anything.
When the Wolff family was finally announced, Max wasn't around to see your grand entrance.
You, of course, inevitably scan the room with your eyes, searching for something — for someone — and you don't find it. You hear parallel conversations between the guards who say that Max had to leave to sort some things out with Jos, but you remain impassive, as if overhearing other people's business were no big deal.
Every time you look at a corner, an invisible wave of nostalgia threatens to engulf you. There are so many memories, good and bad, that you almost lose yourself.
But Nicole won't let you.
She and her son, Oscar, dressed in his official royal attire, approach. There are exchanges of polite bows and greetings before it turns into a lively conversation crowned with political caution.
Oscar flashes a small smile, stepping away and pulling you with him, out of the circle of elders.
“I hope you have fun today,” he says, ever the gentleman. “How are you?”
You take a deep breath and smile. As always, you are very good at masking your feelings and intentions.
“Everything’s fine. The party is amazing. I just saw my favourite actress talking to Mae. I think I’ll interrupt them soon,” you reply charmingly, then nod toward the clothes he’s wearing. “And I feel a slight twinge in my head every time the chandelier passes over your insignia and the light reflects in my eyes. There are so many.”
His laugh is inevitable — the classic, almost silent one with the high-pitched interference. It’s very similar to Lando’s, which you hear at that very moment from somewhere in the room.
“Well, it really is over the top,” he says, glancing down at his chest.
The smile fades a little when Nicole touches Oscar’s shoulder, indicating that they need to go. He nods.
“I hope you get to talk to that actress you mentioned. If I can help in any way, don’t hesitate to call me,” Oscar says.
He straightens, offering you one last polite smile.
“Enjoy the night,” he says.
You watch him disappear back into the crowd, perfectly at ease, his mother accompanying him and then distancing herself.
You remain where you are. Your parents have already been taken away by another group, walking to the other side of the hall with the excitement of two people who have just seen old friends.
A waiter walks past, and you grab a glass of champagne just to have something to do with your hands. You don’t drink it right away.
“I like the gems on the dress.”
The accent hits you in the back like a trap.
Startled, you bring a hand to your mouth and slowly turn around.
Max is standing there, holding a glass that mirrors yours.
“Thank you.” You reply, your gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before looking away.
Neither of you moves. Neither of you says anything. He clears his throat and looks away, taking a sip of champagne.
“It’s a nice party,” he says, a small, misplaced euphemism.
You nod and swallow hard.
“It is.”
The music swells somewhere behind you. Glasses clink. Someone laughs too loudly.
“Do you remember the last one?” Max asks, quiet.
You hesitate — just enough to be noticeable.
“Yes,” you say, breath caught.
Max blinks, as if something has crossed his mind too quickly to follow.
“Right,” he says, quieter now.
ONE MONTH AGO
You are on the balcony. The world outside is suspended and you watch it.
Not long ago, you fled the ballroom. Too many people. A world that, until recently, you were merely a spectator of, but now you would be an integral participant.
Your head was a little light from the alcohol, so you wouldn't say you were feeling melancholic. But something was bothering you.
It could have been the tight corset, the lack of air due to the number of people, the heat. Anything. Those would be convincing stories. But it was more than that.
You couldn't tell what it was, so you stayed there.
You're considering going back when someone leans on the railing next to you. He doesn't say anything, he just stays there — staring ahead, like you.
Max doesn't need to announce himself. You know it's him.
You turn to look at him. It's quick. Just enough time to take in his outline.
Perhaps too tired, perhaps influenced by alcohol — and you lie to yourself saying you would do the same if it were anyone else — you let your head rest on his shoulder.
You swallow hard. Max's breathing is ragged.
One. Two. Three seconds.
His hand finds your waist.
One. Two. Three. Four seconds.
He pulls you closer. Your bodies fit together sideways. Neither of you looks at the other's face.
Max feels like he's committing a crime. Stealing something that isn't his.
But you're not something. And he doesn't care about anything else.
PRESENT DAYS
You keep looking at him, but you don't know where to look. Max's gaze meets yours.
He still looks like that boy.
The one sitting next to a tree while you accused him of not being the person you were looking for.
The reality of that statement paralyses you in that instant. Max notices the change in your gaze and inwardly fears something he does not know.
He approaches and takes the glass from your hands. His finger touches yours as they meet, and your body registers it. Max places his glass and yours on the passing tray, and you look at him curiously. It’s like watching Max in obsessive organisation mode as he puts everything in order.
But what for?
Your hands lower slowly, awkward in a moment that feels just as awkward. Max seems to know what he's doing just as little as you do.
But even so, he goes ahead.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks, sounding hesitant and certain at the same time.
You stare at him as if a third eye had just appeared on his face.
“Dance?” you whisper.
He nods once.
“Yes. With me,” he confirms. “Do you want to?”
You look at his hand as if it were a strange object. You open your mouth to refuse, because that is what habit demands. It is what the fear of being seen dictates.
But Max remains there, holding your gaze with the same stubbornness he had at twelve years old.
“People are watching,” you say, your voice faltering.
“This is the court. People are always watching,” he retorts. His voice is dry, but there is an almost imperceptible tremor in his fingertips.
You wait for the interruption.
Nothing happens.
For five seconds, the world forgets to interrupt you. It is this silence that frightens you more than the invitation.
You don’t answer right away.
Your gaze lifts from his hand to his face, searching for something you won’t name. Permission. Consequence. A way out.
Max doesn’t move. He doesn’t rush you. He only waits — rigid, present, entirely there.
Finally, you inhale.
It’s shallow. Careful.
You place your hand in his.
The contact is brief, almost clinical at first, as if both of you are checking whether this is allowed. His fingers close around yours a second later, warmer than you expected, firmer than you were prepared for.
He waits. He wants confirmation.
You nod.
Carefully, Max guides you onto the dance floor.
You don't fit together right away. You stand side by side, out of sync for a minute before deciding to turn towards each other. It's awkward. Your bodies are used to keeping a safe distance of at least two metres. Now, the proximity feels like a system error.
"This is a terrible idea," you whisper, your eyes fixed on his tie knot because looking at Max's face is too dangerous.
"I know," he replies.
His two hands go to your waist and your body responds with memory. In that rudimentary version of touch, Max kept his fingers shy. Now he holds you tight — almost too tight, asking you to stay.
Your hands go to his shoulders and you allow yourself, almost denying, the kindness of looking at his face.
The sight could undo you.
He says nothing. There are no declarations, no flashbacks. But there is a disconcerting honesty in the way Max looks at you.
He always did that.
He always looked at you as if it were the last time he would ever do so.
Your stomach tightens and you have to look away again because it's too much.
Max leans in.
"You're stepping too hard," he murmurs close to your ear. His voice is low, devoid of any obvious emotion, but there's a trace of amusement there.
"I'm trying not to fall," you reply in the same tone.
"I won't let you fall," Max says.
And you believe him.
At that moment, it doesn't matter that people are surely watching. You just glide along without knowing exactly the meaning behind your own actions.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
warnings: emotional abuse, parental pressure, implicit arranged marriage, childhood emotional trauma, emotional restraint, disappearing acts, unresolved tension, quiet grief, royal duty vs personal desire, slow ache, soft devastation.
word count: 3.1k
a/n: this chapter made me sit down, stand up, drink water, think too much, and pretend everything was under control (it wasn’t). what a difficult bunch. after a lot of thinking, writing, and stressing out… it’s done. this one took a while, and i hope you like it!
Packing your bags when you haven't even unpacked the previous ones sounds a bit pathetic. You don't want to get on a jet again.
Of course, it's been a while. A few weeks. You could have solved the suitcase problem, but the idea of going back still haunted you.
You never felt that way before. Whenever you went back there, you had a purpose.
That thought settles heavy in your chest as you fold the last piece of clothing with more care than necessary, as if neatness might make the act feel less real. Life has been like this for so long that you can’t remember a time when staying felt permanent.
In the middle of the process, however, you catch sight of your father's head peeking through the crack in the door, staring at you. He whistles as he always did to get your attention, and you smile weakly, waiting for him to come in.
He steps into the room and sits on the edge of the bed without ceremony, like he’s done a thousand times before. When you pass by him, he reaches out and squeezes your arm gently — grounding.
“You know you could call someone to help you, right?” he says. Not a lecture. A reminder.
You nod. You know he means it. But he knows you too well. Like him, you like the way things turn out when you do them yourself.
A flaw. A quality.
His eyes flick briefly to the open suitcase, then to the dress hanging from the wardrobe door. His eyebrows lift just a little as he points to it.
“I like the dress,” he says. “Very pretty.”
“I bought it with your card.”
There’s no guilt in your voice. No defiance either. Just a silly joke. He hums, amused, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Good,” he replies easily. “That’s what it’s for.”
You look at each other for a moment, then you move to pick up the dress and prepare it for storage. Your father is not leaving yet.
When you finally put the dress into the suitcase, the zip resists. You pull once. Then again, more force than necessary, jaw tightening in quiet frustration.
Before you can try a third time, his hand is there.
“Here,” he says softly.
He leans forward, one knee still pressed into the mattress, steadying the suitcase with one hand while the other guides the zip closed in a single, practiced motion. It clicks into place with a finality that makes your chest ache a little.
For a second, neither of you moves.
His hand lingers on the suitcase. Yours rests on the edge of the bed.
“Everything will be alright. Your mother and I will be there with you,” he confirms, his hand moving from the suitcase to your shoulder. The weight of it is steady. Familiar. “Your friends too.”
Friends. You nod. The word settles somewhere uncomfortable, but you don’t argue with it.
Your father tilts his head just slightly, searching your face — not for answers, just for confirmation that you’re still there. You give him a small smile in return. It’s practiced. Convincing enough.
“I’ll carry it for you,” he says, already reaching for the handle.
You follow your father with your eyes as he leaves. The suitcase in his hand seems to weigh nothing — a superpower you have always appreciated. It seems so light that he still has time to steal a bite of your mother's bagel before leaving the house with her scolding and laughing behind him.
It was at the age of twelve that Max first realised that he had become accustomed to seeing you leave without saying goodbye.
Which, of course, was a lie.
That afternoon, Max saw the plane fly over the palace and he knew you had left.
When that happened, he allowed himself a few quick minutes of fantasy.
About to go home with his mother, Max kept looking at the sky. You were there, in that big metal thing that took you a little further away every minute.
He wondered what you were doing.
Talking to your parents? Writing letters? Enjoying some sweet treats? Sleeping until you got there?
But what he really wanted to know was...
Did you feel like him? Empty?
Perhaps not. That's why you didn't mind saying goodbye.
It was a strange feeling. One he would never name. Max didn't understand exactly what it was, and if he was being completely honest, he didn't want to understand.
It was different. That's why it was a little scary. Max usually didn't care about anyone else's opinion except those who measured his talent with some kind of ruler. But you...
When the thought got there, it was time to stop.
His mother approached, and Max smiled. A small smile. One that didn’t invite questions. She rested her hand on his back and guided him toward the exit.
She didn’t ask about you.
At that time, no one did.
Following the soldiers' training was one of Max's favourite parts of his job. He didn’t have to go through every step of it, but with time spent alternating between the field and the office, he had learned a thing or two.
That afternoon, Max was sparring with Yuki, a nearly childlike smile on his face.
Yuki, much smaller than him, proved to be just as much of a threat as anyone else. It was no wonder he had managed to join the army despite being below the minimum height requirement.
“I’m waiting for you to give me back my opponent,” Pierre complained, raising his boxing glove menacingly toward Max, who dodged a well-aimed punch.
“Just let me finish this guy off and I’m all yours, big guy,” Yuki said, taking the opportunity to try to trip Max.
Max, who never played fair, took a step back and used Yuki’s momentum against him, grabbing his hand, pulling him forward, and knocking him to the ground.
“What the fuck? You didn’t even use the right moves. What a shitty fight,” Yuki cursed, not bothering to get up, raising one hand to shield his face from the sun.
With a surprised laugh, Pierre approached, leaning down beside him, Max following and kneeling as well to check on their friend.
“Mate, you took a nasty fall. Is your head still working?” Pierre asked.
Yuki covered his face completely with one hand and pushed them away with the other, already sitting up.
“Fuck off. Both of you. Both of you,” he complained, scrambling to his feet.
With a click of his tongue, Max stood.
“Look at that,” he said, pointing toward Yuki as he walked away. “He’s doing just fine.”
The conversation was about to continue when Gianpiero’s voice cut through the moment.
Pierre noticed immediately and grimaced at Max, who raised an eyebrow in response, recognising the potential shift. They exchanged a brief handshake and a pat on the back before Pierre turned and joined Yuki.
“I just received the guest list for the gala.” Getting straight to the point, GP held up the printed sheets.
Max leaned in to look, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Jos and Laurent said you’d be responsible for determining the security for the rooms and corridors.”
His posture shifted automatically. Max took the sheets from Gianpiero’s hands, already familiar with the format — the same one used for every patrol decision, every event, large or small. What was different this time was the volume.
Too many names.
Important figures from the city. Public personalities. Others less known, but eager to use the night as an opportunity for visibility. His eyes moved quickly, never lingering, already mapping faces to spaces, entrances to exits. The gala wasn’t just a celebration.
“We’ll need staggered patrols on the west wing,” he said after a moment, tapping the paper once with his finger. “Guest turnover is higher there. No dead zones between the private rooms and the service corridors.”
Gianpiero nodded, following closely. “The Wolffs are arriving tonight. Late.”
Max’s finger paused just for a fraction of a second before continuing down the list.
“Then we double coverage on arrival and keep it discreet,” he replied evenly. “No spectacle. From what I’ve heard, the outcome was… acceptable.” A pause. “We’ll keep it that way.”
Another glance at the list, and Max handed the papers back to Gianpiero.
GP didn’t leave right away. He hesitated, studying Max’s face with the kind of look that meant there was more.
“Laurent asked that you accompany them personally upon arrival,” he said finally. “Damage control. Last time they were here didn’t… land well. You’d be representing King Oscar.” A pause. “It’s diplomatic.”
Max scoffed softly, already turning away.
“I’m not a diplomat. Oscar should go.”
“He said he wanted to go. He insisted,” Gianpiero continued calmly. “George advised against it. Said it would blur the lines.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“You, on the other hand, don’t blur anything. You’re a friend of the king. And to them… you’re still one of the closest people to the former candidate for the throne. It makes sense.”
“Still one of the closest people to the former candidate for the throne?” Max repeated. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Gianpiero met his gaze with a flat, unimpressed look.
Max’s jaw tightened.
“We’ll be waiting for you at the hangar,” GP added, already stepping back.
Then he was gone.
Fucking George.
How many times had you travelled that same route? How many times had the view of the capital impressed you? It was impossible to measure that kind of thing. You could never say when you had been there for the first time. It felt like information imprinted into your DNA.
For you, it was as if you had been born in two places: your country, and that one.
Your mother had been born there — that was how your father had met her. A young woman promised to a man from another nation, one who was just beginning his political career and already seemed very promising. They would be tied to that place forever.
You were the result of that and she was always so excited about going there that time flew by in the blink of an eye.
There were only a few hours left before landing, but now it seemed like days.
You’ve already changed seats three times. You went to the fridge looking for a snack. You watched half an episode of a series and half a film. There’s a small pile of books on the seat next to you, but you don’t reach for any of them — none of the titles seem capable of holding your attention.
You take a deep breath. Shift again. Drink some water. It tastes strange now.
At one point, you walk to the back to find your mother. You talk about the gala in an impersonal way. Dresses. Familiar faces. Comments that hover just on the edge of gossip. It’s nice. For a moment, the tension slips from your shoulders.
But when she says she’s going to get some sleep before landing, the discomfort settles back into your stomach, persistent.
You return to your seat, pull the sleep mask over your eyes, and try. You tug the blanket up to your shoulders, then let them drop, defeated.
Your phone rests in the holder. You reach for it, still blinded by the mask. You know what you’ll do once it’s unlocked, and you hesitate before bringing it closer.
Exhaling, you push the mask up, freeing your eyes to stare at the screen.
Your fingers move on their own.
You don’t send a message. You don’t type anything at all. You just search. You open that already-read thread, Max’s last message hovering there, hollow.
You look at the photo again. Jimmy and Sassy asleep, tangled together. You adore both. You remember when he decided to adopt them a few years ago, saying the penthouse felt too empty.
Maybe it was true. Maybe he meant something else and chose a safer word. It’s always been like that — crossed meanings, replaced words, things left unsaid.
Again, you exhale.
The walk to the hangar wasn’t the problem. That part was easy.
What Max found difficult was standing there afterward — perfectly still, perfectly professional, dressed in a suit that fit him like armour, his face carefully arranged into something impassive.
He had learned how to control many things. Strategy. Timing. Space. Silence. Facial expressions, however, were another matter entirely. They required anticipation. And this was the one variable he couldn’t map out.
There was another problem.
Standing just five steps away, leaning casually against the wall, was George Russell — wearing the wicked smile of someone who had done terrible things and felt no regret whatsoever.
When Max arrived at the hangar, the place was already in full swing. It wasn’t only the Wolffs landing that night — they were simply receiving special treatment. Diplomatic, as Gianpiero had said. Different from the rest because of how delicate the situation was.
Engines hummed in the background. Ground crew moved in efficient choreography. Voices echoed off the concrete. Planning. Order. Everything ran on schedule.
That's when George arrived. Second, preceding Max. And that was a dangerous configuration.
Now they were staring at each other. Max looked ready to push him. George found it amusing.
"You don't look particularly excited, as far as I can judge, sir." George teased.
"Go to hell," Max said sharply.
George’s smile widened just enough to be irritating.
“You know,” he said casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “when anything isn’t going your way…”
He paused, eyes flicking over Max with surgical precision.
“You tend to lash out. A lot of unnecessary anger.”
His head tilted.
“It gets… borderline.”
“That’s not your concern,” Max replied, voice low. Controlled.
George hummed, unbothered.
“Isn’t it?” he asked, amused. “Funny. It always seems to become everyone’s concern when you’re involved.”
Max clenched his fists and was very close to doing something unforgivable when Gianpiero arrived accompanied by Laurent.
He glances at George, signalling that this wasn't over yet, but George just winked at him and approached the other two to greet them.
A diplomatic snake, Max thought.
"I've been informed that they're about to land. Just fifteen more minutes to go, everyone." Laurent announces to them.
When Max turns to look at the sky, he feels that bubbling sensation in his stomach again. Perpetual.
When he turns to the team, Laurent and Gianpiero are talking about something, but George remains silent. He no longer has the smug expression of someone who wants to ruin everything, but seems sympathetic. Softer.
He offers Max a nod that feels more like a question. Max responds with another nod.
Those are the longest fifteen minutes of his life.
When the jet lands, you grip the armrest a little tighter — and it’s not because of the jolt as the wheels touch down.
It’s anticipation.
Through the window, you watch the ground crew move into position. Luggage carts rolling closer. The stairs being wheeled to the exit. Laurent Mekies’ unmistakable grey hair among them.
Your father, who spent most of the flight chatting with the pilot, is the first to disembark.
You watch him step out wearing the wide, effortless smile he reserves for people he genuinely likes. Laurent wasn’t responsible for dismantling his plans, so there’s no reason for awkwardness there.
For some reason, though, he has always had a soft spot for George.
Even though the young man was one of the main figures in Parliament who prevented you from becoming queen — and now holds the same position your father once did, back when Oscar’s father was still king — George is pulled into a hug. From where you stand, it looks proud. Fraternal.
Sometimes your father is an odd figure. Even to you.
It is in this moment, a glass window separating you from the world, that you see him.
Your breath catches before you can control it.
He greets your father. Polite and measured on both sides. There’s laughter you can’t hear from this distance, but you know exactly how it sounds. Not fake. Just restrained.
In the middle of the conversation, when the thread slips from his grasp for just a moment, you see him glance at the jet, like he’s looking for something. It's quick.
Then his eyes are on yours.
It lasts a fraction of a second.
You look away immediately. Caught committing a crime.
The seatbelt sign switches off with a soft chime, and the cabin exhales with you.
Movement starts slowly. Bags are retrieved. Your mother walks past you and makes a passing comment you don’t quite catch. You stand when it’s time, smooth your clothes, collect what little you brought with you. Routine. Muscle memory.
The corridor to the door is empty and a little intimidating, but it’s a path you take because it’s unavoidable. Each step brings you closer to the end of the glass passage, closer to the world you left and never quite escaped.
You don’t look for him again.
Not until the door opens.
The hangar is brighter than you expect. The noise hits first — engines cooling down, instructions being called out, footsteps echoing off concrete. The smell of fuel and metal wraps around everything.
Your father turns back to say something to you, but you barely register it.
He’s there.
You pause on the bottom step just long enough for it to feel slightly awkward, but no one questions it. Then you descend, smiling.
Introductions happen quickly, efficiently. Names you already know. Titles you could recite in your sleep. Hands are shaken. Polite words exchanged. Smiles offered where required.
When it’s Max’s turn, you realise you’ve avoided his gaze the entire way down.
Now, you’re no longer separated by a glass window.
Still, there’s no drama. No hesitation. Max inclines his head slightly. Formal. Respectful. He extends his hand. You take it — and it’s hard not to make too much of it.
Hard to pretend this isn’t a touch you would recognise even in your dreams.
Someone clears their throat, and just like that, the moment fractures.
Laurent gestures toward the waiting cars, already talking about schedules, about timing, about the evening ahead. Your father responds, engaged, relaxed.
Max steps aside to let you pass. When you do, the warmth is unmistakable. Familiar.
You’re guided toward your own car. Your mother is already talking, already carrying you into a conversation you only half-follow.
Before the door closes, you look back. Max lifts his gaze, finding yours.
Once again, it’s quick.
You take your seat.
So does he.
And just like that, the moment is over — folded neatly into protocol, swallowed by motion, carried forward toward a place where everything is about to begin again.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
warnings: emotional abuse, parental pressure, implicit arranged marriage, childhood emotional trauma, emotional restraint, disappearing acts, unresolved tension, quiet grief, royal duty vs personal desire, slow ache, soft devastation.
word count: 2.7k
a/n: i truly loved writing this chapter. this story has been following paths of its own, and those paths have left me very, very soft. it made me emotional in ways i didn’t expect. this is a dense story. it moves slowly. it carries memory, it carries silence, it carries feelings that don’t explode, but settle. feelings that grow from childhood, from small gestures, from things left unsaid. i love these characters deeply. enjoy this reading.
ps: i don’t think i was ready for how much i love them.
PRESENT DAYS
You wake up late. Very late. Your head hurts from the lack of sleep, but at least your body doesn’t feel like a bag of bricks.
For a moment, you sit down, blinking hard, rubbing your eyes before tilting your head back with a long sigh. Don’t ring the bell to call someone to help you — goodness, you’re a fully functional adult woman. You can take care of yourself.
Still half asleep, you force yourself out of bed. You stretch your arms, your spine, then turn slightly to the side. Your reflection stares back at you from the large mirror on the wall. Strange.
You look exactly the same as yesterday.
The thought makes you chuckle, soft and incredulous, because it’s familiar. You noticed the very same thing in that mirror on the morning you turned fifteen.
When your eyes drop to the small sports bag resting by the bed, you know exactly what you’re going to do.
You approve of the idea of keeping your body fully functional, but even you find it strange.
Standing in front of the ballet studio, a wave of familiarity washes over you. It’s been so long since you’ve been near this place that the idea of walking in feels almost intrusive — but you do it anyway.
It’s not class time. Your old instructor is there.
She smiles when she sees you. You smile back.
She doesn’t ask many questions. You walk to the dance floor together. She puts on a song she remembers teaching you to dance to, and you let your body follow the memory.
You float across the room. You glide.
You close your eyes. You feel. You spin. You let your body do what it wants — but it follows the art because it learned how to do so years ago. It feels good to do something you know how to do.
When the world starts to blur, you sit down on the floor. She disappears briefly and comes back with two bottles of water.
“I’m not a queen,” you say, plainly. Almost experimentally, as if testing whether the words will keep their shape once spoken out loud.
Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag, knuckles whitening before you force them to relax.
Your instructor doesn’t stop what she’s doing right away. She finishes adjusting the sound system, lowers the volume just enough for the room to breathe, then turns to you.
“I figured. Sudden?”
Her tone is even. Curious, not alarmed. She crosses her arms loosely, shifting her weight to one leg.
“I don’t know.” Your gaze drifts to the mirrored wall. Your reflection looks composed. Too composed. “I think I saw it happening. Then, the morning before the wedding was cancelled, Oscar talked to me. He asked me what I thought.”
She nods once, slow. Takes it in. Walks closer, stopping at a distance that feels intentional — close enough to be present, far enough not to crowd you.
“And what did you say?”
You swallow. Your shoulders rise with the breath you take, then fall.
“At the time, it felt good.” Your eyes drop to the floor, tracing an old mark on the wood you remember stepping over countless times.
“I agreed.”
She doesn’t interrupt. Instead, she sits on the edge of the bench, resting her hands on her knees, waiting.
“I was unhappy,” you continue, quieter now. “And it seemed like a way to escape that.”
The room fills with the low hum of the speakers, the faint sound of the building settling around you.
You exhale — something between a laugh and a sigh.
“But then…” Your fingers trace an absent line along your forearm. “I don’t know.”
She studies you for a moment longer, eyes soft but sharp — the same eyes that once corrected your posture with a tap to the ribs, that taught you how to fall without breaking.
She doesn’t answer right away.
“Are you sad?”
You flinch almost imperceptibly, then bend forward to pull your trainers off.
“My father didn’t like it,” you say.
She says nothing more.
In the car on the way home, you glance at your phone. You don’t really know what you’re waiting for — only that you are waiting.
No.
You do know.
But it hasn’t come. Not yet.
That night, back at home, restlessness settles in. You open Instagram and scroll. Familiar faces. Familiar events. An entire world happening while you’re on the other side of the continent.
His profile appears. A pink circle around his picture.
You tap it.
It’s a boomerang of Sassy and Jimmy, the two bengals wrestling on the bed. Your smile comes easily, your finger finding the heart without thinking.
The reply arrives seconds later.
A photo this time — the cats asleep on top of each other. Peace restored.
You send a 😻. He answers with 😼.
Then a message.
Max: Good night. Get some rest.
You swallow, nodding to no one. Lock the screen and pull the phone to your chest.
You fall asleep like that, dreaming of dirty blonde hair and blue eyes.
PAST DAYS
That afternoon, when you find Max, he’s alone again. But the way he stands, thoughtful, observant, tells you it’s on purpose.
You, of course, don’t like seeing him at peace like that.
With the mischievous smile of a child ready to ruin someone’s day, you approach on tiptoe. Max notices immediately. He lifts his head, resting it against his hand, and looks at you. His expression doesn’t change.
You stop. Your shoulders slump because you're a little disappointed.
“What are you doing there?” you ask, tilting your head.
He shrugs, gaze returning to the view ahead.
“Are you sad?” you press, unable to leave it alone.
Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move away either. That’s confirmation enough.
Silently, you approach him. Without waiting for permission, you wrap your arms around Max's body, and because he is sitting down, the height difference doesn't matter. It’s an affectionate hug, natural, as if this isn’t the first time you’ve done this.
Max freezes.
“What are you doing?” he asks, carefully. Quietly. Almost afraid.
“I’m hugging you, duh,” you reply, louder than him. “That’s what we do when someone is sad.”
Amidst his awkwardness, Max did not respond or react. It wasn't as if he had never been hugged before, but not like this. He hadn't said anything important, hadn't given a gift, hadn't done anything.
But he doesn’t push you away.
Instead, he closes his eyes.
You smell like grapes. He doesn’t like grapes, but for some reason, it doesn’t bother him. It’s nice. In a strange way.
Just like you.
You pull back too quickly.
“Better?” you ask, studying him like you’re checking whether the medicine worked.
His breathing is still a little awkward, but he steadies it before nodding. It’s all he can give you.
You accept it. A smile spreads across your face.
“I wouldn’t want to fight with you if you were sad,” you say.
“I don’t want to fight,” he replies.
You shrug.
“But you will,” you say easily, settling next to him without invitation. “Because I’m going to do something that’ll annoy you. But it’ll be okay. You’ll understand it’s not serious. And we’ll laugh. It’s fun.”
Max scratches the back of his neck. Everything about everything feels confusing, but he stops asking questions. He does feel better.
And you’re happy.
“Shouldn’t you be with Oscar?” he asks, trying to loosen the knot in his stomach by changing the subject.
You keep your eyes forward, lift one shoulder.
“Yes. I’m going back there. He’s busy right now… I think.” There’s no regret in your voice. “But I’d rather talk to you. He still doesn’t get my jokes.”
You don’t look at him when you say it.
He looks at you anyway.
Then he looks down and sees that your hands are close together on the seat. Max doesn't hold your hand in his, but he moves them closer until his pinky finger intertwines with yours.
You freeze, surprised. He looks straight ahead. You remain like that for a while. Silent.
A small touch, sustaining everything.
PRESENT DAYS
Before the sun rises, Max is already solving problems.
His father isn’t there that morning, so he’s in charge. He doesn’t mind. This is what he knows — building strategy, arranging pieces so the day unfolds without friction.
He’ll train later. Maybe with Charles, if he doesn’t invent a last-minute excuse. It’s happened before.
Gianpiero stands beside him, reviewing the final details before sending them to the Commander. He’s impressed.
“I think you could just change this…” He points to a small detail. “But it’s very good. Where did you learn this?”
Max lets out a low laugh, shrugging.
“I guess I’m just that good.”
Gianpiero snorts, shaking his head.
“You’re dangerous, Max. The Commander will like this. It’s clean. Efficient.”
Max nods, already scanning another page.
“Send a copy to my father,” he says without looking up. “He’ll want to see it.”
Gianpiero nods and leaves.
The sound of his footsteps fades, replaced by silence and the smell of cold coffee and paper. Max stays where he is, eyes fixed on the data, until lighter footsteps approach.
He knows who it is.
Charles knocks once and opens the door.
“Good morning, brave gentleman.”
“Morning,” Max replies, still reading. He straightens the papers, then finally looks up. “You’re early.”
Charles shrugs, dropping into the chair across from him.
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d find you here.”
Max nods, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Yuki will meet us there,” Charles adds, twirling a pen. “Didn’t know if it was exclusive, but he insisted.”
“That’s fine,” Max says. “Yuki’s good. Ten minutes.”
“You’re the boss,” Charles replies.
Training is as usual: punctual, organised, precise.
Max changes his uniform in silence, fastens his watch around his wrist, checks the space around him with an automaticity that was never taught. His body slips into the right mode before he even thinks about it — commands that don’t require consciousness.
Charles appears first, stretching his shoulders with deliberate exaggeration.
“You’re quiet today,” he comments casually, as if talking about the weather.
“I’m always quiet,” Max replies, without looking at him.
Yuki arrives shortly after, tossing his water bottle onto the bench with more force than necessary.
“Not like that,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “Quiet in a different way.”
Max ignores him. Or tries to.
They warm up, start the series. The pace is good. Max’s body responds exactly as it should — fast, controlled, strong in the right measure. He helps his two friends with new techniques he’s picked up along the way. He doesn’t exactly lead, but the others rely on him because they trust the discipline he carries so naturally.
There are small lapses. Nothing an outsider would notice. He just needs to pull his attention back into place.
Then he hears Charles’ voice, but the words don’t register.
“Max.”
He finally looks up.
“What?”
Charles blinks, then repeats the question. Your name sits squarely in the middle of it.
“Do you know if she’s coming to the coronation gala?”
The question hangs heavy between them. Charles watches him closely, and the gleam in his eyes says things Max doesn’t want to admit right now. Among their group of friends, nothing ever stays a secret for long.
“Why would I know that?” Max asks, a little too quickly.
Yuki, who hasn’t stopped training just to be part of the conversation, lets the weights drop onto the mat with a dull thud and plants his hands on his hips, panting. He takes a long drink from his bottle, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks between the two of them.
“So,” Yuki says, tone light but eyes sharp. “That’s a no?”
Max exhales through his nose, a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He remembers the previous night, the brief exchange that said nothing.
“I don’t know,” he answers this time. Slower. More honest. “No one told me anything.”
Charles hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. He stretches his neck from side to side, buying Max a way out without calling it mercy.
“Fair,” he says. “Just thought I’d ask.”
Max raises his eyebrows, a small, deliberate gesture that signals the end of the conversation, and clears his throat. Yuki looks ready to push, he rarely knows when to stop, but one look from Max is enough. He backs off.
They move back into position. The rhythm resumes. Reps, breath, impact against the mat. The familiar language of effort settles back into Max’s muscles, grounding him again.
But it’s different now.
PAST DAYS
He didn't know you were coming to town that week. You didn't tell him. Nobody told him.
So when he walked through the courtyard with his sister and saw the hem of your colourful dress following closely behind your mother, he almost stopped in his tracks, just to make sure it wasn’t a mirage.
You lifted your face from the flower you were holding and saw him. Your eyes sparkled for a moment and you raised your free hand, waving excitedly.
Heat crept up his neck.
He bowed his head in greeting and lifted his hand in return — a small, careful wave, only his fingers moving.
Neither of you could stop, so you kept walking. Your mother didn’t notice. His sister didn’t notice either.
You managed to find him after dinner.
He was talking to two other boys you didn’t know, so you didn’t interrupt. You sat beneath the tree instead, fingers curling around the strap of the small bag you carried, adjusting your grip once, then again.
You waited.
It didn’t take long.
When Max finally noticed you there, it was only a matter of seconds before he excused himself and came over.
“Hi,” he said.
You stood up. Max had always been taller than you, but now it felt unfair in a new way — sudden, unexplained.
“Hi,” you replied. “Will you forgive me for not being here on your birthday?” You hesitated, then added quickly, as if that might make it better. “I know it was last week. There was no way I could get my dad to move the trip. He had things to do at home.”
Max frowned, deep and immediate. Why were you apologising for something so small? He had almost forgotten his own birthday. Only remembered when his mother appeared with a present and Victoria had nearly knocked him out of bed in her excitement.
“It’s fine,” he said, a little awkwardly, like he wasn’t used to being important enough to apologise to. “I mean— it’s really fine.”
He paused, then added, quieter:
“I’m glad you’re here.”
"Me too," you reply, smiling. "I have something for you."
Your attention drifts away from him for just a fraction of a second as you open the bag slung over your shoulder. Max cranes his neck, trying to see what it is.
When you find it, you let out a small sound of satisfaction.
“Give me your wrist,” you say.
He does — immediately. Max doesn’t question it, but his expression shifts. Not uncertain. Curious.
You slide a small, colourful bracelet onto his wrist and tie it snugly. Your fingers linger for half a second longer than necessary.
Then you lift your own arm.
Yours is the same.
"We're connected now," you say, delighted with your own realisation.
Max stares at it for a moment. At the colour. At the knot. At the quiet fact that now there is something linking the two of you, visible and undeniable. He doesn't smile. But he doesn't take it off either.
"Oh! There's one more thing," you announce.
Your hand dips back into your bag and pulls out an envelope small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.
"Read it when you're in your room, okay?"
When you hand him the envelope, his fingers close around it a fraction too fast.
“Okay,” he says.
You’re already smiling, already stepping back, already satisfied in the way only you ever are when you decide something is done. Max watches you go, still holding the envelope, still standing exactly where you left him.
Only when you disappear does he realise his heart is beating wrong.
pairing: royal officer!max verstappen x wolff!reader.
max verstappen was raised between discipline and duty, trained to control damage before it spreads and keep his feelings under restraint. but some losses don’t announce themselves, they simply disappear. caught between what he was taught to be and what he was never allowed to want, max is left with memories that refuse to fade, a presence that lingers in absence, and the quiet realization that not all damage can be contained.
warnings: emotional abuse, parental pressure, implicit arranged marriage, childhood emotional trauma, emotional restraint, disappearing acts, unresolved tension, quiet grief, royal duty vs personal desire, slow ache, soft devastation.
word count: 2k
a/n: hello, everyone! how are you? here i am again with a brand new series after fighting tumblr for my life for the past few hours. caught in the moment was incredible. it healed places in me i didn’t even know were still hurting. now we’re stepping into a much more dangerous abyss. this new story follows the consequences of what happened in the previous one; they exist in the same universe (you don’t need to read the first series for this to make sense, but i do recommend it!). the themes here are heavier, with more tension and emotional weight. i’m genuinely so excited about this project. this story has been living in my head for a long time, and finally getting to write it feels a little unreal. let’s actually go this time.
PAST DAYS
Max was never a curious child. He couldn't afford to be.
For a long time, his father was the best military instructor in the entire region. Over time, he moved into office work, serving in the government's military administration after being promoted for his outstanding strategic skills. Max was expected to follow in his footsteps and be the best, so he was always busy and had no time to be curious.
From an early age, Max watched the numbers closely. He was trained to make decisions quickly, to value efficiency over emotion.
He was born before the future king, in a distant country that was taken from him so that his father could grow up among a new nobility, close to the success that was his obsession. Jos Verstappen spoke. Max Verstappen listened — a small shadow seen from above as an investment.
When Max and his sister arrived at court, the difference between them was noticeable. She was small and endearing — Victoria could ask questions, she could like things. Max took up space without having to speak. But there was a weight in the way he looked at things that said exactly what was expected of him — even though the light of childhood still shone in his small blue eyes. He was still a child, after all.
He was composed. Serious. He spoke when necessary and tried never to make mistakes. Mistakes were costly.
Jos hated it when Max made mistakes.
Max did not want to disappoint Jos.
However, as he walked through the palace courtyard, a sharp, bossy voice rang in his ear.
The whole place was preparing for the upcoming party, and his father was frantic with organising security and the men who could be made available. Max went to that corner just to breathe, to think. He had no idea he would be interrupted.
"Hey, you! What's your name?" you said, lifting the skirt of your dress as you ran towards him.
Max looked around, searching for someone else. You couldn't be talking to him, could you? In that tone?
"You don't know how to speak? Anyway." You dismissed him, waving your hand. Your tone was arrogant, like a child accustomed to getting what they want before even asking. "I want to know where Prince Oscar is. I was told he would be here, but I only found... Well, you."
He got angry. Naturally.
"Of course I can speak," Max replied harshly, frowning. "You don't see Oscar here, so you already have your answer."
You squinted at him, annoyed and incredulous. Your hands went to your hips.
"You don't know how to behave towards a lady, do you?" Your tone was irritated, like someone about to reprimand someone else. "When I finally become queen, I'll see what I do with you. By the way, you still haven't told me your name."
He laughed. He laughed loudly, with one hand on his stomach, then brought his other hand to his mouth.
"Sorry. Hm." He managed to say, trying to maintain his composure. "Max Emilian Verstappen... Your Majesty."
He realises he’s got you. You're about to retort with some clever remark that could only come from your mouth, but someone interrupts you. Your father's voice calling you echoes across the courtyard and you react instantly, your face lighting up.
"There you are. I thought I'd never find you, little one." His tone is affectionate and you smile, walking towards him without a care in the world to take his hand in yours.
"I was looking for Oscar," you say simply.
Your father nods understandingly, then looks down at Max, who was just watching both of you as if trying to piece together a puzzle.
"Good afternoon, sir." Toto greets him with a nod, which Max returns.
The older man smiles at him, then walks away. You look at Max and stick out your tongue before walking away, leaving him behind with something strange bubbling in his stomach.
PRESENT DAYS
You returned to your country before the coronation, with more questions than answers.
Life was still trying to make sense when you and your father arrived at the airport that afternoon, welcomed with open arms by your mother. She would have come to you, but there was no time. She no longer needed to go.
"Susie." Your father greeted her, hugging her with the care of a tired husband and nothing more.
You moved closer. Their embrace ended and she came towards you, holding you tighter. That hug meant many things — things that neither of you would reveal at that moment.
"Let's go home," she said, finality in her voice. And you followed, grateful you didn’t have to lead the way.
Returning to the place you call home feels strange.
You lie on your back on the mattress and stare at the ceiling. It is clean, white, neutral. You remember that one day, when you were just a little girl, there were bright stars there that stared back at you as you dreamed of the future. It's strange to remember this because you can't recall at what point in your teenage rebellion you took everything down and threw it away. You just know it happened.
That wasn't supposed to be your room anymore.
You hear your parents talking downstairs and imagine the scene: she handed him a cup of tea, pulled her jumper up to her wrist, and they are talking as if they were old friends. As if every arranged marriage could somehow deliver the love of your life and everything good on a silver platter. She will ask exactly what happened, and he will detail the parliamentary meeting. He will recount for the thousandth time how Oscar presented strangely pertinent reasons too late to cancel something that had been planned since the beginning of their daughter's life — you.
They would miss the part where you hated the idea of marrying someone you didn't know because not everyone is like them, but loved the idea of becoming queen. Or maybe not even that. You accepted the idea the way one accepts weather, tradition, gravity. It was expected. It was decided long before you were old enough to argue against it.
They'll miss the part where you discovered that feelings can be inconvenient little details.
There is something unsettling about the way it ended. About how easily the future rearranged itself without asking you first. You don't miss the marriage — the engagement alone had already felt heavy enough. But you miss the certainty. You don't miss Oscar — you never knew him perfectly — you miss knowing where you were supposed to stand in the world.
The maid enters your room, and even that seems out of place. That kind of treatment is for a queen, and you are not even a princess. Although you reject it, you do not shy away from routine, and she does not ask questions, just acts as she always has. As if you were still being trained for a future that will no longer come.
PAST DAYS
Your little feet dangle from the bench, which is too high for you to touch the floor. The ice lolly in your hands is almost finished, and Max wonders how you manage not to get yourself completely covered in it — he never could.
He is quiet. It wasn't long ago that you ended up there, stuck with each other. You wait for your parents, who are talking about something neither of you wants to understand. Your mind is empty, you just enjoy the sweet treat you love. Max, however, seems thoughtful.
"Do you really think you're going to be queen?" He asks after a while.
You open the fluffy dog bag you were carrying on your shoulder and take out a small hand towel you use to clean yourself. You just finished your ice lolly.
"Of course I will. My father and mother told me so." You say simply, as if that explains everything. "And Prince Oscar is cute, so it's fine."
Max's expression is one of pure disgust. He doesn't like this conversation about relationships and arranged marriages one bit.
"You're not old enough to get married. And you don't know each other very well," he retorts, practical. He seems ready to cancel everything with his own hands because of the absurdity he hears. "Marriages are horrible."
You look at him and take a deep breath, dramatically. You run your hand through your hair and throw it back.
"You're the least romantic boy in this whole castle, that's why you think that way," you reply and shrug.
He shakes his head negatively, adamant. Your focus now shifts. Max's father approaches and you take a step back, because he is scary. Max notices, but says nothing.
Jos just nods towards the exit and his son silently follows him.
"Dad, can children get married?" That's what you hear Max ask from a distance, unaware that such a silly question would not be as well received as it would be in your home.
PRESENT DAYS
Max doesn't need to look for you to know that you're gone. As always, you don't say goodbye.
You just disappear.
He's used to it.
After the coronation ends, he stays a little longer. Things with his father are organised, the security guards remain where they are, and the strategies for every possible security protocol, for every scenario, are well memorised by everyone. It is one of the rare moments when he can truly rest.
For a moment, with his hands in his pockets and familiar jokes, he chats with Lando, discusses something silly with George, and watches Carmen take him away. Charles comments on how good they are together, and everyone agrees. How could they not?
Oscar is nowhere in sight. You all know where he is, and yes, it's well deserved. After all the suffering he went through to be with the girl he loved, the least he deserves is to spend a little more time with her. However, this brings his thoughts back to you again.
For a brief moment, a silent break in the unchanging reality of the kingdom, Max looks around. Again, he knows you are not there, but he also knows that searching will not change anything. In a way, you are everywhere: in the neatly braided hair of the guests, in the honest laughter, in the child who leads the fun just a few metres away and whom everyone obeys.
His friends are still talking, discussing something he knows is interesting and which he has always been involved in, but Max needs to admit, clearly to himself: he is concerned.
He shouldn't be.
He knows that you have a much better family structure than he does, despite the strangeness of some behaviours that he would never be able to understand. Max knows that you are not heading towards an abyss and that you will not die if you reach the bottom because you have strong people to hold you. Still, he knows how much you paid. He was there.
Now you are gone, and he is not around to know how great the damage was.
At home, things remain as they always have been.
Max opens the door to the penthouse and hangs up his suit before stretching with the strength of a man who didn't care enough to spend the day pretending — he was just there.
Halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, Sassy and Jimmy come up to him, lazy, rubbing their tails against his leg. With a small smile, he greets the cats and bends down to pet them between the ears. They quickly tire of the attention, which earns a soft chuckle from Max, who simply lets them go before finishing taking off his forgotten shirt completely.
He hangs it on the back of the sofa and throws himself down, exhausted.
Max's hand slides across his face and a long sigh escapes his lips. His back aches a little, but he's not sleepy. He knows himself well enough. This is going to be a very long night.
Max keeps his eyes open.
The silence presses in, heavy but familiar, and for the first time that day, there is no one watching him, no role to perform, no expectation to meet. Still, his chest feels tight, like something unresolved is lodged there.
Nothing in the room has changed. Everything is exactly where it should be.
He isn’t.
Max lets the feeling sit, unchallenged. Some things don’t demand action — only endurance.
540 words | brief misunderstanding, lighthearted fluff, affectionate teasing.
*[y/mn] = your middle name
Kimi had always been Kimi.
To the media. To the engineers. To the grid. To you.
So when the two of you wandered through the paddock after Thursday media, coffees warming your hands, you looked over and casually said – "So, Andrea..."
Kimi nearly dropped his drink. "... Yeah?"
He answered carefully, like he'd stepped onto thin ice. You kept walking as though nothing had happened.
"I was thinking we should get dinner after practice tomorrow."
"... Okay."
His brain wasn't listening to the words anymore.
Andrea? Had he done something?
By the time you separated for meetings, Kimi had convinced himself he'd somehow upset you.
He replayed every conversation from the past week.
Did he forget to text back? Was he too quiet? Did he accidentally ignore you this morning?
That evening he found you sitting in the hospitality, scrolling through your phone.
He hesitated before sitting beside you.
"... Did I do something?"
You looked up. "What?"
"You called me Andrea."
"... Yeah?"
"You only call someone by their first name when..." He frowned, struggling to explain. "... When something's wrong."
Your eyebrows shot up.
"What?"
"You've never called me Andrea."
"I've... literally never thought about it."
Silence.
"So..." he asked cautiously. "... Am I in trouble?"
You blinked. Then burst into laughter. "No!"
The relief that washed over his face was almost comical.
"I just thought..." You shrugged with another smile. "Andrea is a pretty name."
His ears immediately turned pink. "Oh."
"And I like saying it."
"... Oh."
The habit never disappeared.
It only got worse.
"Morning, Andrea."
"Andrea, have you eaten?"
"Andrea?"
Every single time, Kimi looked up a little faster than before.
At first it still startled him.
Then it became comforting.
No one else called him that, other than his family. Not really. Not like you did. Not with that soft smile every time.
Eventually he found himself smiling whenever he heard it.
George noticed first.
"You've started responding faster when she says Andrea."
Kimi shrugged. "... It's different."
George smirked. "You like it."
"... Maybe."
A week later the two of you were walking through the paddock when Kimi suddenly spoke.
"... [y/mn]."
You stopped walking.
"... Excuse me?"
He looked almost smug.
"I can use first names too."
You stared.
"My first name isn't [y/mn]."
"I know."
"You just called me my middle name."
"... Yes."
"... Why?"
He shrugged in the most Kimi Antonelli way imaginable.
"You call me Andrea."
"So you retaliated?"
"I adapted."
You couldn't help laughing.
"Andrea..."
He smiled.
"[y/mn]."
"That's not fair."
"It sounds nice."
"It does."
"So I'll keep using it."
You nudged his shoulder.
"I walked right into that one."
"You did."
From then on, it became their thing.
To everyone else – "Kimi."
To you – "Andrea."
To everyone else – [y/n]
To Kimi – [y/mn]
The first time Charles overheard it, he frowned.
"... Who are you two talking to?"
Neither of you answered. You simply looked at Kimi.
"Ready to go, Andrea?"
He smiled immediately.
"After you... [y/mn]."
Charles looked between the two of you.
"... I'm missing something."
"You are," Kimi replied.
For once, his smile came easily.
"It isn't for everyone."
You reached for his hand as the two of you walked away, both laughing quietly at the little misunderstanding that had somehow become your favorite nickname for each other.
after months of texting and calling, lando finally convinces you to meet in person.
part of my bluebird series - set at the end of 2023, after the vegas gp
note: yes i know lando didn't have the urus in 2023, pretend its a rental car LOL. i hope you guys enjoy and please send in any requests or questions that you have about this series :)
word count: 4.9k
warnings: swearing, mentions of an injury (nothing detailed), implied/referenced sex
fc: eileen gu
･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⋆ ･ ᨒ↟ 𖠰
mtyn just posted
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mtyn: ice ice baby 🧊
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lando: Looks like snow to me
⤷mtyn: snow snow baby just doesn’t sound that good :/
user: SHES BACKKKK
user: does this mean world cup masterclass incoming 👀👀
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user: ofc lando is here before me
⤷user: i just wanna know if they’re friends fr or just two people who comment on each others posts 😭
⤷user: they are definitely dating 🤭
⤷user: i too love spreading misinformation!
lando just posted
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lando: vegas highs, vegas lows. one more to goes
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lnfour: how low can you goes
lnfour: WHAT A WEEKEND 🥵
user: so glad you’re okay!!
user: bro gets in a crazy crash and then is gambling in a casino a few hours later 😂😂
mtyn: and it’s all too much for little lando norris 😴
⤷lando: Funny 🙄
bluebirdyn🔒 just posted
liked by tesssaaa
bluebirdyn: thank god for rbf so no one can tell im actually losing my shit inside
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lilympriv: LOL did you make that last picture??
⤷bluebirdyn: don’t judge my mememaking skills
tesssaaa: idk why ur so nervous dude it’s going to be fine 😮💨
⤷bluebirdyn: HOW DO U KNOW THAT
⤷tesssaaa: bc if he’s managed to not get sick of u after talking for months he’s prob not going anywhere 🤣
⤷bluebirdyn: ur so irritating my god >:(
—
you stand from your seat and quickly reach up to grab your carry on bag from the overhead bin, trying to get out of the way of the huffing and puffing family of four that stands behind you, impatiently waiting to get off of the aircraft. they act as if you’re not all going to the same place. you shuffle forward a bit, heading for the exit, but you don’t move very far due to someone in front of you in line who can’t seem to figure out how to remove their oversized bag from the overhead compartment. the earbuds you have in thankfully block out the sounds of the red faced dad groaning and complaining from behind you. you cannot wait to get off of this plane. you thought flying first class would have saved you from the woes of flying commercially, but between the crying baby two seats behind you and the old woman who opened a tupperware of tuna salad five minutes into the flight, you’re wishing you’d just drove instead. a 12 hour drive could not have been worse than this, right?
you finally get off the plane, walking across the aerobridge and swiftly heading toward bag check. you pull out your phone, switching off airplane mode and give it a second for any new messages to appear. you see a few texts from your coach warning you to take it easy this week and roll your eyes. you’re about to send a snarky reply when a new message appears at the top of your screen.
lando 😛: Hey im parked right outside in the urus
you: lando i don’t know what a urus is
lando 😛: Baby its the lamborghini
you: ???
lando 😛: The black suv that says lamborghini on the back…
lando 😛: Do u need me to come back in and get u?
you: no lol i don’t want people seeing us together
lando 😛: Oh so ur ashamed of me 😔
you: yeah sorry
lando 😛: Wow :( </3
you laugh at his reply, reacting with a heart so he doesn’t feel so bad. you wait around the baggage carousel, keeping your eyes peeled for your suitcase. you don’t have to wait too long for it to come out, leaning forward to grab it off the conveyor belt before it goes past you. setting the suitcase onto the floor, you pull up the handle and begin dragging it behind you, heading toward the exit and following the signage that points to “passenger pickup.”
you walk slower than necessary, the nerves starting to kick in. while you and lando have been talking for months now, meeting in person is a whole different beast. you can feel your hands start to sweat, your heart is racing. you’re really about to meet the man that you’ve been texting, calling, and facetiming nonstop. fuck, why are you so nervous? maybe it’s because it makes everything real? you’re finally going to see him in the flesh right in front of you. you’ll get to touch him, to smell him, to kiss him, maybe. hopefully.
the cold, crisp air of the french alps blasts you the second you step outside and you take a deep breath. you need to relax, seriously. it’s not going to be weird or awkward or anything different than when you’d call or facetime lando in the past. there’s no reason to be sick to your stomach with anxiety over this. it’s going to be okay! you repeat this mantra in your head over and over as you spot the black suv parked on the curb with its hazard lights on. you walk toward the vehicle, running a hand through your hair and hoping that you don’t look too rough from the flight. you’re unable to see into the blacked out windows as you approach, only seeing your reflection in the tinted glass. you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear when the wind blows it in your face, reaching up a hand to knock on the passenger side window.
you’re met with a honk that lasts only a second, clearly not intentional. you can hear the driver of the car curse at the accidental beep, before he rolls down the window and you’re met with the face of the man that’s been consuming your thoughts and time for months. he looks embarrassed from the unintentional honking, his cheeks flushed and a cute little nervous smile on his lips.
