Summary: Lando Norris's career is spiraling. The solution? A fake relationship with equestrian star, Charlotte Hayes. It's a clean deal, in theory. But fame is a wild animal, and feelings are even wilder. What happens when the lines blur, and the cameras keep rolling?
Word count: 18k ☠️☠️
Warnings: public scrutiny, fake relationship, emotional manipulation, cheating…
A/N: uuuuhm, yeah. please give it lots of love beacuse writing for lando???? nuh uh. anywaysssss, I hope you like it a lot and that you enjoy it. Comments, likes, and reblogs are welcome. Your support is what keeps me motivated to write more stories!!!!! <3
masterlist
Fame was a wild animal.
It could lift you like the wind to the top of a mountain or drag you down like a treacherous current, leaving you breathless in the depths. And the worst part was that you never truly had control over it. No matter how disciplined you were, how many strategies you devised, or how many times you tried to make the right choice, in an instant, an out-of-context photo, a misleading headline, or a wildfire of online speculation could change everything.
Lando Norris had learned that the hard way.
The past few months had been a parade of headlines that had little to do with his talent on track and far too much to do with his life outside of it. Leaked photos, baseless rumors, internet theories spreading like uncontrollable fires. And while it wasn’t the first time the media had linked him to someone or accused him of being too carefree, this time, things had escalated too far. His team was concerned. His sponsors were losing patience.
And that was how he found himself sitting in a conference room in London, arms crossed over his chest, a deep scowl on his face, as they told him that the best solution to his problem was to pretend to be in love with a woman he had never met in his life.
Charlotte Hayes.
The name didn’t mean much to him, but the story did. A professional equestrian, from a family with a strong tradition in the sport, with a clean and promising public image. She had faced her own share of controversies—a footballer ex-boyfriend with too many scandals to his name—but unlike Lando, she had managed to restore her reputation. And now, if everything went according to plan, she would do the same for him.
But this agreement wasn’t just for Lando’s benefit.
For Lottie, being associated with someone like him meant more than just controlled damage. Formula 1 wasn’t just a sport with millions of fans worldwide—it had one of the strongest young fan bases on social media, capable of skyrocketing her public image. More visibility meant more sponsorships, more opportunities both within and beyond equestrian sports, and a definitive way to leave behind the shadow of her past relationship.
The agreement was clear. They would fake their relationship until the end of the season. They would be seen together in public, attend sponsor events, she would make occasional appearances in the paddock, and he would show up at some of her competitions. They would smile for the cameras, blur the lines between reality and fiction, and make people believe whatever they needed to believe.
It was a clean deal. Simple. No emotional complications.
At least, in theory.
Because fame wasn’t just a wild animal. It was unpredictable. And once you stepped into its game, you could never really know how things would unfold.
Lando had spent the past hour looking for a way out.
It wasn’t the first time his team had put a contract in front of him and expected him to sign without question. But this? This was ridiculous. Pretending to be in a relationship with a stranger just to smooth things over with sponsors? It was humiliating. Unnecessary.
And yet, here he was, sitting in a sleek London office, with his PR team on one side of the conference table and Charlotte Hayes—his supposed fake girlfriend—on the other.
She wasn’t alone.
Her own PR manager sat beside her, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tone when she spoke. If Lando’s team was desperate to get him under control, hers was just as invested in making sure this arrangement benefited Lottie.
Because that was the truth of it—this wasn’t just about fixing Lando’s public image. It was a mutually beneficial deal. His reputation got a necessary clean-up, and Lottie? Well, she got a fast track to an even bigger audience. Formula 1 was a marketing machine, and a name like Lando Norris, whether she liked it or not, came with global reach.
Not that she seemed fazed by any of it.
Lottie sat with one leg crossed over the other, scanning the contract with the same calm focus someone might use while reviewing their grocery list. Her long fingers drummed idly against the table, her posture relaxed, her expression unreadable.
Meanwhile, Lando was radiating I don’t want to fucking be here energy, and everyone in the room could tell.
"Lando, this is the best course of action, mate," one of his PR reps finally said, exhaling as if this wasn’t the first time he’d had to repeat it.
Lando scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "No, the best course of action would be to let people talk their shit and move on, just like we always do."
"Except we aren’t moving on. The rumors are getting worse, and sponsors are—"
"Yeah, yeah, they’re unhappy. I got the memo."
Across the table, Lottie flicked her gaze up from the contract, eyebrows raised slightly at his tone. "They do have a point, you know. This will help you."
Lando’s jaw tensed. He didn’t like the way she said it—like she was stating a fact rather than trying to convince him. "And you? What do you get out of this?"
Before Lottie could answer, her PR manager spoke for her, voice crisp and professional. "Increased media presence. New sponsorship opportunities. A stronger connection to younger audiences, particularly through social media engagement."
