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back to sector one ✦ OP81

weight of kindness ⁴

coming-of-age, friends-to-?, slow burn story reliving old feelings and finally acting on them part 4 of ?

✦ starring: oscar piastri

✦ content: rivals-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers (?), lovers-to-strangers (?), coming-of-age, karting culture, longing, emotional repression, underage drinking, first times, fumbling affection, slow burn, shared history, one (1) very sacred kiss in a trailer, deep nostalgia

✦ word count: 3,8 k

✦ a thought: well well well… look who is finally posting those chapters that have been finished for ages and that i swore would be coming “soon” months ago 😭 to everyone who kept asking about this story and always showed it so much love, i’m so sorry it took this long. i really hope you’re still here to enjoy it because despite all the chaos and struggles, i still love this story a lot

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It has been two months since you last saw him.

Not in the way it was last time — not twelve years wrapped in silence and missing pieces — but two months held together with threads of messages and late-night calls and blurry video screens from hotel rooms that always look too sterile to be real. There hasn’t been a day without at least one hey, how are you? or look at this ridiculous thing my engineer just said, or simple little words that shouldn’t matter as much as they do and somehow matter anyway.

It feels less like he left and more like he stretched himself thin and still refused to let go of you.

The apartment is quiet in the way it only gets quiet when Ollie is gone — not peaceful, exactly, just… emptied of motion. There’s no constant hum of questions, no thudding footsteps, no loyal soundtrack of laughter and chaos. Just the silence that comes after, thick and echoing.

The dishes from breakfast are stacked next to the sink, waiting on a version of you that will have more energy “later,” which is a promise you make more than you keep. Sunlight melts in through the kitchen window, catching dust motes like tiny drifting planets. It feels like proof of life. Of living.

There are school notices and track schedules taped to the fridge. Half-unpacked duffle bags sit by the door like they’re always preparing to leave again. Ollie’s race suit hangs from a coat hanger hooked over the cupboard door, still damp from washing. Her other gear rumbles quietly in the washer. You’re not even sure if your laundry is clean anymore — or if you’ve just learned to ignore the full basket sitting like a dare next to the machine. Ollie has to have something presentable for school. You wear a uniform to work. Priorities.

It’s a mess. And love. And exhaustion. All at once.

You’re at the kitchen table with your phone in one hand and envelopes spread out beneath it — bills layered over contracts, warnings tucked under polite reminders, numbers stacked on numbers that don’t like each other very much. Rent. Power. Tires. Kart parts. Groceries. School lunches. Insurance. Fuel. Life costs more than it should.

You stare so long the numbers stop meaning anything. They stop being values and start being shapes with teeth. Your head drops into your palm and you press your fingers against your temple, because the beginnings of a headache bloom right behind your eye, slow and blooming.

You do the math again. And again. It always ends in the same place:

Barely.If nothing breaks. If nothing goes wrong. If life behaves. Which it rarely does.

You want so badly to make it work on your own. You want to be solid. Reliable. Enough. You want to carry this life without feeling like it’s going to tip out of your hands at any second.

A knock cuts through the apartment.

You glance at the oven clock. Right time. Right rhythm. Of course.

You don’t bother wiping your eyes. They’re not crying. They’re just tired.

The door opens before you reach it because your dad hasn’t waited for permission since you were ten. He steps inside wrapped in cool air and familiarity, jacket creaking softly as he shrugs it off. He smells like outside weather and a hint of engine oil that never really leaves his skin.

He doesn’t even speak for a greeting. He just reaches for you, and your body meets his halfway like muscle memory.

It’s instinct. Automatic. His arms still feel like safety.

For a second — just one — you let yourself melt into it. Then you breathe, steadying, because there’s always something to get back to.

He pulls back only enough to look at you properly.

“You alright?” he asks.

It sounds casual. It isn’t.

It never is.

“Yeah,” you say, because you are — mostly. “Just thinking.”

