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✶ BROKEN RECORD

SUMMARY. You met Oscar when you were 14 and ever since you've been best friends. One night on a fire escape leads to a falling out, and you have to come to terms with that fact that you're in love with him.

INSPiRED BY: 'Homewrecker' — sombr.

PAiRiNG: oscar piastri x reader, childhood friends to lovers

WORD COUNT: 5.6k

CW: a little angst and a little humor, a little drop of blood, cheating & toxic relationship (not main pairing).

NOTE: this is my first fic i've published since middle school so i'm very nervous but i have been thinking about writing something based on this song for weeks. i know it's not perfect and there's probably a bunch of stuff wrong with the story or writing but who knows. this is proof-read. AND i made the banner in canva, so it looks a bit amateur. but, again, who cares? i do, because i'm a perfectionist.

Everybody knows Oscar is in love with you. His family, your family. His friends, your friends. Even people who pass you two in the street. Nobody knows you’re in love with him, too, not even you.

Everybody hates your boyfriend. An average guy you met on a dating app. He had perfectly average hair and perfectly average eyes. He even had the most perfectly average name, John. He was boring but a little funny, so you stayed even when he would be a little mean sometimes. He was handsome but a little conceited, so you stayed even when he entertained other girls at bars.

Oscar hates John. When he makes a joke and pats Oscar’s shoulder a little too hard. When John pulls you by your wrist a little too hard. When he can feel his eyes burning in the back of his head when you’re talking to him.

John knows that Oscar is in love with you. John hates Oscar.

After you first introduced them during a post-race party, John asked you, “How did you and Oscar meet?”

—— ✶ ——

When you were 14, your family decided to pack everything up in London and move to a small county town named Hertford. Your father got a job with some automotive software company and moved in order to work closely with the founder, Oscar’s father.

One day, there was an office luncheon picnic at a nearby park. You begged your father to let you stay home, but he argued that you needed the sunlight. You stayed close to him before he urged you to go grab some water from the cooler. You groaned and stomped away.

You hated grass. It made you itchy, so you had a quirk where you would tiptoe through it to avoid it touching your ankles. This, of course, seriously messed up your balance.

You hit a tree root and fall face-first onto the ground.

“Oh my gosh—Are you okay?”

You push yourself up with your arms, face covered in dirt and hair full of grass. You squint your eyes as they settle on a boy.

“That was a nasty tumble you took there. Did you hurt yourself?” His unfamiliar accent takes you by surprise.

You’ve never encountered a boy your age who was concerned about your well-being. This was uncharted territory, but the glint in his eyes and his scrunched eyebrows showed you that his worry was genuine.

“I think I’m okay… Didn’t hurt too bad.” You turn onto your butt and inspect your knees. There’s a little scrape on the right one, and both are covered in dirt and grass-stained. His eyes land on your knees, and his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and his mouth opens in a stutter.

“I– I’ll go get water and a Band-Aid.” He stands up and runs away before you can get out any protest, so you relax and wait for him to return.

Two minutes later, he sprints back with a water bottle in hand. His eyes dart from your face to your knees as he kneels beside you, handing you the bottle. You mutter a small ‘Thanks’ before opening the bottle and pouring the water over both of your hands and your knees. You know this purified water isn’t gonna completely clean and disinfect your wound, so you make a mental note to tell your mom when you get home.

The boy beside reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled Band-Aid. He takes the bottom of his shirt and pats your knee dry before unwrapping the bandage and placing it over your small wound. He smiles in content.

You let out a laugh at this. A boy you don’t know had just watched you fall flat on your face and helped you recover. You start to wonder if Hertford is an alternate universe where every teenage boy is actually the nicest and most caring person ever. Or maybe it was just this one.

“What’s your name?” You ask him.

“Oscar. What’s yours?” He sticks out his hand, you return the gesture and shake his hand.

“Y/N.”

—— ✶ ——

After that, you and Oscar were inseparable. You walked shoulder to shoulder in school. Everyone knew you came as a duo. You attended every karting race Oscar was in. Jumping and shouting in the stands with a giant sign you made with his name on it. Since your fathers worked together, you went everywhere he went.

When he got into Formula 4, you threw him a celebratory party. When he got a seat in Formula 3, you baked him a cake and smashed his face into it. When he got into Formula 2, you asked the local church choir to surprise him with a performance of ‘We Are The Champions’ by Queen. He acted like he hated it, but everyone (including you) could tell he secretly liked it.