"Ah, right. The noble quest for clout."
Lottie didn’t even blink. "Says the guy who’s been in half the tabloids this month for allegedly dating six women in one night."
The room went silent.
Lando’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and disbelieving. There was no hostility in her voice, no sharp edge of annoyance. Just a perfectly neutral observation, like she was reading a headline aloud. And that only pissed him off more.
"Bold of you to bring up fake relationships when you were dumb enough to date a walking scandal, Hayes."
His PR team collectively inhaled.
Lottie’s manager frowned.
Lottie herself? She just let out a soft breath, a hint of amusement flickering in her expression, but nothing more.
"Touché."
And that was it. No anger, no embarrassment. Just one word, calm and measured, before she turned the page in her contract as if he hadn’t just insulted her choice in men in front of a room full of professionals.
Lando hated that. He wanted her to get pissed. He wanted her to roll her eyes, throw the contract back at his team, and call the whole thing off so he wouldn’t have to. But she didn’t. She just waited.
"We need to move forward with this, Lando," his manager cut in, sensing his growing frustration.
Lottie tapped a perfectly manicured nail against the table, looking at him expectantly. "Are you going to keep whining about it, or are you going to sign?"
Lando clenched his jaw.
Fucking hell.
With an irritated sigh, he grabbed the pen, flipped to the last page, and scribbled his signature.
Lottie, still cool and unbothered, signed her own name right after.
Then, as she capped her pen, she glanced at him with the smallest, most infuriating smirk. "Welcome to the relationship, babe."
Lando was going to hate every second of this.
Lando adjusted his jacket for the third time, resisting the urge to tug at the collar. The café was warm—too warm, or maybe it was just him. Outside, the London drizzle painted the windows in shifting streaks of grey, blurring the figures that lingered on the street. He could feel them, even if he didn’t look. The quiet anticipation. The not-so-subtle presence of cameras, some hidden behind the glass, others held up brazenly by people passing by.
He hated this.
The performance. The expectation. The weight of eyes that didn’t belong to him, of opinions forming before he had even said a word.
Across from him, Lottie stirred her tea with deliberate ease. She didn’t seem bothered. If anything, she looked almost bored—like a woman indulging in an afternoon routine rather than sitting through the first act of a meticulously staged fiction.
Lando envied that.
She had chosen the table, one with just enough privacy to allow conversation, yet positioned well enough to guarantee they’d be seen. Everything was calculated—the placement of their drinks, the slow, natural rhythm of their conversation. They had to sell this. Make it seem real.
"You’re staring," Lottie remarked, not looking up from her cup.
"I’m processing," Lando muttered. "Trying to understand how you’re so relaxed about this."
"Because I came prepared." She finally met his gaze, unbothered. "Unlike you, apparently."
Lando scoffed, leaning back. "Sorry, I don’t have a manual on how to fake-date a stranger for PR points."
"Shame. I hear it’s a best-seller."
Despite himself, Lando huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.
"Right," she continued, placing her spoon down. "Let’s get the basics out of the way. We should have a story, something simple. Mutual friends?"
"Sure."
"And a timeline—when did we supposedly meet?"
"Couple of months ago?"
"Too soon. Feels rushed."
"Fine. Six months."
"Better."
Lando exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "This feels like an interview."
"It kind of is." Lottie tilted her head. "Though you’re terrible at answering questions. No wonder you get into trouble with the media."
"Wow. Thanks."
"Just an observation."
Lando narrowed his eyes. "Fine. You want questions? Let's switch it up. Since we’re dating, I should know something about you."
"By all means," Lottie gestured. "Impress me with your curiosity."
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Favourite food?"
"Easy. Pasta."
"Boring."
"Says the guy who survives on toasties and Monster."
"Fine, what’s your biggest fear?"
"The Daily Mail."
Lando snorted. "Valid."
Lottie smirked, taking a sip of her tea. "What about you?"
"Oh, we’re making this mutual now?"
"Obviously. It’s only fair."
Lando pretended to think. "Losing a race by milliseconds. Or getting stuck in an elevator with someone who chews loudly."
"Fascinating depth of character, Norris."
"Thanks, I try."
Lottie shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "God, you really do sound like you’re in an interview. 'Yeah, no, obviously, it’s just great to be here, the team did an amazing job—'"
Lando groaned. "Oh, shut up."
"’At the end of the day, we gave it our all, and that’s what matters—’"
"Charlotte."
"’We keep pushing, onto the next one—’"
"I swear to God."
The moment the first flash went off, the spell was broken.
Lottie pulled back instinctively, her laughter dying on her lips as reality set in. Across from her, Lando stiffened, his easy grin vanishing as he exhaled sharply through his nose. Neither of them turned immediately, but they didn’t have to. The sound of hurried whispers, the unmistakable shuffle of someone pretending not to take a photo—it was enough.
