Curated Chaos:

F1 // 81 ● 4 22 // fic recs

[vernonetics]

Getaway Car (To Avoid A Divorce) ! grid texts

in which you prank your husband!

content warnings. these are so much fun to make. suggestive humor. fake breakups. petty threats. mentions of divorce. dramatic reactions. repetitive. the white theme was too much for my tired eyes.

charles !

lewis !

lando !

oscar !

yuki !

max !

carlos !

alex !

[vitalverstappen]

Almost Ready - O. Piastri

summary: everyone sees it but them. one final summer left to admit the truth

pairing: camp counselor au Oscar Piastri x reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

word count: 8.6k

a/n: this fic was heavily inspired by @piastriprincess 's fic under pink light in june and you all should definitely go check it out! i've honestly started writing a few more camp related fics so look out for them!

You were eight years old when you first met Oscar. 

The first thing you noticed about him was that he didn’t talk much. Not in the shy way some kids did, looking down at their shoes and whispering hellos. No, this was different. He looked like someone who had decided, deliberately, that silence was better than saying something dumb. Like words were coins and he only wanted to spend them if it was absolutely necessary. 

The second thing you noticed was that he had the best snack. 

You were sitting on a patchy, sun-warmed picnic blanket near the lake with your cabin group, poking at a sad sandwich someone’s mom had labeled in Sharpie. It was leaking something suspicious onto the paper towel underneath, and honestly, you were already regretting not just asking for a second granola bar instead.

Camp was still new. The sky was bright and buzzing with dragonflies, and everything smelled like a weird mix of bug spray, pine needles, and that sunscreen that made your arms feel sticky no matter how long it had been since it dried. Somewhere behind you, a counselor was trying to convince a kid that late water “technically counted” as a bath. 

Your socks were already damp from stepping on the wrong part of the dock. Your knees itched from the grass. You felt out of place and overly noticeable and kind of homesick in a way you didn’t want to say out loud. 

And then you saw him.

Across the grass, maybe a few blankets over, a boy with sandy-blond hair and knees covered in bandaids sat alone, munching on what looked like… chocolate covered pretzels.

Your mouth kind of watered. 

You didn’t know his name yet. You didn’t know what cabin he was in, or if he was the kind of kid who got into trouble or got ignored. But he had that serious, quiet-kid look. The kind of kid that noticed things. His baseball hat was too big for his head and slipped low over his eyebrows. His socks were pulled up to his calves in a way that would’ve gotten him laughed at anywhere else, but there, it just made him look prepared. Like he got camp in a way you didn’t yet. 

So you scooted closer. 

Just a little. Not directly toward him - more like a slow diagonal shuffle, careful and half-hearted, like if you got caught, you could pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose.

But he noticed. Of course he did. 

His eyes flicked toward you - quick and sharp, the same way a bird looks up from a feeder when it senses movement. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched.

Then, finally, in a voice not much louder than a whisper:

“What,” he asked, without looking away, “are you doing?”

You froze mid-scoot.

“...Sitting.”

“Okay,” he said, and popped another pretzel in his mouth like that was the end of the conversation. 

You watched him crunch. He chewed like someone with opinions.

After a second: “That looks really good.”

“It is.”

You waited. He didn’t offer you one. 

“Are you gonna share?” 

Oscar looked at you like that was a very big ask. Like you’d just requested access to his medical records or the secret formula to chocolate milk.

Then, with the world’s tiniest sigh, he plucked a single chocolate pretzel from the bag - slowly, precisely - and held it out toward you like it was an ancient treasure he wasn’t sure you’d earned.

“You can have this one,” he said, “but not if you’re gross about it.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Like… if your hands are sticky. Or if you eat weird.”

You inspected your palms. “They’re clean. I think.”

He handed it over like he was passing along a relic.

You popped it in your mouth and immediately lit up. The chocolate was a little melty from teh sun, and the pretzel was perfectly salty and sweet and crunchy. “That’s so good.”

“I know. That’s why I said don’t be gross.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re kind of bossy.”

He shrugged like he got that a lot and didn’t care.

You sat beside him in silence for a while, both of you watching a pair of counselors try to stop a goose from stealing someone’s apple slices. The goose was winning. 

The sun warmed your back, and the sugar settled on your tongue like something safe. He didn’t talk. You didn’t either. But the quiet didn’t feel weird anymore.

Then, very softly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud:

“I’m Oscar.”

You glanced sideways. “I’m Y/N.”

There was a pause. You could hear kids laughing by the docks. Someone was singing off-key in the mess hall.

“... Wanna split the rest of the bag?” 

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded and scooted a little closer, careful not to touch his arm. But he didn’t move away when you did. 

And in the weird,unspoken, quietly magical way that kids sometimes become friends, that was it. 

From then on, when the counselors asked where you were, the answer was usually the same:

“With Oscar.”

And that’s how it would be for the rest of that summer. 

And the next one. 

And the one after that. 

Each June, you’d find him on the first day - same too big hat, same socks pulled up too high, same quiet smile he only ever gave you. It was like pressing play on something that had just been paused, like time didn’t really move during the months you spent apart. You’d pick up right where you left off: racing canoes, swapping dessert at lunch, inventing stories about the birds that nested in the rafters of the arts & crafts shed. 

He never said much. But you always knew where to find him. 

But in between the summers, during the long, boring school years, you lost touch. 

You’d think about him sometimes. Usually when something small reminded you - chocolate-covered pretzels in a vending machine, someone with a funny accent in a classroom, the way a friend sat in the grass like he used to. Those memories would pop up, sudden and specific, like sunlight through the clouds on a gray day. 

You’d wonder what his life looked like the other ten months of the year. What city he lived in. What subjects he liked. If he thought of you too. 

But mostly, you waited. 

And when summer came around again, you’d arrive at camp with that quiet, nervous feeling tucked in your chest - is he coming back? 

And every year, the answer was yes. 

======

At sixteen, the cabin looked a lot smaller. 

Not in a disappointing way - just in the way everything from childhood eventually does. As if your eyes had grown up faster than the space around you. You stood just outside the doorway, a clipboard tucked under your arm and a box of name tags dangling from your wrist, staring at the same crooked window you used to press your face up against when it rained. The glass was still cloudy in the corners. You remembered tracing little hearts in the fog of it with your fingertip.

The bunk beds looked the same - scuffed and creaky and slightly too close together. The bottom bunk on the far left still had a carved smiley face near the headboard, and someone wrapped friendship bracelets around one of the support poles, faded and fraying from summers long gone. The wooden beams still had those pencil markings from campers long gone: height measurements, initials, hearts carved around other initials. You spotted your own name faintly scratched near the window frame. 

And even though your shirt said Junior Counselor, it didn’t quite feel real yet. You felt like a kid playing dress-up in someone else’s summer. 

Then you heard him. That unmistakable soft shuffle of sneakers on gravel, the quiet sound of someone who didn’t stomp or run, who simply arrived. 

You turned, and there he was. 

Taller now, his frame stretched out like it had only just started figuring itself out. His shoulders broader. Hair longer, a little messier, sun touched at the tips.His navy camp baseball cap now fit perfectly, this time flipped backwards. His name badge was clipped neatly to his collar: Oscar P. 

Still the same no-nonsense stance, still the same calm in his eyes. Like the whole world could be buzzing and Oscar would just watch.

And when he saw you, his whole face shifted - just slightly. A soft half-smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. The same one he used to give you back when you were eight and dripping wet from falling in the lake, cold and embarrassed, and he’d handed you his towel without saying anything.

“I was hoping they’d put us on the same rotation,” he said. His voice had dropped since last summer. Not deep exactly, but lower, steadier. Still distinctly him. 

You grinned before you could stop yourself. “They said I’d have a co-counselor who ‘didn’t talk much but knew how to fold blankets.’ I figured it was you.”

He rolled his eyes. “I said that once.”

“Yeah. And then folded mine for the rest of the summer.”

He didn’t deny it. Just stepped forward and leaned casually against the porch railing beside you. The wood creaked under his weight, the way it always did. The breeze rustled through the trees, bringing with it the familiar smell of pine needles, sunscreen, and something vaguely burnt from the mess hall kitchen.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. 

It was like being ten again, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a sun-warmed rock near the dock, passing pretzels back and forth and pretending you weren’t thinking about the end of summer. Pretending nothing would ever change. 

“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could think too hard.

Oscar didn’t answer right away. His head tilted slightly. “Did you want me to?” 

You didn’t look at him, just shrugged, suddenly fascinated with the dirt curled in the grooves of the wooden floorboards. 

He stepped a little closer. 

Not close close. But close enough that his arms almost brushed yours. Enough that you could smell him - clean cotton and sun-warmed skin, with something faintly citrusy beneath it. Laundry detergent, maybe. Or shampoo. It made your head feel fizzy in the way feelings sometimes did before you had the words to name them. 

“I kept checking the cabin list,” he admitted quietly. “Thought maybe you’d decided not to come.”

“I always come back,” you said

“So do I.”

The words hung in the space between you - quiet, but not empty. It didn’t need to be said out loud. You both knew what it meant.  

Silence again. But not awkward, simply full. 

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled something out.

You blinked. “Is that-”

“Chocolate-covered pretzels,” he said, “First day tradition.”

You let out a laugh without meaning to. It came out too loud, and it echoed off the walls like a secret being let loose. 

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring any,” he teased and handed you the bag. 

The rest of the summer passed the way it always did - fast in the moment, slow in the memory. Sunburned days and firefly nights. You and Oscar fell back into your old rhythm so easily it scared you a little. It was like muscle memory, like a song you hadn’t heard in a year but still somehow knew all the words to. 

You still split snacks. Still walked side by side to the mess hall. Still found each other during free swim like gravity had its own opinion on where you belonged. 

But it was different now, too. 

You laughed longer when he said something dry and unexpected. He looked at you a beat too long when you weren’t watching. You noticed the shape of his hands - how they’d grown, how steady they looked. He stopped correcting you when you folded the life jackets wrong, even though he clearly noticed. 

Sometimes your shoulders touched when you walked, and neither of you moved away. 

There were moments- soft ones, barely there ones - when it felt like something might happen. A shared glance in the fading dusk, a lingering pause when he handed you your water bottle, the near-miss of a hug that didn’t quite happen at the end of a long day. All those almosts that buzzed under your skin long after you went to bed.

But nothing ever came of it. 

Not because you didn’t want to. 

Just… not yet. 

You hugged goodbye the way people do when they think they’ll see each other soon. It was quick, almost casual, your arms over his shoulders, his hands at your waist. Too short and too long at the same time. 

You didn’t make promises. 

He didn’t ask for your number. 

You didn’t ask for his. 

But you came back next summer.

And so did he. 

======

Over the years, your friendship became something quieter, deeper. 

Less about snacks and shared sunscreen and more about who you were turning into when no one was watching.

You stopped spending every second side by side, but somehow became even more important to each other. It wasn’t about lake games or flashlight tag anymore. It was midnight walks when you couldn’t sleep. Conversations on the mess hall roof during counselor curfew. The way his voice lowered when he asked “Are you okay?” and actually meant it.

You talked about the futures you were trying to figure out - half made plans and backup dreams. College majors. Cities that scared you. Jobs that didn’t exist yet but sounded good in theory. He told you how he didn’t like talking about feelings, but with you, it was easier. You told him how you worried about disappointing people. He told you he worried about never doing enough. 

You talked about your families. Your parents. What home felt like. What it didn’t.

The people you thought you were falling for - and the ones you knew you weren’t. About kisses that didn’t feel like anything, and moments that almost did.

You both dated other people. Sometimes briefly, sometimes not.

Camp flings. School-year maybes. People who made you laugh, people who looked good in photos. 

But not him. 

You didn’t talk about it much, not in detail. Neither of you ever asked for names, never wanted them. But sometimes he’d go quiet when you mentioned someone. His jaw would shift, eyes focused on something just past your shoulder. And sometimes, when the cabin was too quiet and the air was too warm, you’d lie awake wondering if he was thinking about someone else. If another girl had sat beside him in a different kind of silence. If she knew about the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek when he was nervous. If she ever made him laugh that quiet, breathless laugh he only let out when he really meant it.

Still, every summer, you found each other. 

In the clearing behind the mess hall. In the pause before dinner. On the corner of the dock where the sun hit just right and no one else ever sat. You’d pick up like nothing had changed, even if everything had. You knew his favorite hoodie. He knew when you needed space. You could read his moods from across the firepit, and he could find your laugh in a crowd of twenty voices.

And every summer, you left without saying the one thing that had begun to burn quietly in both of you: It’s always been you. 

The words waited at the back of your throat like a secret. Like a truth too delicate to say out loud. Like something sacred you weren’t ready to ruin. 

So you’d hug goodbye, tight but brief. You’d tell yourselves there would be time. 

Next year. Next summer. When you were older. When you felt safer. When maybe, just maybe, he’d say it first. 

But he never did. 

And neither did you. 

======

You didn’t mean for it to be your last. But you knew it was. 

At twenty three, real life had gotten louder - jobs with titles you didn’t quite understand yet, cities with rent you couldn’t quite afford, commutes and deadlines and alarm clocks that didn’t smell like pine or damp earth. The world outside of camp had started calling you by your full name. Expecting things from you. Urging you to move forward.

You’d aged out of counselor cabins and color wars and group chants screamed across the lake. Your bunk had been replaced by a full-sized mattress in a sublet apartment with too thin walls. You drank coffee now. You packed Advil in your bag. The idea of chasing fifteen eight-year-olds through the woods made your back hurt a little just thinking about it. 

You were only back this year because the camp director had begged. One more summer she’d said over the phone. Help train the new kids. Make it special. 

You said yes. You weren’t even sure why.

Until you got there. 

Until you heard a voice behind you say, soft and familiar: 

“Same shoes.”

You stopped mid-step, duffel swinging lightly against your hip. The sky above the staff cabins was clear, hot, a shade of blue that only existed in June. You turned.

And there he was.

Oscar.

He looked different, but only slightly. Like someone who’d just finished becoming whoever he was always meant to be. His features were more defined now, jaw a little sharper, stubble ghosting his chin just slightly. His camp t-shirt clung to a frame that had filled out over the years - subtly, quietly, like everything else about him. His hat was still backwards. His hands were still in his pockets. 

He was older. Sharper. And still, unmistakably him. 

That same quiet certainty behind his eyes. The same stillness in the way he stood. That same crooked half-smile pulling at his mouth, only for you. 

And just like that, your lungs gave in. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for months. 

He didn’t move. Neither did you. 

“Hi,” you managed, voice already softer than it had been all morning.

“Hi,” he said back, like no time had passed. Like this was normal.

And somehow, it was. 

You stepped toward each other. He held out his hand - not for a handshake, but to take your bag. You let him, even though you didn’t need the help. He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like you did when you were sixteen and he carried your art supplies up the cabin steps without asking.

“I didn’t know if you’d be back,” he said, watching you from the side. 

“I didn’t know if you would,”  you said. “Figured maybe you finally aged out of camp traditions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean like bringing pretzels on the first day?”

You laughed - quiet and surprised and involuntary. It spilled out of you like something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time. The sound of it made his smile deepen. 

You looked at him. Really looked. 

Maybe this was the summer you were going to say it. 

======

The mess hall was already too hot by 9 a.m.

A box fan rattled in the corner, groaning against its own effort, blowing warm air over a pile of unclaimed name tags. The smell of instant coffee and last night’s spaghetti lingered in the wood-paneled walls. Outside, the sky was an uninterrupted blue, the kind that promised bug bites and sunburns. 

Inside, ten brand-new junior counselors sat on mismatched benches, all elbows and nerves, sipping lukewarm iced coffee out of paper cups and pretending not to be intimidated. Most were fresh out of high school or in that dazed post-first-year-of-university fog. A few had already started sweating through their t-shirts.

You stood at the front of the room, clipboard in one hand, camp whistle looped around your wrist like a bracelet. Your name tag - handwritten, glitter-stickered, slightly peeling - clung to your shirt with the stubborn pride of someone who had absolutely seen things.

Oscar stood beside you. 

He hadn’t said much yet - he never did, not unless it mattered - but he was flipping through a laminated emergency protocol packet like it personally offended him. His name tag read:

Oscar - Senior Staff. 

All block caps. Clean, precise. No stickers. 

The difference between the two of you was… obvious to say the least. But no one could ever argue you didn’t work well together. 

“Okay,” you said brightly, clapping your hands together once. The sound echoed across the exposed raptors. “Let’s talk about cabin dynamics.”

A few groans rumbled through the group, low and reluctant. One girl tilted her head back and dramatically whispered, “Help me.” 

Oscar didn’t even look up from the protocol guide. “If you complain now,” he said, flat and dry, “you won’t survive the third graders’ tie-dye day.”

A couple of them laughed - nervous, uncertain, the kind of laugh that asked was that a joke? You glanced sideways at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Starting with a threat?” you murmured under your breath.

“Setting expectations,” he replied, not bothering to whisper. 

You bit back a smile.

You turned toward the whiteboard and uncapped a marker. “You’re going to live with these kids for ten weeks. They will cry. They will spill applesauce on your bed. One of them will probably try to smuggle a frog into the mess hall. The good news is: you get used to it.”

“The bad news is,” Oscar added, flipping a page with a snap, “you still have to clean up the applesauce.”

More laughter now. Slightly easier. You caught a few of them exchanging relieved looks.

You turned toward the whiteboard and started scribbling down a few bullet points: Routine. Respect. Rain plans. Each in big, bold letters.

Behind you, Oscar began handing out the cabin charts - color-coded, organized, and predictably immaculate His handwriting was still all-caps, neat to the point of intimidation. You wondered - not for the first time - if he’d ever been the kind of kid who used a ruler to underline things in notebooks.  

“Uh, question?” a voice piped up near the back. 

You turned. 

A new counselor - Jaden, you thought, skinny and sunburnt already - raised a hand tentatively.

“What if the campers don’t like us?” he asked, genuine concern in his eyes. “Like, what if they think we’re… lame?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “They will.”

You turned to stare at him. “Oscar.”

He shrugged, facing the kid. “At first. They always think you’re lame. Then one of them cries during lights-out, you sing them off-key lullabies, and suddenly you’re their hero.”

You shot him a side-glance. “You sing lullabies?”

He didn’t look away from the chart. “Once. By accident.”

You snorted and turned back to the group. “What Oscar’s trying to say is: they come around. Just be patient. Be present. And don’t lie to them - kids can smell fake nice like it’s blood in the water.”

They laughed again - louder this time. You could see them loosening up, tension slipping off their shoulders as the room warmed in the right way. 

A girl with pink sunglasses pushed up on her head - Ava, - raised her hand next. “How do you guys, like… know all of this? You seem really calm.”

Oscar leaned back against the table beside you, arms crossed, letting the question hand for a second.

You answered first. “We’ve been here since we were kids. Climbed the ranks. Went from campers, to junior counselors terrified of canoe duty, to now senior campers.”

Oscar added, “And we’ve made every mistake you’re about to make. Twice.”

That got a solid laugh, and someone clapped, ironically. The energy shifted. Less formal now, more like a team starting to take shape

You turned toward Oscar and caught it - just for a second - his eyes already on you, like he was waiting to see if you’d say more. You didn’t. Not yet. 

But your smile softened. And his did too.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re being nice.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

He shook his head, but didn’t deny it. 

You turned back to the group and clapped again. “Alright. Time for a trust walk. Pair up, someone gets blindfolded, and no, we’re not liable if you fall in a ditch.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Is there a ditch?”

“There might be,” you said cheerfully, tossing him a bandana.

He caught it one handed. “Rock paper scissors to see who leads?”

You grinned. “You’re not blindfolding me, Piastri.”

“Then I guess I’m trusting you to not walk me into a tree.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You walked out together, side by side, just like you used to.

And the new counselors followed. Not because you told them to. But because together, without ever trying, everyone thought you were the people who knew that you were doing.

Even if you were still just figuring it out. Even if neither of you had said what you really wanted to. 

The lake shimmered under the afternoon sun, soft waves lapping at the wooden dock like it was exhaling. Dragonflies flitted lazily across the surface, occasionally dipping low enough to skin the water, then zipping up again. Somewhere behind you, cicadas buzzed in the trees, a low electric hum that filled the stillness.

You sat in the tall white lifeguard chair, sunglasses perched on your head, whistle resting between your lips, and a bottle of blue Gatorade sweating by your ankle. Your feet were bare, propped on the lowest rung, toes already dusty with sand. 

It was midweek, and the swim zone was empty - for now. Just you, the heat, and the occasional creak of the dock shifting under the sun. 

Your clipboard was balanced on one of the arms of the chair, weighted down by a clothespin and a crumpled receipt being used as a bookmark. It was filled with cabin swim rosters, band color notes (a very serious system of shallow, middle, deep end), and a scribbled reminder to find someone to patch the kickboards before the next round of kids turned them into medieval weapons again. 

You exhaled slowly, closed your eyes, and tilted your head back. The sun warmed your shoulders, your collarbones, the bridge of your nose. This was the best part of the day: the quiet before the cannonballs.

Then - 

“Please walk.”

The voice was familiar. Steady. Slightly annoyed.

Your eyes opened. There he was, half chasing his cabin group down the hill toward the lake like a reluctant sheepdog. Oscar had one hand wrapped around a stray pool noodle and the other gripping the back of a camper’s shirt who was dangerously close to face planting. 

You watched them make their way towards the changing stalls, the kids shouting over each other about who could swim faster, who was gonna do a triple flip off the dock (they weren’t_, and who saw a fish the size of a shark yesterday (they didn’t).

“And here comes the chaos,” you muttered to yourself.

He heard it anyway. “This is the refined version of chaos,” he said, releasing the kid and sending him toward the changing stalls. “You should’ve seen snack time.”

You leaned an elbow on the side of your chair and smirked down at him. “Someone cried again?”

“Two of them,” he said, flipping off his sneakers and kicking them towards the bench. “One over a broken granola bar. The other because his was too perfect, and he didn’t wanna ruin it by eating it.”

You snorted. “That’s camp philosophy right there.”

Oscar shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up at you. “You’ve got sunscreen on your nose.”

You rubbed it instinctively. 

“No,” he added, and you caught the edge of a smile, “I mean you did a good job. Usually you forget it.”

You rolled your eyes but your lips tugged upward anyway. “You gonna swim or just pace dramatically on the shore?”

“I’m supervising,” he said, pulling off his shirt and tossing it over the bench. You’ve seen him a thousand times before, but your eyes couldn’t help but linger. “But if someone starts fake drowning again, I’m going in.”

You raised your eyebrows. “That one kid yesterday deserved an Oscar.”

Oscar deadpanned, “He had my name.”

“Don’t hold it against him.”

The campers began trickling into the water, a few of them shrieking at the initial cold before dunking under, splashing one with another with wide, clumsy arcs. You counted heads out of habit, tracking colored wristbands, mentally noting who needed to be watched near the ropes and who’d already made a beeline for the floating platform. 

Oscar sat on the bottom step of your lifeguard stand, forearms resting on his knees, his bare feet digging into the warm, grainy sand. He didn’t speak right away, just watched his cabin with a kind of focus that had always made him a good counselor - steady, patient, present. 

“You’re good at this,” you said softly, not even sure if you meant for him to hear it.

“I’m tired,” he replied, glancing up. “Is that the same thing?”

You shrugged. “Sometimes.”

A pause. Then:

“You’ve always been good at this,” he said. “The way you just… know what they need before they even do. It’s like magic or something.”

You looked down at him, caught off guard. The way he said it wasn’t teasing - it was earnest. Quiet. 

“It’s not magic,” you said, your voice a little hoarse. “I’ve just been here a long time.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, without looking at you: “Yeah. But you care. That’s the difference.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t.

You just watched a camper try to climb onto the floating dock, fall off twice, and then get boosted by two friends, triumphant like he’d summited Everest. 

“Thanks,” you said, finally. 

Oscar nodded. “Anytime.”

The sun glinted off the lake like shattered glass. Your knee, bent against the frame of the stand, brushed gently against his shoulder. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

The whistle stayed silent. No one was drowning. No one was crying. 

But somehow, it still felt like your heart was treading water - just waiting, waiting, waiting to touch solid ground.

It wasn’t camp unless there was a critter found somewhere. 

Sometimes it was a raccoon in the dumpster. Once it was a squirrel in the arts & crafts cabin. And one year, someone swore a possum had tried to climb into their sleeping bag. 

And like most times, it started with a scream. 

A sharp, glass-shattering one that cut across the quiet of the evening like a knife through marshmallow fluff. You were halfway through brushing your teeth at the outdoor sink when it happened - spit and mint foam still in your mouth - when the sound rippled across camp. Your toothbrush froze mid-brush.

Then came a second scream. Louder. Somehow wetter. You didn’t know how a scream could be wet, but it was.

You spat, jammed your toothbrush back in its case, and turned just in time to see the bathroom door slam open. Two campers bolted out like they were being chased by a ghost. 

“THERE’S A BAT!” one of them cried, arms flailing. “IT’S IN THE SHOWER STALL. IT’S LOOKING AT ME.”

You blinked. 

Before you could ask anything else, Oscar was suddenly at your side like he’d teleported there. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, and holding a half-eaten granola bar like it might help.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice calm but alert.

You pointed at the door. “Apparently, Dracula’s moved in.”

Another scream echoed inside - this one more dramatic, echoing off tile.

Oscar sighed, already rolling up the sleeves of his crewneck. “Okay. I’ll handle it.”

You grabbed his arm. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not going in there alone.”

“I’ve got a towel,”

“That’s not a shield.”

“It is if you believe in it.”

“You’re going to get rabies.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “Not if I duck.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Still, when he stepped forward, you followed him. Of course you did.

The air inside was warm and damp, thick with that distinctive camp-bathroom mix of humidity, faint mildew, and watermelon shampoo. The lights flickered like they were trying to create mood lighting for a horror film. The scent of fear - kid shampoo, wet flip-flops, and adrenaline - clung to the walls. 

Near the showers, someone had knocked over an entire shelf of toiletries. Conditioner bottles were strewn like casualties across the floor. A towel was draped dramatically across the floor like someone had used it to defend themselves and failed. 

Silence loomed over, tension thick in the air. 

And then - fluttering. 

You both froze. 

It came from above. From somewhere behind a warped ceiling tile near the corner light fixture, something small and winged squeaked once, then again. 

“There it is,” you whispered, squinting upward. 

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He raised the towel like a net. “Alright. We’ll trap it. Then we let it go. No panic.”

“No panic,” you repeated, heartbeat clearly disagreeing.

Another flutter. It was getting ready. 

“Okay,” he said, positioning himself below the ceiling corner. “On three. One. Two…”

He didn’t get to three. 

What followed was nothing short of a disaster film in fast-forward: wings flapping in manic loops, the bat doing aerial acrobatics, your scream bouncing off the tile, Oscar swearing, the towel flying, you flying (backwards into a sink), and the bat careening once, twice, before shooting out through the cracked window with one final screech like it was late for a party. 

Silence.

You and Oscar stood panting, eyes wide, surrounded by fallen toiletries and questionable dignity. Your shoulder was pressed tight to his arm. His hoodie had slipped halfway off. You were both breathing like you’d just run a mile. 

“I think,” you said between gulps of air, “I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair. “Mine said, you’re gonna die in a camp bathroom.”

You started laughing, real laughing. Bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath, shoulders shaking. He looked over, eyes crinkling at the corners. And for a second, it was quiet again. 

“Thanks,” you said finally. “For not letting me get attacked alone.”

He shrugged, but softer this time. “Always.”

Then, from the hallway:

“DID YOU KILL IT?!”

“CAN WE NAME IT?!”

“CAN WE KEEP IT AS A MASCOT?!”

You both groaned at the same time. 

Oscar gave you a side-glance. “If you tell them it laid eggs in the shampoo bottles, they’ll never step in here again.”

You smirked “You’re a menace.”

“But a helpful one.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “That was worse than the squirrel-in-the-arts-cabin year.”

“Still not as bad as glitter day,” he muttered

The bat was gone. 

But for the rest of the summer, that night was ingrained in your campers heads. Legendary. Mythical. Immortalized in popsicle stick retellings and glitter-glued reenactments. 

It started innocently during arts and crafts. 

The sky outside was a heavy, pewter gray, thick with the kind of rain that hadn’t fallen yet, but was waiting, smug, somewhere above the pine trees. Camp was on rain schedule, which meant a hundred damp-footed, sugar-laced children were now crammed into the rec hall for the past hour and a half making lopsided friendship bracelets and glitter-glued name signs that would absolutely not survive the summer. 

Oscar sat at one of the long tables, hunched over a piece of cardboard and a pile of googly eyes. He wasn’t crafting so much as supervising, but someone had handed him a glue bottle and now he was very seriously assembling a bat out of pipe cleaners, complete with glitter fangs.

You were perched on the opposite edge of the table across from him, one knee tucked under you, snipping pieces of yarn for a friendship bracelet for a camper. 

A lull settled across the room, punctuated only by the sound of scissors and low-level supply disputes. 

Then, from the far side of the table, came a voice.

“Miss Y/N,” a voice piped up beside you. It was Sophie, one of the louder, bolder girls from your lake group. Her pigtails were lopsided and her arms were glittery. “Are you and Oscar in love?”

You choked on air. “What?”

Across the room, someone dropped a popsicle stick. Chairs squeaked. Heads turned like it was a courtroom drama. 

Sophie didn’t back down. “You always sit next to each other.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re in love,” you said, trying for neutral, cool. The effect was… questionable.

“But you laugh at his jokes even when they’re not funny,” a boy chimed in from the next table over. 

“And he gave you his last Cheez-It yesterday,” another added solemnly, like that was definitive proof of eternal devotion. 

You shot a glance at Oscar. He hadn’t looked up from his craft yet.

“Technically,” he began, holding up the bat to inspect it, “it was my second to last Cheez-It.”

That. Did. Not. Help. 

“SEE?” Sophie crowed, practically leaping onto her bench. “He remembers! That means he cares! He’s in looooveeee” 

Oscar finally looked at you. Raised one eyebrow, lips twitching like he was seconds from breaking.

You, however, were going down swinging. “You guys are wild. People can care about each other and not be in love, you know.”

One of the ten year olds across the room cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone: “YOU GUYS TOTALLY LIKE EACH OTHER.”

Oscar leaned back on his bench and sighed dramatically. “This is what I get for participating in bat-themed crafts.”

“Miss Y/N!” Sophie tugged your sleeve, starry eyed. “If you do get married, can I be a flower girl? I have a sparkly dress already.”

You shook your head “We are not getting married.”

“But if you did!” She insisted, now practically vibrating with excitement, “would there be cupcakes? And a petting zoo?”

Oscar set his glue bottle down and said, deadpan, “Only if I get to ride into the ceremony on a canoe.”

That broke the dam. The entire table burst into delighted chaos.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m deeply uncomfortable,” he replied dryly. “But the image of a wedding canoe has potential.”

The kids started chiming in again, overlapping:

“Can we decorate it with streamers?”

“You have to have s’mores at the reception!”

“What if the bat comes back and officiates the wedding!?”

You buried your face with your hands. 

Oscar nudged your knee under the table. 

When you peeked through your fingers, he was looking at you with that same soft expression he always wore when he thought no one else was watching. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Just for you. 

“You know,” he said, “I would trust you to pick the playlist.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m going to drown you in the lake.”

He grinned. “How romantic.”

And then - “SEE?! FLIRTING!” came the high pitched wail of confirmation from behind a mountain of yarn.

You groaned, but despite that, you were smiling. 

The rain began to fall soon after. Soft at first, drumming on the tin roof like applause from the universe itself. The kids went back to their crafts, now glancing between the two of you with renewed suspicion and barely contained glee. 

Oscar reached over and placed his completed bat in front of you. It had a lopsided smile and crooked wings. One googly eye was already sliding off. 

“For you,” he said, mock-serious.

You stared at it. “This is hideous.”

“It’s symbolic,” he replied, straight faced.

You snorted. “Of what?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Emotional dysfunction.”

And from across the table, a chorus of giggles rose up again. 

They didn’t need to know the truth. That your hands brushed under the table. That you hadn’t stopped thinking about the way he looked at you during free swim. That maybe they were more right than you were willing to admit. 

You tapped the bat’s head, glanced at him sideways, and said, “Fine. But if we get married, we’re not naming our first kid ‘Cheez-It.’”

Oscar didn’t even blink. “Middle name. Compromise.”

And somewhere behind you, another kid whispered. “This is better than a soap opera” 

You should’ve known something was up the moment your campers offered - completely unprompted - to “take over swim check in,” armed with clipboards, dramatic salutes, and suspiciously wide eyes.

“Go take a break, Miss Y/N,” Sophie said, blinking innocently, standing a little too perfectly between you and the path up to the cabins. “You’ve done so much. We’ve got this.”

That alone was suspicious. Sophie once fake-cried for ten minutes to get out of rest hour. And now she was volunteering for extra responsibility?

But before you could question it, she was already corralling the younger kids, her voice unusually commanding. “Line up alphabetically by how cool your swim bands are!” she declared.

Your eyebrows furrowed. “That’s not how alphabet-” 

Too late. A distraction had been launched. 

Five minutes later, Sophie came bounding back, glitter streaked across her cheek like war paint and a folded piece of paper clutched in her hand like it was a top-secret message. 

“For you,” she said, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. “Step one.”

You raised an eyebrow but unfolded it anyway.

CLUE #1:

Where the bat once flew and shampoo bottles died,

A clue awaits, if you dare go inside 

(P.S. It’s not back…probably)

You stared. “Is this a scavenger hunt?” 

From halfway up the hill, Sophie turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “OPERATION CANOE WEDDING IS A GO.”

“Operation what?!”

But she was already gone

You looked at the paper again, then sighed. Of course they started with the bat bathroom.

Inside the girls’ showers, the light flickered in that same ominous way it always did, like the building was haunted by the ghost of shaving cream past. The tiles were still chipped from that one epic prank war, and a suspiciously large spider occupied the upper corner like it paid rent. But there, taped to the mirror with a concerning amount of glitter glue, was the next note. 

CLUE #2:

You watch the waves, you guard the shore

But maybe love has something more?

Go where you sit to count the heads,

And maybe think about what’s left unsaid.

(Omg that was deep)

You snorted and muttered, “You dramatic little gremlins.”

It kept going. Notes slipped under doors. Hints chalked in bubble letters along the path. A lopsided origami heart wedged between canoe paddles. One kid handed you a paper flower and said, “For your emotional growth,” before vanishing behind the gear shed

You found Oscar sitting beneath the tree by the firepit, a clue resting in his lap like it had personally offended him. 

He looked up when you approached, brows raised. “ Let me guess. You got roped into this too?”

You held up your own collection of glittery rhymes. “Apparently we’re soulmates and they’ve decided to force fate’s hand.”

He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “They made me solve a riddle in order to unlock the ‘next phase of my heart journey.’”

“They made me dig under the paddleboards. I got a splinter”

You both stood there for a second, then fell into step without thinking, like always. Same path. Same rhythm. Comfortable silence broken only by the chirp of cicadas and the occasional far-off shriek from what was probably a pillow fight going rogue.  

The final note had been taped to the dock’s railing, sealed with an alarming amount of heart-shaped stickers. 

FINAL CLUE: 

You’ve reached the end. Now take a seat,

He’s waiting for you (and your heart’s skipped a beat).

No pressure or anything. 

(P.S. WE KNOW!!)

You sat beside him, legs swinging over the water, shoes kicked off. The sun had started its descent, casting long golden streaks across the lake. The world narrowed down to the creak of the dock and the way his pinky nearly brushed yours.

“They’re really committed,” you said after a while. 

“Too committed,” Oscar replied, exhaling slowly. “I think Sophie threatened someone into drawing a map.”

You laughed softly. “I feel like I’m on some weird rom-com TV show and the campers are the writers.”

“Terrifying thought.”

Then, quieter: “Do you think they actually believe it?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He leaned back on his hands, watching the sun dip behind the tree line. 

“I think…” he said eventually, “kids see things we’re too scared to say.”

It landed between you like a stone in still water. 

You turned your head. His profile was golden with the last of the light, his jaw tight like he was trying to keep something in. 

“But it’s just a joke. Right?” He asked, not quite looking at you.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Obviously. It’s… camp drama. They’re bored.”

“Right.” His voice was soft. Neutral. Careful. “It’s nothing.”

“Exactly.”

You both stared out at the water. 

The moment stretched. The lake lapped gently below. Your foot dipped in, just barely, and set soft ripples outward. But neither of you moved. Not really.

Because it wasn’t nothing. 

Not even close.

You cleared your throat. “I should… probably get back. Before they start assigning roles in the fake wedding.”

Oscar stood first, brushing his hands off on his shorts. “For the record, I’m not wearing a flower crown.”

“You’d look good in one.”

He paused, looked down at you, that unreadable half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“So would you.”

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was the closet either of you could get.

You stood and walked back beside him. Not touching. Not talking. But the space between your shoulders hummed with everything that hadn’t been said. 

And behind you, in the shadows of the trees, you knew your cabins were watching - waiting, whispering.

But you didn’t turn around. 

You weren’t ready. 

Not yet. 

The fire cracked and popped like it had secrets to tell.

It was the last night of camp. The kind that didn’ feel real until you were already halfway through it - the air heavy with smoke and memory, the faint echo of a summer’s worth of inside jokes still lingering between the trees. The kids were finally asleep - tired from crying during cabin goodbyes, from trading lanyards like currency, from trying to memorize phone numbers they’d never actually call. 

The counselors lingered in the firelight, a scattered collection of silhouettes and worn sweatshirts, clutching mismatched mugs filled with lukewarm cocoa and the ache of endings. Someone strummed a familiar song on the guitar, the chords slightly off, but no one cared. Someone else lit a sparkler and traced a heart in the air. And someone retold the story about the raccoon that once stole an entire box of graham crackers and disappeared like a ghost into the woods.

You sat on a fallen log, knees pulled up to your chest, hoodie still warm from a last-minute run to the laundry cabin. Your eyes tracked the sparks curling toward the stars, but your focus wasn’t really on the fire. 

Oscar was on the log across from you, legs stretched long and a twig spinning absently between his fingers. The light from the flames caught in his hair and painted gold at the edges of his face. He hadn’t said much all night - not because he was distant, but because he was watching it all like he was trying to memorize it.

Every summer ended. You both knew that. But this one was the last chapter of something sacred. Twenty-three didn’t leave much space for cabins and campfires and inside jokes about bats. Not when real life was baning on the door. 

As the fire burned lower and the group around it slowly thinned - some peeling off toward cabins, some lying back in the grass - you caught him watching you. Finally, really watching. 

“You okay?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Not this time.”

You waited.

He looked down at his hands. “Just that this is the last one,” he said, his voice barely above the fire’s whisper.

It didn’t need explanation. You both knew what he meant. 

Camp had always been the place you came back to. The reset button. The middle ground.

There was a long stretch of silence, broken only by the occasional pop from the logs and the far-off whoop of someone cannonballing into the lake, last-minute swim rules be damned. Then-

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” you said. 

Oscar glanced up. 

You shifted on the log, suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. “And I keep wondering if I’ll regret not saying something.”

That got his attention. The twig stilled in his hand. His brow furrowed. 

“But maybe you don’t feel the same,” you added quickly. “And that’s okay. I just didn’t want to leave this place without-”

“Wait,” he said suddenly, standing like the ground had given him a jolt. “Come here.”

Your heart tripped. 

He stepped away from the fire, toward the edge of the woods where the tree line opened up just enough for the stars to peek through like secrets. He didn’t turn to check if you were following. 

But you were.

The noise of the fire and the others faded into the background. The pine needles cushioned your steps. The scent of smoke clung to everything. When you reached him, Oscar turned, hands shoved in his pockets.  

“I do,” he said 

Your brows knit. “Do what?”

“I do feel the same way.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a little out of breath. He looked nervous, but not unsure. Like he was done pretending. 

“I’ve felt that way for a long time,” he said. “Years. But everytime I thought about saying something, I talked myself out of it. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine too.”

His voice dropped. “And I almost kissed you on the dock.”

“I know,” you whispered, a small and sad smile formed on your lips.

“I wanted to. I was going to. But then I thought… if I do this, and it’s not what you want, it’ll change everything.”

“I was scared too,” you admitted. “But Oscar -” You took a breath. “You were never going to lose me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he was taking in every inch of your face, memorizing it like the way he watched the fire earlier. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for your hand. His fingers bruised yours, tentative.

You didn’t pull away.

And when he laced your fingers together, something in your chest settled. 

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It was a quiet question. And your kiss was the answer. 

Soft. Steady. Years in the making. 

The kind of kiss that felt like it had always been waiting there - between games of capture the flag, behind whispered goodnight jokes in the staff lodge, just under the surface of every late-night swim. 

When you pulled back, the air felt clearer. The stars looked closer. His forehead rested against yours. 

“So,” he murmured, voice brushing your skin. “What happens next?”

You smiled, thumb grazing his knuckles. “We figure it out.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

And in the hush of the last night of summer, beneath the stars and pine trees and the weight of something finally said, you knew - 

You were ready. 

So was he. 

[theemporium]

Hellooo my favorite author on this app, can I request a kiss cam with quinn, its been on my mind lately like dude's shy af but I bet he would stake his claim 😭 tysm

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

Baseball games were inherently really fucking boring, in your personal opinion. 

You knew it was a beloved American sport, something a lot of people grew up with. But that was never really the case for you, not in the way it was for the Hughes family. You knew the games were something they bonded over, a sport outside of hockey that the whole family enjoyed. 

They had all tried to get you to understand, to explain the rules and excitement of the game. But it just went in one ear and out the other and, at the end of the day, you were happy enough to join them for games with no real understanding on how it worked. You were just happy to see your boyfriend happy, relaxed and enjoying himself.

But you would be lying if you said you didn’t get a kick out of watching the Kiss Cam during the breaks. 

“It’s kinda creepy, you know?” Luke commented casually during one of the breaks, smacking Jack’s hand away when he tried to grab a handful of popcorn. “Like, some camera dude is just scanning the crowd for couples? Weird.”

“You’re weird,” Jack instantly retorted, huffing as he settled back in his seat. “You just think it’s creepy because you’d probably never get picked.” 

“What? And you would?” Luke snorted. 

“I would. They like pretty people.”

“As if—” 

“I am definitely the prettier brother—”

“One Twitter poll does not mean—”

“I swear to god I lose brain cells when I’m around the two of you,” Quinn grumbled as he pressed his fingers against his temple, rubbing in small circles. 

“Plus, I’m pretty sure Quinn won that Twitter poll,” you mused as you handed Jack the bag of popcorn you had been picking at, smiling a little at the way the boy instantly brightened. 

“You’re biased,” Luke pointed out.

“No, I’m just correct,” you countered.

Quinn snorted, throwing his arm over the back of your chair and pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head. “Damn right you are.”

“God, I’m gonna puke,” Jack muttered, his nose scrunched up. 

“And miss Quinn dying on the spot when he sees he’s on the Kiss Cam? Not a chance,” Luke cackled as he pointed towards the massive screen.

The second your and Quinn’s head turned around to acknowledge the massive screen, the cheers from the stadium increased. You could hear the two boys next to you snickering as Quinn’s face instantly started to heat up, his cheeks undoubtedly flushed and blushing.

You turned to face your boyfriend, fully prepared for the boy to press a kiss to your cheek and call it a day. In all honesty, you wouldn’t have been mad at it. You and Quinn were far from a PDA couple, valuing your privacy more than anything else. 

But the boy looked determined as he tugged you closer, as his other hand reached up to cup your face whilst the other remained over the back of your chair and—

The screams and cheers of the crowd got significantly louder as the boy kissed you with zero shame or hesitation. 

“I can’t believe we have to watch this on the big screen.” 

“Now I really might puke.”

“I might join.” 

.

[missmisconduct]

I know you just written a current boyfriend fix for Joseph but would you write one for Matthew Knies too please? I’d love to imagine his reaction! :)

Y´all really seemed to like the current boyfriend request with Woller, I love it. As soon as I saw this request, Kniesy´s reaction popped into my head, it was so funny.

I had my first exam yesterday and it went well (at least I think it did), fingers crossed the others will go well too 😭

Current boyfriend – Matthew Knies

It started harmless.

You were laying on the couch with Matthew, running through his hair with one hand, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok with the other.

He had fallen asleep some time ago and you let him rest, the exhaustion from a long season still lingering in his bones even though you had been gone from Toronto for over a month.

The idea came to you when you saw yet another couple do the “Current boyfriend” trend on your for you page.

Matthew was the perfect target for this.

Not on social media enough to know what exactly was going on but still invested enough into your TikTok account that he would not say no to you asking him to do another trend just to launch straight into this one.

The “we listen but we don’t judge” trend would act as you cushion to get him to participate.

Easy enough.

------------

A few days later you sensed your opportunity when you were hanging around his apartment not doing a lot.