When he got offered a seat as a reserve driver for Alpine in Formula 1, he didn’t tell you for two weeks in fear you would go bigger than the choir last year. In fact, he didn’t tell you at all. You found out when Hattie let it slip.

You were mid-drink in the Piastri’s kitchen. You had always wondered if spit-takes in movies were based on real reactions. You found out they were. Spitting your sparkling water all over the table and Oscar’s chest. Your eyes widen, and you wipe the dripping liquid from your chin as you stand up and speed-walk away. Oscar thought he had offended you by not telling you something that was such a big deal in his life. You two are best friends, and best friends don’t keep secrets from each other.

He doesn’t see you for two days.

He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at his wall, when he hears a knock on his door. Thinking it’s his mom, he mumbles permission to enter. His door creaks open, and he turns his head towards the sound.

His eyes land on you, and his jaw drops. You stand there with a giant smile on your face. Your hair lies on either side of your head, but instead of your normal color, you sport a bright blue and pink split-dye. The Alpine colors.

He lets out the heartiest laugh, and you laugh along with him.

You never dyed your hair again after that, letting the ugly faded blue and pink grow out for the years to come. The ends were blonde by the time he was offered his seat as a main driver in McLaren. You hug him and cry after he gets the call. He almost expects Bruce McLaren himself to walk through the door with your level of planning.

But you don’t surprise him with anything big or chaotic. During one of your many sleepovers, you make him cover his eyes as you lead him into your backyard. You tell him to open his eyes, and he does.

A picnic blanket lies in the middle of the grass with a couple of his favorite sandwiches on a plate, along with oranges and blueberries. McLaren colors. He smiles at that.

“Surprise!” You beam and tiptoe across the grass to the blanket, where you plop down and start unpeeling one of the oranges. The smile stays on his face, and he sits down across from you.

“No big celebration with a million people singing at me or impulse changes to your look?” He asks, still a little cautious.

You let out a laugh. “No, I thought I would make this one a little more personal and quiet since your life is about to blow up with screaming fans and roaring engines.”

You look at him to find he’s already looking back. His eyes are soft, but there’s something in them that you can’t name. It’s a fondness that no one else has ever extended towards you.

Oscar knows a confession is on the tip of his tongue, sitting on this blanket. He feels the love you have for each other, even if it feels a little different than his love for his other friends and his family. He’s starting to think that the way he feels about you isn’t normal for a friendship. He doesn’t notice the small things he likes about other people the way he does with you.

He doesn’t notice how other people’s eye color changes depending on whether the sun is out or not. Or the way other people’s faces crinkle around the eyes when they laugh. He doesn’t find other people’s tiny quirks, like tiptoeing in grass, as interesting.

You both know that you're not going to follow him everywhere anymore. You both are moving in different directions. He so badly wants you by his side every day, but he knows how unfair an ask that is. He wants to ask you to follow him, to travel with him around the world as he races the fastest drivers in the world. He wants you to be there when his days get hard.

He also wants to ask if you feel different about him than your other friends, too.

But, he doesn’t.

—— ✶ ——

When he picks up a call from you while he’s in his hotel room in China, he doesn’t expect you to tell him that you met someone named John. His face scrunches in jealousy. He lets you tell him about your first date, and a couple of weeks later, about your second and third dates.

He hates meeting him at a party after failing to get a podium at Silverstone. After all, he had just wanted to see you.

“So close, Buddy. Maybe you’ll get ‘em next time.” John laughs and pats Oscar’s shoulder a little too hard.

You text Oscar about everything John does that makes you angry and everything John does that makes you swoon.

How he buys you flowers, but only when you ask him about it.

How he talks to random girls at the bar for a little too long.

How he bought you coffee but got your order wrong.

Oscar reads each text over and over again, taking in every single word you type to him. Every time he considers telling you to break up with him. He knows you deserve more than that. He knows your favorite flower and your coffee order. He hasn’t thought about another girl since he saw the smile on your face while you watched that church choir sing Queen at him.

But he doesn’t.

—— ✶ ——

During summer break, he comes and visits you at your apartment in London.

You texted him your new address the second you moved in, and now he’s standing outside on the sidewalk as he presses the call button.