They’d been caught.
Of course, they had known this would happen. The meeting had been carefully orchestrated, a casual café in the heart of London, just enough visibility to invite speculation without being obvious. They had prepared for it, planned every detail down to what they should wear, where they should sit.
But still, feeling watched—actually living the moment—was different.
Lottie exhaled quietly, reaching for her coffee to give herself something to do. "Well, that’s our cue to leave," she murmured, taking a slow sip.
Lando’s jaw tensed. "Yeah. Before we end up on every gossip page in the next twenty minutes."
She refrained from pointing out that they already would.
They moved with practiced ease, keeping their pace natural as they slipped out of the café and onto the street. The cool London air hit immediately, but Lottie barely registered it—she was too focused on the shifting energy around them, the occasional glances from passersby, the girl a few feet away already typing furiously on her phone.
Lando walked beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture the perfect blend of relaxed and detached.
They made it a block before he spoke. "So, how long do you think until the internet tears this apart?"
Lottie hummed, tilting her head. "I’d say... fifteen minutes? Maybe ten if we really underestimate them."
Lando scoffed. "Fantastic."
And as soon as he got home, he sat on his couch, phone in hand, already regretting opening Twitter.
The photos had spread like wildfire. There they were—walking out of the café, sitting across from each other, that one moment where Lottie had laughed and leaned slightly toward him. If he hadn’t been in the situation, he might have thought they looked... believable.
The internet, however, was not convinced.
PR stunt, obviously.They look like they’re negotiating a business merger.Maybe they’re just friends?Why does Lando look like he’s being forced to be there at gunpoint?No way this is real. No one flirts like that.
Lando groaned, tossing his phone onto the table before dragging a hand over his face.
This was not going well.
Somewhere across the city, Lottie was probably reading the same comments, except she was probably laughing. She had taken this whole thing with the kind of casual indifference that should have made things easier, except it only highlighted how utterly useless he was at this.
And the worst part?
This was only the beginning.
Lando barely had time to process the disaster unfolding on social media before his phone buzzed aggressively on the table.
His manager.
He groaned, already knowing exactly what was coming.
"Yeah?" he answered, sinking further into his couch.
"Are you actually incapable of looking like you enjoy someone’s company?" Mark’s voice was sharp, cutting straight to the point.
Lando exhaled slowly. "Nice to hear from you too."
"Mate, I am getting calls." There was a pause, followed by a rustling sound—papers, maybe, or the sound of Mark rubbing his temples in frustration. "Do you have any idea how bad it looks when people are debating whether or not you even like her as a person?"
Lando pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought we agreed we weren’t rushing into anything too intense. You know, slow build-up, natural progression, all that bullshit."
"Yeah, well, ‘slow build-up’ only works if people believe it’s actually leading somewhere. Right now, they think you were having a business meeting with your accountant."
Lando let his head fall back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Fantastic.
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Next time, I don’t know—smile, Norris. Maybe look at her like she’s a human woman and not a tax consultant."
Lando opened his mouth to argue, but Mark steamrolled right over him.
"And fix it fast, because I can guarantee her team is just as unimpressed as I am. They’ll probably want another public sighting soon. This time, try to act like you don’t want to die, yeah?"
With that, the call ended.
Lando scowled at his phone. "Brilliant."
He was about to toss it onto the table when another notification popped up—this time, a message from an unknown number.
[Unknown Number]: Heard you’re not a fan of tax consultants. 👀
Lando frowned. Before he could process that, another message came through—a screenshot from Twitter.
It was a meme. A side-by-side comparison of their café photo and a painfully awkward stock image of two businessmen shaking hands. The caption?
"Tell me this isn’t a corporate merger meeting."
Lando blinked. Then, before he could stop himself—before he could think—he let out a laugh.
Another message popped up.
[Unknown Number]: At least I look good in this one. You, however… yikes.
Lando didn’t need to ask who it was. He already knew.
Lottie.
Lando stared at the message for a second, debating whether to engage.
On one hand, he could ignore it. Pretend he was already asleep. Maintain some semblance of control in a situation where he clearly had none.
On the other hand... Well, Mark was right—this whole thing was a disaster. And if he was going to be stuck in it, he might as well make it slightly less painful.
His thumbs moved before his brain fully caught up.
[Lando]: Wow, cheers. Great to know my suffering is at least entertaining for you.
Three dots appeared immediately.
[Lottie]: Of course. If I have to put up with this, I at least deserve some entertainment.
[Lando]: Nice to know where we stand.
[Lottie]: You did look like you were in the middle of a hostage negotiation.
Lando huffed a laugh. He stretched out on his couch, feeling the conversation ease some of the irritation left behind by Mark’s call.
[Lando]: Not my fault I wasn’t born an actor.
[Lottie]: Not asking for DiCaprio, mate. Just try not to look like you’re planning your escape next time.