He had just returned from a light off-season ice session and was in a good mood after seeing some of his buddies and having fun.

“Hey Matty?” you asked loud enough so he would hear it in the kitchen.

“What´s up, babe?” he shouted back, sticking his head around the corner a few seconds later. He was balancing on one leg, holding a bottle of water in one and a strawberry in the other hand.

You giggled at the sight of him. “Can we do another TikTok trend?” you asked.

He raised his eyebrow. “Sure, but please not something where I´ll get wet again.”

You laughed, remembering a few weeks ago when you made him to the “princess treatment or bare minimum” challenge where he failed miserably at some things and got drenched.

“No, I promise this is harmless. It´s called we listen but we don’t judge.”

You heard hum rustle around the fridge before he returned to the living space with the strawberries and the water. “I think I´ve seen that before,” he thought, mouth still full.

“You just come up with stuff you think I would judge you for and we tell the other, but we´re not allowed to judge.”

He swallowed before answering this time. “Sounds easy enough, give me like five minutes to come up with some things,” he said eagerly, rushing to grab his phone from the couch to write them down.

As you let him write down the supposed statements, you set up your own phone on the kitchen island and prepared yourself for the actual video that was about to happen, already trying to suppress a giggle at the sheer thought of his reaction.

------------

He returned ten minutes later with a determined face and his phone. “Are you ready?” you asked laughing.

“I´m ready, but you might not be.”

That sent you into a fit of giggles again, partly because he was so clueless, partly because of what he actually said.

“I will do a short into, like last time, okay?” He nodded, sitting up on his barstool, preparing himself to be on camera.

“Okay, ready?” He nodded again, so, you started the recording.

“Hey everyone, I´m back here with my current boyfriend, Matthew and today we´ll do t- “

“You´re here with WHO?” He emphasized on the who so much you almost broke character already.

“What?” you asked, trying to act as confused as possible.

He ripped open his eyes like you were the one being confused. “Matt, what are you doing? Let me do this right, okay?” you tried to play it down, hoping it would work and that he would think he just misheard.

He didn’t say anything at all to that, so you just acted like you were starting another take.

“Hey everyone, I´m here with my current boyfriend Matthew and today we will do the “we listen but we don’t judge” challenge. You can go first,” you tried to move along but he just starred at you with an open mouth and wide eyes.

The sight of him almost had you break again. He looked so offended and confused at the same time. “Why are you calling me your current boyfriend?” he asked carefully.

“I´m not calling you anything, Matt. Start with your first statement,” you rushed, ignoring his previous words almost completely.

“Are you gaslighting me?” he wondered, pulling his brows together.

“Matthew,” you whined fake annoyed. “I literally just want to do the video, what is your problem?”

“My problem?” he huffed out a laugh. “Oh nothing, just my girlfriend calling me her current boyfriend like she´s planning to have another one at some point soon.”

You swallowed down a giggle at his offended tone. “Well, you are my current boyfriend, where´s the lie in that?”

He looked into the camera, then at you and then at the camera again, like it held the answers to the million questions he had.

“Are you messing with me?”

You sighed, still fake annoyed. “No, you´re making a big deal out of some words.”

“I feel like you´re messing with me.”

You were close to breaking, but you decided to play your game a little while longer. “We will do one more take, okay? From the beginning.”

Quickly you checked if the recording was still going, nodding approvingly when it was. “Hey everyone, I´m here with my current boyfriend, Matthew and today we will do the w-“

He interrupted you again.

“Current boyfriend, future fiancé and future husband, Matthew!” he almost yelled and that was when you finally broke, laughter bubbling out of you as soon as you looked at him.

“Forever boyfriend, love of her life, best thing that ever happened to her, Matthew!” he went on, what only made you laugh harder.

“Matt,” you gasped between two laughs, but he wasn’t hearing you.

“There´s nothing current about me being here,” he continued.

“MATT,” you said, louder this time but still holding your belly laughing. This time, you finally got his attention.

“What?” he said, still loud.

“It´s a prank, I AM just messing with you,” you laughed.

He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look at you with confusion written all over his face.

“What?” he repeated, taking two steps toward you.

“It´s a trend, it´s called the “current boyfriend” trend where you call your boyfriend your current boyfriend in the video to see how he reacts. You passed with flying colors and confusion.”

You were still giggling, but you were calming down slowly, catching your breath.

“You were messing with me?” he whined, burying his face in his hands.

“Absolutely I was,” you giggled, waiting for his next move, because you knew it would come.

Two seconds later he was next to you and throwing you over his shoulder. Another two seconds later you were lying flat on the couch, and he was pinching and tickling your sides, making you squirm in the process.

“Matt…” you gasped, trying to catch your breath between laughter again.

“That was so mean, I genuinely thought I was just temporary,” he said, shaking his head but not letting up on your sides.

You wanted to reply to him, but you couldn’t because there was no two seconds to properly breathe. Only when you hit his arm he slowly let go of you.

“I´m sorry,” you giggled.

“You´re a menace to society, I´m mad at you,” he pouted, turning around while crossing his arms.

“Awww, poor baby, what shall I do now?” you laughed, moving over to lean your head on his shoulder.

You sat like that for a bit, him fake upset, you giggling into his shoulder.

After a few minutes he turned around and wrapped you into his arms. “I really fell for that, huh?”

“Oh, babe, you more than fell for it, this will go viral, and the guys will tease you for weeks and when you think it´s over we will go back to Toronto and your teammates will tease you some more, remind me to send this to Jo, Bobby and Simon later.”

Matthew let out another whine. “No please, I´ll do anything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Anything?”

He leaned back. “Almost anything.”

You thought for a second. “Can we order from that one Thai place? The one we went to last year?”

He rose his eyebrows. “That´s all?”

“Maybe a foot massage? Oh, and I need some new sneakers now that you say it.”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “Yes, to that, but not the foot massage.”

“We´ll see about that,” you laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek before grabbing his phone. “Do you want the same as last time?”

[rickybobbydan]

Soft Launch Lando

Lando Norris x Sainz!YoungerSister reader

Summary: You've been dating Lando for a few months on the down low. No one, including the media, the fans, and especially not your older brother, Carlos, has caught on. But Lando gets into a silly, goofy mood and decided soft launching during summer break is a good idea. Will chaos ensure?

Tags: Fluff, SMAU, use of y/n

A/N: So this is my first SMAU, so it's probably a little rough. I wanted to try something new for a Lando fic

Masterlist ❤️

lando

Liked by lnfour, carlossainz55, and 23,767 others

lando: stepped into somehing good 🧡🤍

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lnfour: 👀

carlossainz55: Do you have something to share with the groupchat?

user1: OMGGGG A SOFTLAUNCH???

user 2: That doesn't look like Oscar's foot 🤭

oscarpiastri: Thankfully it's not lando: you wish it was you 👀

user 3: no more lando no-rizz lmaooo 😗

It starts with a post.

Not a selfie. Not a tagged photo. Just a picture of your shoes touching—white sneakers, sole to sole, perfectly aligned like puzzle pieces. The lighting is cozy, casual. Nothing dramatic. But it’s intimate in the way that says: this isn’t just anyone.

The caption?

“Stepped into something good.” 🧡🤍

No tag. No name. Just implication.

And now… chaos.

You’re lying face down on the bed, trying to muffle your laughter into the hotel pillow, while Lando—fresh from the shower, towel slung dangerously low—is checking his phone with a grin like he’s just cured world hunger.

“Lando,” you groan. “You soft-launched me with my own shoes.”

He shrugs, clearly very proud of himself. “They’re good shoes. Sentimental.”

You peek at the screen. “Carlos commented. You’re dead.”

Lando reads the message aloud with a smirk:

“Do you have something to share with the group chat?”

“See?” he says, tossing the phone on the bed. “Could’ve been worse. He’s chill.”

Your phone buzzes again, but this time it’s not yours that vibrates.

It’s his.

Lando glances at the screen, and the color visibly drains from his face.

Incoming Call: Carlos Sainz

Your eyes widen. “Oh no.”

“Nope,” Lando says immediately, scrambling backward on the bed like the call might physically burn him. “No, no, no.”

“You have to answer,” you say, already laughing. “You posted it.”

“I was being romantic!” he hisses, clutching a pillow to his chest like it’s armor. “I didn’t think he’d be on Instagram within thirty seconds.”

Your phone pings again.

Carlos: Tell Lando to pick up.

Lando flinches. “He’s texting you too? How would he even know it was you?”

“Oh, he’s serious. He knows those shoes, Lando.”

The phone keeps buzzing.

“Answer it,” you tease. “Maybe he just wants to talk.”

“He never just wants to talk,” Lando mutters, reluctantly swiping to accept the call. He puts it on speaker.

“Hola,” he says, with the shakiness of a man who has made terrible choices.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Carlos’s voice comes through, low and threatening in that very older-brother-who-lifts-weights-for-fun way:

“Tell me that picture wasn’t what I think it was.”

Lando opens his mouth. Closes it.

You’re barely holding it together.

“Technically,” Lando says carefully, “it was just a pair of shoes.”

Another pause.

“You’re unbelievable,” Carlos mutters. “Shoes? Really? That’s how you announce it? On Instagram? Without telling me?”

Lando sits up straighter. “Okay, first of all, I didn’t announce anything. I soft launched. That’s different.”

You bury your face in the sheets, wheezing.

“I swear to God, Lando—”

“Carlos, wait!” Lando blurts. “I swear I was going to tell you, properly. Like, with dinner! And a handshake! And maybe a presentation with charts!”

“You’re an idiot.”

“That’s fair,” Lando mumbles.

You finally sit up, still grinning. “Hey, Carlos?”

He softens just slightly at the sound of your voice. “Are you okay?”

You glance at Lando, now pink in the face, and beam. “Yeah. I’m happy.”

There’s a long pause. Then Carlos sighs.

“Fine. But if you hurt her—”

“I won’t!” Lando says, already tripping over himself. “I’d rather crash the car into a wall. Like, a big wall. A solid one.”

Carlos groans. “God help me.”

Then the line goes dead.

Lando exhales like he just survived a hostage negotiation.

“That went amazing,” he says, lying flat on his back.

You raise an eyebrow. “That was terrifying.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “But also? Kinda worth it.”

You curl up beside him, both of you staring at the ceiling, soft smiles shared in the quiet.

“…You’re still posting that Uno picture later, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you laugh at Lando.

LittleSainz

Liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55, iamrebeccad, and 63,543 others

LittleSainz: Should I absoluely destroy him? ❤️

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oscarpiastri: Absolutely

carlossainz55: Yes.

user3: First Lando and now, y/n?? What is going on? Is it soft launch season???

user4: my money's on lando and y/n soft lanching each other 😗

user5: nurse, she got out again

Lando squints at his cards like they’re a complex F1 telemetry readout. You’re trying not to laugh, legs curled beneath you on the couch, phone still warm from where you just posted the photo to your story.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you tease, hiding your grin behind your cards.

“I just don’t trust you,” he mutters, side-eyeing the two wilds you’ve already dropped. “You play UNO like it’s personal.”

“Because it is personal,” you reply, slapping a red +2 onto the pile with a little too much satisfaction.

Lando groans, flopping backward against the cushions. “See?! That’s exactly what I mean. Aggressive. Violent.”

“Strategic,” you correct, drawing another card.

His phone pings. Then again. Then three more times in rapid succession.

He reaches for it with a suspicious frown, unlocks it, then pauses mid-scroll.

“Babe,” he says slowly, “what did you post.”

You smile sweetly. “Nothing incriminating.”

“'Should I absolutely destroy him?'” he reads aloud. “With a photo of me? In a towel? Playing UNO??”

“It was a soft launch callback. The fans love it.”

As if on cue, his phone lights up with a message from Carlos:

Carlos: Uno? Really? This is what you two are now? Domestic chaos?

Another from Oscar:

Oscar: If she wins, you’re never living it down.

Lando stares at you, eyes narrowing. “You coordinated this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, laying down your next card. “Blue skip.”

“You traitor.”

He lunges for your phone and you yelp, scrambling to hold it above your head as he dives after you, the deck scattering between you both. You’re breathless with laughter, his curls tickling your neck as he tries to swipe your phone and you wriggle out of reach.

Eventually he pins you down, arms caging you, smile wide and breathless.

“You’re evil,” he murmurs, nose brushing yours.

“And you love me,” you reply.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”

You stop squirming.

His smile softens. “We’re good at this,” he adds quietly.

“Soft launching?”

“No,” he says, leaning in to kiss you. “Loving each other.”

And for once, the comments go quiet in your head.

You forget the cards. The chaos. Even Carlos.

Because you’ve already won.

LittleSainz

Liked by lando, carlossainz55, lnfour, iamrebeccad, and 67,456 others

LittleSainz: Forever my favorite person 🧡 tagged: lando

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lando: my forever and always 🧡

LittleSainz: Love you ❤️

carlossainz55: I think I'm going to be sick

LittleSainz: Hater 👎🏻

user4: I've been vindicated 😤

user5: okay maybe you weren't delulu

user6: Carlando lives on, but like in a different font 🥹

oscarpiastri: She's way out of your league

lando: do you enjoy being a hater????

oscarpiastri: yes ❤️

You’re curled up on the couch in one of Lando’s hoodies, legs tucked beneath you, phone buzzing on the coffee table with constant notifications. You should probably turn it off. Or at least mute Instagram. But something about the chaos is... kind of sweet.

People know now.

And they like you. Or at least, they like you together.

Lando walks into the living room holding two mugs of tea, hair still damp from the shower, wearing a soft smile and no shirt, just gray sweats and his usual sleepy charm.

He sets your mug down in front of you, then leans in to kiss your forehead.

“Still reading comments?” he murmurs against your skin.

You hum. “Oscar called you a troll.”

“Yeah, well. He’s just mad because I have better hair.”

You laugh, and he plops down beside you, pulling you into his lap without asking. His arms loop around your waist as he presses his face into the crook of your neck like it’s his safest place.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“More than okay.”

He exhales, fingers drawing idle shapes on your thigh.

“I thought it’d feel scarier,” you admit, playing with the edge of his sleeve. “Being known as someone other than Carlos's sister.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You don’t have to be anyone you’re not. I’m not sharing you with the world. I’m just... letting them know who has my heart.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re kind of good at this,” you whisper.

“At what?”

“Being mine.”

His smile turns lopsided. “Practice. Lots of it. Years of yearning, tragic pining, a few near-death moments, a very scary older brother who happens to be one of my best friends.”

You laugh again, burying your face in his shoulder. “Carlos literally commented ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’”

“And then liked the post. Passive aggressive and supportive. King behavior.”

“God, we’re insufferable.”

“Yup. Public menace couple. No going back now.”

He tilts your chin up, brushing a soft kiss against your lips. It’s not rushed or showy or dramatic, just...real. Warm. Certain.

And when he pulls away, he doesn’t go far.

“I’m proud of us,” he says quietly.

You smile. “Me too.”

The world can watch. Comment. Screenshot. The whole circus.

But here, in this room, with his hand on your knee and your head on his chest, everything is quiet. Whole.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Tag list: @rawr-123s-stuff , @torihester , @justasagittarius, @chaoticmessneutralplease , @caren05 , @yukioni02 , @jinx53 , @angelicawasnthere , @sporadicreviewdream , @awkawardcow , @katgirl140898 , @string-of-constellations , @kate-blu33 , @ttuwzi , @holidaysnoopy , @thenightwemet02 , @babyvoidthing, @anedpev , @monsterslivinginadream , @cryingtoteenwolf , @roderickstrong , @likeformula1 , @maddyw-223

[lilhughesy]

Falling Into You | Matthew Knies x Fem!Reader

warnings! slow burn ish, mainly fluff, mentions of weed, slightly suggestive, and secret dating

word count: 7.1k

summary: You love your job as the athletic therapist for the Toronto Maple Leafs but you also seem to start falling for one of the players on said team. You swore to not catch feelings for him since it puts your job at risk but what if the risk is worth it?

a/n: first kniesy fic for my beloved @lovesickhughes !! I enjoyed writing this so I hope you guys enjoy reading it! (ps the title actually doesn't have any correlation to the fic itself lol)

You were the few rare people who could say that they loved their job. You loved every aspect of your job as the athletic therapist for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Since the start of your career, where your professor during your graduate studies somehow made a few calls to get you your job, you’ve been so thrilled to go to work every day. Your colleagues were a pleasure to work with, your job had you on your feet — a feature which you loved, and the players you worked with were always very nice.

A part of you adored the part where you got to wear your Toronto blue scrubs with a team logo clad zip up fleece and your fun sneakers every shift. The other part loved being able to meet so many different people while you worked. And obviously, being an athletic therapist in itself was a joy.

You walked in the brisk November breeze in Toronto, with a thin down jacket protecting you from the cold that’d been building up lately. You clutched the straps of your work purse closer to your body as you crossed the street towards the arena. It was nearly 6:45 AM and the city was already waking up with the occasional car horns and the shouts from down the street.

The warmth of Scotiabank Arena greeted you as you carefully closed the door behind you. You scanned your ID to enter down the long hallway where you said a quick ‘good morning’ to others who were also just starting work. You turned the corner to the large blue-painted double doors, you fished out the keys to unlock them and pushed the two open.

Your foot kicked the door stop to wedge at the bottom to keep them open before settling your purse on the nearby table. The bright fluorescent lights flickered on as you peeled off your coat, your scarf, and your purse to shove into your small designated locker. You started to get the small clinic ready for the long day ahead of you, first by checking the stock of supplies currently in the room. You mumbled to yourself a list of things to grab from storage,

“Okay, need white tape, pre-wrap,” You sighed, rubbing your temple in slight annoyance that your colleagues hadn’t stocked up the night before, “And maybe some extra electrodes and gel-”

“Hope I’m not bothering you,” A voice spoke up from behind you and you jumped slightly from being startled, your hand was pressed against your chest to soothe your racing heart when you spun around,

“Good morning,” You chuckled with a low shake of your head, “You scared me.”

He laughed lightly before offering you a to-go cup, “Sorry sweetheart, just thought I’d drop off a coffee for you since I know you’re in for a long day.”

You smiled as you took the drink from him, “Thank you Auston, that’s very sweet of you.”

Auston shrugged, “Working the game too right?”

You nodded as you sipped at the hot liquid, feeling the bitter taste run over your tastebuds and down your throat, “Yeah, going to be needing a few more of these later on.”

He chuckled as he patted your shoulder, “I’ll see you later, I think something’s up with my wrist again that I need you to check out.”

You hummed while he pulled away to head down the hallway, “I’ll see you later then.”

You watched the captain walk away before turning your attention back to your mental list. You braced yourself for another day of treating hamstring pain, sore wrists, ankle taping, and telling each player to stop training themselves to the point of injury. They never listened to you, only a nod and uh-huh yeah got it, before they got off the treatment bed and to their next stop.

The coffee from Auston was saving you, whether it was from keeping you warm in the chilly hallways to and from the supply stock or just keeping you awake in general. You worked through your several emails and the stack of paperwork that’d been sitting on your desk in the corner of the treatment room. The paperwork was definitely your least favourite part of the job, along with updating your notes on each player. You liked to keep track of small things they’ve mentioned in sessions, just so you could monitor them even when they say that everything feels fine. It was excessive, but it was important to you.

You hummed to yourself quietly as you opened the hydrocollator heat unit, to be greeted by a wall of steam — indicating that the heat packs were ready for the day.

“Morning!” You turned around to see Mitch Marner and Auston Matthews both entering the treatment room in their athletic wear. You checked the time to see that their morning skate must’ve ended, meaning the flood of hockey players was just beginning.

“Good morning, gentlemen. How’s that quad feeling, Matthews?” You asked the team captain as he sat down on one of the beds.

You continued to have your typical conversations with the different hockey players as you treated them. Often giving them a heat pack to help with blood circulation and muscle recovery, or providing them with deep tissue therapy with electrodes being placed on their point of injury. They often told you about their weekend plans or their most recent trip, all which you enjoyed hearing since a part of you lived through them as you never really left the city.

However, there was one hockey player who never seemed to make conversation with you — not that you would force them to, but rather because the rest were always social. Matthew Knies, one of the younger guys on the team, was always quiet when receiving treatment from you. 

Every time he comes in ten minutes early, always — he’s got his AirPods jammed in and that distracted, somewhere-else look in his eyes. He lowers himself onto the treatment table like he’s thinking about the next game or the one after that, gaze fixed on some point just beyond your shoulder. He gives a flat, “Morning,” if he remembers, and holds out his ankle like it’s a business transaction.

You tape him in silence. Efficient, practiced movements. Over, under, pull, press. He thanks you in a tone that might as well be pre-recorded. Then he’s gone.

You never pressured the guys to talk, if they didn’t want to then they didn’t have to. You don’t take it personally. Some players are chatty, some aren’t. Some want to talk about recovery protocols and shoulder mobility; others just want to get in and out. He’s young, focused, intense in that way rookies often are. You just did your job and what you’re being paid to do, which is treating them and assisting their recovery since their job as professional athletes takes a toll on their bodies physically. Although you noticed it was odd since you’d seen Knies outside of the treatment centre where he was loud, rowdy, and constantly joking around with his teammates. But then again, he could just be one of those people who open up to people that they’re comfortable with. You didn’t blame him, besides it wasn’t your job to psychoanalyze him.

So you continued to work the way you typically did, never minding the quiet when Knies was on the bed, “This okay?” You asked him as you attached the final electrode to his lateral ankle while your other hand started the IFC machine, “Not too high? I can adjust it if it’s uncomfortable.”

He shook his head, not looking up from his phone as his thumbs typed away, “No, you’re good.”

You nodded as you pulled away and started to clean up some of your supplies that were left on the table. You kept track of the time on your Apple Watch for Knies’ electrode treatment as you dropped some white towels into the used bin and reorganized the tape into their designated spot.

“Hey,” Mitch said to you as he poked his head in, “Just wanted to say that those stretched your prescribed for my wrist last week have been working wonders! It’s been feeling great and I didn’t notice any pain during practice today.”

You smiled at him, “I’m glad! I still want to check up on it later though.”

He nodded as he leaned against the doorframe, “Also, that Italian restaurant on Bloor St is fantastic — Steph and I stopped by to get a bite and the food was amazing.”

“The place you’ve been meaning to try?” You asked, to which he hummed an agreeing response, “I’ll definitely check it out with a few of my girls sometime soon.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Mitch chuckled before noticing the younger player on the bed, “Is he always this quiet?”

You glanced over to Knies, seeing him still focused on his phone, “Yeah, he’s typically like this but I don’t mind.”

Mitch shrugged, “He’s always a big yapper so I’m surprised Kniesy can actually shut up for once. Anyway, I’m heading out for a bit before the game, catch you later.”

“Bye Mitch,” You laughed to yourself as he waltzed away.

The guys were playing some sewer ball before their game with some music playing off of one of their blue tooth speakers. It echoed the concrete walls and floors along with their laughter and occasional chirps. Matthew was chatting with Willy while clutching onto his plastic water bottle,

“Yeah man, I dunno,” Matthew shrugged, “Just hoping they’d stop calling me about it, it’s just a pain in the ass.”

Willy barked a laugh before looking past Matthew’s shoulder to wave a small hello to whoever was behind him. He didn’t care to check, assuming it was another one of the guys or something. It wasn’t until Willy pulled away from their makeshift circle to grab the extra iced coffee that stood on a box and jogged in that same direction.

Matthew turned around to see Willy handing the drink to you, and watched as a large smile drew upon your face as you took the drink from him. He assumed you were thanking Willy as your hand placed onto his forearm before you pulled away and disappeared down the hall.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Willy said to Matthew as he returned, “What were you saying?”

Matthew furrowed his brows as he also tried to recall the conversation between the two of them, “Fuck, I can’t remember- Who was that?”

His eyes widened, “You joking right?”

Matthew only rolled his eyes, “No dude, who is she?”

“No fucking way, man!” Mitch laughed from the other side of Matthew, “Are you for real, Kniesy?”

“That’s Y/N, our AT,” Auston told Matthew with a mocking smile on his face, “I thought you went to get treated for that ankle pain today”

Mitch lowly shook his head in somewhat disbelief, “He did, I saw him there but he was so focused on his phone the entire time. Didn’t realize he didn’t even know who our AT was.”

A chorus of laughter filled the area as Matthew scoffed, “Alright, alright knock it off. So what if I don’t know Y/N, I’m sure Joey doesn’t know her either.”

“They’re actually really tight,” Willy told Matthew, “They grab coffee and chat pretty often outside of here.”

“So, you’re saying that I’m seriously the only one who didn’t know her name?” Matthew repeated as he watched all his teammates nod their heads and stifle their laughter, “She’s so quiet, it’s legit not even my fault.”

Auston rolled his eyes in amusement, “She’s the opposite, that girl is so chatty. You just ignore her when you’re getting treated.”

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It was before their game and you were preparing for the multiple tape jobs that you need to do for each of the players. You noticed it immediately, the no AirPods. It’s the first thing you clocked when Knies stepped into the room. He paused just inside the door, glancing around like he’s not quite sure where to stand. You’re restocking the tape tower, kneeling beside a cart with a roll of white in one hand and your clipboard in the other.

“Hey,” He said with his voice low.

You looked up at him, noting his voice, the direct eye contact, and no earbuds.

“Hi,” You replied with your friendly tone as always.

He walked over and sat on the treatment table. You rose to your feet and grabbed the pre-wrap, keeping an eye on him as you approached. 

“Same ankle?” You asked as you crouched down.

“Yeah.”

You start wrapping, muscle memory taking over. It’s quiet for a beat, a little too quiet. He’s not scrolling his phone nor zoning out, he was just watching you work.

“This song’s new,” He spoke up, catching your attention away from his ankle.

You glanced up with a confused expression written across your face, “Sorry?”

“The playlist,” He clarified, “I haven’t heard this one before.”

You arched a brow, “You’ve been coming in here with your AirPods in for three months and now you’re commenting on my music?”

He flushed as he looked away, “I was… focused.”

“Uh-huh,” You said with the corner of your mouth twitching, “Well, thanks for noticing. It’s a new mix.”

He nodded like he’s not sure what to say next while you finish taping and pat his ankle lightly.

“All set.”

Knies doesn’t move right away, “You, uh… ever go out with the team after games?”

Your eyes narrowed just a little, “Not usually.”

He nodded again as he pushed himself off the table, “Cool, just wondering.”

You blinked as he left the room, leaving you confused as ever with his change of behaviour. But you didn’t let it bother you too much since you still had to treat all the other players before their game against the Kings, as you heard Mitch’s loud voice from down the hallway that snapped you out of your trance. 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

The next few days brought more of the same. Knies kept showing up without his AirPods. You caught him hovering a bit longer after his treatments. He asked if your sneakers were new. Another time, he pointed at your coffee mug and said, “That quote’s funny,” even though it wasn’t particularly as it was just another cheesy mug you had grabbed in the check out line at Winners a few weeks ago. It was like watching a large dog try to act like a cat — awkward but kind of endearing.

He still didn’t talk much, but he was trying and you could tell. He'd meet your eye more often. Occasionally he'd mirror your small talk with asking if you had plans for the weekend, if you liked Italian food, if you’d ever tried paddleboarding of all things. Each time, it felt like he was pushing himself just a centimetre or two out of his comfort zone.

“You don’t have to make conversation, you know,” You said to him one morning while wrapping his wrist, “I’m not taking attendance.”

He gave you a small sheepish smile, “I know, I just feel like I should’ve learned your name from you and not from the guys.”

“You’re only the last one to do it, no big deal,” You teased with eyes twinkling in amusement.

He groaned, “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

A few weeks later, it was a back-to-back game weekend. You were exhausted, your lower back aching from leaning over treatment tables for too long. You had just finished setting up post-game recovery stations when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turned, and there was Knies and he was holding a smoothie.

“You looked dead on your feet,” He said awkwardly, holding out the drink towards you, “This one’s supposed to help with muscle soreness. I think… or maybe it’s gut health. Either way, it’s not poisoned.”

You blinked, as you slowly reached out for the plastic cup, “Did you get this for me?”

He shrugged, “Figured it was the least I could do.”

You took it slowly, unsure if this was a prank, “Thanks, that’s really thoughtful.”

He shoved his hands into his hoodie, “You uh, do a lot for us. Most of the guys don’t really say it, but I noticed.”

Something about his tone caught you off guard. It wasn’t smooth or rehearsed. It was genuine.

“Thanks, Knies,” You said to him with a warm smile, trying not to stare too hard at his dark lashes or the faint pink on his cheeks, “I’ll take gut health over muscle soreness any day.”

He chuckled, “You’re welcome, and you can call me Matthew by the way.” 

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

You started to notice his presence around you more when you were hauling a bulky crate of foam rollers and resistance bands from the storage room. The wheels on the crate had been jammed for weeks, and dragging it across the hallway carpet was like shovelling the March time sludge off of the longest driveway. You were bracing yourself for the familiar strain in your shoulders when a quiet voice piped up behind you.

“Need a hand?”

You turned, eyebrows already lifting in surprise.

Matthew stood there and out of his training jersey, fresh from a shower, curls still damp and sticking to his forehead as he held a protein shake and eyeing the crate. You’d almost said no, but instead you stepped aside.

He grabbed the other end with ease, hauling it down the hall like it weighed nothing, and didn’t say another word until you both reached the clinic treatment room and dropped it with a dull thud by the back shelf.

“Thanks,” You said to him, still slightly bewildered.

“No problem,” He replied casually, like he did this kind of thing every day.

Except he didn’t, not until recently.

After that, it became a pattern. He was suddenly everywhere but not in an annoying way, not in a suffocating way, just present. One morning you caught him restocking the tape tower while you were juggling a phone call and trying to log a player’s treatment report. He didn’t ask, he just saw you struggling and silently stepped in, peeling the shrink wrap off the white rolls and sliding them into place, one after another like how you always had them shelved. 

You had paused, still cradling your phone between your cheek and shoulder, to glance at him.

“You volunteering as an intern now?” You joked as you entered the treatment report into the system on your laptop.

He smiled without looking at you, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, “Figured I’d start pulling my weight.”

Professional boundaries, you reminded yourself. You weren’t here to flirt or banter or let one of your clients, no matter how good his jawline looked under the soft lights of the clinic or how his compression shirts made his shoulders and biceps look delicious, get too close.

But he, Matthew Knies, made it so damn hard.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It became even harder after the coffee.

One morning, your name was called from the hallway just as you were rubbing the sleep out of your eyes in the supply room. You stepped out, brows raised, only to find Matthew standing awkwardly with a cardboard drink tray in hand.

“I uh, this one’s yours. No cream, just one sugar, oat milk, extra hot, right?”

You blinked twice, trying to understand the situation in front of you, “That’s… yes.”

He looked visibly proud of himself as he handed it over with a smile growing on his face.

“I saw the look you gave Auston last week when he brought you a hazelnut latte thing with soy milk,” He admitted with a slight grin, “Figured I’d pay more attention.”

You were too stunned to answer right away. Your heart did this little somersault in your chest, a gentle flutter of surprise that threw your entire day off-balance. You wrapped your hands around the warm cup, letting the steam hit your nose.

“Thanks, Matthew,” You mumbled with a small smile tugging at your lips.

And maybe he noticed because the next time, it was banana bread and then a small paper bag of roasted almonds, then a Tupperware container of pasta salad which he responded with a sheepish, “My sister makes too much and makes me take leftovers,”

You told yourself it was just friendly. A rookie trying to be nice. A player making an effort. How it was no different from you and Joey grabbing a coffee on Thursday mornings at the local coffee shop, or how Mitch would ask for your input when he was buying a gift for Steph, or how you would go shopping with Auston because he liked hearing your take on his fashion style. Even then, something about Matthew felt much more different than any of that.

It had been a long double-practice day and your feet were sore even with your new orthopaedic approved sneakers. Your hair was shoved into a claw clip that you only ever used when you were too tired to bother styling it. Your voice was dry and hoarse from repeating the same instructions to four different defensemen who didn’t know how to foam roll properly. You were exhausted beyond belief, and it didn’t help that Toronto was getting so cold with winter settling into the city.

The final lights in the arena clicked off behind you, and you wrapped your fleece jacket tighter around yourself as you stepped out into the early night. The snow fell softly down, glazing the sidewalk in a thin layer of white. You adjusted your toque and scarf and turned toward the TTC stop when you heard a car honk.

A sleek black SUV idled near the curb as the driver’s side window rolled down, and there he was, yet again.

“You’re not seriously walking to the subway in this,” Matthew called out to you, noticing how your nose was turning red from the windchill.

You tilted your head at him, amusement threading into your voice, “What, worried I’ll freeze into an ice cube? Don’t worry the station is just another block away,”

He shrugged, clearly not hearing you out,  “I’m not letting you take the train, Y/N, get in.”

You hesitated then stepped off the curb and headed to his luxury vehicle.

Inside the SUV, it smelled faintly of eucalyptus and leather and the faint residue of a vanilla air freshener clipped to the vent. Warmth blasted from the heater vents, fogging the windows slightly.

He didn’t make a move, didn’t say anything cocky or smug. Just kept his eyes on the road, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the indie playlist you’d always had on in the clinic.

You turned your head slowly to look at him, the city lights passing in golden streaks outside the passenger window.

“You really pay attention to things, huh?”

He glanced at you, then smiled, “Only the important ones.”

Your stomach flipped, goddamn it.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

And you don’t know when it started. Not really.

There wasn’t a single moment, there was no sudden cinematic shift where everything changed at once. It was slow and gradual. A soft, barely noticeable tilt. Like the way shadows stretch longer as the sun sinks lower — inevitable but subtle, until suddenly the whole world looks different.

Late-night texts that used to be about injury updates or recovery times quietly shifted into something else. “Let me know you got home safe” turned into “Wish I was driving with you again.” Quick check-ins became inside jokes. He started lingering after treatments, offering to help you close up by reorganizing the Theraband drawer, restocking the massage oil cabinet, just anything to stay a little longer.

Sometimes, he didn’t even say anything and he’d just be there. Sitting on the edge of the treatment table, head tilted, a lazy smile on his face while you moved around the room like a storm on legs. Watching you, he was always watching.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything more than being friends, that he was just friendly and that it was harmless – until the one night where you let him kiss you.

It was after an away game and the team was exhausted, the bus ride quiet, the locker room half-empty. You were restocking bandages behind the clinic curtain when he found you — just appeared, like he had a radar for when you were alone. Matthew said your name softly, and when you turned around, his eyes were warm and uncertain.

“Don’t yell at me,” He murmured, “I know I’m pushing my luck.”

You didn’t yell, you actually didn’t say anything at all. You let him take a step closer and let his hands hover near your waist, you let your forehead press against his chest for a heartbeat. You felt his heart speed up at the close proximities of your bodies, and then you let him kiss you — soft and slow, like he had been planning for this moment, and you kissed him back.

Now it’s a secret because it has to be.

You have rules, both personal and professional, and this breaks nearly all of them. He gets it and he understood where you were coming from. It was against the policies at work for both of you. You talked about it once, when you were curled up in the back of his car at 1 AM, headlights from passing traffic slipping like ghosts across the ceiling. You told him you weren’t ready to risk everything you worked for.

He nodded, “Then we don’t risk it.”

You’re not dating, not officially but the lines blur anyway.

There are late-night drives and kisses stolen in utility closets and locker room back corridors. His hoodie smells like cedarwood and worn leather, and you start keeping it in your office, telling yourself it’s for emergencies but wearing it when you stay too late. He picks up your coffee order without being asked. He knows the way your eyes dart when you’re overstimulated, how you braid your hair tighter when you’re stressed. He doesn’t say much, just appears when you need him — with food, or a smoothie, or his knuckles gently brushing yours like an unspoken “I see you.”

You think you’re being subtle when in reality you’re not.

Auston Matthews noticed, of course he did.

It starts innocently enough, during post-practice cooldowns, when guys are distracted and the room is buzzing but he sees the way Matthew’s eyes flickered over to you as you entered the space with various resistance bands. 

One day, he side-eyed Matthew during stretches and mutters, “Someone’s chipper today, you finally get a new mattress or what?”

Matthew just grunted, brushing off his captain, “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

“Mmhmm,” Auston hummed as he grinned, “Weird. You’ve just been very smiley lately.”

Matthew doesn’t respond and doesn’t even look at him, but you saw the way he tightened his grip on the resistance band in his hands.

Then Auston turns his attention to you, it was slow, at first. Barely-there comments dropped into casual conversation.

“Is it just me or do you look extra glowy today?” He asked as you passed by during the gear check.

You snorted with a shake of your head, “It’s sweat, Auston.”

“Still works for you,” He told you with a wink.

Matthew was across the room, watching and you could feel it. That simmering weight of his gaze, the way it darkened and sharpened, as Auston continued his not-so-subtle comments on you.

The next time Auston made a cheeky comment was with a, “You ever think about being a model instead of a therapist?” Followed by a knowing look, “Because you’d kill it.”

You nearly dropped the ice pack in your hands and your face immediately heated up and flushed pink, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” Auston grinned, folding his arms behind his head as he laid on the table, “You’re wasted in this job, too pretty to be patching up sweaty hockey players all day.”

The room got too warm and too quickly, you cleared your throat and turned away, fumbling with your clipboard.

Later, when you slip into the staff hallway, you feel a presence behind you, big and familiar and silent. Then a hand slides along your wrist and tugs you into a quiet alcove between two supply closets. A familiar scent of cedar, winter air, and his warmth.

He’s already kissing you before you can say a word. It’s rougher this time. A little desperate. His hands bracket your hips and his mouth is all heat and frustration, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead dropped to yours.

“You okay?” You whispered out as your hands landed on his broad muscular shoulders.

He doesn’t answer right away and his breath fanned across your cheek.

“You’re mine,” He told you quietly yet possessively, “Even if no one knows it.”

Your heart stuttered, warmth filling your chest and abdomen at his tone and his words.

“Someone’s jealous,” You said with a half-teasing voice.

“I’m not jealous,” He mumbled, though the heat in his voice betrayed him, “I just don’t like hearing someone else flirt with you.”

You look up at him, “Technically, I’m not yours.”

His jaw clenched as he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, “We both know that you’re lying right now.”

The words hang in the air between you, unspoken and dangerous and too, too tempting.

₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

It’s nearly midnight in New Jersey.

The hotel hallway is hushed, the kind of quiet that hummed with sleeping bodies and the occasional distant whirr of the elevator. A storm rolled through earlier, leaving a cushion of snow on the ground. You should be in your room, replying to emails or icing the bruised winger who swore he didn’t need treatment but would absolutely complain tomorrow morning.

But your feet moved before logic could catch up. Down the carpeted corridor, past the ice machine still rumbling in the corner room. Your hoodie was zipped up to your chin and you didn’t bother brushing your hair. You clutched a bag of ice packs against your chest like some excuse to be here.

Room 427.

You hesitated just outside the door, heart beating too loud in your chest.

Then you knock softly, just once.

The door opens almost instantly as if he’d been standing on the other side, waiting for you.

Matthew looked like he hadn't slept either. His hair is tousled, damp around the edges like he just ran his hands through it under the sink. He wore grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips and no shirt, a lazy crease down the middle of his chest where he must’ve been lying down. The lamp on the nightstand behind him casted a low golden glow across the room, warm and sleepy and intimate.

You don’t say anything and neither does he. He just stepped back, letting you in.

You move on instinct both quietly and cautiously — as if even the walls might be listening. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that settled like a stone in your stomach.

“This is a bad idea,” You murmured, still not looking at him.

“Probably,” He agreed, with his voice just as soft, “But you’re here anyway.”

You glanced up.

He’s watching you the way he always does like you’re something fragile, something sacred, something he’s scared to touch too much for fear of breaking it.

The bed is unmade with the blankets scrunched up. The television is off. There’s a protein bar wrapper on the desk and his phone charging by the lamp. It’s all painfully ordinary, except for the tension stringing between your bodies, pulled so tight it might snap at the slightest move.

You dropped the ice pack bag on the chair, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither.”

He takes a slow step toward you, by the time he’s close enough to touch, your breath has already hitched in your throat.

“You can still go,” He said almost like he meant it, “I won’t stop you.”

But when you don’t move and you don’t even blink, his hand rises, curling gently around your wrist. You feel the anchor of him, the warmth and steadiness that he always seemed to provide.

Then he kissed you.

It’s not urgent, not this time. It’s slow and meaningful. Like he’s memorizing the feel of your mouth, your breath, the curve of your jaw under his fingertips. 

You end up on the bed, tangled limbs and quiet sighs, your hoodie halfway off, your body pressed to his like you’ve been waiting your whole life to breathe in this exact air. He pulled you against him afterward, arms wrapped around your back, his chest warm and flushed against yours. There’s no words being exchanged, just the rhythmic lull of his heartbeat against yours.

You're curled up against him with your fingers grazing the soft line of his ribs,

A knock.

You jolted, immediately sitting up with his strong arms still across your thighs.

Then a voice, “Yo Knies? You up?”

Your body goes rigid as every nerve in your body catches fire.

It was Auston.

Knies sits up, already grabbing a hoodie from the chair to pull over his naked torso.

You’re flying off the bed before he can say anything, grabbing your melted ice bag, heart hammering.

“Bathroom,” He whispered, “Now.”

You darted across the room and slipped inside just as the lock clicked open. The bathroom is cold and silent. You press your back to the door, hands shaking. Your breath comes in quick, clipped bursts.

You can hear them on the other side of the door.

“Didn’t mean to barge in,” Auston said, his voice casual and slightly amused, “Saw your light was on. Got anything to eat?”

You imagined Matthew plastering on that half-lazy smile he wears when he’s trying to look unbothered.

“I dunno. Check the desk.”

There’s a pause before the unmistakable rustle of wrappers, then,

“Your room smells like vanilla,” Auston commented.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“And... is that menthol?” Another pause, “You hiding your favourite therapist in here or what?”

The silence after that stretched for long, too long.

Then Matthew laughed low and easy, like it was all a joke, “You high or something?”

Another pause, then the shuffles of feet.

“Whatever, I’m taking your last protein bar.”

The door shuts again and you don’t move. At least not until Matthew opened the bathroom door, his face pale with adrenaline, hair a mess from dragging his hand through it a hundred times.

“I’m so sorry,” You said to him instantly, the words cracking out of you, “That was so fucking stupid, I shouldn’t have-”

“Stop,” He told you, gentler this time.

You meet his eyes. He’s still looking at you like you matter. Like you didn’t almost ruin everything and like you’re worth the risk.

But suddenly all the guilt, all the pressure, all the hiding — it swells up inside you like a flood.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this,” You mumbled quietly, “This sneaking around, it’s not just about me anymore, Matt. If anyone finds out, it’s your career too. Your team. I’ve worked too hard to be respected here. And now I’m scared every time someone looks at me too long.”

He nodded and he didn't interrupt, he just let you talk.

“I told myself I could handle it and that whatever this is would be temporary. But then you do shit like text me when I haven’t eaten, or notice how I wear my hair when I’m stressed, or memorize my coffee order like it matters,” Your voice cracked, “And suddenly I’m not just scared of getting caught. I’m scared of what it’ll feel like when this ends.”

His hand finds yours, squeezing it reassuringly.

“You think this is temporary?”

You opened your mouth, but the lie died before it could even take shape, so you closed your eyes instead.

“I don’t want it to be,” You admitted to the hockey player, “I think I’ve been pretending I don’t care because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it’s real... I don’t know how to protect myself anymore.”

Matthew took a breath before he took a step closer, “You don’t have to protect yourself from me.”

And something inside you finally comes loose. You fall into him, arms around his neck, face pressed to his chest, and you let yourself believe it. You want more. Not just the touches in the dark. Not just the late-night kisses and whispered hellos in empty hallways.

You want him fully, loudly, and messily – and maybe it’s time to stop hiding that.

The next evening, the air in the practice facility feels thick but not with humidity, but with tension you couldn’t shake. You kept your head down, hyper-focused on stretching routines and inventory counts, acting like you didn't notice the way Matthew kept orbiting near you. Like you can’t feel his eyes grazing your skin like a touch he’s not allowed to give.

But you feel it, every time. The looks, the brushes, and the silent pleas hidden in those ocean-blue eyes when he caught you biting the inside of your cheek or fiddling with the lanyard hanging around your neck.

And worst of all, you feel Auston watching everything with a smirk he’s not even trying to hide.

You're helping Willy with a resistance band when you hear it.

Low. Casual. Razor-sharp.

"Didn’t know you were so hands-on with the team,” Auston said from across the room, his voice just loud enough to carry, "Guess I should fake an injury, see what I get."

Your throat tightened and you glanced up, and he's looking right at you, wearing that boyish grin that means trouble.

Next to him, Matthew stiffened – it was subtle, but unmistakable. He was leaning against the treatment table, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The flicker in his eyes wasn't amusement, it contained fury.

“Knock it off,” He said to his captain through gritted teeth.