“hi.”
“hi.” he just stares at you for a second, both of you smiling like idiots at the other. “sorry for honking, your knock scared me.”
“it’s okay,” you reassure him, shifting on your feet and trying not to shiver from the cold. “sooo…are you going to let me in?”
“oh shit, yeah. of course.” you hear the click of the car doors unlocking and reach out to grab the handle to get in but lando stops you. he goes to lean over and open the passenger door in an attempt to be chivalrous since he can’t get out to open it for you without being seen, but his seatbelt locks up on him, jerking him back into his seat. you stifle a laugh as he fumbles with the seatbelt, unbuckling it and freeing himself from the contraption. he leans back over and opens the door, pushing it out toward you and you quickly move away, trying not to get hit by it. “fuck. sorry. oh my god.”
“you’re fine, lando.” you giggle at him, taking in his red face, glad he seems just as nervous as you do. you set your purse in the seat, moving to put your suitcase in the backseat, before hopping into the suv, shutting the door and pulling on your seatbelt. “thank you.”
“yeah, totally. no problem, like not a problem at all.” he avoids your gaze as he buckles his own seatbelt, shifting the car into gear and starting to drive away from the airport. “how was your flight?”
“honestly? terrible. i don’t understand why they let babies in first class.” you groan, throwing your head back against the seat, feeling yourself get annoyed at the reminder of your shitty travel experience. “i’m beginning to see why people have private jets.”
“damn, sorry it was shit.” he taps his fingers against the wheel, trying to distract himself. he still doesn’t look at you and you can see the tip of his elfish little ears are still red. you turn your head to stare more intently at his side profile, hoping the feeling of your eyes on him gets the man to look at you again. the car is stopped at a red light when your plan finally works, lando relaxing against the seat and turning his head to look at you.
“hi.” you greet him again, smiling at his wide eyes.
“hi.” he greets you back, giggling both with nerves and at how you’re just repeating yourselves. he turns his gaze back to the road when the light changes. at least he practices good road safety. “um, everyone else doesn’t get here until friday. so it’s just us tonight and tomorrow, is that okay?”
“oh, just us? cool…cool, cool, cool.” you resist the urge to slap yourself, god you sound just as stupid with nerves as he does. it’s not like you don’t want to spend one-on-one time with him, but you were hoping you’d have a bit of a buffer to give you a chance to get used to being around him in person. you could try to be a little more optimistic, maybe it’s a good thing that it will just be the two of you for a bit! you’re just worried, what if it’s awkward or you don’t click the way you did over the phone? “do you, uh, have anything planned or?”
“mhmm, yeah. i was thinking maybe we could go out for dinner? there’s this place near the chalet that we go to sometimes. i-uh, made a reservation. or we can stay in if you want? we don’t have to do anything if you’re too tired or you just want to get takeout.” you watch him grip the steering wheel as he rambles. you find it so unbelievably endearing how he sounds like he just wants to do whatever it takes to make you happy, even if it goes against the plans he’d already made. “is that okay? whatever you wanna do, i don’t mind either way.”
“we can go to dinner, that sounds nice.” you let yourself relax into the seat, tossing your head back and closing your eyes. in a way, lando’s anxiety has you letting go of your own. it helps that you’re not alone in your feelings, you guess. it means he cares about this going well just as much as you do. “how long of a drive do we have?”
“uh, ‘bout 2 hours? are you tired? you can take a nap. i can pull over and let you get into the backseat, i think there’s a blanket in the trunk. or you could use my hoodie? or maybe-”
“lando.” you reach a hand out and rest it on his shoulder, touching him for the first time even if it’s through the thick cotton of his hoodie. you give his arm a squeeze before letting go and setting your hand face up on the center console. “i’m fine, could we just turn on some music?”
“yeah, yeah. definitely. for sure.” he blushes and twists the volume knob, turning up whatever music he’d been listening to on the drive to the airport. it’s some fred again song, you’re not sure which but it’s nice. and it fills in the almost awkward silence of the car.
you close your eyes again, listening to the music and feeling the car moving beneath you. your hand still sits waiting for lando to acknowledge it on the console, palm face up and ready for him to hold it. could you tell him you want to hold his hand? sure, but this is more fun. you can make a little game out of it, see how long it takes him to realize what you want. you’ve gotta get your entertainment from somewhere if you’re going to be in this car for 2 hours.
you’re half asleep, head leaned against the cold glass of the window, when you feel the hesitant touch of a warm hand brush against your own. you peek an eye open and see that lando isn’t looking at you, but you watch his hand finally, finally, grab your own, his calloused fingers fitting between the gaps between yours. you don’t hesitate to tighten your lax fingers, closing them around his hand and giving it a squeeze. you smile to yourself as his thumb rubs up and down the side of your hand. you try not to think about how much bigger his hands are than yours, that is not a spiral you need to go down right now, thinking about all things his big hands could do to you– nope. not right now. you force yourself to clear your mind and close your eyes again, holding lando’s hand tightly and falling back to sleep.
—
—
you awake to the sound of the car door opening, the chilly air outside quickly flooding into the vehicle. you shiver and open your eyes, blearily looking at the man standing in front of you, his form backlit from the light reflecting off the snow that blankets the ground behind him. you blink a few times, trying to wake yourself up.
“yn, baby, we’re here.” lando leans into your personal space, reaching over to unbuckle your seatbelt. he’s so close to you, you’re surrounded by the scent of his cologne, the warm and spicy cardamom is joined by something sweet and floral, jasmine maybe? you have to stop your self from taking in a deep breath, how does he smell so fucking good after a flight and two hours of being in a car? he pulls away from you after removing your seatbelt, and the two of you stare at each other. you’re still half asleep and he gives you an endeared smile, clearly enjoying the sight of you barely awake and confused. “want me to carry you inside?”
“no, it’s okay.” you yawn, stretching your arms above your head and making your way out of the car. he grabs your arms when you almost slip on the wet ground, laughing at your clumsiness. you stand in front of lando, staring up at him as he holds your forearms, the heat of his hands seeping in and warming you up even through the thick fabric of your winter coat. you step a little closer to him and pull your arms from his grip, instead wrapping them around his waist and dragging him into a hug. he returns it easily, arms wrapping over your shoulder, pulling you in even closer. you tuck your head into his neck, getting another whiff of his delicious cologne. lando rests his chin on the top of your head, rocking the two of you side to side and squeezing you even tighter. you start to tear up, clenching your eyes shut to try and stop yourself from crying. this man has been your rock for months, the person who helped you get out of the pit of depression and self-hatred that you’d fallen into after your injury. it feels so good to finally be in his arms, to hold him close. to know that he’s real and he’s right in front of you.
the two of you stand there hugging for probably longer than necessary, but you can’t bring yourself to let him go. he finally unwraps his arms from you after a few minutes, bringing his hands up to grab your flushed cheeks. you just look at each other, taking in the sight before you. you admire him, the slight hint of stubble on his chin, the moles that dot his face, his pretty hazel eyes shining. you smile up at him, shyly, blushing as he refuses to look away from you.
“i can’t believe you’re actually here.” he sighs, dropping his head down to rest on your forehead, staring you down with a hint of nervousness. “um, would it be okay if i–and you can say no, but i really want to kiss you right now.”
“okay.”
“yeah?” he looks deep into your eyes, making sure that you’re really agreeing to his request.
“kiss me, lando.”
he doesn’t hesitate. with his hands still holding your cheeks, he tilts your head up, nose bumping against your own. you close your eyes as he pulls you closer. you feel a churning in your stomach but it’s not nervousness this time, it’s anticipation, butterflies causing a flutter inside you. it seems like forever before he finally puts his lips on yours. you don’t want to sound like a bad cliche, but you’re starting to understand why people say it’s like fireworks going off. your mind goes blank. lando’s lips are soft and slightly chapped, his stubble rubbing against your chin when he deepens the kiss. you lick at the closed lips and he opens them for you, allowing you to lick into his mouth. you’re glad the chalet that he’d rented for the week is far from anyone else, the two of you standing wide out in the open making out like a pair of horny teenagers. you’d never been a fan of pda, but you think you’d do anything for this man.
you eventually pull away from his mouth, letting yourself catch your breath. he follows as you pull away, still wanting more. you give in and peck his lips a few more times until the both of you are satisfied.
“we should probably head inside, yeah?” you suggest to him, trying to not get distracted at the way his tongue slips out to lick at the corner of his mouth.
“yeah, for sure. uh, let me get your bags!” he lets go of your face, walking past you to open the back seat to pull out your suitcase and carry on. you giggle at his eagerness, laughing harder when he almost trips over his feet in his haste.
“i can carry them myself, lan. besides, you have your own stuff to bring in.”
“let me be a gentleman!”
you roll your eyes good-naturedly and let him do as he wishes, watching him attempt to carry all of the bags in one trip without making a fool of himself. somehow, he manages it, and you follow him to the front door. he tells you the door code so you can get inside since he currently lacks any free hands. the two of you make your way into the chalet, and you sigh at the heat of the space, the fireplace already going and filling you up with some much needed warmth.
—
—
you and lando stumble back to the chalet from the restaurant, giggling and bumping into each other as you talk about whatever nonsense pops into your minds. dinner was lovely, and thankfully lando had managed to find a restaurant that was extremely private. neither of you wanted to ruin your trip by being caught out together by some fans. you almost crash into lando when he stops at the front door, struggling to put in the door code correctly. you laugh at him, resting your head on his back and holding onto his arm. you’ll admit that you both probably indulged a bit too much in the nice bottle of wine you’d ordered. lando giggles, body shaking from laughter and making it even more difficult for him to put in the code.
“okay, okay–let me do it.” you reach a hand over to press the code into the number pad but he stops you, playfully slapping your hand away. “hey!”
“i’ve got it, i’ve got it.” he finally manages to put the correct code in and a chime goes off as the door unlocks. he looks at you over his shoulder, smirking at you smugly. “see? maybe i would have gotten it done sooner if you weren’t distracting me!”
“woooowww i see how it is.” you pout at him, letting go of his arm and pushing past him to enter the chalet. you slip off your jacket and scarf and hang them on the coatrack by the door. “you’re mean.”
“aww baby,” he comes up behind you as you’re attempting to kick off your boots, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into a backhug. “i’m sorry. i was just playing, will you forgive me?”
you can see that he’s pouting at you out of the corner of your eye, his lips cutely pushed out and eyes wide with feigned remorse. you roll your eyes, leaning back into him causing his arms to tighten around you. he tucks his face into your neck, pressing a light kiss there and you sigh at the feeling of his warm lips on your chilled skin.
“i guess i can forgive you this time.”
“yippee!” he presses another kiss into your neck before letting you go, moving to remove his coat and beanie, putting them next to yours on the rack. you’re struck by how much of a loser this man is and how fucking sweet you find it, you just might be in love.
the two of you head into the living room and flop down on the overly stuffed couch. you shove some of the throw pillows out of the way so that you can sit closer to lando. lando relaxes in his seat, spreading his legs wide and resting an arm on the back of the couch. you angle your body toward him and pull your legs up, wrapping your arms around them.
“c’mere.” lando makes grabby hands at you, clearly deciding that you’re not sitting close enough. you scoot in a little and he grabs your calves, stretching out your legs so that they sit over his lap. he takes the arm sitting on the back of the couch and wraps it around your shoulder, holding you even closer. you rest your head on his bicep and he looks down at you, satisfied. “that’s better.”
you sit with each other for a while in comfortable silence. you scroll on your phone, replying to any texts you’d missed during dinner. lando does the same, tapping away at his screen. after a bit, you feel the weight of lando’s eyes on you and you put your phone down, staring up at him with a questioning look.
“what?”
“nothing, just–you’re so fucking pretty.” his gaze is full of awe as he admires you. your cheeks heat up, you can tell that your face is turning red. “my pretty girl, can’t believe you’re all mine.”
“oh, i’m yours am i?” you raise an eyebrow at him, teasing the man in front of you. you don’t disagree with his words, but you want him to confirm his intentions. while you’ve been talking to each other for months and haven’t entertained anyone else romantically, at least on your end, you just want to know that he’s serious about this. about you.
“yeah–i mean, if you want to be. do you want to? i–uh. i want you to be.” he’s flustered, face flushing and cheeks matching yours in hue. your heart warms at how nervous he is for your answer. his eyes are full of hope and don’t look away from your own, waiting for a response.
“i want to, lando.”
“oh thank god. i was so worried that you would say no. or that you just wanted to be friends or i don’t know. i just–”
you interrupt his rambling by reaching a hand up and holding his jaw, stopping his words. he stares at you wide eyed and you smile at him softly, leaning in to press a kiss onto his lips. when you pull away, he follows you and kisses you again. the hand that rests on your legs rubs up and down your calves, the feeling of his big hands on your bare skin has you shivering. you grip his jaw tighter, deepening the kiss. your lips slide over his, catching slightly on the chapped skin. his tongue traces the seal of your lips, the hand around your shoulder migrating to the back of your head and bringing you closer. you let out a breath and he takes his chance, tongue licking into your mouth and you can taste a hint of the wine you’d drank earlier in the night. your heartbeat picks up and you feel warm from head to toe, you know it’s not from the alcohol, but from lando. his lips on yours has a fire spreading through your body, has you imagining all the other things he could do with that mouth. you let out a little moan when he nips gently at your lip, pulling it with his teeth as he removes his lips from yours to let the both of you catch a breath. he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, moving down to your neck to leave more kisses there. you gasp when he bites down on the sensitive skin of your neck, soothing it with his tongue and another kiss. you’d thought you were surely too old for hickeys, but fuck, he can do whatever he wants to you.
you and lando lose track of time, unable to keep your mouths off of one another. it’s only when you let out a yawn in the middle of him kissing down your neck that it stops. he laughs at you, eyes half lidded and lips red and puffy. you lean in for another kiss but he stops you, the hand on your head running through your hair and holding you back.
“i think it’s time for bed, love.” he smiles when you pout at him, not wanting to stop. you can only think about lando and getting your lips back on him, you just want to be as close to him as possible. “c’mon. let’s go.”
you groan but allow him to lift you off his lap and pull you up off the couch. he holds your hand and leads you upstairs and into one of the many bedrooms of the chalet. he’d put your bags in here earlier and you stumble over to them to pull out your toiletries and pajamas. he points you to the attached bathroom and you head in there to get ready for bed.
feeling refreshed after finishing your overly complicated skincare routine, you yawn, making your way back into the bedroom. lando is already there, dressed in a t-shirt and sweat pants. he stands in front of the bed, fingers twisting nervously. you look at him trying to gauge what has him fidgeting but he avoids your gaze.
“what’s up?”
“um. so are you alright sharing a bed? we don’t have to if you don’t want to, i can sleep in one of the other rooms for now. but when everyone else gets here, i can sleep on the couch or the floor.” he still doesn’t look at you as he rambles, blushing and staring down at his feet.
“you’re so silly.” you walk up to him, grabbing his hands and stopping his fidgeting. he finally looks at you and you give him a reassuring smile, squeezing his hands between your own. “we just spent like an hour kissing, lando. i think i’m okay sharing a bed with you. but i’m warning you, i’m clingy when i sleep.”
“yeah–that’s cool. awesome, totally fine with me. yep.” he takes his hands from yours and walks around the bed, yanking the comforter from where it’s tucked under the mattress and pulling it down. you shuffle over to the other side and glare at the mountain of pillows that sit on the bed.
“why are there so many damn pillows in this place!” you grumble, picking the extras up and tossing them onto the floor. lando just watches you, holding in a laugh at how annoyed you are by the excessive amount of decorative pillows in this chalet. “who needs this many?”
“maybe i like a lot of pillows!” lando teases you, climbing into the bed and getting comfortable.
“then this isn’t going to work out.” you look at him deadpan and he raises his hands innocently, giving up on the teasing. you join him in the overly large bed, crawling across the mattress to get as close to him as possible. you rest your head on his chest and he wraps his arms around you, legs intertwining beneath the blanket.
“i’d never sleep with a pillow again if it meant i could still have you.” he presses a kiss onto the top of your head and closes his eyes, relaxing into the bed. you squeeze his waist and close your eyes, falling asleep not long after. you don’t know what you’re going to do after this trip is over, you don’t want to fall asleep without his arms around you ever again.
—
view story replies:
user: she’s a model 💃✨
user: who is that laughing in the background i swear i recognize it
user: I just know that’s Lando laughing and taking this video!!!
view story replies:
user: is that yn in the back 🤔
user: i’m surprised mclaren lets you ski 🤣
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tesssaaa: cringe
mtyn: i’m going to kill you ❤️
mtyn just posted
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mtyn: little break b4 world cup ⛷️❄️
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user: wait a minute
user: i just know u were flexing ur skiing skills on these amateurs
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user: I RECOGNIZE THAT STUPID ASS UNICORN HELMET
user: omg so its confirmed she was with lando and friends :0
lando just posted
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lando: snow days ⛄️
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user: aww cute dog ❤️❤️
user: not a single picture or hint of being with yn </3 here we go again
maxfewtrell: That the pic you choose for me, yeah calm
user: TELL US IF UR DATING YN OR NOT 🎤
✦ pairing: oscar piastri x fem!oc x george russell
✦ genre: polyamorous / throuple / v-shape transitioning into a closed triad
✦ warnings: heavy smut, threesome, voyeurism, explicit sharing/double penetration dynamics, oral fixation, forced endurance/over-stimulation, cunnilingus, blow job, heavy praise kink, degradation mixed with supreme worship (?), creampie, excessive body fluids, aftercare that heals your soul
✦ wc: 22k+
a/n: first time writing a threesome, kinda nervous 😓 (proofread at 3am, if there's any mistake, ignore it 😭)
George takes a deep, grounding breath, steeling himself for your reaction. "We talked. Just the two of us. At my flat." He pauses, his eyes dropping to your hands before flicking back up. "And we realized something. We realized that neither of us is willing to walk away from you. But more importantly, we realized that forcing you to choose between us is cruel because you clearly love us both. So... we came to an agreement."
You stare at him, your brain stalling out completely. "An agreement? What kind of agreement?"
"What George is trying to say," Oscar jumps in smoothly, his voice low and rich as he shifts closer on your right, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours, "is that you don't have to choose."
For months, you have been trapped in a chaotic, exhausting little nightmare of your own making, though you genuinely have no idea how you managed to stumble into it. You are caught dead in the centre of a weird love triangle, completely torn between George and Oscar, two men who feel like entirely different fonts of the exact same good-guy energy. You never even realised that courting was still a thing people actually did these days; you always thought modern romance just involved sliding into someone's DMs, grabbing a casual coffee, and seeing where things naturally go. But these two have arrived with full-blown intentions, flowers, meticulously planned dates, and a level of earnest effort that makes your head spin.
You do not know if it is humanly possible to love two distinct people at the exact same time, but, you are living proof that it is, and it is tearing you apart. You feel like a tightrope walker dangling over a canyon with no safety net, terrified that any move you make will result in a catastrophic fall. You do not want to break either of their hearts, yet you are already breaking both of theirs simply by lingering in the grey area, unable and unwilling to make a definitive choice. You have spent countless sleepless nights staring at your ceiling, wondering if the kindest thing to do would be to brutally reject both of them and walk away alone, or if you should just rip the bandage off for one and stick with the other.
Meanwhile, a few miles away in George’s impeccably tidy apartment, the two men at the centre of your anxiety are sitting across from each other.
George stares down at his coffee mug, his sharp blue eyes tracing the rim. He is, if nothing else, an intensely observant person. He has watched the way your gaze lingers on Oscar just a little too long, the way your breath hitches when Oscar smiles, but he has also seen the way you lean into George's own steady presence when the world gets too loud. George feels the weight of your internal struggle hanging heavily in the air whenever the three of you are in the same room. He knows you cannot choose, and more importantly, he knows you do not want to choose because every fibre of your being rebels against the thought of hurting either of them.
He knows you are exhausted, and a quiet, desperate protectiveness settles deep in his chest. He hates seeing you carry this heavy, invisible burden.
"We need to talk about her," George says, his voice breaking the heavy silence that has filled the room for the last ten minutes.
Oscar, who has been aggressively scrolling through his phone just to avoid looking at the man dating the same woman he is, slowly looks up. His jaw tightens. "If this is about your little observation sessions, George, I'm really not in the mood."
"It's about her misery, Oscar," George fires back, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His expression is dead serious, devoid of the usual polished charm he puts on for the media or even the polite distance he usually keeps around his rivals. "You’ve seen her lately. She’s anxious all the time. She's twisting herself into knots because she cares about us both, and she knows she’s going to shatter one of us to pieces the moment she picks a side. It’s eating her alive."
Oscar scoffs, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Yeah, well, welcome to reality. That's how this works. Someone wins, someone loses. You can't just have everything you want in life served on a silver platter, George."
"Hear me out," George says, holding up a hand, and his voice drops an octave, carrying a strange, heavy resignation that makes the hair on the back of Oscar's neck stand up. "What if... what if she didn't have to choose?"
Oscar stares at him. For a second, the apartment is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Then, a harsh, humorous bark of laughter escapes Oscar's throat. "What? Are you out of your mind?"
"I'm serious," George murmurs, though his own throat tightens as he says the words out loud. It tastes like ash in his mouth, but he forces himself to push past it. "I’ve thought about it. I know it’s stupid. God, I know it’s completely insane. I know I'm going to want to tear the room apart every single time she looks at you instead of me. But I'd rather share her than lose her completely. I'll do anything. And I mean anything, Oscar, even if it means letting her date both of us at the same time."
Oscar springs up from the sofa, pacing the length of the minimalist living room like a caged animal. His chest heaves with a sudden, violent surge of anger.
"Are you listening to yourself?" Oscar demands, his voice rising, thick with absolute disbelief and outrage. "That is the most ridiculous, absurd piece of bullshit I have ever heard in my entire life. I do not, and I will not, share the woman I love. Do you hear me? I can barely even stand it when she looks at you across a table, let alone thinking about her holding your hand, kissing you, going home with you, and then coming over to me. It's degrading. It's pathetic."
"You think I want this?" George snaps back, standing up to match Oscar's energy, his cool exterior finally cracking to reveal the raw, bleeding panic underneath. "You think I want to sit here and pitch sharing the girl I'm crazy about to another bloke? I want to be selfish, Oscar! I want her all to myself. Every single second, every breath, every piece of her attention. But she's drowning because she loves us both, and she's too soft-hearted to let either of us go. If we don't do something radical, she's going to walk away from both of us out of sheer guilt, and then we'll both have nothing!"
Oscar stops pacing, turning to glare at George with an expression of pure, unadulterated venom. "Then let her walk, or let her make a choice like a normal person! That's how relationships work, George. You don't just rewrite the rules of human decency because you're terrified of losing. I'm not doing it. I'm not some accessory you can just swap weeks with. I want all of her, or I want nothing."
"And what about what she wants?" George fires back, stepping closer, his blue eyes flashing with a desperate intensity. "Have you even thought about her feelings for five seconds, or are you just too wrapped up in your own ego to see that she's breaking her own heart trying to keep us both happy? She loves you, Oscar. She looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky. But she loves me, too. And if you genuinely care about her as much as you claim you do, you'd swallow your pride for five fucking minutes and think about what would actually save her from this misery."
Oscar flinches as if he's been physically struck. The word ego hangs in the air between them, heavy and sharp. Oscar hates that George is right about the way you look at him because he sees it every single day—the way your eyes soften, the way you melt into his side. But he also sees the way you look at George with that deep, intellectual warmth, and the thought of watching another man touch you, love you, and claim you right in front of his face makes him want to put his fist through the nearest wall.
"It's humiliating, George," Oscar says, his voice dropping to a harsh, strained whisper, all the fight suddenly draining out of him, leaving behind a hollow, aching emptiness. "How are we even supposed to explain that to her? 'Hey, surprise, we decided your indecision is a group project now?' She'll think we've lost our minds. She'll think we're mocking her."
"We won't mock her," George says, his tone softening instantly as he sees the armour cracking around the younger man. George walks over to the kitchen island, gripping the edge with white-knuckled hands. He looks exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual. "We'll tell her the truth. Well, most of it. We'll tell her that we talked, that we realized neither of us is willing to walk away, and that if she's incapable of choosing between us because her heart is split down the middle... then we'll find a way to make it work. Together."
Oscar lets out a long, shuddering breath, dragging both hands down his face. He feels sick to his stomach. The notion goes against every instinct wired into his brain, every traditional value he grew up with, every ounce of his protective territoriality. But then he pictures your face—the constant, quiet stress lines around your eyes lately, the way you bite your bottom lip when you're stressed about hurting one of them, the heavy sigh you let out every time the three of you part ways.
"You're completely insane," Oscar mutters, though the sharp edge of anger in his voice has completely vanished, replaced by a defeated, sorrowful resignation.
"I know," George replies quietly, not looking at him.
"If she cries because of this—if this blows up in our faces and makes her feel worse—I am going to blame you entirely," Oscar warns, pointing a finger warningly across the room, though his posture slumps in total defeat.
George gives a stiff, solemn nod. "Fair enough."
Silence descends on the apartment again, but this time, it is heavy with the terrifying weight of a new reality. They stand a few feet apart, two rivals who have just agreed to the most absurd, high-stakes compromise imaginable, all because neither of them could bear the thought of watching you walk away.
—
You hear the sharp chime of your doorbell echoing through the flat, and you frown, pulling away from the hob to check the small screen by the hallway. You weren’t expecting a single soul today, but there on the monitor is Oscar, standing on your porch with a fresh bunch of flowers clutched in one hand and your absolute favourite iced coffee in the other.
A fond smile instantly curves across your lips. You unlock the door and swing it open, greeting him with a warm hug and a soft peck on his cheek. Oscar returns the gesture, his arms wrapping around your waist, but the moment your skin brushes his, you notice a strange rigidity in his frame. He feels as stiff as a board, his muscles locked tight. You decide not to pry. Figuring work has probably drained the life out of him today, leaving him tired or stressed out.
"Hey," he murmurs, his voice a little lower and heavier than usual as he hands you the coffee and the blooms.
"Hey yourself," you reply, stepping back to let him inside. "I was just making something for dinner. Do you want some tea? I can easily make extra."
"Tea sounds good, thanks," Oscar says, following you into the kitchen.
You turn back to your makeshift dinner, gently stirring a bubbling pan of your little culinary experiment. Oscar trails behind you, leaning his hips against the edge of the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest. A faint, melancholic smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he watches you move around the space with familiar ease. A quiet ache blooms in his chest; he wishes more than anything that it could just be like this forever, locked in a bubble of domesticity with just you and him. But then his mind flashes back to that tense conversation in George's apartment, and a heavy sigh catches in his throat. He remembers George's words, and looking at you right now, looking so peaceful and entirely in your element, he realises with sudden, crushing clarity that he wants nothing more than to see you happy. If keeping that radiant expression on your face means sharing you with his biggest rival, then so be it. He will swallow every ounce of his pride for you.
Oscar uncrosses his arms and pushes off the counter, stepping up close behind you. His warm hand snakes up your back, his fingers splaying flat against your spine, and you instinctively lean back into him, resting half your weight against the solid wall of his chest.
"What are you making?" he asks softly, his breath brushing against the shell of your ear, smelling faintly of mint and coffee.
"Just a little cooking experiment," you explain, gesturing with the wooden spoon in your hand while pointing at the pan. "And I'm warning you now, you need to be brutally, completely honest with me when you taste it, alright? No sparing my feelings."
Oscar smiles against your shoulder, dipping his head down so his chin rests comfortably right where your shoulder meets your neck. He stares past you at the food sizzling in the pan, watching the steady, rhythmic movement of your hand mixing the ingredients together.
"I promise I'll be entirely honest," he murmurs, his hand tightening just a fraction against your back as he breathes you in. "Though, to be fair, I don't even need to taste it to know it's going to be brilliant. It already smells incredible."
You let out a light laugh, giving his stomach a gentle nudge with your elbow. "You're already lying, Piastri," you tease, a playful grin stretching across your face before you turn your attention back to the bubbling pan.
Behind you, Oscar doesn't move away. Instead, he lingers, his arms wrapping entirely around your waist and pulling you flush against him. He buries his chin right back into the crook of your shoulder, holding you just a fraction tighter than usual. A wave of quiet desperation washes over him, making his chest ache. He holds onto you like a man trying to memorize the exact weight and shape of you, terrified that this might be the very last time he ever gets to feel this close to you. He knows that once they drop the bombshell conversation on you, there is a terrifying chance you will freak out, pull away completely, and run from both of them for good.
He takes a slow, shaky breath, deciding to just rip the plaster off before his nerve completely fails him.
"By the way," Oscar murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper against your skin. "I invited George over."
The wooden spatula slips right out of your hand, clattering loudly against the edge of the pan and splashing a tiny drop of sauce over the side. You freeze, your whole body going rigid. Your mind screeches to a dead stop. George? Oscar invited George over? The two of them have spent the last few months exchanging the kind of icy, venomous death glances that could shatter glass whenever you've accidentally had them in the same postcode.
Panic spikes through your veins like electricity. Without even thinking, you twist around in his embrace, your hands instinctively coming up to grip his forearms as you stare up at him in utter disbelief. Oscar refuses to let go of you, his arms remaining locked securely around your waist to keep you steady.
"What?" you breathe out, your voice cracking slightly. "What did you just say?"
Oscar offers a small, apologetic grimace, his thumb coming up to softly stroke your cheek. The warmth of his skin usually grounds you, but right now, your pulse is hammering too wildly in your ears for anything to register properly.
"I said I invited George over," Oscar repeats gently, his eyes searching your face for any sign of panic or anger. "And... well, we both need to talk to you about something. Together."
Your mind instantly spirals out of control, a million terrifying scenarios crashing into each other all at once. Is this it? Is tonight the night they finally force your hand? Are they standing side-by-side in some bizarre, united front to demand an answer? Are they going to make you choose between them right here, right now, while you're standing in the kitchen in your sweatpants?
Your fingers dig sharply into the firm muscle of his forearms, your knuckles turning white as panic threatens to swallow you whole. "Oscar, seriously, what is this about?" you demand, your voice pitching high with anxiety. "Are you guys- are you kicking me out? Is this an ultimatum? Tell me right now."
Instead of answering, Oscar lets out a long, grounding breath, gently prying your white-knuckled fingers off his arms. "First of all, keep cooking," he says, his tone strangely calm despite the fierce internal storm raging behind his eyes. "Or your dinner and your entire kitchen are going to go up in flames, and I'd rather not explain to the fire brigade that we burnt the flat down because I panicked you."
Before you can protest, he reaches around you, his hands firmly gripping your shoulders and turning you right back toward the hob. He bends down to retrieve the wooden spatula where it had fallen, wiping it off on a paper towel before pressing it back into your hesitant hand.
You try to pivot on your heel, spinning back around to face him with wide, frantic eyes. "Oscar, I swear to God, if you don't tell me right this second what—"
Oscar doesn't let you finish. He catches you by the waist, his touch firm yet incredibly gentle, and physically guides you back to face the kitchen counter. He steps in close behind you again, trapping you softly against his chest so you can't turn around, his hands resting heavily on your hips to anchor you in place.
"Just finish stirring the food," Oscar murmurs, resting his chin right back on your shoulder, his voice dropping into a low, soothing hum that completely contradicts the absolute terror currently doing acrobatics in your stomach. "George will be here soon enough. You'll find out everything then. Just... trust me for a few more minutes."
You tilt your head back, resting the crown of your skull against his chest as you peer up at him, fixing him with the most desperate, pleading gaze you can possibly muster. You look like a kicked puppy, your bottom lip trembling ever so slightly as you try to silently beg him to crack.
Oscar’s breath catches in his throat. He stares down at you, and every single defense mechanism he has built up over the last few hours threatens to crumble into dust. He wants nothing more than to fold right then and there, to wrap his arms around you and whisper the entire, ridiculous truth just to wipe that anxious look off your face. But he holds his ground. As much as he wants to protect you, he also remembers that this madness was entirely George’s grand scheme. If anyone is going to explain this bizarre, multi-person relationship trap to you, it has to be the mastermind behind it.
Steeling himself against your weaponised cuteness, Oscar reaches down, gently pries the wooden spatula out of your unresisting hand, and smoothly shoves you slightly to the side with a soft chuckle.
"Right, move over," he mutters, quickly pivoting his attention to the bubbling pan to save himself from your eyes. He starts clumsily pushing the food around with the spoon, raising his voice slightly to drown out your protests. "Is this actually cooked, or does it need another five minutes? Should I add some salt, or are you trying to assassinate me with bland flavours? Do you want me to keep stirring, or are we calling the fire brigade now?"
You let out an indignant huff, completely unimpressed by his sudden domestic pivot. Without a second thought, you reach out, slap your hand firmly against the dial of the hob, and twist it to click the flames dead. The sudden silence of the dying burner fills the kitchen.
Before he can react, you step right back into his space, wrapping both arms tightly around his waist and locking your hands behind his back. You tilt your chin up again, dragging out your ultimate, unfair puppy-dog eyes—the exact expression you know he has zero immunity against—and press your body flush against his.
"Oscar, please," you whisper, your voice thick with an annoying, beautiful desperation that makes his stomach flip violently. "Just tell me what is going on. Are you both teaming up to banish me? My brain is melting."
Oscar freezes, the spatula hovering uselessly over the pan. He looks down at you, taking in the way your eyes shine with raw worry, and God, you look so entirely irresistible right now that he feels his resolve snapping like a dry twig. He is two seconds away from spilling every single detail of George’s plan right onto your kitchen floor before George has even managed to lock his front door.
Before Oscar can find the words to surrender, the sharp, melodic chime of your doorbell echoes through the flat once more.
You both freeze. You know that ring instantly. It is George.
Oscar’s eyelids flutter shut, and he lets out a long, ragged sigh of pure, unadulterated relief mixed with bitter annoyance. In the quiet chaos of his mind, he sends a silent thank-you to George for showing up right in the nick of time before he completely ruined the surprise, immediately followed by a sharp flash of hatred for George for shattering the rare, quiet moment he had just spent holding you.
"Saved by the bell," Oscar mutters under his breath, dropping the spatula onto the counter and running a hand over his face.
You instantly untangle your arms from around his waist, pulling away from him with a sharp pivot. You don't waste a single second, practically sprinting down the short hallway toward the front door. Your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, every anxious thought rushing back to the surface now that the final piece of this bizarre puzzle has arrived.
You throw the door open, the bright hallway light spilling over the threshold, and find George standing there looking entirely too composed in a crisp jacket, his sharp blue eyes locking onto yours immediately.
Before he can even cross the threshold or say a single polite hello, the words tumble out of your mouth in a breathless rush.
"What is going on?" you demand, your hands gripping the edges of the doorframe as you stare up at him, wide-eyed and vibrating with nervous energy. "Why are you both here? What is happening?"
George’s sharp blue eyes rake over your frantic expression, taking in the white-knuckle grip you have on the doorframe and the sheer panic vibrating through your posture. He doesn’t even blink. He knows precisely what you are asking about, the frantic panic bleeding into your voice like ink in water. But he and Oscar had already agreed in the quiet tension of that living room that dropping a bomb like this on an empty stomach was a recipe for absolute disaster. They need you fueled, steady, and capable of processing a reality that defies every known rule of modern dating before they rip the rug out from under you.
"Evening to you too," George says smoothly, stepping past you into the hallway with a calm, deliberate ease that makes your skin crawl with frustration. "You look lovely. Is that dinner I smell?"
"George," you hiss, closing the door behind him and spinning around to block his path. "Do not ignore me. Why are you here? Why is Oscar here? What is going on?"
"Relax, breathe," George murmurs, giving you a placid, infuriatingly reassuring smile as he shrugs off his jacket. "Let's eat first. Everything will make sense in a minute, I promise."
Before you can lunge at him or demand answers at knifepoint, Oscar walks out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel. His jaw is tight, but his posture is eerily controlled. The atmosphere between the two men is not the crackling, volatile warzone you are entirely used to; instead, there is a strange, heavy truce hanging over them like a thick fog. It makes your stomach twist into knots.
Ten minutes later, you are sitting at your small dining table, the meal you spent hours preparing tasting like wet cardboard on your tongue. You are squeezed in right beside George, your body rigid, your brain spinning like a broken roulette wheel. You stare down at your plate, frantically cycling through every catastrophic scenario your sleep-deprived imagination can conjure.
Why the hell are they both sitting in your apartment at the exact same damn time?
And to make matters a thousand times worse, they aren't even glaring at each other. There is no silent competition, no micro-aggressive posturing, and no venomous eye contact across the table. They are just... existing in the same space, completely calm, sharing a quiet, unified front. In theory, that should make you feel at ease. But these are two elite athletes locked in a fierce, relentless battle for your heart. Rivals don't just sit down and share a peaceful dinner unless the rules of the game have fundamentally, terrifyingly changed. The total lack of hostility sends a cold shiver racing down your spine. It feels like the eerie, dead silence right before a massive storm hits.
Your chest feels tight, constricted by a band of pure anxiety, and your heart is hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm against your ribs. You are eating so painfully slow that you might as well be chewing on glass. Every single muscle in your body is locked tight, frozen in the headlights of a disaster you can't quite see yet. Both of the men you are hopelessly, helplessly in love with, are sitting right here in front of you. The weight of it feels like a physically crushing force.
You find yourself staring blankly at your fork, completely lost in the terrified labyrinth of your own thoughts. The food on your plate goes cold as you completely tune out the world, paralyzed by the sheer terror of what they are about to say to you.
"You've barely touched your food," Oscar’s voice cuts softly through the thick, suffocating silence of the room.
You blink, snapping back to reality, and realize you've completely frozen mid-bite, your fork hovering aimlessly over your plate.
Before you can even mumble an excuse, Oscar is reaching across the small wooden table. His fingers wrap gently around the handle of your fork, effortlessly guiding it up. You don't pull away; you just stare at him with wide, exhausted eyes as he silently feeds you a small bite of the dinner you made earlier. It is an act of such tender, aching intimacy—done right in front of George, no less—that it makes a lump rise painfully in your throat.
George doesn't flinch. He doesn't roll his eyes or tense his jaw. He just watches the exchange with a heavy, unreadable look in his eyes, quietly accepting the reality of what they are about to do.
A few more agonizing minutes crawl by, stretched out like pulled taffy, until you somehow manage to clear your plate through sheer force of will. The moment you drop your fork against the ceramic with a soft clatter, Oscar pushes his chair back from the table.
"Leave the dishes," Oscar says, his voice flat and resolute, leaving zero room for argument. "We've made you wait long enough. It's time we talked."
Your stomach drops straight into your shoes. The blood rushes in your ears, a sudden, deafening roar like a distant ocean wave. You don't even try to protest as George stands up, his hand gently wrapping around your elbow to guide you away from the dining table. He leads you over to the living room sofa with a calm, deliberate gentleness that feels terrifyingly like a nurse escorting a patient to a major operation.
They herd you onto the middle of the couch, sandwiching you right between them. George settles down tightly on your left side while Oscar takes his place on your right. You feel entirely trapped, boxed in by two broad chests and two sets of intense, burning eyes. You pull your knees up toward your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins as if a flimsy barrier of fabric and bone could protect you from whatever intellectual bomb they are about to drop.
George clears his throat, breaking the heavy, suffocating silence that fills the room. He looks down at his hands, his long fingers interlaced tightly as he tries to find a way to phrase the most unhinged, insane proposition of his entire life.
"Right," George begins, his voice rougher around the edges than usual, stripped of its polished, media-trained perfection. He glances sideways at you, his blue eyes swimming with a mixture of profound tenderness and agonizing anxiety. "Listen to us. Both of us. Don't interrupt until we're finished, please. Okay?"
You give a stiff, jerky nod, your throat feeling like it's coated in dry sand.
"We know you're exhausted," George continues, his voice steadying slightly as he presses on. "We know how much stress you've been under for months. Every time we're all in the same room, you look like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. You're terrified of breaking our hearts. You're terrified of making the wrong choice and losing one of us forever. And honestly? It's killing us to watch you tear yourself apart like that."
You swallow hard, your chest burning. "What are you getting at, George?" you whisper, your voice barely audible.
George takes a deep, grounding breath, steeling himself for your reaction. "We talked. Just the two of us. At my flat." He pauses, his eyes dropping to your hands before flicking back up. "And we realized something. We realized that neither of us is willing to walk away from you. But more importantly, we realized that forcing you to choose between us is cruel because you clearly love us both. So... we came to an agreement."
You stare at him, your brain stalling out completely. "An agreement? What kind of agreement?"
"What George is trying to say," Oscar jumps in smoothly, his voice low and rich as he shifts closer on your right, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours, "is that you don't have to choose."
The words hang in the air, heavy and ridiculous, bouncing off the walls of your living room like a stray bullet.
For a solid five seconds, your brain stops functioning entirely. It's as if someone has pulled the plug on your cognitive faculties. You blink once. Twice. You look from George’s dead-serious face to Oscar’s tense, solemn expression, searching for the punchline, waiting for someone to yell gotcha or laugh at how utterly gullible you are being.
"I... what?" you finally choke out, a hysterical, breathless laugh slipping past your lips. "What do you mean, I don't have to choose? That's not how this works. That's not how dating works. You're two different people!"
"We know," George says quickly, his hand coming up to rest reassuringly on your left knee, his palm warm through your sweatpants. "We know it sounds completely barking mad. Believe me, when Oscar first heard it, he looked like he wanted to punch me through a wall."
"I did want to punch you through a wall," Oscar mutters darkly, his jaw clenching as he stares straight ahead at the coffee table. Then, his gaze softens as he turns his head to look at you, his hand coming up to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "I still think it's the most idiotic idea either of us has ever had. But... George is right about one thing. I love you too much to watch you suffer, and I sure as hell love you too much to walk away and let him have you entirely to himself. So, if sharing you is the only way to keep you... then we'll share you. Both of us. Together."
You feel like you've tumbled down a rabbit hole into an alternate dimension where up is down and logic has completely ceased to exist. Your heart is hammering a frantic, erratic tattoo against your ribs, a mixture of wild disbelief, intoxicating validation, and creeping, ice-cold dread washing over you all at once.
"Are you guys crazy?" you demand, your voice rising in pitch as your hands fly up to gesture wildly between them. "You're rivals! You spend your entire lives trying to beat each other on a global stage, and now you want to... what, tag-team a relationship with me? Rotate weekends? How does that even logistically work? Are you just going to casually pop over to my flat on a Tuesday and swap shifts like a pair of shift workers?"
"We haven't worked out every single logistical detail yet," George admits, wincing slightly at your tone, though his grip on your knee stays firm and grounding. "We're figuring it out as we go. The point is, if your heart is split down the middle and you genuinely can't pick one of us without breaking yourself in half, you don't have to. You can date us both."
You shake your head violently, a tight, hysterical knot forming in your throat as the sheer reality of what they are proposing crashes down on you. "You don't understand. It's not just about scheduling, guys. Do you hear yourselves? It's risky. It's dangerous. It's... it's completely insane."
You turn your wide, panicking eyes to Oscar, searching for a shred of normal, rational pushback. But Oscar just holds your gaze, his dark eyes heavy with a profound, aching resignation. He knows the stakes better than anyone.
"We know it's dangerous," Oscar says quietly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against your cheekbone. "It's a powder keg. But we're willing to walk into the fire if it means we get to keep you."
"That's not even the worst part, and you both know it," you whisper, your voice dropping to a shaky, terrified register as the cold weight of public scrutiny settles over your shoulders like a lead blanket. You pull away from Oscar's touch slightly, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself as you stare down at the floorboards. "Look at who you are. Look at your lives. You're world-famous athletes. You're constantly under a microscope, hunted by the media, tracked by millions of people every single day. If I agree to this... if we actually try to do this... I will never, ever be able to exist in the light."
The room falls dead silent. The suffocating weight of fame and public obsession drops into the space between the three of you, heavy and suffocating.
"If I date one of you normally, my life becomes a circus," you continue, your voice trembling as hot tears of frustration prick the backs of your eyes. "My face is plastered all over the internet, my past gets dug up, every single move I make is scrutinized by millions of strangers. But if I date both of you at the same time? In some bizarre, secret arrangement that the world could never, ever wrap its head around?"
You look up, meeting George's solemn blue eyes and Oscar's heavy gaze, your chest heaving with emotion.
"I will be completely erased," you say, your voice cracking. "I'll be hidden away in the shadows. I won't be a girlfriend; I'll be a dirty little secret locked away in a tower because if anyone ever found out, your careers would implode and my life would literally end. I'd be hunted down for sport. I'd be trapped in a cage of absolute secrecy forever."
George's expression shutters, a wave of deep, cutting guilt flashing across his sharp features. He hates that you are right. He hates that the reality of his hyper-visible, public life means that loving him—loving both of them—comes with such a devastating, suffocating price tag. He slides closer to you on the couch, wrapping his arm securely around your shoulders and pulling you against his side, offering whatever shelter and warmth he can possibly provide.
"I know," George murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the crown of your head, his voice thick with an unbearable, heavy sorrow. "I know how terrifying that sounds. I know what we're asking you to trade away. But you won't be a secret to us. Behind closed doors, in this flat, in the quiet spaces where the cameras can't reach... you will be everything. We'll protect you with everything we have. We'll build a fortress around you so nothing can touch you."
Oscar shifts closer on your other side, sliding his hand over yours and lacing his fingers tightly with your trembling ones, anchoring you between them like a human shield.
"We're not asking you to answer right now," Oscar says softly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knuckles. "We know it's a terrifying mountain to climb. But just... think about it. Don't say no yet. Just let it sit for a minute."
You sit there frozen between them, your heart aching, your mind spinning wildly out of control, utterly trapped in a love story that defies every rule in the book.
The harsh, vibrating buzz of Oscar’s phone on the coffee table shatters the fragile, humming silence that has wrapped around the three of you like a straightjacket. He glances down at the screen, a low, frustrated curse slipping past his lips. The sponsor dinner he has been dreading all day is looming, and his strict schedule waits for no one—not even a life-altering, paradigm-shifting conversation about an impossible polyamorous arrangement.
Oscar’s face falls, a heavy, exhausted shadow passing over his features as reality crashes back in. He looks down at you, his dark eyes swimming with a raw, agonizing reluctance to pull away from the warmth of your touch.
"I have to go," Oscar murmurs, his voice thick with regret. He untangles his fingers from yours, the sudden absence of his grip leaving a cold void against your skin. He stands up from the couch, smoothing down his clothes with mechanical precision before leaning down.
Before you can even process his movement, Oscar cups your face in his hands, his thumbs gently sweeping across your cheekbones. "I love you," he whispers fiercely, his voice dropping an octave as he presses a long, tender kiss directly against your forehead, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Just... think about it."
With one final, lingering look that nearly breaks your heart all over again, Oscar turns on his heel and walks out of the apartment, the soft click of the front door closing behind him echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.
And just like that, you are left sitting in the suffocating stillness of your living room, completely alone with George.
Your brain starts spinning wildly out of control again, a runaway train barreling down a track with no brakes. You don't even know what to say, what to think, or how to string two coherent sentences together. You keep your gaze locked on the empty space where Oscar was sitting just a second ago, your chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths. Beside you, George doesn't rush you. He remains sitting completely still on your left, his back resting comfortably against the backrest of the sofa, his long legs stretched out slightly. He watches you with a quiet, infinite patience, giving you the space to let the seismic weight of their proposal sink into your bones.
Deep down, you know they have a point. The agonizing truth is that you genuinely cannot choose between them. Your heart refuses to cast either of them aside, splitting itself down the middle with absolute loyalty to both men. What annoys you more than anything is how terrifyingly intelligent they both are; they didn't just guess your internal turmoil—they dissected it, tracked it, and mapped it out because you were too transparent for your own good.
Have you really been that obvious?
A hot wave of humiliation flushes up your neck and coats your cheeks. God, that is so utterly stupid. You hate how completely and utterly foolish falling in love makes you, stripping away all your survival instincts and leaving your emotions completely exposed for everyone to read like an open book.
Your mind races as you begin to map out the sheer, terrifying logistics of what they are actually asking you to do. If you agree to this bizarre, unconventional arrangement, the math of it is brutal. To the entire outside world, to the relentless media machine, the paddock, and the screaming fans, all three of you will remain entirely single individuals. But behind closed doors, hidden away from the prying eyes of society, you will be three people tangled up in a deeply intimate, private relationship.
It is not that you are judging anyone else who practices polyamory or unconventional romance; you know love takes a million different shapes. But this is entirely different. This is a ticking time bomb. George is a multi-race-winning Formula 1 driver fighting at the front of the grid, and Oscar is one of the sport's brightest, most fiercely hunted stars. If this secret ever leaks, if a stray camera catches a glimpse of the three of you, or if a journalist pieces together the impossible puzzle, it could fundamentally detonate their careers. Sponsors would panic, PR teams would have collective heart attacks, and the relentless, bloodthirsty internet would tear you limb from limb. It could ruin your future, and it could destroy theirs.
And then, a deeper, uglier panic begins to claw at the lining of your stomach, sharp and venomous.
Can you really stay hidden forever?
Can you genuinely stand by and watch from the shadows while journalists, paparazzi, and screaming fan accounts invent endless rumours about George or Oscar dating high-profile models, actresses, or PR managers? Because they have to date publicly. To keep the illusion alive, to protect the secret, they will have to walk red carpets alone, play the single-athlete game, and perhaps even fake public romances with other people to throw the scent off.
A sudden, blinding flash of pure fury surges through your veins. The mere thought of seeing either of them playing the part of a single, available bachelor on television makes your blood boil hot enough to melt steel. You are already getting furiously jealous just entertaining the hypothetical scenario in your head, the possessive instinct roaring to life so violently that it makes your chest ache.
Before your brain can even catch up to your body's impulses, you snap.
With a sudden, explosive motion, you throw your arms forward, wrapping them tightly around George’s broad shoulders. You bury your face fiercely into the warm crook of his neck, hiding yourself away from the terrifying world, your fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of his shirt as a frustrated, breathless sob catches in your throat.
George freezes for a microsecond, utterly caught off guard by the sudden, physical tackle. But a fraction of a second later, his reflexes take over. His strong arms come up instantly, wrapping securely around your waist and back, pulling you flush against his chest with a fierce, protective grip that feels like an anchor in the middle of a hurricane. He doesn't ask what's wrong. He doesn't push you away. He just holds you tighter, pressing his cheek gently against your hair while you seethe and tremble against him, trapped entirely in the intoxicating, terrifying web you've all woven together.
As you press your face deeper into the crook of George’s neck, inhaling the crisp, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the faint warmth of his skin, the chaotic storm inside your chest begins to settle into a steady, humming vibration. Nestled securely in his arms, wrapped in the fortress of his embrace, a profound sense of safety washes over you. It is a strange, paradoxical feeling—clinging to the very person who just dragged you into the most complicated, high-stakes situation of your life, yet feeling entirely invincible while you do it.
You trace the hard line of his shoulder blade with your fingertips, letting your racing thoughts catch their breath. Surely, if you actually take this terrifying leap of faith, George and Oscar will move mountains to keep you safe, won't they? They are fiercely protective, hyper-competent men who orchestrate their entire professional lives down to the millisecond with chilling precision. If they want this—if they are willing to shatter their own egos and rewrite the rules of modern romance just to keep you in their orbits—then they will surely use that exact same tactical brilliance to shield you from the fallout. You can figure this out as you go. You have to believe you can. They are both brilliantly smart, and more importantly, they are so hopelessly, deeply in love with you that they would willingly set themselves on fire if it meant keeping you warm.
Right?
The thought hangs in the air, electric and pulsing with cautious optimism, pushing away the cold dread that had settled into your bones just minutes ago. You pull back slowly, sliding your hands up from his shoulders to cup his jaw. Your eyes meet his intense blue gaze, searching his face for any flicker of hesitation, any sign that he thinks you are losing your mind. But you find only absolute, unwavering devotion staring back at you.
"George," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion, trembling slightly at the sheer magnitude of the boundary you are about to cross.
"I'm listening," he replies instantly, his voice dropping into a soft, gravelly register. His large hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his cheek, his thumb brushing a slow, grounding stroke across your skin. "Tell me whatever is going on in that brilliant head of yours."
You take a deep, shaky breath, gathering every ounce of courage you have left. You know that if you are going to agree to this unprecedented, unhinged arrangement, you cannot walk into it blindly. You refuse to let your insecurities tear the three of you apart from the inside out before this experiment even has a chance to breathe.
"If we do this," you start, your voice firming up as you lay down your terms, "we have to establish ground rules. Because I know myself, and I know how my brain works, and I cannot spend the rest of my life walking on eggshells, terrified of detonating a bomb every single day."
George nods slowly, his expression dead serious, hanging onto every single word like gospel. "Name them. Whatever you need."
"First," you say, holding up a finger to emphasize your point, "no getting jealous. Or, well—I know you will get jealous, because you're human and so is Oscar, but you cannot let it poison things. If either of you starts feeling like you're being sidelined, or like you're not getting enough of my attention, you have to use your words. No passive-aggressive silence, no brooding in the paddock, no making me guess. You talk to me."