A pause. Then—
[Lottie]: Speaking of, where is next time? Or are we just going to wait until PR locks us in a room again?
Lando rubbed a hand over his jaw, considering.
The easy thing would be to let their teams handle it. Wait until some official plan was in place. But that had gone so well last time…
So instead, before he could second-guess himself, he typed—
[Lando]: Your turn to pick. Somewhere that doesn’t make me look like I’m being held at gunpoint.
It took all of five seconds for a reply.
[Lottie]: Got it. See you soon, finance bro.
Lando rolled his eyes. Brilliant.
Hyde Park, late afternoon.
Golden sunlight filtered through the bare branches, stretching long shadows across the gravel path. The crisp bite of early spring lingered in the air, mixing with the distant hum of the city. Joggers wove between tourists, families pushed prams along the walkways, and somewhere nearby, a street musician plucked at a guitar. It was peaceful. Unassuming.
And yet, Lando knew better.
There was always someone watching.
That fact alone made the entire situation unbearable. But if that wasn’t enough, there was also the dog.
A whirlwind of fur and energy, bounding ahead with a tail that moved like it had a mind of its own, panting happily as if every scent, every patch of grass, every floating leaf was the most exciting thing in the world.
Lando eyed the dog warily. "So… this is why you picked Hyde Park," he muttered.
"What, you thought I just liked scenic walks with fake boyfriends?" Lottie shot back, smirking. "Caesar needed his exercise. Might as well kill two birds with one stone."
"Caesar," Lando repeated, watching as the dog enthusiastically sniffed a nearby bush. "Of course he’s called something ridiculous."
"Technically, it’s Caesar von Woofenstein," she corrected. "But we keep it informal."
Lando snorted despite himself. "That might be the most pretentious dog name I’ve ever heard."
"He’s a rescue mutt. Mostly Border Collie, maybe some German Shepherd. Bit of a menace, but he means well," Lottie said, just as Caesar abruptly turned and flung himself onto Lando’s feet, rolling onto his back in the universal demand for belly rubs.
Lando stared down at him. Then back at Lottie.
"You mean to tell me I’ve been suffering through this entire ordeal, and I could’ve just been hanging out with him instead?" he muttered, crouching to scratch the dog's stomach.
"I’ll be sure to let PR know you’d prefer to date Caesar instead," Lottie deadpanned.
Lando grinned. "At least he wouldn’t drag me into this mess."
"No, but he would steal your food and ruin your furniture. Pick your battles, Norris."
With a final pat, Lando straightened, dusting off his hands as they resumed walking. Caesar trotted between them, completely unaware of the tension his owner was trying (and failing) to ignore.
Lottie broke the silence first. "Alright, small talk. Let’s make this look natural."
Lando groaned. "Again with this?"
"Yes, again with this. We’re supposed to be a couple, Lando. Couples talk. Casually. Like normal people."
"Right, normal," he muttered. "Because everything about this is normal."
Lottie ignored him. "Okay—music. What are you listening to right now?"
He shot her a look. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. Humor me."
He exhaled, thinking for a second. "I don’t know. Arctic Monkeys, probably."
Lottie hummed. "Predictable."
"Excuse me?"
"You give off strong ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor’ energy."
Lando frowned. "And that means what, exactly?"
"Exactly what it sounds like."
Despite himself, Lando let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, your turn. Favorite artist?"
Lottie tilted her head. "Fleetwood Mac, I think."
Lando shot her a sideways glance. "Fleetwood Mac? Bit old school, isn’t it?"
"Says the guy clinging to his 2013 indie phase."
"Fair point."
The conversation lulled into something easy, their footsteps syncing as the city moved around them. Lottie’s grip on Caesar’s leash loosened, and the dog took full advantage—darting toward a pigeon, sending it flapping into the sky.
Lando grinned. "Menace, huh?"
"Oh, don’t act like you’re not obsessed with him already," Lottie said. "I saw your face when he rolled over for belly rubs."
"I mean… he’s alright, I guess."
"I’ll take that as a win."
For a moment, the weight of their fake relationship faded into the background. The cameras, the speculation, the absurdity of the entire situation—it didn’t feel so suffocating when there was something as simple as a dog trotting between them.
Then—Lottie grabbed his hand.
Lando stiffened. "What—"
"Relax," she muttered. "Two o’clock. Someone’s already got their phone up."
Right.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself not to react. Their fingers didn’t interlock—just a light press of palms, casual enough to seem natural, deliberate enough to be caught on camera.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered.
"This is commitment," Lottie corrected.
"You’re enjoying this way too much."
"Absolutely."
And then—she laughed.
Bright, unrestrained. Like she’d just heard something genuinely funny.
Lando blinked. "What?"
"It’s your face," she said, breathless between laughs. "You look like you’re being held hostage."