Auston raised his brows, amused, “What? I’m just saying she’s good at her job.”

You cleared your throat, “I’m right here, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Auston grinned even wider, “Trust me.”

You feel the heat rise in your face before you can stop it and that’s the worst part – that your body always reacts before your brain does, and that Auston and Matthew both saw it.

He turned away abruptly, you could practically feel the anger rolling off him in waves.

You fled to the supply room, with heart pounding in your ears, and hands shaking as you started reorganizing the tape shelf for the fourth time today. It was stupid, and you knew it, but it’s easier than facing the fact that maybe you’ve lost control of this. Of yourself.

The door opened behind you, softly with no knock. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“You can’t keep doing that,” You said, without looking up from the various rolls in front of you.

“Doing what?”

“Letting it show. You think no one notices, but they do. Auston definitely does.” You explained with a slight scoff in your voice.

“He’s a jackass.”

“He’s perceptive.”

You hear him exhale – low, frustrated, and then the room gets smaller and warmer. You felt him step closer, and then he's there, behind you, not touching, just existing too loudly in your space.

You turned, and his eyes locked on yours immediately.

“You’re shaking,” He told you softly.

“No, I’m not.”

He reached down and gently pressed his fingers against your hand. You hate how steady he feels, and how steady he makes you.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” He mumbled out, “Not with me.”

Your laugh comes out brittle, “Matt, you don’t get it. I can’t afford to mess this up. If anyone higher up finds out-”

“So let them, let them find out.”

Your chest tightened, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I’ve never meant anything more.”

There’s silence for a moment. You could hear the hum of the vending machine outside the room, the dull thud of a puck dropping to the floor in the hall.

“I’m so tired of hiding,” He confessed with his voice low and almost hoarse, “I’m tired of pretending that you’re not the only thing I think about every fucking day. That I don’t look for you in every room. That I don’t get pissed off when I see someone else making you smile.”

You blinked and your breath caught in your throat.

“I want to show you off,” Matthew continued, stepping closer, “I want to take you out. Sit next to you on the plane and not pretend it’s a coincidence. I want people to look at us and know, I want them to know you’re mine.”

The door opened behind him before you could speak.

Mitch.

He stopped mid-step, Gatorade bottle in hand. His eyes instantly widened, comically wide, as he took in the scene – your flushed cheeks, Matthew standing too close, both of you frozen like teenagers caught by a parent.

Auston appeared right behind him now also seeing the same thing, and grinned like a devil who just won a bet.

“Well, well, well,” Mitch said slowly as he dragged the words out like he’s savoring them, “That explains helluva a lot.”

Matthew doesn’t flinch. He turns his body halfway, planting himself in front of you protectively like it’s instinct, like shielding you is second nature.

Without hesitation, he said, “Yeah. She’s with me.”

You inhaled sharply.

Mitch blinked twice while Auston looked like Christmas came early for him, 

“Okay, okay, Kniesy. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“No shit,” Mitch told Matthew while shaking his head, “Okay, I owe Willy fifty bucks.”

Auston cackled, clapping Mitch on the back as they walked away allowing the door to shut again.

Silence.

You couldn’t speak and you couldn’t move. You just stared at Matthew, who looked more grounded now than he had in weeks. Like the dam finally broke and it didn’t ruin him, rather it freed him.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” He admitted, eyes softer now as they searched yours, “But I don’t regret it.”

You swallowed hard, “Matt…”

“You don’t have to say anything. Just please, stop pretending you don’t feel it too.”

He looked at you like he already knew the answer. Like he’s not afraid of the risks anymore and in that moment, neither were you.

Your lips met his immediately, as if they sealed the deal to the question he was asking. He melted into you, his arms pulling you by your waist closer to his chest as he felt your body relax at his touch.

"You already know what I'm going to say to that," You teased before pecking his lips lightly to which he responded with a large boyish grin.

[vitalverstappen]

Color Me in Your Key - L. Lawson

summary: Between paint-stained mornings and moonlit melodies, something between you and the late-hired music counselor begins to bloom

pairing: Liam Lawson x reader, arts camp counselors au

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

word count: 9k

masterlist

It wasn’t unusual for camp to smell like pine needles, paint thinner, and possibility. Every summer it came alive with barefoot artists, off-key singers, and wild-eyed counselors who’d given up their city internships to live in the woods and create things that might fall apart in the rain. You were one of them. 

As the visual arts counselor, your kingdom was the art barn: a sprawling open-air studio strung with fairy lights, lined with battered easels, paint splattered tables and pottery wheels. It sat on the edge of the woods, nestled between the lake path and the amphitheater, and you could always hear music or laughter drifting in with the breeze. You lived in a permanent state of half-day acrylic and sunburn, your fingers always stained and your clothes dotted with last week’s color palette. 

The kids adored you. The other staff respected you. The new music counselor? Undecided. 

Liam arrived on the first day of counselor training with a dented guitar case, a crooked smile, and no idea where anything was. He was technically a late hire - someone dropped out, and the director had texted you in all caps the night before with: “WE GOT A MUSIC GUY”

You met him fifteen minutes into the first staff meeting. Your camp director, Molly, was off putting out literal or metaphorical fires (no one ever really knew which), leaving you in charge of orientation and the half-asleep group of counselors clustered in the dining hall.

The door creaked open and in stumbled the new kid - sleep tousled hair, camp brochure sticking out of his back pocket, and a cardboard tray with two different coffees.  

“You’re late,” you said, crossing your arms as the room turned to look.

“I’m Liam,” he said, stepping over a duffel bag someone had abandoned and offering you one of the drinks. “Peace offering?” 

You narrowed your eyes. He had that look: boyish, confident, very used to charming his way out of things. City boy swagger wrapped in forest-inappropriate sneakers. The guitar case slung over his shoulder looked like it had lived five lives already. You accepted the coffee anyway. 

“Orientation started at eight,” you said, voice dry.

“Technically,” he said, blowing on his drink, “so did I. But I was making friends with a racoon behind Cabin Monet. We have an understanding now.”

You didn’t smile. Not really. But the corner of your mouth might’ve twitched. 

The meeting continued, but you felt his eyes on you. Not in a creepy way, simply curious. Intrigued. Like he couldn’t decide what kind of person you were yet. You hated that you were wondering the same. 

By the time the group dispersed and you were back in the art barn prepping for the first set of workshops next week, Liam had wandered in. 

“This place smells like turpentine and ambition,” he said, leaning against the doorway. 

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

He wandered between the tables, touching nothing, just looking. His fingers hovered over a half-finished candle holder you had been working on. “You in charge here?”

“What gave it away?” 

He grinned, pointing to the whiteboard filled with your neat handwriting, the first lesson plan already scrawled in bullet points and color-coded arrows. Beneath it sat your infamous chipped ceramic mug, the one boldly labeled in red paint: “Do Not Touch Unless You’re Bleeding.”

“You always this intense?”

You glanced over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You always this nosy?”

He didn’t answer immediately - just gave a lazy shrug and went back to slowly wandering the room. But there was a stillness to him now, like wasn’t just killing time or poking fun, but really looking. Taking things in. 

His eyes drifted from the tangled fairy lights drooping across the rafters to the shelf of mismatched mugs in the back corner, each one donated by a camper or rescued from the dining hall’s “lost and found” pile. He lingered on the aprons hung like flags along the wall, their fabric stiff with years of dried clay, gesso, and glitter. His fingers ghosted near the worktable you’d commandeered as your own - covered in half carved candles, unfinished sketches, and a jar of murky paint water that definitely hadn’t been changed in a few days. 

You weren’t used to people being quiet in your space. Not like this. Not the music department. They were usually louder, messier, and a little too in love with their own chaos. Liam… didn’t fit that mold entirely. At least not yet. 

Finally, he said, quietly, “My mom was a painter.”

You blinked, surprised. That wasn’t where you thought this was going. 

You glanced at him. “Yeah?”

He nodded once, still not looking at you. “Watercolor, mostly. Landscapes. The soft, sad kind. I used to sit in her studio and try to paint along. I was awful.”

Your lips twitched “That tracks.”

He laughed, and the sound echoed in the rafters, warm and open and entirely unfiltered. It startled something in you - a laugh that easy shouldn’t be allowed this early in camp. Not when everyone else was still caffeinating and pretending to be more organized than they were. 

“She used to say good art isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it’s just true.” He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.

He glanced at the candle holder sitting near the window, your latest half-finished project - dripping with glaze, shaped like something between a flower and a flame. “Anyway. That’s cool. That piece. Looks like it’s about to tell me my future or light on fire. Maybe both.”

You raised a brow. “You always get sentimental before lunch?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress the hot art counselor.”

Your brush slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor, leaving a streak of wet blue across the wood. 

He winced. “Too much?”

“Just bold,” you said, turning back to your workspace like it didn’t matter. Like your ears weren’t burning. Like you hadn’t already replayed the way he’d said hot art counselor three times in your head.

He didn’t leave. He didn’t fidget. He returned to leaning in the doorway, one foot resting against the frame like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving. 

You busied yourself with organizing brushes that didn’t need organizing, mostly just to get your heart rate back under control.

“Do you know where your workshop space is yet?” you asked, mostly to change the subject. 

“Nope.” He popped the p. “Pretty sure I was supposed to follow someone, but I got distracted by the tiny frogs near the garden.”

You sighed, more fond than annoyed. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

The music cabin was tucked down a short trail behind the amphitheater, half swallowed by blackberry bushes and shaded by a canopy of old pines. It looked like someone had once tried to repaint the exterior dark blue but gave up halfway, leaving sun-bleached streaks that looked like watercolor washes in a storm.

Inside, it smelled like old wood, dust, and the faint, lingering sweetness of someone’s long-forgotten vanilla candle. 

The windows were streaked. The floor creaked. Someone had left a pile of cracked percussion instruments in one corner, including a tambourine that had been attacked by at least five sticker-happy campers and one lonely maraca with googly eyes stuck to it.

A keyboard sat near the front window, missing its middle C. A ukulele hung on the wall by a nail and what looked suspiciously like duct tape. You spotted a coffee cup still full of something suspiciously green You didn’t ask.

Liam turned in a slow circle, soaking it in. “Alright,” he said. “This place is falling apart.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “So are most of us. Welcome to camp.”

He looked back over his shoulder at you - and this time, the grin was different. Not his earlier smirk, Not performance. A smaller one. Softer. 

“I like it here already.” He paused, head tilted slightly. “Though I do think this place needs a bit of fixing. What’re you doing tomorrow?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Are you about to lure me into manual labor with charm and vague promises of creative fulfillment?”

Liam put a hand over his heart and scoffed in offense. “I would never.”

You stared at him. 

“Okay,” he amended, “I absolutely would. But also - I’ve got big dreams for this room, and zero spatial planning skills. You seem like the kind of person who alphabetizes your paintbrushes.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping into the room beside him. The floor groaned under your feet. 

“This place needs more than alphabetization. It needs Lysol. And an exorcism.”

“Perfect,” Liam said brightly. “You bring the cleaning supplies, I’ll bring the snacks. And the emotionally supportive playlist.”

You glanced around again - the warped floorboards, the half-collapsed music stand, the broken stool that was probably a lawsuit waiting to happen - and sighed like someone accepted a noble burden.

“Fine,” you gave in. “But only because I can’t stand to see that ukulele suffer another day.”

Liam grinned, victorious. “Meet me here at eleven?”

“You mean before or after I question all of my life choices?”

He laughed. “During. Definitely during.” 

That night, after the first full day of counselor training, you found him again. Not on purpose. You were just looking for somewhere to sit that wasn’t buzzing with small talk and oversharing games. 

The staff bonfire was halfway through a s’mores war. Someone was trying to stack flaming marshmallows three-high. Connor from Theater was quoting Shakespeare dramatically with a mouth full of chocolate. The lake glimmered in the distance.

And there was Liam - perched on one of the logs, head tilted down, plucking at his guitar with the kind of quiet focus that made the whole world feel a little more in tune. 

The firelight turned everything golden - his face, the curve of his hands, the worn wood of the guitar. His expression was soft, brow furrowed in concentration, as though he was chasing a melody through smoke. 

No lyrics, simply music. Raw and half-formed and full of space.

It made you think of skies before a storm. Of bare canvases. Of everything unfinished. 

You weren’t watching him. Not really.

But you noticed the way the other counselors drifted toward him. Like warmth, or gravity. Like he was his own kind of campfire.

Someone asked him to play a song, and he didn’t even look up. He nodded and kept playing, sliding into something richer. More sure. It started low and rough and grew into something that made you stop mid-step.

And stay.

You sat on the edge of the circle, watching the flames flicker, letting the music wrap around you like a thread you didn’t mean to follow. 

You stayed longer than you meant to. 

And later, walking back to your cabin under the hush of pine needles and stars, you realized something. 

You were humming.  

It was the song he hadn’t finished. 

The one you kind of hoped he’d play again. 

You showed up to the music cabin at exactly 11:02 a.m., half hoping he’d forgotten. Or bailed. Or slept through it, like the other counselors who’d spent too long at the bonfire. 

But there he was. 

Sitting on the front steps, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, a broom balanced across his knees like a makeshift sword. In one hand, a coffee cup. In the other, one waiting for you. He wore the same band tee from last night, layered under a flannel that looked like it had lived through several garage bands and one mild emotional crisis.

“You’re late,” Liam said, squinting up at you like he’d been waiting exactly that long to make a joke. He held out the extra coffee. “I considered calling a search party. Or the racoon behind Cabin Monet.”

You took the drink, trying not to let your fingers brush his too long. “I had to emotionally prepare for the smell in here.”

“That’s fair. It’s…layered.”

Inside, the cabin was exactly as tragic as you remembered. Maybe worse in the daylight. The sun, slanting through the dusty windows, illuminated every flaw: the fraying curtains, the warped floorboards, the uneven stacks of sheet music curling like dried leaves. A spider had now taken up residence on the keyboard. The maraca with googly eyes sat on a cracked plastic chair like some kind of cursed mascot.

“Still think this is a good idea?” you asked, popping one of the windows open with your elbow. A cloud of dead flies dropped to the floor in a delicate little puff of doom.

Liam looked around slowly, then nodded with utter seriousness. “It’s a fixer-upper. With potential. Like a deeply weird indie film character.”

You smirked. “Charming, but needs therapy.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “And maybe a humidifier.”

You started with the rest of the windows. They resisted. Each one fought you with years of grime and stubborn hinges, but eventually opened, letting in a breeze that immediately made the place feel more alive. 

You stripped the sagging curtains and balled them into a corner. “Donation pile,” you said, knowing full well no one would touch it again until August.

Liam grabbed the broom. And promptly proved he had no idea how to use it.

“Have you… ever used a broom?” you asked, watching him attempt to wrangle dust into a pile and mostly spread it into the air.

“I was more of a vacuum kid,” he replied

“Rich.”

“No, lazy. We lived in an apartment.”

You sighed. And took over.

Liam slunk to the corner, tasked with the instrument graveyard. He rolled up his sleeves - forearms streaked with dust and old ink from somewhere - and started talking to the maraca like it was helping him sort.

It took hours. 

Dusting. Sweeping. Arguing over whether to keep a poster of some indie band no one had ever heard of. You hauled a trunk full of tangled cords from behind the little stage while Liam unearthed a disco ball and promptly wore it on his head like a helmet until you threatened to paint it pink.

You used some of your leftover paint to repaint the peeling window sills in a soft, buttery gold. Liam found a half-broken milk crate and turned it into a shelf for pedals and cables. He strung up a line of twinkle lights across the rafters, stepping carefully along the wobbly bench while humming something soft under his breath.

At one point, you found a warped box of sheet music stuck behind an old filing cabinet. Pages were stuck together, water-stained and curling. 

“These any good?” you asked, holding one up. 

Liam took it from you, thumbed through the wrinkled pages. “Nope, but they weirdly smell like my childhood. That’s gotta be worth something.”

You tilted your head. “You grew up around music?”

He nodded. “My dad played guitar. He was in some cover band for a while, played a bunch of bar gigs in the area.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. 

Instead, you simply watched him - soft in the light, sunlight painting extra gold into his hair, fingers ghosting across the keys of a piano that didn’t quite work. There was something about him that made the dust feel less heavy. Like even the messiest parts could be music if you listened right. 

“You’re not what I expected,” you said before you could stop yourself. 

He looked over, brow lifted. “Yeah?”

“I figured you’d be cockier. Louder. More… theater kid energy.”

“Oh I have theater kid energy,” he said, mock offended. “I just hide it until it’s time to monologue.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“True. But I also found the replacement key for the piano, built a shelf out of a milk crate, and survived your glitter bomb drawer. So I think that makes me officially useful.”

You tilted your head. “Marginally.”

By the time the sun began its slow descent behind the trees, the cabin looked different.

Still imperfect. Still crooked. But brighter. Lighter.

The walls glowed in the soft, slanted light. The new shelf stood proudly under the window. The corner stage had been cleared of mystery boxes and dead pens. The spider had been politely relocated. 

You ended the afternoon sitting on the cabin steps with the door wide open, sipping the dregs of cold coffee and watching birds dive across the treetops. Liam settled beside you, guitar balanced on his thigh. His elbow brushed yours. Neither of you moved.

“I’ve been trying to finish that song,” he said. 

You looked at him. 

“The one from the fire,” he added. “But it keeps changing. Like it wants to be something else.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched him, gentle and golden and halfway to something vulnerable. 

He met your eyes. “It kind of reminds me of this place. A little messy. A little magic.”

Something lodged in your throat. Something you didn’t know what to name yet. 

“Play it for me,” you said quietly. 

And he did. 

Camper arrival day was a storm.

At exactly 10:07 a.m., the camp exploded with life. The quiet hum of the morning gave way to a full-blown sensory stampede: the crunch of gravel under tires, car doors slamming, parents calling out reminders with one foot on the gas, and teens tumbling out of minivans with backpacks bigger than their actual bodies. 

The parking lot buzzed with movement and nerves and oversized tote bags. Music blared from open windows - everything from obscure indie tracks to full-volume show tunes that rattled the trees. One car had three kids singing along to Wicked at top volume, choreographed hand motions and all.

Camp had finally begun. 

You stood near the check-in table with a clipboard in one hand and an iced coffee sweating in the other. Your shirt was already smudged with streaks of ochre from loading paint crates into the barn that morning. You wore it like armor. 

To your left, two of the theater counselors were mid-argument over whether Cabin Sondheim could accommodate six or seven drama kids without imploding. To your right, the film counselor was frantically trying to stop a drone from getting tangled in the overhead pines while three teens shouted ideas for their “cabin intro short film.” One of them was already wearing a beret.

And in the middle of it all, unbothered, sunlit, and completely himself, Liam was perched on the porch rail of the office cabin, guitar in hand, legs swinging like this was just another easy Sunday.

He glanced over when you walked past. “Look at them,” he said, not even pausing his strumming. “It’s like a musical just vomited all over the parking lot.”

You didn’t break stride. “They’re excited.”

“They’re terrifying.”

Right on cue, a girl with pink streaks in her hair ran past yelling, “I HAVE FIVE NOTEBOOKS AND A VISION BOARD.”

Liam blinked. “...And mildly inspiring.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You’re scared of teens?”

He gave you a look. “They can smell weakness. And insecurity. And I haven’t fully memorized the camp song yet.”

“That’s what the lyric sheets are for.”

“I used mine to swat a mosquito.” He paused, then added, deadpan: “It survived.”

You sighed and pulled a spare from your back pocket, expertly folded into quarters. Without ceremony, you tossed it at his face. He caught it midair, grinning. 

“God, you’re prepared for everything. I respect it. I fear it.”

By mid afternoon, the cabins were filled, the parking lot was clearing, adn the dining hall had devolved into a mix of nametag swaps, water bottle trading, and spontaneous “who packed the weirdest snack” contests. The bunk assignments had mostly settled - along with the usual amount of minor drama and someone sobbing over a forgotten retainer. 

You strolled down the gravel path toward the art barn, relishing the first quiet moment in hours. The buzz of camper noise faded behind you. For a blissful second, it was just you, the warm wind, and the smell of pine and pencil shavings. 

Until-

“Hey, Picasso!” 

You turned.

Liam jogged to catch up, hair a mess from what looked like an intense game of human knot. His cheeks were flushed, shirt rumpled, clipboard clutched in one hand and a marker tucked behind his ear like it had grown there. 

“They’re already asking about your classes,” he said, breathless but smiling. “I had one kid corner me about acrylic vs. gouache for dramatic expression.”

You smirked. “Gabe. Cabin Van Gough. He’s a returning chaos gobin. Last year, he turned the entire ceramics wheel room into a recreation of the French Revolution.”

Liam flipped the clipboard, scanning quickly. “Yeah that tracks. He lit up like a Christmas tree when I told him about Music and Movement.”

“I’ll send thoughts and prayers.”

“You’re not even worried,” he muttered, mock-offended.

“He once made a flute out of bubble tea straws and tears. You’ll be fine.”

Liam laughed. “These kids are wild.”

“They’re brilliant,” you corrected. “They just don’t have any filters yet. No fear of failure. It’s…refreshing.”

He glanced sideways. “Kinda like you.”

That made you blink. 

“What?” you asked. 

He shrugged. “You just… seem like the type who paints first and figures out what it means later. Brave in that ‘please don’t look at me while I’m being vulnerable’ sort of way.”

You rolled your eyes to cover the flicker in your chest. “I am exactly that type.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow. “I like that.”

You tried not to smile. 

Tried harder not to look like that sentence was still echoing in your chest when you reached the art barn steps and waved him off. 

“Don’t let the chaos goblin eat you alive.”

“I’ll try. No promises.”

As he turned back toward the music cabin, you watched him go - clipboard in hand, sunlight curling around him like it belonged there.

The sun was dipping into the treetops when the amphitheater filled with noise. 

The campers flooded in like a living watercolor - streaks of dyed hair, glittered cheeks, cargo shorts covered in patches and pins. The older ones claimed the back rows like royalty, legs slung over benches. The younger ones bounced between counselors, wide-eyed and smelling faintly of sunscreen and nerves.

You stood backstage, just out of sight, clipboard in one hand, watching it all unfold. 

“Remind me again,” Liam said from behind you, voice low, “what exactly happens at this thing?”

“You pretend to be awake and well-adjusted for about forty-five minutes,” you said, not looking at him. “We introduce the staff. The kids scream. The director makes a speech that’s twice as long as it needs to be. And then we let them loose on the elective board like wolves.”

“Sounds cute and terrifying.”

“You’ll fit right in.”

You felt him glance sideways at you. “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

Before he could reply, the camp director - Molly, in her signature Hawaiian shirt and combat boots - strode onto the stage, holding a megaphone she didn’t need. Her voice carried without it. 

“Alright artists! Writers! Drama queens! Music nerds! Beautiful chaos goblins - welcome to summer!” 

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. 

Molly held up a hand, grinning like a conductor waiting for her orchestra to settle. “Before we release you into the creative wilderness, it’s time to meet the incredible staff that’ll be guiding you through glitter glue disasters and emotional breakthroughs alike.”

“Let’s start with Visual Arts, give it up for y/n!”

You stepped out to polite clapping, which turned into loud whooping when a few returning campers recognized you. One of them shouted, “We missed you, Van Gogh Vibes!”

You gave a little salute, trying not to blush. 

“And joining us this year for Music,” Molly said, her voice taking on that slight tone of mischief, “a new face with plenty of strings attached - literally - give it up for Liam!”

Liam walked out with that lazy kind of confidence you had come to expect, one hand waving, the other shoved in his pocket. The applause was immediate - mostly from the theater kids, who were clearly already planning to adopt him - and someone shouted, “HE’S CUTE!”

Liam shot you a sideways grin. 

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. 

He leaned a little closer as Molly moved on. “Hot art counselor and a fan club? You’re crushing me in approval ratings.”

“Keep talking during announcements and I’ll ‘accidentally’ assign you the recorder ensemble.”

His smile widened. “Tempting.”

You turned your attention back to the front of the stage where Molly was now introducing the electives list, and the energy of the amphitheater shifted like a storm rolling in - campers whispering and plotting, eyes scanning for clipboards, crushes, and chaos. 

“We’ve got returning favorites and a few new surprises!” Molly announced. “Yes, the pottery wheels are fixed. Yes, we brought back Advanced Stage Combat. And yes, Liam will be leading a songwriting workshop, even though he just found out five minutes ago.”

Liam blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

You didn’t suppress your laugh fast enough. 

“Oh don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll help you make a sign for your table. Something tasteful. Like glittery music notes and a warning label.”

“‘May spontaneously burst into sad guitar solos’?”

“‘Hot mess, but teaches harmony.’”

He bumped your shoulder, laughing. And maybe - maybe - you didn’t lean away.

As the assembly wrapped and the kids swarmed toward the elective sign-up boards like a living tide, you caught one last glance at the stage. 

Liam was helping a camper tune her ukulele, crouched beside her and smiling like he had all the time in the world. 

You felt something shift. Not huge. Just… a click. The kind of moment you’d normally sketch later, trying to catch the quiet of it in lines and ink. 

You turned away before he looked up, your chest a little too warm. 

Summer had officially begun. 

And you had no idea what it was going to make of you. 

The morning sun was already too bright, slicling through the trees like a spotlight as you fumbled with the art barn’s stubborn lock. Your arms were full - canvas panels tucked under one, your sketchbook wedged under the other, and a cup of coffee balanced dangerously on top of a container of charcoal sticks. 

You kicked the door open gently with the toe of your sandal, and the world had changed. 

Inside, the barn was golden.

Fairy lights still glowed faintly along the rafters, even though the sun had taken over. Dust danced in shafts in the morning light. The long work tables were already dressed in chaos: dried paint, gouged cutting mats, a collection of unclaimed brushes resting like forgotten relics in a mason jar. You breathed in deep. 

Turpentine. Wood shavings. Clay dust. Possibility. 

You smiled.

It was time. 

Your first group trickled in just after 9 a.m. - ten kids from a mix of cabins, all different energy levels and outfit choices. Some came quietly, eyes big and nervous behind wireframe glasses. Some already had paint under their nails. One girl wore a hand-sewn cape. No one questioned it.

Gabe from Cabin Van Gogh entered like he was storming the Bastille. 

“Are we doing expressive self portraits?” he asked before even sitting down. “Because I brought colored pencils and trauma.”

You didn’t even blink. “We’re starting with blind contour drawings.”

“Same thing,” he declared, already unzipping a pouch full of oil pastels and strange intent. 

You introduced the lesson, stepping into the rhythm of your role like muscle memory. Already you could feel the hum of creation settling in - the slow, warm buzz of kids unlocking something in themselves. The new girl from Cabin O’Keeffe hadn’t said a word, but her lines were delicate and sure. 

At the far table, two boys were arguing about whether emotions had specific shapes. You let them. You encouraged it, even. That was the point. 

By the end of the hour, there were portraits hung with clothespins along the twine wall, some beautiful, some messy, all strange and wonderful. 

You were still scraping dried paint off a brush when a familiar voice floated in from the path. 

“Permission to steal your chaos gobin?”

You turned. 

Liam stood just outside the barn, framed in morning light like some scruffy storybook hero. Clipboard under one arm. Guitar strap across his chest. His camp tee was half tucked into a pair of track pants, and his hair was a windswept disaster. He looked like he’d already run a mile, lost a bet, and made three kids cry - inspiringly. 

“Gabe,” you called, not taking your eyes off Liam. “Music class.”

Gabe sprang up with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel. “Do we get to scream into the woods?”

Liam raised an eyebrow at you. “What are you teaching them?”

“I only plant the seeds,” you smiled sweetly.

His first class was a mess. But somehow, a beautiful one. 

The kids were feral - in that glorious, overstimulated-artist kind of way. They had zero interest in sitting still. Half of them were more interested in the weird noises they could make with the old tambourines than any kind of chord structure. 

Liam didn’t fight it. He leaned into the wild.

“This isn’t about scales,” he said, leaning against the edge of the cabin’s tiny stage. “This is about sound. Feeling, Chaos with rhythm.” 

That got their attention. 

He ran through warmups that involved clapping in odd patterns, making beats with their feet, and pairing sounds with movement. By the time he passed out small instruments, the cabin was alive with accidental harmony. 

You dropped by the back of the room mid-lesson, totally just to bring him the pack of extra mallets he’d forgotten. Really, you just wanted to watch. 

Liam caught your eye as he guided one of the kids through a clapping game in 6/8 time. His smile was a little breathless, a little proud. He gestured towards the girl who was too nervous to speak earlier - now shaking a rain stick in perfect time. 

Liam pointed to her, then looked at you, mouthing: She’s amazing. 

You smiled and mouthed back: You’re doing good.

His ears turned pink. You didn’t mention it. 

By lunch, the kids were buzzing with stories - “Did you see how good the music cabin looks now?” “We made art with our eyes closed!” “I accidentally invented a drum rhythm and it gave me emotions!” 

You found Liam in the shade behind the dining hall, sitting in the grass with his shoes off and his lunch tray balanced on his knees. A breeze moved through the trees. 

He looked up at you with that same quiet, open grin you were starting to associate with real things. Not performance or charm. Just Liam, peeled back a little. 

“You survived,” you said, settling down beside him.

“Barely. But I’ve been offered three bands, two interpretive dance troupes, and one marriage proposal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Gabe?” 

“Gabe.” 

You laughed, head tilted back toward the sky.

He nudged your foot with his. “Hey.”

You glanced over. 

“Thanks for stopping by earlier,” he said, quieter now. “The kids kinda lit up when they saw you. You’ve got that… safe place energy.”

You blinked. A little floored.

“...Thanks,” you murmured, unsure what to do with the warmth blooming in your chest. 

“Also,” he added, more casual, “you have blue paint in your eyebrow.”

You groaned and shoved him gently. He caught your hand without thinking, held it just for a second too long. 

The horn blew in the distance, signaling the afternoon rotations. 

He let go. You stood up. 

But when you turned to glance over your shoulder as you walked away, he was still watching you. A little dazed. Like maybe the paint in your eyebrow had nothing to do with why his heart just stopped. 

That night, after lights out, you couldn’t sleep.

The camp had settled into its soft summer hush - the kind that only happened when every flashlight was finally off and even the squirrels had given up their drama. You heard the gentle chirp of crickets, the rustling whisper of pine branches, and, faintly, the occasional distant “shhhhhh” from a counselor trying to stop a giggle fight in Cabin O’Keeffe.

Your bunk felt too warm. Your mind wouldn’t quiet. So you slipped out from under the covers, pulled on your hoodie - the one with the paint-streaked sleeves - and grabbed your sketchbook just in case the sky gave you something to draw. 

The porch boards creaked under your feet as you stepped outside barefoot. The air kissed your skin, cool and clean, thick and pine and dew and the faint trace of lake water. Your breath fogged slightly in the moonlight. 

And there he was. 

Liam.

Leaning against the porch rail of his cabin, hoodie pulled over his messy hair, sockless, strumming softly at his guitar like it was part of his heartbeat. Just sound - quiet, open chords without lyrics, notes that wandered without needing to land anywhere. Like something he didn’t want to forget. 

You didn’t say anything. Just slipped on your flip flops, padded down the steps, and stood next to him, letting the melody settle into your bones. 

He looked over, startled for half a second, then smiled, gentle, tired and glad. 

“You too, huh?” he said quietly, voice barely above the crickets

You nodded. “Too much paint in the bloodstream. Can’t sleep.”

He hesitated. Then reached out his hand.

You took it. 

He didn’t say where you were going. You didn’t ask. 

You walked down the moonlit path together in silence, dodging the glow of motion-activated lights, stepping over roots and pinecones, muffling your laughter when you nearly fell over a rock neither of you saw in time. His hand stayed warm in yours. 

When you reached the lake, the world opened. 

The trees fell away into shadows, the dock stretched into darkness, and the water - god the water - looked like it had swallowed the sky. Stars were everywhere. In the trees, on the surface, tangled between the ripples. The moon hung low and soft, a silver coin held gently between the lake and sky. 

You both slipped off your shoes and sat on the dock, your bare feet just brushing the water - cool, shivering, alive. You could feel your heart slowing, synching with the sounds of the lake, the hush of wind through pine needles. 

Liam set his guitar down beside him and laid back on the wooden planks, arms behind his head.

You glanced at him, surprised. 

“You don’t wanna play something?”

He shook his head, the motion lazy. “Nah,” he said softly. “Just listening.”

You didn’t ask what for. 

Instead, you laid back too - sketchbook on your chest, hoodie hood pulled halfway over your eyes - and stared up with him. 

The sky was impossibly loud with stars. Infinite. Blinking. Watching. 

After a while, Liam spoke again, voice distant and close all at once.

“You ever feel like it’s… too much?”

You blinked. “The sky?”

He paused, “The everything.”

He said it like he wasn’t expecting an answer. Like he didn’t need one. Just a place to put the feeling down. 

You let the silence stretch before answering, soft and real. “Yeah,” you said, “all the time.” 

Another beat. Another breath.

“Same,” he murmured. “But you help. Somehow.”

Your chest fluttered - something quiet and warm and true blooming behind your ribs. 

You turned your head toward him. He was already looking at you. 

His eyes were soft in the dark, unreadable and entirely honest. You could see the shape of him in the starlight. The line of his jaw, the mess of hair shadowing his forehead, the corner of his mouth twitching up just slightly like he was thinking something he might say or might not. 

Neither of you moved. 

You didn’t need to. 

Everything between you was lit with something bigger than the moment - something shy and ure and waiting.

You didn’t kiss. Not yet. 

But you were close. 

Close enough to count freckles. Close enough to breathe the same space. 

And when you finally walked back, just before dawn, your feet were muddy and your hands were cold, but your chest felt full. Tethered. 

You snuck back just before dawn - feet muddy, hearts full. 

At breakfast the next morning, he passed you a cup of orange juice like nothing had changed. 

But when your fingers brushed, he didn’t pull away. 

And when your eyes met across the table, you knew. 

Everything had. 

Sunday evenings only meant one thing: the weekly assembly.

The amphitheater buzzed with the barely-contained chaos of ninety something teenagers attempting to sit still after dinner and dessert. The stone benches radiated leftover heat from the sun, fireflies blinked lazily at the edges of the woods, and the air smelled like marshmallow residue, dried pine, and faintly of glitter. 

On stage, Molly was in rare form, clipboard in one hand and megaphone in the other, though she again, didn’t need it. 

“Cabin cleanliness rankings are posted outside the dining hall,” she was saying in a tone that suggested doom. “Cabin Monet: Congratulations on surviving your war with the squirrels. Cabin O’Keeffe: You are on very thin ice. And if I hear one more story about campers in Advanced Stage Combat actually fighting again, I swear to god, I will cancel it.”

Groans and gasps erupted. 

Usually, you’d be halfway zoned out by now, mentally editing lesson plants or imagining a world where Molly’s megaphone had an off switch. But tonight, you had an announcement to make. An important one. 

You stood near the edge of the stage with your clipboard, pretending to study your notes while actually watching Liam try - and fail - to adjust the mic stand for the third time. 

“Do you need it to be crooked?” you whispered as he squinted at it. 

“It’s for dramatic effect,” he whispered back. “The chaos adds tension..”

You raised a brow. “It adds confusion.”

“Same thing, if you’re doing it right.”

You rolled your eyes as Molly raised her hand with theatrical flair. Instantly, the crowd quieted - not silent, never truly silent, but the kind of organized chaos she could work with. 

“And for one last announcement…” she called, grinning wide. “Quiet down - especially you, Cabin Sondheim!”

A ripple of shushing and snickering spread across the benches. You felt the buzz begin - that almost electric current that only came from anticipation. 

“Now,” Molly continued, drawing the moment out like a master conductor, “I know we’re only a couple weeks into the session, but you all know what’s coming. It’s time to talk about one of the most chaotic, most glitter-infested, most legendary nights of the session…”

There was a long pause - just long enough for the campers to start vibrating with anticipation. 

“The Annual Mid-Camp Talentttt Shooowwwww!”

The amphitheater erupted. Cheers, screams, one air horn (somehow?), and the unmistakable sound of someone from Cabin Frida already beginning a victory chant. 

You stepped forward, barely containing your smile. “That’s right,” you said into the mic, “in exactly fourteen nights, this stage becomes your playground. Your spotlight. Your chance to shine.”

Liam leaned in beside you, grinning like the stage was home. “Singers, dancers, spoken-word poets, jugglers, people who can balance spoons on their noses - this is your time.”

“And yes,” you added, “group acts are allowed. As long as no one loses a tooth this year.”

A voice from the crowd yelled “It was worth it!”

You and Liam both cracked up. 

“Sign up sheets will be outside the dining hall starting tomorrow morning,” you continued, regaining your balance. “You’ll have time to rehearse during electives, after dinner, and any spare moment you can beg, borrow, or bribe for.”

“We will also have a very official panel of judges,” Liam added. “Me, the raccoon behind Cabin Monet, and the ghost of Beethoven.”

You shot him a look. 

“...Kidding,” he muttered into the mic. “It’s just the counselors. But we will be dramatic about it.”

He gave the crowd a smirk. Somewhere, a camper swooned audibly.

You stepped back, giving the mic back to Molly, who wrapped things up with a campfire-style chant that had everyone stomping and clapping along. 

As the sun vanished completely, lanterns flickered on around the amphitheater and the campers scattered back toward their cabins, chattering excitedly.

You and Liam stepped off the stage and watched them go - some already strategizing routines, others doing group cartwheels, one kid trying to convince their bunkmate to let them do shadow puppets with interpretive dance. 

“This is going to be chaos,” you said under your breath.

He grinned. “The good kind.”

And you believed him. 

The talent show was a week away, and camp had officially tipped from playful chaos into full-blown creative mania. 

Every corner of the woods pulsed with rehearsals. The amphitheater thudded with tap shoes and spoken word. The path to the lake had been turned into a catwalk for costume testing. Ukulele chords floated through the trees, interrupted only by the occasional shriek of “That’s MY hula hoop, Gabe!” - followed by someone sprinting past in full costume.

Even your sacred art barn had been overtaken. Half-finished set pieces leaned against the paint-splattered walls. Paper mache planets dangled from the rafters. Your canvases were now roommates with three cardboard trees, one paper mache volcano, and what appeared to be a confetti cannon made from recycled water bottles and hope. 

So when you finally carved out a moment of silence - real silence - it felt like stumbling into a clearing after being lost in the trees. 

It was just after dinner, golden hour stretching long and soft across the hills. Most of the campers were still in the dining hall, finishing dessert and arguing over group names. You’d slipped away without telling anyone - without telling him - and wandered to the only place that still felt like yours. 

The music cabin. 

The lights were off, except for the soft golden glow of the string lights Liam had hung up a few weeks ago. The window was open. Crickets and cicadas chirped. The room felt lived in - worn and warm and kind. 

You had curled up on the edge of the stage, sketchbook in your lap, the image of the stars above the lake coming alive on the page, when you heard footsteps. 

Then guitar strings. 

Then: “You always steal my hideout”

You looked up. 

Liam stood in the doorway, backlit by the last blush of sunset. His guitar was unsurprisingly slung over one shoulder, clipboard tucked under his arm like a half-forgotten accessory. His shoelaces were uneven. He looked like he’d run across the whole property just to be here. 

And from the curve of his grin - tilted and warm - maybe he had. 

“The dining hall was loud,” you offered, smiling just a little. “I needed somewhere that smelled less like ketchup and sugar.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. “Yeah, they were arguing about whether or not a tap routine could be done in crocs. I left before it got violent.”

You laughed softly. “Coward.”

“Survivalist,” he corrected, settling beside you on the stage. He dropped his clipboard with a thunk and sat cross-legged, his knee bumping yours in the process. Neither of you moved.

For a while, you didn’t talk.

The night hummed. Crickets, distant guitar chords, the faint murmur of someone’s bluetooth speaker out by the fire pit. Inside the music cabin, it was just the two of you. And breath. And space.  

Then he glanced sideways at you. “You looked tired today.”

You blinked. “That obvious?”

He shrugged. “Only to me.”

You let your pencil fall still against the page. “I think I hit the part of camp where everything feels like too much. My brain’s glue. My hands are shaky. I forgot my coffee this morning and actually cried.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. 

He just nodded. “Been there.”

Another beat. 

“You know,” he added, voice quieter now, “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

You looked over at him, surprised. 

“I see how much you do. For the kids. For the other counselors. For Molly. You keep everyone running.” He strummed a soft chord, like punctuation. “But you don’t let anyone help.”

You looked down at your sketchbook again, now slightly smudged from where your thumb had pressed too hard. “It’s easier sometimes. Doing it myself. At least if it falls apart, I know whose fault it is.”

“Yeah, but that means you don’t get to fall apart. And that’s… kind of unfair.”

You didn’t know what to say. 

So instead, you just looked at him, 

At the way his crewneck sleeves were pushed to his elbows, wrists freckled and ringed with a bracelet one of the kids had made. At the way the gold of the string lights warmed the edges of his face. At the quiet way he was watching you, like you were something sacred. 

Then he set his guitar aside - carefully, like it was something living - and reached for your hand. 

You let him take it. 

His fingers laced with yours like it was muscle memory. 

“I missed you today,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.  

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “You never have to.”

Silence stretched between you. But it was good silence. Full.

Then he leaned in.

Slow. Careful. Like he was giving you time to say no, to pull away, to change your mind. 

You didn’t. 

Your lips met in a hush of warmth. Gentle at first, like a discovery. Like the beginning of something that had been building for weeks. But then his hand rose to cradle your jaw, and your fingers curled into the hem of his sweatshirt, and it deepend. 

The kiss turned into color and quiet and all the wild softness the rest of the world didn’t make time for.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads touched. Your breaths mingled. 

“Hi,” you whispered, half breathless. 

He smiled, lips still close. “Hi.”

You stayed like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, breath shared, hearts slowly stitching themselves into something braver. 

Liam’s hand was still resting against your cheek. Yours had slipped beneath the fabric of his crewneck, fingertips brushing the warmth of his side, like you needed proof he was real. 

The kiss had settled something in you. But it had also cracked something open. 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his eyes. They were soft. Unshielded. 

“I didn’t think this would happen,” you said quietly.

Liam cocked his head. “Us?”

You nodded, eyes drifting to the worn wood of the cabin floor. “I don’t usually… I don’t let people in. Not really. Not here.”

“Camp or this cabin?”

“Both,” you admitted. “I’m the one with the clipboard. The one who knows where the extra scissors are, and how to fix paint spills, and who needs a snack before they snap. I’m not the one who gets distracted by guitar boys with crooked smiles and unfinished songs.”

He laughed - just a breath of it. But it wasn’t mocking. 

“You’re not distracted,” he said gently. “You’re just… human. And maybe a little guarded.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Little?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Okay, medium guarded. But you care. So much. And you pretend it’s control, but it’s not. It’s heart.”

That hit something deep. You looked away again, swallowing.

“Hey,” His voice was soft. 

You looked back, and found his gaze still steady on yours. 

“I didn’t come here looking for this either,” he said. “Honestly? I thought I’dbe here for eight weeks, teach a few kids how to strum chords, maybe eat some marshmallows, and leave with sunburn and a funny story.”

“And now?”

He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. Let the truth settle. 

“And now, I think I’m going to leave with something I don’t know how to name yet.”

That made your chest ache in the best way.

“I’m scared,” you said suddenly. “Not of you. Just… how easy this feels. How much I already want you to stay.”

Liam leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Then be scared. Me too. But I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Letting it settle. The weight and lightness of it all.

When you opened them, he was still watching you like you were the most important thing he’d ever seen. 

“I like you,” you whispered. “A lot more than I planned to.”

“I’m really glad you said that,” he murmured. “Because I think about you when I’m falling asleep. And when I wake up. And basically every second I’m not being hit in the face with a kazoo.”

You laughed into his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to your hair. 

Outside, the night breathed around you. 

Inside the music cabin, something quiet and real was beginning. 

And this time, it wasn’t just a song. 

The day of the show, the camp woke up buzzing. 

Not the usual sleepy rustle of morning bugle calls and cereal spoons clinking - but real, kinetic energy. Like every kid had mainlined sparkles and adrenaline for breakfast. 

Kids sprinted past the cabins in full costume. Someone blasted Queen from a speaker at 7:14 a.m. sharp. Even the frogs seemed louder, as if they knew something big was coming. 

The art barn was in chaos by 9:30 a.m.

Cabin Kahlo’s paper mache wings were missing in action. Theater was demanding last-minute paint touch-ups for their backdrops. The film kids begged you for fake blood for their zombie-musical parody. You shut it down quickly. You didn’t even own fake blood.

Your usual camp shirt had acquired three new paint smears - turquoise, gold, and something you were afraid to identify. Your hair was a mess of bobby pins and pipe cleaners. Your clipboard was clutched like a lifeline. But the rehearsal schedule was color-coded, your iced coffee was still mostly cold, and you were ready. 

Well. Almost.