"Agreed," George murmurs without a second of hesitation. "Total transparency. If my ego flares up, I'll deal with it like an adult instead of making it your problem."
"Second," you continue, your fingers tracing the sharp angle of his jawline, "if one of you needs me—genuinely needs me, whether it's because you're having a rough weekend, struggling with a race, or just falling apart behind closed doors—and I'm currently with the other one... I have to go. You both have to accept that emergencies or bad days trump whatever schedule we try to invent. I can't be made to feel guilty for showing up for the man who's hurting."
George's eyes soften profoundly at that, a quiet wave of respect washing over his features. He leans slightly into your touch, pressing his cheek further into your palm. "That's fair. That's more than fair. We'll share your time, but we won't play tug-of-war with your loyalty when things get heavy."
"And third," you say, swallowing hard as you brace yourself for the most impossible scenario of all, "what happens if you both need me at the exact same time? What if you're both having a crisis, or both want me on the exact same free evening? I can't slice my body in half, George. I'm only one person."
A slow, knowing smile touches the corners of George's mouth, a flash of that tactical genius returning to his eyes. "Then we compromise. If our schedules collide and we both need you, the three of us will just have to be in the same room together. No hiding, no separate compartments. You sit right in the middle, and we share you. We make it work as a unit, or we don't do it at all."
A breath of genuine, disbelieving laughter escapes your lips. The thought of sitting in a living room with both George Russell and Oscar Piastri, openly acknowledging that you are dating them both simultaneously, feels like stepping off the edge of a flat earth. But strangely enough, it doesn't sound entirely impossible anymore. It sounds like a chaotic, beautiful, madhouse of a solution.
"And finally," you add, your tone hardening into an absolute, unyielding demand, "no one finds out. At least not right now. Not your PR managers, not your teams, not my closest friends, and certainly not my family. Total, absolute radio silence."
George gives a solemn, definitive nod. "Absolute silence. Understood."
"And that includes when we reveal this," you press further, your eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity. "You and Oscar have to agree right now that you will never, ever push to go public until I give the explicit signal. We stay in the shadows, we protect our peace, and we keep this entirely between the three of us until I decide I am ready to face the music. If either of you gets impatient and tries to force my hand, I walk away from both of you permanently. Do you understand me?"
George holds your gaze, absorbing the full weight of your ultimatum. He doesn't flinch, and he doesn't try to negotiate. He knows how much you are sacrificing just by sitting here entertaining this madness, and he respects your boundaries too much to ever cross them.
"I understand completely," George promises, his voice steady, rich with absolute conviction. He reaches up, his large hand gently wrapping around the back of your neck, his fingers tangling softly in your hair as he pulls you just a fraction closer. "We play by your rules. No public reveals until you give the word. Until then, we are your sanctuary. Whatever you need, whenever you need it, we're yours."
You let out a long, shuddering breath, the last remaining knot of panic in your chest finally unspooling. You have just signed your name on a dotted line of pure chaos, leaping headfirst into a secret, scandalous arrangement that defies every law of modern society. But as George’s thumb gently brushes across your cheek, wiping away the faint remnants of your stress, you realize with sudden, dizzying clarity that you wouldn't want it any other way. You are trapped between two extraordinary men, and for the first time in months, you are finally okay with never choosing.
You stare deep into George’s piercing blue eyes for a long, suspended moment, your thumb continuing to trace lazy circles against his warm cheekbone. The tension in the room shifts, evaporating into something thick, heavy, and electric, like the heavy air right before a summer thunderstorm breaks. Your gaze drops deliberately from his eyes down to his lips, lingering on the soft, natural curve of them. You feel the large hand at the back of your neck tighten its grip just a fraction, his fingers flexing against your hair as his own eyes flick down to your mouth, tracking your movement like a hawk locking onto its prey.
The space between you shrinks until you are merely millimeters apart, suspended in mid-air. George’s breath, warm and carrying the faint, clean trace of mint, washes over your skin, sending a violent shiver racing straight down your spine. Your heart hammers a frantic, deafening rhythm against your ribs, every nerve ending in your body suddenly hypersensitive and screaming for contact. You trace his parted lips with your own gaze, completely hypnotized by the sheer closeness of him.
Finally, George shatters the restraint. Unable to bear the agonizing distance for another second, he surges forward and captures your lips with his.
The initial impact of the kiss is slow, deliberate, and devastatingly sweet. He tastes like dark coffee and absolute warmth. He moves his lips against yours with a reverent care, as if he is memorizing every single curve and contour of you, tasting you as though you are something he never expected to be allowed to consume. A soft sigh of surrender slips past your lips, and you press forward, closing whatever microscopic distance is left until the tips of your noses brush together. You shift your weight, lifting yourself up slightly on your knees to get a better angle, to drink in more of him.
Sensing the shift, George’s hands slide from your neck and down your waist, his palms burning hot through your clothes. With effortless, startling strength, he grips your hips and lifts you cleanly off the cushions, shifting you so you are straddling his lap, your thighs bracketing his torso.
The kiss instantly changes, the sweet hesitation melting away as a low, rumbling groan vibrates deep in George's chest. He kisses you harder now, his grip on your hips bruisingly firm as he tilts his head at a sharp angle to gain deeper access to your mouth. He traces the seam of your lips with the tip of his tongue, dragging a soft, asking line across your lower lip for permission. You part for him without a second thought, and he surges inside, sweeping against your tongue with a possessive heat that makes your head spin.
You let out a soft, breathless whimper against his mouth, your hands clutching blindly at the shoulders of his shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists as a jolt of pure lightning shoots straight down to your core. You can feel him directly beneath you, hard and thick against your center through your layers of clothing, pressing up against you with every heavy breath he takes. He twitches beneath you, a sharp, involuntary jerk of his hips that makes your vision blur at the edges.
George breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second just long enough to sink his teeth gently into your lower lip, a punishing, divine little nip that has you gasping out his name, before he dives right back in, sucking on your tongue with a wet, heavy hunger. Caught up in the dizzying whirlwind of friction and heat, your hips begin to rock instinctively against him, a slow, torturous grind of friction that makes George’s hands lock onto your waist like vices. He grunts heavily into the kiss, his mouth hot and bruising against yours, as he actively guides your hips, matching your rhythm with upward thrusts of his own.
For a long, delirious stretch of time, time completely ceases to exist. You are lost entirely in the frantic friction of your bodies, your hands roaming over his chest, his shoulders, tangling in his hair, feeling him swell and grow harder and heavier against you with every single second that ticks past. The air in the room is thick and breathless, filled with the sound of ragged gasps and the slide of clothing against skin.
And then, breaking through the heavy fog of desire, the sharp click of the front door unlocking echoes through the flat.
"Sorry about that, mates, I—" Oscar’s voice rings out into the hallway, casual and entirely breezy as the door swings open. "My sponsor meeting got completely canned, so I thought I'd—"
Oscar’s voice dies an instantaneous, violent death in his throat.
He steps across the threshold, tossing his keys toward the bowl by the door, and freezes dead in his tracks. His eyes snap straight to the living room sofa.
There you are, flushed, breathless, your hair thoroughly wrecked, sitting squarely astride George Russell's lap with your hands tangled in his shirt, while George's hands are clamped firmly around your hips.
The silence that drops over the apartment is so absolute, so suffocatingly heavy, you could hear a pin drop from a mile away.
Panic flashes through your veins like a sudden jolt of pure electricity, cutting through the thick, hazy fog of adrenaline and desire. You scramble backward in a frantic, uncoordinated rush, your hands slipping off George's shoulders as you practically throw yourself off his lap. You land ungracefully on the opposite end of the sofa, tugging wildly at the hem of your top and smoothing down your wrecked hair with shaking fingers. Your cheeks burn so hot they practically feel like they are melting off your face, flushing a deep, mortifying crimson.
Oscar stands frozen right at the edge of the hallway, his fingers still awkwardly curled around the strap of his bag. The easy, relaxed expression he walked in with has been violently wiped clean, replaced by a dark, dangerous storm of shock and pure, unfiltered betrayal. His dark eyes flick from your flushed, guilty face over to George, who is calmly sitting up, rearranging his shirt with infuriating, unbothered composure.
"What..." Oscar starts, his voice cracking slightly, the word catching in his throat like broken glass. He swallows hard, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle jumps violently in his cheek. "What the hell is going on here?"
You feel like a criminal caught red-handed at the scene of a crime, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You open your mouth, desperate to defuse the ticking time bomb before it blows the entire apartment sky-high.
"Oscar, wait, let me explain," you stammer out, your hands waving uselessly in the air between you. "It’s not... I mean, we weren't just—I talked to George. We sat down, we talked about everything you guys brought up earlier, and I agreed. I agreed to the arrangement, Oscar!"
Oscar lets out a harsh, bitter laugh that sounds completely devoid of any humor, a sharp sound that cuts straight through the quiet room. He takes two steps forward, dropping his bag unceremoniously onto the floor.
"You agreed?" Oscar snaps, his voice rising, thick with a volatile mixture of hurt and blinding anger. "I was gone for what felt like all of thirty minutes! Thirty bloody minutes, and I come back to find you straddling him on the couch? You didn't even wait for me to get out of the bloody postcode before you jumped straight into his bed—or his lap, apparently!"
A heavy sting of indignation flares up in your chest. "Hey, do not talk to me like that! I didn't 'jump' into anything, we were just—"
"He's right, mate, calm down," George interrupts smoothly, cutting right across your defense. He shifts on the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows resting casually on his knees, his blue eyes locking onto the younger driver with unflinching steadiness. "There's no need to kick off like a toddler throwing a tantrum."
"Don't tell me to calm down, George!" Oscar explodes, wheeling around to glare daggers at the older man, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. "You manipulated this entire thing! You sat here while I was gone and worked your charm, didn't you? You couldn't even wait five minutes to stake your claim."
"I didn't have to stake anything, Oscar, because she made her choice—or rather, she made our choice," George fires back, his voice remaining chillingly calm, a stark contrast to Oscar's roaring fury. He stands up slowly from the sofa, towering over the coffee table as he steps into Oscar's line of sight. "We spent the last hour breaking down the logistics, setting the boundaries, and figuring out how this is going to work without tearing everyone to pieces. And if you're going to lose your head the second you walk back through the door because you saw us kissing, then maybe you aren't cut out for this arrangement after all."
Oscar flinches as if he's been physically struck, the insult hitting a raw, bleeding nerve. "I am cut out for it," Oscar growls, though the venom in his voice wavers slightly, betraying the deep, agonizing insecurity eating away at his core. "It just hurts like hell, alright? I barely had time to process leaving you both, and I come back to the two of you playing happy families."
"It's going to hurt, Oscar. Of course it's going to hurt," George says, his tone softening just a fraction, the sharp edge of rivalry melting into a strange, shared solidarity between two men trapped in the exact same impossible trap. "We're walking into uncharted territory. There's no instruction manual for loving the same person. But if we're going to make this madness work, if we're actually going to share her without destroying each other in the crossfire, you need to get your head in the game right now."
George takes another step closer, closing the distance between them, his voice dropping into a low, uncompromising command.
"Because our relationship with her starts tonight," George declares, the words hanging heavily in the air like a legal contract signed in blood. "Not tomorrow, not when it's convenient, and not after you've finished sulking. Right now."
You sit frozen on the edge of the sofa, watching the two elite athletes stare each other down in your living room. The sheer intensity radiating off them is suffocating, a high-voltage current of raw testosterone, possessiveness, and desperate affection all tangled up together. Your chest heaves as you look between them, realizing with terrifying clarity that there is no turning back now. The train has left the station, and you are all strapped to the front of it.
You push yourself up off the sofa, your legs feeling slightly unsteady beneath you as the adrenaline slowly starts to ebb out of your system, leaving behind a heavy, vibrating fatigue. You take a few slow, deliberate steps across the room until you are standing right in front of Oscar. His chest is still heaving, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles are stark white against his skin, and his jaw is locked in a hard, stubborn line. He looks like a wounded animal backed into a corner, defensive and bruised.
Without a word, you reach out and cup his face with both hands. Your palms rest against his hot, flushed cheeks, your thumbs softly brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbones to coax him down from his spiral.
"Look at me, Oscar," you murmur, your voice a soft, steady anchor in the middle of the storm.
Oscar’s dark eyes snap to yours, resistant and brimming with a volatile mix of lingering anger, jealousy, and deep, aching insecurity. But as he looks at you—really looks at you—the fierce wall he has put up begins to crack.
"I mean it," you whisper, your thumbs tracing his skin in slow, grounding circles. "I talked to George because my head was spinning and I couldn't carry the weight of choosing between you two anymore. I didn't jump into anything to hurt you. I agreed to this because I love you, just like I love him. We set the rules. No secrets between us, total transparency, and absolute equality. If you feel sidelined, you talk to me. If you hurt, I show up for you. Exactly the same as him."
Oscar stands completely rigid under your touch for a long, agonizing minute. You can feel the tension vibrating through his muscles, the gears turning in his head as he processes the terrifying reality of sharing the woman he loves with his biggest rival. The silence stretches between the three of you like a plucked guitar string, tight and humming.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the rigid defiance drains out of Oscar’s shoulders. He lets out a long, shuddering breath that ghosts warm against your wrists, and the dark storm in his eyes softens into something infinitely more vulnerable.
"Damn you," Oscar whispers hoarsely, a bitter, self-deprecating huff of a laugh slipping past his lips. He covers your hands with his own, pressing your palms harder against his face as if he is terrified you might vanish. "Damn you both. You're completely out of your minds. But... fine. Okay. If this is the madness we're signing up for, then alright."
A wave of profound relief washes over you, loosening the iron band around your chest. Before you can even pull your hands away, Oscar’s grip on your wrists tightens. He drops your hands only to wrap his arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest with a sudden, hungry desperation.
You don't hesitate. You tilt your chin up, rising slightly on your tiptoes, and capture his lips with your own.
The kiss is an immediate, consuming wildfire. It carries all the frantic energy, the built-up frustration, and the raw, unadulterated passion that he has been suffocating under his skin all evening. It is hotter and heavier than the kiss with George, fueled by Oscar’s fierce, possessive need to stake his claim and prove to himself—and to the man standing just a few feet away—that he is entirely, inextricably yours.
You melt into it, your hands sliding up his chest to tangle tightly in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. You moan softly against his mouth, and the sound acts like a match to a powder keg. Oscar reacts instantly, shifting his grip and gently but firmly pushing you backward as he walks you a few steps toward the nearby wall, using the solid surface to box you in and deepen the kiss further.
He tilts his head at a sharp angle, his lips parting yours with a demanding heat. He tastes like cool night air and absolute raw desire. He sweeps his tongue across yours, claiming you with a fierce, unapologetic hunger that makes your knees go weak. You feel completely overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of him, your hips pressing instinctively against his as the friction sends a jolt of liquid heat straight down your spine.
For a few breathless seconds, the rest of the world ceases to exist. There is no George standing nearby watching every move, no terrifying secret hanging over your heads, no impossible public life waiting outside your door. There is only the frantic rhythm of your heartbeats crashing together and the heavy, intoxicating slide of skin against skin.
Then, slowly, agonizingly, Oscar breaks the kiss.
He pulls back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving heavily as he sucks in ragged breaths of air. His dark eyes are dilated, the pupils blown wide, burning with an intense, heated fire that sends a shiver straight through your core. His gaze drops heavily down to your swollen, bruised lips before snapping back up to lock onto yours.
A slow, dangerous smile curves the corner of his mouth, sending a thrill of pure adrenaline racing through your veins.
"If we're starting this relationship tonight," Oscar murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that is thick with absolute intent and dark, possessive promise, "then I'm not going to sit here and watch you finish what you started with him."
He leans down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin right below your ear as his hands grip your hips with bruising, unyielding firmness.
"We can just pick up right where you and George left off earlier," he whispers against your skin, sending a violent wave of heat washing over you. "Let's see how much you love sharing us."
The words hang suspended in the charged air between the three of you, thick and heavy like liquid lead. Your breath catches sharply in your throat, your mind screeching to a complete, dizzying halt. For a second, you are entirely convinced you have misheard him, that the relentless stress and the sheer, unadulterated madness of the evening have finally fried your cognitive circuits into total nonsense.
You pull back slightly from Oscar, your hands resting flat against the solid wall of his chest. Your eyes dart wildly from Oscar’s intensely focused, dead-serious face over to where George is standing just a few feet away.
George hasn't moved an inch from where he stood up off the sofa. He is leaning casually against the edge of the backrest, his long arms crossed loosely over his chest. But the easy, polished composure he wore just minutes ago has completely vanished, replaced by an expression of dark, razor-sharp intensity. His blue eyes are blown wide and impossibly dark, locked onto the two of you with a hunger so raw and unfiltered it practically radiates physical heat. He looks like a predator who has just been handed the keys to the kingdom, completely stunned by the audacity of the proposal yet entirely unwilling to look away.
"Oscar, what... what are you talking about?" you breathe out, your voice trembling slightly, your cheeks burning a furious, humiliated shade of crimson as the staggering implication of his words sets in.
Oscar doesn't break eye contact with you. Slowly, deliberately, he turns his head just enough to look past your shoulder at the other man in the room, addressing George directly with a voice that is disturbingly steady, devoid of any trace of hesitation or doubt.
"You heard me," Oscar says, his voice dropping another octave, smooth and dangerous like silk stretched over a razor blade. He shifts his grip on your waist, keeping you flush against him as he speaks to his greatest rival. "He started something on that couch. I want you to finish it, George."
Your heart skips a terrifying, violent beat. You let out a choked gasp, your hands gripping frantically at the fabric of Oscar's shirt as your eyes dart back to him in sheer disbelief. "Oscar, are you out of your absolute mind? You can't—we can't just—"
"I want to watch," Oscar cuts you off, his voice soft, firm, and terrifyingly calm. He reaches up, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jawline, his dark eyes burning into yours with a possessive intensity that makes your knees turn to water. "I want to watch you come apart for him. I want to see you completely unspool, and I want to know that even while you're screaming for him, you belong to me, too."
A cold wave of shock crashes over you, immediately followed by a blistering, liquid heat that pools low in your stomach. Your breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps. You stare at Oscar, utterly bewildered by the sudden, radical shift in his psychology. Just twenty minutes ago, the mere thought of George touching you made him want to punch a wall; now, he is actively inviting his rival to take you right in front of him.
"No," you whisper, shaking your head frantically, panic spiking through your veins. You pull your face away from his touch, your voice cracking with genuine distress. "No, Oscar, I won't do that. I'm not going to do that to you. I know how much this hurts you, I know you're just saying this to prove a point or test your own limits, but I won't—I can't just let you stand there and watch. It'll tear you apart from the inside out, and I won't be the cause of that."
Oscar’s expression softens instantly at the genuine, raw panic lacing your voice. He sees the absolute terror in your eyes—the desperate, protective care you have for his feelings, refusing to let him sacrifice his own boundaries just to appease a twisted, impossible dynamic. A soft, weary sigh escapes his lips, and he cups your face again with both hands, his thumbs sweeping soothingly over your burning cheekbones.
"Hey. Look at me," Oscar murmurs, his tone dropping into a fierce, unwavering gentleness. "Listen to me, love. I am not doing this because I'm forcing myself, and I'm not doing it to punish you. I'm doing it because I want every single part of this reality. If we are sharing you, then we are sharing you. No hiding in separate rooms, no pretending the other one doesn't exist when things get intimate. I want to face it head-on. I'm fine. I promise you, I am entirely, completely fine."
Across the room, George shifts his weight. The sharp, electric tension between the two athletes is so thick you could slice it with a knife. George’s chest rises and falls in deep, controlled breaths, his blue eyes flicking from your flushed, panicked face over to Oscar.
"You're serious," George says, his voice a low, rough rumble that carries a heavy, unmistakable warning. It is not a question; it is a profound realization. He is testing the boundaries, measuring the younger man's sanity. "You actually mean that."
"I mean it," Oscar replies without a single microsecond of hesitation, turning his head fully to lock eyes with George across the living room. The air between the two men crackles with a volatile, high-voltage energy—rivals, competitors, and now, against all laws of nature and logic, reluctant co-conspirators in love.
Oscar turns his gaze back down to you, his eyes burning with an intense, dark fire. He leans in close, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he delivers his final, devastating instruction directly to the man standing a few feet away.
"Go on, George," Oscar murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, commanding rasp that sends a violent shiver racing straight down your spine. "Take her back to the couch. Fuck her until she's completely breathless, until she's begging for you... and make sure she's screaming my name, too, while you do it."
The air in the room feels thick and charged, like a live wire sparking against dry wood. George pushes off the edge of the backrest slowly, his heavy boots making a soft, muted sound against the floorboards as he crosses the short distance toward you. He feels a sharp, jagged spike of bruised ego twisting in his gut; it rankles him deeply, a bitter pill to swallow, being casually ordered around by the younger man like a subordinate taking instructions. Yet, beneath that flash of wounded pride, a dark, pulsing current of raw adrenaline hums through his veins. The sheer, forbidden thrill of claiming you while your other lover stands by and watches acts like fuel thrown onto a raging fire.
Oscar doesn't linger by the wall. He turns away from you, his dark eyes locked onto George with an unyielding intensity, before walking deliberately over to the small wooden dining table a few paces away. He pulls out a chair, turns it around, and sits down straddling it, resting his forearms squarely over the backrest. From here, he has an unobstructed, front-row view of the living room sofa, completely positioned like a spectator waiting for the curtain to rise on a private, agonizingly intimate play.
Your eyes refuse to leave Oscar’s figure as George’s hands settle firmly around your waist, gently guiding you backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of the sofa. A cold knot of guilt twists tightly in your chest. You hate this; you hate the nagging, hollow suspicion that Oscar is merely swallowing glass and faking his composure just to prove a point, forcing a brave face for a twisted experiment that might secretly be breaking him into pieces. But as you catch the dark, heavy heat burning in Oscar's eyes across the room, a wicked, traitorous jolt of arousal shoots straight through your spine, blurring your lines of morality with pure, unadulterated lust.
George steps in close, boxing you in against the cushions. He catches your chin in his hand, tilting your face up, and crushes his mouth down onto yours with a sudden, bruising hunger.
You kiss him back with a fierce, desperate desperation, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. But even as George's hands slide down your hips, lifting you effortlessly to straddle his lap once more, your eyelids flutter open. In the middle of the dizzying friction, your gaze drifts past George's shoulder, seeking out Oscar across the room.
Oscar is watching with eyes so dark and intensely predatory they look almost black in the dim light of the flat. Far from the broken, shattered man you were terrified of creating, Oscar is quietly losing his mind with a twisted, possessive ecstasy. He is loving every agonizing, beautiful second of this. The sight of the woman he loves being thoroughly handled, cherished, and claimed by another man who is just as deeply in love with her acts like an aphrodisiac, stretching his mind to its absolute limits and feeding a dark, hidden hunger he never knew he possessed.
Still, as George’s mouth trails hotly down your neck, eliciting a sharp, breathless gasp from your lips, your eyes keep darting back to Oscar with an unmistakable cloud of worry shadowing your features. You are holding back, your frantic brain still paralyzed by the fear that you are shattering the fragile glass of Oscar's heart.
Oscar notices instantly. He always notices everything when it comes to you.
The soft, rhythmic friction halts. George freezes mid-motion, his lips pausing against your collarbone as he feels your body go rigid, sensing your distraction. He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours with a heavy, controlled sigh, giving you space.
Across the room, the chair scrapes softly against the floor. Oscar stands up, his long strides carrying him back over to the sofa with quiet, deliberate speed. He stops right beside where George is holding you, towering over the two of you.
Oscar reaches out, his fingers gently tangling into your hair to pull your face up so your eyes are forced to lock onto his.
"Stop looking at me like that," Oscar whispers, his voice low, steady, and laced with an urgent, raw sincerity. "Are you scared? Tell me the truth. Do you not want to do this? Do you not want him touching you like this, or... do you not want me to watch?"
You swallow hard, your chest heaving against George’s torso. You look up into Oscar’s dark, searching eyes, hunting for any sign of a crack, any tremor of real pain. But you find none.
"I'm not scared," you breathe out, your voice trembling slightly, flushed with a sudden wave of heat as the raw truth spills past your lips. "If anything... I'm not scared at all. God, Oscar, I'm actually... I want this. I want him, but..." You hesitate, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you glance between the two men. "I want you to join us. I don't want you sitting over there watching like a spectator. I want you right here with me and George."
A heavy, breathless silence falls over the room. George watches Oscar closely, his hands remaining firmly locked around your waist, waiting to see how the younger man will handle the pivot.
Oscar's expression softens, a dark, knowing smile finally breaking through the heavy tension of his features. He lets out a low, gravelly huff of laughter, stepping in closer until his thigh presses against the edge of the sofa beside George's leg.
"I know you do, love," Oscar murmurs, his hand sliding down from your hair to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing a soft stroke across your skin. "And I will. I promise you, I'm going to take my turn tonight, and I'm going to ruin you just as badly as he is."
Oscar leans down, pressing a lingering, heavy kiss directly to your lips, tasting like George and tasting like pure promise, before pulling back just a fraction of an inch.
"I just want to watch him break you open first," Oscar whispers against your mouth, his voice dropping into a dark, commanding rasp that sends a violent, liquid shiver straight to your core. "Let him take you, let him make you scream, and let me watch how completely you belong to both of us. Then... then I'm coming in."
The raw, unvarnished sincerity vibrating in Oscar’s voice acts like a soothing balm over the raw, anxious edges of your mind, finally melting away the last stubborn traces of your doubt. Hearing him speak with such quiet, absolute conviction completely disarms you, letting the heavy armor you had wrapped around your heart slide away into nothingness.
Oscar doesn't waste another second. He leans in close, capturing your lips in one final, searing kiss that steals the breath right out of your lungs. Just as he pulls back, his teeth graze softly against your lower lip, a sharp, playful nip that sends a sudden jolt of electricity straight to your core. A loud, shameless moan slips past your lips, your fingers twitching as you try to reach for him. But Oscar only offers a slow, wicked smile, pressing another brief kiss to your cheek before turning on his heel and walking back to his chair by the dining table, settling right back into his front-row seat with an intensely focused, predatory stare.
You turn your head back around, your breath coming in hot, shallow pants, and find George watching you with eyes that look practically feral in the dim light of the flat. The restraint he had been carefully maintaining all evening snaps completely.
Without giving you a single second to brace yourself, George’s hands slide firmly under your thighs. With a sudden, effortless surge of strength, he lifts you entirely off his lap and flips you around, laying you flat down against the cushions of the sofa. You gasp as your back hits the soft fabric, your limbs sprawling outward for a fraction of a second before George moves in to cage you in completely, his heavy, solid weight pressing down over you like a warm, suffocating blanket.
His hands move with a swift, urgent precision. He grabs the elastic waistband of your sweatpants and your underwear, bunching the fabric in his fists and dragging them down your legs in one fluid motion, stripping them away entirely and kicking them off to the side.
The cool air of the living room hits your bare skin for a split second, making you shiver, before George’s hot, heavy gaze settles directly between your thighs.
A sharp intake of breath rattles in George’s chest. He bites down hard on his lower lip, his blue eyes darkening to a near-black shade as he takes in the sight of you. You are glistening so perfectly, dripping wet and completely laid bare for him—and, by extension, for Oscar sitting just a few feet away. For months, George has tortured himself with vivid, relentless fantasies of this exact moment, lying awake in the dark imagining what it would feel like to finally untangle your clothes and take you like this. The reality of it hits him like a physical blow, a dizzying rush of triumph and raw, animalistic hunger that makes his hands tremble slightly as he rests them on your hips.
All of your hesitation evaporates into thin air, instantly incinerated by the blistering heat radiating off him. In this exact moment, with George hovering over you like a god of absolute ruin, you completely forget that Oscar is even sitting across the room. Your entire universe shrinks down to the heavy friction of George’s body and the fever-pitch hum of your own pulse.
George doesn't waste another second of air. He reaches up and grips the hem of your top, hauling it up and over your head in one swift motion, tossing it blindly onto the floor.
You are left completely exposed to the open air, your chest heaving wildly as your bare breasts rise and fall with every ragged breath you take. George’s breath hitches in his throat. His hands, large and warm, come up to cup both of your breasts, his palms molding perfectly to your shape. He begins to squeeze and massage you with a heavy, rhythmic pressure that makes your back immediately arch off the cushions.
A loud, uninhibited moan tears straight from your throat, your head thrashing backward into the softness of the sofa pillows as a wave of intense pleasure shoots straight down to your toes.
"God, you're so gorgeous," George groans, his voice thick, rough, and completely wrecked as he lowers his head.
He latches his mouth over one of your hardened peaks, sucking you in with a wet, heavy heat that makes your vision swim at the edges. He bites down gently on the sensitive tip, teasing it with his teeth while swirling and rolling your other nipple between his thumb and forefinger with an expert, punishing friction.
While his mouth keeps you completely undone up top, his free hand isn't wasting a single second down below. He slides his palm lazily up your right thigh, his thumb brushing slow, scorching circles against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, creeping closer and closer to your core with every agonizingly slow second.
The contrast of his mouth pulling a sob from your chest while his hand teases the absolute edge of your sensitivity makes your head spin. God, George feels so impossibly good. The friction inside you is building like a pressure cooker, the wet heat of your body slicking your thighs as you begin to writhe helplessly beneath him, your fingers tangling desperately into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, anchoring him to you as you curse and moan his name into the quiet air of the room.
You are right on the razor-thin edge, completely unspooled and begging for friction, when George’s wandering hand on your thigh suddenly shifts upward.
With one deliberate, sweeping motion, his palm cups your soaked heat directly, pressing his warm flesh flat against your throbbing core.
A loud, explosive gasp shatters the quiet room, instantly turning into a ragged, high-pitched curse that echoes off the walls. The sheer, overwhelming intensity of the contact makes your vision completely white out for a second. Without giving you a chance to recover, George curls three fingers into your core, pressing in deep while his thumb instantly begins to draw frantic, wet circles directly over your hypersensitive clitoris.
The friction is instantaneous and catastrophic. Your hips buck upward off the sofa of their own accord, violently chasing the heavy, rhythmic pressure of his hand, begging for more, screaming for anything to pull you over the edge.
The frantic, dizzying rhythm of his hand working your soaked core pushes you higher and higher, until you are practically vibrating out of your skin with pure, concentrated need. Your fingers tighten convulsively in his hair, pulling him closer as you pant his name like a prayer, your body strung as tight as a plucked violin string.
Just when you feel like you are about to shatter right there beneath his palm, George suddenly slows his hand, sliding his fingers away. A collective, instinctive whimper of protest dies in your throat as you feel the sudden loss of friction, but George doesn't give you a single second to lament it.
Slowly, deliberately, George trails a hot, wet line of kisses down from your chest, pressing his lips against your ribs before traveling lower over your stomach. His breath is ragged and burning hot against your bare skin, sending a series of violent, delicious shivers racing across your torso. He pauses to swirl his tongue lazily across your navel, making your hips twitch, before his mouth continues its descent, tracing a slow, agonizing path down the soft skin of your inner thighs. Every place his lips touch feels like a brand, leaving a trail of liquid fire in their wake.
You tilt your head back against the sofa cushions, your breathing coming in shallow, frantic gasps that rattle loudly in your chest. You peer down between your legs, your heavy-lidded, hazy gaze locking onto George as he positions himself right between your open knees, staring up at your glistening, aching heat with an expression of pure, unadulterated hunger.
"Look at you," George groans, his voice a gravelly, wrecked whisper that barely registers over the sound of your own heartbeat hammering in your ears. "You're completely drenched for us. God, you're so beautiful."
Without another word of warning, George buries his face between your thighs.
The first sweep of his tongue against your hypersensitive core hits you like a physical lightning strike. You let out a loud, breathless shriek, your hips bucking upward off the sofa so violently that the entire piece of furniture groans beneath you. Your fingers instantly fly back up to fist into the fabric of the sofa cushions, your knuckles turning stark white as a wave of overwhelming, blinding pleasure crashes over your nervous system like a tidal wave.
George eats you out like a man who has completely lost every last shred of his civilized control, shedding all his polished, media-trained composure in a heartbeat. He doesn't hold back, and he doesn't pace himself. He attacks your heat with a ravenous, desperate hunger, his tongue flicking over your swollen clitoris with manic precision while his lips clamp down around your folds to suck you in deep. He slurps and laps at your wetness shamelessly, the wet, heavy sounds echoing loudly in the quiet room, a filthy, intoxicating rhythm that makes your head spin completely off its axis.
Your vision blurs at the edges, the world narrowing down entirely to the devastating heat of his mouth dismantling your sanity piece by piece.
"George—fuck, George—" you sob out, your voice cracking into a high, hysterical whine as your head thrashes wildly from side to side against the pillows.
He doesn't let up for even a microsecond. He pushes a thick, slick finger deep inside your tight, pulsing heat, curling it upward to hook against your sensitive spot while his tongue relentlessly drills against your over-sensitized clit, practically tongue-fucking you with a wet, brutal efficiency. The combination of his fingers stretching you open and his mouth devouring you pushes you past the absolute brink of endurance.
Your entire body goes rigid, locked in a fierce, trembling cage of sensory overload. You try to pull away, your hips bucking away from his mouth instinctively because the pleasure is suddenly too sharp, too blindingly intense to bear, but George’s strong hands shoot out instantly, grabbing your hips in a bruising, vice-like grip and pinning you firmly in place against his face. He refuses to let you escape, drinking down your frantic moans and swallowing every ragged sob that tears from your chest.
"No, stay for me, take it," George growls thickly against your core, his voice vibrating right against your most sensitive flesh before he dives straight back in with an even fiercer, punishing intensity.
The walls of your core begin to spasm violently, a sudden, explosive chain reaction sparking deep inside your lower stomach. You scream his name out loud, your back bowing hard off the cushions as a massive, earth-shattering climax rips through your entire body. You shake uncontrollably from head to toe, your toes curling tightly as wave after wave of intense, blinding contractions wash over you, soaking his mouth and chin completely as you shatter into a million frantic, breathless pieces beneath his relentless tongue.
As the massive, blinding wave of your climax finally begins to recede, leaving your nervous system humming like a live wire, you instinctively clamp your thighs together, trapping George’s head right between them. You are shaking uncontrollably from head to toe, your breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. But George isn't finished with you yet. Even trapped against your thighs, he playfully flicks the very tip of his tongue one last time directly over your hyper-sensitive, throbbing clit. A fresh, high-pitched squeak tears from your throat, your legs trembling so violently you can barely keep them locked around him.
A few feet away, Oscar has watched every single second of the dismantling unfold like a spectator at an execution. The sight of you completely undone, unspooled, and dripping wet over another man’s face acts like a match tossed into a dry forest. His own length is throbbing painfully against the restriction of his shorts, heavy and aching with a desperate, throbbing heat. Unable to sit still for another heartbeat, Oscar stands up abruptly, pushes his chair back, and unbuttons his shorts, shoving them down his legs before sitting right back down on the chair entirely naked from the waist down, his fist already wrapping around his thick, hard length as he begins to pump himself in a slow, punishing rhythm while keeping his dark, burning eyes locked directly on you.
George pulls his head back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he looks up at you with heavy, glazed eyes. He reaches up and grips you by the hips, effortlessly hauling you up from the sofa until you are standing completely upright on your shaky, rubbery legs right in front of him.
Before you can even catch your breath, George’s hand shoots up from your hip and snakes securely around your throat, his fingers wrapping tight enough to anchor you, forcing your chin up. He crashes his mouth down onto yours in a brutal, hard, wet, and utterly sloppy kiss that tastes entirely of your own sweet release.
"Fucking hell," George groans against your mouth, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving as his blue eyes burn into yours. "You tasted so good. I've dreamed about that every single night for months. And now... god, I want to ruin your pretty little pussy right now."
A fever-pitch whimper of absolute need tears from your throat. Your inhibitions are completely burned to ash, leaving behind nothing but raw, consuming desire. "Please, George," you sob out, your hands clawing desperately at his shoulders, your voice thick and broken. "Please, ruin me. I want you, I need you so badly."
You can see the thick, heavy outline of his massive length straining viciously against the front of his trousers, desperate for release. You pull George back down for one more frantic, crushing kiss before he breaks away, peppering hot, wet kisses down the sharp line of your jaw, dragging his lips behind your ear and nipping sharply at your sensitive earlobe before tracing a wet path down the side of your neck.
With shaking, clumsy fingers, you reach down between you. You fumble desperately with his belt buckle, undoing the metal clasp in record time before tearing open his zipper and plunging your hand inside to free him.
The moment your fingers wrap around him, a sharp gasp of pure shock escapes your lips. Fuck. He is so unimaginably big. Your fingers don't even come close to touching when you wrap your palm around his thick shaft, his heavy, throbbing length pulsing violently against your skin, thick with veins and radiating an intense, searing heat. The mere sight and feel of him makes your core throb with a fresh wave of wet, aching need.
George notices the breathless shock on your face, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "I'll go slow and gentle for you, love," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, teasing purr right against your mouth.
You violently shake your head back and forth against his chest, your hair flying wildly. "No," you pant, your voice desperate and cracked. "I don't want gentle. I don't want slow. I want you to completely ruin me, George."
A low, guttural laugh vibrates in George’s chest at your utter desperation, and he crushes his mouth back onto yours, kissing you with a ravenous, starving hunger that makes your head spin all over again.
Across the room, the sight of you begging his greatest rival pushes Oscar completely over the edge. He can't just sit and watch anymore.
Oscar abandons his chair in a swift, fluid motion and strides across the living room floor. He steps right up behind your back, his warm, bare body pressing flush against your spine. Instantly, Oscar buries his face into the free side of your neck, kissing you with a feverish intensity while his right hand wraps tightly around your waist to anchor you against him. His left hand moves upward, cupping your bare, heavy breast and starting to massage and pinch your hardened nipple with a merciless, exquisite friction.
Your head lolls backward, falling heavily against Oscar’s solid shoulder as both men surround you completely, showering you with a relentless storm of hot, wet kisses. You can feel Oscar’s thick, weeping length pressing hard and heavy against your lower back, sending shivers across your skin, while George’s massive shaft hits squarely against your sensitive, throbbing clit with every heavy breath he takes.
Overwhelmed by the sheer, magnificent decadence of having two elite, powerful men completely undone and worshipping you at the exact same time, you throw your arms back blindly. Your hand tangles fiercely into Oscar’s soft hair, your fingers gripping his locks tightly for leverage, while your other hand slams down onto George’s broad shoulder, digging your nails into his skin for balance as the world spins entirely out of control.
George’s mouth hovers inches from your ear, his warm, ragged breath ghosting over your skin as he wraps his large hand tighter around your waist to hold you steady against the storm. The contrast between the two men surrounding you is an absolute sensory overload; while Oscar’s touch is heavy, demanding, and utterly controlling, George’s voice drops into a low, hypnotic murmur that unravels the last remaining threads of your composure.
"Look at you," George whispers into your ear, his tone impossibly sweet, laced with a gentle, worshipful reverence that feels entirely illegal given the raw, primal nature of the moment. "You are so breathtakingly beautiful. Just look at where you are standing right now, completely caught between the two of us. Tell me the truth... do you like this? Do you like being treated this way, being shared like this?"
Your mind is a chaotic, swirling vortex of pure lust, completely clouded by a thick, heavy fog of arousal. You open your mouth to speak, but no coherent sound comes out. You are utterly paralyzed by the sensations flooding your nervous system, especially with Oscar’s lips still relentlessly pressing hot, wet kisses down the side of your neck, his tongue darting out to lick lazily against the shell of your ear before his teeth nip sharply, playfully at your earlobe.
Feeling you freeze up under the dual onslaught of attention, Oscar momentarily pauses his ministrations. He pulls his head back just an inch, his dark, heavy gaze locking onto your hazy, dazed eyes.
"Answer him," Oscar commands, his voice dropping into a deep, authoritative register that brooks zero argument, dripping with absolute dominance and control. He gives your waist a firm, bruising squeeze. "Tell George if you want him to fuck you."
You stutter out a broken, pathetic sound, your breath hitching in your throat. "I—I—"
"Use your words," Oscar presses relentlessly, his thumb digging into your hip, making it clear that escaping this verbal surrender is not an option.
"Yes," you gasp out, your voice trembling and high-pitched, completely wrecked as you cling to George’s shoulder. "Yes, please, George, I want you—"
Oscar doesn't even let you finish the sentence. "Did you hear that, George?" Oscar murmurs, his voice dark and gravelly, laced with a wicked edge of triumph. "She wants you. So ask her properly."
True to his word, George slides his massive, throbbing length away from your hip, bringing the hot, weeping crown of his shaft directly against your hypersensitive, drenched clit. He traces lazy, torturous circles back and forth across your core with the heavy head of his cock, making you whine out loud at the exquisite friction.
"Do you want me to fuck you, sweetheart?" George whispers softly, his lips brushing against your cheek, his tone dripping with an intoxicating, honeyed sweetness that makes your knees turn to water. "Do you want me to fill you up right now while he watches?"
Before you can force another word past your swollen lips, Oscar decides he has seen enough of the prelude. He slowly pulls away from your back, letting out a low, rough groan. He doesn't go far, but he steps back out of your immediate space, his hand wrapped firmly around his own thick, weeping length as he pumps himself in a slow, punishing rhythm. He walks backward a few slow steps, his dark, predatory eyes never once breaking contact with yours, before settling back down onto his chair by the dining table. He gives your neck one final, lingering suck of his teeth, leaving a dark, blooming bruise right on your skin, before leaving you entirely in George's hands for the next phase.
George doesn't waste another second. He catches you by the hips, his grip unyielding, and guides you forward until your chest presses down heavily against the top of the sofa backrest, bending you cleanly over the cushions.
The angle is devastatingly effective. Your hips are lifted perfectly, completely exposed to the open air. George steps in tight behind you, his massive frame sheltering you completely from the world. He reaches down with one hand, his fingers dipping into your slick, overflowing heat to coat himself in your wetness, spreading you wide and preparing you for what is to come.
"You're so ready for me," George murmurs, his voice a sweet, gentle cadence right against your ear as he leans over your back. "Just breathe, love. I've got you."
He aligns the heavy, blunt head of his shaft right at your entrance. Slowly, agonizingly, George begins to push forward. He stretches you open inch by agonizing inch, going deliberately slow to let your body adjust to his immense size, filling you up with a steady, stretching pressure that makes you cry out into the sofa cushions.
Across the room, Oscar watches the slow penetration with heavy, half-lidded eyes, his fist working furiously up and down his own shaft as he tracks every single inch of George disappearing inside you.
"That's it, take every bit of him," Oscar calls out from across the room, his voice a sharp, dominant crack of thunder in the quiet flat. "Open yourself up for him like a good girl, just like you were made for us."
Hearing Oscar's commanding voice echoes through the room, combined with the heavy, stretching fullness of George completely burying himself deep inside your core, pushes your brain right over the edge. George pauses once he is hilt-deep, burying his face in your hair as he pants raggedly against your scalp, whispering praise and adoration into your skin.
"Fuck," George groans, his sweet composure beginning to crack at the seams as the tight, wet heat of your inner walls milks him mercilessly. "You feel so ungodly tight... are you taking it all, sweetheart? Does it feel good?"
"It hurts—no, it's so good, George, please—" you sob into the cushions, your hips twitching instinctively against him.
"Look at her," Oscar commands loudly from his chair, his voice dripping with pure, unapologetic ownership as he watches you bent over the sofa. "Look at how well she takes him, George. Make sure she knows whose she is while you use her."
George's gentle, sweet demeanor instantly shifts, catching the fire in Oscar's words. A dark, rough growl vibrates in George's chest, and he pulls back almost entirely before driving back into you with a heavy, merciless thrust that knocks the wind straight out of your lungs.
The contrast between the two men hits you like a tidal wave. George, who had just been whispering sweet, tender endearments against your cheek, suddenly turns feral behind you, grabbing your hips in a bruising grip and slamming into you with a relentless, driving rhythm. And Oscar, sitting just a few feet away, acting as the puppet master of your destruction, dictating every movement with his dark, demanding voice.
"That's it, take it all," George pants heavily, his thrusts turning deeper, harder, and infinitely more frantic as he loses himself completely in the wet, slapping friction. "You're taking every inch of me, aren't you? Tell me how much you love being ruined by us."
"I love it—fuck, George, harder—" you scream out into the cushions, your nails digging deep into the fabric as your body is pounded into the sofa over and over again, every thrust hitting that deep, aching spot inside you that makes your vision completely white out with pure, ecstatic agony.
The rhythm shifts from a punishing, steady cadence into something frantic, unhinged, and completely feral. George is no longer pacing himself; every ounce of his polished, gentlemanly composure has been incinerated by the blistering heat of the friction and the heavy, intoxicating sounds of your voice echoing off the walls. He curls his fingers tightly into the roots of your hair, giving a sharp, commanding tug that forces your head back and exposes the vulnerable expanse of your throat. With his free hand, he reaches around, his large palm wrapping firmly and securely around your neck, tightening his grip just enough to cut off your breath for a microsecond and send a dizzying wave of sheer panic and blinding pleasure straight to your brain.
"That's my sweet girl," George growls right against your ear, his voice thick, broken, and dripping with raw, uncontrolled lust as he drives into you from behind. "Look at you taking every single inch of me like you were built for this. Do you like this? Do you like feeling completely taken apart?"
Every single time he pushes forward, his massive shaft strikes that deep, aching sweet spot buried inside your core with absolute, surgical precision. It is a relentless, driving assault that rattles your bones and scrambles your thoughts into complete incoherence. You can't form a single proper sentence; you can only moan and curse out loud, your voice cracking with every heavy, wet thrust that pounds you deeper into the cushions of the sofa.
Your mind spins in a chaotic, dizzying whirl of disbelief and raw ecstasy. If someone had told you months ago that you would willingly find yourself tangled up in this kind of voyeuristic, multi-person dynamic, you would have laughed in their face. But these aren't just any two men. These are elite, world-famous athletes, titans of the racing grid, hyper-focused competitors who spend their days wrestling multi-million-pound machines around high-speed circuits at terrifying velocities. And right now, these exact same men are completely undone, reduced to a primal state of raw, unadulterated need because of you. It feels like stepping into some feverish, hyper-realistic dream, an intoxicating fantasy brought violently to life. You are living right at the bleeding edge of absolute indulgence, and a fierce, greedy part of you never, ever wants it to stop. You don't want George to pull out, you don't want the friction to end, and you don't want this wild, chaotic dream to ever wake up.
Across the room, Oscar has been tracking every single movement with eyes that have darkened into a near-black abyss. The sound of your breathless cries, combined with the heavy, rhythmic slap of skin against skin and George’s rough, commanding voice, pushes the younger man past his absolute limit. He can't just stand back and watch anymore.
Oscar abandons his chair with a low, rough growl, his own thick, heavy length still weeping and aching as he strides across the floor. He approaches you from the front, his bare feet falling silent against the wood, until he is standing right in front of your face as George continues to pound relentlessly into your backside from behind.
Oscar’s dark eyes lock onto your hazy, dilated gaze. He reaches out, his fingers sliding firmly into your hair to tilt your chin up, guiding you toward him.
"Can you use your mouth, baby?" Oscar asks, his voice dropping into a low, commanding rasp that vibrates right against your lips, thick with absolute dominance. "Can you suck me while he ruins your pussy?"
George doesn't miss a beat, his hips stuttering slightly as the sudden, violent clenching of your inner walls milks his shaft in response to Oscar's words. George is already too far gone, completely lost in the exquisite, addictive friction of your body.
"Fuck, Oscar, look at her," George pants raggedly, his voice breaking as he buries himself up to the hilt with a vicious, punishing thrust that makes you cry out. "She's so fucking tight... she's wrapping around me like a vice, I swear to God she feels like absolute heaven."
Oscar’s gaze never leaves yours. He reaches down, wrapping his hand firmly around his own thick, throbbing shaft, pumping it a few times to get slick before bringing it right up to your face.
"Open up for me," Oscar orders softly, his thumb pressing down gently against your lower lip to force your mouth apart.
You obey without a second of hesitation, your chest heaving as you pant for air. George continues to hammer into you from behind, the heavy, jarring impact of his hips bouncing your upper body forward with every single stroke, making it impossible to stay still. But Oscar's steady, anchoring hand on the back of your head keeps you pinned right where he wants you.
Oscar pushes himself forward, sliding the hot, weeping head of his length past your lips. You take him in with a wet, clumsy gasp, your tongue darting out instinctively to taste the salty, pre-come slick coating his skin as you begin to suck on him in time with the punishing rhythm George is setting from behind.
The sensory overload is instantaneous and catastrophic. You have George buried deep inside your soaked core, stretching you wide and filling every single centimeter of your internal walls, while Oscar is right there filling your mouth, his thick shaft sliding in and out with a steady, deliberate cadence that forces your jaw to work overtime.
"That's it, swallow it down," Oscar praises you, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as he watches you take him. His thumb strokes your cheek gently, a stark contrast to the demanding way his hips begin to push forward, matching George's pace stroke for stroke. "You're handling both of us like a natural. You love being a greedy little thing, don't you, baby?"
Behind you, George groans loudly, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your vision sparkle as he drives forward with renewed, frantic energy.
"She's so good for us, isn't she, mate?" George gasps out, his forehead pressed against your back as he thrusts into you deeper and harder, losing his mind to the wet, sloppy sounds of your mouth working on Oscar's length. "Look at her taking you while I'm fucking her brains out... she belongs to us entirely."
"She does," Oscar murmurs darkly, his eyes burning with a fierce, possessive fire as he watches tears of sheer pleasure prick the corners of your eyes. He gives your hair a soft, reassuring tug, guiding your rhythm. "Keep going, baby. Take it all. Let's see how much of us you can handle before you break."
The living room dissolves into a chaotic, feverish blur of motion, sweat, and heavy, ragged breathing. George continues to hammer relentlessly into your soaked core from behind, his hips driving forward with a brutal, rhythmic force that shakes your entire body against the sofa. Every single time he buries himself up to the hilt, the jarring impact ripples straight up your spine, knocking your upper body forward and forcing your throat to swallow down another heavy inch of Oscar’s thick, throbbing length.
You are choking on Oscar, your jaw aching and your throat working frantically to accommodate him as his shaft slides deep down your esophagus. Thick strings of saliva slip past your lips, dripping uncontrollably down your chin and pooling onto the floor, but neither man cares. They are entirely lost to the intoxicating madness of the moment, driven by a primal, insatiable hunger that borders on violence.
"Fucking hell, she's so tight," George groans, his voice a rough, breathless rasp right against your ear as he reaches around to grab your hip, anchoring you to his relentless pace. He pulls you back just to slam back into you harder, his words dripping with a sweet, worshipful adoration that completely contrasts the brutality of his thrusts. "You're doing so brilliantly for me, sweetheart. Look at how gorgeous you are, taking every bit of my cock while he fills your mouth. You were made for this. You belong right here between the two of us."
Hearing George praise you, calling you sweet and telling you how well you are doing, sends a dizzying wave of validation flooding through your chest. But the moment that sweet nectar settles into your brain, Oscar delivers a sharp, devastating counter-balance that completely short-circuits your nervous system.
"Don't listen to him, you greedy little slapper," Oscar mutters darkly, his free hand tightening viciously into the hair at the back of your head, holding you firmly in place as he stares down at you with heavy, dilated eyes. "You're a dirty girl, aren't you? Look at you drooling all over me, taking whatever we give you like a good little plaything. You love being used like this, don't you? Admit it."
The sudden, sharp humiliation combined with George’s honeyed praise strikes a volatile, explosive chord deep inside you. You love the balance of it. You thrive on the whiplash of being degraded and worshipped all at once, the juxtaposition of feeling entirely debased by Oscar while being elevated to a goddess by George. That delicious psychological conflict hits your core like a bolt of lightning, making your inner walls clench down so violently around George’s shaft that he lets out a loud, ragged cry of pure ecstasy.
"Fuck, George—she's milking me, Oscar, I swear to God she's locking down on me," George pants wildly, his thrusts stuttering for a fraction of a second before he redoubles his speed, pounding into you with a desperate, heavy frenzy.
Sensing the frantic tightening of your core and hearing George lose his mind behind you, Oscar decides to push you past your absolute limit. His grip on your hair tightens into a firm, unyielding command, forcing your head down further onto his thick shaft. He shoves himself all the way to the back of your throat, stretching you open until your eyes water and a muffled, frantic gasp escapes your nose.
Oscar stays there, burying himself deep in your mouth and holding you motionless for a long, torturous moment, letting you choke on his immense size while his thumb strokes your cheek mockingly.
"Take it all down," Oscar commands, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates against your palate. "Hold it right there for me."
Behind you, George doesn't stop for a single second. Driven by the sight of Oscar filling your mouth while George's own cock stretches your core, George seizes you by the hips and drives forward with a massive, punishing thrust.
The heavy impact of George pushing deep inside your backside jolts your entire body upward, forcing your head to take Oscar even deeper down your throat than before. A strangled, high-pitched moan of shock tears from your nose, muffled entirely around Oscar’s length.
The double-barrel assault is so intense, so overwhelmingly decadent, that your brain completely whites out. You are being thoroughly used from both ends by two men who are entirely consumed by their love and lust for you.