"I do not."
"You really do."
Lando opened his mouth to argue—
—and then the camera shutter clicked.
Their eyes met.
The moment shattered, and just like that, reality came rushing back.
They weren’t two people, walking through the park, talking about music and careers.
They were Lando Norris and Charlotte Hayes.
And the internet was about to lose its mind.
The click of the camera was unmistakable—sharp, invasive, a reminder that they weren’t alone.
But Lottie didn’t let go.
Instead, she tightened her grip just slightly, grounding the moment before it spiraled into awkwardness.
Lando felt the shift, the deliberate ease with which she handled the situation. No stiffness, no hesitation—just a perfectly timed adjustment, as if she was actually comfortable walking through Hyde Park with him, hand in hand.
She wasn’t, obviously.
But she was better at faking it.
Lando exhaled slowly, keeping his expression neutral as they continued walking. Caesar trotted ahead, blissfully unaware of the media circus about to erupt online.
Lottie reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a bright yellow tennis ball.
"Alright, enough about me," she said, rolling the ball between her fingers. "Tell me something about F1. Something interesting."
Lando arched a brow. "That’s vague."
"Fine, I’ll narrow it down." She gave the ball a light toss in her palm. "What’s the hardest part?"
Lando scoffed. "Everything."
Lottie shot him a look. "I feel like I should be offended on behalf of your entire profession."
"I mean it," he said. "It’s not just driving fast. You have to know how to manage tires, fuel loads, track conditions. You’re constantly adjusting, constantly calculating. And that’s before you factor in other drivers, team strategy, weather—"
Lottie hummed thoughtfully. "Sounds like a headache."
"More like a hundred headaches per race."
She nodded, considering, then suddenly wound back her arm and launched the tennis ball across the grass.
Caesar exploded forward, a blur of black and white fur, tearing after it with single-minded determination.
Lando watched him go, vaguely envious. Must be nice—having one simple goal and just going for it.
"Alright, next question," Lottie said, dusting off her hands. "Biggest misconception about F1 drivers?"
Lando smirked. "That we only turn left."
Lottie blinked. "Wait. Do people actually think that?"
"Americans do."
Lottie laughed, shaking her head. "Alright, now I feel bad for underestimating your job."
"You should," Lando said solemnly. "It’s very hard being me."
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
Caesar came sprinting back, ball clenched triumphantly in his teeth. He skidded to a stop at Lottie’s feet, tail wagging furiously.
"Good boy," she cooed, ruffling his fur before prying the ball from his mouth.
Lando watched, mildly fascinated. He wasn’t particularly bad with dogs, but there was something effortless about the way Lottie handled Cooper—like they understood each other in a way that didn’t require words.
She caught him staring.
"What?"
Lando shrugged. "Nothing."
She arched a brow but let it go, tossing the ball again. Cooper bolted after it without hesitation.
The wind picked up slightly, ruffling the edges of Lottie’s coat, brushing stray strands of hair across her face.
Lando glanced down at their joined hands—still together.
It should’ve felt weird. It did feel weird.
But maybe… slightly less weird than before.
The breeze carried the sound of laughter—distant, fleeting, swallowed by the open space of Hyde Park. A couple passed them, a man with a pushchair and a woman with a takeaway coffee, barely sparing them a glance. Lando had to remind himself that, to most people, they were just another couple out for a walk.
Which, in a way, was exactly the point.
He tightened his grip on Lottie’s hand—not dramatically, not enough to be noticeable in any pictures, but just enough to reinforce the illusion.
She didn't react, simply watched as Cooper disappeared into the distance, chasing his ball like his life depended on it.
"Alright," Lando said, shifting the focus. "Enough about me. Your turn."
Lottie gave him a side glance. "You want to hear about dressage and cross-country courses? I didn’t think you cared."
"I don’t." He grinned when she scoffed, then shrugged. "But I figure I should know a little more about the person I’m supposed to be madly in love with."
Lottie rolled her eyes but played along. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
Lando thought for a second. "Biggest misconception about your sport?"
"That it’s not a sport," she said instantly. "That the horse does all the work."
Lando snorted. "Do people actually believe that?"
"All the time," Lottie said. "There’s this idea that riding is just sitting there, looking pretty, while the horse magically does everything for you. But the reality is that you need insane core strength, leg control, precision. And trust—because no matter how good you are, you're still riding an animal with its own mind. One bad decision and you’re eating dirt."
Lando hummed. "Sounds like a headache."
Lottie arched a brow. "Did you just recycle my words?"
"Might’ve."
She shook her head, suppressing a smile. "Alright, next question."
Lando hesitated, then went for something lighter. "What do you do when you’re not taming wild beasts or dodging paparazzi?"
Lottie tilted her head, considering. "Depends. If I’m not training or competing, I like quiet things. Reading, movies, hiking. Cooking, if I’m in the mood."