You hadn’t seen Liam yet.

He’d slipped out of the dining hall early, guitar case in hand and something unreadable in his eyes. He gave you a two-finger salute from across the oatmeal station and disappeared out the side door before you could corner him. 

He was up to something. 

You knew it. 

But there wasn’t time to investigate. Someone was actively attempting to hot glue sequins to their eyelids and another counselor was chasing down a rogue stage curtain like it owed him money.

By lunch, the nerves had started to settle in. You caught glimpses of campers rehearsing in corners, mouthing lyrics to themselves, trying to psych each other up. Even Gabe was quiet. Gabe. 

You found Liam backstage at the amphitheater around 2 p.m., helping set up lights with theater counselor Connor and rewiring a mic that definitely hadn’t worked since 1988.

“Hey,” you said softly, nudging his foot with yours. 

He looked up from where he was crouched beside the soundboard - cheeks flushed, hair tousled, screwdriver in one hand, smile slow and sure. “Hey.”

“Everything holding together?”

“Barely. But we’re running on zip ties and blind faith now, so what could go wrong?”

You grinned. “Any surprises I should know about?”

He tilted his head. “Define surprise.”

You squinted at him. “Liam.”

He stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Okay, so I may or may not have rearranged the closing slot.”

“You what-?”

“For emotional impact,” he said. “And also because I finished the song.”

You froze. 

“The song?” you asked, softly now. 

He met your eyes. That look - the one that always felt like the moment before a summer storm. Gentle, but charged. 

“The one from the bonfire. From the dock. From…this whole summer.”

You didn’t say anything. Simply reached for his hand and squeezed. 

He squeezed back.

That evening, the amphitheater glowed.

Lanterns swung from the tree branches. Campers buzzed like lightning bugs, tugging on costumes, whispering nerves, adjusting microphones. The air smelled like hairspray and nerves.

Molly gave a rousing pre-show pep talk that turned into a dramatic reading of a Shakespeare monologue, and someone from Cabin Monet had already spilled lemonade on the lightboard and a raccoon was spotted near the stage twice.

You stood in the wings, headset slightly askew, heart pounding with secondhand adrenaline. The show had started, and the acts were better than anyone expected - heartfelt and weird and wonderful. 

A group of kids tap danced in swim fins to “Eye of the Tiger.” One trio read haikus about the camp showers. Gabe delivered a spoken word piece about macaroni art and heartbreak that nearly brought the crowd to tears. 

And then, just before the closing act, Liam walked onstage. 

Alone. 

The chatter stilled. The night held its breath. 

He stood at the center of the stage, guitar slung low, dressed in his usual attire - hoodie sleeves pushed up, laces untied. But his voice was steady when he leaned into the mic. 

“This one’s for someone who made this place feel like home,” he said. “Someone who sees the world in color, even when everything feels black and white.”

Your heart cracked open. 

Then he began to play. 

It was the song. His song. Your song. The one you’d heard in pieces, in fragments, around corners and under stars. But it was now full - complete - and it was beautiful.

Soft at first, a slow build. Like memory. Like a sketch becoming a painting.

Verses about summer air and tangled string lights, about paint-stained fingers and hands that felt like safety. The chorus swelled with hope. With want. With something that sounded like falling in love, softly and completely. 

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Connor handed you a tissue without looking away from the stage. 

When the last chord faded, there was a heartbeat of silence. Then the amphitheater erupted. Campers on their feet, stomping, screaming, howling. A standing ovation. 

But Liam didn’t look at them. 

He looked at you. 

And smiled like he already knew your answer. 

[piastriprincess]

guess i'm a bad liar  ⸻  alex  albon  x  reader  .

featuring  alex  albon  ,  russell!reader  ,  secret  relationship  ,  george  russell  being  a  messy  bitch  who  lives  for  drama author’s  note  had  this  insane  idea  and  simply  had  to  make it happen  as  soon  as  possible  because  i’m  deep  in  my  alex  feels  .  one  thing  i  love  to  do  is  put  alex  albon  in  a  situation  .  as always let me know what you think and please  enjoy  <3  title  is  from  bad  liar  by  selena  gomez  !

liked by georgerussell63, alexandrasaintmleux, and 432,225 others yn.russell a little silver for silvo ⛓️ pants and jacket by me, hat(s) by mercedes

user1 MOTHER HAS RETURNED TO THE PADDOCK carmenmmundt Vibes are immaculate as always ♥ liked by author ⤷ yn.russell coming from you!!!! miss you so much xx ⤷ carmenmmundt Miss you more! user2 George kinda giving Peaky Blinders in that hat ♥ liked by author user3 tell me these pants will be in the new collection!! georgerussell63 Delete this right now or I’m blocking you ⤷ yn.russell ummmmm george can you not lash out with unnecessary anger and borderline violence right now… user4 russell siblings most random crossover of the century like wdym one kid is an f1 driver and one is a designer… mercedesamgf1 Please keep bullying George on main queen we love it! ⤷ yn.russell give him a contract renewal and i will!! commit or quit cowards 😤😤 alex_albon where’s the williams blue representation… ♥ liked by author ⤷ yn.russell saving it for next time you actually finish a race <3 ⤷ alex_albon ouch!

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liked by carmenmmundt, alex_albon, and 551,312 others yn.russell spring into summer 🌿💌☁️🌷🫧

user8 WHOSE SNEAKERS alexandrasaintmleux Neeeeeeed to come visit the atelier soon ♥ liked by author ⤷ yn.russell ANY TIME sweets !! text me, we’ll set something upppp user9 soft launching a new man AND a new collection … oh mother is mothering georgerussell63 You’re doing this on PURPOSE georgerussell63 I have RIGHTS you know. ⤷ yn.russell you also had the right not to shrink my one direction tee in the laundry in 2014 but here we are xx alex_albon did you post this just to watch him spiral ♥ liked by author user10 swear to god lando has the exact same blue trainers as #thatman ⤷ lando not me mate 🤫 ⤷ georgerussell63 LANDO WHAT DO YOU KNOW user11 lizzy caption oh she’s in loveeee ♥ liked by author

───────── ☆ ───────── to: Y/N Russell <[email protected]> from: George Russell <[email protected]> cc: Alex Albon <[email protected]> subject: URGENT - Formal Inquiry Into Your Nonsense attached: 📎 Mystery_Man_Investigation_FINAL.pptx

Dear baby sister whom I love so much, 

I hope this email finds you well. Although I suspect it finds you somewhere smug, sipping iced lattes with Mr. Blue Trainers.

Let me begin by stating the obvious: you are soft launching. You are doing it intentionally, strategically, and with what I can only describe as malicious glee. You are doing it solely to annoy me. And though I hate to admit it, it is working.

As you well know, I recently launched a full-scale investigation into your secret boyfriend’s identity. I’ve attached a PowerPoint presentation detailing my initial findings (compiled in partnership with Alex, who, frankly, was disturbingly good at this.) It includes:

Comprehensive suspect board, including names, potential connections, and Instagram handles

Cross-analysis of shortlisted suspects and their known beverage/shoe preferences

Full-scale timeline of events from speculated first meeting to recent posts

The investigation remains active. I’m asking that you please review my findings and kindly disclose the identity of this man so I can begin the necessary background checks. And possibly threaten him a little.

With immense frustration, George Russell (your older brother. BLOOD RELATED TO YOU. In case you forgot.)

PS: If this is really payback for the One Direction t-shirt, I would potentially be willing to admit fault and negotiate terms of forgiveness provided that I get a name.

—

to: George Russell <[email protected]> from: Y/N Russell <[email protected]> cc: Alex Albon <[email protected]> subject: re: URGENT - Formal Inquiry Into Your Nonsense

Hello,

Thank you for reaching out to Y/N Russell Designs. We appreciate your inquiry and your continued support of our brand!

At this time, however, we are unable to disclose information regarding creative direction, atelier operations, or the personal life and romantic affiliations of our founder. We understand your curiosity, and can assure you that all public-facing content is crafted with care and intention and aligned with the brand’s identity. 

If you have any further questions or believe you may have reached us in error, feel free to respond or to reach out to our press team at [email protected] or via the contact form on our website. One of our team members will be happy to assist you. Please allow 5-7 business days for a response. Or 5-7 months, if your name is George Russell and you’re STICKING YOUR NOSE INTO MY BUSINESS.

Thank you again for being part of our family! (NOT!!!!!!)

Best,

Client Services Team

—

to: Y/N Russell <[email protected]> from: George Russell <[email protected]> cc: Alex Albon <[email protected]> subject: re: re: URGENT - Formal Inquiry Into Your Nonsense attached: 📎 Mystery_Man_Investigation_v2_FINALFORREAL.pptx

Do you think I’m stupid? No, seriously. Do you??

This is your PERSONAL EMAIL ADDRESS. I literally taught you how to use Gmail!!!!! Also, “Client Services Team?” Be serious. I’ve seen you answer customer emails at 2 AM while eating Frosties straight from the box. You and I both know you’re a one-woman operation. A completely unhinged one, but still. 

Though you were entirely unhelpful, I’ve made inroads regardless. The PowerPoint has been updated with additional evidence — Alex helped me zoom and enhance on your sunglasses photo from two weeks ago. Based on the reflection, we can confirm that the mystery man has dark hair and is approximately 177cm-185cm tall. The net is closing. But you still have the chance to tell me who it is before I figure it out myself.

Look, I’m not trying to be dramatic here, and I don’t want to ruin your happiness or stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. I just want to make sure this guy, whoever he is, is good enough for my baby sister. 

Love, George

—

to: George Russell <[email protected]> from: Y/N Russell <[email protected]> cc: Alex Albon <[email protected]> subject: re: re: re: URGENT - Formal Inquiry Into Your Nonsense

georgie!!!

that was so cute. i always knew you actually liked me!! …still not telling you though xx

Sent from my iPhone

ps: at least, not right now. okay?? pps: it’s not about the one direction tee btw. but i really do deserve compensation for that. that was original up all night tour merch!!! 

—

to: Y/N Russell <[email protected]>, George Russell <[email protected]> from: Alex Albon <[email protected]> subject: re: re: re: re: URGENT - Formal Inquiry Into Your Nonsense

Can the two of you stop cc’ing me on your bickering? Please? Love you both deeply but I’m in a strategy meeting and Vowles looks like he might kill me if my phone buzzes one more time. 

Alex ───────── ☆ ─────────

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liked by alex_albon, georgerussell63, and 611,053 others yn.russell tell a friend to tell a friend… she’s baaaaaack (in the paddock)

user15 waiting for the inevitable george crashout in these comments ♥ liked by author georgerussell63 Why must you torment me every race weekend. ⤷ yn.russell i prefer to call it making your life interesting mercedesamgf1 Our favorite guest 🤩 user16 she’s been at so many races recently… wag energy going off ⤷ user17 ew that’s her brother you freaks! ♥ liked by author user18 SHE’S SO UNSERIOUS LMFAO lando can you please stop soft launching on race days george doesn't believe it's not me and i'm getting scared he's gonna shunt me into the wall carmenmmundt Love this blue moment! ⤷ alex_albon looks familiar! ♥ liked by author ⤷ user19 alex said it’s my turn to have yn in the garage for the weekend

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───────── ☆ ───────── you have (3) missed calls from georgie porgie • listen to voicemails?

0:24 ▶‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

“Hey. Uh, I was looking for you and no one in the garage knew where you went, and — I just saw your story. Are you… are you with Alex? I mean. That’s a joke, right? Please tell me that’s not real. Because if it was real that would mean that the both of you have been lying right to my face for god knows how long. And neither of you would do that to me. So. Just, uh, call me back, yeah?”

0:28 ▶‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

“Don’t bother trying to come up with another lie. Carmen just told me everything. I cannot believe this. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. Do you have any idea how stupid I feel right now? I asked Alex to help me figure out who you were dating, and he let me just sit there making theories and spreadsheets and bloody PowerPoints and the whole time it was him? What, were you both just laughing behind my back this entire time? You’ve let me make a complete idiot of myself. You know what? Don’t call back. I have nothing else to say to you.”

0:11 ▶‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•

“And another thing. You know, you and Alex? I would have been fine with it if either of you had just told me. I mean, eventually. Probably. Maybe. But you didn’t even give me the chance. I mean, he’s my best mate, you’re my sister. You’re both my family. I dunno, I just… I thought I would’ve mattered enough to both of you to tell me about it.” ───────── ☆ ─────────

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liked by alex_albon, carmenmmundt, and 882,941 others yn.russell yeah okay YOU GOT US!!! guess i’m a bad liar too. best year ever with this one, love you @ alex_albon 

user20 oh my god obsessed with this!!!!!!! georgerussell63 Gross. ♥ liked by author ⤷ alex_albon sorry mate :-/ ⤷ georgerussell63 You’re lucky you make her happy! ⤷ yn.russell love you georgie porgieeeee user21 i knew it was yn in that pap photo !!!! the outfit was so chic ♥ liked by author user22 neeeeeed to know george’s reaction ⤷ yn.russell generational crashout tbh ⤷ georgerussell63 It was warranted!!!  user23 ALEX ALBON??? ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE??? kimi.antonelli Finally! Now I do not have to keep the secret anymore ♥ liked by author ⤷ georgerussell63 YOU KNEW? ⤷ yn.russell careful what you say kimi, he’s gonna force you to sit through the powerpoint presentation on betrayal too user24 ive only had alexyn for five minutes but if anything happens to them i will kill everyone in this room and myself alex_albon i love you so much :-) ♥ liked by author ⤷ yn.russell SIMP 🤣🫵 (i love you more actually)

[checkeredflagggs]

Left Behind, Together

Pairing: arthur leclerc x verstappen!sister

summary: when their older brothers forget about them, the younger (and better) lestappen find each other

a/n: this came together from the video of arthur being left behind at his brothers wedding then posting an instagram with the caption “simply lovely”

a/n2: thanks @sinofwriting for helping flesh this out ☀️

Masterlist

yn_verstappen

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, victoriaverstappen and 928,283 others

yn_verstappen: Barcelona I love you ❤️

view all comments

user1: we love you too!!

↳user2: best verstappen!

↳yn_verstappen: 😘💋mwah mwah liked by user1, user2

georgerussell63: your brother crashed into me?

↳yn_verstappen: so?

↳user3: sis really just said not my problem 😂

↳yn_verstappen: 💅

↳georgerussell63: really?

↳yn_verstappen: don’t hate us because you ain’t us

user4: ok but where did you get that jacket in the fourth pic? I need

↳yn_verstappen: I blew up Christian’s phone until he had one made for me

↳user5: She is an icon. She is the moment

↳yn_verstappen: 🫰🫰

landonorris: no congratulations for me?

↳yn_verstappen: ummm why?

↳landonorris: I got second?

↳yn_verstappen: awwww does little Lando Norris want a gold star???

↳landonorris: actually yes I would

↳yn_verstappen: too bad — I don’t support orange

↳landonorris: papaya*

↳landonorris: and the orange army?

↳yn_verstappen: I don’t support UGLY orange

Bluesky

user6: wow he was quick to leave…

↳user7: I’d want to get away from Barcelona as well — that race wasn’t it…

user8: fast on track, fast in the air

user9: ummm is it just me or is yn still at the track?

user10: imagine being max right now…

↳user11: what do you mean?

↳user12: what?

↳user10: yn is still at the track in Barcelona - she’s was just caught on camera for Sky sports

↳user10: and max’s plane has already left

↳user11: uh oh 😰

yn_verstappen: ummm what???

↳user13: sorry queen but you’ve been forgotten…

↳yn_verstappen: 😢😢

Private Messages, Max and yn

Call Logs, yn’s phone

Bluesky

user14: you really did forget her didn’t you??

↳maxverstappen1: helpful comments only

user15: honestly this is something I thought the Leclerc’s would do — not max…

↳maxverstappen1: don’t even

↳user16: well maybe if you hadn’t left your sister behind in a different country??

↳user17: ohhhh drag him

yn_verstappen: hey charles_leclerc are you looking for a new sibling? A brand ambassador? Apparently I’m up for grabs

↳user18: ohhhhh trading in max for his work husband??

↳maxverstappen1: zusje please

↳charles_leclerc: let’s talk ❤️

↳maxverstappen1: no

↳yn_verstappen: when i (eventually) make it back to Monaco!

↳maxverstappen1: the jet is still at the airport, please zusje

user19: make him work for it girl!

↳yn_verstappen: you know it

↳maxverstappen1: whatever you want

user20: this wasn’t on my bingo card for the season but lord is it hilarious

↳user21: right?

↳user22: pulling out the popcorn 🍿

↳maxverstappen1: none of you will ever be allowed in the paddock again

Bluesky

user23: oh to be a millionaire’s sister…

↳user24: right?? Like when do I get my car when my brother leaves me in another country…

user25: you just know that this was yn’s car choice

↳user26: like max would ever buy her a Ferrari

↳user27: especially after she asked to be Charles’ new brand ambassador for Lec

user28: I’m thanking yn for her service — something about this season needs to be interesting and it’s certainly not the racing

↳user29: you can say that again

yn: ohhhh thank you!

↳maxverstappen1: call me

↳yn: maybe

user30: ohhhh a name change!

↳maxverstappen1: not for long

↳yn: that’s what you think

charles_leclerc: a good choice

↳maxverstappen1: I’m going to use it to run you over. Go away

↳yn: ignore him Charles — it is a very good choice!

user31: oh to be yn with both max and Charles wrapped around her fingers liked by yn

↳user32: it’s even funnier because this is like the first time Charles has responded to her posts?

↳user32: Like he’s been singularly obsessed with max for years — he hasn’t interacted with either of the Verstappen sisters…

Private Messages, Charles and Arthur

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 728,283 others

f1gossip: Fans spotted Arthur today in Monaco after his brother’s wedding! According to the source video, Arthur was seen walking around and looking for something before he followed this car around the corner to get in.

view all comments

user36: Arthur!

user37: god he looks good today

user38: that was not the car Charles drove today??

↳user39: what?

↳user38: Charles drove Arthur and Alexandra to the wedding today and it wasn’t in this car

user40: ok but makes it look like he’s lost??

↳user41: it really does!

↳user42: did Charles forget about him??

↳user43: oh my god he did…

user44: ok what is with the drivers forgetting their siblings this year??

↳user50: this is one of the funniest things to come from this season…

↳user51: very very true

user52: and if i say that looks like yn’s new car?

↳user53: I’d say you’re right!

user54: crossover of the century

yn

liked by maxverstappen1, scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc, and 2,822,814 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, lec, scuderiaferrari

yn: new team, new colors and an ice cream approved by both me and Jonny!

view all comments

user33: oh red definitely suits you

↳yn: I know 💅

charles_leclerc: thanks for such a glowing review!

↳yn: I know how to appreciate a good thing!

↳maxverstappen1: how many times do I need to say I’m sorry?

user34: ok but sis works fast? Like how on earth did she get so many good Ferrari jackets and pictures with them?

↳yn: oh I’m just that good!

↳user34: you definitely need to tell us your ways

↳yn: a lady never reveals her secrets!

alex_albon: is it just Ferrari or do you do other promos?

↳maxverstappen1: race winners only. Go away

↳yn: if I can work with horsey and lily, any time!

↳lilymhe: 💋💋

danielricciardo: I’ve got some enchanté merch with your name on it

↳maxverstappen1: you’ve peacefully retired. Let’s keep it that way

↳yn: Danny Ric just name the time and place

jensonbutton: looking good yn!

↳maxverstappen1: she only works with people from Monaco or people with more world championships than me. Move on

↳yn: see you at Silverstone!

lewishamilton: so yn, interested in repping some 44?

↳maxverstappen1: 33 is the best repeating number

↳maxverstappen1: let’s look elsewhere old man

↳yn: don’t be rude max! Dm me Lewis!

user35: girl signals she’s not representing her brother anymore and suddenly she’s overflowing with offers… liked by yn

↳maxverstappen1: she’s still an ambassador for me. She’s just…expanding her portfolio

arthur_leclerc

liked by yn, charles_leclerc, user, and 293,723 others

tagged: apmmonaco

arthur_leclerc: simply lovelyyy

view all comments

user55: this is messy af

↳user56: no no no this is funny af

yn: it is lovely!

↳arthur_leclerc: right?

user57: ok countdown to the Charles meltdown?

↳user58: minutes

user59: imagine forgetting your sibling then watch them start supporting a different driver…

↳user60: I didn’t have that on my bingo card but it’s weird that it happened twice, right??

charles_leclerc: what is this??

↳yn: a lovely post!

↳user61: girl you are messy af liked by yn

user62: the continuous drama of chaotic f1 drivers…

Private Messages, Charles and Enzo

Private Messages, Victoria and Max

yn

liked by maxverstappen1, lewishamilton, charles_leclerc, and 1,824,283 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, lewishamilton

yn: all my favorites together ♥️💋🏎️

view all comments

user63: hey! These are also all my favs

user64: imagine being max right now - left your sister behind and now she’s cheering for his childhood rival and the cause of his 2021 nightmares

↳maxverstappen1: blocked

charles_leclerc: I’m honored

↳yn: go get ‘em leclerc!

↳maxverstappen1: do not

redbullracing: this is fine 😭 everything is ok 😢

↳yn: sorry but I needed someone who will choose me first…

↳scuderiaferrari: we’ll treat you right

lewishamilton: ❤️❤️

↳yn: 🥰🥰

↳maxverstappen1: no

user65: still choosing chaos i see

↳yn: always

scuderiaferrari: you make red look goooood 🫰

↳yn: oh admin you’re gonna make me blush ☺️

↳scuderiaferrari: even more red!

maxverstappen1: zusje please

↳yn: maybe

↳maxverstappen1: thank you

Bluesky

user66: looking good!

user67: oh to be her…

user68: and if I say that’s not her jacket?

↳user69: I’d say explain??

↳user70: that’s a team exclusive leather jacket — only members of the team were offered a chance to buy it

↳user71: oh my god that’s fantastic

user72: am I crazy if I say…Arthur?

↳user73: only slightly. there’s a pretty good chance that she was the one to pick Arthur up after Charles forgot him…

user74: I love everything about this

Private Messages: Charles and Arthur, Max and yn

Private Messages, Charles and Arthur

Private Messages, Max and yn

Private Messages, Max and Victoria

Bluesky

user75: Lestappen (the younger) truthers rise!

user76: wait I love this?

user77: ok but these 2 together just make sense??

↳user78: no I see the vision — I sense the vibes

user79: oh I just know they’re gonna be so happy together

user80: the way we all knew it was Arthur and yn…

↳user81: oh absolutely

Bluesky

user82: max what is that disguise??

↳user83: is he trying to be subtle?

user84: is he…spying on his sister??

↳user85: oh my god that’s hilarious

↳user86: he’s such a weirdo /affectionate

user87: ok but I can’t wait for yn to see this…

↳yn: oh you definitely don’t have to wait long…

↳user87: ok queen if you need an alibi I’ve got you

↳yn: we’ll see

user88: ok who’s making it out alive? Max or Arthur?

↳user89: imma say Arthur cause I know yn has the feral energy to her

↳yn: you would be correct

↳user90: which one?

↳yn: yes

Private Messages, the Verstappens

arthur_leclerc

liked by yn, logansargeant, oscarpiastri, and 284,283 others

tagged: yn

arthur_leclerc: maybe we should thank our brothers for forgetting about us?

view all comments

yn: no

↳arthur_leclerc: if you say so, chérie!

↳user91: oh you’re already down so bad

user92: this is the bad boss bitch and down bad boyfriend representation I want

↳yn: hell yeah!

↳arthur_leclerc: umm you’re welcome?

↳yn: more enthusiasm please

↳arthur_leclerc: YOURE WELCOME

↳user92: so down bad…

user93: love the sibling shade here!

↳yn: they know what they did

↳pierregasly: do they?

↳yn: …max knows what he did

maxverstappen1: congratulations

maxverstappen1: seriously yn?

maxverstappen1: ok

maxverstappen1: name your price zusje

↳yn: we’ll see

charles_leclerc: WHAT???

Private Messages, Enzo Charles and Arthur

Taglist

If you want to join my taglist, interact with my taglist post. I won’t be adding anyone else

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[theemporium]

hello hello! could i request a wyatt johnston blurb? could be about absolutely anything, playoffs have me in a wyatt chokehold and there aren’t enough wyatt blurbs out there

thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

In theory, the whole thing was really romantic. 

Wyatt didn’t want to toot his own horn or anything, but even his sister was pleasantly surprised by his idea when he had told her over the phone the other day during his car ride back from the rink. 

He did nice things for you, obviously. It wasn’t as though he didn't put the effort into your relationship. But nice things didn’t always equal romance. And despite the way Thomas liked to tease him, Wyatt was fully capable of wooing you and sweeping you off your feet, even after a year of being together.

The romance in your relationship was far from dead and Wyatt was going to prove it.  

The issue was that it was just that—romantic in theory. Not in practice. 

Which was exactly how Wyatt ended up being caught red-handed in the living room of your apartment  with two large and suspicious looking bags in his hands whilst you stood in the doorway, baseball bat in hand and looking very frazzled. 

Wyatt blinked. “Were you gonna hit me with that?” 

“Yes,” you said incredulously. “I thought you were a burglar.” 

“Oh,” Wyatt replied, glancing down at the bags in his hands and the all-black outfit he had dawned for the plan. “Well, I don’t think burglars bring things into the house.”

You shot him a look.

“I also don’t think they tend to target apartment complexes. That feels like extra work.”

“Wyatt,” you interrupted, sounding just as exhausted as you looked—though, maybe he was biased in thinking you still looked cute in your frazzled state. “It’s three in the fucking morning. Why are you breaking into my apartment?”

“It’s not really breaking in if I used the key you gave me,” Wyatt pointed out before flashing you a sheepish smile. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“By giving me a heart attack before I turn thirty?” You countered. 

“That wasn’t a part of the plan,” he said with a sigh as he placed the bags down, frowning a little. “It went way better in my head. It was gonna look all nice and you had tomorrow off and I thought we could just spend some time together since I’ve had roadies most of the month and—”

You cut the boy off as you finally lowered the bat, closing the distance between you as you gently cupped his face. “You’ll be the death of me, I swear.”

“In a good way, right?” He asked, his cheeks pink and flushed.

“The best way,” you assured him, pressing a lingering kiss on his lips. “Now, please put down the bags and come to bed. You can give me another near heart attack in the morning.”

He beamed back at you. “Deal, baby.”

.

[harrysfolklore]

omg omg what about the norris reaction to lando and russel sister finally getting together? maybe lando just brings her home

i know i should be writing new fics but i just love the future wife babies so much i'm sorry

"So," Lando says casually as he pulls into his parents' driveway, "I may have forgotten to mention something to them."

You turn to him suspiciously. "What did you forget to mention?"

"That we're... you know..." he gestures vaguely between you.

"That we're dating?" you raise an eyebrow. "Lando!"

"I wanted to tell them in person!" he defends. "And I knew if I told mum over the phone she'd get too excited and spoil the surprise."

You're about to respond when two figures burst out of the front door.

"YN!" Cisca and Flo, Lando's little sisters practically tackle you the moment you step out of the car. "We didn't know you were coming!"

"Can't breathe," you laugh as they squeeze you.

"Let her go, you animals," Lando tries to pull you away, but his sisters just incorporate him into the group hug.

"Shut up, you're ruining the moment," Flo says, then freezes. "Wait. Why are you two arriving together?"

Cisca gasps, pulling back to look between you. "No way."

Lando takes your hand, grinning. "Way."

The resulting screech makes you wince.

"FINALLY!" they yell in unison.

"Mum!" Flo shouts toward the house. "MUM! COME QUICK! IT HAPPENED!"

"What happened?" Cisca (senior) appears in the doorway, then spots your joined hands. Her face lights up like Christmas came early. "Oh! OH!"

Suddenly you're being crushed in another hug, this time with Lando's mum joining the pile.

"Can't... breathe..." Lando wheezes.

"Hush," his mum says. "Let me enjoy this moment I've been waiting for since you were sixteen."

"Has everyone just been waiting for this?" Lando asks incredulously when they finally release you.

"Bro," Flo pats his head condescendingly, "you've been obsessed with YN since you got your braces off. We've all been waiting for you to get your shit together."

"Language," their mum scolds automatically, but she's beaming too much for it to have any effect.

"I was not obsessed," Lando protests.

"You were, sweetheart," Cisca says lovingly, "Now everyone come in, Dad needs to see this," she urges you all into the house, "Adam! Adam, come quick! It finally happened!"

"What finally happened?" Lando's dad appears from the kitchen, then grins when he sees your joined hands. "Ah. About time, son."

"I know!" Lando's mom yelps, "he's been calling her your future wife since they were sixteen. It was about time."

You bite back a laugh at Lando's embarrassed expression.

"Mum!"

"What? It's true! Oh, this is wonderful," she beams. "When did it happen? How did it happen? Tell me everything! I'll get champagne!"

"Mum, it's just dinner..."

"Just dinner?" Cisca looks scandalized. "My baby boy finally got together with the love of his life and you think it's just dinner?"

"Love of his..." you turn to Lando, who's bright red. "Something you want to tell me?"

"Later," he mumbles. "When my mum isn't trying to embarrass me to death."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Flo waves him off. "YN knows all about how you feel. Remember when you were seventeen and you wrote that speech about—"

"FLO!"

"What speech?" you ask, delighted.

"Nothing!" Lando says quickly. "Absolutely nothing!"

"It was very sweet," Cisca, Lando's sister, tells you. "He practiced it for weeks but never actually gave it to you. Something about how your eyes were like stars and your smile was brighter than—"

"Please stop," Lando groans, hiding his face in your neck. "I'm begging you."

You wrap an arm around him, trying not to laugh. "I think it's cute."

"You do?" he peeks up at you.

"Very cute," you confirm.

"Stop putting Lando on the spot, girls," Adam says fondly. "Come on, dinner's getting cold."

"Speaking of dinner," Cisca links her arm through yours, leading you to the dining room, "when are you two thinking about getting married? Because I have some ideas for the reception and—"

"Mum!" Lando protests. "We've only been dating three weeks!"

"So? You've been in love with her for a decade."

"I hate this family," Lando mutters, but he's smiling as he takes your other hand.

"No you don't," you squeeze his fingers. "You love us."

His expression softens. "Yeah, I do."

Dinner is a chaotic affair, with Lando's sisters taking turns telling increasingly embarrassing stories about his teenage pining ("I did not pine!"), his mum pulling out baby photos ("Mum, please!"), and his dad occasionally chiming in with helpful additions.

"I'm so sorry," Lando whispers as you help clear the dishes. "I should have warned you they'd be like this."

"I think it's sweet," you kiss his cheek.

"And romantic!" Flo chimes in, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. "Like that time he spent three hours making you a Valentine's card—"

"Which you never actually gave her," Cisca (junior) adds, popping up from the other side.

"Do you two just materialize whenever there's a chance to embarrass me?" Lando groans.

"Yes," they say in unison.

"It's our sisterly duty," Flo declares solemnly.

"Sorry about them," Lando says quietly, leading you out to the garden where the evening air is cool and the fairy lights his mum keeps up year-round cast a soft glow. "They can be... a lot."

"I love them," you say softly, letting him pull you close. "They love you so much."

He tucks his face into your neck, arms wrapping around your waist. "They love you too. Always have."

You run your fingers through his curls, feeling him relax against you. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Just... overwhelmed, I guess. In a good way."

"Because of all the embarrassing stories?"

He laughs softly. "Because of how right this feels. You, here, with my family. With me."

Your heart melts a little. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft in the dim light. "I've wanted this for so long, YN. Sometimes I still can't believe it's real."

"It's real," you assure him, touching his cheek. "I'm here. We're here."

His smile is a bit wobbly. "I know I've been kind of a mess tonight..."

"You've been perfect," you cut in. "Embarrassing teenage stories and all."

"God," he groans, but he's smiling. "I really was obvious, wasn't I?"

"Apparently," you tease. "Though I wish I'd known about that speech you wrote..."

"Never speaking of that again," he declares, but his eyes are bright. "Though... maybe I could tell you some of it now?"

"Yeah?"

He takes a shaky breath, pulling you closer. "I love you. Have done since we were kids. Will do for the rest of my life, probably."

"Probably?" you raise an eyebrow.

"Definitely," he corrects, touching his forehead to yours. "Always."

You kiss him softly, feeling him smile against your lips.

"I love you too," you whisper. "Teenage pining and all."

"I did not pine!"

"Sure, baby," you laugh. "Whatever you say."

He grumbles but pulls you closer, swaying slightly in the quiet garden.

And maybe his family is watching from the window, and maybe there are more embarrassing stories to come, but right now it's just you and him and the fairy lights and a love that's been growing since you were teenagers.

It's perfect.

[leclercandcozy]

Monaco’s Busiest Flower Shop ╰┈➤ LN4

summary: when lando norris keeps coming into your flower shop, you’re determined to figure out why he needs that many orders.

[word count] 6.1k

warnings: strangers to friends to lovers | flower shop owner! reader | fluff | humor | obvious and some not so obvious pining | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: hello!!! and welcome to my very first formula one fic 🙌🏻 I’ve been writing nhl fics for years now and i’ve decided it’s finally time to dip my toe into some new media! hope any devoted f1 readers and/or my previous followers take their time to check this out.

🎶 say you love me by fleetwood mac, message in a bottle by taylor swift + don’t dream it’s over by crowded house

lando norris has never been too fond about the smell of flowers.

it's not that there's anything wrong with the floral scent—it's just definitely, absolutely not for him. there's something about that light, almost crisp musty smell that rubs lando the wrong way.

or maybe it's perhaps what he associates with those smells. red roses? his primary school principal who very clearly had it out for lando. daisies? the single flower he picked for his 1st grade crush, and she threw the petals back in his face as some sort of childish rejection. lilies? his late grandmothers funeral. morbid, yes, but true.

so to say he was dreading walking into this monaco floral shop was an understatement. it's painted a pastel peach, windowsills just a few shades darker so that they stand out from the brick. not that you can really see them though, not with the abundance of flowers in the hanging window baskets.

lando has already passed the store twice in procrastination. the first time he claimed he needed a coffee from the cafe across the street—because if he had to go in a flower shop, he at least needed some caffeine to serve as a pick me up while he did so.

the second time—okay, well, the second time he didn't have a valid excuse. lando simply just kept trucking by like the peach coloured brick wasn't flashing at him. taunting him with its happy colour and girly smell.

it's just...it's his elderly neighbours birthday. his elderly neighbour who he adores and who always bakes cookies for him, and lando won't be home to wish her well because of traveling. and she loves flowers. lando knows this because they're always on her counter, and he can smell peonies on her clothes anytime she stops by for milk, pinching lando's cheek while she calls him adorable.

so he knows he has to do this. his displeasure towards the arrangements be damned. lando tells himself to man the hell up and do this one nice thing for the sweet woman across the hall.

lando inhales strongly, collecting as much monaco sea air as possible before entering the shop. the wooden door creaks as he pushes it open, and instantly lando is hit with a million pollen and petal particles.

"fuckin' hell." he mumbles to himself, voice barley audible as his green eyes trail around the shop. with something similar to a grimace on his face, lando takes in the overgrown space. flowers fill every available space, making it almost impossible for a normal folk—or clueless folk—like him to navigate through.

lando takes a step, and the floorboards groan under his weight, giving away how worn and aged this place is. it's been a flower shop for as long as lando has lived in monaco, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder how long before too. surely, years based on the way that the smell so practically oozing from the light blue striped wallpaper.

wallpaper he can barley see, mind you, due to the wall of roses.

"is there something I can help you find?"

lando blinks, head snapping away from a bright yellow bundle of...some kind of flower, and towards the direction of your voice.

there's a section of teal counter, an old fashioned register and company cards sitting on top, and that's where you are. you've got on a apron that's the same peach colour as the bricks outside. and your hair’s pulled back in an effortless kind of way, and lando already knows that you smell like the flowers all around.

he swallows roughly and blinks again.

you smile, almost in amusement, and that's when he realizes that he's been stroking a flower petal like a muppet. "sorry, yeah, actually."

lando weaves through the various display tables until he's at the counter. up close, he's able to get a proper look at you, and his mouth goes dry at the sight. you're ridiculously beautiful. like other worldly kind of beautiful that would make even the most charismatic and charming men fall to their knees.

also known as him.

lando pushes through the sudden school boy nerves that are threatening to climb up his throat, sending you a boyish—yet confident—grin. "I want to send my neighbour flowers for her birthday, but i've got no clue about flowers."

you hum, "okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"

he sends you a sheepish look, palms flat on the counter top. "all of them."

you giggle and lando swears he could faint at the sound.

"all of them?"

"yeah," he nods, "I swear that lady is like a bloody flower enthusiast. she's always got them on her island." lando pauses, a smile pulling at his lips, "and her windowsill. and her balcony. and her bedroom surely."

your fingers drum along the counter in thought. lando notes that your nails are painted a pink. it reminds him of the monaco sunset.

"and how old is said neighbour."

he blows out a breath and then grins cheekily, "elderly."

"i'd go with something classic," you tell him after a moment. you reach for a binder tucked between the register and the wall. it's blue and decorated with uniformed stickers and sharpie notes. you flip it open, swiping through a few sheets.

you point to a flower lando has never heard of, but he leans in and looks like he understands anyways. maybe—just a possibility—he was doing it so he could be closer to you. and yup, you smell like a flower field.

"i'd also throw some carnation in there. it's a classic flower for a piece. and beautiful."

lando's eyes dart away from the book and meet yours. they're swimming with passion and eagerness. it's cute, and lando can't help but to smile like a lunatic—teeth on full display. "I trust you, do whatever you think will make her happy."

your smile widens, "what's your budget."

he purses his lips. he hasn't really even thought about it. how much do flowers even cost? a beat passes, "don't have one."

your eyes widen briefly before you manage to control yourself. you're well aware that monaco is full of rich and wealthy people—even if you're not familiar with every single face that walks into your shop—but hearing those words never fails to suprise you.

flowers are expensive, and someone as clueless about flowers as the man in front of you seems to be, would have no idea.

"okay, that's great." you grab a form from behind the counter and then reach for a pen. you click the top a few times, the sound audible over the radio playing softly in the background. "when do you want the flowers to arrive?"

he tells you the date and you neatly write it down.

"and what's the name of the recipient?"

repeat.

"and the name of the sender?" you question after jotting down the previous answer. your eyes flicker up towards his green ones, a hint of personal curiosity in your gaze.

he takes his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to contain the embarrassing grin wanting to take over his face. "lando."

"lando." you repeat.

"and your name?"

the pen in your hand almost falls away, your eyes quickly finding his once more. "y/n." you tell him timidly, warmth collecting high on your cheeks as he repeats your name, slowly, like he's testing out how it sounds.

his eyes don't stray from yours, gaze tense and fond in a way that makes you positively squirm. you clear your throat, ball tip of the pen hitting the paper once more. "and the address?"

lando recites his neighbours address with ease, and you write down it just as quick. you question him on a few more basic things; phone number for contact purposes, if he’d like a card with the arrangement, and if so what he’d like to say, and you even asked him what day he’d prefer for delivery.

he asks if you do the deliveries, and you get warm again—lando wants to bathe in the pink of your cheeks. you tell him you have a driver who does it for you.

after he signs his name on the form, you take it back from him, moving towards the register between you. it’s silent for moment while you presumably log in, nails tapping rhythmically on the screen while you do so.

“can't make her birthday?”

your question has lando momentarily confused, brows pulled tight. it’s only when you raise an eyebrow in silent amusement that lando remembers who he’s getting the arrangement for—and why he’s here in the first place.

“oh, right,” he swallows roughly, “no I can't, i'm traveling for work.”

you hum and shoot him a curious glance. “what do you do for work?”

he laughs once and breathy, eyes falling down towards the floorboards for a few moments. once he meets your gaze again, he notes that you haven’t look away—and you look more intrigued than before.

lando grins, “you're not going to believe me if I tell you.”

“are you putting on some kind of mysterious act?” your fingers halt on the screen—hovering over the baby breath button—and you squint hesitantly.

“depends?” he hisses through his teeth, “is it working?”

“I suppose so,” you breathe a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, eyes darting away before quickly darting back to his. “i'm definitely curious now.”

“wasn't before?”

you kiss your teeth to keep a fond smile from blossoming on your face. you’ve dealt with flirty customers before, obviously, but there’s something about the curly haired, gap toothed smiley one in front of you now that has you actually flustered.

you decide to not answer right away, clicking a few more flowers on your computer for the order print. finally, after what feels like an eternity for lando, you answer.

“you're cheeky,” you muse.

he’s still grinning. “it's a part of my charm.”

you bark a laugh, “I bet it is.”

the door creaks open, breaking whatever trance the both of you had been in. a customer, a few years older than you, walks in causally—moving towards some daffodils you’d potted this morning.

you clear your throat, looking away from lando’s green gaze, and back towards the till. he watches you click a few more buttons and type some codes in—and then the printer is whirling to life.

the customer picks a bouquet and moves to wait behind lando.

his heart pings at the time being interrupted.

“i'll just take your card information then,” you say promptly, “my machine takes a picture of it for billing, if that’s okay with you?”

lando slides his credit card over the counter, “yeah, sure. thank you.” he watches as you carefully take his card—like it’s made of gold—and place it on some fancy machine lando couldn’t even attempt to dissect. it makes a few clicking sounds, presumably capturing the information, and then you pass it back to him.

“all right, you're all set.” your fingers brush his when lando takes it back.

“I appreciate this.” lando shoots a glance over his shoulder once the guy starts impatiently tapping his foot. and look at that—he’s suddenly got the urge to punch out your next customer!! without hesitation, lando looks back at you, continuing like nothing. “I think I would've been completely lost without you.”

you grin, smoothing down the front of your apron like a nervous habit. “we'll, it is my job.”

“you're good at it,” he compliments with an earnest smirk.

it makes you laugh awkwardly, absentmindedly reaching out to straighten up the stack of local business pamphlets. you keep them there for weddings as it helps local venues get recognition. “i'm not sure one could really be good at taking information for a floral arrangement,” you mumble modestly.

“well I think you're great.” lando answers quickly.

the guy behind him clears his throat and lando has to stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull.

you smile politely and lando, despite the annoyance for the douche waiting in line, follows suit, his own toothy grin reappearing. “i'll be seeing you, y/n.”

—

almost a month passes before you see lando again. despite the hopes of him walking back through the front door of your flower shop again, you didn’t believe the day would come.

but here he is, clad in a branded sweatshirt and shorts with his curly hair all unruly like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way over.

lando has some dignity, so he pretends to look very interested in the rose display before letting his eyes wander in search of you. yeah well, that whole self dignity thing lasts 20 seconds before his sights are set on you in your peach apron.

you can’t help but grin once you feel his gaze land upon you. like him, you also wanted to seem casual, so as soon as you realized it was him walking through your door, you reached for a book, and flipped it open to a random page in some attempt to appear scholarly.

you can’t even remember if this book is yours or the delivery guys.

“back for more flowers?” you ask, eyes flickering up to his approaching figure.

lando grins, “yeah.” no.

you close the book and put it back in the half dusty corner you found it. “the neighbour again?” you question, placing your palms flat against the counter.

he rubs the back of his neck. “not this time, but she loved them so much—sent me cookies as a thank you and everything.”

“i'm offended that you didn't bring me one,” you tease him quickly and easily, making lando’s stomach do that funny drop you get on a carnival ride.

you log into the register and lando laughs, answering you with an impressed raise to his eyebrows, “they barley lasted 10 minutes.”

you snicker at that. opening up a new order form in his file, you ask—“so who are these ones for?”

lando almost curses aloud. he really hadn’t thought this far ahead. when he woke up this morning he had a plan. he really did. despite the jet lag he’s still battling from three weeks of consistent travel paired with inconsistent sleep, lando was going to get up early and come visit your shop.

he was going to turn on his natural flirtatious side and ask you to dinner or something just as chivalrous—perhaps the new cocktail lounge that opened up just down the street from your shop.

but then you asked him with a pretty smile if he was back for more flowers and he just said yes without a second to process the question.

you wait patiently, fingers still—and now a bit longer and painted a sky blue—for his answer. an answer that’s taking a suspiciously long time for a person who supposedly came in here to but flowers.

lando clears his throat, “my...sister.”

“your sister?”

“yeah,” he nods, “it's her graduation.” she’s only in second year at uni, you idiot.

your eyebrows draw together with confusion.“in august?”

lando rubs along the back of his tanned neck once more, and you pick up that it must be an anxious habit. “yeah,” he winces, eyes trickling back to yours from where they briefly settled on the worn wood beneath his feet. “i'm a little late.”

“alright well,” you exhale, bringing out that same binder from last time. “let's do something simple, and something that says sorry for the late arrangement.” your teasing tone has lando smiling softly. you don’t catch it, too busy flipping through the pages in search of the flower you’d thought of it your head.