Ring… Ring… Ri— “Hello?”

“Uh, hey, I’m, uh, here.”

Click.

He pulls the phone away from his ear and checks the screen. You just hung up on him. Are you mad at him? Did you suddenly form a grudge against him, and now you’re mortal enemies?

…Was John there?

The front door swings open, and you run out enthusiastically, a giant grin on your face.

“Oscar!” You wrap your arms around his neck and squeeze like an anaconda.

After greetings, you lead him to the elevator where you ride up 4 floors, and walk him down a dingy hallway with an ugly yellow carpet.

You reach a door with a handmade paper sign with your name on it. “Here we are! Home sweet home,” you pause. “For me, not you. Well, for you for a week.”

Oscar steps in and is immediately taken by the smell. It smells like you, like your house in Hertford or your family’s rental in Melbourne. He closes his eyes and takes it in. With so much stress in his life and career, it’s been a while since he’s felt such a tidal wave of comfort.

You assess him while his eyes are closed. He looks more tan than the last time you saw him, his hair is longer, and the bags under his eyes are a little more pronounced, but not to the degree that anyone else but you would notice. The wrinkles between his eyebrows are deeper, too, like he spent the last year of his life furrowing his brows in concentration or frustration.

Your head tilts and shoulders relax as you realize his life moves so much faster than yours. He gets two breaks a year, and he chose to come to spend one of them with you.

He opens his eyes, and you straighten immediately.

He looks at you, taking you in. Your eye color look a bit darker than they were when you greeted him outside. The corners of his mouth turn up instinctively, like they were created to do so at the mere thought of you.

“You look tired,” you say matter-of-factly.

He lets out a small laugh before nodding.

This season has been rough but rewarding. Oscar is leading the driver’s championship so far. He’s been putting so much into his performance, and it’s paying off. Getting podiums in almost every race in the season so far, even getting the top step a few times.

“You should take a nap,” you place your hands on your hips, like you're scolding him. He wants to argue so he can spend more time with you, but he knows you’ll fight it, and he is pretty tired, so he agrees and is already passed out on your couch 5 minutes later.

You make coffee for yourself, a teaspoon of honey, and a splash of milk, and you sit at the dining table with your laptop to start typing away on a work project. You get sucked in and are only pulled away when a snore startles you an hour later. You turn your head towards the sleeping boy on your couch.

You’ve seen Oscar asleep more times than you can count, but something feels different. You watch the hand resting on his chest rise and fall as steady breaths sound with it. The front tuft of his hair is now deflated and rests lower on his forehead, almost covering his right eyebrow. You furrow your eyebrows as you focus on his cheeks. They look less full than you remember. The baby fat that you had gotten so used to is slipping away and being replaced by sharper features that make him look older.

A familiar feeling settles in your chest. It’s heavy, but it makes everything feel lighter. It was the feeling you got whenever you were around Oscar. It was a feeling you never got with anyone else. Not even John.

You think about your relationship with John a lot, arguing with yourself in your head about whether you really did love him or you stayed with him for some source of stability. You knew deep, deep down that if you were even questioning it, it was the latter. But you kept quiet. Ignoring every little tick that made you question your happiness. Away from your family, away from your best friend.

You lived in a dingy apartment in South London and cycled between work, home, and bars that John drags you to. You badly miss traveling the world to watch the Oscar race. Or maybe, you just missed Oscar. It feels unreal that he’s here, snoring on the couch you bought.

He sleeps for two more hours, enough time for the sun to set. You get little work done with everything swimming in your head. So, you resign to the creaky fire escape that sits outside your bedroom window. With your eyes closed, you listen to the cars passing by, the murmur of people walking on the sidewalk. Sounds that block out your thoughts.

The window slides open behind you, and Oscar climbs through. His confused face relaxes when his eyes find you.

“This looks like a scene straight out of a movie,” he jokes.

You let out a small laugh, trying to humour him. It’s a cold, empty laugh, but it's convincing enough that anyone would believe it. Except him.

He sits beside you, tucking his knees into his chest. “What’s wrong?”

That question immediately triggers tears in your eyes, like everything you have been shoving down has been suddenly and violently ripped out of your chest.

Like a magnet, his arms fly over your shoulders.

You take a deep breath, lifting both of you straighter. “Y/N.”