"Cooking?" Lando looked at her, amused. "That surprises me."
"Why?"
"You don’t seem like the ‘domestic’ type."
Lottie scoffed. "What does that even mean?"
"I don’t know," he admitted. "You just have that ‘raised by nannies, never had to chop an onion’ energy."
Lottie gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you—I can chop an onion. I just choose not to."
Lando laughed, genuinely, and for a brief moment, the whole situation—the cameras, the pretending, the contract—faded into the background.
But then—click. Again.
Fuck it.
Lando felt the weight of the charade press down on him, a subtle but constant reminder of the performance they were putting on for the cameras. He looked at their joined hands—his fingers slowly loosening their grip on hers, the fleeting warmth from her skin now distant.
"Alright," he said, his voice breaking the stillness between them. "I think that's enough for today."
Lottie glanced at him, her expression unreadable, but there was something in the way she tilted her head that made him feel like she knew exactly what he meant.
"It was… nice," he added, trying to soften the abruptness of his words. "The walk, the conversation. But I've got stuff to do."
Lottie nodded once, a small movement, her lips pressed together in something like acknowledgment. She didn’t push for more. She just stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, looking at him with that same cool composure.
"Right," she said simply. "See you later."
And just like that, the air between them shifted, the artificial ease of the moment slipping away, leaving them standing at the edge of something neither of them had fully understood. Without another word, Lottie turned, her steps brisk as she walked in the direction of the park’s exit.
Lando watched her go for a moment, a mix of thoughts swirling in his mind. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction. The sound of Caesar’s distant bark was the last thing he heard as the distance between them grew, until all that was left was the quiet hum of the city around him.
Lando had been to equestrian events before. Not many, but enough to navigate the showgrounds with ease. His sister, Flo, competed in show jumping—not eventing like Lottie—but it was close enough that he wasn’t completely out of his depth.
Still, there was a world of difference between watching his sister at a local event and standing here, at the prestigious Burghley Horse Trials, one of the most important competitions in the eventing calendar. This was the ultimate test for Lottie, with her place on the British Olympic team for Paris 2024 on the line. The pressure was palpable, and Lando felt it more than he expected as he watched Lottie prepare for her round, the cameras tracking his every move, waiting for his reaction.
He tugged the brim of his cap lower, shading his eyes, and slid his sunglasses up his nose.
This was the latest move in his PR team’s strategy. Their last public appearance, the walk in Hyde Park, had drawn mixed reactions from fans—some skeptical, but overall, the response had been positive. Both teams had agreed it was time to solidify things, to reinforce the image. This was the moment to take things further.
So here he was, dressed down in a hoodie and jacket, doing his best impression of a supportive boyfriend.
Except, Lottie was actually impressive.
Show jumping was more complex than he'd given it credit for. He had always thought it was about clearing fences without knocking them down, but now he saw that there was so much more—pace, timing, rhythm, the delicate balance between power and control.
And Lottie made it look effortless.
Her horse, a powerful dark bay, trotted around the warm-up area, each stride smooth and fluid. Lottie sat tall in the saddle, her posture perfect, her gaze intense as she prepared for her round. The arena around her buzzed with activity, but she was a picture of focus, the noise of the crowd, the shuffling of horses, and the calls of the event staff all falling into the background.
She was in her element.
When her name was announced over the loudspeaker, the crowd erupted in applause, their cheers carrying across the arena. Lando felt it in his chest, that electric surge of energy that reminded him of race weekends. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation.
Lottie barely reacted. She squeezed her horse forward, entering the arena with calm precision, her eyes locked on the first fence ahead. Her movements were measured, controlled, as she guided her horse with practiced ease.
The first few fences were textbook. Clean, precise, no hesitation. Lando found himself on the edge of his seat, watching her maneuver through the course. The jumps came quickly, and her control never wavered.
As the course grew more demanding, Lando could feel the intensity building. He knew enough to recognize the risks—the way each stride counted, the critical split-second decisions that could make or break the round.
Lottie rode with unshakable focus. She urged her horse forward, pushing him for speed without sacrificing form. It was a delicate dance of speed, timing, and trust, and Lottie was executing it flawlessly.
When they cleared the final fence, the clock stopped.
A perfect round.
The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound like a wave crashing around him.
Without thinking, Lando stood and clapped, the excitement of the moment taking over. For a brief second, he forgot the cameras, the PR strategy, the pressure. He just watched Lottie, as she slowed her horse and came to a stop, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her helmet.
Then, as if she could feel his gaze, she turned her head.
Their eyes met.
And Lottie—stoic, professional Lottie—smirked at him.
A small, knowing thing, barely there before she turned away.
Lando exhaled sharply, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The weight of that smile settled over him, and for a moment, everything else—the cameras, the contract, the whole PR game—seemed to fade into the background.