“yeah,” he breathes, “sounds great.”

you make a little trumpet noise when you find the poppies, letting lando choose between the variety of colours. he picks orange, says it’s his favourite, and you think that, oddly enough, it suits him.

you repeat the same process as before, and when you ask for a delivery address, lando just spews out his own. it’s not like you’d know anyways—besides, he can’t tell you that his sister actually lives in the UK and will not be receiving these flowers period.

so yeah, his address will do.

“okay, these will only take me 20 minutes tops. would you prefer delivery again? or would you like me to text you when they’re done and you can come pick them up?”

lando stutters for a moment, the excitement that settles in his chest at the thought of seeing you again today almost too much for him to bear. “I’ll come back, if that’s okay with you?”

you grin with half amusement, “i’m definitely okay with that.” you print the order form and grab it from the printer once it’s finished up. “I’ll text your number on file when they’re done.”

and before he can’t say anything else, lando just smiles dreamily, “please.”

when you do text him 30 minutes later, he returns to the shop almost immediately after, a cheeky grin on his face and two takeaway cups of coffee in his hands, you can’t help but to accept one. it takes him another 20 minutes before he leaves again, both of you too distracted with learning about one another to notice the passing time.

—

a week and many daydreams of lando walking through the front door of the store later, does he actually walk into the shop. he's gotten a hair cut since the last time you saw him. it's neater, but still got that messy look that makes him look like the main love interest in a early 2000s rom com.

lando’s got a container in one hand and a smile on his face. unlike last time, he doesn’t even glance at the flowers, and instead makes a beeline right for you.

you’re fussing over some sunflowers that are beginning to wilt in a large mosaic vase set out in front of the large window—giving the shop most of the sunlight you crave.

“you're back,” you note, eyes closing in to the tupperware in his large hand. “and you've got...are those cookies?” you turn away from the flowers, gently crossing your arms just as lando comes to a stop.

he grins proudly, “I saved you some this time.”

the brief conversation about homemade cookies from his elderly neighbour crosses your mind, and your eyes widen in recognition. “you didn't need to do that,” you scold kindly, not yet taking the container lando is gesturing out to you. “I was only playing,” you admit shyly.

“it's no big deal,” he shrugs, smile growing once you timidly take the clear container that holds four cookies. “plus, it's a thank you for all your help.”

“well,” you laugh once as you walk towards the counter, placing the cookies down next to the register before turning back to lando. he’s not near the sunflowers like you expected. no, he’s followed you to the counter.

you smile shyly, “thank you for the treat.” lando runs his hand over his sweatshirt—it’s a chiller morning in monaco, oddly enough—and mumbles some kind of compliment.

your cheeks heat anyways. “have you only come here to bring me these?” you squint inquisitively after a beat passes, eyeing lando.

“what?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, leaving him no choice but to awkwardly clear his throat. “no.” yes. “I had to be in the area.” no he really didn’t. “met up with a friend for coffee,” oh did he now? “told him all about your shop.”

his awful lies are all worth it the second an appreciative look flashes over your face. “did you?”

“I did,” lando swallows roughly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “he said he'd have to check it out.”

your lips part, but the shrill noise of the mint green phone attached to the wall ringing stops whatever words you planned to say. you look away from the phone and back to lando, sending him a guilty smile. “duty calls. excuse me.”

he watches you round behind the counter and answer the phone. lando’s not too sure why he sticks around for the phone call to finish up. maybe it’s the way he’s too entranced watching you in your element to leave, or maybe because he still hasn’t asked you out, and was planning to do it today before the phone started to ring. lando’s not quite sure.

regardless, he’s still there once you’ve finished the call, and you send him a look. “everything okay?”

lando blinks, “I also came because I need another flower arrangement.” he wonders if you can actually smell the bullshit coming form his mouth.

“oh!” you emote, “really?”

“yeah, my race engineer is getting married.” no lando, actually, your race engineer has been married for 10 years.

your eyes flash, “race engineer huh? you work with cars?” you question while bringing up his file.

“something like that.”

you smile, nodding your head slowly like you don’t quite believe him. lando almost wants to shrink in on himself and hide from your gaze—but that means he wouldn’t be able to look at you, and that sounds downright dreadful.

“alright, well, let me get something together then.”

—

four days before lando needs to leave for the british grand prix, he's walking back through the front door of the peach painted brick building.

it's not like you were expecting him or anything, but you're not surprised when the door creaks open and you catch sight of a familiar head of curls. what does surprise you though is the two men he's with—you presume they are his friends.

your curious and intrigued eyes catch lando's. despite the smile he sends your way, you can see something that looks a lot like embarrassment coupled with annoyance twisted within his expression.

his friends though? they couldn't look further from annoyed if they tried. both tall men who look around lando's age, scan your overgrown floral shop with wide eyes and amused grins.

"hello." you swallow thickly as their gazes land on you. your body naturally wants to freeze in place, especially when lando's friends somehow grow more smug and excited at the sight of you.

"y/n, hi." lando speaks first, his greeting coming out in one long breathe of relief—like physically seeing you now is allowing him to finally exhale.

"hello," the one who previously stood on lando's left greets you, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes you heat up. you note that he's got a similar accent to lando. the guy leans against the counter—not intimidating, but rather casual—"so, you own this place, right? do your own arrangements?"

"I do," you nod, already itching to reach for your binder just to look busy. your eyes narrow, "do you need an arrangement?"

"I actually do," he says, inspecting one of your business cards next to the register. his eyes flicker back to yours, "it's my girlfriend and I's anniversary, so i'd like to get a few big arrangements."

the other friend walks up next to the other one, a wide smile of his face. he's got the same accent—you wonder if they all grew up together. "lando hasn't stopped talking about you and this place for weeks. and when george here mentioned his anniversary, we just knew we had to come see what all the hype was about."

your eyes flicker towards lando, who has now come to stand beside his two friends. lando's cheeks heat and his eyes briefly meet the floor like they've done many times in your shop.

"is that so?" you ask the nameless friend, a slight teasing tone to your voice that has lando grinning automatically. when he looks back up, his eyes naturally lock with yours.

he sends you a meek smile and it doesn't go unnoticed by his friends, the two giving one another a look as you return the gesture.

"don't listen to these muppets," lando grumbles, "they've been in one too many crashes."

you let out a quiet laugh, fiddling with the pocket of your peach apron. you force your eyes away from lando's familiar ones and back to george—or so you think the other one called him. "I've got a form to go over with you, if you'd actually like to place an order."

george smiles appropriately, "yes, thank you." like lando has seen you do before, you go through the entire process with george in a quick yet efficient manner, taking down his information and helping him pick out the florals for the two arrangements george plans on having delivered in two weeks time.

once it's all done and you've printed the order form, you turn your gaze back on lando, a half hidden smile instantly pulling on his lips as you do. "is there anything else I can help you guys with today?"

"i'm okay, thank you," his other friend grins and extends his large hand to you over the counter, "i'm alex."

you take his hand delicately and lando hates how a pang of jealousy hits his chest. alex is literally in a relationship you muppet. "y/n."

the process repeats with george, who makes some kind of lame joke that works in making you laugh in amusement. lando naturally shifts, practically shoving george out of the way so that he's the one closest to you instead.

"lando." you greet with a knowing smile, "are you getting anything today?"

"not today-"

alex interrupts before lando can continue further. "im sure he'll be back soon enough to place an order though," he knocks his shoulder into lando's teasingly, "he really loves your place."

"oh yeah, he really—"

"alright," lando smothers whatever annoying thing george was planning to add on to alex's comment. he sends both of his friends a warning look, "I'll meet you guys outside, yeah?"

the two of them snicker—alex even tosses his hands up in a mock surrender—while the two of them make their way back through the flower shop and in the direction of the door. before the door creaks back open to reveal the monaco skyline, both alex and george send you enthusiastic departures, followed by inaudible whispers and laughter.

silence fills the store once more. lando's face is still tinged red in a flustered and slightly embarrassed way, and it has a little giggle slipping from your lips.

lando's lips turn upwards immediately. "I'm sorry about them, again," he retorted his earlier apology. "they insisted on coming with me when I mentioned stopping by tonight."

well, not exactly the truth. in all honesty, george and alex had both grown sick and tired of hearing lando talk about you and your shop—constantly—and forced lando to bring them so they could see what all the fuss was about. on the way over to your shop, lando had made his friends promise to behave and not scare you away—because that's the last thing he needed.

but then they walked in, saw why lando was so fond of you, and all promises of good behaviour were left at the door.

"they're fine," you reassure truthfully, a small smile playing on your lips. "so there's really nothing for you today?"

lando ponders for a moment, lips pursed while his eyes dart around the shop. right next to the counter you've got a selection of pre-made arrangements, easy for grab and gos for last minute birthday dinners, and early morning stops. lando picks the one with the most orange and places it on the counter between you.

"i'll take these, actually."

your grin widens and in an attempt to conceal it, you duck your head, busying yourself with wrapping them in paper for departure.

after a beat, your gaze finds his once again, except this time, its swimming with hesitation and a pile of curiosity. you clear your throat, finishing the last fold on the arrangement, "so...are these for your girlfriend?"

lando's ears pick up the distaste and envy that laces your question, and his urge to smooth over the situation before you get the wrong idea comes automatically. "no,” he huffs, eyes searching yours, “no girlfriend here. if I did have one though, i'm not sure she'd appreciate how often I visit the nice pretty girl at the flower shop."

your eyes widen, “oh-wha-me?”

lando laughs softly while your shellshocked expression doesn’t waver. he palms the back of his neck, a teasing tinge to his tone. “you are the only one who works here, right?

“yes,” you breathe.

“then yes,” lando’s grin widens. “you.”

like clockwork, you duck your chin to hide your face and lando blushes—the two of you very much resembling nervous primary school children with crushes. we’ll, actually, that’s exactly what it feels like. and clearly, according to alex and george, it what it looks like as well.

lando pays for the orange flowers, and when you ask again who they’re for (this time), he just says one word: you.

lets just say, you keep them in the back office and grin like a manic anytime you go in there and catch sight of them.

—

after the whole buying flowers and gifting them to you exchange that happened two months ago, you never really expected to see lando again. well correction—you expected to see him, but you didn't expect him to keep buying arrangements.

oh, but did you ever assume incorrectly. sometimes it was twice a week he'd walk into your shop, a shy yet confident look to him while he ordered an arrangement for some random event—team dinners, galas or his mothers retirement party.

sometimes you wouldn't see him for three weeks. you didn't ask about his whereabouts—assuming he travels for work—but everytime without fail, his first day back in monaco, he'd come see you. smiling and with a pep in his step, always telling you in a quiet, intimate way that he missed you.

but that's all he says. much to your dismay, lando never asks you out. not to coffee or dinner or anything in between. it's gut wrenching, sure, and then you start overthinking every single interaction with lando. were you misreading the situation?

but then he'd come back all flirty and telling you he missed the smell of the shop and you'd think otherwise. plus, he keeps buying damn flowers.

so today when lando walks into your shop, you're determined to figure it all out—the flirting and the flowers and everything else that gets your heart thumping and mind wandering.

he waltzes right up to the counter that separates you from the rest of the shop, a cheeky smile on his face as he leans on top the counter with his elbows.

you raise a brow, “another arrangement?”

“you guessed it,” he smirks boyishly up at you.

you don’t move to grab the binder like you usually would, and that instantly has lando’s thick eyebrows furrowing. you continue to stare down at him, unamused. “who are these flowers for?”

lando blinks, stuttering while he tries to formulate some kind of plausible response. “ummmm...oscar.”

“who's oscar?”

“my friend.”

you make a noise, eyes narrowing in utter disbelief. “does oscar typically want flowers?”

much to your surprise, lando just shrugs a shoulder, and with his lips pursed, he tells you—“don't really know.”

you don’t answer. not right away. it’s now that you grab the sticker covered binder full of pages upon pages of different flowers, carefully flickering it open so that the cracked spine doesn’t obtain any further damage. you seem very calm, and that makes lando feel the complete opposite.

there’s something your eyes that has lando narrowing his gaze on you. you don’t look at him while you quickly and quietly fill out the information—after all, you’ve filled out enough of these for lando that you’ve got his damn phone number memorized.

finally, you turn your attention back to him. “and delivery adress?”

and it’s then. when lando easily recites that same adress he’s given you more times than you can count, does your curiosity come to a tilt. you softly drop the pen, “i've got a question lando.”

“yes?”

you kiss your teeth, “how come every single arrangement after the first one is being delivered to the same address?”

lando blinks a few times. swallows roughly twice. and then he lets out an awkward chuckle, finger absentmindedly stroking along a divet in the wood counter.

“would you believe me if I told you everyone I know all lives in the same place?” he grimaces, hopeful eyes twinkling with mischief.

your nose scrunches—half amused and half in confusion. “not too sure if i'd buy that.”

“no?”

“nope.” lando’s shoulders sag and an apologetic grin forms at your response. you let out a slow breath, crossing your arms over the apron lando has been dreaming about. he sees that peach colour everywhere now—it’s like a less than kind reminder of how badly he’s been fumbling you. for months now.

“you know you don't have to come in here and buy things all the time,” your voice is laced with masked disappointment, making lando frown. you continue softly, “it's okay if you want to just browse.”

“I don't want to browse.”

“oh?”

lando curses to himself, so softly that to you it simply sound like a heavy exhale. you wait patiently for his response, playing with your bottom lip between your teeth to keep any emotions at bay.

you watch with careful eyes as lando pushes off the counter, his back straightening. his eyes meet your again, and after a tension filled beat, he admits—“I really didn't like the smell of flowers, you know that?”

“i'm sorry to hear that,” your voice is cautious. confused. “why did you come here then?” a pause while your brain jogs with memories. “was the neighbour a real person or…?”

“shes real,” lando reassures you quickly, “and it was actually her birthday.”

“and the others?”

he takes a deep breath, and then finally, after months of months of practiced speeches in his bathroom mirror, and imagining this conversation while the country music you have playing in your shop plays through his headphones before a race, lando spews.

“my sister didn't graduate, no one was getting married and oscar is actually allergic to pollen.”

you complete idiot, he thinks. because instead of that clearing up any of your confusion—and why would it because what the hell?—lando’s words have only made your expression grow tighter. you blink, “so why'd you keep buying the flowers.”

“because of you.”

“me?”

okay, he thinks, this is it. it’s finally time.

lando’s plump lips part, “because I liked you or I still do.” he takes a deep breath, “like you.” when you don’t respond, he continues. “and I know that it's kind of crazy and i'm crazy and i disappear for weeks at a time and im flirty and have too much money to spend on floral arrangements for imaginary occasions…but I just wanted to come see you.”

“lando,” your shoulders drop, and lando’s heart does as well. is this rejection? has he been playing this weird, long game for months only to have misread the situation.

“you can kick me out,” he offers.

“no,” you shake your head softly, and the last thing lando’s sees is your shy smile before you lean over the expanse of the counter, and place a delicate kiss to his cheek. so close to the corner of his mouth that for a moment, lando’s knees go weak. “i'm not going to kick you out,” you promise as you drop back to your heels.

dazed and still reeling form the feeling of your soft mouth on his warm skin, lando can only manage to nod dumbly. “that's good.”

“and I like you too,” you grin, “and all your made up occasions.”

lando exhales with a wide smile, “that's really good.” and because he’s sure he’s finally got it right, lando takes his turn to lean over the teal painted counter, one large hand holding the side of your face while he brings his lips down to yours.

it’s not perfect in the sense of the movies, but it’s perfect for you and lando. you’re both grinning into it, making it hard to actual kiss like normal people, but somehow you still manage to capture one another’s mouths in fleeting, tender kisses.

you pull away after a few moments, a playful laugh passing through your kiss moistened lips. “you're a race car driver.”

lando blinks, forehead bumping your gently while his thumb strokes long your cheek. “huh?”

a giggle sounds between you and then your pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “that's your job.”

his eyebrows tug down towards his noise while an amused look crosses his face. “how'd you figure it out?”

“I googled you.”

he can’t help but to dip down and steal another kiss, muttering against your mouth—“cheeky girl.”

[julietsf1]

The Girl From APM - Arthur Leclerc x Reader

summary: They met at a gala. He was rude, she was done. It should’ve ended there. But the universe — and Charles Leclerc — had other plans (10.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, enemies to friends to lovers, a little tequila, a little lime, a lot of longing

AN: hi angels! sorry for my long disappearance! I've moved to a new apartment which I am so happy about!! lots of arrangements but now finally some time for myself again :) something different today as I saw Arthur Leclerc in front of the carrefour the other week and he looked ridiculously fine IRL oh my daaays!! also got a Charles, Lando and some other non F1 stories coming this week as well! LOVE YALL

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You are not from Monaco.

Not really.

Not in the sense that the locals are, born sun-kissed and fluent in four languages by the age of ten, moving through designer storefronts like it's church, and treating royalty like old classmates. But you're learning. Quickly. And you like to think you're not doing too badly.

It's been three months since you moved.

Three months since you folded yourself into this silken, surreal world like a note into an envelope, signing your new life with a hopeful little flourish.

And today, in particular, feels like a small reward. A golden ribbon of a day, stretching long and sun-soaked across the Riviera, where even the breeze feels curated. You walk along the harbor with Charles, a cone of hazelnut gelato in one hand and your sandals clicking softly along the cobblestones.

He’s already halfway through his second scoop. Some ridiculous mix of lemon and mango because “the sourness balances the sweet,” he claims, although he’s been grimacing through every bite.

“You’re so stubborn,” you laugh.

“And yet,” he says, dramatically licking the edge of the dripping gelato, “I persevere.”

You roll your eyes. “A true hero.”

Charles is easy company. Like a well-worn paperback -- familiar and beloved and a little bent at the edges. You met him during your second week at APM Monaco, at a luncheon for some of the brand’s key ambassadors, where he arrived late, still in race gear, and charmingly out of breath.

He’d called you la gentille tornade, the sweet tornado, after watching you glide between VIPs with an easy grace, all warm smiles and soft-spoken French.

Since then, he’s been something of a big brother. Always checking in, always offering advice. You don’t have many people like that here yet, and you treasure it.

You pause at the edge of the dock to admire a passing yacht. Charles follows your gaze.

“She’s beautiful, no?” he says, gesturing to the boat. But then, after a beat: “My brother would probably say it’s too flashy.”

You glance at him. “You have a brother?”

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Arthur. Younger. Taller. More moody.”

You laugh. “Oh, I think I saw something about that! Isn’t he joining APM too?”

Charles nods, but it’s subtle. A flicker of something crosses his face -- hard to catch unless you're looking for it. You are.

You tilt your head. “Is he also a driver, like you?”

And there it is. The pause. Not long, but long enough to feel it. The briefest stiffening of posture, the slight narrowing of eyes.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lighter than it was a second ago. “He is.”

You don’t press. You never do. Your whole life you’ve been the kind of person people tell things to without realizing they’ve said too much which means you’ve also learned when not to ask.

So instead, you offer a bright smile and lick your gelato. “Well, I hope he likes French television galas.”

Charles snorts. “That's this week already isn't it?”

You nod. “He’ll probably be invited too, I guess. All ambassadors are getting a table.”

“God help us,” he mutters. “He’s going to sulk the whole night in a tux.”

You giggle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He groans. “You don’t know him yet.”

You twirl a little, letting the breeze catch your sundress. “Well, maybe he’ll surprise us. What are you wearing to the gala, by the way?”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Just a simple suit. Don’t tell me you’re going full couture.”

“I work in luxury,” you reply primly. “It’s in my contract.”

“I thought your contract just said smile at clients and drink too much champagne.”

You grin. “Pretty much.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours. “You’re the luckiest person in the world.”

You finish your gelato as the sun dips lower, casting gold over the water. There’s a peace to the air here, a kind of easy stillness that only exists on slow afternoons like this, when the world feels soft-edged and almost generous.

…

The dress is Elie Saab. Midnight blue. A scatter of beadwork like constellations across sheer tulle, with a neckline that dips just enough to whisper without shouting. The kind of dress that makes strangers glance twice and women in PR nod approvingly. The kind that cinches in the waist like a secret and makes you feel — for a fleeting, flickering second — like maybe you do belong in Monaco after all.

Your driver arrives five minutes early. Jean-Luc, middle-aged, always a little bit too serious, but you like that about him. There’s comfort in people who take their jobs seriously, and tonight, you need all the comfort you can get.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” he says, opening the car door for you. You thank him softly and slide in, smoothing the gown beneath you.

The ride is quiet. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward but anticipatory. The city lit up like a necklace around the coast, winding through the dark like something from a perfume ad.

When the car pulls up in front of the venue, the light hits just right. You step out into a scatter of flashbulbs, mostly aimed at others but catching you in the corners. You smile anyway. Graceful. Understated. A little shimmer of mystery.

Charles is already there. Of course he is. He’s standing by the APM table with Alexandra, radiant in something silver and backless, and laughing with a group of other ambassadors.

“Regarde qui voilà,” he says, eyes lighting up when he sees you. “Our princess has arrived.”

You curtsy dramatically, making Alexandra laugh.

“You look stunning,” she says, kissing both your cheeks.

“As do you,” you reply, and you mean it.

You greet the rest of the table, dipping in and out of conversations like a practiced hostess. You love these nights, honestly — they remind you of everything you used to dream about when you were still living in that cramped flat in Paris, watching gala footage online while eating toast for dinner.

One of your favorite clients is seated just a few tables down: an older Parisian woman who buys sapphires like they’re candy. You excuse yourself to go say hello, gliding through the crowd with a flute of champagne in hand, keeping your smile ready and your laughter soft.

You stay longer than expected. There’s a warmth to her company. A sort of familiar flamboyance, like an aunt who gives you perfume samples and life advice in the same breath. You lose track of time.

Until—

You return to the APM table. And someone is in your seat.

You blink. Politely, of course.

He’stall, for one.

Sharp jawline. Crisp tux. An expression like he’s only half-paying attention and prefers it that way. You recognize the slope of the nose. The shape of the mouth. There’s a similarity, undeniably.

Arthur.

You step a little closer, voice gentle. “Excuse me! Sorry! I think that was my seat, is it okay if I sit here again?”

He doesn’t look up immediately. And when he does, it’s slow. Deliberate. His eyes are cool, unreadable.

“There’s no place card,” he says.

You blink. “No, but it is actually assigned though! I work for APM—”

“It’s a table,” he says mildly. “Not a throne.”

Oh.

Okay.

You offer a smile, the kind that’s more teeth than warmth. “Noted. Still, I was sitting there before.”

He sighs. Not dramatically. Just enough to let you know he’s annoyed. And then, finally, moves one chair over without a word.

You sit. Slowly. Delicately. Like you’re lowering yourself into enemy territory. The air between you has cooled by several degrees.

Charles leans forward from across the table, smirking. “Ah. So you’ve met.”

“Briefly,” you say, sipping your champagne.

Arthur doesn't answer. He’s watching the stage.

Charles nudges him. “This is the one I told you about. Client development. The really nice one.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. Barely. “She seems charming.”

You shoot him a look. “And you seem delightful.”

Charles groans. “Please, please don’t fight at the gala.”

“No promises,” you mutter.

The evening continues; speeches, awards, slow rounds of applause. The food is forgettable, the wine isn’t. You spend most of dinner catching up with Alexandra, who leans in at some point and whispers, “He’s not usually like that, you know.”

You raise a brow. “Then how is he usually?”

She grins. “More grumpy.”

Still, Arthur is not all bad. At one point, he notices your champagne glass is empty and gestures for the waiter.

“One for her too,” he says, then turns back to the stage.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

Later, when the evening winds down and people begin trickling out in glittering clusters, you excuse yourself to head outside. Your driver is already waiting.

The stairs down from the venue are steep, carved stone and poor lighting, and just as your heel catches on the hem of your dress, a hand reaches out.

“Careful.”

You glance up.

Arthur. Holding out a hand. No expression on his face. Just… offering.

You hesitate. Then place your hand in his.

It’s warm. Steady. A little rough around the edges. He helps you down slowly, not saying a word. At the bottom, he releases your hand like it’s made of glass.

You glance at him. “Thank you.”

He nods once.

You open your mouth to say more — something witty, maybe, or kind — but he’s already turning away, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, retreating like the tide.

…

The morning is bright in that peculiar Monaco way; the sky a soft wash of powder blue, the sea glittering like a lie, and everything else too lovely to be taken seriously. You arrive at the photoshoot early, as always, with a coffee in one hand and your phone buzzing in the other.

The terrace has been cleared for the session. White parasols bloom above wicker lounge sets. There are racks of jewelry glinting under diffused light, chilled Perrier lining a tray, and two stylists already fussing over the set like worried mothers.

Charles, of course, is late. But Antoine is not.

He greets you with his usual sleepy grin, camera slung low around his neck. “How’s my favoritte manager? Woke up early to see us shoot your content?”

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Such a nice idea of you guys to do some more organic promotions! Your pictures of Charles are always so good.”

“You should join us more often! Charles never praises me like this.”

You tilt your head. “Are you trying to flatter me into staying?”

Antoine shrugs. “A little.”

You laugh, taking a long sip from your coffee. “Tempting.”

By the time Charles arrives, you’ve already reviewed the lighting setup and briefed Antoine about the key pieces from the collection. He waltzes in wearing linen and sunglasses, croissant in one hand, coffee in the other.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just catching up with Toine,” you say.

He kisses your cheek in greeting, then collapses into a lounge chair with the sort of theatrical sigh only Charles Leclerc can get away with.

“So lovely to meet your brother the other night by the way,” you say after a beat, adjusting a necklace on the velvet bust.

Charles stills. “He was a bit rude, wasn’t he?”

“Mmhmm.”

He grimaces. “I’m sorry. He’s…” he trails off, looking for a word that doesn’t sound like a pain in the ass.

“…Complex?” you offer.

He smiles faintly. “Let’s go with that.”

“I’m sure he’s lovely once he warms up. If he ever does.”

Charles sits forward. “He’s just used to people liking him for the wrong reasons. Or not at all. I think… sometimes he assumes the worst before giving people a chance.”

You blink at him. “Do I seem like someone who judges people by their last name?”

“Not at all,” he says. “But he is a bit stupid sometimes.”

You smile, touched. “Well, I’m just happy there’s at least one very lovely Leclerc brother in my life.”

“Two,” Antoine calls from across the terrace without missing a beat. “Lorenzo’s a gem.”

You laugh, lifting your hands in surrender. “I haven’t met him yet! Can’t say.”

Charles looks up, grinning. “You’re not wrong though. I am the best one.”

“Maybe you should just redo the meet with Arthur, that would be fun, right?” Antoine says enthusiastically, eyes flickering between you and Charles. 

And then — you feel it. That shift in the air. That strange, almost cinematic pause.

Charles is smiling too much.

That’s your first clue.

He does it subtly — the kind of smile people give when they’re pretending something isn’t happening. You’ve seen that smile on hosts who know the risotto has been burnt but insist dinner is going beautifully.

And then there’s Antoine. Who doesn’t bother to pretend at all. He’s grinning like the cat that got the cream, the keys to the penthouse, and your credit card.

You shift your weight. Slowly.

“What,” you say cautiously, “did you two do?”

Charles lifts his coffee cup to his lips in what can only be described as an evasive maneuver. Antoine lifts both hands like he’s been falsely accused. The tension stretches like ribbon between them.

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me you did not.”

“Did not what?” Charles says quickly, which is the exact phrase guilty people use before fleeing a crime scene.

Antoine, for his part, is clearly enjoying himself far too much. “We merely said it would be a shame if two elegant people who enjoy good conversation and moonlight walks never… ran into each other.”

You stare at him. “That’s oddly specific.”

Charles winces. “Okay, fine. Maybe I mentioned to Arthur that we were shooting here today.”

You blink. “Mentioned.”

“Yes.”

Antoine chimes in. “And maybe you said he should stop by here too.”

Charles shrugs. “Only in passing.”

“In passing,” you repeat. “You passingly mentioned that we be at a private terrace photoshoot. At eight in the morning. Picking out your couture jewelry and he should join?”

Antoine snorts. “It was a strong passing.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Charles.”

“You liked him,” Charles says defensively.

“I did not!” you protest.

“Not yet,” he insists. “But I’m sure you will.”

“I barely spoke to him at the gala—”

“That’s why this is such a good idea,” Charles says breezily.

You spin to Antoine. “You helped him with this?”

Antoine shrugs. “Charles offered me Beef Bar take away tonight. I fold like a deck chair.”

You cross your arms. “We have work to do. I planned a whole shoot for you just to turn it into a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Charles says, alarmed. “It’s… a casual, unsuspicious opportunity to let things unfold naturally.”

“In the most unnatural way possible.”

And then, like prophecy made inconveniently real, you hear it.

A car door slamming shut. Two sets of steps — slow and distinct — approaching along the stone path behind the terrace.

Your heart sinks. You freeze like someone who just remembered they left the stove on.

“Tell me that’s not him,” you whisper.

Charles whistles innocently. Antoine lifts his camera, as if preparing for a wildlife documentary.

You turn. And there he is.

He steps onto the terrace like the sunlight isn’t something that applies to him. Olive green shirt, jaw set, keys still twirling in his fingers — and when his eyes land on you, his whole body seems to stiffen by one barely perceptible degree.

You cross your arms. Instinctively.

He stops just short of the seating area and frowns, first at you, then at Charles.

“You said you needed a lift.”

“I do,” Charles says, too quickly. “I mean—I did. But I forgot we still had a few more looks to shoot.”

Arthur’s brows inch up. “You forgot?”

“Yeah,” Charles says, glancing nervously at Antoine. “A couple more shots. The bracelets. And… the rings.”

Arthur blinks. Slowly. Then turns toward Antoine, who is pretending to adjust a reflector with the same commitment an actor gives to dying onstage.

You glance between them, narrowing your eyes. “Wait.”

Charles smiles too brightly. “Since we’re shooting a bit longer, and you’re already here, I thought maybe you could take her home.”

You whip around. “Excuse me?”

“It’s on his way!” Charles says, holding up his hands like a peace offering. “She lives five minutes from you.”

Arthur lets out a breath. “You could’ve just told me this was a setup.”

“It’s not a setup,” Charles insists.

Antoine mutters, “It’s a light suggestion with automotive implications.”

You turn to Arthur. “I can call a driver.”

“I’m already here,” he says, tone unreadable.

You bristle. “Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“I’m not,” he replies.

You grab your bag a little harder than necessary. “Great.”

“Perfect,” he mutters, turning back toward the stairs without waiting.

You follow, jaw tight, trying not to stomp like a child. Behind you, Charles calls out, “Have fun!” and you resist the urge to flip him off with the delicate hand that wears your nicest APM ring.

Arthur doesn’t speak as he opens the car door for you. It’s the bare minimum of politeness, performed with the detached energy of someone passing a stranger a napkin at a café.

You slide into the passenger seat and stare straight ahead, arms crossed.

He gets in. Adjusts the mirrors even though they’re already perfect. Puts the car into drive. Doesn’t look at you.

After a minute of tense silence: “You weren’t supposed to be there,” he says.

You scoff. “Yeah, I got that vibe.”

“I mean it. I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I, apparently,” you mutter, glancing out the window. “Charles has been watching too many movies again.”

Arthur huffs. “He thinks he’s subtle.”

“He’s really not.”

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time. There’s something coiled in the air — not quite anger, but irritation layered over misunderstanding. Like both of you are reacting to ghosts that haven’t been properly introduced.

You sigh. “Look, if this is awkward, we can just not talk.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies.

You turn your head sharply. “Wow. Okay.”

He glances at you, then back at the road. “I meant—I just don’t have anything to say.”

“You’re so fun.”

He presses his lips together. “Maybe I don’t enjoy small talk.”

“Maybe you don’t enjoy people.”

He says nothing. Just changes gears. Smoothly. Cleanly. As if he’s already learned how to move through life without needing to explain himself.

And maybe that’s what annoys you most.

That you can’t read him.

That he doesn’t let you.

Because usually, you can. You’ve made a career out of reading people. Clients, guests, partners, hosts, you always know how to tilt a smile, how to offer the right word at the right time, how to sense what people need before they realize they need it.

But Arthur?

Arthur is a locked door in a hallway you didn’t ask to walk down.

Eventually, the silence breaks. Not out of comfort. But because you can’t help yourself.

“I do admire how you hold the door for me,” you say, watching the streetlights blur against the glass. “And helped me down the stairs the other night. Very gentlemanly of someone who seems to actively despise me.”

He exhales, contained. Like someone who’s learned to speak carefully, if at all.

“I’ve had time to practice,” he says after a moment. “When you’re the one people don’t expect anything from, you get good at the quiet stuff.”

You blink, turning your head. “Is that how you see it?”

He shrugs. Too casually. Like he’s tossing the comment into the air just to get rid of it.

“You’re friends with Charles,” he says. “That’s usually enough for people to assume they know me.”

You snort softly. “Right. Because God forbid anyone come near you without making it about your last name.”

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts into second gear and keeps his eyes on the road.

You glance out the window again, but your voice comes without thinking:

“You’re not Charles’s brother to me, Arthur.”

He glances sideways. Not fully, just a flick of his eyes. “No?”

“No,” you say, crossing your arms. “You’re just kind of an asshole.”

That lands. A beat of quiet — and then, he laughs. Low, warm, and involuntary. It slips out before he can catch it, and you glance at him just in time to see it settle into the corner of his mouth like a secret he didn’t mean to tell.

“Fair enough,” he says.

The tension shifts. Doesn’t vanish but bends slightly, like metal held too long in a flame.

He pulls up to your building, parking neatly along the curb without asking if this is the right place. It is.

Neither of you moves for a second.

Then he reaches for your bag, already handing it over before you ask.

You pause with your fingers curled around the strap. “Thanks.”

“For the ride?” he asks, dry.

“For not letting me fall on my face in heels the other night.” You tilt your head. “Could’ve let me suffer.”

He glances at you finally, and there’s a flicker of something behind his expression. 

“Tempting,” he says.

You open the door. The hinge creaks faintly. Neither of you moves to say anything more.

Then, because silence never quite agrees with you, you glance over your shoulder, one foot already on the pavement.

“Enjoy the rest of your morning, Arthur.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just rests one hand on the wheel, elbow on the door frame, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then: “Sure.”

You close the door behind you.

And that’s it. No smile. No wave. No friendly nod.

Just an unremarkable end to a remarkably strange drive with a man who, for all his detachment, still reached for your bag before you could.

As you head up the steps to your apartment, heels tapping against the stone, you wonder if maybe you were wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t despise you.

Maybe he just hasn’t made up his mind yet.

…

You don’t date.

Not because you’re emotionally unavailable or jaded or secretly in love with a long-lost childhood best friend. You’re just... busy. And good at being on your own. And, if you’re being honest, not particularly enchanted by the idea of someone mispronouncing your name over Negronis while bragging about their portfolio.

But people, friends, colleagues, your mother on every single phone call, keep insisting that the right person isn’t going to climb through your window like a Disney prince. That you have to put yourself out there. Try. Meet someone.

So, you said yes. To Maxime.

Maxime, who had nice enough shoes and a passable smile and worked in logistics, which sounded tolerable at the time.

You arrive at Maison Gigi five minutes early, because old habits die hard. You’re wearing your just in case he’s actually nice dress — a black silk wrap that dips a little at the back and makes your arms look excellent — and a pair of earrings that glitter like they’re pretending not to be expensive.

Maxime is late.

By eight minutes. And then three more.

When he arrives, he kisses both your cheeks too quickly and sits without pulling out your chair.

You make a mental note.

“You’re prettier than your photos,” he says as he folds his napkin. “Don’t see that very often anymore.”

You smile. “Thanks. I guess.”

He grins, unaware it was a jab.

You order sparkling water. He gets a Gin & Tonic and spends five whole minutes describing how the one at Cipriani was better.

By the time the bread arrives, he’s asked how many serious relationships you’ve had, whether you live alone, and if you’ve ever considered getting lip filler “just to define the Cupid’s bow.”

You drink your water and pretend it’s vodka.

Halfway through your seabass, you glance toward the terrace, thinking it might be a good time to fake a phone call. Or a family emergency. Or sudden food poisoning. Anything, really.

That’s when you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

He walks onto the terrace with that signature, infuriating grace — linnen button up, one hand in his pocket, the other casually gripping a bouquet of pale roses and eucalyptus. As if he just robbed the most angelic florist.

He’s speaking to the hostess. Then he sees you.

And he stops.

Not completely. Just long enough for the pause to say something. His eyes meet yours — and something flickers in them. Recognition, amusement, something a little mean.

He laughs — just once, low and brief — then follows the hostess to the empty table directly beside yours.

“Well, well.”

You blink slowly. “Of course it’s you.”

His mouth curves. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’m not.”

“I can tell.” He scans the table. “Date night?”

Maxime shifts on the opposite side of the table. “Who’s that?”

You take a sip of your water. “An acquaintance.”

Arthur’s date appears behind him: tall, lean, slick-backed ponytail and an expression like she’s been forced to attend a work function. She slides into her chair and pulls out her phone before even glancing at the menu.

Arthur doesn’t sit. He lingers beside the table for a second longer, eyes still on you. Then, with all the subtlety of a man setting a trap he wants you to see, he turns to the waitress and says—

“Actually, would it be possible to join the tables?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He gestures between the two setups, eyes wide with mock innocence. “They’re practically touching already. Might as well make it official.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Maxime offers a short shrug. “Sure. I don’t mind.”

Of course he doesn’t.

The waitress hesitates, then starts dragging the tables together with a smile and the weary efficiency of someone who has seen far weirder things in Monaco.

Arthur sits beside you. Not opposite, not across — beside. Close enough that your chairs nudge. Close enough that you can smell something crisp and faintly woody on him.

You don’t look at him.

“Nice dress,” he says, after a moment.

You cut him a glance. “Is that condescension or charity?”

He tilts his head. “You really don’t accept compliments well.”

“I accept them fine. Just not when they’re served with smugness.”

He smirks and leans back, arm resting along the edge of his chair. Which now overlaps yours.

You see Maxime straighten across you.

“So you two… know each other?”

Arthur answers for you. “Hardly.”

You hum. “Wish it was even less.”

Arthur presses his lips together, amused.

His date is now scrolling Instagram with one finger and sipping her wine without ever making eye contact with anyone. She looks stunning. And entirely uninterested.

Arthur notices. He glances at the untouched bouquet on their table. Then, with all the lazy elegance of someone who’s about to do something both thoughtful and infuriating, he reaches for it — gently plucking a single red rose from the center.

And without asking, without a word, he places it beside your plate.

You stare at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the rose.

Arthur leans slightly toward Maxime and says, tone light, “You didn’t bring her flowers?”

Maxime blinks. “It’s just a first date.”

Arthur hums. “All the more reason for a good first impression.”

You exhale through your nose. “Is this part of a new strategy to get under my skin?”

“No,” Arthur replies, shrugging. “That was just a fun bonus.”

You glance at the rose again. It’s fresh. Soft petals, still slightly closed. A perfect center.

You don’t pick it up. But you don’t move it away either.

For a while, the four of you sit like that. The world presses on: waiters weaving through tables, the low hum of live music drifting in from the bar, ice clinking in highball glasses.

Eventually, the noise at the table dips — Maxime focused on his steak, Arthur not filling the space for once.

You’re picking at what’s left of your main when Arthur shifts slightly beside you, elbow brushing the edge of your chair.

“How’s the date?” he says, just low enough that only you can hear.

You glance over. His expression isn’t smug now — just neutral. Curious, maybe.

You shrug. “Not the worst night of my life.”

He softly smiles. “That’s encouraging.”

You smile, despite yourself. “How’s yours?”

Arthur glances at his date, who’s now checking her watch while sipping her wine like it’s her third choice that day.

“Uneventful,” he says.

And then, quietly: “Could be worse.”

You nod once. “Well. At least the food’s good.”

Arthur glances at your plate. “You barely touched it.”

“Appetite died somewhere between 'what's your shoe size' and the phrase ‘how many bed partners have you had.’”

That earns a quiet snort from him.

At the far end of the table, Maxime is now leaning toward Arthur’s date, gesturing with a little too much confidence as he launches into a new topic — something about investment ratios. The blonde is making polite noises, phone finally tucked away, her expression fixed into a smooth, unreadable mask.

Arthur follows your gaze. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

You hum. “Maybe we should let them have the rest of the night.”

He arches a brow. “Don’t tempt me.”

You let the comment settle.

A beat passes — not awkward, but unexpected. Neither of you is trying, and that’s what makes it disarming. The sharpness between you has dulled a little. Or maybe it’s just shifted — honed into something quieter, subtler, less performative.

You glance at him sideways. “I thought you didn’t do small talk.”

“I don’t.”

“So what’s this, then?”

Arthur sips his wine. “Unavoidable.”

You exhale a soft laugh.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly. He just keeps that lazy posture, arm draped over the back of his chair, fingertips grazing the space near your shoulder.

“Anyway,” he adds, “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

You pause. “The rose?”

He nods once.

You look at it, still resting beside your plate, velvety and deep red and slightly tilted in your direction, like it’s been watching this conversation unfold with quiet amusement.

“I know,” you say.

Another pause.

“It's kind of sweet,” you add.

Arthur’s gaze flicks to you. Just briefly. But it lingers a half-second longer than it should.

Your water glass is empty. He notices. Doesn’t comment, but reaches toward the nearby jug and refills it halfway before settling back again.

Across from him, his date lets out a gentle, slightly rehearsed laugh at something Maxime has said. She adjusts the strap of her dress and leans in.

Arthur doesn’t seem to notice.

“Not exactly how I thought this dinner would go,” you murmur.

“That makes two of us.”

You glance down at your napkin, smoothing it with your fingers.

He shifts. “You heading home soon?”

You nod. “Probably.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

You blink. “Oh?”

He doesn’t explain. Just pushes his chair back and glances down at you, hand reaching toward the back of your chair.

You hesitate for a second, but he’s already moving — fingers brushing the curve of the seat as he gently helps you up. His other hand picks up your coat from where it’s been folded over your bag.

And then like it’s the most normal thing in the world he holds it open for you.

You slip your arms through the sleeves in silence, your skin brushing his as he eases it up over your shoulders. His movements are smooth, practiced, quiet. Not performative.

Not for show.

Maxime looks up suddenly, clearly clocking that you’re leaving. He shifts in his seat, trying to recover the thread of something he must’ve dropped a while ago.

“You heading off?” he asks, voice too loud for how little he’s mattered in the last thirty minutes.

“Yeah,” you say. “Early morning.”

He nods, leaning back like he’s trying to seem unfazed. “So... maybe I’ll see you again?”

Arthur’s hand rests lightly against the back of your coat, steadying you as you adjust your bag. You don’t look at him, but you feel it. That presence. Quiet but definite.

You glance at Maxime. “Maybe.”

He gives you a tight smile. “You’ve got my number.”

“Sure do.”

And that’s it.

Arthur’s already stepped aside, guiding you gently past the table with a hand barely grazing your shoulder blade. He doesn’t say a word as you walk out together, leaving Maxime blinking behind you like someone who missed the plot twist entirely.

Outside, the air is cooler than before, tinged with salt and whatever perfume clings to the night. You pause just shy of the curb, glancing at your phone.

“My car’s just around the corner.”

Arthur nods, hands back in his pockets. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

You’re not sure why it suddenly feels strange, standing there in the quiet with him.

Your car rounds the corner. You turn toward it, then back to Arthur.

“Thanks,” you say. “For the rose. And the coat. And the... whatever that was.”

He shrugs. “Anytime.”

You don’t say goodbye. Neither does he.

You just get in the car.

And as it pulls away, you glance into the rearview mirror and there he is.

Still standing where you left him, hands deep in his pockets.

…

There are two kinds of gyms in Monaco.

The first kind is where people wear sunglasses on treadmills and film themselves doing Bulgarian split squats.

The second kind — the kind you specifically asked Charles to recommend — is not that. Or at least, it isn’t supposed to be.

“FitFactory,” Charles had said. “It’s normal. No influencers. No DJs. You go in, you sweat, you leave.”

So this morning, you pull on your nicest Alo Yoga set — blush pink, full-length, thumbholes included — and fill your matching bottle, because coordination is a small kind of control. A mood booster, really.

And you walk to Larvotto feeling tragically optimistic.

Until you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

Leaning against the lockers.

White towel around his neck. Black T-shirt damp at the collar. His face flushed in that maddeningly attractive post workout way.

He’s looking at his phone. Hair pushed back. headphones looped loosely around his neck.

Then he looks up.

And sees you.

He straightens slightly, clearly just as surprised as you — though you watch him recover faster. Of course.

He blinks. Then smiles, slow and smug, like he’s trying to decide if this is real or a fever dream.

“Well,” he says, tossing his towel into his bag, “if it isn’t Monaco’s pinkest woman.”

You stop. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I’m flattered you followed me here.”

You raise a brow. “Believe me I would have sprinted away if I knew you were here.”