"Look at that rhythm," Oscar groans, his own hips beginning to move in a slow, punishing cadence to match George's ferocious pace. Every time George slams into you from behind, you bob forward onto Oscar's cock, creating a devastating, seamless loop of pleasure that makes your toes curl and your legs shake uncontrollably. "We could do this all day, couldn't we, George? Just take turns breaking her open until she physically cannot walk."
"We could do this forever," George pants heavily, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your hips, bruising you in the best possible way. He speeds up his tempo, a relentless, wet, slapping sound echoing loudly off the walls as he pounds into you without mercy. "She's not going anywhere. We're going to keep her right here, taking our cocks, until she's screaming our names and begging us to stop."
"She won't be begging us to stop," Oscar corrects darkly, a wicked, triumphant smirk curving his lips as he watches tears spill over your lower lashes, driven entirely by the sheer, magnificent intensity of the sensations. "She'll be begging us for more. Won't you, love?"
You can't answer. You can only make frantic, broken sounds in the back of your throat around Oscar's length, your body trembling so violently you feel like you are standing on the edge of a cliff in the middle of an earthquake. Every nerve ending is completely fried, buzzing with a hyper-sensitive, electric heat that refuses to let up.
George’s thrusts grow heavier, faster, and wildly erratic as he chases his own precipice. The friction inside your core is scorching, burning you from the inside out, while Oscar continues to fuck your mouth with a heavy, dominating rhythm that keeps you entirely anchored to their control. You are living inside a wild, impossible dream, completely shattered and put back together by the two men who own your entire soul, and as the pressure inside your lower stomach begins to violently coil once more toward another catastrophic peak, you know with absolute certainty that you never, ever want this night to end.
The pressure inside your lower abdomen coils tighter and tighter, twisting into a hot, volatile knot that threatens to detonate your entire nervous system. George can feel it, too—the frantic, desperate clenching of your inner walls warning him that you are teetering right on the precipice of another shattering climax.
"Fuck, I'm close—I'm right there, sweetheart," George groans, his voice dropping into a ragged, breathless plea as his fingers dig deep into the soft flesh of your hips, bruising you with his desperation. He stops holding back entirely, his rhythm dissolving into a chaotic, blind frenzy.
He drives into you with a massive, punishing thrust that buries him completely to the hilt, holding you firmly in place as his body goes rigid. With a loud, ragged cry that echoes straight off the walls, George completely shatters. He spills himself deep inside your core in thick, hot, pulsing waves, flooding you completely as his hips stutter and twitch with every powerful aftershock of his release.
As George rides out the final waves of his climax, his forehead pressed heavily against your back, panting raggedly into your skin, Oscar slowly slides himself out of your mouth. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with an intense, ravenous fire that has been slowly building and boiling under his skin for months.
Before George can even catch his breath, Oscar steps in. He reaches down, grabbing you by the waist, and with a swift, seamless motion, he flips you over the back of the sofa, laying you flat down onto the cushions. You gasp as your back hits the soft fabric, your limbs completely rubbery, heavy, and trembling.
George pulls himself out of you with a wet, heavy sound, stepping back just a fraction of an inch. He wipes his mouth, his chest covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his blue eyes still blown wide and dark with lingering adrenaline. But as Oscar steps neatly into the space George just vacated, positioning himself firmly between your spread thighs, George takes a slow step back, lowers himself onto the arm of the sofa, and settles in to watch.
It is George’s turn to stand on the sidelines, to watch as the other man takes his absolute turn devouring you.
Oscar doesn't waste a single microsecond of prelude. He positions his thick, heavy length right at your soaked entrance and drives straight into you in one single, violent, uncompromising thrust.
A loud, breathless shriek tears straight from your throat, your back arching violently off the cushions. The angle is entirely different, hitting you at a devastating, deeper trajectory that knocks the remaining wind completely out of your lungs. Oscar doesn't give your body a second to adjust; he immediately sets a rhythm that is harder, faster, and infinitely more aggressive than anything George just put you through.
"Mine," Oscar growls darkly, his voice a low, gravelly threat that vibrates right against your skin as he grabs your hips in a punishing, vice-like grip. He pulls back almost entirely before slamming back into you with a heavy, bone-rattling impact.
"Oscar—fuck—" you sob out, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, your fingernails digging deep into his skin as his relentless pace takes your breath away.
Oscar is moving like a man possessed, driven by months of agonizing, torturous restraint. For the past several months, he has forced himself to keep his hands to himself, biting his tongue, masking his jealousy, and fighting every natural, possessive instinct in his body because he was terrified that moving too fast would scare you off, that his raw, unfiltered intensity would make you pack your bags and run for the hills. He has watched you from a distance, tortured by daydreams of what it would feel like to finally lose control.
Now, all those months of forced patience and simmering frustration detonate at once.
"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?" Oscar pants heavily, his hips driving into you with a merciless, piston-like rhythm that makes the entire sofa creak and groan in protest. He leans down, his face inches from yours, his dark eyes burning into your soul. "Months, love. Months of watching you, wanting you, listening to you talk about everything else while I sat there biting my tongue, terrified that if I touched you the wrong way, you'd vanish."
He drives into you deeper, hitting a sweet spot that makes your vision completely white out in a blinding flash of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
"Look at me," Oscar commands sharply, his tone dripping with an absolute, uncompromising dominance that demands every ounce of your attention. "Keep your eyes on me. You're taking every inch of my cock, and you're going to scream my name while I break you open."
Across the room, George sits perched on the arm of the sofa, watching the scene unfold with heavy, half-lidded eyes. He is completely transfixed, his chest rising and falling in time with Oscar’s aggressive thrusts, entirely mesmerized by the raw, primal display of the younger man finally claiming what he has craved for so long.
"That's it, mate, give it to her," George murmurs, his voice thick, raspy, and laced with an approving, shared ownership that sends another shockwave of heat straight through your core. "Look at how well she takes you, Oscar. She's completely yours right now."
Oscar throws his head back with a rough, guttural groan at George's words, his thrusts turning even more frantic, punishing, and deep. He pummels into your core with a speed that makes your head spin completely off its axis, every heavy slap of skin echoing loudly against the quiet walls of the flat.
"You like it when I'm rough with you, don't you?" Oscar taunts, his voice dropping into a filthy, demanding purr right against your ear as he leans down to nip sharply at your collarbone, leaving a fresh, angry red mark on your skin. "You like being manhandled, you dirty little thing. You take George's sweet words, but you take my cock when you want to be ruined. Admit it."
"I admit it—fuck, Oscar, I'm ruined, I'm so ruined—" you scream out, your voice breaking into hysterical, weeping moans as the friction burns you alive from the inside out. Your internal walls begin to spasm wildly, clamping down around his thick shaft with an unbearable, desperate tightness as a second, massive climax begins to violently claw its way up your throat.
"Don't you dare come yet," Oscar commands ruthlessly, his pace accelerating into a blinding blur of motion as he feels the frantic tightening of your core. He wants to drag it out, wants to stretch every single second of your undoing until you are completely, irrevocably shattered. "Look at George. Look at him watching you fall apart for me."
You force your heavy, tear-filled eyes open, turning your head to lock gazes with George sitting just a few feet away. George meets your eyes with an intense, worshipful heat, his own hand drifting down to stroke himself lazily as he watches Oscar pound relentlessly into your soaked body.
"You're doing so brilliantly, sweetheart," George praises you softly, his voice sweet as honey, offering you that grounding anchor of adoration while Oscar systematically destroys your sanity from the inside. "Let him take you over the edge. Let him finish what we started."
The devastating combination of Oscar’s brutal, degradation-laced dominance and George’s gentle, unwavering worship triggers an instant, catastrophic short-circuit in your brain. The two forces collide inside you like a violent explosion.
"I'm coming—Oscar, I'm coming, I'm going to break—" you shriek out, your hands gripping frantically at Oscar's biceps as your back arches hard off the cushions.
"Come for me, then," Oscar growls, his own breathing turning ragged and broken as he buries himself as deep as humanly possible, delivering three massive, devastating thrusts right in a row that hit every single nerve ending at once. "Take it, take every drop of me!"
The world shatters completely. A massive, earth-shattering orgasm rips through your entire body with the force of a tidal wave, your vision turning completely blinding white as wave after wave of intense, violent contractions slam into your core. You throw your head back, screaming Oscar’s name at the top of your lungs, your legs trembling and thrashing helplessly against the sofa as Oscar lets out a loud, ragged roar of his own, burying himself deep inside your convulsing walls and flooding you completely with his hot, heavy release.
For a long, motionless stretch of time, nobody breathes. The flat is filled only with the sound of three ragged, heavy sets of lungs desperately trying to drag oxygen back into their bodies. You lie sprawled out across the cushions, completely undone, your muscles entirely liquefied, knowing with absolute certainty that your legs will refuse to carry you anywhere for the rest of the night.
The frantic, thundering chaos of the room slowly begins to evaporate, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic sound of three sets of ragged breathing trying desperately to anchor themselves back to reality. The air hangs thick and heavy, smelling faintly of sweat, skin, and the undeniable aftermath of absolute indulgence. Your body feels completely hollowed out, as if every single drop of energy, tension, and anxiety has been forcibly drained from your limbs, leaving behind a boneless, gelatinous weight that makes moving even a single finger feel like lifting a mountain.
Oscar remains buried deep inside you for a few lingering heartbeats, his chest rising and falling against yours, his face buried softly in the crook of your neck where his lips leave a warm, lingering trace against your skin. You can feel the slow, heavy thrum of his heartbeat gradually decelerating, syncing up with the steady pulse of your own fading adrenaline.
With a soft, reluctant sigh that ghosts warm against your collarbone, Oscar begins to pull out. The motion is slow, deliberate, and remarkably gentle—a stark, tender contrast to the aggressive, punishing pace he had forced just moments prior. As he slips free, he reaches down to catch any lingering moisture, his touch impossibly soft. He carefully extracts himself, smoothing down your thighs with hands that are remarkably steady despite the hurricane of emotion still churning behind his dark eyes.
Right as Oscar steps back, George is already moving. He stands up smoothly from the arm of the sofa, rolling his broad shoulders back as he looks down at you. Without a single word needing to be spoken, he steps around the coffee table and heads straight down the short hallway toward the bathroom, disappearing from view for a moment before the sharp, rushing sound of water roaring into the deep porcelain bathtub echoes faintly through the flat.
Oscar doesn't waste a second either. He turns and walks over to the kitchen counter, grabbing a fresh bottle of mineral water and a soft stack of clean face towels and tissues. When he walks back over to the sofa, his expression has completely softened. The dark, predatory edge that ruled him just minutes ago has melted away, leaving behind the quiet, devoted man who loves you with a fierce, quiet intensity.
He sits down gently on the edge of the cushions right beside your hip, uncapping the water bottle with a practiced flick of his wrist.
"Here, love, drink a little bit," Oscar murmurs softly, his voice dropping into a tender, soothing register. He slides one arm carefully underneath your shoulders, lifting your upper body just enough so you aren't lying completely flat, and presses the edge of the bottle gently to your swollen, dry lips.
You take a small, hesitant sip, the cool water feeling like absolute heaven against your parched throat. You swallow slowly, your eyes fluttering shut as a quiet wave of exhaustion washes over you.
"Good girl," Oscar whispers, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone, sweeping a stray lock of damp hair away from your forehead. With his free hand, using the soft tissues he brought over, he begins to gently, meticulously clean away the mess between your thighs, treating your sensitive, overstimulated skin with a reverent care that makes your chest tighten with a sudden, overwhelming surge of emotion. You are completely at their mercy, entirely dismantled, and they are treating you like fragile glass.
A moment later, George steps back into the living room, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He walks over to the sofa, his blue eyes filled with an intense, overflowing warmth as he looks down at your wrecked, blissed-out expression.
He leans down, pressing a long, impossibly soft kiss directly against your lips. It is a sweet, tender brush of his mouth that tastes faintly of his own skin and the residual, shared heat of everything you just built together. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead gently against yours, his thumb tracing slow, comforting circles over your jawline.
"You were extraordinary," George murmurs, his voice a low, honeyed hum that vibrates right against your skin. "Absolute perfection, sweetheart. I don't know how you managed to survive us tonight, but you were so brilliant."
With gentle, expert fingers, George reaches up and begins to massage your scalp, working his hands softly into the roots of your hair to soothe the lingering tension built up from the night. The steady, rhythmic pressure of his fingers against your head feels like a sedative, melting away the last stubborn knots of stress hiding in your nervous system.
Down at the other end of the sofa, Oscar is still kneeling softly by your knees. He notices the way your legs are still twitching with tiny, residual aftershocks of nervous energy, your muscles trembling beneath the surface from the sheer magnitude of the climaxes you were forced through. Without a word, Oscar wraps both hands around your calves, starting at your ankles and working his way up with slow, firm, grounding strokes. He kneads your tired muscles with steady, expert pressure, completely dedicated to calming your trembling limbs and easing the ache out of your overworked body.
"I know your legs are completely gone," Oscar says softly, his dark eyes looking up at you with a mix of deep affection and a quiet, triumphant pride. "Don't even worry about trying to move. We've got you."
"I think I'm permanently broken," you manage to whisper out, your voice sounding raspy, small, and entirely exhausted. A weak, self-deprecating huff of laughter escapes your lips. "If anyone ever asks me how I survived dating a Formula One driver... I am going to have to lie through my teeth."
A deep, genuine laugh rumbles in George’s chest at your words, a warm, resonant sound that makes you feel instantly safe.
"Well, you won't ever have to worry about answering that question, because nobody is ever going to find out," George reassures you, pressing another soft kiss to your temple. "Your secret is safe with us. We locked the door and threw away the key."
"And besides," Oscar adds, a soft, teasing smile curving the corner of his mouth as he continues his slow, soothing massage down your calves, "you didn't just survive one driver tonight, love. You survived two of us. I'd say that makes you the undisputed champion of the grid."
The sheer absurdity of the statement makes a genuine, breathless giggle bubble up out of your chest. Lying there on the sofa, thoroughly exhausted, covered in sweat and release, with two of the most famous, competitive men in the world treating you like royalty after putting you through the most intense, unhinged experience of your entire life, you realize with dizzying clarity that you wouldn't trade this chaotic, impossible reality for anything in the world.
"The bath is all ready for you, by the way," George murmurs, breaking the quiet hum of the room as he straightens up slightly. He slides his strong arms underneath your knees and your shoulders, effortlessly scooping your heavy, boneless body up into his arms as if you weigh nothing at all. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. You're going to soak in that warm water until you're completely relaxed, and then we're putting you straight to bed."
You wrap your arms instinctively around George’s neck, resting your head heavily against his chest as he carries you down the short hallway toward the bathroom. Behind you, Oscar follows closely, picking up your discarded clothes and trailing after you like a devoted shadow.
As George lowers you carefully into the steaming, aromatic warmth of the filled bathtub, the hot water immediately swallows your aching muscles, wrapping around your skin like a healing cocoon. You let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure, unadulterated relief, letting your head loll back against the edge of the tub.
George and Oscar don't leave. They both stay right there in the bathroom with you—one sitting on the edge of the counter handing you a soft washcloth, the other kneeling by the side of the tub to brush the wet hair away from your eyes. They are entirely yours, wrapped up in a secret, unspoken pact that defies every rule of the outside world, and as you sit there soaking in the warm water surrounded by their unwavering devotion, the heavy, racing anxiety that started your evening completely dissolves into nothingness. You are safe. You are loved. And you have never felt more alive.
a/n: i tried writing george as the sweeter, softer one, while oscar leans more dominant. personally, i feel like george would be the type to give lots of praise, whereas oscar would be the complete opposite
oscar’s life has always been defined by the strokes of royalty and the ease that comes with his social status. however, when his family finds itself in the middle of a media frenzy, he must accept a destiny he didn’t choose to save the crown. what the future king didn’t expect was that, during a clandestine escape under the rain, a stranger would mark his skin and his thoughts, proving that not everything in life can be resolved with protocols and marriages of convenience.
genre: contemporary royal romance, slowburn, strangers to lovers.
a/n: hi, my loves! this little series has officially come to an end, and i couldn’t be more grateful. writing these chapters was something i did with so much care, and seeing you read, react and connect with it meant everything to me. this is just a soft goodbye — more like a pause than an ending. i still have a few drabbles in mind for the future, for anyone who’d like to come back to this world with me. thank you for being here and for letting me share this story with you. it was written with a full heart, and this ending is just a way to leave you wanting a little more 🧡
After the party, Oscar drove you home.
Of course, before that, the two of you still had to make your way past an entire table full of accusatory laughter, knowing looks, and raised eyebrows, but, curiously, none of it bothered either of you. Oscar simply smiled, calm and unbothered, his arm resting proudly around your waist as if there were nothing to explain. Carmen winked at you, because she knew. George and Lando completed the scene with a silent sign of approval, thumbs up. And not for the first time that night, you felt like you truly belonged.
When the car stopped in front of your place, Oscar walked around it and opened the door for you with an exaggerated “madam,” making the butterflies stir all over again.
Under the soft glow of the streetlight, he cradled your face in his hands and waited. His nose brushed against yours, time lingering for a second longer than necessary, and then he kissed you slowly, without any rush at all. You held onto his forearms and kissed him back, smiling against his lips, so full of happiness it felt like you might float away.
It didn’t feel like an ending.
It felt like a continuation.
You didn’t want to go to the coronation. Not because you didn’t like the new king — liking him had never been difficult — but because it felt too soon. Too public, even if most of the people in that place had no idea who you were, or why you were there at all.
You were afraid of what it would mean. Afraid of standing there and realizing that the sense of belonging you’d felt the night before had been nothing more than a fleeting feeling, something born out of the moment and not meant to last.
And still, in the end, you went.
Not because you suddenly felt ready, but because somewhere along the way you had learned the difference: some things weren’t worth fighting to keep, some things were. And this felt like one of them.
The coronation unfolds like a dream you wake up from the next day without being able to remember in full. There is too much gold, too many voices, too much tradition. It’s a beautiful place. The architecture leaves you slightly dizzy. Everything feels grand, ancient, heavy. And yet, when Oscar enters and everyone rises and applauds in reverence, he doesn’t stop being the king.
But he doesn’t stop being Oscar, either.
You watch from a distance, your heart beating far too hard for something that is meant to be purely ceremonial. At some point, you wouldn’t know exactly when, his eyes find yours. His regal composure slips for just a second, replaced by a youthful smile, discreet and almost intimate. It’s quick. But it’s enough.
The moment passes. The words are spoken. The crown rests where it was always meant to rest. People applaud. You do too. And just by the look on his face, proud, steady, you know that the newspaper vendor’s comment, “looks like he’s trying to dodge commitment,” couldn’t have been further from the truth.
That was a king.
His mother calls him, her pride so overwhelming that you have to look away, because it feels almost too intimate to witness. They look so much alike that your chest tightens. When she embraces him, and his sisters soon follow, there is no king there — only a family.
After that, everything dissolves into greetings, photographs, speeches you only half listen to. You try not to hide, but you don’t push yourself forward either.
You are there.
And that is already so much.
After a while, he finds you.
You’re inside the palace, where Carmen had escorted you earlier. Now, you’re alone, standing still, your expression reverent as you study the paintings lining the walls. Classical pieces. Important ones. Works you’d only ever seen in textbooks during college, never imagining you’d one day encounter them with this kind of closeness. You sense his presence before you look at him.
“You’re not admiring the paintings?” you ask, still not turning around.
“I found a better work of art to look at,” Oscar replies easily. “Those guys are just dead old men.”
You finally glance at him, raising an eyebrow.
“They’re your family.”
He shrugs, stepping closer, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying not to make a thing out of it.
“Yeah. I guess they are.” Then, softer, like an afterthought he couldn’t keep to himself: “You’re beautiful. You know that, right?”
The compliment catches you off guard. Heat rushes to your cheeks immediately, and you turn back to the painting, suddenly very interested in brushstrokes and frames.
You clear your throat. Change the subject. Badly.
“You’re the king now.”
“Yes,” he says, amused. “I am the king.” He tilts his head, studying you with that familiar, fond curiosity. “Does that change anything?”
You glance back at him, lips twitching.
“I don’t know. Are you still terrible at Call of Duty, or did that magically improve once they put a crown on your head?”
He laughs, real, warm, unguarded, the sound echoing faintly off the marble walls.
“Wow,” he says. “So that’s how you talk to your monarch.”
“You’ll survive,” you reply, smiling now despite yourself.
He steps closer, close enough that the space between you feels intentional. His expression softens, confidence settling into something quieter but steadier.
“I want to ask you something,” he says. Then, without ceremony, without titles or speeches: “I want to take you on a date. Will you go out with me?”
You turn fully toward him and tilt your head to the side, just a little. You lift your index finger and trace imaginary lines over his chest, thinking.
“Who’s asking?” you tease softly. “The king, or Oscar?”
“Aren’t they the same person?” And that is the perfect answer.
You smile fully and nod.
“Yes. I’ll go out with you, Oscar.”
For a moment, he seems to forget completely where he is. There is no crown, no palace, no one passing by nearby. Oscar gently takes your hand away from his chest and laces his fingers through yours. The fit is perfect, and it draws a slow smile from him, so boyish, so openly delighted, that it makes your chest ache in the best way.
“Then it’s a date,” he says, a quiet, content satisfaction in his voice.
And just like that, it feels complete. Not finished, but right.
oscar’s life has always been defined by the strokes of royalty and the ease that comes with his social status. however, when his family finds itself in the middle of a media frenzy, he must accept a destiny he didn’t choose to save the crown. what the future king didn’t expect was that, during a clandestine escape under the rain, a stranger would mark his skin and his thoughts, proving that not everything in life can be resolved with protocols and marriages of convenience.
genre: contemporary royal romance, slowburn, strangers to lovers.
a/n: helloooooo! this one took me a bit more time to write because i was trying something new ☝🏻(i learned new things!). i wanted something very specific for this story and, to be completely honest, i fell in love with the characters myself. this chapter could’ve gone in many different directions, but in the end, it felt important to let it be symbolic, moment where a lot of things finally come together (and i may or may not have been cheesing the entire time i was writing it). we’re getting close to the end, but we’re definitely not done yet. thank you so much for reading this series. and if you’d like, let me know how it made you feel 🧡
You walk past the flower shop and stop for a moment, just to observe. The radio is playing a song you don’t remember hearing before, and the florist is holding a rose from the display vase. When she notices you, she extends the flower. You take it between your fingers, careful not to touch the thorns that haven’t been removed, and thank her with a small smile.
Your goal that morning was simple: to go downtown and pick up the paints you ordered directly from the shop. With the big event approaching, everything feels slower. Flights are packed, roads are blocked. Even small things have become complicated. Everything is complicated now. And when you think about cursing these monarchical inventions, your gaze lifts to the palace at the top of the valley. It stings. It’s strange to feel so intimately connected to it, so you push the thought away and keep walking.
A group of teenagers passes by you. Even as they walk, they crowd around one of the girls so tightly it’s almost suffocating to look at. She’s holding her phone, and they all lean in, curious and impressed by whatever they’re seeing. Gossip, you think, as they nearly bump into you. You turn to complain, but they’re so absorbed that you just roll your eyes. Still, a small piece of information slips through, catching your attention against your will.
“I can’t believe the cute prince was engaged. Like… We actually have a chance now.”
You freeze mid-step. You don’t turn to look. Still, the information cuts through you in a deeply inconvenient way. It’s not the compliments, nor the youthful audacity of seeing a good-looking public figure and joking, with feigned arrogance, that you might have a chance with him. You’ve been in that position yourself. You don’t feel jealousy. It’s the strangeness of it that pulls you out of your inner world and drops you into a different reality.
You notice the past tense in the part that matters: he was engaged. And it doesn’t give you hope — it puts you on alert, because you don’t know what that actually means.
As you walk toward the nearest newsstand and pick up the freshly printed paper, your mind races with information. Your heart has already carried so much over the past few days that you wonder if it can take anything else.
“When the prince said the matter was being handled privately, I never imagined he was ready to cancel the wedding,” the man at the newsstand comments, his strong accent completely detached from your interest.
You hand him the coins for the paper, your brow still furrowed.
“Do you know what happened?” you ask.
Your attention is split between the man and the newspaper. Your mind is making so much noise that it’s hard to focus on anything at all. You sense he’s about to explain, probably finishing his thought with the usual “the world isn’t what it used to be anymore.” But the moment is interrupted by a sweet, friendly voice.
“The prince…” the woman begins, then corrects herself mid-sentence. “King Oscar realized that some important matters needed to be politically managed and adjusted.” with graceful steps, she approaches the newsstand, scans the display, and points to one of the options. The vendor picks up the gum and hands it to her. “Thank you very much!”
“Sounds to me like he’s doing more than that. Looks like he’s trying to dodge commitment,” he says, like someone who thinks he knows how these things go. “The boy’s too young. Weak. Won’t last. Just like his father.”
The comment startles you more than you expect. You know how cruel people can be, but hearing someone speak so carelessly about the Crown is different. About Oscar. You’re just about to defend him, but you don’t have to. The unknown woman lets out a soft, almost amused breath.
“Funny,” she says lightly. “People tend to confuse restraint with weakness when they’ve never had to carry anything larger than an opinion.” her smile doesn’t falter as she's looking at you. “Fortunately, leadership isn’t measured by how long one clings to a mistake. Right?”
You hesitate for half a second, then give a small nod. “People like simple stories,” you say. “They’re easier to repeat.”
The stranger's gaze softens, her smile easing with it. You get the sense that she’s seen something you haven’t yet. You meet her eyes in return, and something about it feels strange. She seems familiar.
“Well, let’s forget about that,” the woman says, drawing your attention back to her. “I think you might have a few questions. Maybe I can help.”
She touches your arm gently.
“First things first. I’m Carmen Mundt… Russell,” she introduces herself. The last name is added with a quiet hint of pride as she extends her hand, the wedding ring on her finger catching the light. “Would you like to get some coffee?”
The café isn’t far from where you were, so you walk there. Carmen doesn’t reveal why she asked you to come along at any point during the way. The rest of the walk is filled with trivial things: how much she loves the café she’s taking you to, how fond she is of the city, how strange the weather has been lately, never quite deciding whether it’s going to turn cold or warm.
When you step inside, Carmen lets out an audible, happy sigh — the kind you only remember rich women in movies making when they enter their favorite place in a particularly joyful scene. That’s what Carmen carries with her: that elegance. And somehow, it doesn’t bother you. It doesn’t make you feel smaller. She acts as if being different is simply the natural order of things.
Carmen points toward a table at the back, says it’s better if you’re comfortable and that the view there is the nicest in the place. Slightly suspicious, you walk over, and when you turn around to look for her, she’s already at the counter placing the orders. She’s quick.
You let out a quiet sigh, uncertain. Your bags rest beside you on the cushioned bench, and while you don’t feel exactly out of place, you still don’t quite know what to do with your hands. You watch Carmen, so at ease as she makes small talk with the barista. She isn’t loud or expansive. She simply pays attention. It surprises you that this doesn’t bother you.
When Carmen turns and notices your attentive gaze, you instinctively look away. She doesn’t mind. She keeps walking toward you, lifting the two steaming cups as proof that, even with the long line, she managed to get them. You let out a small breath of laughter through your nose — it’s hard to hold back.
“That line was no joke,” Carmen says as she sits across from you on the booth, carefully sliding your drink across the table. “I like guessing what people enjoy drinking. You look like someone who loves a macchiato.”
You take the cup and look at her with a hint of guilt. You actually hate macchiato.
“Oh— Ah, well… thank you,” you reply, a little awkward.
She lets out a playful laugh and gestures for you to drink. You’re cornered, so you hide the grimace and take a sip. Your eyes widen, because somehow, it isn’t a macchiato. Cappuccino. Your favorite. Simple and warm.
“Now you know you can trust me,” Carmen says, nodding proudly.
Your laugh comes out soft, but it comes all the same. It isn’t hard to admit that Carmen has disarmed you. You take another sip, let the cappuccino warm you, then rest the base of the cup against the table.
“You’re his friend, aren’t you?” you ask, directly.
Without breaking eye contact, Carmen takes a sip of her own drink. Her movements aren’t rushed. She sets the cup back down and nods.
“I am,” she replies, without hesitation. “But he didn’t ask me to come here, in case you’re wondering.”
That surprises you. You hadn’t taken Carmen for someone manipulative, much less Oscar. Still, there’s something in what she says that leaves you no choice but to listen.
“Yes,” Carmen continues, idly playing with the ring on her finger. “He talked about you to George, and naturally, George told me.”
Oscar talked about you to someone? Against your will, your cheeks warm, and you hide behind the cup once more.
“Sorry… who’s George?”
Carmen’s lips curve into a knowing smile, the kind that isn’t amused, just fond.
“My husband,” she says simply. “George Russell.”
The name lands with weight. Oscar has mentioned George Russell before. One of his closest friends. You feel slightly disoriented as it confirms something you hadn’t dared to assume before: this wasn’t a passing comment. This wasn’t casual.
“Oh,” you murmur, wrapping both hands around the cup as if it might anchor you. “I see.”
The smile Carmen wears when she mentions her husband doesn’t linger, but it doesn’t disappear all at once either. Her expression shifts slowly, and you know she has something more to say. She looks down, fiddles with the napkin, then looks back up at you.
“We’re having a gathering tonight. Nothing extravagant,” Carmen says. Her voice isn’t hesitant, but it’s low, careful. She’s informing you, giving you room to step back if you want. “We wanted the people closest to him to be there.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and tilts her head slightly, as if trying to see you better.
“But to be honest,” she adds, directly, “he doesn’t talk about you as if you were just a friend.” You shift on the bench, uncomfortable. Carmen notices and lets out a quiet laugh. “Well, at least not just any friend.”
You rub the back of your neck. She can tell you’re considering it, and she takes the moment to slide a small piece of paper toward you, the address and time written neatly by hand. You recognize it. That bar.
Carmen doesn’t press you for an answer. She only nods, as if to make it clear the subject can end there, if you want it to. And a wave of gratitude washes over you, because yes, you want a little more time to think before giving a real answer.
You clear your throat and continue.
“You said you could answer a few questions,” you begin, leaning slightly toward her. “About today. That news. What exactly did it mean?”
“Oh. That,” Carmen says, taking another sip of her drink, fully shifting into the new direction of the conversation. “There isn’t much to say, honestly. Oscar was… promised. I think that’s the right word. He was meant to marry Count Wolff’s daughter. It was an old arrangement.”
Promised. Count. Old arrangement. God.
“But last night, he spent a long time with George working through some legal matters, something like a thesis, laws that would release him from being obligated to marry like that.” Carmen shrugs. “He went before Parliament today and presented everything he had. Oscar believes that if a well-established marriage was part of what nearly destroyed our nation, then marrying someone he barely knows could only do more harm.”
You pause to take it in, but what stirs inside you is… good. You lift your hand to your mouth and bite the tip of your thumb, an old habit when you need a moment. The smile comes before the words, too small to be called happiness.
“Yeah,” you admit. “That sounds like Oscar.”
Carmen glances at her watch discreetly and lets out a short sigh, her brows lifting as she realizes how much time has passed.
“I should go,” she says with a half-smile. “I’m still helping organize a few things for tonight. I need to stop by home.”
She stands first, adjusts her coat calmly, and looks at you one last time.
“Think about it,” Carmen adds, without pressure. “Not about the gathering. About yourself.”
You nod once, standing to pull her into a hug. It feels appropriate, and she returns it without hesitation. Carmen says goodbye and leaves, and you’re left alone at the table, finally free to show the smile you’d been holding back behind the palm of your hand.
That day, you didn’t escape the miserable thoughts that kept chasing you. After leaving the café, you didn’t put away the slip of paper Carmen had given you. In fact, the entire walk back home, you held it in your hand, squeezing it tight, as if that alone could give you an answer to something.
By the time you got home, you had already decided. Of course you weren’t going. Obviously. What would you even do there? It was a party for Oscar’s noble friends.
It took a small breakdown.
You threw yourself onto the bed and screamed into the pillow, hit the mattress with your arms, and sent two, three, four, twenty messages to your friends. At that point, two of them were on a call with you, trying to calm you down while you attempted to do something with your hair. The bedroom was a mess: dresses everywhere, shoes scattered across the floor, and every possible kind of makeup and accessory spread out over the vanity.
You can’t remember how many times you gave up on going and almost cried in less than an hour.
But now, there was no turning back.
From where you stood, it almost felt like a dramatic pause. The front of the bar you already knew stretched out before you, identical to the last time you’d been there, and yet… different. Like watching scenes from another version of your life. A life where you were just a girl being handed a jacket by a boy in the rain.
If someone asked you how you’d ended up there, you wouldn’t know how to answer.
It was time to take a breath, steady yourself, and step inside.
Following Carmen’s movements around the bar was a particular challenge for Oscar at that moment. She had poured a meticulous kind of care into organizing a party worthy of “the eve of a coronation,” and he was genuinely grateful for it. George, however, seemed a little more lost than he was.
“Love, I think—” George raised a finger to call her, but Carmen didn’t hear him. She walked right past, already focused on something else.
George then looked at Oscar and, with a conspiratorial wink in his direction, caught Carmen by the wrist and gently pulled her back until she bumped into his chest.
“Learn, young king. Romance,” he said, in a falsely smug tone.
Oscar laughed, and Carmen answered with a light smack to her husband’s shoulder, unable to hide her smile.
“You’ve already been disgusting enough for the entire night,” Lando complained, leaning down to grab his beer. “Please. No one deserves this. Not in front of my beer, on top of that.”
George, who kept his eyes fixed on Carmen, merely shrugged.
“You’re jealous. There’s nothing I can do about that,” he replied, lacing his fingers through hers. “Come on, my fair lady. Let’s go to the table and further embarrass this… lonely man. Ugh.”
“You both behave worse than children,” Oscar still heard Carmen complain, though her comment faded as he stepped away for a moment.
The life of the party revolved around him, and Oscar knew it. It was because of him. It was, after all, a happy day — he had to admit that much. Before stepping into the Parliament chamber that morning, he had been almost certain his actions as king would be fiercely questioned. He had expected resistance. Discomfort. Instead, despite a few raised eyebrows and a visibly furious Toto, everything had unfolded exactly as he had imagined it would from that point on. They trusted him. They listened. They agreed. It made sense, of course. He is the king. Still, Oscar had expected a little more unrest.
And, obviously, he couldn’t get the previous night out of his head. He couldn’t stop imagining what it meant. You had reached out to him on your own, yet you remained silent otherwise. Oscar no longer had any hope that you would even want to look at him after everything that had happened, and still… there you were. At midnight, sending a silent invitation, proving that even distance could work in synchrony.
The bar itself didn’t help. What kind of celebration was that, when his friends had chosen the worst possible place to take him while knowing what he was trying to forget? Every corner seemed loaded with memories — too dangerous to look at for long. The counter where he had first seen you. The door through which you had left in the rain. The empty space beside him, which now felt far too large. How was he supposed to take part in the party untouched by any of it?
God. Oscar missed you so much that, even surrounded by people, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.
“I told you she’d come.” Carmen’s soft voice pierced the bubble of the brief trance Oscar had fallen into.
He didn’t catch the message right away. He was too busy distributing automatic smiles when he noticed Max speaking to him. Oscar blinked, trying to regain his focus, and leaned closer, as if that might help him hear better.
“What is it, mate?” Oscar asked.
Max didn’t answer with words this time. He just pointed toward the door.
Oscar lifted his gaze and stopped. Completely. The only visible movement in his body was his throat as he swallowed hard.
You.
There was no music anymore. No party. Everything had been reduced to background noise. Suddenly, Oscar felt numb. As if the world had been muted around him. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe that single drink he’d had was suspicious, and the effects were only hitting him now. He didn’t know.
But whatever it was, Oscar wished it would never pass.
Carmen was the one who broke the tension at the table.
She stood up, and George didn’t need to be told that she was leaving him for a moment. He was part of this. He always had been.
Carmen’s greeting wasn’t loud, nor did it draw anyone’s attention except yours. She approached carefully, wrapped her arms around you, and you returned the embrace. You were relieved she had been the first to come to you, because Carmen was safe.
You walk back to the table arm in arm, and despite the shy smile that insists on forming, you don’t shrink back. You don’t take a step away. Carmen stays at your side as if that had always been your place, and with the same ease she had used to organize the entire evening, she begins to introduce you to everyone.
You ignore the small tremor running through your body and do your best to keep up.
Carmen rests her hand on George’s shoulder. He’s close enough to lean in and rest his head against her arm, far too comfortable to pretend otherwise.
“My beautiful husband,” she says, with an easy, almost everyday pride.
Then her hand lifts toward Lando.
“I had to place Lando on that side with Max because when the two of them are near George, they become absolutely unbearable.” She gives you a conspiratorial look. “Don’t pay too much attention to anything they say.”
Lando raises his glass in an exaggerated salute, as if personally challenged, while Max lifts his as well, silently clinking his glass against Lando’s. You laugh, and Carmen shakes her head, even though the gesture is laced with affection.
“Charles is nice,” Carmen continues, pointing toward him. “You can trust what he says.”
Charles smiles in an open, gentle way and dips his head slightly, as if confirming the reputation.
“And next to him are Mae and Edie,” she concludes. “Oscar’s sisters.”
Mae watches you with a calm, almost careful attention. Edie, on the other hand, is already smiling at you as if she’d been waiting for this moment for weeks.
There’s a brief silence after that. Carmen scans the room again, stretching her neck toward the dance floor.
“Hattie must be around somewhere…” she murmurs. “Probably causing some kind of chaos.”
She gestures for you to take the seat in front of Oscar, right beside her. And only then is there no one left between you and him.
Your eyes meet Oscar’s — and it takes very little for you to realize that this is where they will be pulled back to, over and over again, for the rest of the night.
The party unfolds just as it should. Even though Oscar isn’t entirely satisfied, because whenever your eyes meet, or whenever you accidentally speak to each other over one conversation or another, all he wants is to carry you away from there — there is a sense of completeness settling in his chest now. Everyone he wanted at the party is here.
And you move as if you have always belonged.
Oscar won’t say it out loud, but his chest swells with pride when he notices how much his friends adore you. There is something deeply endearing about the way you fall into rhythm with them: laughing easily with Charles and Max, teasing Lando alongside George, reaching out to touch Carmen’s arm without hesitation. His sisters ask the right questions, and they seem happy, genuinely so. Oscar is happy too.
He will still need to know how you ended up there, even though he already has a few suspicions. But Oscar is a patient man, and for now, he’s content to orbit. And you notice.
You talk to everyone — even to him — but amid all that chaos, you feel a particular gaze lingering on your face. His drink has been forgotten in his hand, and there’s one of those small smiles on his lips, the kind that makes it clear he is completely at ease.
Hattie returns from the dance floor not long after, with one simple goal: if the men want to dance, the floor is right there — but the women don’t get a choice. The very next second, she’s already dragging you, Carmen, and her sisters along with her.
You’re not particularly good at it, but you’re having fun. You let them show you how, let them spin you around to the beat of a song that’s recently become a trend. You laugh, you dance, and you realize that, okay — you’re happy. This isn’t as hard as you thought it would be. Not nearly as awful.
Even though you’re enjoying yourself, the mix of drinks and the crowded room starts to feel a little suffocating. You say you’re going to step outside for some air, and they tell you to go. As you hurry out, Hattie and Carmen exchange a knowing look you don’t see.
Oscar notices before he means to.
At first, it’s just movement at the edge of his vision — you weaving through the bodies, murmuring apologies, your hand briefly touching someone’s arm as you pass. He watches without fully understanding what he’s seeing, distracted enough that it takes a second longer than it should.
Then it clicks. You’re leaving.
His decision is quick. Without touching his drink and without saying a word, Oscar stands. He moves behind George’s chair, already in motion before his mind can catch up. The instinct is painfully familiar, sharp, immediate, but he needs to go. And he doesn’t stop. Not when he hears Lando calling after him. Not when he catches George’s voice replying something low and firm enough to shut Lando up instantly.
Oscar tells himself to stay put. To let you have your moment. To not make a scene. He’s very good at staying where he’s supposed to be. But lately, that hasn’t been his best quality. And by the time he realizes it, his feet have already carried him to the door, his hand pushing it open on pure instinct.
You turn when you realize someone is there, and your eyes meet. He doesn’t move closer.
The silence stretches for a few seconds, suspended between you.
“You look like someone who needs a jacket,” Oscar says, his voice as soft as the quiet around you.
You let out a low laugh and swallow, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Yeah. I’ve been told that before,” you reply, and there’s far too much familiarity in the words. “But don’t worry. I have one at home.”
He nods. Oscar knows you’re joking, but the way you imply that you still keep his jacket sends a warmth rising up his neck. A second later, he smiles. It isn’t a grand gesture, but you feel it ripple through your entire body.
You say his name. He says yours. You both laugh.
“You go first,” you say.
Oscar takes it as permission and steps closer. You can see how nervous he is as he decides which words to say. He doesn’t know what to explain — or if he even should — so he chooses simplicity.
“I missed you,” he says softly, just for you.
The air leaves your lungs, and suddenly you forget everything you were about to say.
“Did you?” is the only thing you manage.
He seems a little more confident now. He takes another step. Then another. Until you’re close enough that you can count the freckles on his face.
“Yes,” he says, quietly sealing it. His lips curve, just barely. “You missed me too.”
Your breath catches.
“Did I?” you challenge softly, even though your hand betrays you, curling slightly at your side.
“You did, yes.” he says, recalling it easily. “You invited me to game last night, remember?”
Heat rushes to your cheeks. Touché.
When you finally gather the courage to look him in the eyes, you realize how wrong you were. He’s still just your Oscar. The thought makes your lower lip tremble slightly, because yes — you missed him just as much.
Oscar notices.
Instinctively, his hand lifts to your face. His thumb brushes the corner of your lip, then trails softly along your cheek.
“Don’t cry,” he murmurs. “You said you had something to say.”
You shake your head. Your heart is beating so fast you’re afraid Oscar might hear it too. You don’t speak, you just act. Your hand finds the fabric of his shirt and pulls him just a little closer.
He swallows.
And that’s the moment there’s no turning back.
The hand resting on your face draws you closer. Oscar’s lips meet yours like a quiet question, and you need a moment to steady yourself before answering it. Your hands slide to his arms, then drift upward, coming to rest at the back of his neck. When his hands wrap around your waist, you melt. There’s no other word for it.
He starts the kiss gently, clean and crystalline. You feel it from head to toe. But Oscar isn’t satisfied. His hands move behind you and he pulls you closer, his lips still on yours, closing the distance completely. You smile into the kiss, and he feels it deep in his chest. He wants everything. He doesn’t want to let you go.
This is the peak of everything that has ever happened so far. Fucking finally, is what runs through his mind the moment his tongue brushes yours, and the sound he makes against your mouth is low, almost relieved — like he’s been holding his breath for days.
“Oh, fuck.” he murmurs against your lips, and a bubbling laugh escapes you. Oscar catches the sound with his own mouth, greedy, because he wants it to last forever.
You’re dizzy. Unsteady. Your toes curl — and then you hear a very familiar laugh behind your backs. You pull away just enough to breathe, forehead resting against his, a breathless smile already forming.
“We’re definitely being watched,” you murmur. “We should go back inside? They’re waiting for us,” you add, holding his face between your fingers so you can really look at him.
“Hell, no,” he answers immediately, leaning in to kiss you again. And you laugh, because suddenly, everything feels wonderful.
“They can wait,” he murmurs against your lips. “I don’t care.”
“Okay. Just a few more minutes…” Your voice sounds like a warning, even though neither of you believes it — and he hums a distracted “mm-hm,” clearly only saying it to keep you quiet.
The next second, his lips are on yours again, and neither of you has any intention to stop.
oscar’s life has always been defined by the strokes of royalty and the ease that comes with his social status. however, when his family finds itself in the middle of a media frenzy, he must accept a destiny he didn’t choose to save the crown. what the future king didn’t expect was that, during a clandestine escape under the rain, a stranger would mark his skin and his thoughts, proving that not everything in life can be resolved with protocols and marriages of convenience.
genre: contemporary royal romance, slowburn, strangers to lovers.
warnings: some sir george william russell, some toto, there are things ☝🏻
TAGS: @airenicbibliophile @frivvi0-0 @smartieracesformula1 @jennibahng [ comment below if you would like to be tagged in future chapters! ]
a/n: chapter 4! what a journey. we aren't done yet. there’s more, obviously. this chapter is very important to resolve the last one, so read it all the way through 🫵🏻 we’ve got a "billionaire boys club" vibe going on (let me know if you like them, because they’re one of my favorite things to write). let’s go!
“So all this time you were seeing a girl behind our backs,” Lando says after hearing the whole story, tossing the golf ball he held into the air. He lets out a long whistle and nods. “It has to be said: this Oscar is a dark horse. I like it.”
George stands off to the side. He’s heard the story too, but he doesn’t look even remotely surprised. In fact, he lifts his sunglasses over his head to check for smudges, then brings them to the hem of his shirt, cleaning the lens with practiced indifference as he speaks.
“I knew something was up weeks ago. Honestly, the rest of you need to sharpen up. All those lovesick looks, acting like a little puppy wandering around, smiling for no reason… Embarrassing.” George shakes his head, hooking his glasses onto his shirt as he leans against the shelf. The sarcasm fades, replaced by a heavy, grounding silence. “This is bad.”
Oscar remains with his forearm over his eyes, lying on the sofa like a lost man. He doesn't have a witty comeback or a royal excuse. He just feels hollow. When he speaks, his voice sounds weird even to himself.
“She told me I was a gift, and then she walked away.” the memory aches somewhere deep in his ribs, and he shifts uncomfortably. What comes next is even quieter. “It sounded like a funeral.”
The silence that follows is dense. Lando stops tossing the golf ball, and George averts his gaze toward the window, unable to face his friend’s raw vulnerability. Max and Charles exchange uncomfortable looks, they simply have nothing left to say. It’s a suffocating life, they know that. For them, it’s difficult. For Oscar, it’s impossible.
“Look, you didn’t tell her you were the prince. Fine, big deal. She can’t just use that as an excuse to cut you out of her life. Right?” Max says impatiently. He looks around, searching for agreement, and George seems to concur, nodding slightly. “You explain yourself, she accepts it, end of story. You’re friends.”
Charles remains seated, his head resting on his hand. He doesn’t agree with Max, but he lifts his eyes to him like someone about to reveal the real reason they’re all there.
“I think… that’s not what’s happening here.” Charles’s gaze is soft. “It seems to me that it's something else. Oscar said she saw the interview, right? The one where they asked about the future queen.”
Max pulls back for a moment, thinking. Lando is about to ask what Charles means by that, but George catches his eye, and he understands. Lando’s lips part, and he lets out a low, audible murmur: “Fuck.”
“We’re friends,” Oscar murmurs, almost defensively, knowing exactly what they’re thinking. He lowers his arm from his eyes for just a moment to look at them.
The boys exchange looks once more. George shrugs, but there’s the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“You sure?” the Brit asks.
Oscar rolls his eyes and covers them again. Despite his undeniable sadness, the prince’s cheeks are flushed red, and he doesn’t want to talk anymore.
“I mean…” Charles begins, leaning against the wall, his voice tinged with amusement. “I found the whole painting story quite romantic. That bit about tucking her hair behind her ear? Scandalous.”
Lando bites back a laugh and looks out the window, forcing himself not to crack up.
“Thinking about it that way, Oscar’s never called me right after walking out of a meeting. Bastard. And here I was, thinking we had something special…” Lando’s mock-hurt tone finally pulls Oscar out of his emotional distance.
“... Oh, right. That’s enough,” Oscar declares, sitting up on the sofa and pointing toward the door. “Everybody out.”
They all have smirks on their faces. They’ve understood everything, and Oscar is an idiot.
Max shrugs and raises his hands as if in surrender, then heads for the door, with Charles right on his heels, laughing quietly. Shaking his head, George follows, and Lando gets up to join them, but not before winking at Oscar and singing, “Oscar has a crush.”
The door closes behind them, and for half a second, the place is still. Oscar remains where he is, staring at the door as the silence might speak back to him. The echo of Lando’s hum lingers, ridiculous, intrusive and… Unsettling.
He exhales. Just once.
With his hands in his pockets, Oscar walks through the upper hallway but doesn’t go very far. He stops, leaning against the balcony as he looks out at what lies before him. If he were to turn around, he would see the commotion inside the palace, one he is intimately part of: servants rushing in every direction with fabrics for the procession, a chef hurrying to collect a delivery that has just arrived, and two young maids whispering and giggling as they watch Charles cross the courtyard on his way out. The sight draws a small smile from him. It is his home, the place where he grew up, and which he knows to perfection.
But there is more to see. The city stretches out before him, infinite. It is so vast that it’s impossible to take it all in, and if he’s honest, with a sting of shame, he doesn’t even truly know it. Of course, he can point to it on a map. Technically, he knows every corner of the city. He has memorized the names of places, major establishments, streets, and squares. He knows which ones were named in honor of his great-great-great-grandfathers, and he recognizes shops displaying clothes inspired by those Hattie wears.
From up there, it is a beautiful view. He loves that place, and he knows that all those people are counting on him to provide what his father did not. It is a heavy crown, one that came upon him much sooner than he ever expected. And yet, for some reason, none of that has ever cost him sleep quite like one specific thing.
He knows how to manage things. Oscar understands that, as a monarch, what is difficult can become easy if he so chooses. He has people for that. But in moments like these, he realizes that not everything was taught to him.
Why is he never satisfied?
From somewhere down the hallway, he hears footsteps. Oscar recognizes them. Perhaps because, over the past few days, those same footsteps have carried an unspoken threat, or perhaps because he has known them since childhood. Toto approaches, and the prince turns to look at him. The man bows and, with measured care, takes his place beside Oscar.
“It’s a beautiful city,” Toto says simply, gesturing toward the view below with his chin.
Oscar nods, because he agrees, because it’s the truth. But he knows Toto isn’t there just to talk about the city's beauty.
“I remember coming here when I was younger. Your father and I would walk all over the place like great friends,” Toto continues, nostalgically. There’s a small smile on his lips that Oscar doesn’t share. “He made quite a mess.”
The prince arches his eyebrows as if to say, “you have no idea,” and nods once more.
“Yeah. So it seems,” Oscar says, his voice pensive.
Toto stares at him with that analytical gaze Oscar has grown accustomed to during endless meetings, about to speak.
“You look tired, Your Majesty,” Toto points out. His tone is careful, almost concerned, but the prince knows exactly who he is dealing with.
Oscar looks at him as if weighing what to say next. Their gazes hold for half a second.
“Important things are happening. It’s a fast adaptation process,” is Oscar's vague response, a polite smile appearing at the corner of his lips.
Toto nods and turns forward, also leaning against the edge of the balcony. He seems just as composed as Oscar, but there is something bothering him and he makes no effort to hide it. Toto is not stupid, he knows where the practical power lies. Oscar is the one in charge now, with the coronation being merely a formality to officialize what is already a reality.
“Everyone in Parliament expects it to be just that. A tired man still fulfills his duty,” it’s a calculated remark, designed to show Oscar that he knows what’s going on, even if Oscar hasn't shared the details. “A distracted man... well, that kind of man tends to make mistakes. And we don’t have room for mistakes, do we?”
The prince’s ever-peaceful expression doesn’t change. In fact, he softens even more, as if Toto’s words were exactly what he wanted to hear.
“No, we don’t,” he confirms.
“I’m glad you agree,” Toto says, without taking his eyes off the horizon. “Because you must remember, better than anyone, that it was a failed marriage that almost ruined the country a few months ago. A well-adjusted marriage is the answer to curing that ill.”
He turns slowly toward Oscar, his eyes fixed and merciless. The prince’s expression remains unchanged, but now he has something to think about.
“What was it you said, Toto? About the failed marriage,” Oscar asks, turning toward the man as well.
Toto furrows his brow, concerned he might have stepped over the line, but he doesn’t back down.
“A failed marriage almost ruined the country,” he repeats, carefully.
Oscar nods and arches his eyebrows, a quiet acknowledgment, nothing more. The silence that follows is brief and deliberate. Oscar’s posture eases back into composure, his expression once again unreadable. He offers no further questions, and Toto, sensing the closure, does not push the matter any further.
”Well, yeah. I'm afraid you are correct.” Oscar’s voice sounds firm, and there is a smile on his face that says absolutely nothing. “Have a good night, Toto. Rest. Tomorrow precedes the coronation, and the real world demands total attention.”
They exchange a brief look before Toto bows, politeness seeping from his pores before he withdraws, leaving a pensive Oscar at the top of the balcony.
Oscar doesn’t go back to his room that night. Instead, he goes straight to the office. There is much to think about, much to plan. For a moment, he looks at his phone with hope, almost a reflex. You aren’t there, and he turns the screen face down. From the shelf, he pulls a pen; from the printer, a sheet of paper.
He has been writing for hours, books piling up around him as he searches through laws and protocols. George is on the call, and while he doesn’t quite understand where Oscar is going with all these ideas, he follows along. He relays information from the past, all his degrees in law, history, philosophy, and every technological credential in the world being put to use, passing on every bit of conversation he overhears in the hallways like a rushing current to Oscar.