You lean away from him to look at his face.

“I think I hate my life.”

His eyebrows twitch down for a second. His eyes wander around your face, searching for a hint of sarcasm. Like, you’re playing a joke on him. He doesn’t find it funny. But, the longer he looks in your eyes, the more he realizes you’re serious.

“What?”

“I think hate it here, Oscar. I hate being away from my family, I hate my stupid apartment, and I think I hate my stupid boyfriend,” you hysterically laugh out. “God… I miss you. I miss when we were kids.”

He pulls you closer. He doesn’t say anything, an invitation to keep going, to let everything out.

“I think John sees other women,’ your voice is void of any emotion. Oscar can feel his heart break.

You were the same girl he saw trip on a tree root, the same girl he ran to get water and a band-aid for. He felt so helpless now. There wasn’t any amount of water or Band-Aids that could help you.

“And the thing is that I don’t care that much. I know I don’t love him, but it feels like he’s all I have,’ you sob.

“You know that’s not true, Y/N. You have me.”

A laugh escapes your throat. “You’re halfway across the world for the majority of the year. I don’t have you anymore, Oscar. No matter how much we want to have each other, it’s just not like that anymore.”

“Then, come with me,” he blurts out. Your eyes widen as you wiggle away from him to stand up. To get as much distance from him. He stands with you, trying to keep the closeness. “Come with me. You can travel the world with me, get away from here. You could be happy. You can leave John.”

You hold your breath. “I can’t just pack up everything I know. That wouldn’t fix all my problems.”

“You said you missed when we were kids, that you missed me. I miss you too, Y/N, please.”

You scoff, “You don’t understand, Oscar. I miss the freedom, the lack of stress and sadness that seems to be with me all the time now.” Your shoulders drop, and you turn your back to him, looking over the edge onto the street. Horns honk, and people drunkenly sing and laugh.

He’s standing still now, not pushing you any further. A calmness settles over you two.

“Leave him.” He says. His voice stern.

A breath hitches in your throat. You turn to face him, and he looks like he's about to cry or yell. You can’t quite tell which one. He shakes his head once like he’s trying to shake his emotions.

“What?”

“Leave John,” he reiterates. “He doesn’t deserve you. You deserve better than that. Someone who wholeheartedly loves you and only you.”

There’s something hidden beneath his eyes, something is on the tip of his tongue, but you cannot quite place it.

“Oscar, please. You don’t understa—”

“I love you,” it comes out quick, simple. He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s something he’s known forever, like it’s something he read in the stars one night.

“Oscar.”

“Y/N, I love you. There has never been anyone in my life that I have loved as much as you. I think about you all the time, before I race, before I go to sleep. I fell in love with you the second I saw you tiptoeing through the grass at that picnic. Every time I’m around you, there’s a weight in my chest because I don’t have you in the way I want, in the way I’ve wanted.”

You feel that very same weight in your chest. Your mind races, the devil on your shoulder convincing you that it’s the lingering sadness, the angel on your shoulder believing Oscar’s words, telling you that you feel the same way towards him.

It feels like minutes pass before he speaks again.

“I know I don’t understand, but I’m not asking you to come with me just so you can get away from here. I want you to come with me so we can be together,” he pauses. “Y/N, please, tell me you feel the same way. There’s no way—I… I can’t be alone in this.”

You think back on your life, trying to name a moment that has shifted your life so completely. You think about moving to Hertford when you were 14, tripping on a root and falling, only to get up and meet Oscar.

Now, you stand on a shitty fire escape, outside your shitty London apartment, surrounded by your shitty life. And he stands opposite you. His eyes pleading.

You stay silent. Your eyes fall to your feet.

The silence is so loud it makes you want to cover your ears. It feels like the city has stopped around you.

You don’t see his face, but you hear a sob escape his throat before creaky footsteps tell you that he’s leaving.

You close your eyes and feel a cold tear roll down your cheek. The horns continue honking and people continue talking below, you hear Oscar grab his bag and walk out the front door.

—— ✶ ——

Everything goes back to normal. Or, at least as normal as it could be. It feels like the world is spinning slower. You cycle between work, home, and going to bars with John. You stop watching races.

The bars John takes you to play football and rugby games, neither interest you. Though you always find yourself sitting at the bar alone, watching them while John is on the other side of the bar with his mates. You watch girls walk up and flirt out of the corner of your eye. A guilt-shaped weight fills your chest, but it’s unlike any feeling you’ve felt before, and it stays there.