He tilts his head, that crooked smile already forming. “All right, fair. But what’s with the full pink situation today?”

You glance down at your set — soft blush from top to toe — then meet his eyes, unbothered. “Coordination builds morale.”

He hums. “You look like a strawberry.”

You shrug. “I happen to love strawberries, thank you very much.”

His grin grows. “Of course you do.”

You motion toward his cheeks. “Well. Look who’s accidentally matching me.”

He laughs under his breath. “Is this your subtle way of flirting?”

You smile. “If it were, you’d know.”

He grins. “Noted.”

You walk past him toward the mats. Toss your bag down. You expect him to keep walking — to head out the way he was clearly planning to — but instead, you hear the quiet thud of another bag hitting the floor.

You glance up. Arthur sits down beside you like he owns the mat.

“You’re done,” you say flatly.

“I am.”

“So go home.”

He leans forward, stretching lazily. “Cooling down.”

“In the women’s section?”

“It’s unisex.”

You stare. “You were literally at the door.”

“And now I’m here, cherie”

You look away, lips twitching in spite of yourself. Unfortunately.

Arthur lies back, popping one headphone back in. Arms folded behind his head, posture entirely too relaxed.

You side-eye him. “Let me guess. Adele?”

He nods. “All I Ask. Better than any preworkout.”

“You’re broken.”

“I’m serious.”

“She’s devastating.”

“Exactly! That’s why. Sad music is the best for gymming.”

You lie back too, ponytail fanning out across the mat, pulse beginning to settle. “I’m not in the mood for existential cardio today.”

He hums, eyes closed again. “So why come?”

You shrug, the motion subtle as you lie back against the mat. “I miss feeling strong.”

That quiets things.

For a beat, it’s just the muffled thrum of someone’s bassy playlist in the weight section, the soft exhale of air conditioning, the distant clink of dumbbells.

Then he turns his head toward you. Just one glance, slow and deliberate.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You don’t know what to do with that, the gentleness of it. How unguarded it sounds. So you do nothing at all. Just close your eyes and pretend this is routine. That silence is normal between you two.

A moment passes.

Then, softer, like he’s speaking more to the ceiling than to you: “Monaco’s small, apparently.”

You let out a faint huff. “Apparently.”

Another pause. Then, with zero warning, he says, “Do you actually like Maxime?”

Your eyes snap open. “Seriously?”

He doesn’t look over. Just lies there, like he’s asking about the weather.

“No worries,” he says easily. “Just curious.”

You sit up slightly, stretching one leg out across the mat. “Not really.”

He props himself up on his elbows. “Then why waste your time? You are a busy woman, right?”

You glance at him, but there’s no challenge in his expression. No bite. Just a quiet question, laid bare between you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Everyone keeps saying I should try. That I need to get out there more. That the right person won’t just materialize one day.”

He watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what part of that you actually believe.

 “Maybe they’re wrong.”

You blink. “About what?”

“About needing to try so hard. I think it just happens one day when you don’t expect it.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s something in it that throws you off-balance, not quite sympathy, not quite sarcasm. Something close to understanding.

“It’s the same for me. I also go on dates already knowing she’s not the one, hoping I’ll be proven wrong. With the right girl you just know, it’s different.”

You hold his stare, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a dare.

Just two people. Sitting in a gym. Wearing too much pink and not enough armor.

You exhale a soft breath. “You’re surprisingly philosophical for someone who listens to Adele during ab circuits.”

He grins. “She’s a muse.”

You snort. “You’re unwell.”

He lies back again, smug and unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”

You smirk. “Touché.”

…

You’re tired.

A specific form of silk-laced exhaustion that settles behind your eyes after twelve hours of pretending to be slightly more charming than you feel.

Your heels click against the cobblestones as you pass the flower stand that’s just starting to close, the petals half-wilted in the July heat. You’re fishing your phone out of your bag, already composing a mental list of things to forget until tomorrow, when—

“Look who’s out of the office before midnight.”

You look up, visibly shaken.

Charles is grinning, of course. Draped in weekend denim and that effortless posture of someone who’s never had to rush a day in his life.

Next to him stands Alex, all grace and sunglasses even though the sun’s nearly gone.

And Arthur.

Arthur, whose laugh you must have heard first, though you’re only registering it now. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly, eyes already on you like he knew you were coming.

You slow as you reach them, tucking your phone away. “How is it you are everywhere these days?”

Charles smirks. “Summer break, baby! Enjoying my rent this month.”

“As if you pay rent.” You laugh. 

“I am seriously worried about the hours you’re making, how is it nearly 9PM already?” Alex says with a frown.

“I survived. Barely. But my assistant reminded me I’m not allowed to perish before the Monday debrief.”

Charles snorts. “Corporate martyrdom.”

But Arthur hasn’t said anything yet. Just watches you with a look that’s difficult to read — not indifferent, not exactly fond. Somewhere in between. Studied.

“Hi,” he says, finally.

You smile, soft and unguarded. “Hi.”

It’s strange, how that single word feels suddenly heavier than the rest of the conversation. Like it lands somewhere deeper. Warmer.

The four of you begin to walk, but it’s not long before the spacing shifts — Charles drifting toward a shop window, Alex distracted by something across the street. You’re left side-by-side with Arthur, not by design, but by some subtle gravity that’s starting to feel familiar.

He says nothing at first, just walks beside you, steps even with yours, eyes skimming the buildings as they turn golden in the falling light.

“I saw your campaign today,” you say, voice casual but purposeful. “The new one. The watch close-up was a little dramatic, but you looked handsome.”

Arthur turns his head slightly. Just enough for you to catch the flicker of surprise — and then something gentler.

His cheek colors, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

You glance sideways, amused. “Blushing?”

“It’s warm out.”

You hum. “Right. Must be the sun, at 9PM. Or maybe compliments just throw you off.”

“I’m not used to them from you.”

“Am I making you shy?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, and for a moment, it’s easy, lighter than it’s ever been.

And just like that, the tension thins. For a moment, the two of you walk in easy rhythm, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

You pass a fountain bathed in the last of the sun, the spray catching amber light. Monaco is winding down. Fewer people on the street now. Just the shuffle of steps, the scent of pastry dough cooling in bakery windows, the hush of something private between the two of you.

“You always walk home this way?” he asks.

“Nice scenery,” you say. “Helps clear my head.”

He hums, glancing over. “You should do it more often.”

After a beat, he nods toward a storefront with a sleepy golden retriever curled in the window. “You’re a dog person, right?”

You blink. “Yeah... I am.”

Arthur keeps looking ahead, a little too nonchalant. “Figured.”

You narrow your eyes. “How’d you figure?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. You just seem like the type.”

You snort. “What type is that?”

“Someone who secretly carries treats in her handbag.”

You laugh, but the question still lingers behind your teeth. He didn’t guess that. Not out of nowhere.

And then, almost too casually, he adds, “Charles mentioned something about you wanting a rescue.”

You turn your head sharply. “Did he?”

Arthur’s jaw twitches — the tiniest tell.

You don’t call him out. You just smile, a little too knowingly. “You two talk about me often?”

He doesn’t answer, but the silence is enough. He’s not smug. Not flustered. Just caught.

And when he finally does speak, it’s quieter. “He said you’ve been thinking about names.”

Your smile softens. “I have.”

Arthur nods, eyes fixed ahead now, like he’s trying not to press.

“I was leaning toward something French,” you say. “But I also kind of like the idea of naming her after a pastry.”

His lips twitch. “Like… Brioche?”

You grin. “Don’t judge. Brioche is adorable.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Of course.”

You glance over again, this time lingering. He looks different in this light. Less calculated. Less aware of how he’s perceived. Just a boy walking beside you, saying too little and giving away too much.

And something about that makes your heart ache a little.

But not in a sad way.

Just in the oh, I didn’t expect this kind of way.

You slow as you reach your building, the familiar stone steps painted gold by the setting sun.

Arthur stops with you, just slightly to the side, hands still tucked in his pockets.

“Thanks for the company,” you say.

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Didn’t mean to. It just sort of happened.”

“That’s the best kind of thing.”

You hesitate, the moment stretching just wide enough to step into.

And you do.

“You can walk me again sometime,” you offer, voice lower now. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, almost like he’s studying you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I mean, Monaco’s small. And I run into you all the time anyway.”

That makes him laugh, a quiet, honest sound.

You take a step back toward the stairs. He follows just slightly, and before you can retreat entirely, you lean up and press a kiss — featherlight and instinctive — to his cheek.

It lands just beneath his eye, where his skin is still a little pink.

Arthur goes very still. Like something inside him paused to catch up.

You pull back slowly, your eyes meeting his. The air feels different now, charged, but not heavy.

“I’ll see you around,” you say softly.

Arthur blinks once, then twice. And then he smiles — small, real, slow.

“You will.”

You climb the steps, hand grazing the railing, not looking back until you reach the door.

…

There’s something in the air, lavender tangled with engine smoke, sea breeze sticky with heat, that makes everything buzz a little louder. The kind of atmosphere where even the shadows wear cologne.

You don’t usually do clubs. And you definitely don’t do them alone.

But when Alexandra texted you two hours ago saying, “Just come. It’s casual. Charles says it’s basically just everyone from karting acting like idiots,” you said yes.

Mostly because she added: “You can borrow the red Sandro dress. It makes your legs look stupid good.”

So now you’re here. In the dress. And the heels. Walking through the velvet ropes of Jimmy’z like you belong here — which, technically, you kind of do. Charles had your name added to the list.

Inside, the bass is already vibrating through your teeth. There’s a fog machine going off in the corner. A bottle girl walks by holding a flaming sparkler.

You spot Alexandra before she sees you, curled into a booth on the far side of the room, next to a man you assume is Carlos (based on the hair, mostly) and a woman you don’t recognize. She’s talking animatedly to Alex, gesturing with a cocktail straw.

You approach just as Alex looks up and lights up like she won the lottery.

“You came!” she shouts, standing up to pull you in for a hug.

She smells like citrus gin and too-expensive perfume.

“I almost didn’t,” you admit.

“Well, thank God you did. I’m outnumbered by motorsport and testosterone.” She waves you toward the booth. “Come sit.”

As you slide into the booth beside her, Alexandra immediately drapes an arm around your shoulders like she’s waited all night for this.

“There she is,” she says, grinning. “The one and only.”

Then she gestures across the table. “This is Rebecca — she’s with Carlos. Works in fashion. Rebecca, this is the girl from APM I’ve been telling you about. My future sister-in-law.”

You laugh, surprised. “Wow. That escalated quickly.”

Rebecca’s eyes light up — piercing blue, framed by a halo of soft curls. “You should’ve heard her earlier. You are as gorgeous as she said you’d be.”

“Alex,” you groan, but she only squeezes your arm.

“It’s not my fault,” she says. “You look unreal in the red dress. I had to brag.”

Rebecca smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

You like her instantly. There’s an ease about her, confident, yes, but kind. The sort of person who would wait to drive off until you are inside.

Next to her Carlos is sipping something expensive and staring blankly into the middle distance.

You tilt your head. “Is he okay?”

Rebecca snorts. “He has this a lot, don’t worry. Carlos. Earth to Carlos.”

He blinks, then turns slowly. “Huh.”

Alexandra howls. “Carlos, for the love of—”

Somewhere behind you, someone screams “I’m not doing that unless you carry me!” followed by a crash.

You turn around just in time to see a guy in a backwards cap — who you can only assume is Lando — slipping on a tray of ice cubes while another guy films it, hysterically laughing. Probably George, judging by the neat button up and pinstriped trousers.

Alexandra sighs. “I’m so sorry in advance for everything that’s going to happen tonight. They are always like this when they’re all together.”

Someone is doing the robot in the middle of the dancefloor.

“…is that Charles?”

Carlos, still half-lost in his drink, lifts it in salute. “You should see him when there’s a live band.”

Before you can ask what that means, a tall guy with sharp cheekbones and a gentle blink like he’s still catching up slides into the booth. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, then offers a crooked, apologetic smile.

“Hi. Oscar.” he says, nodding to you before sitting down at the table. “Sorry I’m late. Have I missed anything besides interpretive dance?”

Rebecca lets out a soft laugh, her eyes bright. Alexandra grins and nudges him with her elbow, clearly fond of him already.

The table hums with low, easy chatter. Someone orders another round. Carlos eventually resurfaces from whatever quiet spiral he’d been in and launches into a heartfelt argument about the best burgers. Rebecca counters with a story about a chef in Milan who swore by adding peas instead of tomatoes.

The night softens. And for the first time all week, you’re not watching the clock.

You’re two sips into your cocktail when Alexandra leans in again, eyes sly.

“Look who just got here.”

You blink. “Who?”

She nods across the room.

You follow her gaze.

And then you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

He’s leaning against the bar beside Charles, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks and a slightly amused look on his face.

You don’t even have time to pretend you weren’t looking before he glances up and catches your eye.

And, of course, he winks.

You groan softly.

Alexandra smirks.

“Don’t,” you say.

“Too late.” she says, already linking her arm with yours. “Come say hi.”

Alexandra doesn’t wait. She drags you through the crowd, weaving past elbows and champagne flutes, laughter folding in around you. And Arthur doesn’t look away — not once — as you make your way toward him.

“Bonsoir,” Alexandra says brightly, kissing Charles on the cheek. He pulls her in to say something you don’t catch.

You stop in front of Arthur.

He straightens a little, gaze dropping down the length of you before returning to your face — and staying there.

“You’re…” he starts, then pauses, the corners of his mouth tugging. “Somehow even more beautiful than usual.”

The words land low in your chest, like a match struck in velvet. You mean to say something — to throw back a comment, make a joke, anchor yourself with the familiarity of deflection. But nothing comes. Your mouth opens, then closes, and for once, you let the silence live.

He steps closer as his eyes dip over your dress and back up again.

“Do a spin,” he says, voice low.

You blink, startled. “What?”

Arthur lifts one hand, loose and casual, the ghost of a grin playing at his lips. “Show me your dress. You look stunning.”

So you do.

Not dramatically, not like you’re putting on a show, but slowly, carefully, letting the silk sweep around your legs as you half-turn on the spot. Your hand slides along your hip as you move, more for balance than performance, though you feel the heat of his gaze tracing every inch.

When you come back around to face him, something has shifted. He’s no longer smiling.

Not entirely, anyway.

There’s still a pull at his mouth — but his eyes, those eyes, have darkened slightly, soft and locked on yours

He leans in. Not so much invading your space as inhabiting it. His voice when it comes is quieter than before. Just low. Just meant for you.

“Don’t act so shy,” he murmurs. “Not when you look like this.”

And then, barely a breath later, his hand finds your waist.

The touch is light — featherlight — but it lands like gravity. The pad of his thumb grazes the fabric of your dress, a quiet hello written in the space where your body curves. You feel it in your spine. In your throat. In every place that’s ever wondered what this might feel like.

He smells like warm bergamot and something a little deeper, wood, maybe, or leather. The kind of scent you don’t notice right away, but later find on your own hands and wonder how it got there.

Your fingers lift before you’ve decided to move. They find his collar, crisp and just slightly askew from the heat of the crowd, and smooth it back into place.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” you murmur, only barely able to hold his gaze.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Just watches you, his expression unreadable in the half-light, as though trying to memorize this exact version of you. The pink in your cheeks. The way your lips part like you’re going to say something more but don’t.

Your heart drums fast. Too fast. You wonder if he hears it. You almost want him to.

…

It starts with Charles dragging you onto the dancefloor.

One moment you’re standing by the booth, cooling down with a half-finished cocktail, and the next he’s tugging at your wrist, all flushed cheeks and breathless laughter. “Allez! On danse!”

You try to protest but the music is pulsing and warm and far too good. Someone has shifted the playlist to something shamelessly nostalgic, all thumping basslines and sweaty joy. And Charles is a surprisingly good dancer for someone clearly three drinks past his limit.

So you dance.

And you laugh — the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere physical. Rebecca joins for a bit, Oscar is there too, doing something that vaguely resembles choreography, and even Carlos has snapped out of his quiet trance, nodding along from the edge of the crowd like a sleepwalking club king.

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Just that the lights swirl, the music climbs, and somehow — somehow — you keep finding yourself closer to Arthur.

You don’t mean to. Not deliberately.

But every time you spin, every time you fall back into the rhythm, he’s there. Somewhere on the edge of your vision. Smirking from the booth. Sipping his drink by the bar. Sliding past behind you like a slow, orbiting moon.

And then, all at once, he’s not just near.

He’s there.

A hand brushes the small of your back. You turn. Arthur. Standing beside you now, dancing in that effortless, casual way that makes it look like he doesn’t care.

You raise your brows. “Didn’t take you for a dancer.”

He leans in, voice low against your ear. “I make exceptions.”

Your heart stutters.

Before you can reply — “Shots!” someone yells.

Lando, naturally.

He’s halfway onto a velvet bench, waving a napkin like a victory flag as two waitresses arrive with trays. Tequila. Dozens of them.

Oscar stares at them like he’s witnessing a crime. “I’m going to regret everything,” he mumbles.

You’re laughing as Lando thrusts a shot into your hand. “To making Charles dance like a divorced uncle at a wedding!” he cheers.

The group howls.

You’re mid-laugh when a hand curls at your waist.

It’s familiar now. The shape of it. The ease. And the warm weight of his palm, anchoring you just enough to still the world for a second.

You turn, breath catching, to find Arthur already close.

The kind of close that makes your pulse skip. That makes sound dull and the light tilt.

He’s looking at you with a glint in his eye, just this side of trouble.

“Want to help me with my shot?” he says, low enough that only you can hear.

You blink. “Your shot?”

He raises the glass and a torn salt packet between two fingers. His expression? Barely contained mischief.

“Come on,” he says, “I’ll talk you through it.”

Before you can protest or agree he steps in even closer.

“Hold still.”

Then, soft as anything, he bends toward your neck.

His lips graze just beneath your jaw — a featherlight kiss, deliberate — hot and slow. Just enough moisture for the salt to stick, but too much heat to ignore.

You go still. Entirely. Your breath catching in your chest like something hooked.

Arthur pulls back an inch, and his eyes flick up. He sees it. How still you’ve gone. How wide your eyes are. And he smiles like a secret.

“Just there,” he murmurs, and sprinkles the salt onto the spot he just kissed, watching it cling to your skin.

You open your mouth to ask what the hell just happened but he’s already moving.

“Now,” he says, more softly, reaching for the lime wedge, “open.”

Your lips part before your brain can even process the command.

He gently tucks the lime between them. The pads of his fingers brush your lower lip as he does.

Then he pauses. Right there. Inches away.

And his eyes catch yours — clear and gleaming.

“Careful,” he says, smiling lazily.

You blink. “Why?”

He leans in, eyes dancing. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to forget we’re in public.”

Your heart thuds — once, hard.

He bends again, slower this time, and his lips brush your skin first, almost like a question. Then his tongue follows — warm and deliberate — dragging a hot, slow line over the delicate curve just below your jaw.

The contact sends a tremor through you. It's not just the heat, or the pressure, it's the absurd intimacy of it, the way your skin prickles in response.

A sound escapes before you can catch it. soft, involuntary, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

You suck in a breath, spine locking in place. Your fingers curl reflexively into your dress.

Arthur tips his head back, downs the shot with that maddening ease, and then leans in for the lime. His mouth brushes yours as he bites into it, the citrus tang sharp in the air, his breath warm, not a kiss, but not not one either.

And then it’s over.

But your skin still hums.

You’re left standing, reeling, skin burning like a fire lit just beneath the surface.

He swallows, tongue sweeping briefly across his lower lip, then grins down at you.

“You’re really cute when you try to act unbothered,” he says.

You scoff. “I’m not.”

“No?” His brow lifts. “So this is you naturally flustered?”

You cross your arms, shifting your weight, but the heat still lingers at your collarbone. “It was just a shot.”

He chuckles — quiet, cocky, low in his throat — and tugs you in again by the waist, easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That little noise you made?” he teases, voice rough at the edges. “Might be my new favorite sound.”

You can’t answer. Your brain won’t give you words.

Arthur draws back slightly, his gaze lingering for just a moment too long. He looks like he might say something. Maybe something stupid, or soft, or—

“Putain, je vais vomir.”

The words slice through the music, slurred and loud and unmistakably French.

You blink. Arthur blinks. You both turn.

Charles is standing a few feet away, clutching the edge of a table for dear life, his expression caught somewhere between awe and horror.

“Je rigole pas,” he insists, eyes wide. “Je vais vraiment vomir.” (“I’m not joking. I’m really going to throw up.”)

Lando wheezes with laughter. Alex looks mildly alarmed. Someone shouts for water.

You stare.

Arthur turns, sighs like a man aging in real time. “Of course he is.”

You blink. “Wait, is he—”

“Yep.” Arthur groans, and glances back at you, rueful. “Duty calls.”

You nod slowly, still breathless, your skin still singing.

He leans in one last time — his voice a murmur against the shell of your ear.

“Don’t disappear.”

You watch him go, reluctantly, honestly, and the second he’s gone, your fingers lift instinctively to your neck.

The spot still tingles.

…

The car hums softly through the still streets of Monaco, headlights cutting through the early dawn like silk.

Charles is slumped against the window in the backseat, lips slightly parted, one arm draped over Alexandra’s shoulder like he lost control of his limbs an hour ago. She’s half-asleep, face pressed against his collarbone, her sparkly heels kicked off and tucked beneath the seat.

Up front, it’s just you and Arthur.

He’s driving with one hand on the wheel. The other rests on your thigh — warm, firm, steady. His thumb strokes slow, absent circles over the fabric of your dress, so light it could almost be imagined.

You haven’t said anything about it. Neither has he.

But you feel every brush like it’s a lit match dragged across your skin.

The city is quiet. Streetlights flicker gold across cobblestone. A bus dozes at a stop. A cat weaves through the shadows. The kind of moment that feels suspended in amber — like if you speak too loud, it’ll all crack.

Arthur glances over at you once.

You don’t look back. Your heart’s already beating too fast.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, still watching the shadows. “Mm. Just tired.”

He hums. His hand tightens slightly when you shift.

“I’m sorry about Charles,” he says after a moment. “He’s an idiot. Especially when he drinks.”

You laugh under your breath. “He’s always an idiot. Don’t worry.”

Arthur smiles. You can hear it without turning.

“That’s fair,” he murmurs. “Still. You didn’t deserve to have your night end like this.”

You glance sideways, and catch the profile of him in the streetlight. The curve of his jaw. The faintest flush still lingering on his cheeks. He’s focused on the road, but there’s something else under it — that pull that’s been between you all night. Maybe longer.

“You’re driving me home, sounds like a great end to me,” you say softly.

There’s a beat of quiet. Then, his thumb presses a little more deliberately into your thigh — just once.

You shift in your seat.

The air between you thickens.

He pulls into your street too soon. The tires crunch softly against the curb, the engine purring low before cutting off entirely. Your apartment glows softly up ahead, washed in early dawn light — a sleepy kind of golden.

Neither of you moves.

Then he reaches for the door handle and gets out. Walks around. Opens your side.

You step out, and your hand finds his without thought.

It’s warmer than you remember.

He doesn’t let go as he shuts the door behind you.

Your shoes click lightly against the steps as you walk toward your door, his fingers brushing against yours with every step. You can feel him close — not just physically, but in the air around you, the quiet press of something heavier than what’s been said.

At your doorstep, you pause.

You turn.

Arthur’s standing just behind you, one hand sliding instinctively to your waist. His thumb brushes against your ribs. His eyes meet yours.

And stay there.

A silence stretches. The quiet of the night wraps around you like a blanket. The air is thick with all the things you both want to say but can’t.

His eyes dip to your mouth.

Your breath catches.

Then you move — slowly — rising to your toes.

The first press of your lips to his is featherlight. Testing. A peck more than a kiss.

But his grip on your waist tightens.

And then he kisses you back.

And this time, it’s not careful. Not measured. It’s hot and deliberate, his mouth parting against yours with a quiet hunger that coils low in your stomach. He tilts his head just slightly, his free hand rising to cradle your jaw.

You sigh into it, helplessly, fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket.

Arthur pulls you closer. His nose brushes yours. Your lips part again, and it’s slower this time — more languid, more sure. Your mouths move like they’ve done this before in a dream you forgot you had.

He tastes like lime and champagne. His hand anchors you at the hip like he doesn’t want to let go.

The kiss deepens. It's a little greedy now, a little breathless until the whole world feels like it’s wrapped around this one, impossibly good moment.

Then—

A mechanical whirr slices through the quiet.

The car window slides down.

“ARTHUR,” Charles groans in the sloppiest French you’ve ever heard. “C’est pas le moment pour flirter, j’ai envie de mourir…” (This is not the time to flirt, I want to die…)

Arthur freezes. His forehead still rests against yours, and for a moment neither of you moves — just caught in the laugh building behind your teeth.

You break first.

A soft, giddy giggle slips out of you, and Arthur smiles too, eyes still locked on yours.

He brushes his thumb gently across your waist. His voice drops to something quieter, something warm.

“Night,” he murmurs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You nod, still slightly breathless. “Night, Arthur.”

He gives you one more kiss on your forehead — this one quick — then takes a step back and jogs to the car.

The window is already rolled back up. Charles is asleep again.

But Arthur?

Arthur looks over his shoulder just before he slides back into the driver’s seat.

And for the second time tonight — you catch him watching you like he’s been doing it for longer than you realized.

…

The café is quiet — that post-party hush where even the espresso machine seems to steam more gently, as if nursing its own hangover.

You’re already at the corner table, sunglasses on, a cappuccino cooling between your palms. Charles slides into the seat opposite you with a grunt and a grimace, his hoodie pulled so low over his head it might as well be a blackout curtain.

Antoine follows more gracefully, camera bag slung over one shoulder, fresh as if he hadn’t spent the night dodging partygoers to capture candids in impossible lighting. He nods at you, lifts two fingers toward the waiter, and sits.

“I’m never drinking again,” Charles mutters into the wooden table.

You lift your cappuccino to your lips, smirking behind the rim. “Right. That’s your fourth time saying that since April.”

“I mean it this time.”

Antoine lets out a quiet laugh, glancing up. “You also said you were going to learn to cook.”

Charles lifts a hand, index finger raised in weary protest, but doesn’t dignify it with a response.

The server returns with Antoine’s espresso and an orange juice for Charles, who receives it like an offering from the gods and sips slowly, eyes closed— just as the bell above the café door rings.

You glance over your shoulder. And there he is.

Arthur.

Gray T-shirt. Wind-tousled hair. Sunglasses hooked into the collar. Hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

Charles straightens up a bit, blinking like he’s trying to determine if he’s hallucinating.

Antoine looks between the two of you, then back at Arthur.

Arthur nods at the table, casually. “Morning.”

Charles stares. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur’s eyes find yours, warm. “She invited me.”

You sip your cappuccino. “Figured it’d be good to get some real food into you.”

Charles blinks again. “You two… text now?”

Arthur slides into the chair beside you like it’s nothing, like this has always been normal. His knee brushes yours. Doesn’t move.

Antoine takes a sip of his coffee, wisely staying silent — but his expression is all observation.

“I don’t remember anything after Oscar was spinning on the floor like a Beyblade,” Charles mutters, rubbing his temple.

“That was before the shots,” you say.

Arthur smirks. “Yeah, way before.”

Charles groans. “Oh god. Don’t tell me I did something embarrassing.”

You and Arthur exchange a glance.

“No more than usual,” Arthur offers.

“Perfect,” Charles sighs.

A moment of silence falls. Antoine pulls out a roll of film and threads it into his camera. The sun filters in through the café window, catching Arthur’s hair just so, and you’re suddenly aware of how calm it feels now. How natural. How easy.

Arthur leans in slightly. His voice is quiet, only for you.

“You’re really going to pretend last night didn’t happen?”

You glance sideways, hiding your smile behind the rim of your cup. “You mean Charles puking or you kissing me?”

His lips curve. “You kissed me first.”

“Really?” You tease. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

“You kissed me first,” he teases, leaning in, “but I’m very happy to return the favor.”

His fingers brush beneath your chin — gentle, steady — coaxing your face toward his.

His lips are warm and gentle against yours. His hand stays beneath your jaw, steady and gentle, and the slight pressure of his fingers makes your breath catch.

You feel it in your stomach first, that fluttery pull that tightens low and lingers. His mouth is soft, his skin smells like clean soap and something familiar you can’t name, and for a moment, you forget where you are.

The rest of the world recedes, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of other tables.

It’s just this.

When he pulls back, it’s only a breath of space. Enough to see the quiet gleam in his eyes. Enough to know he means it.

You blink once. Smile.

And so does he.

Charles, still staring down into his juice, mutters something under his breath. “I swear, I black out one night…”

You reach over and gently clink your mug against his glass. “Then consider this your morning recap.”

Arthur laughs under his breath, watching you with that same soft look from the night before.

Charles pretends to gag. “I hate it here.”

Arthur bumps your shoulder. “I don’t.”

Your smile lingers a second longer than it should.

[tsunodaradio]

tug of war ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar can’t tell if he wants to impress you or ruin your day. probably both.

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x fashion journalist!reader. ꔮ word count: 12.3k. ꔮ includes: implied smut, romance, humor. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. enemies to ???, tension... so much tension..., slander vs. oscar’s fashion sense, piastri siblings & mark w. cameos, oscar models calvin klein (you have been warned), google translated french. title from carly rae jepsen’s tug of war. ꔮ commentary box: that modeling contract was announced and i locked tf in. i am sure there will be a dozen more model!piastri fics in the forseeable future, so consider this my contribution to the discourse 🪞 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ cooler than me, mike posner. diet mountain dew, lana del rey. jealousy, jealousy, olivia rodrigo. pretty boy, lennon stella. hate to be lame, lizzy mcalpine & finneas. everybody talks, neon trees.

Oscar hadn’t cared about the modeling contract.

It had been a management decision. One of those postseason strategy meetings where someone in a blazer said brand equity three times in five minutes; Oscar had tuned out somewhere between the PowerPoint transition and the phrase post-athletic versatility. IMG had been floated as a way to help secure luxury campaigns, sharpen his media presence, smooth the F1 edges.

The thinking was: clean lines, minimalist jaw, silent type. Marketable. Digestible. Glossy.

He’d said yes because he didn’t have a reason not to. And because saying no would’ve meant sitting in that meeting room for another hour.

So no, he hadn’t cared. Not until Hattie forwarded him your article.

The link came with a text that just said, wow, which meant it was either horrifying or hilarious. Turns out, it was both. The log line says:

Oscar Piastri owes IMG Models an apology for being the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. 

One sentence in and Oscar’s stomach had already done something unpleasant. By the second paragraph, it starts doing somersaults.

His Fashion Week appearance felt like a high schooler playing dress-up in his older brother's Balenciaga. Somewhere, a creative director is crying into his moodboard. There’s aloof, and then there’s absent. Piastri, regrettably, leans toward the latter. A beautiful mannequin. Expression sold separately. Someone please explain how the sport that gave us Lewis Hamilton and Charles Leclerc also produced this cardboard cutout in Prada.

Oscar blinks at his phone like the words might shift into something kinder if he just stares long enough. They don’t. The tone is biting. Effortless. Like you hadn’t hadn’t even broken a sweat while eviscerating him.

He reads it again. And then again.

It’s not that he hasn’t heard criticism before. Racing is full of it—bad weekends, strategy fails, one too many lockups and suddenly everyone’s got an opinion. But this is different. This isn’t about telemetry or tire strategy. This is personal. This is public.

This is accurate, which is probably why it pisses him off so much.

Oscar tosses his phone on the couch, then immediately picks it up again. Reads the line about the moodboard one more time. He doesn’t know what a moodboard is supposed to look like, but he’s now certain he’s personally destroyed one.

He should let it go. Laugh it off. Call it petty and move on. Instead, he looks at your byline and commits it to memory. 

Oscar Piastri hadn’t cared about the modeling contract. Now he does.

He rereads the article for the fourth time, then fifth. Every line lands sharper the longer it sits. He keeps getting stuck on beautiful mannequin. Expression sold separately. By the sixth read, he’s no longer angry. He’s spiraling.

He hits FaceTime.

“Jesus Christ,” Edie says by way of greeting. She’s already mid-eye roll. “What now?”

Hattie and Mae appear one after the other, settling into their usual squares like it’s a scheduled intervention. Hattie’s in the kitchen, making a sandwich at a concerning angle. Mae’s already in bed. It’s noon in Oscar’s Monaco but eight in the evening over at Melbourne. 

Oscar doesn’t beat around the bush. “What the hell was that article?” 

“Oh.” Hattie flashes him a shit-eating grin. “How’d you like it?” 

“Who does this girl think she is?” Oscar snaps. “Seriously. She thinks she can just—”

“She’s literally incredible,” Mae interrupts.

“Oscar, come on,” Edie sighs. “She’s an institution.”

He frowns. “She called me cardboard in Prada.”

“No, she said you looked like a high schooler in Balenciaga,” Hattie corrects. “Which, to be fair, you kind of did.”

Oscar’s jaw tics. His sisters, ever so relentless, push on. “She’s not just some influencer,” Mae adds. “She was writing features before Vogue. Like, real features. That profile on Anok Yai? I saved it. Actual goosebumps.”

“Her newsletter goes viral every other week,” Edie says. “I read her Substack like the morning paper.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Oscar deadpans. 

“She’s our age, and she’s already shaping industry conversation,” Hattie says, smug and ignorant of Oscar’s mental breakdown. “You think IMG just let her roast you for free?”

“They probably begged her to,” Mae yawns. “Honestly, it gave you relevance.”

“Thanks,” Oscar bites out, already regretting his choice of calling in. “Really uplifting.”

“Check her Insta,” Edie says, already knowing he will.

Oscar hangs up before they can gloat any harder. Opens Instagram. Types your name.

Your profile loads in clean, curated rows. Not overly aesthetic. Not fake-candid either. A balance that feels practiced but not desperate. He scrolls.

There you are at New York Fashion Week, not posing, just standing. One heel cocked. Blazer draped loose. Eyes lined sharp. Mouth unsmiling. You look like someone who doesn’t need to ask twice.

Another shot—some rooftop party. Laughing this time. Half-lit, hair undone, drink in hand. The caption is some niche reference he doesn’t get, but the comments are flooded with blue ticks and clapping emojis.

And then a close-up. No makeup. Hoodie. A hand cradling your face, gaze direct into the lens. Oscar actually stops scrolling.

He doesn’t know the first thing about fashion. But even he can tell—you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Worse: you know it. Worse, still: you know exactly what to do with it.

Oscar locks his phone before he can do something stupid.

The IMG boardroom smells like mineral water and expensive neutrality. Oscar sits stiffly at the long glass table, a half-drunk espresso cooling in front of him. The screen on the far wall flashes a slideshow of moodboards and market analysis. Soft tailoring, desert tones, a luxury brand he’s already forgotten the name of.

He’s not really listening.

Someone’s saying something about crossover visibility. Someone else uses the word synergy. A third says, “the Vogue piece did numbers,” and Oscar's spine straightens before he can stop himself.

“Any questions?” asks the IMG rep—Valentina, maybe, or Vanessa—clicking to the final slide.

Oscar clears his throat. Immediate regret, especially when the entire room turns to look at him like that one Simpsons meme come to life. “Um. Yeah, just—” He shifts in his seat. “Should we be… worried? About that article?” 

Three heads swivel. “The Vogue one?” Valentina-slash-Vanessa clarifies.

Oscar nods, as neutrally as possible. There’s a pause. Then, a light chuckle ripples through the room. Not cruel, but close.

“Welcome to the fashion world,” she says, smiling. “You get roasted. It means you exist.”

“She doesn’t roast just anyone,” someone else adds. “You made it onto her radar. That’s not nothing.”

Mark, seated four spots down, is doing that thing where he presses his knuckles into his cheek like he's considering whether to intervene. Eventually, he does.

“Look, mate,” he says, calm, as always. “You got pushed into an ecosystem where image is everything. She poked fun. That’s her job. Let it ride.”

Oscar looks at him. “You saw it?” 

Mark raises an eyebrow. “You think I don’t read Vogue?”

Oscar blanches. Mark shrugs. “She’s good. She’s sharp,” the latter says sagely, “and she’s not going anywhere.”

That last part hits harder than it should.

Oscar leans back in his chair, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his posture might read. Relaxed. Unbothered. Cardboard in Prada. 

The meeting rolls on. Talk shifts to campaign dates, shooting schedules, soft embargoes. Oscar nods when required, scribbles nothing, waits for the room to empty.

He doesn’t say another word.

By the time he’s alone, only one thought remains: You may or may not be around for the foreseeable future. And now, so will he.

Nonetheless, Oscar tries to put you in the back of his mind. He focuses on the simulator. On tire strategy. On corner speeds and data sheets and the way his new helmet vents better in the rain. The fashion thing is a side gig, background noise.

Until the campaign drops.

It’s everywhere by Friday. A soft launch gone sharp. His face on buses. On billboards. In reels that glitch between slow-motion struts and stiff-limbed turns in silk. One frame of him squinting at a rooftop in Milan is already a meme.

He thinks: fine. Let it ride. But then Lando walks into the paddock with that face-splitting grin and a phone already in hand. “You’re trending,” the Brit sing-songs.

Oscar doesn’t look up from his water bottle. “Great. Another out-of-context GIF?” 

“Not exactly.”

Oscar finally glances over. Lando holds up his phone. It’s your Twitter. The open tweet:

ynofficial: A quick thread on why luxury branding is suffering, feat. Oscar Piastri and a war crime against wool blend tailoring. 🧵

Oscar goes still.

Lando scrolls. Each tweet hits like a slap.

ynofficial: First of all: the fabric. Looks like it itches. Looks like it squeaks. If I wanted trauma flashbacks to my Year 8 choir uniform, I’d go to therapy.

ynofficial: Secondly, the pose. Who told him to stand like his hips are on strike? I’ve seen more fluidity in IKEA assembly diagrams.

ynofficial: Third: who keeps convincing this man to stare into the distance like a brooding hedge fund intern? You’re not solving the economic crisis. You’re in pants.

Oscar exhales sharply. “I’m going to kill her.”

Lando cackles. “She ratioed the brand account in two hours.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means people agreed with her.”

Oscar’s throat feels tight. Lando is still talking, but none of it registers, because something is twisting under Oscar’s ribs. Not embarrassment. Not quite. It’s sharper than that. Competitive. Cavernous. The ache of being underestimated and publicly mocked by someone who clearly knows exactly where to aim.

Oscar pulls his fire suit on in silence. Helmet next. No commentary. No fanfare. This isn’t luxury; this is his world. He gets in the car, and he floors it.

The track roars beneath him, corners blurring into muscle memory. Every apex is cleaner than the last. Every lap carves out a little more fury.

He qualifies P1. Come Sunday, he finishes P1.

The engineer’s voice crackles in his ear on the cooldown lap. Oscar responds with cursory thanks but nothing more.

All he can think is, you saw the campaign. Now, you’ll see this.

Here is something he will never admit: Oscar spends an unhealthy amount of time thinking about how he might meet you.

He imagines a fashion event, something obnoxiously glossy with ambient synth and ten-euro cocktails. You’d be in black. All sharp lines and pointed comments. The kind of presence that makes stylists stutter and PR managers sweat. He’d walk up with practiced nonchalance, half-smiling. Say something like, So, do I still stand like an IKEA diagram?

You’d assess, tilt your head. Maybe smirk. Maybe destroy him again with four words or less. Maybe not even that. Maybe just a look.

He turns it over in his head, each version a little more bearable than the last. Sometimes, in the boring hours after media day or a late debrief, he catches himself imagining what your voice might sound like in person. How you’d cross your legs. If your sarcasm is sharper when you’re tired.

Instead, it happens in a bakery.

Rue Grimaldi. Mid-morning. Monaco between triple-headers is strange—too calm, too clean, like the whole city is holding its breath between champagne sprays. The sun makes the buildings look smug. Oscar’s running low on sleep and lower on patience, thinking only of croissants. Maybe a cannelé if he’s feeling reckless. He’s in a hoodie, sunglasses, trainers with half the laces undone.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, and walks straight into someone.

“Oh—shit. Sorry,” he mutters, hands halfway up like he’s surrendering.

You take a step back, brushing hair from your cheek. “It’s fine. I wasn’t looking.”

You move past him without ceremony, heels clipping against tile. Already halfway to the counter, head tilted at the pastry case. He watches the way your fingers hover over the glass, like you’re about to point at something but change your mind.

And then it hits him. “Wait,” he chokes out. 

You turn, slowly. Brows lift. Recognition blooms like something slow and amused. “No way,” you say, sounding properly tickled. 

“You’re—” He gestures vaguely, as if that might conjure the words. “That journalist.”

“Guilty,” you drawl. 

Oscar gives you a quick once-over, a bit disbelieving. You’re dressed down—cardigan, wide-legged trousers, sunglasses pushed up like a headband. One hand in your pocket, the other holding your phone like it’s mid-thought. But it’s you in the flesh. Your voice is far more devastating than he could have ever imagined, too. Clipped. Clear. Like every vowel is pre-approved.

He should walk away. He has croissants to buy. A qualifying sim to finish. A schedule to keep. But instead: “Do you want to a coffee?” 

Your head tilts, just slightly. Not rejection. Not surprise. Something in between. “Seriously?”

He nods, maybe too quickly. “If you’re not busy.”

You glance at your watch, thumb tapping the screen once. Then back at him, expression unreadable. He’s torn between hoping you’ll deny him, and praying you’ll indulge. Before he can decide which one he wants more, you say, “Make it quick.”

And just like that, he’s breathless and buying two americanos before his brain can catch up. He chooses the corner table, by the window, heart doing something awkward in his chest. He watches as you tuck your phone away, adjust your sleeve, walk toward him like it’s a runway you didn’t ask to be on but will dominate anyway.

You’re here. Real. No edits, no distance, no screens. And he’s got ten minutes to not fuck it up.

Oscar watches you sit.

You move like you’ve done this a thousand times before—tug the sleeves of your cardigan once, push your sunglasses up to rest in your hair again, glance out the window like you’re in some French romantic comedy. He’s never seen anyone look so composed in a patisserie with wobbly chairs and sugar packets scattered on the table.

He tries to read your outfit. Telemetry would probably make more sense to him.

Cardigan: grey, slightly oversized, but structured in a way that says it costs more than most of his jackets. Trousers: tailored, pleated, high-waisted, the kind that whisper wealth rather than scream it. Sunglasses: probably designer, probably older than he is. Gold accents on your fingers and ears, none of it matching, all of it deliberate. Even your shoes look like they came with a waiting list.

He squints. “So, are you just…” he starts, “built like that, or is this your job?”

You catch him staring. Not at you, but at the pieces. “Cardigan’s Totême. Trousers are The Row. Sunglasses are vintage Celine. Earrings are Alighieri. Ring was my grandmother’s,” you enumerate without missing a beat. “Good enough for you?”

Oscar smiles ruefully. “I didn’t recognize a single name.”

You shrug, unimpressed. “Didn’t expect you to.”

He huffs a soft laugh. It’s not a comfortable one. “Right. You’re in Monaco for…” 

“An assignment,” you answer crisply. “Fashion house interview. Launch story. Quick turnaround."

“And the bakery?”

“They do the only decent coffee south of the port.”

You sip like you’re just proven a point. There’s no flirtation in your tone. No curiosity, either. Just clinical precision. Oscar is used to being the composed one in a conversation—stoic, a little deadpan, unshakeable.

You rattle him.

He fidgets with the cardboard sleeve on his cup. Picks at it until it peels. “You always that generous with criticism, or was I a special case?” he asks for the lack of better thing to say. 

Your expression doesn’t shift. “I critique clothes. You happened to be in them.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, sharper than he means to.

You purse your lips in a tight grin. “That campaign was a lesson in how not to style menswear. I just took notes.”

“You said I looked like a brooding hedge fund intern.”

“And you replied by qualifying P1. If I’d known all it took was a little public humiliation, I would’ve done it sooner.”

Oscar pauses. Something in your voice makes it sound almost like a compliment, but the smile that follows cuts that thought clean. He doesn’t delve into the implications of you keeping tabs on him. 

“You write like it’s target practice,” he says.

“And you model like someone dared you to.”

Your back and forth isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. The tension is precise, contained in the space between your sentences. You sip again, completely unfazed. Oscar, by contrast, feels the sweat gathering at the base of his neck.

He clears his throat. “Well,” he mutters, “guess we both do our jobs.”

“Guess so,” you echo. Cool, efficient, already checking the time.

You glance at your phone. Tap the screen. Then stand, slow and sure. With swift finality, you reach into your bag and place a crisp bill on the table. Enough for both coffees, and then some.

“I said I’d pay,” he’s saying, trying to put the money back in your hand, but of course you don’t let him win. 

“The conversation wasn’t really worth my time,” you say point blank. “Consider it charity.” 