He doesn’t look at the bills right away. He never does. He knows better than anyone how pride works. Instead, he lowers himself into the chair across from you like it has always belonged to him. Eventually, his gaze drifts. Envelopes. Numbers. Stress made visible. His jaw tightens.

He doesn’t sigh. He doesn’t make a show of it. He just reaches into his back pocket and slides something folded and soft and terrifyingly small across the table.

“No,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “Dad, no.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmurs, “just take it. Don’t always make a scene.”

“Dad,” you insist again, louder this time. “No.”

“It’s just in case,” he replies, gentle in that way that somehow makes refusal impossible. “And Ollie’s birthday is coming up. Buy her something she doesn’t need but will love anyway, alright?”

Your chest gets too full too fast. You breathe slowly through your nose to keep everything where it belongs.

“I don’t want to rely on you forever,” you say, softer now. “I should be able to—”

“To what?” He lifts a brow. “Bend physics? Outrun capitalism?” He huffs a laugh. “Life’s expensive. Kids are expensive. Racing is so expensive it shouldn’t legally be a hobby. And you still manage to give her a world that feels big and fast and bright.” He nudges the envelope closer. “Let me help.”

Your throat burns. You swallow it back.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods like it’s simple. Like love should always be.

Your phone buzzes against the table.

You don’t mean to light up.

But you do.

You can’t stop the way your mouth softens into a smile.

Your dad notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t pry. He just raises one eyebrow — the exact eyebrow that has been silently interrogating you since childhood.

You glance down.

Oscar: just finished media. how’s your morning? 🌤️

Your dad watches you like someone watching weather break after weeks of heat.

“So…” he says casually — which is never casual. “Who’s got you smiling like a kid at Christmas then?”

You hesitate for half a heartbeat.

“…Oscar,” you say finally.

He stares for a moment like he’s rifling through decades of memories.

“Ahh. Oscar,” he says, in that dad-voice that means he does not actually know who you’re talking about yet.

It makes you laugh. You start gathering the paperwork into a neat stack, shoving it toward the cupboard before it can look at you any harder.

“Dad, you have no clue who I’m talking about.”

“I do!” he insists, then immediately deflates. “No. No, I don’t. I’m not sure I know an Oscar.”

You roll your eyes and walk toward the cupboard, paperwork tucked under your arm. For a moment, you debate whether to say it.

“I’m not sure if you remember him,” you say over your shoulder. “Oscar Piastri.”

Then his face changes.

“Oh,” he says — and then again, softer. “Oh. Piastri.”

You blink. “You remembered?”

“Course I did. Quiet kid. Always thinking. Always treated you like a racer.” His eyes rest on you a moment longer, thoughtful, measuring something he doesn’t say aloud. “Haven’t heard that name from you in a long time. He’s in F1 now, right?”

You shrug, aiming for casual. “Yeah. He is. We… reconnected. Kind of.”

He nods.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t worry in the loud, panicked way parents sometimes do.

He just reaches over and squeezes your shoulder once — firm, steady, exactly right.

“I always liked that boy,” he says quietly. “Glad you’ve got someone to laugh with again.”

“It’s not like that,” you say automatically.

He huffs, not unkind. “Yeah, no, I know. I’m just saying… I like it when you smile, sweetheart. That real one. The one you don’t even notice you’re doing.”

Your phone buzzes again on the table.

You glance down.

And there it is — that exact smile he’s talking about, tugging at your mouth before you can stop it.

Somewhere on the other side of the world, Oscar leans back in a chair that looks far more expensive than it needs to be and stares at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for how ridiculous he feels.

He isn’t a nostalgic person. Not really.

He doesn’t sit around replaying childhood memories, doesn’t romanticize the past, doesn’t usually let himself look backward because racing taught him a simple truth early: the moment you stop looking forward, someone overtakes you.

Except lately?

Lately, every quiet moment tilts toward you.

Hotel rooms feel different now. Less like places to pass time. More like waiting rooms between chances to hear your voice.

He scrolls through your texts without meaning to — thumb brushing over the little bubbles like touching warmth through glass.