The prince has never felt more grateful for having a friend with a brain big enough to store both vital information and the most absolute nonsense imaginable. Here, even the nonsense counts.
“Mate, you’re a genius,” Oscar says, lacing his hands behind his head and leaning back in his chair, stretching as he takes in everything that has taken shape on the table. “Honestly, I should promote you.”
The praise isn’t common. Oscar rarely gives such deliberate compliments, so George lets out a laugh on the other end of the line. The prince can almost hear him shrug, clearly picturing the know-it-all pout that always comes right before he asks a question he definitely shouldn’t be asking.
"Ah, well, thank you very much. George William Russell, reporting for duty to King Oscar Jack Piastri," George replies, and Oscar laughs too, clearly exhausted. "If you’re sure about what you’re doing, I can do nothing but be at your service. But that talk about the promotion..."
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Oscar catches it anyway, smiling. From his peripheral vision, however, the prince spots an unusual notification on the computer, and he moves quickly, as if struck by an electric shock. Your name. Your name in the corner of the screen. An invitation. He no longer knows how to breathe.
“George, mate, thank you so much, really. I…” he says, his voice trailing off as the chair rolls toward the computer, almost as if he were being pulled there by a magnet. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll let you into the Parliament meeting room. Thanks. I have to go now. There’s something I need to do.”
George’s confusion is palpable, but he says nothing.
“Sure, mate. Let me know when you need me. Goodbye.”
The line goes dead.
Oscar doesn’t quite notice when George disconnects the call, already pulling the headphones over his head. He doesn’t know if he should be doing this, but damn, it’s an invitation. When he connects to the game, his microphone is off and the chat is disabled. You’ve put up a massive wall, but even so… his breath hitches, and his mind, which had felt sleepy just minutes ago, lights up like a Christmas tree.
Oscar lets the hours pass. The office is dark. Outside, he knows only the guards are awake, and if the door were open, the computer screen would be the only visible light on the entire floor.
You play in silence, but words aren’t necessary. You know exactly which moves to make, where to go, and what the other needs to do, what must be done to win. It’s a synchrony that only tireless late nights together can offer. When it ends, Oscar has no idea what time it is, but you enable the chat and write: good game, nerd. It takes two minutes for you to log off, but when you’re gone, Oscar has to bite his lip to stop the stubborn smile that wants to break out too soon.
He lifts his gaze and finds the painting you gave him in the studio, positioned perfectly where the morning sun streams through the window. Yeah. I’m really going to do this, Oscar thinks.
oscar’s life has always been defined by the strokes of royalty and the ease that comes with his social status. however, when his family finds itself in the middle of a media frenzy, he must accept a destiny he didn’t choose to save the crown. what the future king didn’t expect was that, during a clandestine escape under the rain, a stranger would mark his skin and his thoughts, proving that not everything in life can be resolved with protocols and marriages of convenience.
genre: contemporary royal romance, slowburn, strangers to lovers.
warnings: good amount of fluff, angst.
TAGS: @airenicbibliophile @frivvi0-0 [ comment below if you would like to be tagged in future chapters! ]
a/n: hey everyone! this is a big one. i spent a good amount of time on it. it's a rollercoaster, so be prepared for mixed feelings. it's a big moment for the series, and i promise it will stop hurting soon!
The following weeks pass quickly, yet they also drag on longer than Oscar would like. His time to leave the palace diminishes, and he finds himself increasingly trapped by the idea of the wedding. There are days of suit fittings, food tastings — which, he has to admit, are quite delicious — and incessant photo sessions where he isn't quite sure how to carry himself. His fiancée appears unhappy, despite smiling as if she weren’t, and he can’t do anything about it because he is very much unhappy himself. She is good at pretending, Oscar is too. They were raised for this. On top of that, he still has his political duties, the country’s financial interests to manage, and his father’s tarnished image to scrub away.
Thus, he finds himself trapped between meetings, sitting at tables he has no desire to be at, resolving problems that do not interest him. Still, amidst it all, there is a small balm of joy in every new notification ping he hears. When he opens it, it’s a photo of you making a funny face, or a text complaining about the woman who asked you to repaint part of a piece because she didn’t like the colors you chose.
Oscar replies to everything with precious, attentive care, more restrained than yours, but no less sincere. He talks about his own day too: the exhausting work, the decisions he has to make, without ever mentioning exactly what those decisions are. It feels good to have someone to talk to about these things.
It’s memes, videos, stories, and complaints; he becomes so immersed in it all that he doesn’t notice the suspicious glances cast his way every time an uninvited smile dances across his lips.
Late at night, you find something to game together online, both of you extremely competitive, finally having the freedom to laugh and grow careless within that new bubble you've built. When the games end, you stay on the line as if time were infinite, as if tomorrow would never come, and as if this weren't completely ruining both sleep schedules.
He had never felt this close to anyone in his life, and you had never felt so understood by someone. The moments were shorter than they should have been, but Oscar felt like he truly knew you, and he truly knew very few people. Despite the difficult days, Oscar seems to float through his problems, and his friends notice, his sisters notice. Edie looks at him as if she’s about to point something out, and Lando frowns when Oscar turns down a night of fun, claiming he has far too much to do.
That night, he goes to you. This time, there are no excuses. He simply lets you know that he’s stopping by the studio after work, because you’ve been promising for days to show him some of your pieces. He shouldn't even be there; what he told Lando wasn't a lie. But he needs to.
When he arrives, parking the strategically chosen car at a safe distance, he feels that strange, fluttering sensation in his stomach that has been haunting him every time you cross his mind. Oscar ignores the feeling, adjusting his perfectly styled hair in the mirror. Finally, after exhaling a long sigh, he steps out and makes his way toward the studio.
Oscar stops in front of the window and sees you sitting there, legs crossed, hair tied up, a brush in your hand as you add the final touches to the painting on the easel. The sight warms him from the inside out, and he imagines what you would say if he were to brush away the small stray lock of hair falling over your forehead, threatening to be stained by the paint. Of course, he pushes that thought away, along with the millions of others he’s already had. It is inappropriate. Automatically, as if to help him believe his own lies, Oscar adjusts his posture and rings the bell.
When you pull yourself away from your comfortable position and finally open the door, he doesn’t go inside right away. Your smile grows across your face, and his appears too, small, not exactly restrained, but as if he were more concerned with absorbing your presence than with moving his muscles.
“Hello, stranger,” you greet him, and only then does his smile truly widen.
“Hello, Van Gogh,” he replies. That draws a laugh from you as you step aside to let him in.
As he enters your space, you watch him. Oscar is intrigued, looking everywhere, his hand rising to touch what he sees, but because his upbringing is crystalized, he pulls it back.
You have paintings hanging on the wall as decor and others resting, waiting for the clients who will come to collect them sometime this week. He looks like a shy child who doesn’t know what to choose in a toy store. You don’t get in the way, you don’t intervene. You know that art doesn't come from explanations, but from feeling, so you let Oscar feel.
He is enchanted. You’ve learned to notice that in the people who enter your studio or the art galleries you’ve frequented. It’s the spark in the eyes, the way the body relaxes, the rest of art, as you like to call it. That’s why you love doing this so much.
Oscar wanders through the entire place, but then retraces his steps. He stops at one painting in particular, lingering long enough to crouch down on the floor to get a closer look. You are intrigued, so you finally move closer, standing near him as you search for what he is looking at. You remember painting this weeks ago, after seeing the same scene at your grandparents' farm, where you spent your winter holidays just as you had since childhood. It’s something simple, a wooden chair bathed in the warm, honey-like glow of a setting sun. The surrounding landscape has some grass, a blue sky. There is nothing grand.
“Can I have this one?” he asks quietly. You tilt your head to the side, questioning, and he finally turns to face you.
His gaze is different now, and so is the way you feel about it. The sheer genuineness in his eyes leaves you with no other choice. From the very first moment, judging by his clothes, his voice, and his posture, you never imagined Oscar was the type of person who asked for things, and it disarms you. You nod, watching him reach out to take the small painting before standing up with it in his hands.
He doesn't offer a critique. He doesn't mention your brushwork or your use of perspective. In fact, he hasn't complimented your talent once since he stepped inside. But as he holds the small canvas against his chest, his knuckles white from the grip, you realize that his silence is the greatest praise you’ve ever received.
He is smiling, and then he does what he’s wanted to do since he stepped out of the car: the hand not holding the painting rises, and he tucks that stubborn lock of hair behind your ear. You flush instantly, holding your breath. Your gaze lifts to meet his again, and you feel like a teenager. You have to hide your hands behind your back so he won’t see that you’re trembling slightly, nervous despite the many days you've spent getting closer.
"Thank you," he says, and it sounds like a confession.
The next day, you feel like everything is absolutely perfect. The morning is gentle, the sun fills the room with a light that warms you from head to toe, and everything calls for a cup of tea. You don’t crawl out of bed. Instead, you glide out of it as if life weren’t made of problems, but of solutions. Then you pick up your phone and see the simple message: "Good morning, sunshine 🌞" and you try not to read too much into it, but it’s already too late. There’s a sleepy smile spreading across your face as you reply: "Good morning to you, too ❤️" Something seems to be happening, and you really like what is happening.
On your way to the kitchen, you feel like a butterfly. There is a song playing in your head, and you hum it while putting the tea on to boil, remembering exactly how and when you first heard it. Oscar introduced it to you, his favorite song. Some very old jazz that makes perfect sense with who he is. "Old people music," you remember saying that day, but it has become your most-played track over the last few days.
The giant smile fades slightly, but it doesn't disappear. It’s as if it were tattooed on you, and you don’t even try to fight it as you pour yourself a cup of the freshly brewed tea and walk back into the living room.
You toss your phone onto the sofa and sit down, taking care not to let the tea, which is still too hot, spill on you or anywhere else, a specialty of yours. The TV remote is already there from the night before, when you watched a movie until you were too tired to stay in the living room, so you pick it up automatically and turn it on to a random channel at a low volume. You pick up your phone again to read your messages: your friends saying you work too much and never have time to go out with them anymore, the silly stickers, and the anything-but-subtle questions about the "lovely and mysterious jacket guy" who hadn't left you alone since that idiot had abandoned you at the bar.
That is the moment you hear it. Despite the low volume of the TV, the voice is unmistakable. The phone is still in your hand, and you grip it a little tighter. When you lift your gaze, the sight is such a staggering shock that you can do nothing but stare.
The interviewer looks at Oscar with the curious smile of someone hunting for a well-told piece of gossip, and Oscar is there, impeccably dressed, posture flawless, ready to answer the questions the people clearly want to know about what’s to come. It’s political, the country needs to know certain things. Oscar Piastri, the prince and future king of the nation.
“Tell us a bit about how this transition is going. The people are concerned that everything is happening too fast, but we imagine there’s a solid regime behind the scenes taking care of things,” the interviewer asks.
Oscar seems to think for a moment, then nods. He looks straight ahead, as if seeking inspiration for what he’s about to say, before turning back to the interviewer.
“Well, yes, we are taking care to ensure it’s a process as painless as possible, both for us, the royal family, and for the people. It’s important for them to know that we are always thinking about how the kingdom will receive these changes, far more than just how we will,” his tone is genuine, polished, elegant. “We hope that from here on out, the kingdom can rest. It will be a time of no surprises, I promise.”
The last sentence is met with complicit smiles and a laugh from both the interviewee and the interviewer. It gives the impression of a settled matter and makes the prince seem approachable.
“Your Majesty, with this new phase of the reign, many wonder how you imagine the future of the Crown. Is there any expectation regarding a future queen?” There it is. The gossip. The real interest.
But Oscar doesn't take the bait, he’s prepared. He nods as if he had already expected it, and waits. As if it were a perfectly reasonable question.
“That’s a matter being handled privately, at the appropriate time,” he replies firmly, yet with a polite smile and a nod of his head. Always with a smile.
The interview continues, but you don’t leave the TV on long enough to find out what comes next. You don’t know exactly what to do. You swallow hard and clench your hand into a fist. With your other hand, you drop the phone as if it burned your skin, letting it fall onto the sofa. "What happened?" is the first thing that crosses your mind.
You look at the turned-off TV as if it were capable of attacking you and, in a way, that’s exactly what it did. It’s impossible to believe, there must be some mistake. Something is wrong, you’ve confused things. Somehow, that person on the TV and your Oscar are just two people who look very much alike, with very similar voices and the same name.
You run your hand through your hair and look around, lost. In the same way you let the phone fall, you snatch it back and stand up from the sofa. You are trembling, and your breath hitches tensely through your nose, but somehow, you manage to type his name. It’s all there. He has a Wikipedia page and photos. So many photos. Photos with the same friends you recognize from the bar, photos with the Queen, a major headline on a site announcing the abdication of the previous King, his father, and the line of succession. Your breathing hitches, and you try to remember.
You replay everything in your mind. Every conversation, every night, every day spent playing games together, every phone call, and every moment of comfortable silence between you. The times he would call you just so you wouldn't feel lonely while closing up the studio. You think of the near-touches, you think of how he was right here, in this room, sitting on this very sofa.
But then you remember why your friends called him “mysterious” in the first place. The job you weren’t quite sure about, but knew was exhausting, the difficult life at home, but without faces, without clarity, the days he would pull away because he had something important to handle. Of course, of course he had important things to handle.
You should have noticed. He’s a public figure; how did you not recognize him? Suddenly, the world feels too small. Everything is too hot, and you just want to disappear. Because these were things that didn't need to be said. You could have just used your head, but no. No. You did what you’ve always done and let your heart think long before you did.
Your feet move before your mind does. You pass through the dining room and you’re in the hallway, the door swings open, and you step out into the cold air. You don’t want to think about the foolish things you said, you don’t want to think about the frustration you feel, you don’t want to make sense of the feelings growing from the inside out because you know. You know exactly what they’re going to do to you. How small you’re going to feel. How betrayed you’re going to feel. And you have no reason for it, do you? You run a little further. A little further. Just a little more.
His voice from the interview echoes in your head. The interviewer’s question: “Is there any expectation regarding a future queen?” it comes the smile you know so well, and then: “That’s a matter being handled privately, at the appropriate time.”
Because he wasn't your stranger anymore. He was the King.
And he was never yours to begin with.
Oscar notices the shift. He would have noticed it anyway, but you haven’t exactly been subtle. You’ve been in absolute silence for two full days, and he’s holding on by a thin thread to keep from panicking. He still does what must be done, with his grand moment closer than ever. There’s no time to waste, yet his attention is divided.
He has a few guesses, one very good guess, but he’d rather hear it from you. The only problem is that you don’t seem keen on cooperating. The pattern remains the same: he picks up his phone to see if there’s anything new, but if before he found a reason to smile every time he checked his messages, now he finds only one more reason to frown and question himself.
He had always felt many things, but anxiety was a very new sensation.
At the dining table, he seems to be on another planet entirely. Mae watches him like someone who is afraid she might break him if she asks, constantly glancing at her sisters for reassurance. Oscar taps his fork against the food, toys with it, takes a few bites, but doesn't react like he usually does. He responds to a joke here and there, but with less enthusiasm, staring at the large glass windows surrounding them as if the palace exterior could bring him answers.
“Son, what is wrong?” his mother asks, her fork resting neatly on her plate.
He blinks at her, once, twice. He doesn’t know how to answer. There is nothing to answer because he doesn’t really know what’s wrong.
“Nothing is wrong, mom,” he says, shaking his head, and keeps eating, giving her a reassuring smile.
She shakes her head, tilts it for a brief moment, trying to read through his facade. Nicole knows Oscar is no longer that little boy who thought the kids picking on him were friends. She has to ask, because he won’t volunteer it, though a small chance remains that he might.
“Oscar, you’ve been… lost in your own world lately,” her voice is gentle, but he knows what she means. “You know that if something is bothering you, you can tell us.”
He looks at her, feeling that familiar prickle of gratitude, the one that comes when his mother proves, once again, that she’s the best. But he has nothing to say. The smile is still there as he nods.
“Of course. If anything is wrong, I’ll tell you.”
Is it a lie? He doesn’t know. Lately, everything has been blurring together.
When he returns to his room, his movements are slow. The valet is there, ready to prepare him for the night, but Oscar dismisses him with a simple nod of his head. The man bows and finally leaves the room without asking any questions. Oscar reaches for the cufflink on the sleeve of his dress shirt, but makes no move to undo it; he just stands there, staring into the void while his brain tries to process everything. He doesn’t know what to do.
His hands fall to his sides, and he finally collapses onto the bed. The phone is in his hands again. He checks the last messages with extreme care. The last time you actually talked, nothing was wrong. He said good morning. You replied. Then… silence. Nothing else.
There are messages from him: one asking how you were, another sending a photo of something funny he’d seen, then a photo of him setting up for an online night, inviting you to log in. None had an answer. The last message asks if something is wrong. You hadn’t seen any of them. He could convince himself you were busy. Of course, you’re busy. But Oscar knows better.
He knows you. Or at least, he thought he did.
He stares at the ceiling. The answer is simple: he misses you. A lot. And he’s certain that somehow, he ruined everything. But how will he fix it?
Oscar sits up, and he can only think of one single possibility. He cannot bear not knowing where this is headed. You don’t answer, you don’t pick up, and he knows the best thing would be to wait, to give you space to let things settle. But his chest tightens at the thought of another silent day. Or worse: that if he doesn’t go after it and settle it with his own hands, he will never see you again. The thought terrifies him. He has so little time. So very little.
He isn’t sure how to do it. He isn’t even sure he can. But he stands up. He isn’t properly dressed. His hair is a mess and his suit jacket is nowhere to be found, but he couldn't care less. Oscar walks through the bedroom doors and, like someone on a mission, he leaves. He doesn’t know if anyone saw him.
There’s a sting of recklessness, a thrill, a defiance in not having it planned out. It isn’t entirely bad. He needs answers, and soon he is in the car, and the back gates of the castle, the ones he always uses to escape when he needs to feel alive, open for him. Oscar moves like a man half-awake, guided only by instinct. Streetlights blur as he drives in search of you, anywhere. He is tired of hallucinating your presence. He knows it’s only been two days, yet he also knows the exact moment it broke. He has to stop lying to himself. He knows.
When he reaches you, you’re just parking at your apartment, getting out of the car with a few bags in your hands. He leaps out of his car as if you were the finish line and he was desperate to get there.
Oscar is panting as if he ran the whole way, but he doesn’t care. He stumbles toward you, heart hammering, throat sore. You don’t understand the violence of the moment, but when you finally register what’s happening, who he is, your entire body freezes. Your eyes lock and you take a step back. It’s as if you don’t know him, as if you’re sizing him up from afar. That hesitation undoes him, and he knows immediately: he was right. You watched that, and it changed everything.
“Good evening?” you ask, hesitantly.
No. No! He doesn’t just think it, he shakes his head, the movement heavy. His eyes are still locked on yours, searching, pleading. Oscar destroys that step you took back by closing the distance with two of his own. Good evening? There would never be a good evening again if that were how you were going to treat each other now. He says your name and you feel it from head to toe.
“You know,” he says in a whisper. You nod.
It stings somewhere deep in his stomach. Or everywhere.
“It doesn’t change anything,” he says, his voice low, his eyes searching yours as if they could convince you both.
Your gaze softens slightly. There is no avoiding the tenderness. He is close. Trembling. You know what you did to leave him like this. You know your own way of protecting yourself. The disappearance. He looks so much like your Oscar right now, and the sincerity in his eyes almost makes you falter, but you hold your gaze.
“It does,” you say simply. And he knows you’re right. It really does.
Oscar doesn’t cry, but his chest rises and falls with a weight you can feel. He doesn’t beg, he’s never had to. But in this moment, the possibility it’s tempting. He would beg for you. You don’t let him do anything. Oscar is losing focus. You don’t need to say a word; he knows what’s at stake. He knows the subtext of this moment.
But you do something. Closing the distance, you cup his face in your hands, resting your forehead against his. You swallow hard.
“You were a gift. Thank you.” It sounds almost like his own confession in the studio a few days ago, echoing back at him.
Oscar wants to speak. He wants to ask you to stay. He wants to say that losing his best friend is the worst thing that has ever happened to him in his life, and that now, nothing will ever be the same. He wants to memorize your scent, to hold it close forever. He wants to go back in time. He wants to live inside the memories. But you’ve already pulled away, gathering your things. The path to the door is short, but every step stretches the ache. Before you step inside, you turn and wave. Your eyes glisten with tears.
He remains outside, defeated. You go inside with your hand over your chest, leaning your head against the door.
oscar’s life has always been defined by the strokes of royalty and the ease that comes with his social status. however, when his family finds itself in the middle of a media frenzy, he must accept a destiny he didn’t choose to save the crown. what the future king didn’t expect was that, during a clandestine escape under the rain, a stranger would mark his skin and his thoughts, proving that not everything in life can be resolved with protocols and marriages of convenience.
genre: contemporary royal romance, slowburn, strangers to lovers.
TAGS: @airenicbibliophile [ comment below if you would like to be tagged in future chapters! ]
a/n: big thanks to everyone who read the first chapter; it made me so happy! 😭 now, let’s move on to the second one, which, to be honest, is my favorite so far. i've linked the song i used while writing because i think it sets the mood perfectly! i hope you enjoy this as much as i did.
In the shower the next morning, Oscar finds it difficult to focus on what truly matters for the rest of his day. His mind keeps replaying everything that is about to unfold: the audience with the Prime Minister, the hour reserved for signing documents that now fall solely under his responsibility, the arrival of Wolff… Eventually, his thoughts drift to his father.
Oscar wonders what the man might be doing right now. Of course, the young prince would never trade his loyalty to his family and the State for anything in this world, but when he thinks about the grueling routine he had only ever been prepared to endure, he can’t help but reflect on how his father, justly condemned, now has the freedom to do whatever he wants. It’s an ambiguous feeling. Oscar feels the tension settle at the base of his neck, the longing for his father tangled with the unsettling realization that he understands the desire for freedom. The thought irritates him deeply: his father chose to leave, in his own ridiculous and shameful way, leaving them all behind.
Then his attention shifts, if only for a moment, as he looks at the blue mark on his arm. Oscar is well aware of its presence — an obvious stain on a body that feels more like state property than human flesh — but the imperfection still makes him smile.
What was he thinking? He had done everything wrong. He was certain he must have looked like a fool, yet you hadn’t seemed to care.
Oscar can still feel the warmth of skin against skin when you pulled his arm toward you, followed by the cold bite of the pen. The handwriting is perfect, like that of someone used to creating things far more beautiful than this, though it isn’t beautiful at all. It’s just a phone number on his arm.
He hasn’t done anything about it yet. He hasn’t reached out. For God’s sake, he hasn’t even saved the number in his phone. He tells himself he’ll only get in touch to get his jacket back, his favorite one. That’s fair. You said so yourself.
And yet, it feels forbidden. It feels like crossing a line.
The ink is already fading under the water and the soap. This is the moment to decide.
You aren't home when the message arrives. Well, not exactly. The studio is only a few blocks away from your small apartment, and of course, it is your second home — maybe you spend more time here than anywhere else. Your hands are stained with paint, and you're almost certain the pastel tones of the project in front of you are even smeared in your hair. It’s always like this.
The phone screen on the small table beside you lights up and pings, indicating that someone is trying to get in touch. You almost ignore it but the person behind the screen is persistent and it doesn't take long for another notification to follow the one. You pick up your phone and the number is unknown. Curious, you open the message.
Unknown number: Greetings! It's me, from the bar. Can we schedule a time for me to pick up my jacket?
Formal, okay. A breath escapes your nose, like a stifled laugh, and you pull a wet wipe from the easel to clean your fingers.
You: Of course! I’ll send you the address. We can meet in the late afternoon; that’s when I get off work.
Unknown number: 👍🏻
Another laugh escapes, this time a little louder, at the sight of the reply: a single thumbs-up. Well, that makes sense. You lock your phone and go back to work. You still have a few hours before you have to deal with this, and that specific painting is giving you more trouble than you expected. You can’t afford to lose focus.
So, for the rest of your time in the studio, you try not to dwell on the brief spark of anxiety that surfaces whenever you consider the possibility of seeing him again. You know nothing about him, but he seems… interesting. The afternoon drags on a bit longer than you anticipated, but when it’s finally time to leave, you don’t waste a single moment.
He doesn't fit in your apartment’s small hallway. Standing there, taking off the sunglasses and the beanie that seemed a bit excessive, he looks completely out of place. You watch him with curiosity. The idea wasn't to let him in; it was just to hand him the jacket and watch him leave so you could return to your tasks. But somehow, he was creating a strange habit in you of finding his hesitation adorable, like a puppy learning how to stay steady on its own legs.
“I’ll be right back! I’ll go grab your jacket,” you say to break the silence, bringing the situation back to the main reason he’s even there.
You walk over to where it’s hanging, in the back of a dining chair. You don’t want him to see that, because in your mind, it’ll raise questions and you don't want to explain to this stranger that you didn't want to take the jacket into your bedroom because, for some bizarre reason, it felt like an invasion of privacy. But you didn’t want to leave it hanging with the other coats by the door, either. He had been so kind to offer it that it felt like a sin. And it was very high-quality. And there was the scent, and… You feel your cheeks flush and immediately shake your head. No, no! Okay.
You clear your throat and turn around to return the piece to him. There is immediate regret in doing so because he was no longer in the hallway, but fully inside the apartment, looking curiously at the infinite colors you had everywhere. He was wearing fewer layers now, as you had left the heater on to keep the place cozy. Now, he stands in front of a large painting of delicate white flowers in a vase, observing it like a professional would, glancing at the artist's signature.
“I don’t know this one,” he says, pointing to the name.
You, standing there trying to handle the strange fluttering in your stomach caused by him allowing himself to be there in that white button-down shirt as if it weren't an absolute crime against unguarded women, blink just once, regaining consciousness. You take one step closer, then another, stopping with one hand on your hip and the jacket in the other, your breath caught by what you were about to say next.
“It’s mine. I painted it.” It sounds a bit small, the way you say it, yet it carries a special firmness.
He looks up, and there’s a special glint in his eyes now as he does, as if he’s enchanted to discover this detail, as if it doesn't solve everything, but it tells a good portion of what he needs to know. In that moment, he discovers your name without you having to say a word, and a warmth of satisfaction rises through his entire body as a smile spreads across his face.
“I’m Oscar,” he says, acknowledging that you hadn’t formally introduced yourselves. “My friends call me Osc.”
You want to tell him that you aren’t friends, but the thought dies before it can leave past your lips, replaced only by a small smile you wouldn't be able to hide. For a brief moment, you realize you are both dancing around the real reason he is there; the jacket is still draped over your arm, with no mention of handing it to him or him offering to take it. So, you do something a bit risky.
“Right… Osc.” Your voice carries a hint of humor, and he lets out a low chuckle, nodding as if to encourage you. “Are you up to some coffee?” You tilt your head toward the kitchen.
For a moment, he hesitates. The smile seems ready to slip away as Oscar looks lost in thought. In the end, without a word, he nods just once. The movement is polished, distinct from anything you are used to, a bit like everything he does now that you have stopped to observe. With a gesture of your hand, you indicate the living room and hang the jacket back over the chair.
You move to the kitchen, the familiar sound of the coffee machine filling the silence. It feels grounding. When the cups are ready, you walk back to the living room where he’s sitting and you watch him for a moment. Oscar doesn't exactly look lost, but curious, just as he was when he arrived.
You notice him lingering on the paintings on the walls and the images above the cold fireplace. It’s not hard to see the gears turning in his head, trying to make sense of the information you’re giving him without even planning to, absorbing your home which you know is a lot. You swallow hard and try not to overthink. The main reason you hadn't planned on letting him in was exactly this: your apartment, together with the studio, says too much about you. It screams your personality, filled with colors, vibrant throws, and a personal clutter that makes sense to you in your daily life. It’s a vulnerable place. Yet, you continue to hover in that neutrality, trying to hide yourself even when everything around exposes you.
“I didn't know how you liked it, so I made it as standard as possible.” you hold out the steaming mug to him, and he takes it carefully, bringing his attention back to you. Oscar looks at the mug and offers a polite smile.
“It’s perfect, thank you,” he replies, bringing the mug to his lips.
You sit in the armchair across from him and do the same, taking a sip of your coffee. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, but it isn’t comfortable either. He seems to want to say something, and this time, you wait.
“At the bar, you told me you were waiting for someone who wasn't going to show up. Did he say anything redeeming to you after that?” the question is personal, but not in an invasive way. It’s part of the conversation, one you thought he had deliberately chosen to ignore.
You blink, remembering, yes, but surprised that the subject came up at all because it wasn't important. You let out a low laugh and click your tongue, taking another sip of coffee before placing it on the coffee table. You lean your head back against the armchair and stare at the ceiling, thoughtfully.
“Well, if he did say anything, I wouldn't know. He’s blocked, and he’s going to stay that way forever.” for a moment, you remember last night. Sitting on the very same sofa where he is now, Oscar’s jacket still draped over your shoulders while you made the decision to send that idiot to hell once and for all. You shrug and finally look at Oscar with a small smile. “Some things simply aren't worth the fight to keep.”
He seems to think about it for a moment, but there’s an air of satisfaction in the way he smiles back, pride and interest. It’s a bit much, and you look away, clearing your throat. He adjusts his posture and takes one last sip of his coffee before lifting the mug as if to offer a silent toast and placing it on the coffee table. You know what comes next, he knows too. Oscar stands up, and you do the same.
“I’m glad that’s been settled, then. It’s not the kind of treatment you deserve, and you know that, so…” he begins, and you nod.
“Yeah,” is your response.
Oscar doesn't take his eyes off yours as he smiles again, and the slight flush on his skin is noticeable.
“Yeah,” he agrees, putting an end to the bubble of that moment.
He waits for you to approach and take your place as host. Both of you walk toward the door, the subtle atmosphere of the conversation that just happened still lingering in every step you take. Yet, everything is silent. He picks up his beanie and sunglasses, but doesn't hide behind them this time. You don't say goodbye with a handshake or a hug, just an exchange of glances and the lifting of hands in a sort of wave.
”See you around.” he says by way of goodbye, with a nod of his head.
You aren't sure if you’ll see each other again, but you nod in agreement. He finally leaves, but not before turning back to wave once more, and you return the gesture, leaning against the doorframe. Finally, you step back inside the apartment and lean against the wood, thinking, your heart light and a funny feeling in your stomach. From where you’re standing, however, you see the jacket hanging on the chair, and your eyes widen.
When night falls again, Oscar finds himself trapped in one of his most obligatory duties: the small welcome parties his mother decides to host every time a new visitor arrives, no matter how detestable they may be. Not that Count Torger is a detestable man, but he can be quite insistent when he wants to be, and that is definitely not his greatest virtue.
From his corner, clutching a glass of champagne, Oscar can see someone who is actually having a good time. Lando and Charles are talking about something particularly funny, laughing without restraint. They were made for moments like these, and perhaps Oscar was too, as long as the parties catered to his interests, which was not the case with this one. On the other side, Torger — or Toto, as he called him in childhood — was speaking with his mother and Hattie, who kept an emotionless face. Amidst his process of taking in the entire ballroom, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket and grab it immediately.
Girl artist: [ 📸 photo of the jacket hanging on the chair and your finger giving a thumbs up. ]
Girl artist: Missing something?
The smile on his face is instantaneous. Yes, I am missing something, he thinks, but he doesn't let the thought form into anything longer. His mind drifts back to the afternoon, the moment he went to her apartment, the coffee, the conversation. Again, it doesn’t go far. He places the glass on the table beside him, freeing his fingers so he can type his reply.
Oscar: Are you taking good care of it?
The response arrives in less than two seconds.
Girl artist: OMG.
Girl artist: You planned this.
He was properly cheesing at this point.
Oscar: Guilty 😝
He hears the notification sound once more, but he isn't able to check it because a hand on his shoulder startles him. Oscar hadn't even realized how far from reality he had drifted until he felt the intensity of the jolt, pressing his right hand to his chest where his heart was racing. Luckily, it was only George.
“Jeez, mate. Committing a crime, are we?” his friend says, clearly amused, hiding a smile behind a sip of his drink.
Oscar recovers quickly and slips his phone back into his pocket. His expression smoothing over into that practiced, unreadable mask. But George is observant; he knows Oscar is the last person on earth anyone would expect to be distracted, let alone flustered. Oscar clears his throat and slips one hand into his trouser pocket, regaining his composure. He is still the most important person in the room, and George knows it.
“Whatever it is, you might want to keep that tucked away for now,” George murmurs, his gaze scanning the room with effortless grace. “Count Wolff is making his rounds, and your mother has been tracking your position for the last three minutes. You’re supposed to be the main attraction, Osc. Not a spectator.”
Oscar swallows hard and nods. The phone feels heavy in his pocket.
“I know,” Oscar says, the words feeling heavier than they should.
“And try not to look toward the west balconies,” George adds, leaning in just a bit closer, his voice laced with a dangerous streak of sarcasm. “It seems Max has also found an urgent ‘oversight’ to attend to, and your future father-in-law won’t be pleased to find out exactly who the future queen is hiding with.”
Before Oscar can even blink, Carmen appears. She greets Oscar with a quick bow and tucks her arm into George’s with a ‘that’s enough gossip’ smile. George simply gives Oscar a parting wink as he’s swept away, leaving the prince alone with the silent chaos. The truth is, none of this surprises him. Oscar lets out a long sigh and rubs his eyes with his fingertips, knowing it's just another mess he’ll have to clean up. He pulls out his phone once more, ignoring the sting of guilt that vanishes the moment he reads your next message.
Girl Artist: I'm starting to think you don't want the jacket back.
And he replies.
Oscar: It looks better on you, anyway.
It’s the last thing he sends you before tucking his phone away once more and heading toward his mother, who has finally tracked him down.
oscar’s life has always been defined by the strokes of royalty and the ease that comes with his social status. however, when his family finds itself in the middle of a media frenzy, he must accept a destiny he didn’t choose to save the crown. what the future king didn’t expect was that, during a clandestine escape under the rain, a stranger would mark his skin and his thoughts, proving that not everything in life can be resolved with protocols and marriages of convenience.
genre: contemporary royal romance, slowburn, strangers to lovers.
a/n: hellooo! so... this is my first ever project posted here on tumblr (i've been just a reader for the longest time, lol), so i'm still adapting. i've been around other platforms, but i'm excited to try this out. i don't know how this first post will go, but we'll see. it’s a blend of all my favorite royal romance clichés because i'm a goner for this trope, and truly, nobody fits the part better than oscar piastri. hope you enjoy the read!
The day starts as it always does: Oscar wakes up with perfect timing, very, very early in the morning, and someone is already waiting for him. He sheds the clothes he slept in, and the valet goes about his task, helping him into each carefully chosen layer for the day. In the end, the prince looks down at him and nods, accepting the bow that signals he will be very much alone once again — though only for a matter of five seconds.
As Oscar steps out of his quarters, security is already in motion, bowing, serving, escorting him wherever he needs to go. It has been like this his entire life, but now, somehow, it feels worse.
As he walks down the hallway, waving and offering brief smiles, he is reminded of his new position. Even though the coronation is scheduled for the end of the month, for all practical purposes, he is already the ruler. His posture is impeccable, his appearance as flawless as it can be.
In front of the double wooden doors leading to the dining room, he stops and turns to his security, nodding once more. The gesture signals that the man is to remain outside, responsible for everything beyond those doors. Privacy has always been a luxury for all of them — but his mother, the queen herself, demanded it, at least at the breakfast table. And who would dare question the most powerful woman in the room when she demanded something?
The doors open for him, as they always do, and he steps inside. His mother and sisters are already seated at the table when he approaches. His posture doesn’t completely change, but a small smile appears at the corner of his lips as Edie stands and performs an exaggerated bow.
“Your Majesty. Welcome to the table of mortals,” she says, and he rolls his eyes but returns the bow.
“You may sit now, mortal,” he says, adjusting his tie before taking the seat he always occupies, between his mother and Mae, ignoring the tradition that dictated the king should sit at the head of the table. This was the small privilege of an hour of privacy. “Good morning, girls. What is for the day?”
His mother, who had been smiling until that moment, paused and let out a quiet sigh. The arch of her eyebrows spoke volumes. Mae raised a hand to rub her back, and Hattie, usually the most talkative of them all, finally lifted her head from her plate, where she had been staring thoughtfully until then.
They didn’t look sad. If anything, they seemed pensive, a little stunned. Oscar glanced at the four faces he loved most in the world, and the hand that had been reaching for the bread basket froze midair.
“What is it?” he asked, feeling the bad news arriving.
From where she was, Hattie extended an envelope toward him, one that looked sadly official. He would later wonder why the letter had reached his mother’s hands before it had reached him, but Oscar took the piece of paper for himself. A letter, as if they were still living two centuries ago and not in the age of the finest technology. He broke the already-opened seal and took in the contents.
Count Torger Wolff, Head of House Wolff
To His to–be-Majesty,
As the representative of House Wolff and the guardian of my lineage’s honor, I hereby submit this document in confidence to inform the noble Royal Family of my imminent arrival, accompanied by my daughter, so that we may discuss the necessary preparations and decisions required to serve our mutual interests.
As addressed in previous meetings, this matter is of the utmost urgency, and the interest in the union of our Houses presents itself as a necessity under the current circumstances, both in the eyes of society and in the pursuit of restoring the reputation of Your surname.
Sincerely,
Torger Wolff
Calmly, as if he hadn’t just read something absurd, Oscar folded the paper once more and slipped the letter back into its envelope. He didn’t hand it to anyone, however, simply set it beside him, keeping it close as his hand reached for the juice pitcher and he poured himself a glass. His sisters and his mother watched him with expectation, but they remained silent, exchanging looks filled with very clear question marks.
“So… Oscar…” Mae began, ever gentle, ever careful.
But Hattie had not been blessed with the same patience granted upon the older Piastris. As if she hadn’t gone through more than three different etiquette courses throughout her life, she cut her sister off with the question they all wanted to ask.
“You’re just going to fill your glass with juice and sit there quietly after reading that… crap?!”
That was her version of an outburst. Queen Nicole’s eyes widened as she shook her head at her daughter just before covering her own face with her gloved hand.
“Hattie, honestly…” she began, on the verge of delivering a lecture. Edie watched it all as if it were a particularly engaging game of cricket.
Finally, after taking a long sip of his orange juice, Oscar raised a hand, unshaken.
“I truly don’t see what’s wrong,” the young prince replied.
Once again, Hattie looked from side to side, as if searching for help in the presence of the other women in the dining room, as though her brother had grown a second head.
“You don’t see what’s wrong? Well, let me sho—” but this time, she was the one interrupted.
Oscar raised his right hand once more, while his free left hand reached for a scone with the tongs, placing it neatly on his plate. He leaned back in his chair, picked up the pastry, and only then lifted his eyes to his sister.
“Unfortunately, and I believe you all remember this, our father made a grave mistake. Just a few weeks ago, the only things standing between me and the crown were an unlikely death or a scandal severe enough to remove him from our lives. We never imagined either would happen, but it seems he chose the second option.” He broke off a piece of the scone with his fingers and brought it to his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and only then continued, entirely unhurried.
“When he chose to sleep with another woman and father bastards, he dishonored our mother.”
At that, Queen Nicole lifted her gaze, the tips of her ears flushing red.
“And he destroyed our family’s reputation.”
Oscar set the pastry down, his gaze steady.
“Because of that, the fastest and most coherent response, decided democratically between the nobility and the people of our beloved country, is for me to become king. I cannot do that without a queen, and we agreed that Torger’s daughter would be the most viable option.
"And yes,” he adds, calmly, “he is correct in saying that we must organize ourselves so the marriage happens as quickly as possible, in time for a coronation that is far closer than we realize.” He pauses, just briefly. “One month,” he concludes. “Hm?”
With that, he nodded and stood. He picked up the letter from the table and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.
Nicole rose as well and stepped toward him. For a moment, maternal as she had always been, she adjusted his tie and straightened the line of his shoulders, studying him quietly. Her lips formed a silent "I'm sorry" and he gently took her wrist in response.
Oscar nodded once more, then leaned down to press a chaste kiss to her forehead before pulling away and leaving the dining room to begin his duties.
The boys arrived in the afternoon, one by one, padel rackets in hand. Oscar had read a few particularly heated messages between Lando and George that led nowhere — debates over whether it would be a day of golf or padel, each of them arguing in the filthiest way possible.
But judging by the gear they were carrying and the smug expression on George’s face as he passed through the court gates, it was very clear he had won the argument. And if Oscar knew him at all, George loved winning an argument even more than winning a game.
“Look at him — the villainous George Russell, with his lies and exaggerated claims,” Lando said the moment he arrived, wearing the kind of smile that made it clear he wasn’t serious at all as he greeted him with a handshake. “Not pretty, man. Not pretty.”
George just chuckled and adjusted his headband after the greetings. They heard Charles and Max’s footsteps approaching, but that didn’t stop him from continuing to defend his point.
“I was thinking about logistics, you know? Padel is way more efficient for a Thursday afternoon. But of course, you wouldn’t understand that kind of coordination. And our royal highness right here…” George pointed his racket toward Oscar. “Looks like he could hit something today. You’re too quiet, even by your standards, Osc.”
But Oscar didn’t get a chance to answer, because Max and Charles were already there
“Less talking, more playing. I didn’t drive all the way here to watch Lando complain about George’s ego,” Max said.
The dynamic shifted instantly. They played for nearly two hours, a blur of neon-yellow balls and sharp banter that managed to keep Oscar’s mind off the coronation — at least for a while. But as the sweat cooled and the sun began to set, the reality of their evening duties loomed.
George was the only one to bow out, citing a promised dinner with Carmen. “Duty calls,” he said with a smirk, though everyone knew he’d rather be home than anywhere else.
As George drove away, Lando turned to the remaining three with a reckless glint in his eyes. “The night is young, and frankly, I’m not ready to go back to being a ‘public figure’ just yet. Max? Charles? Oscar?”
Max shrugged, ever the fan of a low-key night. “I’m in. As long as it’s not one of those places where I have to wear a tie.”
Oscar looked at his friends, the only people who didn't treat him like a statue in a museum. The thought of the quiet, oppressive halls of the palace felt unbearable.
“I think,” Oscar began, a small, daring smile playing on his lips, “that I could be convinced.”
From the moment they stepped into the bar until the first drink, there was nothing special about that night other than the welcome sensation of being just a guy. He laughed carelessly, finally able to forget the arduous tasks awaiting him once he left.
It was only when he lifted his gaze to the bar counter that he noticed something different. A curious, half-lingering stare was fixed directly on him.
The easy laugh he was about to throw in Lando’s direction got stuck in his throat, though he still managed to offer his friend a smile — even as his eyes remained glued to your face, his expression stripped of any humor, replaced by a stunned look that didn’t quite belong in the moment.
He brought his hand to his lips and rested it there, pretending familiarity. Pretending it was fine.
He knew it wasn’t.
The conversation around him continues to flow, and he casts a tentative glance back to where you had been sitting alone. You’re no longer looking at him, your attention fixed on your phone, doing something he wouldn’t be able to make out from that distance — even if he wanted to.
He allows himself a moment to watch you, even as his mind insists this is strange. But you are impossibly hard not to look at, and he tries — really tries — to look away.
He notices your brows furrow, the faint hint of concern in your movements. The bartender seems to ask you a question; you decline politely, a small hand gesture accompanying a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
You stand, and he blinks once, then twice, his attention attempting to drift back to his friends as he tells himself he isn’t seeing you leave in his peripheral vision.
Charles is the first to notice that Oscar isn’t quite as present in the conversation as he should be. He is an observant man, but when he follows his friend’s gaze, there is nothing to see. The bar is empty.
Concerned, he watches as the prince’s attention drifts back to the conversation, tentative, still slightly out of orbit. A few suspicions begin to form. It isn’t the first time this small, exclusive group of nobility has stepped beyond the walls of their ideal world in search of something lighter, something normal.
For Charles, Max, and Lando, things are simple. For Oscar, with each day drawing closer to the coronation, the weight on his shoulders only grows heavier.
Before Charles can offer an empathetic remark or ask how his friend is feeling about taking the next steps, Oscar speaks first.
“Gentlemen, I’ll be back in a minute,” he announces to the group before taking a step back and giving Max’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as he passes by.
Oscar tells himself it’s nothing. People notice others in bars all the time, that’s what bars are for, after all. He knows that when he comes back, Lando will be latched onto some woman whose name will be nothing more than a blurred memory by morning, and he can’t fault him for that.
But Prince Oscar doesn’t do those things, does he?
He is a responsible man. He must avoid scandal. He is the face of a nation, the future, beloved monarch. And so, once again, he tells himself it’s nothing. The fact that he notices the exact moment you look away is irrelevant.
He just needs some air. That’s all.
When his feet reach the wet pavement outside, he forces himself to believe it’s purely accidental that he finds you standing right there. The thought should feel ridiculous, and it does. Still, he remembers what Lando said before he got into the car for his clandestine escape: everything is about to change, live a little.
He takes a deep breath.
Either way, he gives himself another excuse, one he was raised with, one expected of a gentleman. It’s raining. Your beautiful dress does nothing to keep you from getting absolutely drenched. And, well… you’re a young woman. Oscar has three sisters. He tells himself he wouldn’t want to see any of them in this situation. It would make your mother proud. That’s why the entire speech is already carefully built in his mind when he steps closer, pulling the dark jacket off his shoulders.
“Good evening,” he begins, a touch more formal than necessary. Oscar isn’t a man with many reasons to feel intimidated or nervous, and he reminds himself of that now. “I noticed you left the party a bit earlier than expected. It’s raining.”
Your brow is furrowed, but it’s not the kind of concern he noticed earlier. You look more confused than anything else, staring at him as if he were a surprise character entirely out of place in the story of your day.
Oscar moves with slightly less certainty as he extends the jacket, clearing his throat.
“I came to offer you this. It’s cold, and if you don’t plan on going back inside, I thought it might help you get through it…” He gestures toward the sky with his free hand. “…a little longer. You know?”
It’s so unexpected that for a moment, you don’t know how to react. Your eyes stay on his face, blinking once in surprise. The hand not holding your phone goes to the back of your neck, where you scratch.
“Oh. Right. It’s raining… Yeah. Quite a bit,” you say, your gaze drifting away from him as you look up at the sky for a moment, still slightly confused as if you’re only now registering the rain.
Your eyes return to the jacket he’s holding out, and your mind quickly weighs how polite it would be to accept it… or refuse it. It looks expensive, far beyond anything you could afford and probably from a brand you’ve never even heard of. Your first instinct is to decline as clearly as possible.
But he doesn’t seem entirely sure of what he’s doing either, and somehow, noticing that softens you.
Swallowing, you nod and reach out to take the jacket. You recognize him from minutes earlier, inside the bar — the group of handsome friends, as you’d called them in your group chat. You’d looked at him because, well… he was cute. And vaguely familiar.
But then he’d looked back, and that had been enough to make you stop staring, because, okay, that hadn’t been the right moment.
It didn’t matter now.
You glance down at your phone. Ten minutes left until your ride arrives, which means ten more minutes of rain. He’s right, you don’t want to go back inside. You’ve already waited long enough today.
A bit distracted, you slide your phone into your pocket and finally put on the jacket, unable to resist the brief luxury of covering yourself after such a disastrous night.
The first thing you notice is the scent, and you have to fight the urge to pull the collar closer, just to catch another trace of it. It’s not just expensive. It’s distinct. It feels deliberate, like it says something about him without trying to.
A good scent. Definitely.
“Thank you,” you say, realizing you hadn't yet thanked him for the unusual gesture. He didn’t seem ready to leave just yet, and well, you still had a bit more waiting to do. “Rough night?”
The young man seems to snap out of a brief trance. A tired smile plays on his lips as he brings a hand to the top of his head, messing up the dark hair that had looked perfectly styled until that moment. A stray lock falls over his eyes, and you think about how perfect he would be for a painting. Perhaps you’ll paint him someday, if he doesn’t slip away among the countless impressions daily life insists on piling into your mind.
“Rough week. Rough month. Rough life,” he answers, the words tucked behind a laugh that isn’t exactly fake, just restrained. You look at him, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who lives a difficult life, but then again, what do you really know?
“And you?” he adds. “I still don’t know why you’re leaving so early.”
You look ahead, where the car indicated on the app is already approaching, and shake your head. The smile you give matches his, though it’s carried by a bit more insincerity.
“Just an idiot who decided to give a shitty excuse for not showing up to a date that’s been up for over two weeks,” you decide on the truth. The stranger stares at you as if he doesn’t quite understand what you just said, as if your words didn’t make sense in that language.
You take a deep breath, and he seems about to say something, but you’re already pulling the jacket off to return it now that your ride has pulled up. However, he shakes his head and dares to place a hand on your shoulder. You look down at his hand and find the brief movement amusing, letting out a soft laugh.
“You don’t need to give it back. It’ll still be raining when you get home,” is the new excuse he finds.
You look from the Uber to him, then blink, thinking. In a slightly impulsive move, you lean toward the passenger window and ask the driver for a pen. He finds one quickly and hands it over without many questions. You thank him, then step closer to the young man.
He doesn’t quite understand what you’re doing when you gently pull his arm, now exposed without the jacket sleeve, but he doesn’t resist, standing there completely stunned. With the pen, you write your number directly onto his skin, then look up at him and nod.
“Call me sometime so I can return this. I’m serious,” you say with firmness. You flash him a smile and, finally, get into the car, taking the jacket to a new place.
Oscar remains on the sidewalk, his gaze following the car until it disappears at the end of the street. He looks down at the number marked on his skin, and it’s so strange that he can’t quite grasp what to feel, this had never happened to him before.
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..."
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.
"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.
astronomers get coordinates wrong; NASA is not infallible in their own predictions. but lando norris loves you and you know it well.
ꔮ starring: astronaut!lando x best friend!reader.
ꔮ word count: 5.1k.
ꔮ includes: angst, friendship, romance. alternate universe: non-f1. mention of food, alcohol; profanity. title is from noah kahan's orbiter.
ꔮ commentary box: my other half, @norrisradio, celebrates her birthday today! my darling, dearest; noah says it best. i stare at/sing to/circle you. i love you to the stars & always, always back.
🎵 recommended listening ⸻ i’m an astronaut (you’re the moon), a playlist.
Here is how this story starts: On June 30, 2026, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration sent astronaut Lando Norris to Jupiter.
Norris departed on the Juno II spacecraft. Scientists estimate it will take him five lightyears to get to Jupiter, then another five lightyears to return to Earth—if all goes well. Norris was selected among a pool of promising astronauts for his “grit” and “tenacity,” which are just fancy words for much more complicated emotions.
NASA says he was brave for taking on Mission Orbiter.
Here is the truth: Lando did not feel very brave about it at all.
Maybe this is where the story really starts. Months earlier, in a sterile NASA board room, where Lando sits among men and women twice his age. Some intern drafted up the specifics of Project Orbiter on a free Canva template. Lando can only stare at the GIF of a rocket going back and forth, back and forth, as they try to orient him about the long-shot mission they want him to go on.
Him. Lando, who once accidentally dyed his suit a blushing shade of pink after forgetting a red sock in the laundry. Lando, who is a mechanical engineer solely because his hands can never stay still. Lando, who only took a shot at NASA because you wouldn’t shut up about the stars and he wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
“Norris,” Zak, Lando’s direct superior, says firmly. “You still with us?”
Lando plasters on the fakest smile known to man. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Still with you.”
They dismiss him two hours later with a sealed manila envelope, a new training schedule, and strict instructions on non-disclosure. Only immediate family. Anyone else was a security risk. To break that particular rule involved jail, so, as badly as Lando itches to tell you or even Fewtrell, he’d rather that neither of you serve time because of him.
That gives him four months. Four months before he’s jettisoned to outer space, which should be any astronaut’s dream, really. But Lando always thought he’d be sent on one of those smaller missions. A week on the moon. A spacewalk to the International Space Station. Not a nearly-decade long journey to go and see if the icy oceans of Juptier can be harvested to solve Earth’s water shortage.
Andrea Stella, the Chief of NASA’s Astronaut Office, had pitched for Lando like his life depended on it. “Norris has the mental resilience required for this mission,” Stella had said.
Whatever the fuck that meant.
Lando had a great deal of things, but he never thought courage to be one of them. It was not a particularly self-deprecating thought. It was just a living, breathing fact. He didn’t like scary movies. He slept with a night light on. He hasn’t told you how he feels about you. All that jazz.
That night—when he finds himself in your apartment for your once-a-week hangout—he thinks about it. For just a teeny, tiny moment, he considers it. How hard can it be?
He’ll tell you he loves you. He’ll tell you he’s been in love with you since he first met you in university, where he’d been an obnoxious fratboy with a backwards cap and you were his project partner constantly annoyed at his incompetence. You had straightened him out. Got him to land in NASA, of all places. The same guy who did jello shots on a Tuesday night was now supposed to be the saving grace of the Earth’s watersheds, and it was because you whipped him into shape.
Lando loved you then, in the clubs with the sticky floors and the library with its rattling AC. He loves you now in your too-small kitchen where you flit around as if you’re cooking something gourmet instead of a Kraft Dinner. He’s pretty sure he’ll love you in space, when he’s lightyears away and all he’ll have are the constellations to keep him company.