For hours. For days. For weeks. For months.

Every day you think about what Oscar said to you on the fire escape. You never even stepped foot on it again after that night, but you stare at it through your bedroom window before you go to sleep each night.

At work, your mind wanders to him. Does he think about it as much as you do? You understand why he never calls anymore. You don't call either.

You think, and you think, and you think about what you could’ve said back to him.

He wanted you to go with him, not to just watch him race. He wants you to be with him, to love him.

You didn’t say anything back.

You think about John. You had John. Guilt washes over you whenever you think about Oscar around him. You know he can tell when you do. He moved into the apartment a couple of months ago and even took the side of the bed closest to the window with the fire escape.

You were especially clouded by those thoughts one day. You saw someone who looked vaguely like Oscar on the morning train, prompting many mistakes during your work day, which ended with your boss calling you into their office then sending you home an hour early.

On your way home, you tripped on the sidewalk on three separate occasions. So, you’re already on edge when you walk through the door to your and John’s apartment.

You set down your bag on the floor with a big thump, but two seconds later, there’s another one. You pause.

You hear another thump, and another one. You realize they’re rhythmic. Your jaw clenches in dread as you hear groaning.

You cross the hallway to the open door of the bedroom where John and a woman are.

“WHAT THE FUCK,” you scream. It feels like something takes over your body as your hand finds a nearby book and throws it at him. You scream, and scream while they both get half-dressed before running out the front door. You keep throwing whatever you can get your hands on, you only stop when one of your shoes hits the closed door.

Your knees give out, and you fall, letting out uneven breaths and sobs. You don’t feel the pain in your right knee until a couple of minutes pass. You maneuver to sit on your butt and look at your knee. There’s a tiny scrap on your right knee, and a small drop of blood lies on top.

Something inside you clicks. Just clicks. Like, the last piece of a hard puzzle that you spent your whole life putting together.

Oscar loves you. He stood in front of you and told you that, and you said nothing back.

You kicked yourself every day since then about not saying anything back, even if you still didn’t know what you would’ve said.

You thought about what he said about the feeling in his chest. About the weight.

You thought about the way his smile lines deepened when the church choir sang at him. Or the way he licked the frosting off his lips when you smashed his face into his F3 Cake. The sparkle in his eyes when he saw that you dyed your hair Alpine colors for him.

And you take a long time thinking about the furrow in his eyebrows when he carefully put a band-aid on your scraped knee that day in the park. You noticed every minuscule detail about Oscar, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t remember a single thing about John, even when you just chased him out the door five minutes ago.

You knew now that you loved Oscar, and you have loved Oscar ever since you were 14 years old.

—— ✶ ——

The McLaren garage buzzes with excitement around Oscar’s still body, headphones in his ears to block out the noise and the people around the hospitality whispering about him, about how much he changed after summer break last year.

His racing performance hit a low point during the second half of last season, and he stopped talking to anyone except when necessary.

Today was like any other race day, loud and busy. He loved race days more than any other day. He didn’t have time to think about anything other than the car.

People moved quickly around him. Everybody had things to do. They skirted and weaved around him as he stared at the stats screen. He saw Lando talking with the crew in the reflection of the TV. He turned his head around to look around the garage, he wanted to see if anyone had a smile on their face. Some did, and some didn’t. He wondered what everybody was going through, if the guy inspecting the front wing had ever lost something big in his life. Or if the celebrity getting a tour of the garage had gotten everything they ever wanted.

He sighed at his own thoughts. They were cheesy, he knew that. He knew he needed to get over it someday, but when he thinks about the top of your head when you were avoiding eye contact, he doesn’t know if he could ever truly get over it.

He starts to feel hot in his suit, so he takes out his headphones and walks out the back. The paddock was quieter, though still filled with bustling crowds. His mom and sisters were in the hospitality at the moment, he knew that, so he wanted to sit with them to cool down before the race.

He dodges people on the walkway before spotting the two-story orange building. He notices Hattie’s hair first, they’re sitting at a round outdoor table. His eyes fall on his mom and his three sisters, but another head sits with them and stops him in his tracks.

You’re there. Sitting next to Nicole, laughing at something Hattie said.