Oscar sits in the wake of the insult, even after you’re long gone. He’s annoyed. Intrigued. Slightly caffeinated and deeply insulted. It’s not the money. It’s the ease. The way you’d dissected him, then left him right there—unfolded, unbothered.

The fuse, lit.

He watches the door swing shut behind you and thinks, very clearly: you started it.

He’s already wondering how he’ll get the next word in.

Much to his chagrin, Oscar starts seeing you everywhere.

First, it’s a Vogue magazine in the Melbourne airport lounge, flipped open to your feature on emerging designers. Your byline stares at him like it knows something he doesn’t. Then, it’s a suggested Instagram post on his Explore page: you in Bangkok, sunlight through gauze curtains, captioned with something maddeningly cryptic. Fashion girls in the comments calling you mother. He doesn’t even know what that means.

It keeps happening.

A retweet of your article lands in his feed. Someone quotes your latest editorial line by line in their story. One night, Mae sends him a TikTok you made dissecting red carpet menswear, giggling so hard she can’t finish her voice note. “She’s so mean, but so right,” Mae says dreamily. “It’s art.”

He’s two days away from blocking your name from his searches. Not out of malice—he just needs the peace.

But then: the tweet.

Something offhanded. Low-effort. The kind of tweet you could’ve typed while standing in line for a matcha. It ends up on his timeline, cursed and unbidden. 

ynofficial: Say what you want about celebrity collabs but at least Patrick Starr made a setting spray that worked. Can’t say the same for Rare Beauty.

Oscar squints. He reads it again. Then again.

With startling cognizance, he realizes, no. That’s not right. Rare Beauty doesn’t make setting spray.

He only knows this because Edie once dragged him through Sephora for forty-five minutes on a mission to find setting spray, and he picked up Rare Beauty thinking it looked cool. Edie had stared at him like he’d committed a war crime.

“They don’t make that,” she’d hissed. “Put it back.”

Oscar had remembered. Mostly out of spite. Now, he types a reply.

OscarPiastri: Rare Beauty doesn’t make setting spray. Pretty sure you’re thinking of Milk. Or Urban Decay if you’re old school

He hits send before the panic catches up.

It goes viral within the hour.

Quote tweets roll in. Not Oscar Piastri correcting her like he’s on beauty TikTok. WHY DOES HE KNOW THIS. Wait… is this flirting??

Oscar doesn’t care. He lets the notifications flood in, waiting for the only one that would truly matter. Except you don’t respond.

Of course you don’t. You’re probably spiraling in private, rewriting your whole digital identity. Or maybe you don’t care at all.

But the image of you reading the tweet, eyes twitching, maybe muttering “fuck” under your breath—it does something to him.

He walks into the paddock the next morning in an unusually good mood.

The fuse, now burning in both directions.

Two days later, Oscar’s just landed back in Monaco when it hits.

He’s waiting for his suitcase, scrolling through texts from the team, half-reading a message from his physio about recovery stretches when Lando sends him the reel.

No caption. Just the link. A laughing emoji. Oscar clicks, and there you are.

Your face fills the frame. Dewy. Annoyingly perfect. You’re holding up a glass bottle with a milky pink label, speaking directly to the camera. Voice calm, smooth, a little smug.

“Rare Beauty’s 4-in-1 Mist,” you say, tone lilting. “Hydrating, priming, refreshing—and setting. For those still confused.”

You spritz once. A delicate cloud of mist. Cinematic lighting. Some irritatingly well-timed music drop.

Oscar chokes on his own breath.

The video cuts. New outfit. New angle. You’re lounging on a sun-washed terrace, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses back in place. You’re wearing a cropped McLaren tee—cut just above the ribs, sleeves rolled, neckline raw. It’s been altered, obviously.

Oscar can’t fucking breathe. Across your back, in bold, stitched lettering: the number 4, and the last name NORRIS.

He stares. Scrolls back. Watches it again, and again, until Lando’s texts become difficult to swipe up on and ignore. 

Lan (McLaren) [4:34 PM]: bro

Lan (McLaren) [4:34 PM]: she wore my name 

Lan (McLaren) [4:35 PM]: is this real life? 

Lan (McLaren) [4:36 PM]: should i comment?? what do i comment

Oscar doesn’t reply. Can’t. His heart’s in his throat, competing with a hot streak of irritation. He’s not jealous, per se. Instead, he’s burning white-hot at the audacity of it all. 

The fact that you posted it knowing he’d see it. That it’d somehow landed on his radar without him following you, without anyone tagging him. You wanted it to find him, trusted that someone in his circle would deliver it to him on a silver platter. 

Voila. You hit your target audience. You didn’t clap back; you made content.

Oscar tilts his head back against the airport wall and exhales. “She’s unwell,” he mutters.

But he’s smiling as he says it, because maybe he is too. Oscar’s phone pings again. 

Lan (McLaren) [4:38 PM]: do u reckon 😏 is too much

IMG sends Oscar to Paris for visibility. Presence. The words tossed around the email like perfume. Elegant, slippery, vague. No, he isn’t walking—thank God—but he’s expected to show up. Be seen. Play nice. Smile like he means it. Be the sort of handsome that can sit next to couture and not offend.

He wears something layered and monochrome, styled to look effortless but clearly expensive. The jacket alone cost more than a sim rig. Slightly oversized. Double-breasted. Something that drapes and swallows him in all the right places, though he still thinks it makes him look like a noir villain with a secret. 

Mark tells him he looks great. Oscar tells Mark he looks like he’s playing dress-up.

“You are,” Mark replies without sympathy. “Just do it convincingly.”

The red carpet is chaos like Oscar’s never known.

Cameras flashing like artillery. Stylists flutter like moths. Security barking in five languages. People he doesn’t recognize yell his name, half-sure he’s someone they should know. He steps forward. Poses. Chin up, hands in his pockets. He gives the smile he practiced. Tight-lipped, a little cocky. Impassive but photogenic.

By the end of it, he’s posted up against a branded backdrop, trying not to sweat through the shirt. He can feel the back of his neck prickling, the kind of tension that comes from being watched and judged and catalogued all at once.

“How long do I have to stay out here before it counts as engagement?” he hisses, lips barely moving.

Mark doesn’t answer. Not immediately. He’s looking past Oscar, toward the entrance. His brows lift, and Oscar turns.

That’s when he sees you.

You don’t glide so much as you move with gravity. As if the air shifts around you. Your dress is sharp and architectural—silk, structured in the shoulders, soft in the fall. The neckline is subtle but strategic. Your pearl earrings glint once, then disappear behind the angle of your jaw. You walk like you don’t expect to be watched, which, of course, is why everyone watches you.

You’re not the main event. You’re not even meant to be on the carpet. Not a model, not a designer, not a red-list name. But the cameras start clicking anyway. Slow, then hungry. Someone calls out a name that isn’t yours, and you don’t correct them. You just keep walking, eyes fixed ahead.

Oscar forgets how to blink.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Mark mutters, “Stop it.” 

Oscar tears his gaze away a little too late. 

You catch him. 

Your eyes flick to him across the stretch of velvet ropes and photographers. A beat. A pause that lasts longer than it should. You don’t wave. Don’t smirk. Instead, you nod once. Cool. Reserved. Devastating.

The nod of someone who knows exactly how much space she takes up and isn’t sorry about it.

Oscar exhales. Long. Low. His stomach twists with something sour and unplaceable. He rubs the back of his neck and grumbles to no one, “Mega.”

Mark arches a skeptical brow.

“It’s going to be a long fucking day,” Oscar mutters, as if that might explain everything.

The catwalk is sharp with light, harsh and theatrical. It slices down the middle of the room like a runway to judgment, slicing through perfume-thick air and the hum of curated conversation.

Oscar sits in the front row. Legs crossed. Fingers steepled. A pair of sunglasses shoved in the neckline of his shirt like a prop, like he belongs. He’s dressed to the nines in something structured and Italian, and bored out of his skull.

He tries to focus on the clothes. Tries to remember what Mark told him about appearing engaged. Something about camera angles and posture. Something about making eye contact with designers. He nods once or twice, tries not to squint. But the models blur together. Too much tulle. Too many clean lines and high cheekbones. Too much movement, not enough meaning.

Instead, he finds himself watching you.

You’re across from him, two seats down, framed by a low-profile designer and a bored French editor. Face angled slightly. Brows pinched in concentration. You don’t clap. Don’t smile. You take notes on a tiny, battered notebook, the kind that looks like it lives in the bottom of a tote bag. You scribble without looking. Never once glancing down. It’s almost surgical. Methodical. A soundless dissection of fashion as it walks.

Oscar can’t tell if he wants to impress you or ruin your day.

Probably both.

He shifts in his seat, tries not to look again. Fails. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and tilt your head as another model passes. Your expression doesn’t change. You are the real epitome of calm, cool, and collected. You are tragically unimpressed. 

Oscar briefly wonders if you were ever impressed by anything.

Later, the afterparty buzzes with champagne and curated lighting. Something between a nightclub and gallery. Designers holding court. Journalists circling like sharks in silk. Models pretending they’re not hungry. Music pulsing through walls that cost more than his apartment.

Oscar finds you near the bar. Alone. Not talking. Watching.

You look like a contradiction. Sharp in silhouette but soft in posture. Still wearing the same dress. Still wearing that same air of impossible detachment.

You don’t look up until he says, “You know, you act like you’re above all this.”

You sip your drink, gaze still on the carnival show of desperate A-listers. “I don’t act.”

“Right,” Oscar says, shifting his weight, trying not to sound too bitter. “Of course you’re better than everyone else. That’s why you wore my teammate’s name on your back. Real elite behavior.”

Your lips twitch. Just barely. The smallest provocation of a smile. “Still thinking about that? That was weeks ago.”

“Not really the kind of thing one forgets.”

“No,” you hum. “Especially when you were too busy watching me to notice the show.”

Oscar hisses in air through his teeth. So much for being subtle. By the way you’re hiding your grin behind the rim of your glass, you’ve been waiting to say that.

“You think you’re clever,” he accuses. 

“I am clever. You’re just slow.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “You know, the Rare Beauty thing was an honest mistake.”

“So was your outfit at the Balmain shoot.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Brutal.”

“Accurate.”

You swirl the ice in your glass, slow and deliberate. Still calm. Still infuriating. Oscar tries not to clench his fists. “You know,” he says, eyes narrowing, “for someone who hates attention, you seem to collect a lot of it.”

You set your empty glass down, fingers brushing the rim. “Is that why you’re here?” you ask, and it would be innocuous if it weren’t for the spark that flies in your eyes. 

The words land. Oscar can’t even deny them. He watches you—unbothered, radiant, impossibly sharp—and the words escape him before he can tuck them away for another one of his daydreams. “Dance with me, then.” 

You arch an eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s the offer?”

“It’s not an offer. It’s a challenge.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “Cute,” you drawl. “You think I’m something to win.”

“Aren’t you?” he shoots back. 

You laugh—just once, low and incredulous. Then, you lean in close enough that he can smell whatever citrusy thing you’ve dabbed behind your ears. "You’ll have to try harder than that, Piastri."

In the next heartbeat, you disappear into the crowd, pulled by someone else or maybe just the thrill of walking away first.

Oscar stands there, still watching you and the sway of your hips.

Still thinking about ruining your day.

Still wanting to be the exception.

“You’re joking,” Oscar says flatly, like it might scare the suggestion off.

Mark just raises his shoulders in a shrug. “Do I look like I am?”

Oscar glances at the pristine email printout handed across the table like a verdict. Calvin Klein. Two-page proposal. Full creative direction. Option for an extended partnership. His name is printed in bold.

“I drive cars for a living.”

“You also signed with IMG, remember? This is what comes with that. High fashion. Big brands. Broader reach.”

“Half-naked in a denim ad?”

“Tasteful half-naked,” Mark amends.

Oscar groans. Loudly. Like he’s trying to expel the entire conversation from the room.

But Mark doesn’t flinch. “It’s a legacy campaign. Shot on film. Iconic. Everyone does Calvin at some point,” he argues. “It’ll elevate your profile. Trust me.”

Oscar does not trust him. But he signs the paperwork with a sigh so deep it reverberates in his chest. Like he’s agreeing to commit social suicide with the understanding it might be good for him in the long run.

The shoot takes place in a converted warehouse in east London. Exposed brick, industrial beams, and tall windows that let in light so honest it’s almost cruel. The crew is massive. Stylists, assistants, camera techs, someone whose only job seems to be misting his torso between takes.

Oscar stands there in jeans that barely cling to his hips, shirtless under the bright lights, barefoot on cool concrete. His arms fold instinctively across his chest. A futile attempt at modesty.

“Relax the shoulders,” the photographer says. He’s wearing all black, with rimless glasses and a voice like he’s seen too much art to care about a racecar driver.

“This is relaxed,” Oscar replies, a little too defensive.

“Okay,” the man sighs. “Then turn your head more. Give me aloof.”

Oscar frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Pretend you’re bored and rich.”

Oscar thinks, I am bored. And kind of rich. But he doesn’t say it out loud. Instead, he leans against a brick wall and tries to look like he belongs in this space. Like he isn’t absolutely mortified.

They run through a series of setups. Some shots are close-ups. His jawline in profile, lips parted slightly, hair tousled in the hands of someone named Luca who smells like expensive resin. Some are wide: Oscar sprawled across a minimalist couch, or standing in the middle of the room with hands hooked in the waistband of his jeans.

None of it feels like him. Not the denim. Not the deliberate exposure. Not the forced intimacy of lens and light.

He tries not to think about it. It’s a job, a paycheck. Something that will invariably be blackmail material for years to come. 

The campaign drops two weeks later. It hits Instagram first. Then the billboards. Then the fashion blogs. Oscar is already in the middle of a race weekend when the post goes live, and he makes the executive decision to turn off his phone.

He turns it on again after thirty minutes.

Lando is the first to breach his defenses.

Lan (McLaren) [9:21 AM]: mate

Lan (McLaren) [9:21 AM]: MATE

Lan (McLaren) [9:22 AM]: 😏 LEMME HITTTT

Then, Logan:

Logan Sgt. [9:43 AM]: No thoughts just oscar piastri for calvin

Logan Sgt. [9:44 AM]: Lmk who did the lighting, wanna kiss them 

Logan Sgt. [9:44 AM]: Do u prefer I kiss you instead 💋

Oscar sinks lower into his hotel room couch, hoodie pulled over his head, drawstrings pulled tight like he can physically block out the world. He stares at the television, which is playing some muted rerun of practice highlights, and does not check Instagram.

That lasts for all of five minutes. 

He taps into the app. Curiosity wins. As it always does.

He scrolls past the official Calvin Klein post. Then scrolls back. Blinks.

There it is.

Your name. Nestled neatly beneath the sea of likes. Verified and unmistakable. The same username that haunts his Explore page. The same one that once tore his confidence in half with a single article.

He refreshes. Still there.

He doesn’t know what to make of it. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you liked it out of obligation, out of algorithmic pity. Maybe you didn’t even mean to do it and will unlike it the second you notice.

But the tiny heart is there. Bright and red. Undeniable.

Oscar stares at the screen, his own face looking back at him in grayscale—hip bones sharp, denim hugging a little too low, expression somewhere between sulky and iconic.

He’s torn between bracing himself and letting the corner of his mouth lift.

He does neither.

Instead, he locks his phone again. Slower this time. And when he reopens it, refreshing the page just to see if you might have taken back your like? Well. That's between him and his Calvins. 

For a few days after, Oscar lets his guard down.

He tells himself it’s fine. Normal. Healthy, even. You hadn’t said anything about the Calvin Klein campaign, and he’d spent a full forty-eight hours without spiraling over your silence. Maybe the like had been an accident after all. Maybe you didn’t have an article scheduled. Maybe you had other things to do.

He breathes easier. There are other things to worry about.

Wimbledon, for one. IMG sends him with Toni Breidinger, who’s every bit the polished motorsport crossover success they love to tout. She walks the press line like she’s done it a thousand times. 

Oscar stands beside her in a light khaki linen suit, white shirt slightly unbuttoned. No tie. No pocket square. Just a faint squint against the London sun and hair that refuses to be styled into anything other than himself.

Toni, in contrast, is pristine. She wears a satin-adjacent ivory midi dress with delicate pleats and pointed slingbacks. Her jewelry is subtle, her sunglasses Chanel. She looks like someone who belongs in the Players’ Box.

Oscar enjoys her company. She’s kind. Funny. Grounded in the way only other racers are. She asks good questions. Laughs easily. Doesn’t mind that he doesn’t say much. When the match is done, she even manages to surprise him a bit. 

“The night is young,” the NASCAR driver says as they make their way out of the court. “Have you got any plans?” 

It takes a moment for Oscar to realize where she’s getting at, and then another moment for him to realize his next words aren’t probably the best ones he could’ve gotten at. “Are you asking me out on a date?” he blurts out, wincing as he gets to the end of the sentence. 

God, the linen must be doing something to his brain. Thankfully, Toni seems endeared by his loserisms. “Maybe,” she says, coy in all the right places.

There’s a part of Oscar that considers it. Conversation in some pub. Fish and chips. Beer. But his brain doesn’t even get past that, and he doesn’t see the point in wasting Tori’s time. “Thanks,” he says politely, “but maybe next time.”

Both of them know there will be no next time. Toni takes the rejection with grace, and Oscar wonders why the hell he can’t say ‘yes’ and mean it. 

He heads back to the hotel, strips off the suit, and scrolls through his notifications. Nothing interesting. Nothing urgent. He sets his phone down and is halfway into brushing his teeth when his Google Alert pings. ["Oscar Piastri" site:vogue.com]

He taps it out of instinct. The headline is innocent enough. Wimbledon 2025: Fashion's Winners and Losers From Centre Court to Champagne Tents.

He starts to skim, already expecting his name to be somewhere on the list. That was the whole point of the notification. 

Toni is listed under Winners.

Poised and tonal, Toni Breidinger’s Wimbledon fit is a masterclass in motorsport-meets-Monaco. Ivory folds that call back to ‘90s Dior with none of the fuss. She looks like she knows your secrets and has already forgiven you.

Oscar raises a brow. He expected to at least find himself right underneath Toni, if not connected to her. To nobody’s surprise but his own, he finds himself under Losers. 

Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, remains committed to dressing like an F1 intern promoted to full-time via nepotism. His linen suit wrinkles in ways only the ill-fitting do, and his refusal to accessorize speaks to either laziness or existential protest. Hard to tell.

He stares, refreshes the page. It’s still there.

The line cuts sharper on the second read. An F1 intern promoted to full-time via nepotism. He scrolls again. Wrinkles in ways only the ill-fitting do.

Jesus.

He lets the phone drop to the bed and stares at the ceiling.

This, he thinks, is what was missing with Toni. The friction. The fire. The way his blood runs electric when your words land like darts.

He doesn’t know if it’s a curse or an addiction.

It’s humid and loud in the Marina Bay paddock, which is why Oscar genuinely thinks he’s hallucinating.

It’s a dizzying maze of flashing credentials and overcompensating sponsors, all of it vibrating under stadium lights that haven’t even warmed up yet. He’s elbow-deep in a post-FP2 debrief, half-tuned out while Mark and his race engineer argue about brake balance, when he sees you.

You’re in black. Crisp, tailored, the fabric matte and expensive in a way that photographs like silk but doesn’t cling in the heat. Your heels are low but purposeful. Your sunglasses are oversized and unbothered. Your hair’s swept back, barely frizzing in the humidity, and your press pass swings from your hip like a dare.

But what he really sees—the thing that yanks his attention clean from throttle maps—is the lanyard. Alpine.

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t storm over, but the next time he spots you near hospitality, perched casually on the edge of a lounge seat, he doesn’t talk himself out of it, either. He tells himself he’s thirsty, that he was coming this way anyway.

“Bold of you to show up here wearing enemy colors,” he says instead of hello.

You turn at the sound of his voice. Stare at him like you need a second to place the face. Then you smile. Slow, like he’s an inside joke you just remembered. “You mean black?”

“I mean Alpine.”

You glance down at the pass, genuine confusion creasing your brow. “Oh. They gave me a guest tag. I filed my credential request too late.”

“Convenient,” he mutters, though there’s a bite in it.

Your brows lift, a perfect arc of condescension and curiosity. “Did I miss a blood feud or something?”

“Just a contract battle. Public fallout,” he says, trying to brush past it now that he knows you hadn’t done it with malice. “Several months of legal.”

“Ah. I see you’re being emotionally mature about it.”

Oscar huffs out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “You’re very funny.”

“Thank you,” you say brightly, like you’re accepting a prize.

You turn back toward the track, eyes scanning the mechanics swarming around a chassis like you actually know what you’re looking at. Oscar’s about to tease you about it when Lando arrives.

“Hey, love! I thought that was you,” Lando says, an easy grin in place as he slips an arm around your shoulders like you’re old friends. You lean into it without hesitation. “Didn’t know you were coming.”

“Didn’t plan on it,” you greet the Brit, voice already lighter than it’d been with Oscar. “Vogue sent me at the last minute.”

Oscar watches this with a rising tide of something he doesn’t name. It bubbles under his skin, prickling behind his collar. Later, he’ll find out the two of you occasionally exchange DMs. Lando, supposedly, asks for fashion advice. 

Right now, though, you’re smiling kindly. Asking Lando about his setup. Nodding like you’re genuinely interested in the nuances of tire deg in sector three. You even laugh at his dumb joke about humidity and air intake.

The worst part is you look good doing it.

“Can we get a quick shot?” a McLaren social media manager appears with a DSLR, already angling it like the answer will be yes. “You, Lando, Oscar—just one for the feed. Paddock energy and all that.”

Lando shrugs and steps into place. Oscar does too, like it’s muscle memory. You hesitate just a fraction, but you don’t pull away. 

So Oscar doesn’t, either. 

Instead, he slides his hand around your waist. 

Not tight. Not blatant. Just there. Possessive in the way a statement can be subtle and still sharp. You tense. The camera lines up. You recover quickly, spine iron-straight, lips curving with venomous ease.

“Smile,” he says from the corner of his mouth, gaze locked on the lens. “You’re the one in enemy colors, remember?”

Your smile widens. “You’re lucky I look good from this angle,” you grit out.

The flash goes off again.

Oscar doesn’t move. For a brief moment, it’s like no one else in the paddock exists.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He only knows that whatever this is—this weird, escalating combustion between you and him—it’s not slowing down.

Maybe he should be more careful. But as you step out of frame and walk away, leaving behind the scent of heat and challenge, Oscar just thinks: Game on.

That evening, Oscar drives like something’s chasing him.

Not a car, not even the clock. Just a thought. A presence. A black-sheathed silhouette somewhere across the pit lane, wearing the wrong lanyard and a smirk too clever for its own good. You.

You, hovering somewhere in Alpine’s garage. You, probably watching from behind glossy paddock sunglasses, arms crossed, whispering commentary in your head like it’s a column waiting to be written. Probably already composing the headline: Piastri Redeems Himself, Still Lacks Edge.

The logline, probably something like, Oscar Piastri should stick to racing. It’s clearly all he’s good for. 

It shouldn’t motivate him. It does, anyway. Sector one: green. Sector two: purple.

He flies. Slips through corners like the car was carved from liquid. Every lap feeds the flame. You watching—or not watching—from the enemy’s camp has him gritting his teeth and braking half a beat later.

When the checkered flag waves, when the roar in his ears turns into a roar in the crowd, when his engineer screams through the radio—“P1, Oscar, that’s P1!”—all Oscar can think is: beat that, darling. 

The cooldown room is too bright. The AC is too weak. The cameras are everywhere.

Oscar runs a hand through his hair. It’s wet, flattened from the helmet, and he’s aware of it in a way he normally isn’t. He adjusts the collar of his race suit, makes sure the zipper sits right, wipes sweat off his brow. He pretends not to care.

He absolutely cares.

He eyes the monitor playing back the race. There he is, overtaking with inches to spare. There he is, fist raised, head tossed back in relief. He wonders if you saw that part. If it impressed you. If it annoyed you.

The podium ceremony is a blur. Champagne. Anthem. The weight of the trophy pressing into his palms. He catches his reflection in the metal and straightens up. Just a fraction. Just in case you’re still looking.

Back in the garage, his adrenaline is still humming when he hears your voice. “Congratulations.”

He turns. You’re there, somehow composed despite the heat and the noise. Your sunglasses are gone. You extend a hand. Simple. Professional.

He stares at it like it might explode. “I didn’t realize Alpine handed out sportsmanship awards now,” he says, even as he takes it.

Your handshake is confident. Cool, despite the weather. “I’m off-duty. Try not to let it go to your head.”

He doesn’t let go right away. “Must be hard, watching me win in orange.”

You hum, amused. “You clean up alright, I’ll give you that. Shame about the post-race hair.”

His lips twitch. “You watched my cooldown footage?”

“No,” you say, dropping his hand. Your lips have already turned into half a sneer. “I have taste.”

He laughs, a sharp breath through his nose. “Right. Only tuned in for the mistakes, then.”

“Exactly.”

The tension could cut glass. It hums beneath the words, invisible but loud. There’s no need to drag this on, so you give a curt nod as you turn on your heel. 

You’re walking away, already pulling your phone from your pocket, probably drafting your next jab in a group chat somewhere. Maybe something about podium etiquette or helmet hair.

But something glints by Oscar’s boot. Brows furrowed, he bends down.

A bracelet. Thin gold, broken clasped. Delicate, but not fragile. The kind that says a lot in its silence. Your perfume clings to it. Floral, warm, stubborn. Like jasmine twisted with fire.

Oscar holds it for a second, champagne drying sticky on his palm. For once, you’re the one who dropped the ball.

He rubs his thumb over the clasp, then looks up. You’re gone. Lost in the paddock. Swallowed by the crowd and the noise and the shadow of teams who aren’t his.

Looks like he has a reason to find you again.

Not that he needed one.

The opportunity presents itself sooner than expected.

Calvin Klein Autumn/Winter 2025. Runway show. Not just attending. Walking.

Oscar blinks at the email like it’s a prank.

“Please don’t make me do this,” he begs Mark over breakfast in Monza.

Unfortunately, Mark is a slave to capitalism. “You’ll be fine,” the man says, not at all reassuring. “The casting director loves you. The campaign did numbers. They want a face that can drive and walk. Two feet, mate. It’s not surgery.”

Oscar wants to crawl into the nearest drain. He wishes it were surgery. With a noise of resignation that sounds too much like a pained groan, he jabs his fork into his bacon. 

The next week, he’s flown to New York for rehearsals. Takes walking classes. Has a terrifying instructor named Claudette who uses a metronome and phrases like own your breath and summon your solar plexus.

He doesn’t tell anyone about the classes. Especially not his sisters, who will definitely make fun of him until the day he dies. Especially not you, because why the hell would he message you first? 

The day of the show, he wakes up with his stomach twisted in unfamiliar ways. It’s worse than the nerves he gets pre-race. Something slower, stickier. Like anticipation laced with dread.

Oscar is fitted into his look early. Black wool trousers, pressed razor sharp. A charcoal double-breasted overcoat belted tight at the waist, collar popped. No shirt. Just skin and coat. A single silver chain around his neck. Polished boots. Minimal, but cutthroat. Calvin in its purest language.

Hair slicked. Cheekbones sharp. Fingers trembling.

The show space is white and glacial. Rows of chairs in stadium silence. He waits backstage with professional models who barely blink. Someone sprays something into the air that smells like cold metal and luxury. Another person tapes the inside hem of his trousers. 

Oscar  knows exactly where you’re sitting.

Second row, right side, just behind the front row of buyers. Black dress. Black tights. Trench coat draped across your lap. Arms folded. Pen in hand. Eyes merciless.

He steps out onto the runway like he’s walking into fire. One foot, then the next. Claudette’s metronome rings somewhere in his skull. He counts the beat like a lifeline.

You’re not looking at him, not at first. You’re scribbling something, nodding at the tailoring on the model before him.

And then your chin lifts.

He feels your eyes like a pin to the ribs.

You don’t smile. You don’t smirk. You don’t do anything at all. You just watch.

Oscar keeps walking. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter.

He walks past you, into the lights, into the flash, into the breathless click of shutters. But for one heartbeat, all he can feel is you.

Watching.

In complete contrast to the soundless affair, the show’s afterparty is loud.

Louder than necessary, Oscar thinks. Some kind of converted gallery space with concrete walls and modular lighting. Everything hums with house music and ego. Everyone wants to talk. Designers. Models. Brand execs who smile too much and call him “champ.”

Oscar smiles back. He thanks them. He shakes hands and nods along, but his eyes are on the door.

You’ve been hovering at the fringes all night. Never fully in the center, but always just visible. You talk to a few editors. Sip something that isn’t wine. Check your phone often. And when your coat slips over your arm and your bag swings onto your shoulder, Oscar moves.

He cuts through the crowd like he’s late to pit lane. Nearly collides with someone holding a tray of cocktails, mutters a sorry, keeps going. You’re halfway across the lot when he catches up.

“Leaving already?” he calls out, breathless and not at all trying to hide it.

You turn, surprised but not startled. “Piastri.”

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he jams them into the pockets of his overcoat. “Didn’t peg you as someone who ghosts the afterparty.”

“Didn’t peg you as someone who corners people in parking lots.”

“Right. Fair. Still…” He shrugs. “Thought you might want to debrief. You know, since you were there. Second row and all.” 

You arch a brow. “You looking for notes?”

His grin tilts. “You offering?”

“Not exactly.”

He takes a half-step closer. The night is cool and you’ve pulled your coat tighter, arms crossed again. Defensive. Or maybe just cold. “Just tell me what you thought, then,” he prods. “Of the show. Of the clothes.” Of me, goes unsaid. 

“You’re fishing,” you snipe. 

“I prefer ‘seeking insight.’”

You consider him, then look past him, like the skyline has something more pressing to offer. “You didn’t fall. That’s already impressive.”

“High praise.”

“I mean it. You walked better than some actual models.” You look up just in time to see the surprise flicker across his expression. “There. Satisfied?”

Oscar studies you. The way your mouth is a little tight. The way your hands fidget with the strap of your bag. There’s something below the surface, something he can’t quite nail until it hits him right between the eyes. 

“You liked the campaign,” he says suddenly.

Your nose scrunches. “Excuse me?”

“My Calvin campaign,” he says, words coming out in a rush. “You didn’t say anything when it dropped. Nothing. No critique. No snide tweet. You went radio silent.”

Your posture stiffens.

He presses, triumphant in a way that a top step could never make him feel. “Which means you liked it.”

You scoff. “You're reaching.”

“Am I?”

You look away. It might be the lighting, but Oscar would bet half his month’s salary that you’re blushing. “It was... fine,” you stammer. “Well-lit. Competently styled.”

“You zoomed in.”

“Jesus, Piastri.”

You're flustered. Just a little. But it’s there, and oh, Oscar is going to count it as the best thing of the night. You adjust your bag again, already pivoting. “I’ve got a deadline. Enjoy the party.”

“Wait.”

He pulls something from his coat pocket. Holds it out.

Your bracelet. Delicate gold, a little bent from the champagne, still catching light. “You dropped this in Singapore,” he explains when your eyes narrow with suspicion. “I figured you might want it back, Cinderella.”

There’s a beat, but then you close the space. Your fingers brush his as you take it. Skin on skin, a flicker of contact that lingers longer than it should.

You don’t say thank you. Just nod once, turn, and disappear towards your car. Oscar stands there, bracelet-less, hand tingling.

Later, in his hotel room, he refreshes your Twitter in hopes of some throwaway tweet about the evening. About the walk. About him. He gets nothing, which is both a curse and a grace. 

He falls asleep with his phone in his hand. 

Oscar spends his next weekend doing something dangerously close to normal.

No cameras, no sponsor commitments, no paddock buzz. Just him, a takeaway coffee, and the faint smell of old books and worn denim clinging to the air of a tucked-away thrift shop in Monaco. It’s quaint here, nestled between a closed-down gelateria and a hair salon that only accepts clients by surname. The kind of place that never updates its storefront, never plays music above a hush. He likes it.

He’s flipping through a rack of jackets, trying to tell the difference between what’s vintage and what’s just old, when he spots it. A faded, steel-blue working jacket. Broken in just enough. Boxy shoulders. A collar that begs to be popped. He steps forward—

Only for someone else to reach for it at the exact same time.

His hand closes over yours. 

You blink up at him, equally surprised. Then, as if nothing is out of the ordinary, you arch a brow. “Figures,” you say.

Oscar groans. “This Principality’s too small.”

“For your ego, definitely.”

He half-smiles, then gestures to the jacket, still suspended between your hands. “I saw it first.”

“Debatable.”

“Undebatable. I was reaching. You intercepted.”

“You were hesitating.”

“I was assessing.”

“You were confused.”

“You were lurking.”

You tilt your head. “I was curating.”

Oscar snorts. “You just make up verbs now?”

“It’s fashion,” you snap. “All languages are fair game.”

You tug gently at your side of the jacket, but Oscar doesn’t let go. He’s not entirely sure why—he can buy a dozen just like it online. But it’s the principle. Or maybe the thrill of not backing down. Or, maybe: it’s you. 

You study him. “Let’s both try it on,” you declare. 

He squints, as if trying to figure out the ploy underneath your words. “What?”

“We both try it,” you say, the same way one might explain something to a five-year-old. “Objectively decide who it suits better.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Oscar sighs, glances around the shop like someone might come save him, then relents. “Fine.”

The mirror in the fitting room is cracked at the corner, a thin fracture spidering through the glass like tension made visible. Oscar sits on the little bench, elbows on knees, trying very hard not to look like he’s holding his breath.

You’re up first.

You disappear behind the thin curtain. The fabric sways for a beat too long, and he stares at it like it might offer a preview, a hint, a silhouette. He tries not to imagine what you look like half-undressed. He fails. Spectacularly.

When you step out, the jacket is slung over your shoulders like something you’ve owned for years. Open and deliberate. It shouldn’t work over your outfit—some slinky black knit dress that hits mid-calf, ankle boots that look sharp enough to hurt, gold hoops at your ears, your hair in something careless and unfairly chic. But of course it works. Of course it does.

You push the sleeves up to your elbows with practiced indifference, cinch the belt halfway. Collar upturned with a flick of your fingers. Oscar can’t tell if it’s instinct or performance. Maybe both. Probably both.

“Okay,” you say, watching his reflection instead of the mirror. “Your turn.”

He rises. His knees feel weirdly unsteady. He reaches for the jacket like it’s something sacred. Like touching it is the next part of a dare.

You don’t look away when he slips it on. He pulls it over his white tee, brushes it down over jeans that now suddenly feel too casual, too deliberate. The fit is almost perfect, but you step forward anyway. Tug the belt tighter. Tuck a fold at the collar. Adjust a seam at his shoulder. Your fingers smooth over the fabric like you’re coaxing something to life.

Your hand lingers at his collar. And, for some reason, Oscar’s fingers wrap around your wrist. 

You look up at him. Not startled. Not smug. Just… still.

The air is suddenly too warm. 

“You look good in it,” you say, voice low. Gazing up at him through heavy-lidded eyes that could mean only one thing. 

Oscar’s response is hushed. “So do you,” he breathes, eyes flickering to your perfectly glossed lips. 

It happens all at once. Like a thread pulled too tight. Like gravity giving up.

He’s not sure who he leans in. None of it matters, because all he cares about is that your mouth is on his. Hot, firm, hungry. Like you’ve both run out of excuses.

Your lips taste like coffee, like something sweet and sharp. Lip gloss. Impatience. Your fingers twist into the lapels of the jacket he’s still wearing. His hands find your waist, gripping and greedy. He pulls you closer like he means to stay there.

You breathe against his lips, words slipping out between the spaces. “I liked the Calvin campaign,” you hiss, like it pains you to admit. 

“I figured,” Oscar grunts. “And you called me a loser at Wimbledon ‘cause you were jealous of Toni.” 

You laugh, and it breaks the kiss but not the spell. It’s sharp, breathless, utterly you. “You’re cocky,” you huff, but you don’t correct him.  

He preens. “You still kissed me back.” 

Your nails graze the back of his neck and he groans, low and helpless.

“You started it, Piastri.”

“You wore the jacket like that.”

“You grabbed my wrist.”

“You knew what that would do.”

Clothes rustle. The mirror starts to fog at the edges. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, dips under your chin, slides down the slope of your throat like he’s learning a new track by touch alone. You fist the front of his shirt and drag him back in like you’re daring him to try and stop.

He doesn’t.

There’s the soft thud of your back against the wall. The faint creak of the bench shifting. Hangers sway behind you in silent rhythm. Somewhere, one clinks against the metal rail, forgotten.

Your breathing is uneven. So is his. The kissing gets sloppier. Hungrier. All tongue and teeth and little gasps that he drinks like water.

You whisper something he doesn’t quite catch. He thinks maybe it’s his name—Oscar, this time, instead of the usual Piasti. He rewards you with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. Your jawline.

Then, finally, your throat. You shiver. It’s messy. Steamy. A little ridiculous, with how cramped the space is. 

But, also: It’s inevitable. It’s you. It’s not enough. His hands trail upward, reckless and ready to risk it all. He’s barely brushed over your chest when a voice cracks through the space like thunder. 

“Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?!”

Oscar jolts like he’s been slapped. You spring apart, breathless and red-faced. An elderly woman with heavy-rimmed glasses and a deeply unimpressed frown is standing there, hands on hips.

“This—not a motel,” she snaps in clipped English, eyes bouncing between the two of you like you’re teenagers caught behind the bleachers. “Out. Maintenant!”

Oscar opens his mouth to apologize, but he fails to form a coherent sentence. You look like you’re biting back a laugh and a grimace at the same time. The two of you are practically shoved out by the store owner, who neglects to notice the vintage jacket still fitted on Oscar. She kicks the two of you out onto the curb. 

“Je ne veux plus vous voir ici. Bannis à vie,” she announces before slamming the door in your faces.

Oscar is still catching his breath. You’re already grinning. “Did she just ban us for life?” Oscar wheezes.

“She did,” you say, brushing your hair back. “So. Your place?”

Oscar doesn’t have to be asked twice. He grabs your hand and drags you towards a corner, your laughter still echoing behind you. There’s heat under your skin, not just from embarrassment but from the taste of your mouth still lingering on his lips. Your fingers tighten around his as if you’re daring him to slow down. He doesn’t.

The second his apartment door clicks shut, you’re on him again.

You’re kissing like you never stopped, or like you never plan to again. Oscar backs into the entryway wall, hands at your hips, then your waist, then up your back, mapping all the places he’s wanted to touch you. 

“Months,” you mumble into his neck. “You’ve been driving me insane for months.”

“Right back at you.”

You breathe against his mouth, sweet and amused. “You always this hands-on with critics?”

He kisses your jaw. “Only the one who got me banned from a thrift shop.”

“That was mutual.”

“Was it?” He nips at your pulse point playfully. “Because I feel like you were the instigator.”

You laugh, warm and close and perfect. “Again: you grabbed my wrist.”

“Again: you styled the jacket.”

You make it to the living room like you’re sleepwalking through instinct. Oscar drops onto the couch and you follow, straddling him like you’ve known exactly how this would go from the very first article. Your palms flatten against his chest, fingertips grazing the hem of his tee.

“It’s my jacket, by the way,” you say.

He scoffs as he shrugs the said off, casting it to the side. “You’re delusional.”

“I wore it better.”

“You looked incredible,” he admits, hands landing on your hips. His thumbs circle at your waist, reverent to a fault. “Still doesn’t make it yours.”

You reach for the hem of your dress.

He stops breathing.

The black knit slides up and over your head, pooling to the side like a flag dropped mid-battle. Beneath, your skin glows in the lamplight, your eyes watching his reaction like you already know it.

Oscar chokes. “Okay. It’s yours. Definitely yours. Keep it forever.”

You smile like you’ve won something. Like the jacket isn’t the only thing you plan on keeping. 

Oscar wakes to the morning sun slicing through half-drawn curtains. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. Then he shifts, feels the warm weight curled into his side, your leg hooked lazily over his. And it all comes back in slow, lazy flashes. 

The couch, the jacket, your laugh against his neck, the soft thud of you both racing through the Monaco streets like idiots.

He doesn’t remember how many times you ended up in bed last night. He just knows it was a lot. You’d laughed against his mouth at some point and told him he was greedy. He remembers kissing the curve of your shoulder in apology, and then promptly proving your point. 

He’s a bit sore. He doesn’t mind.

His arm is asleep. He doesn’t care.

You’re breathing slowly, cheek pressed to his chest, hair mussed from where he’d had his hands in it. Oscar doesn’t move at first. He only stares at your face, unsure of what to do with how at peace he feels.

Then you stir.

“You’re staring,” you mumble, voice still gravelled from sleep. Your fingers curl into his side like it's a habit. “Creep.”

He huffs out a laugh, shifts again to look at you properly. “You know,” he mumbles, “for someone who just climbed me like a tree a few hours ago, you’re awfully judgmental.”

You lift your head, hair falling into your face. Your eyes are barely open. You glance down, underneath the covers where you’re both only half-dressed. The smirk that blossoms on your face is wholly unfair. “Wow. Even your boxers are Calvin Klein. Do they own you, or—”

“Really?” Oscar groans. “First thing in the morning?” 

You grin sleepily, mean and glowing in the soft morning light. He leans in to kiss you, but his efforts are met with a palm to his face. 

“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet,” you complain.

“Neither have I,” he protests, trying again to capture your lips. 

You dodge him effortlessly. “I have standards.”

“Prissy princess.” 

“You were singing a different tune last night.” 

He pulls your hand off his face, presses a kiss to your palm instead. Then your wrist. Then your collarbone. Every inch but your mouth.

You squirm a little, breath catching. “Oscar.”

“You said no mouth,” he says against the valley of your chest. “‘m improvising.”

Your fingers thread through his hair. Your grin softens.

It’s dangerous, he thinks. How easy this already feels. How much he wants the morning to slow down just so he can stay in this one moment, in the space between your teasing and something gentler.

You whisper, almost like a dare, “Don’t get soft on me.” 

But you’re still curled into him, and he already is. Impossibly soft and utterly gone. 

He’s the one who gets out of bed first. Pulls on a hoodie, leaves you with a hickey in a place you can cover up and advice about where he keeps his spare toothbrushes. 

The plan is simple: pancakes. Not the boxed kind, either. He wants to impress you. Or, more accurately, he wants to have something to do with his hands that isn’t touching you, because he could probably do it all day. Cooking seems safer than crawling back into bed just to see if you’re awake enough to kiss him again.

He’s halfway through mixing the batter—flour dusting his hoodie, measuring cup discarded sideways—when he hears you. “Really embracing domesticity, huh?”

Oscar looks up. You’re in his McLaren jersey—his, not Lando’s—and nothing else. It hangs off your frame, ridiculous and perfect, and Oscar feels a deeply immature sense of victory bloom in his chest. The same jersey you’d practically flaunted wasn’t his in that Instagram reel, but now? Now, it clings to you like a claim. 81. Piastri. 

Everything is right in the world, Oscar thinks to himself smugly. 

“You finally found a driver worth repping,” he says, flipping the spatula in his hand with a bit too much flair.

You walk into the kitchen like you own it. Your hair’s a mess, sleep still heavy in your eyes. You loop your arms around his waist from behind and lean your cheek against his back. He freezes. Not because he doesn’t like it, but because he likes it too much. You fit there too well.

“Piastri,” you mumble against the fabric. “You’re burning your pancake.”

He curses under his breath and turns off the stove. Leaves the half-cooked pancake in the pan, forgotten. He turns to face you, and you’re already looking up at him with that expression. The one that sees through him entirely.

“We should probably talk about this,” he says evenly. 

“About your tragically uneven pancake?”

He gives you a flat look. “About us. About… what this is.”

You pull back slightly, arms still around him, and tilt your head. “I like you,” you say plainly. “You know that, right? I wouldn’t have gotten into bed with you if I didn’t.”

“You also called me a loser in Vogue.”

“That was my job.”

“You said I looked like a Wimbledon ball boy who got lost on his way to centre court.”

“Because you did. But it doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

“Unbelievable.”

You shrug, grinning. “You like it.”

He exhales. “You are so difficult.”

“You knew what this was.”

“I thought this was you slowly falling in love with me.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy.”

Before you can say anything else, he lifts you by the waist, setting you down on the counter behind him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You squeak, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders.

He leans in close, lips brushing your cheek. “Are you finally happy with your brushed teeth now?”

You blink, and then laugh. “Maybe,” you hum, that damned blush already dusting your cheeks.

“Good,” he says, and then he kisses you before you can change your mind.

The batter sits forgotten. The stove cools. Morning sunlight spills across the kitchen floor. And Oscar—hoodie rumpled, hair a mess, heart ridiculously full—decides the pancakes can wait.

Oscar barely has time to sit down when his phone starts buzzing with a FaceTime call from his sisters. Edie, Hattie, and Mae—all three of them crammed into one frame, faces glowing with purpose. It feels like an ambush.