If he’s as courageous as they claim he is, he’ll tell you. He’ll say it out loud. He’ll close the distance, kiss you, lift you off your feet—
“Bon appétit!”
You lay down his bowl in front of him. The macaroni pasta glares up at him, sad and orange. He must have made a face because you smack him upside on the head.
“Ow!” Lando howls, rubbing the sore spot. “What the hell, woman?!”
“What did I say about saying woman,” you retort as you settle into the seat across from him.
He levels you with a glare. “Really? We’re going to tackle the intricacies of misogyny now?”
“You started it.”
“You hit me!”
“You deserved it.”
Lando takes a deep breath. You spear your mac’n’cheese. There’s a moment of silence before he shovels a forkful of the ‘meal’ into his mouth, ignoring the way it burns the roof of his mouth. He makes a show of swallowing before gritting out, “I’m sorry for calling you ‘woman’.”
You only stare at him, wholly unimpressed.
“What?” he huffs. “Do you want me to grovel?”
“I’m not opposed,” you answer without missing a beat.
“You—” He breaks off into a laugh, his forehead landing with a light thunk against your kitchen counter. He has had a day you can’t even imagine, a day he can’t even tell you about, and here you are, pushing every single one of his buttons.
He loves you. He loves you so much it makes him want to be brave.
But to want to be something is not the same as being, so Lando doesn’t tell you that night. Instead, he listens as you bitch about work. He lets you pick the movie. He doesn’t complain when you fall asleep midway, drooling on his shoulder.
When he comes back from Project Orbiter—if he does at all—ten years will have passed. Ten whole years without your little weekly traditions, your annual road trips. He’ll miss your birthday, he realizes. He’ll miss so many of them. Forrest Gump plays idly on as Lando spirals on your couch. Who’s going to remember to buy your birthday cupcake? That had always been his job.
You stir in your sleep, burying your face into his sleeve. You mumble something that suspiciously sounds like his name. He pulls you in gently, gently, careful not to wake you. When he falls asleep himself, he dreams of birthday sprinkles, of solar systems, of shooting stars the same color as your eyes.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Full stop. Record scratch.
Lando is t-minus three months, eight days, and one hour to D-Day. He has been good. Maybe a little too good. Constantly asking you to hang out, insisting on more sleepovers than usual. He’s always been clingy by nature, but recent events have turned him into cling wrap.
Your accusation comes on a Saturday. You’d begrudgingly accepted his invite to an observatory two hours away from your city, getting into his passenger seat at the bumfuck hour of five in the afternoon. Lando made several pitstops. A gas station convenience store, a diner with overpriced pancakes.
The two of you are back on the road, making your slow, steady way to the planetarium. Your This Is: Chase Atlantic playlist filters through the tinny speakers of his car. Lando’s fingers flex against the wheel as he cowers under the heavy weight of your all-knowing glare.
“What? Me?” he says with a weak laugh. “Hiding something from you?”
Historically, Lando has never been good at hiding from you. You’re smart like that. You read him like one of those worn books you keep on your bedside table; annotated, dog-eared, marketed as ‘well-loved’.
You fall quiet. He hates when you do that, when you weaponize your silence. It makes his palms sweat. He changes strategies. “Is it a crime to want to spend more time with you?” he insists.
“Sure, Jan,” you grumble as you go stare out the window instead.
Guilt simmers in the pit of Lando’s stomach. He tastes iron as he bites the inside of his cheek from trying his very best to keep the truth from spilling out. Please, he wants to beg, and he’s never been the type to get on his knees—but he’ll do it right now if he has to. Please, the number of hours we have left together is not so large. I don’t want to waste time fighting you when I could be loving you instead.
Thankfully, you are the forgiving and forgetful type. By the time he’s paying for the entrance to Palomar and ushering you towards the five-point-one meter Hale Telescope, you seem to have effectively forgotten you’re supposed to be upset with him.
“Did you know,” you say, voice pitched with excitement as you cling to Lando’s arm, “that the Hale corrected what we originally thought about the Andromeda Galaxy?”
Lando did know, actually. It was on the brochure. Still, he wants to hear you talk about it, so he says, “Really?”
“Really!” Your laugh, so full of life, echoes around the otherwise empty telescope dome. “Walter Baade wanted to look at variable stars. He didn’t find any; instead, he realized that previous distance estimates were wrong. Andromeda was twice as far as we previously thought.”
“Twice as far,” he repeats, trying to wrap his mind around that. About something once assumed to be so close being much further than expected. (He tries not to make a metaphor out of it.)
You have a different take on it. “Just like that,” you hum, gaze roaming around the observatory, “the size of the universe doubled.”
That’s what Lando remembers the most from that day. Not the look on your face when he got you access to try the Hale out yourself. Not the drive home where you two argued over America’s lack of a metric system. No, he thinks of that brief chat about the astronomer who didn’t know better and the world that was much bigger than expected.
Time marches steadily on afterwards. Lando gets busier with preparations for the mission, with keeping his secret from you and the rest of his friends. He tries valiantly to not make it look like he’s dying, because giving away his belongings and all that would surely have the alarm bells ringing. Instead, he writes letters despite his shitty cursive. He meets a NASA-mandated attorney over Zoom to draft a last will and testament, just in case.
He buys some six hundred dollars worth of Polaroid film.
“Be honest,” you say warily as he tears open the package, “are you going through a midlife crisis?”
“Bingo,” he deadpans.
It’s not that out of the ordinary. Lando has blown a significant amount of his salary on this hobby. Digital cameras, film rolls. Your expression is only slightly exasperated as you watch him tear into the Polaroid Go Color Film Double Packs he’d bought off Amazon.
“In my defense,” he grumbles, “they were on sale.”
“You have the moral backbone of a chocolate éclair,” you shoot back.
There’s a reason why, obviously. Not only is Lando heading someplace where money won’t matter, but he also won’t really have 24/7 access to Instagram while he’s trying to navigate the Milky Way. He imagines doomscrolling will be the least of his worries up in space.
He imagines it must be lonely.
There will be options for phone calls—signal routing, video chats, amateur radios. It won’t be the same, though, and so Lando reaches for what he knows.
“Hey!” you yelp.
The flash of his Polaroid is blinding. A mini-galaxy exploding in on itself. The device whirrs before spitting out the photo he’d just taken. You, mid-snort while watching TikToks, chewing distractedly on the aglet of your ratty hoodie.
The image fades into all of its unflattering glory. You try to snatch it, but Lando’s already holding it over his head.
“I wasn’t ready!” you whine.
Neither am I, Lando almost says. Instead, he sticks out his tongue and says, as if it’s the world’s biggest inconvenience, “Let’s take another one, then.”
You two run through an entire pack. You tease him about being trigger-happy, about wasting his money on some mundane day, but he would argue otherwise. Everything from the too-close selfie to the accidental snap of your socked feet makes Lando feel like the universe isn’t too big after all.
It can fit, right here, in the palm of his hand. In the sound of your laugh. In the stretch of his room and a sun-lit afternoon with you.
Nobody blinks an eye when Lando goes on to take a bajillion photos.
Hangouts with Fewtrell and the rest of the boys. Strategy meetings where Oscar shoots him pitying looks. Weekends and evenings and errands with you.
Lando buys a dozen more boxes of film because all of it suddenly seems so photo-worthy. The flowering weed cracking peeking through the cracked concrete. The dust of flour over his mother’s kitchen counter. Your nail polish, your elbow, your back as you walk ahead of him.
“Are you planning some sort of exhibit?” you finally ask one evening.
It’s a lot. It’s two shoe boxes worth of Polaroids with another box already being cleared to make way for a new batch. Lando sits in the middle of all the mess, holding two of the more recent ones—Flo posing with her horse and Oliver flipping the camera off.
Lando’s shoulders raise in a shrug. “New hobby,” he says, and that’s that.
He knows he’ll have to do some serious sorting. NASA was clear about his personal preference kit being limited to a maximum of 20 items. A kilogram of material for a decade away. He’s done his complaining, and he’s bought the photo album, and—
Click.
Lando blinks away the flash. You stand at the edge of his collection, camera up to one eye. You catch the photo of him before it can flutter down onto the floor.
“You need to see how insane you look,” you say with a giggle that makes his heart do something funny in his chest.
He does look insane, certifiably so. He looks dead serious as he stares into the abyss, surrounded by a month’s worth of photographs. “That’s kinda meta,” he says amusedly, reaching for the photo.
You hold it out of reach. “This one’s mine,” you say. “You already have so many.”
“Excuse you! Film is expensive.”
“You can spare me one.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you looove me.”
Oh, the way you say it. Even with the teasing tone, even with that cocky smirk on your face—you say it like it’s a cardinal truth. Astronomers get coordinates wrong; NASA is not infallible in their own predictions.
But Lando Norris loves you and you know it well. More than that, you trust it.
It’s cruel, and unfair, and Lando would have it no other way.
You tuck away the Polaroid with an aha-I-won air. You raise the viewfinder to your eye a second time. “C’mon,” you say. “Say ‘cheese’!”
Lando had been so busy collecting photos of all of you that he’d neglected that you, too, might need some documentation of him. Some proof that he was once twenty-something with his feet to the ground, with his heart in your back pocket. When—if—he comes back, he can only imagine the differences. Wrinkles and laugh lines and silver hair. And so he smiles, says “Cheese,” lets you nick that photo, too.
For every dozen he takes of the world around him, you’ll steal one or two of him. Lando, toeing off his rubber shoes in your entryway. Lando, struggling to open an umbrella as a storm rages on. Lando, his chin in your palm as he stares at you through the camera lens. He pretend-fights you for each one, just so it feels sweeter when he ‘lets’ you keep it.
Everything he has is yours to begin with, anyway.
NASA doesn’t tell him.
Among the many shitty things the Administration has and is about to put him through, that happens to take the cake. There is no warning on the day they seed the press release.
NASA to Launch Jupiter Mission with Astronaut Lando Norris. A four-minute read with a quote from Washington’s NASA Headquarters. The accompanying photo features Lando in his suit, with his helmet on his knee, the standard patches over his chest. He’d been smiling so wide his eyes were crescents.
The news hits while Lando’s in the shower. He emerges to his phone blowing up—seven missed calls from Fewtrell, and several frantic voicemails from Carlos. Lando feels a lump in his throat as he stares down at the deluge of activity on his lockscreen’s Notification Center.
And then.
Two texts from you. A link to the article, then a single question mark.
Lando doesn’t waste any time. Doesn’t even bother to get in his car. His shirt’s probably inside out and he doesn’t remember if he locked his front door, but it doesn’t matter, not when he’s running. Down the street. Around the corner. An absolute madman, racing down sidewalks and pedestrian lanes until he’s at your apartment. Even then, he opts for the stairs—taking two at a time, sweating buckets despite his fresh shower.
He’s nursing a stitch in his side as he rings the doorbell, jamming his thumb into the damn thing enough times that it might even break.
When you open the door, he beats you to it. “I wanted to tell you,” he blurts out, “but they told—they told me you’d go to jail if I did. And I, ah—” (He’s still trying to catch his breath from all the running. He’s practically doubled over, holding himself up with one hand on the doorframe.) “You would do so badly in prison. Like, so badly. You don’t—you wouldn’t like the food.”
You try to slam the door in his face.
He jams his foot just in time, wincing as his shoes barely do anything to protect him from the impact. It doesn’t matter. NASA would still send him to space with a broken pinky toe.
“Please,” he wheezes. “Please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad!” you screech, sounding rather mad.
But you’re right. When you pull open the door, and Lando straightens enough to look at you properly, he sees that you’re right. You’re glaring daggers at him; your eyes are crossed over your chest.
And you’re crying.
Your eyes are rimmed with red. There are tears streaming down your cheeks and wet spots around the collar of your shirt, like you tried to wipe them off just a few minutes ago. You’re furious—rightfully so—but you’re also something else. Something that makes Lando want to cry a bit himself.
“Oh, baby,” he breathes.
He closes the distance, reaching for you. You try to resist, shoving his chest, his shoulder, but his arms are bands as they wrap around you. His face instinctively buries in the top of your head as you thrash in his grip.
“Let me go,” you wail, balled fists slamming against his chest. Somehow, it hurts less than the sound of your sobbing. “You—fuck you—don’t touch me!”
Lando’s seen you through your different moods across the years. He should know better. Should know to take a step back, to let you feel what you need to feel, to give you the cursory day or two before processing it all.
But he doesn’t have the luxury of time today. It’s t-minus a month and two days. If Lando has to spend even thirty minutes of that with you hating him, he’s not sure if he’ll survive. So he holds you as you cry and flail and curse him out; he lets you beat him up, lets you sob through his shirt, lets you feel the fear he’s been doing his best to hide.
Through it all, he says only two words, over and over and over again.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry.”
What does sorry sound like in space? Did extraterrestrials know what it felt like to feel betrayed? Lando’s thoughts are everywhere and nowhere all at once as he waits you out, as he holds you for what feels like forever.
You calm down eventually. He invites himself in, making a beeline for your kitchen. He pours you a glass of water—his fingers shaking against the pitcher—before going into Defcon 1 preparations. Your favorite blanket, your comfort show as background noise. It’s a routine that he’s perfected over time.
You linger exactly where he left you. Lando looks up nervously. “Come on,” he says, his voice cracking.
When he says your name, it’s a quiet thing. You should know by now that your name is safe with him. Still, you look at him as if he’s someone you don’t recognize. As if a part of you is already grieving the decade ahead.
You don’t ask Why didn’t you tell me?, because you know why. You don’t ask Are you scared?, because you know he is.
The question you end up asking is, “Are you going to come back?”
Lando could talk about the odds. The math and the science behind it all. How there’s a small team at NASA dedicated to making sure everything goes smoothly for him, led by the best engineers in the world.
He could talk about the unfathomable as well. Mechanical failures and rogue comets. How tomorrow is not promised for anybody, especially those cruising at altitudes that very few will ever get to reach.
But the look on your face leaves no room for logic. This is not the moment for Lando to spew numbers, to show you his dossier, to reassure you of NASA’s track record.
Instead, he takes a deep, deep breath.
He whispers back, “You know I always come back to you.”
The public sees the pre-launch press conference, the mission briefing. On the week of his departure, they see Lando exactly as how NASA wants him to be seen. A charming, plucky astronaut with carefully gelled curls and a tight-lipped smile. Lando calls the mission an ‘honor’, says it’s a ‘privilege’ to do this for humankind.
They try to pry into his more personal feelings, his innermost thoughts, but he has been media trained to hell and back. He laughs politely. He deflects. He slips in a joke or two, chirping, “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
The public does not see the weekend at the lakehouse.
Family, friends, coworkers who can keep a secret. Anybody who says ‘Jupiter’ has to take a shot. The dollar-star decorations feature cartoon planets and clip art astronauts. The menu’s themed, too—rocket fruit skewers, sandwiches shaped like stars, Moon Pies.
You’re at the center of the organized chaos. You’re in the kitchen, making planetary cupcakes with Cisca. You’re handing out towels to people hurtling themself into the lake. You’re running the weekend like the military, and everybody looks away. Nobody says a thing. This is just how you cope, how you make sense of it all.
You’re undoubtedly still mad. Lando’s not naive enough to believe he’s completely forgiven. But work is work, and you know that your days, your hours, your minutes are limited, and so you’ve spent every night at Lando’s apartment. You’ve judged his personal preference kit. You suspend the worst of your emotions in favor of soaking up what little of Lando you have left.
This Lando, who is crass, whose curls are a mess, who smiles with all his teeth bared. This Lando, who follows you around like a lost puppy. Hooking his chin over your shoulder. Pressing his palm to the small of your back. Whispering some dumb joke in the crook of your neck, then pulling back to see if you’re laughing. (He is soaking up what he can, too.)
The highlight for everyone else is Saturday afternoon. You, organizing the cooler on the dock. Lando, his footsteps quiet as he sneaks up on you. Conversations pause as you screech, “Norris, don’t you dare—!”
It’s too late. Lando has thrown you over his shoulder with ease, has booked it down the dock, has sent you two hurtling into the cold water. Some shake their heads. Some snap photos. Everyone laughs.
You and Lando surface. Your arms tangle around his shoulders, holding on for dear life. “I’m going to kill you,” you sputter as he gasps out breathless, watery laughs. “I’m going to drown you right now, I swear!”
“I’d like to see you try,” Lando shoots back.
You try to dunk his head. He gets a mouthful of water before dragging you down with him, the two of you kicking and flailing.
Underwater, above ground, or in space, it doesn’t matter; Lando’s love for you is glaringly obvious.
What everyone else thinks to be Lando’s favorite part happens that same evening. At dinner, where Lando is dreading the thought of being asked to make some sort of toast—he rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror, just in case—you turn the tables on him.
“We have some gifts for you,” you announce, and everybody starts pulling stuff from under their chairs as if that were their cue.
Lando blinks, thrown off, his speech now moot. “I can’t—,” he starts, because he’s already filled out the NASA-mandated 5-by-8-by-2-inch bag for his personal preference kit.
Oscar, the head engineer of Lando’s team, shakes his head. “We got you another one,” he says. “It was hell to file for, but you’re clear.”
Oh. Oh. “I could kiss you right now, mate,” Lando blurts out.
“Let’s not go that far,” Oscar says drily.
The extra PPK is something Lando had no say in. There’s a beaded friendship bracelet from Flo; one of those nifty Kodak Charmeras from Fewtrell. Cisca packs him an embroidered hanky from his childhood, and Lando traces his initials with his thumb while trying very, very hard not to burst into tears. Nobody would judge him if he did. There isn’t a dry eye left in the room, even as the table attempts to keep it light. Laughter and jokes and jabs.
Your gift is a ten-pack of birthday candles. One for every year that he’ll be gone.
“I don’t think they have cake in space,” you say. “So you’re going to have to improvise.”
Your smile is so sad. Lando knows what you look like when you’re holding back tears, and he imagines you two must look like a pair of fools—stuttering on your words, speaking around the lumps in your throats.
“Thank you,” Lando chokes out once everyone has shown off their parting gift.
This is probably the time for his grand soliloquy. The part where he waxes poetics about doing the right thing, delivers some zingers about meeting aliens.
None of that. Lando ducks his head instead, rubs his teary eyes with the back of his fists like a kid. “Thanks, guys,” he repeats, his voice cracking, and that’s that.
They think that’s Lando’s highlight of the weekend. And while it was certainly a memory that Lando holds close, there is one more.
Once all the plates have been cleared, once the music has been turned down. Once everybody has dozed off and left Lando to his own devices. He knows.
He knows you’ll be on the dock. He knows you’ll be at the edge of it, legs hanging underneath you, palms flat on the wood still drying from earlier that day. He finds you there and sits down next to you, reaching for the words that have been on the tip of his tongue.
You speak first. “We’re all being pretty dramatic, aren’t we?” You glance sideways at him. “Video chat is a thing.”
Coping, Lando thinks, but he goes along with it. “They’re setting me up for weekly Zoom calls.”
“And we can’t text all the time, but you can do emails.”
“Right. Modern technology, baby.”
“And you’ll come back.”
You say it with so much certainty. You say it like a fact. Lando doesn’t respond immediately. He’s still dancing that thin line of trusting the numbers and fearing the unknown. His hands clench into fists, but his eyes stays fixed on you. He doesn’t look away. He can’t.
“You’ll come back,” you double down.
He nods, and something inside him cracks open.
“I—I don’t want you to wait on me or anything,” he starts, which is a terrible start, but a start nonetheless. “I’m not selfish enough to ask that of you. I just—I—”
Your hand rests against his elbow. “Don’t.”
You meet Lando’s gaze—half-agony, half-hope—with a resoluteness of your own. Here it comes, Lando thinks miserably. You’re going to let him down gently. You’re going to give him that look of pity. You’re going to—
“Tell me later.”
He’s not sure he heard right.
“When you get back,” you say slowly. “You can tell me what you want to say.”
Lando’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. He stares at you, then, drinking you in. How your hair falls into your face. The soft line of your jaw. The way you’re looking right back at him.
“Okay,” he says, voice barely above a murmur. “I’ll tell you then.”
“I’ll wait,” you say.
His chest seizes. “Okay.”
“Don’t keep me waiting too long.”
He presses his face into your shoulder, laughing just a little bit. It might be a sob. You don’t point it out. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he breathes.
Your hand finds his. He clings to it like a lifeline. The world spins madly on.
Lando lied in his press briefing. There is a place he’d rather be than on a rocket to space. Here—in this moment with just you.
By Friday, all eyes will be on him. He will be launched into the solar system with two PPKs and a Polaroid photo pressed in the inside of his suit—a picture of that lakeshore weekend, where everyone he loves is smiling up at the camera. He will spend 10 years, three months, and 22 days on Mission Orbiter.
For now, he raises your linked hands and presses a shaky kiss to your knuckles, one at a time. One for every year he’s loved you. One for every year he’ll be gone. A dozen, in total, and then a couple more just because he can.
Would you look at that?
Maybe Lando Norris was a little bit brave after all. ⛐
✦ genre: medical au, strangers to fake dating (kind of) to lovers, angst, comedy, hurt, comfort, fluff
✦ warnings: mild post-op delirium, extreme second-hand embarrassment, medical jargon accuracy played fast and loose for the plot, accidental domesticity
✦ wc: ~30K+
When a near-fatal car crash lands her in the Melbourne trauma bay, she wakes up to find her life in the hands of Dr. Oscar Piastri—a brilliant, intensely stoic neurosurgeon. Stricken with a severe case of postoperative cognitive disinhibition, she becomes entirely convinced that the cold, clinical doctor is actually her devoted boyfriend. Showering him with awkward affection, refusing to eat without him, and leaving the entire hospital staff in stitches. As her real memories slowly return and she realizes the full, mortifying extent of her delirium, what started as a hilarious neurological misunderstanding spirals into a deeper, life-altering connection that no amount of professional distance can fix.
Wipers are slapping against the windshield like they’re trying to keep a rhythm, but you’re just too drained to care. Your head is throbbing—the kind of dull, persistent ache that comes from pulling a double shift—and all you want is to sink into your couch with some takeout and absolutely zero brain power required. You’re navigating the slick Melbourne streets, hands light on the wheel, eyes half-lidded, just counting down the minutes until you can finally kill the engine and stop pretending you’re a functioning human being.
Then, everything goes loud.
There’s this flash of headlights—way too bright, way too close—and the screech of tires that sounds like a banshee screaming in your ear. You barely have time to suck in a breath before the world just… folds. The impact is a sickening, metal-crunching jolt that spins your car like a top. Glass sprays everywhere, a glittery, sharp rain inside your own vehicle, and for a split second, you feel weightless. Then gravity catches up, slamming you back into the seat as the car grinds to a final, jolting halt.
Everything stops.
Silence follows the chaos, heavy and ringing, before it’s punctured by the distant, rising wail of sirens. Your vision is swimming, blurring at the edges until the streetlights turn into long, smeary streaks of neon. You try to move your hand, but it’s like it belongs to someone else. Darkness creeps in from the corners, hungry and fast, swallowing the dashboard, the steering wheel, and the last shred of your consciousness.
"BP is crashing! Systolic is eighty and dropping."
"Get the fluids going. I need a line in now."
Voices. They’re frantic, tight-edged, bouncing off the hard surfaces of the trauma bay. You’re a passenger in your own body, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching them rush around with your limbs. There’s the smell of antiseptic and ozone—so sharp it burns—and the rhythmic, annoying *beep-beep-beep* of the monitor that’s somehow the loudest thing in the room.
"CT's up. Look at that displacement."
The door swings open, the hinges hissing. Someone walks in, and the energy in the room shifts instantly. It’s that weird, heavy calm that only happens when someone who actually knows exactly what they’re doing shows up.
Dr. Piastri glides. He’s still in his theatre blues, his cap slightly askew, looking like he just finished performing a miracle on someone else and was ready to do it again for you. He doesn't look stressed, he doesn't look hurried, even though every second counts. He moves with this annoying, enviable precision, his eyes locked onto the screen of the monitors.
He leans in, his brow furrowed just enough to let you know he’s concentrating, those cool, clinical eyes scanning the grayscale map of your own skull. He’s seen a hundred of these, maybe a thousand. To him, you’re not a person right now; you’re a puzzle, a series of physiological problems that need a solution before the clock runs out.
He turns, and for a fleeting moment, he looks straight at you—or, well, through you. His voice is steady, low-pitched, and completely devoid of panic.
"Prep OR One," he commands, already stripping off his gloves and reaching for a fresh pair. "We don't have time."
— ✦
Lights in the OR are blinding, humming with a frequency that vibrates right behind your eyes—or where your eyes would be if you weren't essentially off the grid. You are a series of vitals on a screen, a jagged mountain range of heart rate spikes and dips that Oscar is trying desperately to level out.
Time doesn't exist in here. There’s just the rhythmic hiss-clack of the ventilator, the wet sounds of surgical instruments, and the low, steady murmur of the team. Oscar is a machine. He hasn't moved from his spot in hours, his posture rigid, his hands—those insanely steady, infuriatingly precise hands—dancing through the mess that used to be your brain.
"BP is dipping again, Dr. Piastri. Forty over twenty," a resident stammers, their voice cracking.
"Increase the pressors. Keep her MAP above sixty," Oscar barks back, not even looking up. He’s deep in the trenches now, staring into the cavernous opening of your skull, navigating around delicate tissue like he’s threading a needle in a hurricane. "Suction. No, the smaller tip. Watch the bleeders."
You’re a project, a high-stakes bet he’s playing with, and he’s holding all the cards. Sweat is beading on his forehead, catching in his eyelashes, but he doesn't blink. He can’t afford to. Every time your pressure drops, the room freezes. You can practically feel the oxygen levels in the air thinning out, the way everyone holds their breath, waiting for the monitor to either stabilize or flatline. He’s the anchor. If he slips, you're gone.
Twelve hours later, the constant beep of the monitor settles into a steady, rhythmic pulse. The sharp, metallic tang of blood finally starts to fade, replaced by the sterile, biting smell of closing sutures.
"Bleeding is controlled. I've got the hematoma evacuated," Oscar says, his voice raspy, sounding like he’s been shouting for days. He pulls his hands back, finally breaking the trance, his shoulders dropping about three inches. He looks wrecked, honestly, but in that quiet, intense way that makes you think he’d do it all over again without a single complaint.
Dr. Norris, standing near the head of the bed, lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He wipes his own brow, his eyes crinkling behind his mask as he glances at the monitor. "Nice save, mate. She’s stable."
Oscar doesn't smile. He doesn't even look like he’s heard the praise. He’s already turning away, starting to peel off the layers of gore-covered plastic and latex. He grabs a fresh gauze pad and begins wiping his brow, his gaze still fixed on the heart monitor as if he’s trying to telepathically command your brain to start firing again.
"It's not over," Oscar mutters, staring at you—really looking at your unconscious face—with a focus that’s almost terrifying. "She’s not out of the woods until she wakes up. Keep her sedated, monitor the swelling, and if the ICP rises by even a single point, you wake me up. Don't call the resident. Call me."
He walks toward the scrub sinks, his steps heavy, looking like he’s carried the weight of the world—or at least your life—on his shoulders for the last half-day. You’re just a patient, a collection of variables, yet as he turns the corner out of the room, he keeps glancing back at the monitor, just to make sure the rhythm doesn't break.
— ✦
Sunlight is aggressively poking through the ICU blinds, turning the room into a weird, dusty orange. You’re somewhere between "nothingness" and "the worst headache of your life."
Oscar walks in with that same focused energy as before. He’s traded his blood-streaked scrubs for fresh ones, his hair looking slightly more ruffled than yesterday. He leans over the bed, checking the ventilator settings and reading the charts with a frown. He’s efficient, cold, and entirely focused on the data points shifting across your chart.
"She’s still stable," he says to the nurse, his voice low and devoid of any extra fluff. "If she shows any signs of agitation, adjust the sedation. I’ve got rounds to finish."
He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t reach out to smooth your hair or check your pulse manually unless he has to. You’re a success story in the making, a patient who didn’t crash, and he’s already moving on to the next one. He turns on his heel and disappears into the corridor.
Four hours later, things change.
You’re fighting through a thick, syrupy fog. Your limbs feel like they’re filled with lead, and your chest feels heavy, but your fingers—they’re twitching. A nurse notices it immediately, tapping the call button.
"Dr. Piastri, please report to the ICU. Patient is waking up," she says, her voice echoing in the small room.
He’s there before the nurse has even finished hanging up the phone. He’s got that same calm, unbothered expression, stepping to your bedside like he’s just checking the weather. His eyes lock onto yours, and he immediately shines a penlight in them, checking for pupillary response.
"Can you hear me?" he asks, his tone clinical. "I need you to tell me your name. What’s your name?"
You blink, the harsh light of the ICU stinging, but when your vision clears, you see him. Him. Your heart does this weird, fluttery thing, like it’s trying to jump out of your ribs. A huge, goofy, incredibly relieved smile stretches across your face, making your cheeks hurt.
"You stayed," you whisper, your voice sounding like you’ve been swallowing gravel. You reach out, your fingers shaking, and manage to hook your hand around his. "I knew you wouldn't leave."
The nurse standing by the monitor exchanges a worried look with Oscar. Anesthesia, definitely, she whispers.
Oscar doesn’t even blink. He gently pries his hand away from yours, placing it back on the railing of the bed with a cool, detached efficiency. "I’m your surgeon," he says, repeating the line like he’s reading a script. "You were in an accident. You’re in the ICU. Can you tell me your name?"
You let out a laugh, but it turns into a wet cough, so you just settle for shaking your head, your smile widening. "No, you’re not."
He pauses, just for a second. His brow furrows, that tiny, precise line of annoyance appearing between his eyes. He’s a guy who likes facts, and right now, you’re not giving him any.
"I’m Dr. Piastri," he says firmly, his voice dropping an octave as he moves to check your reflexes with a reflex hammer. "I operated on you. You need to focus. What is your name?"
"Stop being so serious, baby," you giggle, ignoring the way he’s tapping at your knees to check your nervous system. You aren't even sure where you are, or why your head feels like it’s been hit by a truck, but you’re certain of one thing: he’s yours. "You look so cute when you’re pretending to be a doctor."
Oscar stops mid-tap. He looks at you, then at the monitor, then back at you. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t blush. He just sighs, a short, sharp intake of breath, and scribbles something on your chart.
"She’s disoriented," he says to the nurse, not even looking at you anymore. "Likely post-traumatic confusion mixed with residual anesthesia. Let's run a blood panel. I need to be sure the pressure hasn't spiked again."
He goes back to poking and prodding, completely ignoring your attempts to grab his sleeve. He’s all business, and he’s clearly not playing your game.
— ✦
Hours crawl by, each one marked by the rhythmic, soul-crushing drip of IV fluids and the incessant, mechanical chatter of machines that seem to have more to say than you do. You’re floating in a sea of static, your brain feeling like a scrambled radio frequency, trying to tune into a channel that keeps cutting out. Every time a nurse glides in to check your vitals—adjusting the drip, poking at your IV line, or checking the dressing wrapped tight around your skull—you’re searching. Your eyes dart toward the doorway, desperate for that one specific silhouette.
"Where's my boyfriend?" you ask, your voice raspy and thin. The nurse, a woman with kind eyes and a tired expression, stops mid-task. She looks at you, then at the monitor, then slowly toward the door.
"Honey, you need to focus on resting," she says softly, smoothing the sheets. "Your brain has been through a lot. Just breathe."
Before you can protest, a man in a white coat breezes into the room. He’s got an easy, almost breezy confidence about him, his hair perfectly styled, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Dr. Russell. He offers a friendly, practiced smile, stepping toward the foot of your bed.
"Morning. How are we feeling today?" he asks, reaching for the chart clipped to the railing. "Any headaches? Sensitivity to light? Let's just run through a few simple tests."
You squint at him, your brow knitting together as you try to reconcile this person with the image currently burned into your retinas—the image of someone much more stoic, someone who looks at you like you’re the most important puzzle he’s ever had to solve.
"No," you say, pushing his hand away when he reaches for your pupils with a penlight. "Not you."
George stops, his eyebrows arching in surprise. "Pardon?"
"I want him," you insist, your voice gaining a bit of impatient edge. "The one who was here. Why did you send him away? He was just here, he was checking on me, and then you just walked in like you own the place. Where is he?"
The nurse and George exchange a look—one of those silent, professional conversations that feels like a heavy door slamming shut in your face. It’s patronizing, really. You know what you saw. You remember the way he leaned over you, the way his cool fingers felt against your skin, that intense, quiet focus he held you with.
George clears his throat, his professional mask slipping back into place. "Alright. Let's just try to track my finger, okay? Follow it with your eyes. Don't move your head."
He does his little dance—tracing circles in the air, asking you to name colors, asking you to count backward from a hundred. You do it, mostly because you’re bored and exhausted, but you don't take your eyes off the door. You’re waiting for Oscar. You’re waiting for the only person in this sterile, echoing building who makes sense.
Once George is done, he scribbles a few final notes and retreats from the room, looking significantly more grave than when he entered. You hear the muffled murmur of voices in the hallway—George’s quick, rapid-fire tone, and a lower, more clipped response that makes your pulse jump. That’s him. That’s his voice.
Out in the corridor, George leans against the nurses' station, lowering his voice. "She’s not tracking the logic, Oscar. She’s completely convinced you’re her partner. It’s classic post-op agitation, but the facial recognition is shot to hell. She sees you as her safety anchor because you were the first thing she focused on when she came to."
Oscar stands there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his lab coat. He’s listening, his head tilted slightly, his face completely unreadable. He’s not laughing, he’s not brushing it off—he’s processing the data. "Is it purely associative?"
"Seems like it," George replies, gesturing toward your room. "The trauma to the temporal lobe is likely disrupting her ability to categorize people correctly. She’s mapping 'safety' and 'familiarity' directly onto you. It’s a temporary synaptic misfire."
Oscar stays silent for a long moment, staring through the glass at your prone form. He’s a man of science, a man who relies on the absolute predictability of neural pathways, and the idea that your brain is malfunctioning so spectacularly—and so specifically—seems to irritate him as much as it intrigues him. He doesn't see a "boyfriend." He sees a misfiring neuron, a broken circuit that needs him to bridge the gap.
"Right," Oscar says finally, his voice clipped. "I’ll handle the next assessment. If she can't distinguish me from a significant other after another twenty-four hours, we'll need to schedule a follow-up MRI to check for secondary swelling."
He turns back toward your room, his walk steady and purposeful. He knows what’s going on now—the "why" of your weird, desperate attachment—and he’s decided to tackle it with the same clinical, detached precision he used to crack your skull open and fix your brain. He’s not your boyfriend, and he’s clearly determined to remind you of that, one diagnostic question at a time.
—
Plastic tray sits on your bedside table, the hospital-grade porridge looking like sad, grey paste. You stare at it with genuine hostility. A nurse tries to nudge it closer to you, her expression hopeful, but you just cross your arms over your chest and lean back into the pillows, pointedly ignoring the steaming cup of tea.
"Not happening," you say, your voice firm despite the headache that still pulses behind your temples.
"You need your strength, honey," the nurse sighs, adjusting the monitor cables near your shoulder. "The doctors need you eating if we're going to get you out of this unit."
"I'm not eating until he gets here," you reply, keeping your eyes glued to the doorway. "He knows I like my eggs a certain way. If I eat this, he’ll think I’m settling."
"Who? Dr. Russell?"
You roll your eyes so hard it makes your head spin. "Don't be dense. You know who. My boyfriend. The guy who saved me. Tell him I’m waiting."
The nurse bites her lip, looking toward the hallway. She’s dealt with head trauma patients before, but this specific brand of stubborn delusion—paired with your absolute conviction—is making everyone on the floor twitchy. She eventually gives up and slips out into the hall, and you hear her soft, hurried footsteps clicking away toward the main station.
Five minutes later, she returns, looking slightly frazzled. She picks up the phone on the wall and dials a sequence of numbers, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she explains the situation.
Across the hospital, in the bustling neuro-trauma lounge, Oscar is currently staring down a wall of monitors. He’s already pushed through rounds for a dozen people, and he’s staring at a daunting list of twenty-three other patients who all need him for something different—a post-op check, a scan review, a shunt adjustment. He rubs the back of his neck, his thumb digging into the muscle, feeling the weight of the day pressing into his shoulders.
The phone rings, and he snatches it up, his tone already weary. “Piastri.”
"Dr. Piastri, I’m so sorry to bother you," the nurse starts, her voice tight with apology. "It’s the patient in room 412. The subdural hematoma."
Oscar’s grip on the phone tightens. "I just saw her four hours ago. Has the pressure spiked? Is she showing signs of neurological decline?"
"No, nothing like that, she’s physically stable," the nurse says, pausing. "But she’s refusing to eat. She won’t touch a single thing unless you’re here. She says you’re her boyfriend and she’s waiting for you to supervise her meal."
Oscar lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds more like a growl of frustration than a sigh. He leans against the counter, staring at the list of twenty-three names still waiting for his attention. "You’ve got to be kidding me. I have twenty-three other patients in various stages of critical care, and she’s holding her breakfast hostage for a social visit?"
"I know, Doctor, I’m sorry," she whispers. "But she’s stubborn. She’s not moving."
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a split second as he tries to summon the patience that usually defines him. He’s a surgeon; he deals with trauma, with blood, with the cold, hard reality of biology. He doesn't do "emotional support," and he certainly doesn't do "boyfriend."
"Fine," he snaps, though there’s a flicker of something else beneath the irritation—maybe a begrudging realization that if you’re stubborn enough to refuse food after a brain bleed, you’re just stubborn enough to cause yourself secondary harm through sheer force of will. "Tell her I’m coming. And for god’s sake, make sure her charts are updated. If she gets dehydrated, that’s on you."
He slams the phone down, grabs his tablet, and starts walking. He’s not going because he wants to play along. He’s going to make sure your brain doesn’t decide to swell up just because you’re being impossible.
When he pushes through your door a few minutes later, he looks every bit the busy, annoyed professional. His lab coat is crisp, his stride long and purposeful, and he doesn't even bother with a greeting. He walks straight to the foot of your bed, checks the monitor, and then crosses his arms, looking down at you with a brow arched so high it’s almost mocking.
"I’m told there’s a hunger strike," he says, his voice flat. "Do you have any idea how much work I have to do right now, or are you just trying to see how much of my time you can waste?"
The grin spreading across your face is wide enough to make your jaw ache, but you don't care. Seeing him standing there—all sharp lines, no-nonsense posture, and that infuriatingly stoic expression—is exactly what you needed to snap out of the fog. You don't see a neurosurgeon with a list of twenty-three other patients; you see the guy who’s supposed to be holding your hand, not a chart.
"You came," you say, your voice bright and airy, completely ignoring the fact that you’ve got a catheter taped to your arm and your skull feels like it’s being held together by hope and surgical glue. You reach out, fingers splayed, and lean toward him. "You look exhausted, though. Have you been sleeping, baby? Even with those dark circles, your eyes are still ridiculous. Is it part of the job requirement to be this handsome, or are you just showing off for me?"
Oscar doesn’t even blink. He doesn't soften. He stands there like he’s made of granite, his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his coat. Behind him, a small cluster of interns—mostly young, eager-looking faces hiding behind clipboards—hover in the doorway. They’re watching you with a mix of morbid curiosity and professional terror.
"Focus," Oscar says, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he uses when he’s trying to keep a situation from spiraling. "You are not here to critique my appearance. You are here to demonstrate adequate cognitive recovery, which, so far, you are failing."
You ignore the lecture, shifting your hand until your fingers catch his sleeve. "I’m focused. I’m focusing on you. I mean, look at you—scrubs, coat, that little furrow in your brow. It’s a lot, honestly. How do you keep it together? Is it hard being the best-looking guy in the entire hospital?"
You try to drag his hand toward yours, your fingers brushing against his skin, warm and insistent. You want the contact. You need it. It’s the only thing that makes the world feel solid again.
He reacts instantly, but it’s not the reaction you’re hoping for. He doesn't recoil, he doesn't flinch—he just gently, methodically peels your fingers off his sleeve and places his hands back at his sides, out of your reach. The move is practiced, surgical, and utterly devoid of warmth. It’s the kind of rejection that would hurt if you weren't so convinced he’s just playing hard to get.
"I’m your doctor," he says, the words clipped and flat. He turns to the intern standing closest to the door, gesturing toward your IV line with a sharp flick of his chin. "Increase the saline drip; she’s bordering on dehydrated. And chart the patient’s continued confusion. She’s still presenting with clear signs of postoperative social disinhibition."
"Social disinhibition?" you repeat, letting out a laugh that sounds a bit too sharp in the quiet room. You look at the interns, who are staring at the floor with intense interest, and wink at them. "He’s such a tease, right? He gets shy when he’s on the clock. Don't worry, baby, I know you can’t act like this in front of your little students, but we can talk about it later, yeah?"
One of the interns coughs, a strangled sound that’s clearly an attempt to hide a laugh, and Oscar’s eyes snap toward them. That’s enough to kill the room’s energy instantly. He turns back to you, his face a perfect mask of clinical indifference.
"Your condition is a result of trauma to the brain, not a romantic comedy," Oscar says, leaning in just enough so that you have to look directly into his eyes. There’s no affection there—just a stark, terrifying level of focus. "You are experiencing a misfire in your emotional processing centers. Your brain is trying to assign 'safety' to the person who performed the surgery, and it’s manifesting as an irrational emotional attachment. It is not real. It is not happening. Now, I need you to lift your left leg. Follow the command, or I will have to increase your sedation."
He stares at you, waiting. No smile, no softness, no sign that he’s ever even heard the word 'baby' before in his life. He is the picture of professional distance, and as you look at him, you realize he’s going to hold this line until you finally start acting like a patient and not a partner.
You sigh, dropping your leg back onto the bed, but you still keep that smile fixed on your face. "Fine, keep playing the part. I know the truth."
"There is no part," he says, pulling his penlight out to check your pupils for the third time that morning. "There is only recovery. Lift your leg."
— ✦
Physical therapy is a nightmare, mostly because your head feels like it’s being held together by duct tape and sheer willpower. A therapist—some guy named Miller with an infuriatingly cheerful disposition—is standing there with a clipboard, asking you to perform basic balancing exercises that make you feel like a newborn giraffe. You’ve been staring at the wall for twenty minutes, refusing to move a muscle.
"I’m not doing this," you say, crossing your arms and glaring at the empty hallway.
"Come on, just a few steps," Miller pleads, his voice thin with exhaustion. "Your motor functions need the stimulation, or we’re going to be looking at a much longer recovery time."
"He said he’d be here," you mutter, stubborn as hell. "My boyfriend said he’d watch me do the first session. He doesn't like it when I do things without him, and I’m not breaking his heart by doing this while he’s not looking."
Miller sighs, a long, rattling sound. He looks like he’s ready to toss his clipboard through the window. "I don't have a record of any visitor authorization for a boyfriend. Do you mean Dr. Piastri?"
"Yes, exactly," you beam, as if Miller finally caught onto the obvious. "Go get him. Tell him I’m waiting, and I’m not taking a single step until he’s in the room to make sure I don't fall."
He turns to walk out, but he stops dead in his tracks. Oscar is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes unreadable. He’s been standing there for at least five minutes, just watching the stalemate. He doesn't look like he’s enjoying it—he looks like he’s observing a particularly difficult lab specimen.
"Dr. Piastri," Miller says, sounding relieved. "She won't start."
Oscar doesn't say a word. He just walks into the center of the room, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the space. He doesn't look at Miller; he keeps his eyes locked directly onto yours. There’s no warmth in his expression, just that familiar, high-stakes intensity.
"You want me to watch?" Oscar asks, his voice low and raspy. He doesn't offer a hand, doesn't offer a smile. He just stands there, a silent sentinel waiting for a performance.
You feel a sudden, electric jolt of motivation. You don't know why, but with him standing there, the ache in your head seems to dim. You stand up, your legs wobbling, and start the sequence of exercises. You don't trip. You don't stumble. You finish every single movement with a focus that makes Miller look like he’s forgotten how to breathe. When you’re finally done, you’re breathless, leaning on the railing, looking at Oscar for approval. He gives a single, sharp nod—the bare minimum—and turns on his heel, exiting the room without a word.
Lunch in the breakroom is a cacophony of clattering trays and low-level gossip, but the mood shifts the second Oscar drops his bowl of salad onto the table. George and Lando are already seated, and they’ve been waiting for him.
"You’re late," Lando says, grinning around a forkful of pasta. "Must be busy doing your rounds of emotional support, huh?"
George snorts into his coffee. "Seriously, Oscar. Your girlfriend was asking for you again. She wouldn't move until she had an audience for her PT session. It’s becoming a bit of a legend on the floor."
Oscar doesn't look up from his salad. He stabs a piece of lettuce with clinical precision. "She’s not my girlfriend."
"You sure?" Lando asks, his eyebrows dancing in a way that suggests he knows exactly how much this is bothering his friend. "Because I heard she told the entire nursing staff that you promised to supervise her. That sounds like a 'boyfriend' thing to do."
"She’s suffering from post-traumatic cognitive displacement," Oscar says, his voice flat and perfectly rehearsed, the way he’d explain a diagnosis to a nervous intern. "She’s mapping her survival onto the first person she saw when she woke up. It’s an involuntary neurological response. It has absolutely nothing to do with me personally."
"You’re very sure about that?" George needles, leaning back in his chair, a smug glint in his eyes. "Because most neurosurgeons don't go to PT sessions just to act as an audience for a patient who thinks they're dating."
"I was checking on her progress," Oscar replies, his tone icy. "It was a clinical observation. Nothing more."
He keeps his face perfectly blank, staring at his lunch as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But he doesn't see the salad. In his mind, he’s replaying the way you stood up—the way your eyes lit up when he walked in, the sheer, irrational trust you placed in him. It’s absurd. It’s medically incorrect. It’s a complete violation of every boundary he’s spent his entire career building.
As Lando and George launch into a debate about the weekend race results, the conversation drifts away from you. The table goes quiet for a second as someone grabs a napkin. Oscar, thinking he’s shielded by the low light of the corner booth and the chatter of the room, lets his guard drop for just a fraction of a second.
A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—a brief, soft expression that he quickly hides by taking a sip of his water. It’s a look of secret, begrudging amusement, a flicker of humanity that betrays everything he just told his friends. She’s a disaster, she’s a scientific anomaly, and she’s the most frustrating patient he’s ever had—but for the first time in years, he’s not just thinking about the work. He’s thinking about the way you called him 'baby' in front of the interns, and for a fleeting, impossible moment, he doesn't hate the sound of it at all.
— ✦
Strolling down the ICU corridor, Oscar catches himself doing it again. It’s supposed to be a random rotation, a methodical check of every bed from 401 to 415, but his boots are already heading for 412 before he even finishes charting the last case. It’s an automated response, like a muscle memory, and it makes him stop dead in his tracks.
Why are you here first? he thinks, his jaw tightening. You’re not the most critical patient—the guy in 405 has a much higher risk of secondary hemorrhaging—but here he is, staring at your door.
A small, stupid smile is plastered on his face before he can catch it, and he feels a sharp, hot prick of guilt in his chest. He’s a doctor. He’s a neurosurgeon. He is not supposed to be looking forward to these sessions like a schoolboy. He immediately wipes his expression clean, scrubbing the amusement away until his face is just a blank, clinical slate. He takes a breath, checks his watch to remind himself of the clinical reality, and pushes the door open.
You’re sitting up, looking much more alert than yesterday, and the second you see him, that signature grin of yours lights up the room.
"Hey, handsome," you chirp, not missing a beat. You don’t even wait for a greeting. "I was starting to think you forgot about me. What took you so long? Did those other patients hold you hostage with their boring medical problems?"
Oscar keeps his eyes firmly fixed on your IV bag, walking past you to check the monitor settings. "I was busy, as I have been all morning. We have a lot to cover today. How’s the headache level? One to ten."
"Zero, as long as you're in the room," you say, batting your eyelashes at him. You’re watching his every movement, your eyes tracking the way he leans over the bedside table. "Seriously, though, have you eaten? You look like you need a break. Why don't you pull up a chair and tell me something about yourself? Like, do you have a favorite color? Does it match your scrubs?"
He reaches for his penlight, his movements sharp and efficient. "Eyes on me, please. I need to check your pupils."
You lean in, way closer than is professional, and he has to consciously pull back to maintain the barrier. You aren't making this easy. You never make it easy.
"I have a favorite color," you tease, ignoring his request and staring right at his lips instead of the penlight. "It’s whatever color your eyes are when you’re looking at me. They’re kind of intense right now, don't you think? Is it the job? Or are you just happy to see me?"
"Pupils," he says, his voice flat, not giving you an inch. He shines the light, watching the way they contract. Everything is perfect—too perfect. His medical assessment confirms you are physically recovering, but your social radar is still completely haywire. "Your tracking is sluggish. Stop the chatter and follow the light."
"I am following it," you whisper, your voice dropping to a playful, intimate register that has no business being in a hospital room. "I’m following you everywhere you go. You know, you’re really bad at hiding how much you like this, Dr. Piastri. You’re doing such a good job at being the stoic, serious surgeon, but I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention."
Oscar clicks the penlight off with a sharp snap. He records the result on your chart, his hand steady even though the heat in the room feels like it’s spiked. "You are not seeing anything, because there is nothing to see. You are a patient, and I am the one managing your recovery. That is the beginning and the end of our dynamic."
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, he’s not just a doctor. He’s a guy trying to keep his composure while you try your hardest to dismantle it. "Don't mistake clinical concern for anything else. Keep your focus on the recovery exercises, or I’ll have to move you to a room closer to the nursing station where you can have 'supervision' twenty-four-seven."
"Is that a threat?" you giggle, undeterred, reaching out to pat his hand. "Because it sounds like you just want me closer to you. I’d love that."
He pulls his hand away before you can make contact, tucking it back into his pocket. He is a wall. He is a fortress. He is the best neurosurgeon in Australia. But as he turns toward the door to check on the next patient, he feels that tiny, annoying smile threatening to break through his defenses all over again.
"Tell me something that isn't about my brain," you say, propping your chin on your hand as he finishes jotting down the day’s final neurological findings. "I’m sick of talking about hematomas and cranial pressure. What do you actually do when you aren't busy being a genius with a scalpel?"
Oscar pauses, his pen hovering over the chart. He looks up, clearly surprised that you’ve managed to shift gears from romantic delusion to actual conversation. He’s tired—you can see it in the way his shoulders slump, just a fraction—but he doesn't immediately shut you down this time.
"I don't really have a 'when'," he admits, his voice dropping that clinical edge for something a little more human. "My schedule is… well, it’s basically an impossibility. Between the surgeries, the rounds, and the emergency call-outs, most of my 'hobbies' are just trying to find enough time to sleep or catch the Formula 1 highlights."
"F1? Really?" You sit up straighter, your eyes widening. "Don't tell me you're one of those people who spends their Sunday nights obsessing over tire degradation and team radio drama. Because if you are, I might actually have to forgive you for being such a stick-in-the-mud."
A ghost of a smirk actually touches his face. "Maybe. It’s hard to watch live, obviously, but I keep up. I like the engineering side of it. The precision. It’s not that different from what I do, really."
"Except you get to save lives instead of just chasing a championship trophy," you counter, grinning. "So, what’s your favorite food, then? And don't say hospital cafeteria salad. I know you're better than that."
"Pizza," he says, almost too quickly, then seems to realize he’s revealed something personal. "Simple. Reliable. Doesn't require much thought after a fourteen-hour shift."
"See? That wasn't so hard," you tease. "We’re practically compatible already. If we weren't dating, we’d have to invent a reason to start."
Oscar’s face instantly hardens, that professional wall slamming back into place like a steel shutter. "We’re not dating. We have never been dating. And we are not going to start."
You burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the sterile room, making him blink in genuine confusion. "You’ve said that so many times now, Oscar. It’s like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me. I just like seeing you blush—you’ve got this weird, patchy color that creeps up your neck whenever I get under your skin. It’s actually kind of adorable."
He flushes a deep, frustrated crimson, his jaw tightening so hard you can see the muscle jump. He snaps your chart shut, his eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance and something he refuses to name. "Assessment is over. Eat your dinner, keep your head elevated, and try to get some actual sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow."
He turns on his heel and marches out of the room, his stride a little less controlled than usual.
— ✦
Oscar is walking toward his car, keys already in his hand, when George falls into step beside him. George looks like he’s just finished a grueling shift, but his eyes are sharp and far too observant.
"You’re playing a dangerous game, mate," George says, his voice low as they navigate between rows of parked vehicles. "I’ve seen the way you talk about her. And I’ve seen the way you act when you think no one is watching. You’re starting to get too invested."
Oscar doesn't even look at him. He just keeps walking, his eyes fixed on the taillights of his car. "I know, George. I’m a neurosurgeon. I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s a patient-doctor dynamic, and I’m maintaining the necessary distance."
"Are you?" George asks, stopping by the driver’s side door. "Because you're coming in on your days off, Oscar. That’s not 'maintaining distance.' That’s choosing to be there."
Oscar just opens his car door, his expression an absolute mask of deadpan indifference. "It’s called monitoring a recovery. I’m thorough."