It’s like you can sense him with the way your eyes find him immediately. The smile drops from your face, and you stand up. Oscar’s mom and sisters turn their heads to look at him before quickly turning around and whispering at you. Hattie even pushes you away.

You stumble across the grass, and you look down at your feet. You’re wearing sandals, the grass is already itching your feet and ankles. So, you don’t bother tiptoeing to get to the sidewalk.

You look back up at him. He’s standing 50 feet away, wearing an unreadable expression.

You start to walk towards him, and he takes a hesitant step back.

The corners of his mouth turn down slightly, so slightly that it’s something only you would notice. So, you start walking faster. His eyebrows furrow, riddled with confusion.

You stop in front of him.

“Hi,” you start.

He doesn’t say anything back.

“I know what you’re thinking… Y/N, why are you here? I haven’t seen you in 6 months after we had an insane falling out where I confessed my feelings for you and you said nothing back, causing me to walk out and go no contact.’

You cringe at your babbling. You know you’re just nervous.

His eyebrows raise at your abrasiveness.

“Basically, I called your mom and asked her if it was okay if I flew in and attended the race with them because I think she loves me like a fourth daughter,” you pant. “And, I’m sorry for not calling, and I’m especially sorry for not saying anything back that day, and the reason I didn’t say anything back is that I didn’t know what I could’ve said. I kicked myself every day because of it.”

He raises his shoulders with a deep breath and looks around, seeing if anybody can hear what you’re saying. You don’t care if anyone hears.

“I’ll get to my point, I promise,” you point at him, getting his attention again. “ A few weeks ago, I found John in our bed with another woman.”

His eyes soften, and his shoulders relax.

“When I was kicking him out the door, I fell and scraped my knee. My right knee, the very same knee that you put a Band-Aid on all those years ago. I cried so much that day because I just found out my long-term boyfriend was cheating on me, and all I could think about was you.”

The look on his face makes you look down again, and a sudden rush of embarrassment falls over you.

His hand reaches out to your chin, pulling it up to make you look in his eyes.

“Y/N, why are you here?”

“I’m here because when I was sitting on my floor, crying over my scraped knee. I realized that I love you.”

You can hear his breath hitch, and his hand falls from your chin. Dread takes over your embarrassment. It’s been 6 months, and he’s probably moved on. He probably hates you.

But, everybody knows Oscar is in love with you, and has always been in love with you. His family sees it from 50 feet away, and the people passing you two in the paddock see it.

And everybody can see that you’re in love with Oscar, too.

“I think I’ve loved you since you watched me eat shit and went out of your way to help me, which was odd for a 14-year-old boy, by the way,” you snort. “And I want you to know how sorry I am for that whole thi—”

“Y/N, stop talking,” Oscar’s face breaks into a grin. His hand comes back up to your face, cupping your cheek. And he leans in.

You lean in too, like it’s instinct. Like, it’s something you knew you would be doing at some point since you were 14 years old. You just had wished you realized sooner.

His lips are so soft. The only thought your brain can process when your lips finally meet.

You hear a faint whoop and whistle from 50 feet away, probably Hattie.

You feel him smile, so you smile too.

He pulls away, and you try to follow, but he says, “I love you. So much.”

Your cheeks start to ache from how big your smile is.

“I’m sorry I took so long to realize I did too.” Your smile falters a bit. He shakes his head.

“It’s like that saying. Y’know? It’s not about the journey, it’s the destination.”

“I don’t think that’s the saying,” you laugh and pull him into another kiss.

The paddock buzzes around you, people sprint-walking towards the garages and fans gawking at their surroundings.

—— ✶ ——

When you were 14, your family decided to pack everything up and move to a small county town named Hertford. Your father had gotten a job with some automotive software company and moved in order to work closely with the founder.

One day, there was a luncheon picnic at a nearby park. You begged your father to let you stay home, but he argued that you needed the sunlight. You tiptoed through the grass, and with a faulty balance, you tripped on a tree root and fell face-first into the dirt, where you scraped your knee. Then, you met Oscar.

Years later, you watch Oscar on the top step in Melbourne, holding the first-place trophy and covered in champagne. He looks down at the crowd, looking for someone. You. Your eyes meet, and the corners of his mouth tug at each side.

You see him mouth ‘I love you,’ and he watches you mouth it right back.

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