He blinked, suddenly aware of the cameras still trained on him. He hadn’t meant to stand up so eagerly, hadn’t meant to clap so loud. He was supposed to be playing the part of the supportive boyfriend, not the starstruck spectator. But Lottie had earned it.
Before he could retreat back into his seat, he found himself already making his way out of the grandstands, the crowd parting for him as they recognized who he was. He barely registered the smiles, the camera flashes—just enough to see the social media posts that would pop up in a few minutes. Lottie’s PR team would love that he was in the stables now, not just in the stands. His PR team would too.
He was walking toward the stables before he even realized it, his mind racing ahead of him, but when he reached the barn doors, the world around him seemed to still.
Lottie was there, bent over her horse, speaking to one of the stablehands, the horse’s head nuzzling her shoulder. The moment felt completely different—no cameras, no crowds. Just the faint smell of hay, the hum of the horses in their stalls, and the quiet intimacy of the space.
Lando didn’t know what to do. He had imagined this moment, sure, but the reality of it was a bit more daunting. He had no role here, no script to follow. It was just him and Lottie—and her horse, of course.
For a few seconds, he just stood there, watching her in silence, unsure of his place in all of this.
Finally, Lottie turned, catching his gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker in her eyes, something that softened the hard edge she always wore when she was in public.
"You’ve really been following me all the way out here, huh?" she said with a teasing tilt to her voice, as though she were surprised to see him.
Lando cleared his throat, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. "Yeah, I, uh, figured I’d check in. You know... make sure you didn’t get lost in the whole... victory thing." He gestured vaguely toward the arena, trying to play it off cool.
Lottie raised an eyebrow, and then a small, smug smile tugged at her lips. "You mean 'make sure I’m not too busy for you,' right?"
Lando smirked, but it felt more like he was stumbling. "Something like that." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Anyway... You were... incredible out there."
Her smirk widened, though there was no real arrogance in it, just a playful recognition. "You’re not too bad at this, Norris," she teased. "Getting all sentimental over a horse show."
Lando chuckled, a little nervous but enjoying the banter despite himself. "I didn’t think I’d be clapping that hard for someone jumping over fences."
Lottie rolled her eyes, the warmth in her smile softening her usual sharpness. "You’re lucky you don’t have to do it yourself. This thing’s got more math involved than you’d think."
"I thought the horse did all the work," Lando shot back, remembering their earlier conversation, his grin widening.
Her laugh was quick, genuine. "Clearly, you haven’t been paying attention. You really should try it someday."
Lando shrugged, the moment of awkwardness beginning to ebb away. "I think I’ll leave it to the professionals."
They stood there for a beat, the easy banter flowing between them again. The tension from earlier, from all the weirdness of their fake relationship, had dissipated a little. It didn’t feel completely normal, but it was a start.
Lottie leaned against the stable door, her attention back on her horse. "So," she said, her tone turning slightly more casual, "what now? You just gonna stand there, or do you actually want to help me untack him?"
Lando blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. He cleared his throat. "I... wasn’t sure if I was allowed to get involved," he admitted, his voice a bit sheepish. "You seem like you’ve got it all under control."
Lottie chuckled, a low sound that seemed to fill the space between them. "Yeah, well, you’re not here to just watch me work. Come on, hold the reins for a second."
Lando stepped forward, taking the reins she offered, but his hands were a bit unsure as he adjusted his grip. "I’m not sure how much help I’ll be," he muttered, looking at the horse with a degree of caution. "This isn’t really my area of expertise."
Lottie smirked, her gaze drifting back to the horse. "I figured. But hey, it's not like you have to do anything complicated. Just stand there and make sure he doesn’t decide to wander off."
Lando gave a slight nod, trying to act natural. "Yeah, just stand here and look like I know what I’m doing, right?"
She shot him a teasing glance, her tone softening a little. "Basically. Don’t worry, he’s pretty easygoing. He’s more interested in snacks than anything else."
Lando relaxed slightly at that, but then caught the way Lottie was moving—how she worked with her horse so confidently, as if every movement was ingrained. There was something mesmerizing about it. He took a breath, unsure how to keep the conversation going.
"So, uh... how does it feel, you know, being this close to the Olympics?" He winced inwardly, wishing the question didn’t sound so... forced.
Lottie’s hands stilled for a moment, and she looked up at him, her expression guarded. "It’s not something I think about all the time," she said slowly, the words deliberate. "If I focus too much on it, I’ll start psyching myself out. But yeah, it’s kind of always there, hanging over you."
"Must be a lot of pressure," Lando said, feeling a sudden sympathy for her. He had his own kind of pressure—just in a completely different world. "I mean, with everything else going on, the media, the competition... I don’t know how you do it."
Lottie gave a small shrug, her face softening a little. "You just do. You can’t let it break you, or else what’s the point?"