Before George can respond, a frantic, high-pitched thud-thud-thud of running footsteps echoes through the lot. Lando Norris comes sprinting around the corner, his stethoscope swinging wildly around his neck and his lab coat flapping in the wind. He catches up to them, doubled over, panting, with a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
"Wait… for… me!" Lando gasps, slapping a hand onto the roof of Oscar’s car. He looks up at Oscar, his eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. "I just walked past the nurse’s station, and I heard something interesting. Something about a certain neurosurgeon who’s supposedly 'just doing rounds' but is actually spending forty minutes debating the merits of thin-crust pizza with a patient."
Oscar stares at him, his face completely unreadable. "It was a clinical discussion about dietary recovery."
"Oh, 'clinical discussion', is it?" Lando laughs, elbowing him in the ribs. "Since when does clinical mean you’re checking if she likes pepperoni? You’re cooked, Oscar. You’re absolutely, completely cooked."
Oscar doesn't even bother to deny it anymore. He just gets into his car, tosses his bag onto the passenger seat, and rolls the window down just enough to look at his friends. "I’m going home. If either of you mentions this again, I’m putting you on the emergency trauma roster for the rest of the month."
"Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow, lover boy!" Lando shouts as the engine turns over.
Oscar pulls away, his car lights cutting through the darkness, but as he checks his rearview mirror, that small, impossible smile finds its way back onto his face. It’s quiet, it’s secret, and it’s entirely yours.
— ✦
Days start blurring together, a repetitive cycle of vitals, medication, and the slow, agonizing process of remembering who you are. The fog in your head is finally lifting, dissipating like steam off a mirror. You’re starting to recognize the faces that drift in and out of your life, the blurry shapes turning into distinct, familiar features.
Your mom and sister walk into the room one afternoon, their arrival marked by the scent of fresh flowers and that specific, overwhelming sense of "home" that makes you want to cry. They hover over you, touching your hair, asking a thousand questions about your recovery. It’s comforting, solid, real. You remember them. You know their names, their voices, the way your mom laughs when she’s nervous. It’s a massive win, a sign that the worst is truly behind you.
But then, the door hinges creak, and the air in the room shifts instantly. Oscar walks in. He looks exhausted, his tie loosened, a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead, and your heart does that familiar, traitorous flip-flop.
"Dr. Piastri!" you chirp, your face lighting up as if he’s brought the sun with him. You turn to your mom, your eyes bright with pride. "Mom, meet Oscar. He’s my boyfriend, and he’s basically a hero. He saved me, literally."
Your mom glances at him, her face full of genuine gratitude. She steps forward, her hand reaching out to squeeze his arm. "Dr. Piastri, I don't know how to thank you. We’ve heard everything—about the surgery, the long hours, how you wouldn't leave her side. You’ve given us our daughter back. Truly, we are so, so grateful."
Oscar stands there, stiff as a board. He doesn't look at you, and he doesn't look at your mom. He keeps his gaze fixed on a point somewhere just past her shoulder, his expression a masterpiece of professional restraint. "It was my job, ma'am. I’m just glad she’s recovering so well."
"He’s so humble," you add, beaming at him. You reach out, your fingers sliding into his, your grip firm and possessive. "He’s been taking care of me every single day. I don't know what I’d do without him."
He doesn't pull away this time—maybe because your mom is right there, maybe because he’s too tired to fight the battle—but he doesn't squeeze your hand back, either. He just stands there, a hollow shell of a man playing the part of a saint, while you look at him with a devotion that’s equal parts sweet and heartbreaking.
Later that evening, when the room is quiet and the visitors have left, he returns to check your neurological status one last time. You’re tired, your eyelids heavy, but you still smile when you see him.
"They seem nice," he says quietly, his voice lacking its usual clinical edge. He’s looking at your chart, not at you.
"They are," you agree, shifting in the bed. "They love you, too. My mom said you’re 'very impressive.' I told her that was an understatement."
He finally looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. He’s spent weeks fighting this, weeks telling everyone who would listen that you were confused, that your brain was misfiring, that it was all just a symptom. Now, as your memory returns and you start to piece the world back together, he realizes that the "symptom" is fading. Soon, you’ll look at him and see just a doctor—a guy in a white coat who did his job and moved on to the next patient.
He should be relieved. This is the medical goal. This is the success story. But looking at you now, with the memory of your mom thanking him for being your 'boyfriend' still ringing in his ears, he feels a cold, sinking sensation in his gut.
"Is the headache getting better?" he asks, though he sounds like he’s forcing the words out.
"Yeah," you say, your voice soft. "Everything’s getting clearer. I think I’m almost back to normal."
He nods slowly, his hand clenching at his side. "That’s… that’s good. That’s what we want."
He turns to leave, his movements heavy and uncharacteristically sluggish. He reaches the door and stops, his hand lingering on the frame for a heartbeat too long. He’s terrified. He’s a man who has mastered life-or-death scenarios, who can slice into the human brain without a tremor, yet the idea that you might wake up tomorrow and look at him with simple, clinical indifference scares him more than anything he’s ever faced in the OR.
He doesn't want you to be 'normal' if 'normal' means you stop looking at him like he’s the only person in the world who matters. He’s supposed to be the one who saves you, but as he steps out into the hallway, he realizes you’ve managed to do something far more dangerous: you’ve made him hope that he isn't just your surgeon. And that, he knows, is a problem he can't fix with a scalpel.
— ✦
"So, here’s the plan," Oscar says, his voice is professional as he taps the tablet in his hand. He’s standing at the foot of your bed, not leaning, not lingering, just delivering the data like he’s reading a report on a standard post-op recovery. "Your vitals have remained consistent for seventy-two hours. Neurological markers are within the normal threshold. Assuming your CT scan tomorrow shows no unexpected shifts in the tissue, we’re looking at discharge in about two days."
He looks up, expecting you to start with the usual banter, maybe a comment about his appearance or a playful jab about him 'forgetting' to bring you something from the canteen. But you’re silent. You’re really looking at him—not through the haze of medication, not through the lens of that weird, desperate feeling of safety you’ve been clinging to, but with actual, objective clarity. You look at the sharp line of his jaw, the slight exhaustion in his eyes, the sterile blue of his scrubs, and then you look around the room.
White walls. The relentless, rhythmic beep of the monitor. The tray of sad, congealed food. The IV stand. The reality of it hits you like a physical force, cold and jarring.
"...Wait," you whisper, the word barely escaping your throat.
Your mind starts to race, the connections sparking in your brain like short-circuited wiring. You think about the way you’ve been acting, the way you’ve been talking to him—the way you’ve been possessing him. The memories slam back into you in a chaotic, Technicolor montage.
There you are, calling him 'baby' in front of a group of terrified-looking interns who were just trying to take your blood pressure. You recall yourself leaning over the side of the bed, trying to kiss his cheek while he was holding a reflex hammer, acting like it was a casual, everyday occurrence for you to flirt with the man who had just finished performing invasive brain surgery on you. You picture yourself introducing him to your mother—your own mother—as your boyfriend, seeing the way he stood there, frozen and stoic, trying to balance his professional duty with the absolute absurdity of your claims.
It all comes rushing back: the hunger strikes because he wasn't there, the refusal to do physical therapy unless he was watching, the way you’d grab his hand and hold onto it like he was a lifeline you were afraid to lose. It wasn't love. It wasn't destiny. It was a massive, humiliating, high-speed collision of post-operative confusion and a desperate, misdirected need for comfort.
You feel the heat rising up your neck, a wave of mortification so intense it makes your skin prickle. You can’t even hold his gaze anymore. You look down at your hands, then at the sheets, then at the pillow. You can’t handle the weight of the realization.
Without a word, you lunge forward, grabbing the closest pillow and burying your face into it, muffling a groan that comes from the very bottom of your soul. You press your forehead into the soft fabric, wishing you could just burrow into the mattress and vanish into the hospital floor.
"Oh my God," you wail, the sound distorted by the pillow. "Oh my God, no."
Oscar stops. His tapping on the tablet halts abruptly. He stands there, his posture shifting from rigid to slightly baffled. He’s spent weeks bracing himself for your antics, for the next bizarre comment, the next attempt to hold his hand or pull him into a 'date.' This reaction? This genuine, soul-crushing wave of embarrassment? This wasn't in the manual.
"Hey," he says, his voice dropping into a much softer, more tentative register. "What happened? Are you feeling dizzy? Is the pressure spiking again? Talk to me—I need you to tell me what’s wrong."
"I did it," you mumble into the pillow, your voice thick with shame. "I literally… I called you baby. In front of the interns. I told my mom we were dating. I refused to eat my porridge like a toddler."
You roll onto your back, finally pulling the pillow down to your chest, clutching it like a shield. Your face is probably as red as a fire engine, and you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.
"I am so sorry," you breathe out, staring at the ceiling. "I was… I don't even know what I was. I was out of it. And you just—you just stood there. You let me do all of that, and you didn't even stop me. You must think I’m the most insane person you’ve ever had to treat."
Oscar stays where he is, his hands still holding the tablet, but his thumbs have stopped moving. He looks at you, and for the first time in weeks, his guard isn't just lowered—it’s completely dismantled. He isn't the stoic, impenetrable surgeon anymore. He looks almost… relieved.
"You're not insane," he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—not pity, not irritation, but a strange, quiet warmth. "You were dealing with a severe brain injury, and your brain was trying to figure out how to make sense of the situation. It was a neurological response, not a personality flaw."
"Still," you insist, letting out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. "It’s beyond humiliating. I’m so sorry, Oscar. Truly. You’ve been trying to do your job this whole time and I’ve been treating you like… like I was writing a fanfiction about you in real-time."
Oscar lets out a low chuckle, a sound so rare and genuine that you find yourself turning your head to look at him properly. He looks less like a doctor and more like a guy who’s just been let out of a very long, very exhausting cage.
"It was," he says, pausing to find the right word, "certainly an unconventional recovery, I’ll give you that."
"Are you ever going to let me live this down?" you ask, finally managing a weak, shy smile.
Oscar watches you, and that familiar, secret smile starts to tug at the corner of his mouth again—the one he usually hides when he thinks you aren't looking. He doesn't look away this time.
"Well," he says, his voice soft, "you're being discharged in two days. Maybe I’ll start by forgetting most of it. But don't count on me forgetting the bit about the porridge."
— ✦
Sunlight is streaming in, but you’d honestly prefer to be buried under the covers like an ostrich. You stare intently at your fingernails, studying your cuticles like they hold the secrets to the universe, anything to avoid looking at the man standing at the end of your bed.
Oscar is checking your charts, his movements precise and familiar. Click, scribble, pause. It’s the same routine as always, but today, it feels like he’s performing an autopsy on your dignity.
"I’m so sorry," you mutter for the tenth time since he walked in, your voice small and tight. "Seriously. It’s never going to happen again. I’ve reached peak levels of cringeworthy, and I’m genuinely mortified."
Oscar doesn't look up from the clipboard. He just keeps reading, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to apologize. I’ve told you, it was a medical side effect. It’s not something you had control over."
"I absolutely do need to apologize," you counter, finally glancing up—but only to his chin, because meeting his eyes is still a bridge too far. "You’re a world-class neurosurgeon, and I spent a week treating you like a character in a bad soap opera. I’ve been far more embarrassed than this, but I think this officially takes the gold medal."
He stops reading. He sighs, a sound that isn't quite annoyed but definitely sounds weary. He finally meets your gaze, and his expression is unyielding—the same professional mask he’s worn since the first day.
"If we’re going to discuss this, let’s get it out of the way so we can focus on your actual health," he says, his voice steady. "Yes, the behavior was unconventional. But in the context of what you went through? It’s completely irrelevant. My focus is, and has always been, on your recovery. The rest of it… it’s just background noise."
It’s the most "doctor" thing he could possibly say. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it feels like a bucket of ice water. Of course, it’s background noise to him. He’s the professional. You’re just the patient who had a public breakdown.
"Right," you say, forcing a nod. "Background noise. Got it. I’ll keep it professional from here on out."
He gives a curt, sharp nod, his face going completely blank. There’s no hint of that secret, fleeting smile from yesterday. He’s back to being Dr. Piastri, the man who saves brains and doesn't have time for social misfires.
"I’m going to have the nurses continue monitoring your vitals throughout the day," he says, already backing toward the door. "We’ll do one final neuro assessment tomorrow morning. If everything is clear, you’re cleared for discharge."
"Sounds good," you manage, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears.
He turns on his heel, his white coat fluttering slightly as he exits without a backward glance. He’s gone, and the room feels instantly, aggressively empty. You sink back into the pillows, feeling like you’ve successfully purged the "crazy," but for some reason, you’ve never felt more like an idiot in your entire life.
— ✦
Discharge day is a weird mix of excitement and absolute dread. You’ve spent two weeks staring at the same four walls, and the idea of actual sunlight without fluorescent hum is almost overwhelming. You’ve packed your single bag—mostly just the clothes you arrived in, now feeling a bit too big, and a stack of paperwork that looks like a legal dissertation.
You make a point to stop by every desk, every station, and every nurse that had to deal with your post-op delirium. You shake hands, offer awkward but sincere thank-yous, and apologize for the hundredth time for the whole "I think you’re my boyfriend" fiasco. By the time you reach the end of the hall, your heart is thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. You know he’s going to be there. You know he’s the one who has to sign the final release.
He’s standing near the main ICU bay, reviewing a stack of files with that same intense, unbothered posture. He’s in a crisp white shirt today, sleeves rolled up, revealing the veins in his forearms—a detail you definitely don't need to be noticing right now, but you do anyway.
You walk up, trying to keep your steps steady, even though your brain feels like it’s vibrating. "So," you say, stopping a few feet away. "This is it. The end of the road."
Oscar looks up, his expression guarded. He checks the clipboard, nods to himself, and hands you the final discharge slip. "Everything looks perfect. The swelling has subsided, your motor skills are back to baseline, and your cognitive tests are solid. You're clear to go."
You take the paper, your fingers brushing his—an accident, you tell yourself, even if it feels electric. You look at him, really look at him, and you realize that all that embarrassment from yesterday is still sitting in your chest like a stone, but something else is there, too. A bit of courage you didn't know you had.
You swallow hard, your voice dropping. "I know you have to say no to this. I know the ethics board, the hospital policy, the whole 'doctor-patient' boundary thing. I know exactly what you’re going to say."
Oscar goes still. He sets the clipboard down, his hands folding neatly behind his back. He’s already bracing himself, his face shifting into that familiar, unreadable mask.
"But," you continue, refusing to look away, "can I ask anyway?"
He doesn't interrupt, but he doesn't encourage you either. He just waits, his eyes narrowing slightly, those sharp, brown irises cutting right through the space between you.
"Dinner?" you say, the word feeling small and heavy in the sterile hall. "Just dinner. Not a date. Just... food. Once I'm officially not on your patient roster anymore. I just want to thank you properly, for, you know, not letting me die."
Oscar’s mouth twitches. For a fleeting second, the professional mask slips, replaced by a soft, almost imperceptible smile. It’s not the cold, clinical one, and it’s not the dismissive one. It’s proud—genuinely proud. He looks at you, and you can tell he sees the progress you’ve made, the way you’ve pulled yourself back from the edge of that dark, confusing place. He looks like he’s watching a race car cross the finish line, satisfied that the machine held together.
"No," he says, his voice low, firm, and completely devoid of wiggle room.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping your shoulders. "Knew it. Absolute classic. I thought I’d try my luck, but honestly, I expected that."
"You’re still officially my patient," Oscar says, his tone softening just a fraction as he gestures toward your chart. "You have follow-up checkups scheduled for the next six months. You’re not out of the woods just because you’re walking out those doors today. My duty of care remains until I sign off on your final neurological clearance."
You feel a little sting, but you don't let it knock you down. You’ve been through a literal brain injury; a simple rejection from a neurosurgeon is small potatoes. You lean against the counter, crossing your arms, and that old, familiar spark of confidence—the one that made you flirt with him while you were still high on anesthesia—starts to flicker back to life.
"Okay," you say, grinning up at him. You turn to walk away, the discharge papers tucked firmly under your arm, but you pause and look back over your shoulder, winking. "I'll ask again."
Oscar watches you go, his jaw tightening just enough to betray how much that simple, playful challenge is bothering him. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't go back to his files either. He just stands there, watching you walk toward the elevator, his eyes tracking your every move until the doors slide shut and the world—at least for today—finally goes quiet.
— ✦
Steam rises off a massive plate of pasta, but Oscar is mostly just moving it around with his fork. His brain is still stuck on the sterile hum of the hospital, even though he’s miles away in a restaurant that doesn't smell like antiseptic. Lando is currently mid-story, waving a breadstick around like a conductor’s baton, complaining about a patient who woke up from surgery convinced they were a professional race car driver.
"So there I am," Lando says, practically vibrating in his chair, "trying to explain that, no, you are not in the paddock at Silverstone, and you certainly cannot reach the pedals from a surgical bed. The guy was trying to 'downshift' the IV pole. Absolute chaos."
George laughs, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand. "Better than the lady who tried to convince me that my stethoscope was a magical listening device for her future. Neuro is weird, man. It’s all brain trauma, all the time. Right, Oscar? You’ve been dealing with that, uh, 'special' case in 412 for the last two weeks. How’s that going?"
Oscar takes a sip of water, keeping his face intentionally blank. "She’s been discharged. Went home this afternoon."
He expects that to be the end of it. It’s a factual statement, a tidy little conclusion to a clinical case. He puts his fork down, clearly signaling that he’s ready to move on to literally any other topic—Formula 1, the weather, the miserable state of the hospital cafeteria coffee.
Lando, however, has no intention of letting this slide. He stops mid-chew, his eyes widening with mock shock. "Oh, is that all? Just, 'she’s discharged'? Nothing else to add? Like, say, the part where she tried to ask out her neurosurgeon?"
George smirks, the look of a man who has been waiting all day to pounce. "Oh, we heard, Oscar. The nurses’ station is basically a gossip column with scrubs. Apparently, she pulled a total power move. Asked you to dinner right in the middle of the ward. Bold. I’m impressed."
Oscar feels the familiar, annoying heat creeping up his collar. He hates that they know. He hates that your little moment of bravery—the one that made his heart stutter for reasons he still hasn't fully unpacked—has become public record. "It was an inappropriate request made during a clinical sign-off. I handled it. End of story."
"You 'handled it'?" Lando mimics, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "I bet you got all awkward and started talking about the 'ethics of doctor-patient dynamics' while your face turned three different shades of red. Did you stutter? Tell me you stuttered."
"I did not stutter," Oscar bites back, his voice low and sharp. "I informed her that she is still under my care for follow-ups and that the request was, and will remain, denied."
George chuckles, clinking his beer glass against Oscar's water. "Denial is a funny thing, mate. You sound like a guy who’s protesting a little too much. Look at you—you’re twitchy. Usually, when a patient crosses a line, you’re the first one to file a report or have them moved to a different unit. But here you are, two weeks later, and you’re still looking like you’ve just run a marathon."
"I’m tired, George," Oscar snaps, though there’s no real bite in it. "It was a complex recovery. Subdural hematomas are tricky. You know that better than anyone."
"Yeah, yeah, complex recovery," Lando teases, stabbing his pasta again. "And totally unrelated to the fact that she’s got a personality that could charm the paint off a wall. Come on, don't play the 'cold, detached surgeon' card with us. We’ve known you since residency. You haven't looked this rattled since you tripped on stage at graduation."
Oscar glares at them, but it’s a losing battle. He knows exactly what they’re thinking. He knows that they’ve clocked every single extra minute he spent in your room, every time he checked the charts before he had to, and every time he looked just a little bit too happy after finishing your rounds.
"She’s a former patient," Oscar says, his voice final, though he can't quite scrub the tension out of his shoulders. "That is the boundary. That is the rule. We are not talking about this anymore."
"Fine, fine," Lando says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, though he’s still grinning. "But for the record? I saw the way you looked at her during the last round. If you didn't have that stupid 'do not touch' sign tattooed on your forehead, I’d bet money she’d have had you at that dinner."
Oscar just sighs, looking down at his plate. He doesn't say that he wanted to say yes. He doesn't say that the image of you, walking out of that room with your bag over your shoulder and that defiant, playful look in your eyes, has been playing on a loop in his mind for hours. He just eats his pasta, ignores the teasing, and pretends he’s completely unaffected—even though every time he thinks of your invitation, he feels a pull that no amount of professional distance can fix.
— ✦
Follow-up appointments became a rhythmic, slightly annoying part of your life. You’d trek back into the hospital every few weeks, navigating the labyrinthine corridors that still smelled like that specific, sharp blend of sanitizer and floor wax. You’d sit in the waiting room, leafing through outdated magazines, watching the clock tick, and every single time, you’d steel yourself to ask him one more time. You’d rehearse it in your head—Hey, Oscar, how about that drink now that you aren't legally bound to keep me alive?—but every time he walked in, clipboard in hand, face set in that infuriatingly professional mask, the words died in your throat. He was always so efficient, so focused on the scan results and the reflexes, that the gap between you seemed to widen with every visit.
Eventually, the novelty of the crush just… eroded. It was like a pair of shoes that looked great in the store but gave you blisters every time you wore them. You stopped checking the hallway to see if he was around. You stopped lingering by the nurses' station after your appointments. The "what-ifs" quieted down, replaced by the mundane reality of getting back to your own job, your own stress, and your own life.
Six months post-op, you sat in his office for the final time. Oscar was staring at your latest MRI on the lightbox, his brows furrowed in that familiar, studious line. He looked tired—that deep, bone-weary fatigue that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his life—but he was as precise as ever.
"Everything looks perfect," he said, turning to face you. He didn't smile, but his voice was lighter than usual. "The tissue has healed, the pressure is stable, and there’s absolutely no sign of secondary complications. You’re effectively a clean slate. You don't need to come back here anymore."
You blinked, surprised by how final it sounded. "So… that’s it? No more penlights? No more reflex hammers?"
"That’s it," he confirmed, closing your file with a decisive thud. "You’re done."
"Well," you said, standing up and smoothing down your skirt, suddenly feeling very strange. "Thanks, Dr. Piastri. For everything. Seriously."
"You’re welcome," he replied, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the beeper on his belt vibrated, cutting the moment short. He glanced at it, sighed, and shifted back into 'on-call' mode. "Take care of yourself out there."
You left the office, walking out into the bright, unfiltered afternoon sun, feeling the weight of the last six months slip off your shoulders. You didn't look back. You didn't wonder if he was watching. You just started walking toward the parking lot, already thinking about what you were going to have for dinner.
Inside the hospital, Oscar watched you go. He was already pulling up the file for his next patient, a young man with a complex spinal injury, and by the time he’d reached the end of the first page, your name had already started to drift into the background. His brain was a sieve of medical emergencies and high-stakes surgeries, and you were just another success story filed away in the cabinet. He didn't think about the dinner invitation, or the "baby" jokes, or the way you’d looked at him those first few days in the ICU. He had twenty patients to stabilize, two surgeries to prep for, and a life that didn't leave room for lingering thoughts. He turned to the door, his mind already shifting gears, and by the time he reached the nurses' station, the memory of you was just a blurred line in a sea of data.
— ✦
Blue badge clipped to your shirt feels a little heavy, but it’s a good kind of weight. Volunteering in the rehab ward is harder than you expected, but seeing the look on someone’s face when they realize they can lift their own arm again—that’s the kind of high you can’t get anywhere else. You spend your days listening to the same fears you once had, translating the terrifying medical jargon for patients who are too exhausted to process it, and generally just being the person you wished you’d had around when you were staring at the ceiling in room 412.
One afternoon, your legs are screaming for a break, so you duck into the café. It’s a cramped, noisy disaster of a room, smells like burnt espresso and desperation. You’re weaving through the tables, intent on grabbing a tea, when you turn a corner too fast and slam directly into a solid wall of starched white cotton.
Coffee sloshes violently over the rim of a paper cup. You reach out to steady the person you bumped into, and your hand makes contact with a forearm that’s lean, firm, and familiar.
"Whoa, easy there," you mutter, looking up.
It’s Oscar. He’s standing there, his lab coat slightly rumpled, looking like he’s been awake for forty-eight hours straight. He’s managed to keep the coffee from spilling, but he’s staring at you with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. For a second, he just stands there, frozen, his eyes scanning your face as if he’s trying to verify your medical history in real-time.
"Oh," he says, his voice a bit rusty. "It’s you. I almost wore that for you, by the way. Very generous of me."
You look down at his sleeve, where a dark brown stain is already beginning to seep into the white fabric. You start to laugh, a genuine, bubbling sound that makes the tension in his shoulders drop about an inch.
"I’m sorry, I’m a menace," you say, grabbing a napkin from a nearby table and dabbing at his sleeve. "I guess I haven't lost my knack for causing trouble in this building."
Oscar watches you work, his expression shifting from startled to that low-key, amused look you haven't seen in months. He steps back, clearing his throat and tucking his coffee cup safely against his chest.
"No apology necessary," he says, his eyes tracing the line of your face. He looks at your volunteer badge, then back at your eyes. "I didn't know you were back. I thought you were done with this place—for good."
"I missed the ambiance," you joke, gesturing vaguely at the fluorescent lights and the general clinical chaos. "No, seriously, I wanted to help out. Being a patient here is a hell of a learning curve. I figured I could make it a little less terrifying for the next person."
Oscar stares at you for a long beat, his gaze thoughtful. "That’s… actually quite admirable. Most people run as far away from here as they can once they get their discharge papers."
"Yeah, well, I like to do things differently," you say, a playful glint entering your eyes.
He cracks a small, genuine smile—not the professional, doctor-in-the-hallway version, but a real, crooked one that lights up his entire face. He looks like he’s fighting off a joke, his head tilting slightly as he leans against the counter.
"So," he says, his voice dropping into a teasing register that catches you completely off guard. "No neurological confusion this time? You’re sure you know exactly who you’re talking to?"
You feel a heat rise up your neck, but this time, it’s not out of mortification. It’s a warm, comfortable sort of recognition. You look him dead in the eye, squaring your shoulders.
"None whatsoever," you say, your voice steady. "Though, I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I was planning on being a bit more chaotic today, but you’ve ruined my schedule."
"Is that so?" he asks, his eyebrows arching in that familiar, challenging way.
"Yep," you reply, feeling that familiar spark of chemistry flare up, but this time it’s grounded in reality—no anesthesia, no brain fog, just you and a guy who happens to be a neurosurgeon. "Unfortunately, I remember everything. Every single ridiculous thing I said. Every time I tried to hold your hand. Every 'baby' I dropped in front of your poor, traumatized interns."
Oscar actually laughs out loud. It’s a bright, sharp sound that makes a few people in the café turn to look, but he doesn't seem to care. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and something much warmer.
"I remember," he says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. "And for the record, the interns still bring it up in rounds. You’re a legend in the neuro department. They’re still wondering if you were faking the amnesia just to mess with me."
"And were you?" you ask, leaning in, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Did you think I was faking it?"
He looks at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a level of focus that makes your stomach do a series of flips. He doesn't pull away. He doesn't make a joke about doctor-patient boundaries. He just stands there, holding his coffee cup, looking at you like you’re the most interesting puzzle he’s had to solve in years.
"I stopped thinking a long time ago," he admits, his voice so soft you barely hear it over the roar of the café. "I just started wondering if you were going to ask me again."
— ✦
Hallway encounters stop being coincidental and start feeling like an unspoken appointment. You’re always somewhere on the fourth floor, usually lugging a stack of paperbacks toward the neurology ward, and he’s always—inevitably—striding out of a consult or rushing toward an OR. Every time you see his lanky frame moving through the sea of scrub-clad staff, your pulse does this annoying, predictable kick.
"Third book this week, Piastri," you call out, adjusting the heavy stack in your arms as he brushes past you. "I’m starting to think you just like hearing me talk about the plot twists."
He stops, pivots on his heel, and waits for you to catch up. The exhaustion that usually clings to his features has softened just enough for him to look human, and he takes the top two books from your pile without asking, lightening your load.
"I don't have time to read," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I just like making sure you don't drop these on your foot. You’re a liability, remember? I operated on you. I have a vested interest in your continued physical stability."
"Right, the 'vested interest,'" you tease, matching his pace. "Is that what they’re calling it now? I thought it was because you were craving that burnt-tasting sludge from the vending machine down the hall."
He glances down at the lukewarm paper cup in his hand, grimacing. "It’s not sludge. It’s… efficient fuel. I don't have a thirty-minute window to walk to the local café, get an actual barista-made flat white, and walk back. This stuff at least keeps the brain firing."
"It’s an insult to coffee, Oscar. Honestly, it’s a health violation." You stop at a patient's room, hand him back the books, and lean against the wall. "How many have you had today? Be honest."
He sighs, looking at the cup like it’s a clinical failure. "Four. Maybe five."
"You’re going to vibrate out of your skin," you laugh, shaking your head. "I’m telling you, if you didn't spend all your time trying to be the hospital's most stoic martyr, you’d realize that life exists outside these sliding glass doors. There’s decent espresso three blocks over. I know because I walk there every morning before my shift."
He looks at you then, and the playfulness in his eyes is replaced by something heavier, more contemplative. He’s standing close enough that you can smell the faint, clean scent of antiseptic and the sharper, more grounding scent of his cologne. It’s a sensory detail that’s become way too familiar over the last month.
"I don't get 'three blocks over' time," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "I get fifteen-minute windows between consults and the occasional three hours of sleep. It’s not exactly a life that leaves room for… external activities."
"Sounds miserable," you say, but there’s no judgment in it, just a quiet invitation.
"It’s not miserable," he retorts, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "It’s just… work. It’s what I signed up for."
You watch the way his gaze lingers on your face, drifting down to your lips for a heartbeat before snapping back up to your eyes. It’s a tell. He’s tired, he’s stressed, and he’s clearly overworked, but he’s also clearly not in a rush to leave this hallway.
"You know," you say, your voice dropping, "I’m not a patient anymore. I’m a volunteer. Technically, that means we’re colleagues. And colleagues have to go to lunch sometimes, right?"
You hold your breath, the air in the hallway suddenly feeling incredibly thin. You’ve been dancing around this for weeks, and you’re tired of the choreography.
Oscar doesn't answer immediately. He shifts the books in his arms, his knuckles whitening slightly. He’s thinking about the ethics, the hierarchy, the ridiculous, stubborn lines he’s drawn for himself, and the way your existence has managed to blur every single one of them. He’s been waiting for you to say it again—praying you would, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself. Every time you walk away after a conversation, he finds himself feeling a sharp, cold sting of regret that he didn't just reach out and stop you.
"Colleagues," he repeats, the word tasting strange on his tongue.
"Yep. Colleagues. Which involves eating actual, non-vending-machine food." You take a half-step closer. "I’m off shift in twenty minutes. The café three blocks away closes at five. If you can manage to escape the neuro-trauma siren for an hour, I’ll buy you a coffee that actually tastes like coffee."
He looks at his beeper, then at the empty hallway, then back at you. The internal struggle is visible—the meticulous, rule-abiding surgeon fighting against the man who’s been secretly hoping you’d stop being so polite.
"Twenty minutes?" he asks, his voice barely audible.
"Twenty minutes," you confirm, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"I’ll see if I can clear my desk," he says, his voice thick with a sudden, intense focus. He starts to turn away, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. That soft, proud, secret smile is back, and this time, it’s unmistakably expectant. "Don't leave without me. I’m serious. If you walk out that door before I get there, I’m putting you on the 'permanent nuisance' list."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Doctor," you grin, watching him stride away with a little more speed in his step than he had a moment ago.
He’s finally going to say yes. You can see it in the way he walks, in the way he’s already checking his watch to see how he can condense his paperwork. You’ve spent months thinking you’d gotten over this, that you were just a person who’d moved on, but as you stand there in the quiet of the hallway, you realize you haven't moved on at all. You were just waiting for him to catch up.
Twenty minutes felt like an eternity of pacing, but you managed to keep your cool, hovering near the main lobby entrance. When Oscar finally appeared, he’d ditched the white coat, opting for a dark, fitted sweater that made him look less like a looming authority figure and more like a normal, incredibly handsome man who just happened to be chronically sleep-deprived. He was moving with purpose, his phone tucked into his back pocket, and the moment his eyes landed on you, he slowed his pace just enough to let you know he wasn't running away.
He didn't make it five feet before Lando and George intercepted him. They were coming down the opposite corridor, probably heading out to grab their own post-shift meal, and when they saw Oscar walking toward you, their collective stride hitched. George stopped dead, his eyebrows practically reaching his hairline, while Lando did a dramatic, slow-motion pivot, his jaw dropping in a way that would have been hilarious if it didn't make your face burn.
"Well, well," George drawled, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, a look of pure, unadulterated mischief on his face. "Look who finally decided to prioritize something other than a shunt replacement."
Lando didn't even try to hide his grin. He looked from Oscar to you, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match, his face twisted into an expression of absolute glee. "Is that a jacket? And you’re leaving the building? Before midnight? What kind of black magic is this?"
Oscar didn't even blink, though he did offer them a faint, resigned smile that suggested he’d already accepted his fate—namely, that he’d be hearing about this for the next decade. He didn't offer an excuse, didn't stammer, and certainly didn't try to play it off as a clinical meeting. He just tucked his hands into his pockets, shifted his weight, and looked at his friends with a look that essentially told them to get lost.
"We have plans," Oscar said, his voice level and entirely unbothered.
Lando shot you a wink—a quick, cheeky flick of his eyes that made you want to dive behind the nearest plant—before clapping Oscar on the shoulder with a little too much enthusiasm. "Plans. Right. Go on then, Romeo. Don't worry, George and I will keep your patients alive. Or, you know, we’ll just tell everyone in the cafeteria you’re off having a secret tryst."
"Get out of here," Oscar deadpanned, though his smile deepened just a fraction. He didn't wait for them to finish their teasing. He reached out, gently cupping your elbow to steer you toward the revolving doors, his touch brief but warm.
— ✦
The cafe was small, a quiet, dimly lit place with mismatched chairs and the smell of roasting beans. It was blissfully free of monitors, sirens, and that underlying hum of human suffering that seemed to permeate every wall of the hospital. You took a seat by the window, watching the city lights blur as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. When the waiter brought over a pot of steaming black coffee and a small plate of pastries, Oscar actually exhaled—a long, shuddering breath that seemed to dump months of stress into the floorboards.
"You look like you might actually sleep for a full hour tonight," you joked, sliding the sugar toward him.
"Only if the pager stays quiet," he muttered, finally letting his shoulders drop. He took a sip of the coffee, closing his eyes for a second as if he were drinking nectar of the gods. "You were right. This is infinitely better than that vending machine disaster."
"I’m always right," you said, leaning back. "It’s a personality trait. You’ll have to get used to it if you’re going to be my colleague."
He chuckled, a low, easy sound that made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with brain injury. "I’m learning. It’s a steep curve, but I think I’m adjusting."
The conversation drifted away from the hospital, peeling back layers of the rigid, clinical exterior he wore like armor. You discovered that he had a dry, sarcastic wit that he usually kept under lock and key—the kind of humor that slipped out in deadpan observations about bad movies or the sheer absurdity of hospital politics. It was intoxicating. You spent an hour debating the merits of different travel destinations, realizing that beneath the man who could perform a craniotomy in his sleep was someone who actually liked to hike, hated mornings, and had a surprisingly deep appreciation for bad 80s pop music.
"You know," he said, staring at his coffee cup as he swirled the liquid, "I spent most of that month after your surgery wondering if I’d lost my mind. I’m used to patients who follow a script. Wake up, stabilize, rehab, discharge. You… you kind of threw the script into the fire."
"I was a bit much, wasn't I?" You looked down, picking at the napkin. "I still cringe whenever I think about it. I flirted with you in front of half the hospital, Oscar. I don't know how you didn't have me moved to a psych ward."
He looked up, his gaze catching yours. There was no mockery there, just a strange, intense sincerity. "I’m aware. And I didn't want you moved. To be completely honest, that month was brutal. We had a string of cases that didn't go well—losses that stay with you—and every time I walked into room 412, it was like the only part of my day that wasn't grey."
Your heart skipped a beat, the air in the small room feeling suddenly charged. "Really?"
"Really," he said, his voice dropping. "You were a disaster, and it was the best part of my schedule."
You were just about to respond, to say something brilliant and flirtatious, when his phone screeched—a sharp, shrill vibration that jarred the table. He didn't reach for it immediately. He looked at it, then at you, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face before he sighed and pulled it from his pocket.
The screen lit up with a name that made his jaw tighten. He glanced at the display, the surgeon in him instantly overriding the man having a coffee.
"I have to take this," he said, his eyes darkening as he stood up. "It’s the trauma unit. They’ve got a head-on collision coming into the bay in ten minutes. I'm sorry."
"Go," you said, standing up with him, your voice steady even as a wave of disappointment hit you. "I know how this works. Go save them."
He looked like he wanted to say more, to reach out, but the siren was already wailing in his mind, pulling him back to the world of life and death. He grabbed his coat, gave you a quick, searching look, and was already moving toward the door before the phone had even stopped ringing. "I’ll text you," he promised, his tone tight with regret.
"Go, Dr. Piastri!" you called out, smiling despite yourself. He was already out the door, disappearing into the night, but for the first time in your life, you weren't waiting for him to check your reflexes. You were just waiting for him to come back.
— ✦
Midnight quiet of the hospital parking lot has become your second home. You’re sitting in the driver’s seat of your car, engine off, dashboard lights casting a soft, amber glow against your face while you scroll through your phone. You’re waiting for the double-set of glass doors to slide open. You’ve got a greasy paper bag from that late-night burger joint sitting on the passenger seat—the one with the decent fries that Oscar actually likes—and you’re listening to the muffled static of a podcast, counting the minutes.
When he finally emerges, he’s a wreck. His scrubs are rumpled, his hair is a chaotic mess, and he’s moving with that heavy, robotic gait that tells you he’s been on his feet for eighteen hours straight. He doesn't see you at first, just walks toward his own car like he’s sleepwalking, but when you tap your horn—a soft, singular beep—he stops. He looks over, his eyes squinting into the darkness, and then his shoulders drop. That stiff, defensive posture he wears in the hallways just melts away.
He walks over to your car, drops his bag into the backseat, and collapses into the passenger seat with a groan that sounds like it’s vibrating from his soul.
"I have reached the point," he mumbles, his head leaning back against the headrest, eyes closing instantly, "where I am fairly certain I have forgotten how to sit on a chair. I feel like I’ve been vibrating for a decade."
"Here," you say, pushing the paper bag toward him. "Eat. If you don't consume at least three hundred calories of processed beef, I’m going to personally file a complaint with the hospital board for your lack of self-preservation."
He chuckles, a dry, raspy sound, and starts tearing into the bag. He doesn't even use a napkin, just takes a massive bite of the burger like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Watching him eat, even in this exhausted, messy state, gives you a jolt of warmth that’s hard to describe. You’ve moved past the "patient" phase, past the "crush" phase, into something that feels steady and lived-in. It’s quiet. It’s comfortable.
"You’re a lifesaver," he says, mouth half-full. "Not even kidding. I think I would have started eating the charts if you hadn't shown up."
"Good to know I’m more important than your medical records," you tease, reaching out to brush a stray crumb off his sweater. He leans into your touch instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut again. "Movie night tonight? Or are you planning on passing out the moment we hit my couch?"
"Movie night," he insists, though he sounds like he’s talking through a thick blanket. "I promised. I want to see how that thriller ends, even if I only get to see the first ten minutes before I lose consciousness."
That’s how it goes. You get to your place, and he’s asleep before the opening credits of whatever suspense-filled mystery you’ve picked out even finish rolling. He’s slumped against you, his breathing deep and rhythmic, the weight of him pressing against your shoulder a grounding, heavy reality. You don't move. You just sit there, watching the screen, letting his exhaustion bleed into your own peacefulness, thinking about how strange it is that this man, who holds people's lives in his hands every single day, just wants to be a person when he’s with you.
The next morning, while he’s rushing through the kitchen grabbing his gear for another 30-hour block, you slide a bright yellow sticky note into his lunchbox. It’s a silly little thing—a crude drawing of a stick figure with a stethoscope and a caption that reads, Don't be a hero today, drink water, you idiot. You don't tell him you put it there, and he doesn't say anything when he finds it, but days later, when you’re helping him organize some paperwork in his home office, you open his top desk drawer to look for a pen.
They’re all there. Every single one. A rainbow stack of neon paper, each one with a note about his coffee intake, his sleep schedule, or just a reminder that he’s better than the hospital politics. He’s kept them all. He catches you looking, and for a second, he looks almost embarrassed, his ears turning that familiar, endearing shade of pink. He just clears his throat and says, "They’re for… diagnostic reference. To track your recurring harassment."
You laugh, and he smiles that genuine, soft smile that only you get to see.
Of course, the pack never lets you get away with it. Lando and George have fully adopted you into their orbit, mostly because they’ve realized that you’re the only person in the hospital who can actually force Oscar to stop and eat a vegetable. You’re always showing up in the breakroom with an extra sandwich, or cornering Lando to make sure he’s had a lunch break that lasted longer than five minutes.
"You’re doing the lord’s work," George says one afternoon, watching as you forcefully hand Oscar a container of actual, home-cooked pasta instead of the cafeteria slop. "I don't know how you do it. He’s stubborn as a mule, but he folds the second you look at him with that 'I’m disappointed in your blood sugar' face."
"It’s about persistence," you say, grabbing Oscar’s hand and giving it a squeeze. "He thinks because he’s a genius, he doesn't need to eat. He’s wrong."
"She’s right," Oscar admits, taking the container and actually opening it, much to Lando’s shock.
"See? The beast is tamed!" Lando crows, leaning back in his chair. "Next thing you know, he’ll be taking a whole hour for lunch and actually joining us for a weekend out."
Oscar just shakes his head, though he’s looking at you with a look of quiet, profound gratitude. "Don't push your luck, Norris. We’ve got an emergency neuro-trauma call in twenty minutes."
It’s the life, though. You know the reality. There are days—hell, weeks—where the hospital eats him whole. You’ll be in the middle of a text conversation and he’ll vanish for six hours because someone’s ICP went haywire in the middle of the night. You’ve learned not to take it personally. You’ve learned that when he comes back to you, even if he’s hollowed out by the weight of a surgery that didn't go his way, he’s yours. You’re the one who keeps him tethered.
"You look tired," you say one night, leaning against the door of his office after a brutal shift.
"I am tired," he says, rubbing his eyes. He looks like he’s aged ten years in a day. He stands up, his movements stiff, and walks over to you. He doesn't say a word, just pulls you into a hug that feels like he’s trying to disappear into you. You hold him, feeling the sharp edges of his exhaustion, and you know he doesn't need a snack, or a note, or a movie. He just needs to know that when he steps out of that hospital, there’s a world that doesn't demand perfection from him.
"I’m here," you whisper into his sweater.
"I know," he mumbles, his voice barely audible against your hair. "I know. Thank you for… everything."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, that intense, surgical focus now entirely aimed at you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a room full of chaos. "I couldn't do this without you. Seriously. It’s just too much on my own."
You don't need him to say more. You take his hand, the same hand you once tried to grab when you were high on anesthesia and confused, and you lead him out of the hospital, away from the sirens, and into the quiet of the night. You’re not his patient anymore, and he’s not just a doctor, and even if tomorrow brings another thirty-hour shift, tonight, it’s just the two of you, navigating the world one step at a time.
— ✦
Saturday afternoon sun is streaming through the living room blinds, casting long, dusty stripes across your laptop screen. You’re deep in the weeds of a quarterly report, juggling spreadsheets and half-finished emails, when the sound of a key turning in the lock makes you stop. It’s a familiar sound, a slow, metallic click followed by the heavy, weary thud of a man who has been carrying the weight of the world for thirty-six hours straight.
Oscar doesn't call out. He doesn't announce his presence because he doesn't have the energy to spare. He just drifts into the room, his tie already long gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that are tensed with residual stress. He looks like he’s aged five years since he left this morning, his eyes rimmed with red and his movements uncharacteristically sluggish. He drops his bag near the door with a dull thud and stares at the floor as if he’s trying to decide if he has the physical capacity to walk the remaining ten feet to the couch.
"Rough day?" you ask softly, closing your laptop and abandoning the report without a second thought.
He looks up, his gaze unfocused, drifting over your face for a second before he sighs. It’s a sound that seems to deflate his entire frame. He looks so raw, so stripped of that invincible, calm persona he projects in the OR, that it makes your chest ache. He’s spent the last few months living in this apartment in every way that counts; his toothbrush is in your bathroom, his favorite oversized hoodie is perpetually draped over your armchair, and he’s long since stopped remembering the last time he stepped foot in his own sterile, lonely condo. He’s here, he’s yours, and right now, he’s absolutely spent.
You don't wait for him to answer. You get up, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and open your arms. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't try to maintain his composure or play the stoic surgeon. He just walks into your embrace and drops his head onto your shoulder, his entire body going limp. He’s trembling, just a fraction, the kind of micro-tremors that only come after a day of life-or-death decisions and standing over an operating table for hours on end.
"I can't," he whispers, his voice so thin it’s almost lost in the room. He breathes in against the crook of your neck, his hands gripping the back of your sweater like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. "I’m done, I’m just… I’m so done, everything is just… noise."
You tighten your hold, running a hand up his back, feeling the tension locked tight in his shoulder blades. You’ve let the relationship move at its own pace, a slow, careful dance around his impossibly demanding schedule, figuring out how to love a man who is often married to his work. You haven't rushed anything, but in this quiet moment, the air feels heavy, charged with all the things you’ve been feeling but haven't quite found the right space to articulate.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s no professional distance left, no masks, no medical terminology—just a man who has spent all his reserves saving others and now has nothing left for himself but you. His hand comes up, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw with a gentle, shaky reverence.
"I love you," he whispers.
The words land in the silence of the room, simple and absolute. It’s the first time, a secret you’ve both been holding onto, afraid that saying it out loud might somehow break the fragile rhythm you’ve built around his career.
"I love you too," you say, and the weight of it feels like a promise, like the only solid thing in a world that is otherwise constantly shifting.
He lets out a shuddering breath, the tension finally leaving his face, replaced by an expression of pure, relieved vulnerability. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closing, and for the first time in a long time, the hospital feels like a thousand miles away.
"I don't think I could do this without you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "I go into that building, I deal with the chaos, and the only reason I’m still standing at the end of the day is knowing I’m coming back here. To you."
"You don't have to do it alone," you tell him, pulling him back down toward the couch. "Not anymore."
He doesn't argue. He just sinks into the cushions, pulling you down with him, his head finding its usual spot on your shoulder. He’s asleep within minutes, his breathing evening out into the deep, heavy rhythm of a man finally allowed to let go. You sit there, listening to the quiet of the apartment, watching the light fade from the window, and you realize that this—this messy, tired, quiet love—is the most important thing you’ve ever had to work for. You reach over, covering him with the throw blanket from the end of the couch, and just hold him, knowing that when he wakes up, you’ll be there to help him face the week all over again.
— ✦
Sunlight is already hitting the edge of the curtains when you stir, but you don't open your eyes just yet. You feel the heavy, familiar warmth of a body pressed against your back—a solid, grounding weight that makes your heart do that stupid, happy flutter even when you’re half-asleep. Oscar is still dead to the world, but he’s shifted enough to press his chest against your shoulder, his arm draped possessively over your waist.
You’re still wearing your pajamas, but he’s still in the wrinkled, grey undershirt he passed out in last night after you managed to drag him into the bedroom. You remember the chaotic, semi-conscious shuffle, him mumbling something about neuro-pathways while you practically carried him to bed.
He moves, the bed frame creaking, and you feel the weight shift as he sits up. He’s quiet—always quiet—and you hear him sliding out of the room, his footsteps muffled against the floorboards. You drift back into a light, lazy sleep for another twenty minutes before you hear the hum of the shower, then the soft, rhythmic clicking of his toothbrush.
A few minutes later, you feel the mattress dip again. The air smells like his cedarwood body wash and a hint of the coffee he must have just started brewing. You don't turn around, just wait for him to close the distance.
He leans over, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, then tracking down the line of your neck. It’s a slow, deliberate wake-up call. "Morning," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and low.
You shift, turning around to face him, and see he’s finally ditched the work clothes for a pair of sweatpants. He looks like a completely different person when he’s not vibrating with stress or clutching a hospital pager. He looks relaxed, his hair a mess, his eyes clear and focused entirely on you.
"Morning," you whisper back, pulling him down by the neck of his shirt. He kisses you, a soft, lingering thing that tastes like toothpaste and that specific kind of calm that only exists on a Saturday morning with nowhere to be.
"Did you sleep?" you ask, running your hands up his arms.
"Best sleep I’ve had in months," he says, resting his forehead against yours. He’s smiling—a real, lazy grin that makes him look ten years younger. "And guess what? No beeps. No emergency pages. No trauma calls. I checked the schedule three times just to be sure—I’m actually, properly off."
"No way," you say, propping yourself up on one elbow. "The great Dr. Piastri is off-duty on a Saturday? Does the hospital know? Will the city collapse without you?"
"I’ve already accepted that the world might end today," he jokes, nudging your nose with his. "But I’ve decided I’m okay with that. I’m planning on spending the entire day not thinking about craniotomies."
"What’s the plan, then?"
He pulls back, looking at you with that boyish excitement that he usually keeps hidden behind his professional exterior. "Camping. I know you’ve been saying you needed a break from the city, and I found a spot a few hours out. I’ve already done a sweep of the gear. I’ve got the tent, the stove, the sleeping bags—it’s all in the car."
"You did all that while I was sleeping?" You laugh, reaching up to mess with his hair. "You really are an overachiever."
"I just wanted to make sure we actually made it out the door," he says, kissing your temple. "You stay in bed, get another half-hour. I’m going to finish packing the cooler. I’ll make pancakes, then we’re leaving."
"You’re making pancakes?"
"I’m making pancakes," he confirms, standing up and heading for the door. He pauses, looking back at you one last time, his eyes bright with a rare, unfiltered happiness. "Stay put. Don't go anywhere. I’m not letting you spend this day doing reports."
You watch him walk out, feeling a wave of genuine disbelief. A whole day of camping, with no hospital in sight, and the man you love is currently downstairs trying to master the art of breakfast. You sink back into your pillows, listening to the clatter of pots and pans and the muffled sound of him humming a song under his breath. It’s perfect. It’s better than perfect. It’s real.
— ✦
Road winds through the pine trees, tires crunching over loose gravel as the city finally dissolves into the rearview mirror. You’re watching Oscar drive, one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh. He looks like a completely different person in cargo shorts and a faded vintage t-shirt, completely detached from the clinical sterility he usually inhabits. When he pulls into the campsite—a secluded spot tucked behind a dense thicket of spruce—he’s out of the car and moving before the engine even stops ticking.
You lean against the trunk, sipping a lukewarm coffee, watching him navigate the site. He works with an unnerving, practiced efficiency. He doesn't just put up a tent; he engineers it. He hammers stakes into the ground with surgical precision, measuring the tension on the guy lines as if he’s calibrating a piece of hospital equipment.
"You know, you’re allowed to just hammer it in," you call out, watching him adjust a corner for the third time. "It doesn't have to be anatomically perfect."
He laughs, wiping a smudge of dirt off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Habit. If I don't set it up right, it’ll be a disaster in a windstorm. Everything has a structural integrity, you know."
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Neurosurgeon," you tease, walking over to help him unfurl the tarp. "I’ve been meaning to ask, though—how did you even end up here? Did you wake up one day and decide you wanted to spend your life staring at gray matter, or was there some sort of traumatic incident involving a toy microscope?"
He stops, glancing at you with a wry expression before going back to the tent poles. "Nothing that dramatic, honestly. I was never the kid who wanted to play doctor. I played piano, did a lot of woodworking, tinkered with old watches—my dad taught me how to handle the gears without stripping the threads. One day, a mentor of his watched me setting a microscopic balance wheel and joked that I should look into surgery because my hands didn't shake. I laughed it off, but the thought just… stuck. By the time I hit med school, I was already looking for something that required that kind of fine-motor control."
"So, you’re basically a glorified watch repairman, but for brains?"
"Basically," he grins, sliding a pole through the canvas sleeve. "Although, brains are significantly harder to source parts for."
You sit down on a folding chair, watching him work, the ease of the conversation smoothing out the edges of the day. "Was it hard? At the beginning?"
His face loses a bit of that lightheartedness, his expression turning distant as he focuses on the tent frame. "The first time I lost someone? It was hell. I was a junior resident, and I had done everything by the book. Perfect prep, perfect incision, textbook closure. But the patient just didn't wake up. I spent weeks replaying every second of that surgery, convinced that if I had just moved a millimeter to the left or been a second faster, they’d still be here. I didn't understand how someone could be so physically sound and yet just… gone."
"That sounds soul-crushing," you say softly.
"It was," he admits, pausing to hammer the final stake into the ground. "But you keep losing people. You realize that sometimes, you’re just playing the hand you’re dealt, and nature doesn't always care about your best intentions. You stop trying to play God and start trying to be the best possible mechanic for a failing system. It’s a harsh lesson, but you have to learn it or you won't survive the specialty."