He keeps thinking of that afternoon back home. The fence. The track dust. The way your laugh still sounded like something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and presses call.

The phone rings. Once. Twice.

Then the line cuts.

Silence.

He stares at the screen.

He blinks once, slow, like maybe the phone will explain itself if he gives it enough time.

For a second, instinct kicks in — the quiet, practical voice he’s lived his whole life listening to:

She’s busy. She has a life. Calm down.

Still, something warm and ridiculous sinks in his chest anyway. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear your voice until the possibility vanished.

Then his phone buzzes.

His thumb is already there before he can pretend it isn’t.

You: sorry sorry sorry already late because of my dad halfway out the door brain is halfway functional promise i’m not ignoring you

His mouth curves before he can stop it.

He leans back further in the chair, pressing the heel of his palm lightly to his forehead like maybe that will steady the stupid, fond warmth spreading through his chest.

He types back:

Oscar: dramatic rude heartbreaking will recover eventually …maybe

You: i’ll call you tonight?

His jaw relaxes.

It shouldn’t matter this much.

He reminds himself of that. Tries to, anyway.

But somewhere under the calm and composure, under years of discipline and media training and precision control, there’s a boy at a dusty Australian kart track again, standing beside a girl who made the world feel wider.

And for once, he doesn’t push that feeling away. He lets himself smile that stupid smile.

Your shift is ridiculous.

The kind of day where trays feel heavier than they should, smiles ache by the third hour, and every table seems to want something different at the same time. The kind of day where tips are okay-not-great and patience wears thin right as your brain keeps replaying numbers from that pile of envelopes on the kitchen table.

You like the job. You don’t love it, but it keeps the lights on and the world turning and it lets you be there for Ollie on weekends. That means something. It means almost everything.

Tonight, it just feels like another thing slowly draining you.

By the time you clock out, your shoulders hurt. Your head hurts. Your chest hurts in that tight, quiet way that only comes from doing your best every single day and still worrying it won’t be enough.

It’s become habit now — the way your feet point toward home and your thumb taps Oscar’s contact without thinking. He’s your end of day. Your breathing out.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says. There’s a smile in it. You can hear it. “I thought you weren’t going to call. It’s late.”

“Sorry,” you sigh. “I only just finished my shift.”

You don’t mean for it to sound as tired as it does.

Oscar hears it anyway.

“Is everything alright?”

You swallow. “Yeah. Just… yeah. Long day. A lot going on.”

“Okay…” he says slowly, concerned creeping in. “That’s it?”

You close your eyes. You don’t want to bleed the day out onto him. You don’t want to talk about money or pressure or the way stress lives in your bones lately.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Just busy. And I still have some stuff to think about. And Ollie’s birthday is coming up and—” You exhale through your nose. “Just… a lot.”

“Oh.” His tone lightens cautiously. “Birthday. Do you have something planned already?”

You smile even though it doesn’t quite reach. “I don’t know yet. We’ll see what we have time for. We usually do dinner with my parents. Just… family time. You know.”

You don’t mention the ‘if we can afford it’ part. You don’t mention the wishlist sitting somewhere in a kitchen drawer full of dreams.

“That sounds nice,” he says gently.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It does.”

By then, you’re at your front door. When you push it open, you find your dad asleep on the couch — head tipped back, mouth slightly open. You smile tiredly. Love and guilt twist together in your chest.

Ollie hears the door and appears instantly, hair wild, eyes glowing.

“IS THAT OSCAR?” she whispers loudly, which is not whispering at all.

Before you can answer, she has gently-but-not-really pried the phone from your hand and vanished toward her room, already halfway into animated chatter with Oscar.

You cross to the couch and kneel beside your dad.

“Dad,” you whisper, shaking him gently.

He startles just a bit, blinking himself back into consciousness. “Oh— I must’ve dozed off.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “Ollie’s in her room. You can head home if you want.”

He rubs his face, then sits forward with a sleepy grunt. “Can I help with anything else, sweetheart?”