“Is someone dead?” he asks, answering anyway, towel slung over his shoulder. He’s halfway through packing for the next race weekend, and his patience is running thin. “Otherwise, if this is about Hattie’s birthday plans again, I already said I’m not flying commercial.”

“Shut up,” Mae says. “This is serious.”

A beleaguered sound escapes Oscar. Hell hath no fury like the trio of Piastri sisters. “Then get on with it,” he grumbles. “I’m busy.” 

Edie leans in like she’s about to deliver breaking news. “Who are you dating?”

Error 404. 

Oscar blinks. Stalls. Sputters out an incredulous, “What?” 

Hattie sighs like he’s stupid. “Come on, Oz. You think we wouldn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

“You,” Mae says, drawing the word out like it explains everything. “Your entire… aesthetic.”

Oscar looks down at himself. He’s in a sleeveless Margiela knit and tailored cargos. The sneakers are Balenciaga. Nothing too loud, but a far cry from his usual khaki-short-and-UNIQLO-tee era.

“You used to dress like you got lost on your way to a uni lecture,” Edie adds. “Now, suddenly, you’re wearing Loewe and soft knits in the paddock.”

“With jewelry,” Hattie cuts in. “Subtle, but intentional jewelry.”

Oscar’s eye twitches. “You lot stalk me too much.”

“The internet stalks you,” Hattie corrects. “We just pay attention. And people have noticed. There are entire threads now.”

She’s not wrong. 

There are Twitter compilations. Instagram mood boards. (Oscar knows what a mood board is now.) TikToks that compare his grid walk fits from a year ago to now. The glow-up is so documented, it’s practically a sociology paper. 

He remembers the first fight about it. You, arms crossed, standing in front of his closet like it personally offended you. “You own four identical grey hoodies,” you had said with disgust that could curdle milk. “That’s a cry for help.”

“They’re comfortable,” he’d defended.

“They’re a crime against humanity.” 

You’d spent an hour styling him in pieces he didn’t even remember owning. Some he’d never worn. He’d grumbled the whole time, arguing about collars and cuts, but now? Now he barely touches the hoodies. He still doesn’t quite know what he’s doing fashion-wise, but he knows what looks good on him. Or at least, what looks good to you.

He flashes back to you in Paris, thumbing the lapel of his coat before a shoot. Tugging the hem of his jumper just so. Offering nothing but a single nod before stepping back like an artist proud of her canvas.

He can still hear you. Style is how you say something without having to explain it. And you’re Oscar Piastri—you’ve got things to say.

The camera pans awkwardly as his sisters continue interrogating him, but then a voice floats from behind the en suite bathroom door, cutting through their squabbles. 

“Honey, should you go with the green vest or the cream knit for the weekend?”

Oscar’s soul exits his body.

You step out, holding both options in your hands, freezing the second you catch sight of the phone screen. There’s no way around this. You’re dressed in a bathrobe, barefoot in Oscar’s hotel room. The cat is decisively out of the bag—at least to his family. 

Hattie screams. Edie drops her drink. Mae starts coughing so hard that she might be choking. 

Oscar unceremoniously ends the call and slams on Do Not Disturb. 

You’re pouting, hands curled protectively around the two clothes options you were presenting. “Should I not have called you ‘honey’?” 

Despite himself—despite the interrogation he’s sure to get from his nosy sisters—Oscar grins. “Too late for that now,” he says. 

He tosses his phone face-down, crosses the room in two strides, and tackles you onto the bed, both of you laughing before your back even hits the sheets. Your voice is muffled by the pillow as you petulantly mumble, “We should’ve hidden it longer.”

“I think the Loewe gave it away,” he says, kissing your temple.

“You loved that vest.”

“You loved me in it,” Oscar says. 

You don’t disagree. ⛐

[charles-leclerizz]

driver diaries : collection #5 the " how many likes for this bag ? " trend

models : CL16, CS55, MV1, LN4, OP81

VIP guest's in the front row : [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @lorarri], [@dallaavv, @nichmeddar, @sisinever] IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, PLEASE SEND IN AN ASK, AND MUTUALS LET ME KNOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE REMOVED ON PRIV !

availability : dating ( all drivers )

designer's comments : This was requested by a lovely anon! very cute prompt. thank you sm <333 if anyone else wants to stop by- feel free to !!

Charles Leclerc 16 Wants you to earn it but also folds instantly.

It started as a joke while strolling through Monte Carlo - a sunlit Saturday, espresso in your system, and Charles two steps behind you carrying your iced matcha and pretending to complain about the heat. The boutique you passed had a display window like a trap, buttery pastel leather, tiny, structured shapes, and one bag that nearly stopped you in your tracks. 

You turned to him, hand already reaching for your phone. “Wait. Film me for a sec?” 

Charles gave you that theatrical eye roll - the one he used when pretending to be exhausted by your antics. But he tilted his head, took your phone with a flourish, and positioned it like he was directing a cinematic masterpiece. 

You faced the camera, pointed at the bag dramatically, and cooed, “How many likes to get this bag?” 

Charles didn’t miss a beat. “Three hundred thousand.” 

You spun toward him with an offended gasp. “Trois cent mille? Are you joking?” 

He grinned. “No. Because that gives me time to earn it back.” He shrugged. “The gag is expensive, chérie. I need a few incentives.” 

You raised a brow. “Incentives like?” 

Charles leaned forward, voice low, lazy smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Like you folding my laundry in that little outfit you wore last week. Or me folding you, if we’re being honest.” 

Your jaw dropped. 

“But of course,” he said sweetly, slipping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your temple, “I will pay for it anyway. I am weak, and you are very pretty.” 

Carlos Sainz 55 He's a “no questions, I’ll buy it now” boyfriend

The boutique smelled like money and ambition - sleek floors, spotless mirrors, and purses displayed like fine art. You weren’t even shopping seriously, just killing time before dinner. But then you spotted it: black leather, subtle gold hardware, the kind of handbag that whispered you need me in your wardrobe. You turned toward Carlos, who was leaned lazily against the nearest pillar, scrolling on his phone, aviators still perched atop his head despite being indoors. 

You nudged him gently and whispered, “Babe, film me quick. TikTok trend.” 

He sighed but held up your phone without complaint, already used to this. 

You turned to the camera, pointed dramatically at the bag, and asked in your most innocent voice, “How many likes to get this bag?” 

Carlos didn’t even lift his head. “Zero.” 

You blinked. “Huh?” 

He looked up slowly, lips twitching into a smirk. “You want it, I’ll buy it. No likes needed.” Then, lowering his voice just enough that only you could hear: “You know I like when you carry things I bought for you.” 

You opened your mouth to reply, but he was already walking toward the sales assistant. 

“And next time you do this trend,” he added over his shoulder, “you’re pointing at something sluttier.” 

Max Verstappen 1 Thinks trends are dumb but buys the bag anyway because you want it.

ou were killing time in a quiet corner of Amsterdam when you spotted it. A sleek, dark green leather bag with stitching so precise it looked engineered. Of course, it was ridiculously expensive. Of course, you didn’t need it. And of course, you were already pulling out your phone to record the TikTok trend before Max could protest. 

“Just hold the camera,” you said, sliding your phone into his hands. 

Max gave you a look. The kind that screamed I’ve been on podiums with less warning than this. 

Still, he complied. 

You pointed at the display window dramatically. “How many likes to get this bag?” 

Max stared at the bag. Then at you. Then back at the bag. Deadpan. 

“One.” 

You blinked. “One?” 

He shrugged, holding up your phone with one hand while already tapping the screen with the other. “Mine. I liked it. Let’s go.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“I liked it,” he repeated, already pushing open the boutique door. “You want the bag; you get the bag. You don’t need a viral moment for it.” 

You followed him, a little dazed. 

“Oh,” he added over his shoulder with a smirk, “but don’t ask me to carry it unless I can fit my phone and a Red Bull inside. I’m not holding a glorified wallet.” 

Spoiler, He ended up carrying it. And guarding it like it was his front wing. 

Lando Norris 4 Pretends to be stingy for the bit but would tap the card instantly.

You were strolling through a high-end mall, hand-in-hand, sipping smoothies, and very much not planning to buy anything when you passed a store window with the bag. Ivory leather, gold hardware, shaped like a cloud, and definitely out of budget unless you started selling feet pics or stole Lando’s credit card. 

You stopped suddenly, tugging his hand. “Wait. TikTok moment.” 

He groaned. “God, again?” 

“C’mon, you love this stuff.” 

“I love you, and that’s how I get dragged into this.” Still, he pulled your phone from your hand and held it up with practiced ease. “Okay, go. Give the people what they want.” 

You turned to the camera, pointed at the bag like it had personally offended you, and said, “How many likes to get this bag?” 

Lando squinted at the tag, winced dramatically, and said, “Let’s say… a million.” 

You gasped, smacking his arm. “Lando!” 

He bit back a grin. “I need time to emotionally process the price, babe. Let me breathe.” 

You folded your arms. “Wow. So much love in this relationship.” 

Then he threw an arm around your shoulder and leaned close to the mic. “But if you say please, I’ll tap the card right now. Maybe even throw in the shoes to match.” 

You turned bright red. The TikTok ended with you squealing and him smirking like the absolute menace he is. 

Oscar Piastri 81 Acts unaffected but already walking toward the register.

You were wandering a quiet shopping district during the mid-season break, the kind of day that smelled like iced coffee and SPF, when you paused in front of a store window. The bag - soft camel leather, structured silhouette, stupid price tag - was calling your name. You didn’t need it, but your TikTok needed content. 

“Oscar,” you said, handing him your phone, “film me?” 

He took it with zero questions, unlocking it like he already knew the drill. 

You turned to the camera, put on your sweetest voice, and pointed at the bag. “How many likes to get this bag?” 

Oscar didn’t look at the bag for more than a second. “How many likes is your love worth?” 

You blinked. “That’s not the trend.” 

He shrugged. “Still a valid question.” 

You laughed. “Oscar.” 

He stepped forward and spoke low so the mic wouldn’t catch it: “I’m not letting a TikTok determine whether or not you get something you want.” 

And before you could even argue, he turned to the boutique door and pulled it open. 

“I’m pretending it already went viral,” he said over his shoulder. 

You followed, heart warm and full, while your phone kept recording, catching the moment he reached for your hand as the door shut behind you. 

[tsunodaradio]

red flag, huh? ⛐ 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙙

your boyfriend declares something you do as a red flag. he faces the consequences. (𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri, isack hadjar, lando norris, carlos sainz, alex albon, george russell. ꔮ word count: 3.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, humor/crack, fluff. mention of food. established relationships, the drivers grovel!!!, reader is rightfully petty (#isupportwomenswrongs). references to F1 Drivers Decide Their Personality Red Flags. ꔮ commentary box: look. i’m not fond of writing grid fics, but when george in the video said “i think my girlfriend does that, hang on,” my ass kicked into high gear. finished this in one deranged sitting because, sometimes, the stories truly do write themselves. they’re all just men, dawg 🤥 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

OSCAR P. ⸻ 🚩 PHOTOGRAPHING THE MEAL BEFORE ALLOWING PEOPLE TO EAT.

Oscar first clocks you somewhere around week three.

At first, it didn't register. There are plenty of other photos in your latest dump: a blurry sunset, your sock-covered feet tangled with his on the couch, some artistically chaotic overhead of your cluttered nightstand. 

But not a single photo of the mille-feuille from last Tuesday. Which is strange, because the plating was obnoxiously good. Food magazine good. The kind of good you usually made everyone wait to eat so you could get the angle just right. He ate it without pause, and you didn’t say a word.

He tells himself not to overthink it. Maybe you just didn’t like the lighting.

A week later, it’s ramen. A new spot. Big ceramic bowls and frosted glass dividers and lanterns that would’ve made for a great moody backdrop. You sit down, murmur something appreciative about the soft-boiled egg, and then just—dig in.

Oscar blinks. He waits for you to stop him. You still don’t.

It’s not until he scrolls through your camera roll on a flight to Austria, looking for a photo you took of his hoodie on your desk chair, that it really hits him. Because there are still photos of food, sure. Just… not his. One sad little snap of a half-eaten bao bun, probably taken when he went to the bathroom.

No more overheads. No more rearranging the table for composition. No more sighing at shadows or holding up menus for bounce lighting.

The worst part is, he knows exactly when it started.

He can picture it perfectly. How he, the genius, the romantic, the absolute idiot, had laughed and said, As soon as that plate's on the table, I’m eating it. So if anyone’s stopping me... 

He hadn’t thought twice about it. Not until now, anyway.

By the time he books dinner for the two of you at the trendy bistro in Notting Hill, he’s borderline subtle about it. It’s got a tiled floor. Terracotta plates. A whole skylight situation. He figures, if anything’s going to tempt you into propping your elbow on the table and telling him to wait, it’s this. Instead, you just smile, thank the waiter, and start on the roasted carrots like it doesn’t hurt your soul to leave that burrata unrecorded.

When he finally brings it up, it’s less a confrontation and more of a low-stakes science experiment.

“Did the food get uglier, or did I say something dumb?”

You stare at him from across the kitchen island. You’re in your pajama shorts and one of his old team shirts, chopping strawberries. He watches your mouth twitch. “Be more specific,” you say.

Oscar gestures toward the pan on the stove, which still smells faintly of vanilla and burnt sugar. “You made crêpes. They’re perfect. Where’s the Instagram story?”

You glance at the pan. Then at him. Then back at the strawberries. “Oscar,” you say sweetly, “you once said—and I quote—As soon as the plate’s on the table…” 

His face folds into a groan before he can stop it. “You’re still mad about that?”

“Not mad,” you say airily, slicing another berry. “Just respectful of your dining philosophy.”

He leans his elbows on the counter, eyeing you. “You’re telling me you gave up a six-year food photography streak because of a side comment I made?”

You hum noncommittally, but the corners of your mouth are doing something very close to smug. Oscar lets out a short laugh, half in disbelief. “Unreal,” he mumbles. “I miss it, you know. The hovering. The adjusting of cutlery. The way you used to bully me into not breathing on the plate.”

“You said it was a red flag.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Turns out I like your shade of red.” 

You pause mid-chop. It only lasts a second, but he catches it—that soft hitch in your breath, the way your gaze flickers up to meet his. “You liked being told not to eat yet?”

“I liked watching you fuss over things that made you happy,” he says, voice steady and firm. “Even if I had to pretend my pasta wasn’t going cold.”

You set the knife down. Walk around the island. Slide your arms around his waist, your cheek pressing against his chest. Oscar wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “Just take the photos, okay?” he sighs, holding you like you might slip away from him in the face of his sheer stupidity. 

Your voice is muffled against his shirt. “I’m going to take a dozen of the crêpes.”

ISACK H. ⸻ 🚩 SLOW WALKING IN BUSY PUBLIC AREAS.

Isack used to joke that your natural walking pace was somewhere between a daydream and a scenic detour.

Not that he minded. He liked it, actually. Liked the way your fingers would slot into his, how your pace slowed time down. Sunday markets, grocery store aisles, even airport terminals. You never walked like you had anywhere to be. He used to tease you about it, but secretly, he enjoyed that you made the world feel less urgent.

Lately, though, he feels like he’s dating an Olympic speed walker.

He has to jog to catch up to you outside the baggage claim in Barcelona. You’re weaving between people like a salmon upstream, carry-on bag in tow, jaw set in quiet determination. He reaches out to grab your hand, but misses. Again.

“Do you have a flight I don’t know about?” he calls out, the frustration edging his tone ever so slightly.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, barely slowing. “The cab queue fills up fast.”

He huffs a laugh as he tries not to get shoulder-checked by a tourist group. “You used to take pictures of the floor tiles,” he bites out. 

“They were nice tiles.”

“They’re still there, you know! They didn’t run off!”

You flash him a grin but don’t slow down. He frowns, adjusting the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t know when this started, exactly. Just that his arm feels colder without your hand in it.

It gets worse in Heathrow. The terminal is chaos, all metallic ceilings and garbled announcements and snaking queues. You’re ahead of him again, fast-walking toward passport control like it’s a competitive sport.

Isack’s about to tell you to slow down when you trip.

It’s not graceful. Your bag wheels the wrong way and your ankle buckles. The slap of your hands on the tile echoes, and so does the word you mutter under your breath. He’s at your side in an instant, crouching next to you, heart doing something unpleasant in his chest.

“Hey, hey. What the hell. Are you okay?”

You nod, but you’re wincing. “Think I twisted it.”

He checks your ankle gently, jaw tight. There’s already a faint redness blooming, and you hiss when he presses lightly against the bone. “You were practically sprinting,” he mutters.

“I was not sprinting.”

“Mon coeur, you were drafting off an old lady with a cane.”

You let out a pained laugh. “It’s fine. I’ll walk it off.”

“The only thing you’re walking is slowly, beside me, like a normal person,” he snaps, pulling a pack of instant cold compresses from his bag.

You go quiet, watching him shake the pack and press it gently to your ankle with a kind of exasperated care that only makes your cheeks burn. Eventually, in a voice barely above a whisper, you murmur, “You said it was a red flag.” 

He pauses, hand still pressing the pack to your inflamed ankle. “What?”

You look everywhere but him. “In that video. They asked about red flags. And you said slow walkers in busy places.”

Isack stares at you. Then: “You changed your entire walking speed because of something I said in a video?!”

“I just didn’t want to annoy you.” 

He groans. Loudly. Like he’s being haunted by his own past stupidity. “Mon coeur,” he says, pressing the cold pack a little firmer, “you could be moving backwards on a conveyor belt and I’d still want to hold your hand.”

You look like you’re biting back a grin. Progress, he supposes. 

He sighs, brushing your hair back from your face. “I said something dumb. I’m allowed. I was raised in a paddock. But if you think I care more about getting to the taxi stand than walking next to you, you’re an even bigger idiot than me.”

You sniff, leaning your head against his shoulder. He shifts a little to accommodate you, wraps one arm around your waist. “You sure?” you ask, just for good measure. 

“I’d wait light years for you,” he says. “Just maybe not in Heathrow ever again.”

You laugh, soft and sheepish. He smiles against your hair.

“Now let me carry you to the taxi queue before you try to walk again and ruin both our lives,” he declares, one arm already snaking around your waist. 

“Romantic.”

“You know it.”

LANDO N. ⸻ 🚩 INSTANT TEXT REPLIES.

Lando tells himself you’re just busy.

That’s all it is. Bad Wi-Fi. Time zones. A dead phone. You’re not ignoring him, not really. Your texts still sound like you, peppered with emojis and the same dry jokes. It’s just the timing that’s off. 

Where you used to reply within minutes, now it’s hours. Sometimes half a day. Sometimes he checks his phone and there’s nothing, and then he keeps checking, like maybe the notifications are delayed.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just refreshes your chats more than he should, tells himself he’s being clingy. It’s not a big deal. You’re allowed to have a life. Except when it happens for the fifth day in a row, he rereads your last message six times trying to decide if there’s some kind of shift in punctuation.

After two weeks, he’s convinced you’re slowly breaking up with him.

He books a flight the next morning.

You open the door in sleep shorts and an old hoodie. There’s a dent in your cheek from your pillow. “Lando?” you say, voice rough with sleep. 

He doesn’t say anything for a second. He just stands there, backpack hanging off one shoulder, trying to read your expression. “Hi,” he breathes. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought we were breaking up.”

You stare at him in that way that makes him want to melt, or go stupid, or both. “What?”

“Or you were about to,” he blurts out. “I don’t know. You weren’t texting back. I thought maybe I said something, or forgot something, or—I dunno, babe.”

You squint at him. “You flew across countries because I was texting slower?”

He shifts on his feet. “...Yes?”

You drag him inside by the wrist, as if the answer itself is proof you don’t hate him. He doesn’t let go. Your apartment smells like laundry and mint tea. There’s a blanket balled up on the couch and your laptop still open on the dining table.

“I didn’t want to seem too keen,” you say plainly, dropping onto the couch.

Lando drops his backpack by the door and draws his eyebrows together as he tries to process your words. “Pardon?” he says, only because it makes absolutely no sense to him. 

You reach for your tea and take a sip. Then, as if it’s obvious: “You said instant replies were a red flag. In that video. I didn't want to come off too clingy.”

He stares. Then he laughs. Sharp, breathless, stunned.

“You were trying to not seem too keen? Have you met me?” he says incredulously. “I check our chat thrice an hour. I’ve reread your ‘good night’ texts like they’re Pulitzer material.”

Your eyes widen behind your cup. “You what?”

“Shut up,” he groans, flopping down next to you. “God, you’re such a menace. Do you know how many times I checked to see if your read receipts were broken?”

You lean into his side, smugness radiating off you in waves. “So you’re saying you’re the clingy one?”

“I’m saying we can both be keen. Equally keen. Keen as hell.” He pauses, then adds, just on the right side of desperate: “Just text me back like before. I don’t care if it’s in under ten seconds. Fuck being nonchalant; I want us to have all the chalants about each other.” 

“That’s not—” 

“You know what I mean, numpty.” 

Your smirk melts a little. “Okay, okay.” 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then mutters, “I flew across Europe like a complete loser. You better reply with at least two heart emojis next time.”

“Four,” you bargain, “if you buy us lunch today.” 

He grins, cheek pressed to the top of your head. “Deal.” 

CARLOS S. ⸻ 🚩 TAKING A GYM MIRROR SELFIE.

Carlos never thought he’d become someone who looks forward to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But here he is, eyeing his phone like a teenager, waiting for that familiar notification.

You at the gym: ponytail messy, cheeks flushed, smile cocky. Sometimes it’s a mirror selfie with your shoe on the bench. Sometimes a blurry video of your form mid-rep, with music blasting in the background and your caption reading something like form check or thirst trap?

He doesn’t care which it is. He opens them all immediately. Saves every single one. Watches the videos at least twice; once to appreciate your form, the second time just because.

Lately, though?

Crickets.

You still text after your workouts. Little things. Done for the day, or PR’d squats, almost cried, or Leg press almost killed me. But no photos. No clips. Nothing to tide him over while he’s stuck at media days or pretending to listen in debriefs.

Carlos gives it a month. A month of maturity. And then he decides that maturity will get him nowhere.

Carlos: So who is he? You: ? Carlos: Your new gym boyfriend. Must be hot if u are not sending me anything anymore :) You: 🚩🚩🚩

Carlos immediately hits call. You pick up on the third ring. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “Do you know how many Tuesdays I’ve had to go without your gym face? I’m wasting away.”

“Carlos—”

“Don’t Carlos me. You’re punishing me because I made one comment. One! And I was clearly talking about the guys.”

“You literally said gym selfies were a red flag. You called it icky.” 

“From men! From other drivers!” he says frantically. “Not from you, mi vida, who has the best gym selfies in the known universe!”

You go quiet for a second. He can hear you breathing, the soft shuffle of fabric like you’re sitting back on your couch. “So you’re saying my gym selfies aren’t cringe?” you ask, and even though Carlos knows you’re just fishing at this point, he rises to the bait. 

“They are elite content,” he declares. “They are the highlight of my week.”

You hum. “Maybe I want that in writing.”

“Text or handwritten? I can send a notarized statement. I can tweet it from the Williams account if you want. Just send me the mirror pics again. Please.”

He hears you laughing now, amused and soft. “You’re ridiculous,” you tsk. 

“No,” he exhales, sighing like he’s Atlas bearing the weight of the world. “I’m deprived of my girlfriend.” 

The call ends with a promise to check his phone in ten minutes.

He lasts seven.

The selfie hits his inbox at minute eight: your face glowy, sports bra matching your nails, the gym mirror smudged like always. He grins so wide, the engineer across from him gives him a look.

All is right again in Carlos’ world.

ALEX A. ⸻ 🚩 TALKING DURING A MOVIE.

Alex had really thought this one would get you.

It’s a Friday night. The lights are dimmed, the couch is a mess of blankets and limbs, and the opening credits of the rom-com he swore was actually good are rolling. He’s already chucked a pillow at your legs for trying to guess the twist too early, but he’s grinning when he does it. It’s the kind of movie night that’s become a ritual by now.

Fifteen minutes in, he’s already whispered two jokes into your hair. You’ve smiled. You’ve laughed, even. But you haven’t said a word about the plot, and that’s when Alex starts to feel a little off-kilter.

Because you’re quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

You’re not doing your usual commentary—no side remarks, no scoffing at the over-the-top meet cute, no delighted gasps when the soundtrack hits. You’re sitting curled up next to him, expression warm, sure, but the running commentary? The back-and-forth he usually loves? It’s missing. 

Alex, idiot that he is, keeps trying to coax it out. He makes a joke about the best friend’s eyebrows, nudges your arm when a line is especially cheesy, even points out a continuity error like a gift-wrapped invitation. Still nothing.

You chuckle when appropriate, lean your head against his shoulder like the world’s coziest silent film date. But it’s not the same. By the time the credits roll, Alex is pouting in that half-dramatic, half-serious way of his, picking at the popcorn bowl like it’s betrayed him.

“So you hated it.”

You blink before frowning at him. “What?”

“The movie. I thought you’d like it! I’ve been saving it for a month. But you barely said anything.”

You blink again, incredulous, like he’s grown a second head. Then slowly, very calmly, you say, “Alexander Albon. You literally said talking during movies was a red flag.”

It’s Alex’s turn to frown. “Yeah, but that’s—”

You raise your eyebrows, challenging him to go back on his word. He groans and sinks lower into the couch. “I was talking about, like, loud talkers. People who explain the plot as it happens. You’re—you’re different. I’m colorblind to your red flags.”

You narrow your eyes, sinking your teeth into something new entirely. “Red flags. Plural?”

Alex’s expression stutters.

You shift forward, eyes narrowed in mock interrogation, cornering him against the armrest with the casual menace of someone about to win an argument and enjoy it. “What else, Albon?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, voice going a bit high-pitched like a cartoon character under pressure. “I love all your weird little traits. Every single one. Especially the one where you interrogate me like a detective from a teen drama.”

“Mhm.” You fold your arms. “Is that another one?”

“No, no,” Alex says, voice cracking with laughter now. “That’s my favorite one, actually.”

You let him stew for half a second longer before lunging. Alex tries to climb over the back of the couch, but you pull him back by the hem of his hoodie. He tumbles against you with an oof, limbs tangled, laughing as you trap him under your weight. You poke at his side until he squirms, cheeks warm, grin helpless.

“I really thought you lost your personality for two hours,” he says, flipping you onto your back. “Turns out I just red-flagged myself out of the best part.”

You reach up to tug at his hair, fingers threading through soft strands. “That’s what you get for being fake deep in interviews.”

“I’ll never recover.”

“You’ll live.”

Alex kisses you once, twice, lingering the third time. The TV is still softly playing previews in the background, forgotten. He pulls back just long enough to rest his forehead against yours. “Next time,” he says, “talk through the whole thing. I want every thought. Every gasp. Every rant about pacing.”

You smile against his lips. “Even when I complain about how they kissed too early?”

“Especially then.”

He kisses you again. That one, in his humble opinion, is just on time. 

GEORGE R. ⸻ 🚩 LIKING ALL PHOTOS ON YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA FEED.

George doesn’t notice it at first.

Which is, in his opinion, fair. He doesn’t obsessively track notifications like some people. He’s a busy man. He has training schedules and simulator runs and six different WhatsApp group chats muted for mental health reasons. He doesn’t exactly sit around checking who’s liked his most recent Instagram post.

After the third post in a row goes without your name popping up, though, he starts to feel it.

It’s not even a proper jealousy thing. He’s not spiraling. It’s just that—well. You always like his posts. You react to the Mercedes team reels with unrepentant bias. You comment the most cursed memes under his podium photos. You once made a slideshow on Facebook called George Russell: The People’s Princess and tagged him in it.

So yeah, maybe George’s ego has grown used to the digital affection. Maybe it expects a little fanfare from you. 

Maybe it sulks when it doesn’t get it.

He holds out for a bit. Tells himself you’re just swamped with work. Tells himself the algorithm’s being weird. Tells himself anything but the thought that’s slowly growing louder in the back of his mind: that you’re doing it on purpose.

It all comes to a head one lazy Sunday afternoon. He’s draped across your lap like a Victorian heroine with a fainting spell, scrolling through his phone while you absentmindedly rake your fingers through his hair.

“Hey,” he says, angling his screen up at you. “Did you see the photo I just posted?”

You hum, glancing down. It’s him standing next to his AMG ONE, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, all long lines and smug satisfaction. It’s the kind of photo he knows you usually clown him for.

You smile. “Very dreamy. Should I be worried you’ve found someone hotter than me?”

He snorts. “It’s a car.”

“You’re not denying it.”

George grins and elbows your thigh. Then, more casually, “So, you liked it?”

“I said you looked dreamy.”

“No, I mean—you liked it?” He waggles the phone meaningfully. “With the little heart button?”

You blink. “Oh. No. I don’t do that anymore.”

His head lifts off your lap. “You don’t—what do you mean you don’t?”

You pause. Shrug. “You said in that video that it was a red flag.”

George looks personally victimized. “I meant people who like every single post, like bots. Not you. You’re allowed. You’re grandfathered in.”

“Too late,” you say dismissively. “I’ve reformed. No more Instagram validation for you.”

“But—but that’s not fair!” he splutters, sitting up fully now. “You’re taking it seriously? That interview was mostly me taking the piss!”

You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know, love. Seemed pretty sincere.”

He looks scandalized. Like he’s been hoisted by his own curated online persona. “You mean to tell me I’ll be doing this season without your moral support?”

“You’ll be winning even without it.”

“That’s not the point,” he grumbles.

You lean over and kiss his cheek. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

He falls dramatically backward into the couch, muttering something about betrayal. For a few minutes, he’s quiet, phone in hand, frowning at the screen like he’s planning a very slow, very petty war.

Then your phone buzzes.

And buzzes again.

And again.

The Instagram notifications pop up in a steady stream across your lockscreen. 

George Russell liked your photo from last week. George Russell liked your photo from 23w ago. George Russell liked your photo from 103w ago. 

You glance over. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps scrolling, jaw set. “I can keep going,” he huffs. “I’ve got time.”

You start laughing. “George,” you wheeze, “are you liking my entire archive out of spite?”

“Out of principle,” he corrects. “Equality in red flags. If I have to be loved embarrassingly, so do you.”

You reach over and muss his hair. He lets you. “Fine,” you acquiesce. “I’ll go like your car thirst trap, you lunatic.”

George finally looks satisfied. “Good,” he says. “I deserve it.” 

He keeps scrolling until your very first Instagram post, and then he switches on over to Facebook. ⛐

[stzrgirl4norris]

No Judgement - GR63

George Russell x BestFriend!Reader

summary: You and George have been best friends since before his career in F1, always there for each other. He's the only one who accepts you just the way you are. Although fans think you're a bit weird for him, he doesn't care. And, after all, opposites do attract.

based on this request right here

liked by georgerussell63, fan1, yourbff and 1, 700,411 others

yourinstagram i'm about to crash tf out ngl

View all comments:

charles_leclerc Why?

> yourinstagram because i'm fighting battles you’ll never understand > charles_leclerc What battles? You vs your ugly shoes? 🧐 > yourinstagram yeah because YOU have such good fashion sense > user be serious charles

georgerussell63 Your caffeine consumption is worrying me, actually

> yourinstagram let me live george. > user yeah george let her live > user he's being HEALTHY and CARING and she's out here drinking 7 iced lattes a day > user idk why this is giving babysitter dynamic lol

lando disgusting shoe and sock combo 🤢

> yourinstagram ok mr. panda nikes > user i actually like the socks 🫣

> yourinstagram user it’s because you have ✨taste✨

user she's like what I don't want in my pinterest boards

mercedesamgf1 We are against crashes here

> yourinstagram ahem > user mercedes adm is the funniest one

user she’s the only influencer who makes me laugh

> user she’s not even trying to be funny though? > user that's the thing... she isn't funny

user she’s weird, like the kind of weird you can’t fake

> user lowkey feel like her intentions aren't the purest and george doesn’t even notice > user they've been friends before his f1 career, let's not do this shit now

user she and george are SO opposite I actually think it balances the universe

> user he’s giving oxford debate and she’s giving dropped out of school > user he’s too good for her but it’s working and I hate that

user She looks like she made George do tarot readings

user I love that George is like a gentleman and she’s... her

user she definitely manifested him. with like, crystals.

user not to be rude but she kind of gives “i thought he was gay at first” energy

yourbff crash out queen your earned it

liked by yourinstagram, mercedesamgf1, kimiantonelli and 2,333,605 others

georgerussell63 Standard pre-race vibes

View all comments:

yourinstagram you’re welcome for the entertainment

>user literally what does she even do? > user she does him that's what > yourinstagram well i don't but that was a good comeback i respect it 👏

user why is she wearing sweats in the paddock?

mercedesamgf1 Is she okay?

>yourinstagram define okay

user I LOVE that she’s just casually unhinged around him

> user unhinged is generous

user i'd pay to see what their texts look like

user how is he not distracted by that? how?

> user maybe he's into chaotic energy idk

user if they’re not dating yet I’m gonna sue

user he's too polished for her

user george’s mom definitely calls her “that girl”

user not to be dramatic but if she breaks his heart I will take legal action

> user break his heart??? they’re just friends

user she’s literally just doing bits in the background like it’s her show 💀

user why is she climbing that chair like that 😭

user no because i can HEAR her saying “george look!!” and him ignoring her

user she makes everything look unserious and i love that for her

user someone get her down from the chair before she breaks something 😭

user the fact that she doesn’t care what’s going on and he clearly likes it 😭

user what is she even doing back there LMAOOO

user i’m begging her to act normal just once

user help she’s gonna fall

user she’s gonna knock over something expensive i feel it

> georgerussell63 won’t you look at that?? yourinstagram

> yourinstagram ???? everyone knows that wasn’t even the most expensive champagne on the market

user why is she dressed like that 😭

user why is no one stopping her?

> charles_leclerc I ask myself that all the time…

yourinstagram y'all can't handle my swag

yourinstagram added to their story!

liked by georgerussell63, lando, maxverstappen1 and 1,804,302 others yourinstagram traveling with george is fun if you enjoy being judged by every stranger every 4 minutes

view all comments:

georgerussell63 it's because you brought a whole farmacy in your bag 😤

> yourinstagram don't act like you didn't take my benadryl to sleep > georgerussell63 you can't keep saying shit like this in public > yourinstagram mercedesamgf1 i'm joking

> user not her snitching on his sleep aids in front of millions

alex_albon No one invited me

> yourinstagram you didn’t pass the vibe check > georgerussell63 because you always forget your passport

user you cannot convince me they haven’t kissed

user it’s the way george looks like he's going to europe and she looks like she's going to mexico or smth

maxverstappen1 don't worry I think George was the one they were judging

> yourinstagram don’t start > georgerussell63 maxverstappen1 ? > user oh this just got good

> user max came here to start violence and left like it’s casual

lando did you lose a bet or something?

> yourinstagram are you losing the championship or something? > user HELP WHY ARE THEY ALL IN HER COMMENTS

> user lando got cooked and didn’t even fight back 😭

lilymhe did you bring medication or just incense again?

> yourinstagram mind your business lady

kikagomes I kind of admire the chaos

> yourinstagram do you want to switch places?

user they’re opposites in a way that concerns me

user nah bc they’re all in the comments like it’s a groupchat 💀

user george is one “babe please be serious” away from imploding

user her bag probably has crystals, six vitamins, a banana, and a taser

user this feels like i walked into a conversation i wasn’t meant to see but i’m not leaving

user she’s too powerful they’re all scared of her and they should be

user no bc what kind of relationship involves benadryl beef on main

user is this flirting or HR violation i genuinely can’t tell??

user she’s the only person who could talk to all 4 of them like that and survive

user the entire grid acting like siblings in her comments i’m obsessed

user girl this is not close friends why are u posting like that 😭

📍Tulum, Mexico

liked by alex_albon, oscarpiastri, lilymhe and 2,222,399 others georgerussell63 an unpredictable travel companion

view all comments:

yourinstagram ?? unpredictable??

yourinstagram you always post the pics where i'm ugly and you're hot 😔

> georgerussell63 you're never ugly > yourbff george like this if she made you say that > user why do i feel like she screenshotted that reply for future use

user the way he posts her like a proud husband…

oscarpiastri unpredictable is a very diplomatic word

> yourinstagram shush > user oscar sounds like he’s seen some things

user how is she unpredictable when she literally posts her entire life?

> user bc she’s the kind of person to fly to a race and forget shoes > user i bet her suitcase has like… soup in it or something > user she’s a walking side quest and george is the main plot

yourex she’s not unpredictable, you just don’t listen.

> yourinstagram yeah and YOU did > georgerussell63 thank you for your input, therapist ass

maxverstappen1 patrick the ⭐

> user what is max doing here????

charles_leclerc every time i see you two together i feel like i’m watching a social experiment

user max is getting too comfortable in these comments🙃

> user it’s always when she's in the posts too > user you just know George read that Max comment in silence

user do you think she realizes she's not quirky just extremely awkward?

user they hate when you serve weird girl bestfriend😇

user i don't understand their relationship and i don't want to, let me stay confused

[5 days later]

liked by lewishamilton, mercedesamgf1, georgerussell63 and 1,835,029 others

yourinstagram go george or go home! 💙🏁 (also lewis hamilton looked at me)

view all comments:

georgerussell63 are you trying to steal all my friends?

> yourinstagram i'm trying to steal your heart 🫦 > alex_albon don't threaten him with a good time

lando fine... i'll admit... cute jacket

> yourinstagram only the jacket??? 😏 > lando jesus what is up with you today??

lewishamilton can you please text me the pictures you took?

> yourinstagram sir, yes sir 🙂‍↕️

alexandrasaintmleux nice seeing you today! 🥰💞

> yourinstagram if you want we can make it everyday 👀 > user girl are you ovulating or something??

maxverstappen1 nice latte art 👍

> yourinstagram not as nice as the one from that day ❤️ liked by georgerussell63 > user WHAT DAY > user WTF IS THIS

user she’s a menace

user george liked yn’s comment 😭😭😭

> user no bc what did she mean by “that day” DID THEY GO ON A DATE?

user why does it feel like she's flirting with the entire grid??

user she held his umbrella before the race 😭

> user because she's actually his biggest fan > user i don't understand why people don't like her

user with all these boring basic wags it's so refreshing to see someone with a personality 😌

> user not if it’s the worst personality in the world

> lewishamilton yn’s the funniest girl in the world. We all love having her in the Paddock ❤️ liked by yourinstagram

> user help not lewis defending her and george staying completely silent

user it just feels icky to me that george sees all those hate comments and says absolutely nothing

> user yeah if they were dating he'd say something

user another day another what the fuck

user her post is normal but the comments are cracking me

liked by yourinstagram, lando, alex_albon and 2,850,111 others

georgerussell63 Don't ask me how she convinced the entire grid to go to the club

view all comments:

oscarpiastri Peer pressure is real

> yourinstagram peer pleasure is realer 😇 > oscarpiastri this doesn't make sense

yourinstagram evrywine luved it

> user jesus is she drunk??

fernandoalo_oficial Finally someone who knows how to party

> yourinstagram omg did you actually kiss taylor swift??? > fernandoalo_oficial I don't kiss and tell

alex_albon I still have glitter inside my clothes

charles_leclerc Can someone explain why there was a goat in the vip area??

> yourinstagram because he deserved to party too. don’t be speciest. > georgerussell63 that “goat” headbutted the DJ

user the way george just accepts that she’s everyone’s problem now 😭

user “don’t ask me how” LIKE HE’S EXHAUSTED

> user he says that but he was dancing on a table by 2am don’t let him lie > user i saw them holding hands at the taco truck at 3am i fear they’re in love

user does she have everyone at gun point??

> yourinstagram they came willingly 😇

user your friends should be your 2nd priority. Your 1st priority should always be clubbing

> lando agreed

user i love this era

user guys my friend was there and said they saw yn flirting with a random dude

> user not max??? > user nope. not george either. random blondie in a red jacket > user nvmd me griefing

user a man is nothing without his extremely loud girl bestie

liked by georgerussell63, lewishamilton, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,423,333 others

yourinstagram touching grass is not enough i need george to run me over with his car

view all comments:

user OH WE ARE SO BACK LOOK AT THEM

user wait this looks like a date 👀

user if you ever catch me smiling at my phone it's this post right here

user for the first time she's properly dressed

user i just love how george loves her for who she is and doesn't give a fuck

user they hate when you serve sexy bad bitch while being a lil odd and weird 💅

georgerussell63 thanks for paying the bill ❤️

> user and here we are thinking he was a gentleman 😞

user she’s deranged and he’s in love. god’s favorite couple fr

user no bc he’s smiling like she’s the best thing to ever happen to him lewishamilton George can arrange that wish for you!

> Charles_Leclerc And if George isn’t up to it, I can do it!!

> yourinstagram is that a promise charlie boy??

> georgerussell63 No one’s running yn over with their car!

> yourinstagram you always spoil the fun 😔

user no thoughts just george’s stupid little smile lando i know a thing or two about grasses and cars, just saying

> yourinstagram maybe george should run YOU over > georgerussell63 don't threaten me with a good time

user this man is clearly obsessed. and honestly? taste. alex_albon do you guys even like food or was this all foreplay?

> user ALEX > user alex knows something we don't

user girl how did you pull george “mr perfectly polite” russell i’m scared of you????

user she looks like she bites and he’s into it

> charles_leclerc I can confirm he is into it > georgerussell63 you can't confirm shit

user there's no way her rizz is that good

liked by lewishamilton, mercedesamgf1, kimiantonelli and 2,441,200 others

georgerussell63 just being ourselves (no judgement)

view all comments:

yourinstagram never let your bestfriend stop you from finding your future husband 💙

charles_leclerc I KNEW IT

> charles_leclerc albono, norris and hamilton you can all pay me > alex_albon i'm not paying you shit 🙂‍↕️👍 > lando bro you were the only one who participated on that bet

alex_albon finally omg

user ok niall horan fan we see you

user THEY’RE DATING THEY’RE DATING THEY’RE DATING

oscarpiastri what happened to “she’s like a sister to me” 💀

> georgerussel63 I lied

lewishamilton he’s been smiling like an idiot all week btw 🫣

user i don’t even know them but this feels big 😭

sebastianvettel as long as you recycle together ♻️

> user even seb is invested here

> user girl seb is invested on the amazon forest let’s be for real

mercedesamgf1 💙 user they’re so in love it’s disgusting i’m crying user george posting like a man who’s been kissed on the forehead multiple times

user if i had this kind of love i would simply never shut up

user they better be each other’s lockscreen that’s all i’m saying

oscarpiastri ngl i didn’t think she liked him back 😭

user this feels illegal to witness but i can’t look away yourbff is she still mean to you or did love change her 🧐

user i can't you guys he's deffff out of her league

> georgerussell63 She’s perfect. Say one bad thing and I’ll block you ❤️

liked by yourbff, georgerussell63, lando and 2,333,403 others

yourinstagram no rizz, just insanity and love for carlos sainz

slide 3 is me and george in the future

view all comments:

georgerussell63 why are you wearing an "i love carlos sainz" apron?

> yourinstagram because i love carlos sainz > carlossainz55 please let me nowhere near this

georgerussell63 the things you put up to in the same of love....

user max suddenly disappeared

charles_leclerc I am afraid of future instagram posts

alex_albon george did she make you cook in that apron?

> user don't give her any ideas > yourinstagram i might orgasm > alex_albon I am currently regretting my life

yourbff does george know you printed that apron yourself?

> yourinstagram who did you think recommended me the printer store?

user what’s important is that love is alive. confusing, but alive ❤️ georgerussell63 it’s fine. totally normal. totally healthy relationship 👍🙂

> yourinstagram you literally tied the apron for me babe calm down > user BABE

user the way she’s so unserious and he’s still in love is actually inspiring user carlos looks so scared in the comments i’m crying

lando i give this relationship 3 business days

> georgerussell63 why are you even here?? > lando it happens that i kinda care for you both..

user max saw this and booked a one-way flight to monaco

> maxverstappen1 I promise you I'm doing just fine 👍 > yourinstagram damn... and here i am thinking you were devastatingly in love with me > maxverstappen1 I took you for coffee and you talked about george not liking you back for 2 hours straight > yourinstagram TRAITOR > yourinstagram MAX VERSTAPPEN DRINKS ICED VANILLA LATTES WITH OAT MILKS > maxverstappen1 you BITCH🫵

iamrebeccad i just want to know where you got the apron

> yourinstagram etsy. handmade. carlos-core. i’ll even buy one for you

> iamrebeccad can you buy me a george one? 😂

> yourinstagram YES OMG

> carlossainz55 now what the hell is going on here?

kikagomes what else have you custom made??

> yourinstagram a tote that says “gasly girls don’t gatekeep” > pierre_gasly i— > user LMAOOO GASLY GIRLS UNITE

user imagine your type being yn 💀💀💀

user this woman is living my dream