"So, why neuro? Why the most unforgiving, high-stress, 'impossible' specialty in the hospital?"
He stands up, brushing the dirt off his hands and looking at you with a sharp, competitive glint in his eyes that you recognize all too well. "I’ve always been competitive. When I was starting out, people told me it was the hardest, the most exclusive. That was all the motivation I needed. I wanted the hardest cases, the ones that everyone else said were 'inoperable.' I thrive on that pressure—the adrenaline, the clock, the razor-thin margin between a complete recovery and a catastrophic outcome. I wanted to be the best because, at the time, I thought being the best meant proving I was the smartest person in the room."
"And now?"
He walks over, leaning against the tree beside your chair, his posture relaxing as he looks out into the trees. "Now? I know that medicine isn't a competition. It’s a service. The 'impossible' cases are just people who deserve one more shot. The board of directors keeps trying to push me toward a professorship, wanting me to teach the next generation, but I don't have the patience for it. I’m not built to stand at a podium and lecture. I’d rather be in the OR where things are tangible."
You let out a loud, incredulous laugh, shaking your head. "You don't have the patience? Are you kidding me? You spent weeks handling me while I was literally hallucinating that you were my boyfriend. If that doesn't qualify as 'having patience,' I don't know what does."
He chuckles, a low, melodic sound that warms the cool air around you. He reaches down, taking your hand and pulling you up from the chair. "That was different. You were a unique clinical anomaly. Besides, you weren't an intern asking me a thousand questions about the anatomy of the thalamus for the fifth time in a row. You were just… you."
"A unique clinical anomaly, huh? Is that what I was?"
"You were the only thing that kept me sane during the one of my worst month," he admits, his voice dropping as he draws you closer, his eyes focused entirely on yours. "And you still are."
He pulls you into the shelter of the tent, the nylon flapping gently in the breeze. The competitive, high-stakes surgeon is gone, replaced by the man who just wanted a Saturday off with the person he loves. He reaches into his pack, pulling out a small, compact stove, his movements steady and calm.
"I’m starving," he says, shifting the subject, clearly feeling he’s revealed enough for one day. "How do you feel about dehydrated camping stew? It’s not exactly a five-course meal, but it’s warm."
"It sounds like a five-star experience if you’re the one cooking," you laugh, sitting back on your sleeping bag and watching him prep the meal.
He smiles, that quiet, secret smile you’ve come to crave, and you realize that even if he never stops being the best neurosurgeon in Australia, he’s happy just being here, with you, in a tent in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to save but a pot of stew.
"Eat up," Oscar says, sliding a steaming plastic bowl toward you. "It’s a gourmet blend of dehydrated carrots and what I am fairly certain is mystery protein, but the chef—that’s me—highly recommends it."
You dig in, the warmth of the food hitting your stomach like a reset button. "You know, for a man who spends his life working with microscopic precision, your cooking is surprisingly… rustic."
"Rustic is code for 'I forgot to measure the water,'" he admits, grinning as he sits cross-legged across from you. He’s got that relaxed look again, his hair wind-tousled and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He looks more like a college student than a man who holds people's lives in his hands for a living.
"So, tell me," you ask, leaning back against a folded blanket, "how on earth do you, Lando, and George actually function as a trio? It’s like watching a chaotic sitcom. Lando is basically a golden retriever in scrubs, George is… well, George is George, and you’re just the silent, brooding professional. It defies all logic."
Oscar laughs, a genuine, unguarded sound. "It started in residency, honestly. Lando was the only one who could make me laugh when I was three days deep into a rotation, and George… George is just as obsessive as I am, but in a completely different direction. We’re a disaster, really. Lando is constantly trying to sneak pranks into the OR, and George is always trying to debate the best way to organize a tool tray. It’s loud, it’s annoying, and I think it’s the only reason I didn't lose my mind back in my third year."
"I can picture it," you tease. "Lando trying to play music in the theater, and you just staring at him until he stops."
"Exactly," he agrees, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea. "But when things go sideways, there isn't another group of people I’d want in the room. We trust each other. That’s the only thing that matters in that environment."
"You guys have saved so many lives, Oscar. Does it ever stop feeling heavy?"
He’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the tree line. "It never stops feeling heavy. You just get better at carrying it. And honestly? Having people like Lando and George—and having you—makes the weight feel like something I can actually manage."
You reach out, resting your hand on his knee, feeling the solid, familiar heat of him. "I'm glad you have them. And I'm glad you have this."
"I am too," he says, his voice dropping into that soft, low register that always makes your pulse skip. "I really am."
You’re just about to crack a joke about how he needs to thank Lando for setting the bar so low that he looks like a genius by comparison, when a sharp, white-hot pulse of pain slams into the back of your skull. It’s not just a headache; it’s a sudden, blinding spike that makes the world tilt. You gasp, your hand instinctively flying to your temple, your vision blurring at the edges.
Oscar is on his feet in a second, the playfulness gone, replaced instantly by the rigid, clinical focus of a surgeon. "What? What is it? Did you hit your head? Tell me, are you dizzy? Is it radiating?"
He’s already moving closer, his hands framing your face, his thumbs checking your pupils with the speed of an expert. He’s panicked—you can see it in the way his jaw is tight and his eyes are scanning for signs of a hemorrhage or a seizure. He’s not Oscar the camper anymore; he’s Dr. Piastri, and he’s terrified.
"Oscar, stop, seriously," you manage to choke out, forcing a weak smile despite the throbbing in your head. You reach up, grabbing his wrists to stop him from doing a full neurological workup on you right there in the dirt. "It’s not a hematoma. It’s just a tension headache. I’ve been putting in ridiculous hours at the rehab unit lately, and I haven't been sleeping enough."
"Are you sure?" he demands, his voice still vibrating with anxiety. "You’re pale. You’re sweating. We should go back. I have my kit in the car, I can—"
"You can do nothing but sit down," you interrupt, reaching into your bag and pulling out a bottle of painkillers. You shake two out into your palm and swallow them with a gulp of tea. "It happens every time I work back-to-back shifts. The noise in the rehab ward is non-stop, and I haven't been drinking enough water. It’s a classic tension headache. My blood pressure is fine, my vision is clearing, and I definitely don't need to be rushed to the ER, especially not by my own boyfriend."
He stares at you, his eyes searching yours for a lie. He’s spent months treating actual brain injuries, and he’s clearly struggling to switch off the part of his brain that’s trained to see danger everywhere.
"I know it looks like an emergency to you," you say softly, tugging on his hand until he sits back down, "but it’s not. I’m fine, Oscar. Truly. It’s just work. Everyone gets headaches, even the people who spend their lives fixing brains."
He lets out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders finally dropping as the panic begins to ebb. "You scared the hell out of me. You know that, right?"
"I know," you say, leaning your head on his shoulder as the medication begins to dull the worst of the ache. "But look at me. I'm breathing, I'm talking, and I'm definitely not having a neurological episode. I’m just a tired human who needs a nap."
"You’re a pain in my neck," he mutters, though he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, his fingers brushing the hair away from your forehead. "And a massive health hazard."
"You love me anyway," you murmur, closing your eyes.
"Yeah," he sighs, his voice barely a whisper. "I really, really do."
— ✦
Moving into that new apartment was less of a grand gesture and more of a quiet, necessary evolution. It’s got floor-to-ceiling windows that catch the afternoon sun, a kitchen big enough for both of you to dance around in, and a bedroom that, for the first time in years, doesn't smell like antiseptic or sound like an ICU paging system. You’ve settled into a rhythm that feels less like a clinical observation and more like a real life.
Living with a neurosurgeon means you’ve become an expert in reading the room before you even walk into it. You know exactly what kind of day he’s had the second the door clicks shut behind him. If he’s silent—not just quiet, but still—it means he’s spent six hours navigating a cavernoma or a tumor near the brainstem, and he needs space to decompress. You don't ask questions; you just hand him a glass of water, turn down the lights, and let the silence sit there until he’s ready to talk. On those nights, you’re his anchor, and he’s yours.
He’s just as sharp about your moods. He knows your boss is breathing down your neck before you’ve even said a word, just by the way you’re stabbing at your laptop keys or the way your eyebrows knot together when you’re trying to finish a report. He’s the one who’ll walk by, drop a steaming mug of tea on the desk, and quietly close your laptop before pulling you toward the couch. He even keeps track of your cycle, which is both incredibly sweet and mildly terrifying, regularly restocking the bathroom cabinet with chocolate and heating pads before you’ve even realized you’re on edge.
Ordinary happiness is everywhere. It’s in the mundane, boring, wonderful stuff—arguing over who left the laundry in the dryer for too long, deciding which grocery store has the better produce, or cooking dinner on a Tuesday night while he tries to explain the difference between a subarachnoid hemorrhage and a subdural hematoma using nothing but pasta noodles and a bowl of salad.
"You're using the penne as the cranial vault, but that doesn't make any sense, Oscar," you laugh, swiping at a rogue piece of lettuce.
"It’s a functional model!" he protests, eyes bright with that playful, competitive spark he usually saves for Lando and George. "If you’d just let me explain the pressure differential—"
"I am not learning neurosurgery via Italian cuisine. Help me with the dishes."
Then comes the weekend you decide to introduce him to your parents. You’ve been dreading it, mostly because your mom and sister have never quite let go of the "brain injury romance" narrative. You pull up to your childhood home, and Oscar’s hands are actually gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.
"You okay?" you ask, reaching over to pat his arm. "They’re just people. My mom isn't going to perform a neuro-assessment on you."
"I’m fine," he mutters, though he looks like he’d rather be back in the OR. "It’s just… usually I’m the one on the other side of this. I’m the doctor, they’re the family. Being the guest? It’s unnerving."
Before he can even fully step out of the car, your mom is on the front porch, beaming. She doesn't wait for introductions; she marches right up and pulls him into a hug that he clearly isn't prepared for.
"Dr. Piastri!" she exclaims, pulling back to beam at him. "We are so thrilled to finally have you over. Thank you, again, for everything. I still tell everyone at the garden club that we had a saint looking after our daughter."
Oscar goes stiff, offering an awkward, polite smile. "It was my privilege, really. I’m just glad she’s here."
Your sister, naturally, can’t help herself. She leans against the doorframe, a wicked grin on her face. "A saint? Mom, please. We all know how this started. We’ve seen the charts. She was practically sedated, calling him 'baby' and trying to propose to him between scans. Honestly, it’s a miracle they’re actually together. She basically manifested him into existence."
You feel the blood rush to your ears. "I did not manifest him, and I was not trying to propose, I was delirious!"
"Keep telling yourself that," your sister laughs, ushering you all inside.
Dinner is a whirlwind of questions and barely suppressed teasing. You’re trying to navigate the conversation toward safe topics—the weather, your new job, the traffic—but your parents are laser-focused on the legend of "The Handsome Neurosurgeon." Oscar handles it like a professional, though his ears are steadily turning a shade of pink that matches the tablecloth.
As you’re helping your dad with the dishes later, he leans in close, lowering his voice with a twinkle in his eye. "You know, when you told us you’d met someone in the hospital, we were worried you were just being dramatic. But... he’s a good man, honey. And he’s definitely as handsome as you kept saying. I guess you weren't lying about the 'handsome doctor' thing after all."
You nearly drop a plate, the heat in your face so intense it might as well be a fever. "Dad! Please! Can we just talk about the lawnmower? Anything else?"
He just chuckles, patting your shoulder. "Relax. I like him. He’s got enough patience to put up with you, and that’s the most important thing."
You walk back into the living room, feeling like you might spontaneously combust from pure, unadulterated mortification. Oscar is sitting on the couch, laughing at something your mom is saying, looking completely at ease. He catches your eye, and for a split second, that secret, crooked smile—the one that exists just for you—appears. It doesn't matter what your parents think or how much they tease; in that moment, seeing him there, fitting into your life, you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
—
Headaches are becoming a permanent resident in your skull, a dull, throbbing bassline that pulses right behind your left eye. You’re sitting at your desk, staring at a spreadsheet that’s starting to swim, and you press the heels of your hands against your temples, hard.
"God, I hate this job," you mutter, typing out a quick text to Oscar. Boss is officially trying to kill me with this workload. If I collapse at my desk, tell them to charge my funeral to the company budget.
You laugh to yourself, but the sound feels thin. A few minutes later, you stand up to grab your coat and head out, but you freeze. Where are your keys? You check your pockets. You check the desk drawer. You check the edge of the printer. Nothing. You spend ten minutes doing a frantic sweep of the cubicle before finding them sitting on top of the copier, right where you had been standing twenty minutes ago.
Weird, you think, your pulse jumping a little. I definitely picked them up from the desk.
When you get home, Oscar is already there, leaning against the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you walk in, his expression unreadable. You drop your keys on the counter—you’re sure you put them there—and kiss him on the cheek.
"Hey," he says, his voice quiet. "How was the day?"
"Brutal," you say, flopping onto the couch. "My boss is actually delusional. I think I had a conversation with Clara about the quarterly report, but honestly, my brain is fried. I can't even remember if we talked today or yesterday."
Oscar doesn't respond right away. He walks over, handing you a glass of water, his fingers lingering on yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He’s watching you. You can feel his gaze, the clinical, observant stare he usually reserves for patients in the ICU. It makes you feel slightly exposed, but you shrug it off.
"You should sleep," he says, his tone perfectly neutral. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. It’s affecting your cognitive baseline."
"My 'cognitive baseline' is fine, Doc," you tease, taking a sip of water. "I’m just overworked and under-caffeinated. My boss is trying to squeeze blood from a stone, and I’m the stone."
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He looks down at his phone, then back at you, his thumb tracing the rim of his own glass. You don't see the way his jaw tightens or the way he silently counts the times you’ve misplaced things this week. You don't see him logging your memory lapses in his head, matching them against the timeline of your recovery.
He’s terrified. He knows exactly what those headaches mean, and he knows exactly what the memory slips imply, but he’s holding his breath, waiting for the right moment. He knows you’ll just fight him on it, calling him a paranoid surgeon who’s projecting his work trauma onto his girlfriend.
"Yeah," he says finally, his voice soft. "I guess it’s just stress. You’re probably right."
You look at him, feeling a sudden, strange flicker of unease. He’s usually the first one to crack a joke or push back, but tonight, he’s as still as a statue.
"Are you okay?" you ask. "You’ve been weirdly quiet since I got home."
"I'm just tired," he says, walking over to pull you into a hug. He holds you tighter than usual, his chin resting on top of your head. You can hear his heart beating against your chest, steady and fast. "Just really tired."
You close your eyes, letting the headache recede into the background. You’re fine. You’re just stressed. You’re just a busy person in a busy world, and Oscar is just a guy who spends his life looking for problems where there aren't any. You don't see the look on his face over your shoulder—the look of a man watching his worst fear begin to unfold in slow motion.
— ✦
Alarm clock screams at 6:00 AM, and your head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. You roll over, groaning, and press your palms into your eyes until you see stars. Another day, another headache. You chalk it up to the humidity, the lack of sleep, or maybe just the general soul-crushing weight of adult life. You roll out of bed, your movements sluggish, and shuffle toward the bathroom.
"Coffee’s already going," Oscar says from the kitchen. He’s already dressed in his scrubs, leaning against the counter with a cup of black coffee in his hand. He’s looking at you with that same unreadable, clinical expression he’s worn for the last week.
"Bless you," you mutter, stumbling into the kitchen. You down the first cup like it’s life-saving medicine, then immediately start frantically checking your bag. "Have you seen my car keys? I swear I left them right here last night. Why is it that the moment I need to leave, my house decides to swallow my belongings?"
You start tearing through the mail pile, knocking a stack of envelopes onto the floor. You’re annoyed now, the pulsing in your temples picking up speed with every frantic motion. You check the sofa cushions, then the kitchen junk drawer, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Oscar is standing there, leaning back, his eyes locked on the spot on the counter where your keys are sitting in plain sight. They’re right there—shiny, silver, and utterly obvious. He doesn't move. He doesn't point. He just watches you, his face a mask of carefully controlled concern. He’s counting. He’s weighing the seconds it takes for you to notice the keys that were in your hand five minutes ago. His silence is heavy, bordering on suffocating, but you’re too wrapped up in your own rising frustration to notice.
"I’m losing my mind," you snap, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "I put them right here! I remember putting them here!"
Oscar finally speaks, his voice eerily calm. "Are you sure? Maybe you left them in your jacket pocket?"
"I checked the pockets, Oscar! I checked them twice!" You’re pacing now, your breath coming in short, irritated bursts.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving your face. He’s looking for the glimmer of recognition, the moment where the memory clicks into place. It doesn't come. You’re genuinely convinced they’ve vanished into thin air. He finally sets his mug down, walks over to the counter, and picks up the keys.
"These?" he asks, holding them up.
You stop dead. You stare at the keys, then at the counter, then back at him. A wave of cold, sharp realization washes over you, but you shove it down. "Oh. Right. I... I must have moved them when I was putting the mail away. My brain is just toast today."
You grab the keys from him, your fingers brushing his. His skin is ice cold.
"Don't forget your report," he says quietly, gesturing toward the dining table.
You frown, turning toward the table. Sure enough, your thick binder is sitting right there, smack in the middle of the surface. You had been staring at it for ten minutes while you were complaining about the keys, and you hadn't even registered it was there.
"Seriously?" You laugh, a dry, nervous sound. "I’m looking right at the thing and it’s like it’s invisible. I need a vacation. Or a new brain. Preferably a new brain."
Oscar doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. He watches you stuff the binder into your bag, his eyes tracking every movement with a precision that makes you feel like a specimen under a microscope.
"You’re working late today, right?" he asks.
"Yeah, big meeting," you say, heading for the door. You’re already halfway into the hallway before you remember to grab your coat. You swing back, snatching it off the chair. "I’ll probably be home by eight. Don't wait up if you’ve got a late shift."
"I’ll be home," he says. He’s standing in the doorway, watching you leave, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks like he wants to say something—like he wants to grab you and pull you back into the apartment—but he just keeps his lips pressed into a thin, white line.
"See you later, Doc," you call out, forcing a bright, casual tone that feels totally fake.
"See you," he replies.
You walk down the hallway, the headache roaring to life again. You’re halfway to the elevator when you stop, hit by a sudden, jarring wave of confusion. You reach into your bag to check for your phone, but you realize you haven't checked for your wallet. You turn around to head back, but as you look at your apartment door, you struggle for a split second to remember which unit is yours.
It’s the one at the end, you tell yourself, your heart doing a sick, slow somersault. It’s the one with the blue wreath.
You reach your door, unlock it, and walk back in. Oscar is still standing in the kitchen, right where you left him. He looks at you, his expression shifting from surprise to something much, much darker.
"Left my wallet," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to keep the panic from leaking out. You grab it from the counter, your movements jerky. "Back again. See you later."
You leave, but you can feel his eyes on your back the entire time. You get to the elevator, the doors slide shut, and you finally let yourself lean against the cold metal wall. You’re fine. You’re just tired. Everyone forgets their wallet. Everyone loses their keys. You’re just stressed, and you’re dating a neurosurgeon who’s making you paranoid by proxy.
But deep down, in the back of your mind, a small, terrified voice is whispering that something is fundamentally wrong, and you’re terrified that if you say it out loud, it might actually be true.
Hey, I’m at my desk, you type, your thumbs hovering over the glass. Everything is normal. Stop looking at me like I’m a malfunctioning MRI machine. I’m just tired, I promise.
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. You’ve been trying to convince yourself all morning that you’re not a walking disaster. You’re just busy. Everyone gets overwhelmed. But that sinking feeling in your stomach—the one that hit when you couldn't find your own front door—doesn't go away just because you sent a text. You stare at the screen, waiting for his reply, trying to ignore the way your thoughts keep slipping through your fingers like water.
Meanwhile, three miles away, Oscar is staring at a blank wall in his office. His coffee is cold, and he hasn't moved in ten minutes. His phone buzzes, he reads your message, and his jaw just tightens. He knows you're lying. He knows that "normal" for you lately has been a series of small, terrifying cracks in the foundation.
Lando and George burst in without knocking, as usual.
"I’m telling you, the patient in 602 is going to be the death of me," Lando is saying, mid-rant, throwing his hands up. "He’s convinced that his post-op headache is actually a microchip the government installed, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to—"
George stops. He notices the silence in the room. He looks at Oscar, then looks at Lando, and nudges him to shut up.
"Okay," George says, his voice losing that joking edge. "What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Oscar finally turns his chair around. He looks exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep won't fix. "It’s her," he says, his voice dropping. "It’s not just the headaches anymore. It’s the memory lapses. She’s misplacing things, losing track of conversations, even basic navigation. And she’s trying to hide it. She’s trying so hard to act like it’s just stress."
George leans back against the doorframe, his expression hardening. He’s a neurosurgeon, too; he’s seen the patterns. He doesn't need a textbook to know where this conversation is heading.
"How long?" George asks.
"A few weeks," Oscar says. "It started small. I thought it was burnout. But today... she didn't know which apartment was ours. She had to double-back to find the door."
Lando goes quiet, his usual manic energy completely evaporated. He looks between the two of them, sensing the gravity shift. "Oscar... you’re the lead on her case. You’ve had the follow-ups. You saw the scans months ago. They were clear."
"I know," Oscar says, his voice rough. "I’m the one who cleared her. I’m the one who told her she was a clean slate. So now I’m sitting here, wondering... am I overthinking this because I’m biased? Am I seeing things that aren't there because I’m terrified of losing her? Or am I just looking for an excuse to believe it’s not happening?"
George goes silent. He’s staring at the floor, thinking. He’s not going to lie to his friend, and he’s not going to offer a hollow comfort. He’s a surgeon; he deals in facts, even when they’re brutal.
"I can't diagnose her, Oscar," George says finally, looking up, his voice steady. "You know that. I haven't seen the charts, and I haven't seen her in months. But... memory retrieval issues, spatial disorientation, persistent cephalalgia? If a patient came to me with that history, I’d be ordering a new MRI within the hour."
"I can't just drag her in here and force her into the machine," Oscar says, pacing the small room now. "She’s not my patient. She’s my partner. If I push this and I’m wrong, I destroy the trust we’ve built. If I don't push it and I’m right... I don't even want to finish that thought."
"You’re caught between the doctor and the boyfriend," Lando says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "That’s a hell of a place to be, mate."
"It’s a nightmare," Oscar corrects. "I operate on people’s brains every day, but I can't even look at the woman I love without wondering if her brain is failing her again. And the worst part? I don't know if I’m looking for the truth or just trying to convince myself I’m crazy."
George nods slowly. "The fact that you’re scared means you’re paying attention. Keep watching her. And if you’re right, Oscar... you’re going to have to be the doctor, not the boyfriend. You know that better than anyone."
"Mate, you know the policy," Lando says, pacing the small office, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "Doctors don't touch their own. Not when it's family, not when it's partners, and definitely not when it’s someone you’re this close to. You’re compromised, Oscar. You’ve been compromised since she walked out of that ICU."
Oscar rubs his face with both hands, the friction of his palms against his stubble audible in the quiet room. "I know the damn policy, Lando. But she’s mine. If I just hand her over to a random resident or some stranger who doesn't know her history, they’re going to miss the nuance. They’re going to miss the baseline."
"And if you do the scan yourself?" George pipes up, leaning against the desk, his voice calm but firm. "You’re looking at your partner through a filter of fear. You’ll either see things that aren't there because you're terrified, or you’ll overlook the obvious because you're desperate for her to be okay. It’s bad medicine, Oscar. It’s not just a rule, it’s for your own sanity."
Oscar lets out a long, jagged sigh, pacing toward the window and looking out at the parking lot where he knows his car is parked. "You're right. Both of you. I know you're right. It’s just... it’s her."
"I'll do it," George says, his voice dropping the teasing tone entirely. "I’ll run the intake. I’ll order the imaging under my own credentials. You can't be in the room, but I’ll make sure she gets the priority she deserves. I’ll be objective, I’ll be thorough, and I’ll be honest with you about every single pixel of that scan. But you have to step back."
"George is the best guy for it, Oscar," Lando adds, his hand resting on his friend's shoulder. "He’s as sharp as you, and he doesn't have the emotional baggage. Let him handle the clinical side."
Oscar stares at the floor, his brain clearly grinding through a thousand different scenarios, trying to find a way to maintain control that he knows he’s already lost. Finally, his shoulders slump. He looks at George and gives a slow, singular nod.
"Okay," he says, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and begrudging acceptance. "You're right. I can't be objective with her. I'm too close to it."
"Good," George says, already pulling out his tablet to look at the department’s afternoon availability. "We’ll get her in for an 'unrelated' follow-up. Keep it low-key, don't spook her."
"I have to talk to her tonight," Oscar says, his eyes focused on the door. "I can't just trick her into an MRI. She’s smart, and she’s going to know something is up the second she sees George instead of me. I need to be the one to tell her why this is happening. I just... I need to figure out how to do it without making her feel like her life is falling apart again."
"Don't lie to her," Lando says quietly. "She’s been through enough to know when you're bullshitting. Just tell her you’re worried, and that for your own peace of mind, you need a second set of eyes."
Oscar nods, his expression haunted. "Yeah. I’ll tell her. Tonight."
— ✦
Door clicks shut behind you, and you immediately drop your bag, stumbling into the kitchen with a hand pressed hard against your temple. "I don't know what it is, but this headache is actually trying to kill me today. I think my boss is actively siphoning my spinal fluid."
Oscar is standing by the counter, holding a glass of water, his face unreadable. He doesn't offer a joke, and he doesn't tell you to sit down. He just watches you, his eyes tracking every flicker of pain on your face.
"I need you to see George tomorrow," he says. His voice is flat, devoid of its usual warmth.
You blink, taken aback. "George? As in, Dr. Russell? The neurosurgeon? For a headache? Oscar, that’s insane. I’m just stressed. I’m not going to waste a specialist's time because I’ve been staring at a screen for eight hours."
"You aren't just stressed," Oscar says, and his voice spikes with an intensity that stops you in your tracks. He sets the glass down with a sharp clack on the marble. "I’ve been tracking this, and I’m done pretending it’s normal. You forgot your keys three times this week. You lost the thread of a conversation we had five minutes prior. You couldn't find our front door this morning."
You feel your face go hot, defensive heat rushing through you. "So I’m a little scatterbrained! That doesn't mean I have a tumor, Oscar! You’re looking at me like I’m a lab rat because you’re still obsessed with the surgery you did months ago. You’re projecting, okay? You're just being a paranoid surgeon."
"I'm being a doctor who is terrified because I know exactly what the red flags look like!" he snaps back, his composure finally fracturing. He steps toward you, his hands gesturing sharply. "Do you think I want to believe there's something wrong? I would give anything to believe you’re just tired. But I’m not blind, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you slip away while you play it off as a 'long week at work.'"
"Slip away? Really?" You let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. "You’re acting like I’m dying. I’m just human. I’m forgetful, I’m overworked, and I’m currently dating someone who treats every minor inconvenience as a neurological crisis. It’s patronizing, Oscar."
"It’s not patronizing, it’s care," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet growl. "I’ve been keeping a list in my head of every lapse, every headache, every moment you get lost in your own apartment. And every single time, I’ve prayed that I was wrong. But I’m not. And you’re too stubborn to admit you’re scared, too."
"I’m not scared!" you shout, though your voice cracks. "I’m just tired of you dissecting my brain every time I misplace my wallet! Why can’t you just be my boyfriend instead of my doctor? I don't need a consult, I need you to just—"
"I can't be just your boyfriend when your life might be on the line!" he cuts you off, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and raw, exposed pain. "You think I like this? You think I like standing here, forced to act like a professional when my whole world is shaking? I am trying to save us from a disaster, and you are fighting me every single step of the way because you're too proud to admit you aren't okay."
You stare at him, stunned into silence by the sheer ferocity in his tone. The headache is throbbing in rhythm with your heart, and for a terrifying second, you can't even remember the argument you were just having. You just know that he’s looking at you with a desperation that breaks your heart, even while you want to scream at him to stop.
"If you won't see George for yourself," he says, his voice low and vibrating with a terrifying finality, "then see him for me. Because I can't do this anymore. I can't live in this house, watching you disappear, and pretend like everything is fine."
— ✦
Hospital hallways seem longer, colder, and infinitely more suffocating when you aren't the one volunteering, but the patient waiting for a verdict. You’re sitting on the edge of the exam table in George’s office, your legs swinging rhythmically, trying to distract yourself from the hum of the overhead lights. Oscar is standing by the window, his back to you, his shoulders locked in a grip of iron. He hasn't looked at you since George walked out with the results in his hand, and the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
George steps back inside, holding the tablet with the scan results. He doesn't look at you first; he looks at the scans. His expression is the professional, inscrutable mask of a man who has delivered thousands of life-altering sentences. He sighs, a quiet, weary sound, and finally turns to face you.
"The imaging shows a delayed hydrocephalus and some focal compression," George says, his voice steady but heavy. "It’s a direct complication from the initial trauma. It’s what’s causing the memory lapses and the persistent pressure headaches. We need to go back in, and we need to do it soon."
Everything goes quiet. The words don't seem to make sense. Go back in. Like it’s a routine maintenance check, not a crack in your skull.
"Surgery?" you ask, your voice sounding small. "Again?"
Oscar is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping yours so tightly it almost hurts. His eyes are wide, glassy with a sudden, devastating surge of guilt. "I’m sorry," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I should have seen it. I should have ordered the scans the moment you mentioned the headaches. I was so caught up in being your partner that I failed you as a doctor. I'm so, so sorry."
"Oscar, don't," you say, reaching out to touch his face. His skin is clammy, his breath coming in uneven hitches. "You didn't know. Nobody knew."
"I am the expert!" he explodes, his voice rising in panic, the clinical detachment totally shattered. "It’s my specialty! I’m supposed to protect you, and instead, I watched you struggle for weeks while I was too busy being scared. I should have been faster. I should have been better."
He looks up at George, his eyes fierce and pleading. "I’m doing the surgery. I’m the only one who knows the topography of her brain from the last time. I’m the one who closed her up. I’m doing it."
George steps forward, his hand coming down firmly on Oscar’s shoulder, forcing him to stand up. He doesn't let go of his grip, anchoring him to the floor. "No. You’re not."
"George, I am the lead on this—"
"You’re not the surgeon on this case, Oscar," George interrupts, his tone cutting no room for debate. "You are completely compromised. Look at your hands."
You look down. Oscar’s hands are shaking—a fine, rapid tremor that would make holding a scalpel a death sentence. He’s white as a sheet, his pupils dilated with shock.
George looks at you, his eyes softening just a fraction. "I need you to head home and get some rest. There’s paperwork in the front office, and I have a team ready to prep everything for tomorrow. I need to have a private conversation with Dr. Piastri about the specifics of the procedure."
"But—" Oscar starts, his voice raw.
"Go home," George repeats, turning his gaze back to Oscar with a look of absolute, immovable authority. "That’s an order, colleague. You need to step out of the surgeon’s chair and be a partner for the next twenty-four hours. Can you do that?"
Oscar looks at you, his entire body trembling, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to swallow the reality of the situation. He looks terrified—more terrified than you’ve ever seen him in his scrub gear.
"I'll be right outside," Oscar mumbles, his voice barely audible. He looks like he’s about to shatter.
"No," George says gently, nudging you toward the door. "Go with her. Stay with her tonight. I’ll call you when I’ve finished the plan. But you are not stepping foot in an OR until this is over."
You walk out of the office, Oscar trailing behind you like a ghost. He doesn't hold your hand. He doesn't speak. He just follows you out into the corridor, his eyes fixed on the back of your head as if he’s trying to make sure you don't disappear into thin air. You feel like you’re walking toward your own execution, but looking at Oscar—the man who usually holds the world together—crumbling into pieces because he realizes he’s helpless to save you—that’s the part that really hurts.
— ✦
The Office of the Chief of Neurosurgery is cramped, smelling faintly of old coffee and high-stakes politics. You’re waiting in the car downstairs, but Oscar is currently standing in the center of the Chief’s office, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. The surgical board is watching him, their faces masks of professional neutrality, but he doesn't care.
"I am the lead on her case history," Oscar says, his voice dangerously steady. "I performed the initial craniotomy. I know the scar tissue, the adhesion patterns, and how her brain responded to the anesthesia. No one else has that data."
The Chief, a man who has seen it all, sighs and sets his pen down. "Oscar, we all know you’re the best we have. But you are not a neutral party. She’s your partner. You’re far too emotionally compromised, and that is a direct violation of surgical ethics. Russell is a world-class surgeon. He’s taking the case."
"George is a brilliant surgeon," Oscar concedes, his jaw twitching. "But he hasn't been in that brain. I have. I’m the best person for this procedure, and denying her the best possible chance of recovery because of a policy is a mistake."
"It's not about the policy, it's about the patient's safety," the Chief fires back. "Your hands were shaking in George’s office earlier, Oscar. Do you think I didn't see the report? If you go into that OR, you’re a liability, not an asset."
Oscar feels the blood rushing to his ears, a hot, frantic hum that makes it hard to focus. He stops trying to be the calm, calculated surgeon. He lets the mask slide off.
"You think I don't know that?" Oscar asks, his voice dropping to a jagged, desperate whisper. He leans over the desk, his composure finally collapsing. "I know I’m compromised. I’ve known it for weeks. But she’s my life. You’re asking me to hand over the person I love most in the world to someone else because you’re worried about protocol? I’m not asking you as a surgeon. I’m telling you as a man who is absolutely terrified that if I’m not the one holding the scalpel, she won't wake up."
"Oscar—"
"I am one of the best neurosurgeons in this country," he continues, his voice rising, raw and unsparing. "I have saved hundreds of people who were far worse off than she is. And you’re telling me that because I care about her, I’m suddenly incapable of doing my job? I don't care about the board. I don't care about the risk to my career. I just need to know she’s okay."
"That is exactly why you cannot do it," the Chief says softly, his tone hardening. "If you make one tiny error—one microscopic slip because you were distracted by the fact that it's her face on that table—you will never forgive yourself. And she will never recover. You need to be her partner tonight, not her doctor. George is the one who will be her surgeon."
Oscar stands there, chest heaving, looking at the older man like he’s just signed a death warrant. The fight is leaking out of him, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. He’s spent his whole life believing that being the best meant being the one in control, but he’s never been more aware of his own limitations.
"She’s scared," Oscar says, his voice sounding small, lost. "She’s so scared, and she’s trying to be brave for me. I just... I can't be in the waiting room while someone else is working on her. How am I supposed to sit there and do nothing?"
"You don't do nothing," the Chief says, standing up and walking around the desk to put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "You show up for her. You stay by her side when she wakes up. That is what she needs from you right now. Not a surgeon who is one panic attack away from a catastrophe."
Oscar closes his eyes, a single, sharp breath escaping him. He knows he’s lost. He knows George is the better choice for the procedure, even if his heart refuses to accept it.
"Fine," Oscar whispers, the word tasting like ash. "But if there’s a single complication—if George even hesitates—I’m coming into that OR."
"He won't hesitate," the Chief says firmly. "Go to her, Oscar. She’s waiting for you."
— ✦
The balcony feels like the edge of the world, a small, concrete rectangle hovering over a city that’s still moving, unaware that your own personal orbit is about to tilt off its axis. You’re huddled in a thick wool blanket, knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the streetlights below. Oscar is sitting right beside you, his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, his hand gripping yours so tightly his knuckles are white. He hasn't moved for an hour, his gaze fixed on a distant flicker of neon, his jaw set in a line of constant, suppressed agitation.
"I’m sorry," you say, the words feeling heavy and thick in your throat. You turn to look at him, searching his profile for that familiar, calm composure, but it’s gone. He’s raw, completely stripped of the professional armor he usually wears like a second skin. "I’m sorry I kept pushing you away. I kept acting like you were just being a paranoid surgeon, like I didn't want to admit something was actually wrong. I should have listened to you. I should have trusted you when you said it wasn't just stress."
Oscar turns his head slowly, his eyes dark, rimmed with the exhaustion of a man who hasn't truly slept since the MRI. He shakes his head, an abrupt, jerky motion. "No. Don't do that. Don't you dare take the blame for this. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. I was the one who did your follow-ups. I was the one who saw you every single day. I told myself it was just fatigue, just the grind, because I wanted so desperately for you to be back to normal. I failed you, and that’s a weight I’m going to be carrying for a long time."
"You didn't fail me, Oscar," you insist, shifting closer, trying to thread your fingers through his. "You were just… you were too close to it. You were the boyfriend, not the doctor. And honestly? I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to be the one taking care of me those first few months. You saved me then. You gave me back a life that I’m still living."
He lets out a harsh, jagged laugh, looking away again. "I didn't save you enough, clearly. Now we’re back at square one, and I’m sitting on a balcony while someone else has to go in and fix what I left behind."
"You trust George, don't you?" you ask, squeezing his hand.
He goes stiff, his thumb tracing frantic, aimless patterns against your palm. "George is the best. I know that. If I didn't think he was the best, he wouldn't be in my circle, and he certainly wouldn't be allowed anywhere near your surgical chart. He’s meticulous, he’s faster than I am in some areas, and he doesn't have the same emotional baggage. He’s going to be perfect."
"Then I trust him, too," you say, trying to force a small, watery smile. "And besides, if he messes up, I know you’ll hunt him down and ruin his career. I’ve seen how you and Lando treat him when he loses a bet. I’m in good hands."
Oscar finally looks at you, his eyes searching yours with such an intense, aching vulnerability that it makes you want to cry. He lifts your hand, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "I know he’s good. I know it with my head, logically, statistically. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that it’s not me. I’m terrified that if I’m not the one holding the instrument, if I’m not the one seeing the tissue, I won’t know if you’re safe until the moment you wake up. I need to be the one to ensure you’re still… you."
"I’ll still be me," you whisper, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. "I promise. We’re going to get through this, and then we’re going to go on that camping trip you wanted. We’re going to sleep for a week. We’re going to be boring and regular and absolutely nothing will be happening in a surgical theater."
"I just want you back," he murmurs, his voice cracking. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "I don't care about the surgery. I don't care about the success rates. I just want you to wake up and look at me and be you. I’m so scared, more than I’ve ever been in my life."
"I'm scared too," you admit, the truth finally coming out. You feel him shudder against you. "But we’re doing it together. Even if you’re not in the room, you’re going to be right there the second I open my eyes. That’s all that matters."
He holds you tighter, as if he can anchor you to the earth, to this specific moment, forever. He knows the risks, he knows the fragility of everything, and he knows that tomorrow morning, he has to hand you over to someone else. It’s a torture he can’t even begin to describe, a helplessness that cuts through all his medical training and leaves him as vulnerable as any of the patients he’s treated. But for now, here on the balcony, in the quiet, he just holds on, and you hold him back, both of you waiting for a morning that feels like a cliff edge you have to jump off, together.
— ✦
Hospital corridors are a blur of white and antiseptic, but you’re already being prepped, your mind starting to drift under the influence of the initial sedation. You catch one last glimpse of the three of them near the nurses' station—Oscar, George, and Lando. They’re huddled in a tight, frantic circle, completely ignoring the hustle of the floor around them.
Oscar has his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture rigid, shoulders hunched up to his ears. He isn’t talking like a colleague right now; he’s talking like a man whose heart is being held by a string.
"I know the protocol, I know the drill, I know the fucking anatomy," Oscar is saying, his voice tight and uneven. He looks at George, his eyes wide and bloodshot, desperate for a guarantee he knows he can't actually get. "But you have to watch the adhesion near the temporal lobe. It’s thinner than the imaging suggests. Please. You have to be careful with it. If you nick that, the bleed is—"
"Oscar," George says, stepping into his space, his hand firm on Oscar’s arm. "Breathe. I’ve seen the scans. I know the terrain. I’m not going to rush, and I’m not going to take any unnecessary risks. I’ve got her."
"And Lando," Oscar pivots, grabbing the front of Lando’s scrubs, his knuckles white. Lando, usually the one with a joke ready, just looks back with a grim, steady intensity. "Keep her stable. Don't let her pressure spike. If she starts to drift too deep, bring her back immediately. Please, Lando. You’re the best at this—just... just keep her here. Don't let her go anywhere."
Lando nods, his grip tightening on Oscar’s shoulder. "I’m not taking my eyes off the monitors, mate. I’ll keep her right where we need her. She’s not going anywhere on my watch, I promise."
Oscar lets out a ragged, choked sound—half-sob, half-breath—and he finally breaks. It’s not the composed, detached surgeon people expect; it’s just a guy, terrified and unraveling in front of his two best friends. He’s crying, openly, his shoulders shaking as he buries his face in his hands for a split second before forcing himself to look back at them.
"I can't lose her," he pleads, his voice cracking, stripped of all pride and authority. "Please. I’m begging you. Save her. If you save her... I owe you everything. Just... just bring her back to me."
George looks at Lando, a silent communication passing between them—a vow that goes beyond medicine, beyond career, and into the territory of brotherhood.
"We’re going to do exactly what we’ve done a hundred times before," George says, his voice low and rock-solid. "We’re going to be perfect, Oscar. Go wait for her. We’ll come find you the second we’re closed."
"You better," Oscar whispers, his voice trembling. "I’m going to be right outside that door. Do not make me come in there."
Lando gives Oscar a rough, grounding squeeze on the arm. "Go. Get out of here before you make us all lose our nerve. We’ve got this."
You see them move toward you then, their faces hardening back into the professional masks they wear to survive. Oscar lingers for a second, catching your eye as the gurney starts to move. He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes. He steps up, leaning over so he’s directly in your line of sight, his face inches from yours.
"I’ll be right here," he says, his voice barely a tremor. He reaches out, brushing his thumb across your cheek with a gentleness that hurts. "When you wake up, I’m the first thing you’re going to see. I love you."
"I love you too," you whisper, the sedative already pulling you down into the dark. "Don't be a hover-parent while I'm out."
He manages a weak, shaky smile, his eyes shining. "No promises."
He stands back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, watching until you disappear through the double doors of the OR. He doesn't move. He stands there in the silence of the empty hallway, a surgeon without a patient, a partner waiting for his other half, just staring at the wall where the lights have turned to "IN PROGRESS."
— ✦
Plastic chairs in the waiting area are the most uncomfortable invention known to man. Oscar sat in this room a thousand times as a visitor, a student, or a colleague popping in to deliver a chart, but sitting here now, waiting for you, feels like being skinned alive. Oscar stares at a faded poster on the wall detailing the stages of heart disease, his mind utterly incapable of processing the text. He’s spent years telling families that "no news is good news," but sitting in this chair, those words feel like an insult. Silence isn't absence of pain; it's a suffocating weight that pushes down on his chest.
His legs won't stay still. He stands, walks to the vending machine, buys a coffee he knows he won’t drink, stares at the humming mechanism, and then walks back to his seat. He’s lived in this world long enough to know exactly what’s happening on the other side of those double doors. He isn't just waiting; he’s hallucinating the surgery in real-time.
They’ve made the incision by now, he thinks, his eyes tracking a fly buzzing near a fluorescent light. They’re retracting the scalp. They’re burring the bone. They’re getting to the dura.
A sudden, sharp spike of guilt tears through him. Did he miss a subtle sign in your last check-up? Maybe there was a slight delay in your response time that he chalked up to your exhaustion. Maybe if he’d been more aggressive with the imaging three weeks ago, you wouldn't be under anesthesia right now. He knows the medical reality—complications like yours are statistically rare, impossible to predict, and entirely out of his hands—but his brain refuses to accept the math. He feels like a criminal who got away with a mistake that’s now being paid for in your blood.
"You need to sit down, Dr. Piastri," a nurse says, walking past him. He doesn't even realize he’s been pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged animal. He just mumbles an apology and sinks back into the chair, clutching his cold coffee cup.
His fears are spiraling into territory he’s never had to navigate before. It isn't just about survival—that’s the surface-level terror. The real nightmare is the aftermath. What if you wake up and the version of you that loves him is buried under a layer of deficit? What if the spark that made you tease him about his cooking or laugh at his obsession with watch repair is gone? He realizes with a sickening jolt that he isn't looking at a surgical procedure; he’s looking at the potential erasure of the person he’s tethered his life to.
"Twenty minutes," he mutters to himself. He checks his watch. It’s been forty minutes since the last update he imagined, and the gap is already feeling like a canyon.
Every time the heavy doors at the end of the hall hiss open, his heart performs a frantic, painful kick against his ribs. He looks up, hope and dread colliding, only to see a transport orderly or a janitor. Each time, the disappointment is almost physical, a lead weight dropping into his stomach.
He thinks about the hundreds of families he’s stood in front of, delivering updates with that practiced, calm professionalism. He’s always been proud of his ability to remain objective, to stay "the surgeon." Now, he feels like a fraud. He understands, with a sudden, brutal clarity, the look in their eyes—that wild, animalistic desperation that he used to find disruptive. He promises himself that if he ever gets through this, if he ever gets to walk back into an OR, he will never, ever be that detached again. He will touch their arms. He will look them in the eye. He will hold space for the madness they’re enduring.
"Where are they?" he whispers, his voice cracking. He pulls his phone out, then puts it away, then pulls it out again. No calls. No news.
He starts counting seconds, trying to distract himself from the vivid imagery of a retractor slipping or a vessel failing to clot. He hates that he knows the terminology. He hates that he knows the risks. Ignorance would be a mercy, but he has to suffer through every step of the procedure in his mind.
They should be at the lesion by now. He closes his eyes, trying to force his mind to be quiet, to be a surgeon, to be anything other than a man waiting for his life to either start again or end. He realizes, with a crushing sense of humility, that all his awards, all his specialized training, and all his status in the hospital mean absolutely nothing. He’s just a man in a waiting room, praying for a miracle, and for the first time in his career, he’s terrified that statistics don't give a damn about who you are. To the hospital, you’re a case. To him, you’re the only reason he feels like he’s actually living. And the thought of being in this room without you—of walking back into that apartment alone—is a void so dark he can’t even begin to look into it.
— ✦
Hours have bled into one another, turning the waiting room into a blur of sterile tile and flickering fluorescent hums. Oscar has long since stopped tracking the minutes. He’s just a statue of nerves, eyes glued to the double doors that feel like they’ve been sealed shut for a century.
When those doors finally hiss open, his heart does that familiar, painful lurch. George is walking toward him. He’s still in his scrubs, his hair matted from the surgical cap, but he’s wiped the worst of the blood off his forearms. Oscar stands up, but he can’t read a damn thing in George’s eyes. They’re tired, guarded, professional.
"George?" Oscar’s voice comes out as a ragged, desperate rasp. He can't even get the rest of the question out.
George stops a few feet away, letting out a long, heavy exhale that seems to deflate his entire frame. For a second, he just stares at Oscar, and Oscar feels like he’s about to pass out from the sheer weight of the anticipation. Then, George breaks into a faint, exhausted smile.
"She’s fine, Oscar," George says, the words simple and clean. "The operation was a total success. We got all the compression relieved, and the tissue looks exactly as we hoped it would."
The sound that leaves Oscar’s throat isn't even human; it’s a broken, shuddering gasp. The adrenaline that has been keeping him upright for the last twelve hours just evaporates, leaving nothing but hollow space in his chest. His knees give out—completely, unceremoniously—and he hits the plastic chair so hard it clatters against the floor.
"Is she..." Oscar starts, his hands shaking so violently he has to shove them between his knees to stop them. "Are you sure? Is she awake?"
"Lando’s still in there," George says, moving closer and placing a steadying hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "He’s doing the reversal now. He’s waking her up, getting the tube out—the standard protocol. He’s taking his time, making sure she’s comfortable before they move her into recovery. She’s stable, Oscar. She’s really okay."
"Thank God," Oscar whispers, his head dropping into his hands. He’s laughing and crying all at once, a messy, ugly, uncontrollable sound. "You're sure? No complications? No deficit?"
"She’s stable, Oscar," George repeats, his voice firm, grounding. "I know you’re a surgeon, but try to be a boyfriend for five minutes and listen to me. The surgery went well. She’s safe. Just... let Lando do his job, and in a little while, you’ll be able to see her."
Oscar nods, his breath coming in sharp, uneven hitches. He’s completely drained, his body feeling like it’s been put through a meat grinder. He can feel the tears tracks on his cheeks, cold and stinging, but he doesn't care. He just leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, feeling his heart rate finally start to settle back into a rhythm that isn't bordering on cardiac arrest.
"I need to see her," Oscar says, his voice still shaky. "I need to know it's her. That it's really her."
"You will," George promises, giving his shoulder a final, firm squeeze. "Go get some water, wash your face, and get yourself together. I’ll come get you when she’s in recovery. But for now? Just breathe, mate. You’re done."
Oscar nods, closing his eyes. He’s still terrified, he’s still exhausted, and he knows the recovery road is going to be long—but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the world isn't tilting. He’s here. You’re alive. And he’s going to be the first person you see when you open your eyes.
— ✦
Soft beeping of the monitors is the only thing anchoring you to reality. You feel heavy, like your limbs are made of lead, and every breath takes a conscious effort. Sunlight has long since faded from the room, replaced by the low, amber hum of the night-lights. You blink, your eyelashes sticking together, and struggle to focus on the figures hovering by the end of your bed.
Oscar is there. He’s slumped in a chair, his scrubs rumpled, his hair a total mess. He looks like he hasn't slept in a month, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s almost painful to witness. Behind him, standing tall and looking every bit the composed, clinical professional, is George. He’s holding your chart, checking the vitals on the wall monitor one last time before he gives a curt, satisfied nod.
Your brain is still half-submerged in the fog of anesthesia, but as the pieces start to lock back into place, a mischievous, albeit slightly delirious, thought bubbles up. You remember the last time you were in this exact position. You remember the post-op confusion, the weird, fuzzy warmth, and the way you had looked at Oscar and confidently declared him to be your boyfriend.
You see the way Oscar’s hands are shaking, how he’s leaning forward as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go of the bedrail. The guilt and the raw, unadulterated terror radiating off him are almost too much to bear. You want to fix it. You want to see that rigid, terrified set of his jaw finally break.
You let out a soft, breathy groan, shifting your gaze away from Oscar. You look directly at George, letting your eyes widen just a bit, playing the part of the beautifully confused patient.
"Hey," you whisper, your voice raspy and thin. You look at George, blinking slowly. "Who’s he?"
You tilt your head toward Oscar, who freezes. His entire body goes rigid, his face draining of what little color it had left.
George catches the flicker of a smile you’re trying to hide, and he doesn't miss a beat. He looks at you, then at the man beside him who looks like he’s about to have a full-blown cardiac event.
"Who, him?" George asks, his voice smooth and utterly serious. He taps the chart against his palm. "That’s just the resident, I think. Or maybe a guy who wandered in from the cafeteria. Why, do you know him?"
Oscar’s mouth drops open. "George—what? No! It’s me, it’s Oscar!" He turns to you, his eyes wide and bordering on manic. "Baby, it’s me. It’s Oscar. You’re... you’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. Tell me you recognize me."
You keep your face perfectly neutral, turning your head back to George. You reach out a trembling, IV-bruised hand, pointing a shaky finger at George. "Are you... are you my boyfriend?"
Oscar lets out a sound that’s half-gasp, half-sob, his hands fumbling as he tries to grab your shoulders, but he stops himself, terrified to hurt you. "George, tell her! Tell her I’m the one! Don't you dare play along with this, mate, I will end you!"
George looks at you, his lips twitching into that smug, aristocratic smirk he gets when he’s about to win a bet. He leans in, placing a hand on the bed rail, and looks at you with faux-adoration. "Well, I suppose I could be. I do like to think I’m quite the catch. But we’ve only just met, haven't we? Do you remember our anniversary?"
"George, I am going to kill you," Oscar hisses, his face turning a shade of red that rivals the exit signs. He looks like he’s caught between wanting to tackle George and needing to keep his hands off you to ensure you’re stable. "She’s post-op! Don't gaslight her! This isn't funny!"
You can’t hold it anymore. A bubble of genuine, wheezy laughter escapes your chest. It hurts your stitches, making you wince, but the sight of Oscar’s complete and utter breakdown is worth every second of it.
"Oh my god," you wheeze, laughing until your eyes water. "You should see your face, Oscar. You look like you’re about to call a code blue on yourself."
Oscar freezes. He stares at you, his breath hitching in his throat as the realization washes over him. He looks at George, who has already retreated to the doorway, suppressing a loud laugh of his own.
"You," Oscar breathes, his relief so profound he seems to physically sway. He leans his head against the edge of the mattress, his shoulders finally dropping as he lets out a long, ragged exhale. "You absolute menace. I thought... I thought you were serious. I thought the surgery had wiped everything."
"I’m still me," you say, your voice soft and tired now that the prank has run its course. You reach out, your hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer so you can rest your forehead against his. "Still me. Still remember you. And still stuck with you."
Oscar closes his eyes, pressing his face into the side of your neck, his hand coming up to gently, carefully cradle your head. "Don't ever do that again. I mean it. I’ve aged a decade in the last thirty seconds."
"Worth it?" you whisper.
He lifts his head, and the look in his eyes—the raw, unfiltered love mixed with the remnants of his terror—is enough to make you ache. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering there for a long time.
"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Worth it. Just... stay with me. Okay?"
"Always," you promise, closing your eyes and drifting back toward sleep, his warmth the only thing that matters in the quiet of the room.