You shake your head immediately. “You’ve done enough, Dad.”

You pull him into a hug before he can argue. He holds you just as tightly, like he’s still bracing you even when you’re pretending you don’t need it.

“Thank you,” you murmur into his shoulder — not just for today, but for the past four years, for every quiet save, for every moment he refused to let you fall apart.

He kisses the top of your head, lingering for a second. “Get some rest,” he says. “Proper rest. The kind where you actually sleep.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “I will.”

You mean it in theory.

When the door closes behind him, the apartment sinks back into its late-night quiet. You kick off your shoes. Your shoulders ache. Your whole body hums with the kind of tired that feels older than you are.

Down the hall, Ollie is sprawled across her bed, laughter bursting through the apartment in bright, delighted explosions as she talks to Oscar. It rings through the air like light itself — sharp and bright and alive.

You lean your head against the wall and let the sound wash through you.

You’re exhausted.

But you’re smiling.

You knock on her door lightly, leaning into the frame.

“Ollie. It’s time for—”

“MOM,” she explodes, practically vibrating. “YOU WILL NEVER GUESS WHAT OSCAR JUST SAID.”

You smile despite yourself, pressing a fingertip to her forehead and gently pushing her back onto the pillows. “Go on, baby. Tell me.”

Oscar laughs faintly on the other end.

Ollie taps the screen and puts him on speaker. “Oscar, say it again!”

There’s a second of playful silence before he obliges.

“So,” Oscar says, sounding far too casual. “Seeing as I have been informed it’s Ollie’s birthday soon… and since she’s never been to a Formula One race before… I was thinking—wouldn’t it be nice to go to one?”

Ollie detonates.

There’s no other word for it.

She screams, bouncing on the bed, hands flailing in the air like victory flags. “I’M GOING TO AN F1 RACE I’M GOING TO AN F1 RACE I’M GOING TO—”

You stop smiling.

Not visibly. But something in you… drops.

Helplessness. Panic. A flash of anger you immediately hate yourself for.

Because Oscar is being kind. Because Ollie is happy. Because this should be good.

But flights. Hotels. Time off work. Food. Travel.

Money you don’t have.

And the idea of your daughter hoping for something you already know you can’t give — that is a knife.

Oscar laughs softly through the phone. “Someone’s excited.”

“Yeah,” you say, but it tastes tight.

You step forward, smoothing a hand over Ollie’s hair. “Okay, superstar, it’s late. Say goodnight, yeah?”

“But—”

“Bed.”

She huffs dramatically but obeys, leaning into the phone.

“Goodnight, Oscar! Thank you! I’m going to DREAM about the paddock!”

He laughs. “Goodnight, champ. Sleep well.”

You kiss her forehead, tuck her in, and close the door.

Your shoulders sag the second it clicks shut.

Oscar is still on the line, warmth in his voice, the kind of soft, lingering laughter that comes from seeing joy and thinking it costs nothing.

“She’s so happy about that,” he says gently. “I mean, properly happy. That kind of happy you don’t fake.”

He has no idea. None.

You press your hand into your eyes. Then you breathe. Because someone has to say it. And it has to be you.

You huff out a breath so sharp it scrapes your chest.

“Oscar. What were you thinking?”

Silence. You can hear the shift. The moment the ease drains out of him. Like clouds sliding across the sun.

“...Sorry?” he says carefully. “I don’t— what do you mean?”

Of course he doesn’t. Of course he wouldn’t immediately understand what he just did. You press your fingers harder against your face, like maybe pressure can hold everything inside.

“How could you say that?” The words come out cracked, too loud. “How could you promise her something like that? We can’t just— fly across the world and watch you race, Oscar. That is not how our life works.”

He goes silent. You don’t. You can’t.

“The flights. The hotels. The food. The stupid paddock passes. Time off work. Getting her out of school. Everything.” Your throat burns. “I spent half the morning trying to figure out if I can afford rent, Oscar. Rent. Rent. And now she’s in there practically levitating because she thinks she’s going to an F1 race.”

You laugh, but it isn’t a laugh at all. It breaks as soon as it leaves you.

“Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

He breathes in. Soft. Careful. Like speaking too loud might make you shatter.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Hey… I didn’t mean to scare you. Or hurt you. I just—”

“You don’t get to just swoop in and fix things,” you whisper, because this is the part that hurts worst. “You don’t get to walk into our life and just—say things—and fix everything with money and access and good intentions. That’s not how it works here. I don’t get to pretend things are easy. I don’t get to ignore reality.”

“I wasn’t ignoring anything,” he says softly. Still calm. Still gentle. Too gentle. Which somehow makes it worse.

“I meant it.”

“That’s the problem,” you snap.

Silence stretches. You can hear him swallow. You can imagine him sitting somewhere clean and expensive and far away, frowning down at the floor, trying to solve you like a strategy problem.

When he speaks again, his voice is thinner.

“It was supposed to be a gift,” he says quietly. “Not… this. Not stress. Not pressure. Definitely not… whatever this feels like to you right now. I just heard her talk about racing and about never seeing it and I thought— I don’t know what I thought. That I could share something. That maybe I could do something good without screwing it up.”

Your jaw trembles. Your ribcage hurts.

“It feels like charity,” you whisper, hating how raw you sound. “It feels like pity. Like— look at this poor single mum who can’t afford this life anymore, let me swoop in with my resources and save the day.”

His breath stutters. You can hear it. That one second where his composure fractures.

“That’s not what this is,” he says, firmer now. “That’s not what this will ever be. I don’t pity you. I don’t look at you and think you need saving. I look at you and wonder how you’re still standing with everything you hold together every day. I’m not trying to replace anything. I’m not trying to be anyone I’m not allowed to be. I just—”

He breaks off. Then tries again. Smaller this time.

“I just wanted to do something kind. Something that felt like joy instead of survival for once.”

You don’t respond.

He panics then — not messy panic, but the controlled kind. The kind that sounds like he’s trying to keep from shaking.

“If you don’t want to come, don’t,” he says quickly. “If it feels wrong, it is wrong. I’ll talk to Ollie. I’ll make sure she knows it was my mistake. You won’t be the bad guy. I won’t let that happen. I’ll fix that part. I promise. I just— I’m sorry. I really am.”

You breathe in. Slow. Painful.

“It’s not that I don’t want her to have it,” you whisper finally. “God, I do. You have no idea how badly I want to give her everything. But if I can’t, I’m supposed to be the one that protects her from hope like this. I’m supposed to be the wall between her and disappointment. And you just… climbed over it.”

There’s a soft sound on the other end. Something like a pained exhale.

“I know,” he says gently. “And I hate that I scared you. But let me be clear, because I need you to hear it the way I mean it… this isn’t charity. It isn’t pity. It isn’t me swooping in because you ‘can’t.’ It’s me offering something because I want to. Because she matters to me. Because you matter to me.”

You blink. Your heart lurches.

And then, very quietly —

“It’s not just for Ollie.”

You freeze. Your brows knit.

“What?”

A pause. He swallows.

“I want you there too,” he says. Steadier now. Honest in a way that sounds almost bare. “I want you both around. I… like when you’re close. And if there’s a world where I get to have you in mine — even for a weekend — I don’t want to waste that.”

Something loosens inside you. Dangerously.

“I’m not trying to fix your life,” he finishes softly. “I just… want to be in it.”

You slump back against the wall. Your legs give up.

“I hate you,” you whisper weakly.

He lets out a breathy, shaky laugh. “No you don’t.”

You sniff. Your chest aches in a way that feels too much like relief.

“I don’t.”

Silence pools. This one feels different. Like warmth instead of tension. Like something stitching instead of tearing.

“Okay,” you say eventually. “We’ll… figure it out. Just — talk to me next time. Before you promise the world to my kid.”

“I will,” he says instantly. “Every time. I swear.”

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