Lando nodded, feeling a surprising respect for her resilience. "I get that. In my world, it’s the same. But I guess that’s why I’m here, right?" He glanced down at the reins in his hands, then back at her. "To make sure you don’t break under the pressure."
Lottie’s lips twitched into a smile, but it was brief. "Oh, so that’s your role here? The unofficial pressure manager?"
He gave a half-smile. "I can manage that."
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, returning her attention to the horse. "Just don’t expect me to thank you when I make it to the Olympics. I’m not that sentimental."
Lando chuckled, leaning back slightly. "I’ll take what I can get."
For a brief moment, the awkwardness between them seemed to fade, replaced by the kind of easy banter that, for whatever reason, seemed to come naturally. Lottie continued working, and Lando stayed quietly by her side, holding the reins and trying to act like he belonged here.
As the last of the gear was removed from the horse, Lottie finally turned to face him again. "Thanks for the... moral support," she said dryly. "Now, go on. You’ve done your part."
Lando raised an eyebrow. "That’s it? I thought I was supposed to be the hero in this scenario."
Lottie smirked, glancing at him sideways. "Yeah, well, you’re not quite there yet, Norris."
As Lottie finished up with her horse, she gave him one last pat on the neck before stepping away. “Alright, Norris,” she said, wiping her hands on her breeches. “You’ve done your good deed for the day. You can go back to whatever it is you do when you’re not being dragged into the equestrian world.”
Lando huffed a laugh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You say that like you’re getting rid of me.”
Lottie smirked. “Aren’t I?”
He didn’t have a real answer to that, because truthfully, he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. And somehow, instead of heading for the exit, he fell into step beside her as she made her way back toward the event grounds. The competition was still in full swing, but many spectators had drifted toward the sponsor booths, the food stalls, or the shaded VIP areas.
Lottie walked with an easy confidence, the same way she rode—with control, purpose. Lando, on the other hand, was just along for the ride, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, his cap pulled low over his forehead.
They were almost past a group of young women chatting near one of the merchandise tents when Lottie heard an excited gasp.
“Oh my god, that’s Charlotte Hayes!”
She barely had time to react before the group turned toward her, faces lighting up with recognition.
“You were incredible out there!” one of them gushed.
“We’ve been following you all season—you’re seriously insane on cross-country.”
“Can we get a picture with you?”
Lottie blinked, a little taken aback. She was used to attention at equestrian events, but she wasn’t used to fans being quite this enthusiastic.
Before she could answer, Lando—who had been standing beside her, entirely unnoticed—cleared his throat dramatically. “Well, this is new,” he said, smirking. “People actually ignoring me for once.”
The girls turned at the sound of his voice, their excitement doubling when they recognized him.
“Wait—Lando?”
“Oh my god, I didn’t even see you there!”
“I had no idea you were into horses.”
Lando gave a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, well. She’s making me a proper equestrian, one event at a time.”
Lottie rolled her eyes. “Don’t let him fool you. He still thinks the horse does all the work.”
The group laughed, and one of the girls held up her phone. “Lottie, can we—?”
“Of course,” Lottie said, already reaching for the phone.
But before she could take it, Lando snatched it from her hands with a grin. “I got it,” he said. “I’ll be the photographer today.”
The girls practically melted on the spot.
“That’s adorable.”
“He’s so boyfriend-coded.”
Lottie shot Lando a look, but he was already positioning himself, phone in hand. “Alright, ladies,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Make sure to smile—this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Lottie groaned. “Oh, shut up and take the picture.”
He did. A few, actually. By the time he handed the phone back, the girls were giddy.
“You guys are actually, like… the cutest couple,” one of them said.
Lottie let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage him.”
“Too late,” Lando said, flashing a smug grin.
They said their goodbyes, the girls walking away in a flurry of excitement, undoubtedly uploading the pictures as they spoke.
Lando fell back into step beside her, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “See? You’re famous.”
Lottie scoffed. “You’re just upset they didn’t ask for a picture with you.”
Lando placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “I’m secure enough to let you have the spotlight.”
She arched a brow. “Really?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I’ll survive.”
Lottie shook her head, amused despite herself. But as they continued walking, Lando noticed something—she was smiling. Not for the cameras, not for PR.
Just for herself.
And for some reason, he really, really liked seeing it.
The Miami heat was already oppressive, pressing down on the tinted windows of the car as they rolled through the paddock gates. Outside, the usual chaos of a race weekend was in full swing—fans gathered behind barriers, cameras flashing, media personnel darting around like they were on a mission.
Inside the car, Lottie was acutely aware of the fact that they were being watched.
She had seen the madness surrounding Formula 1 drivers before, but this was the first time she was in it. And it wasn’t just Lando they were looking at—it was her.
"They’re already taking pictures," she muttered, staring out at the sea of fans through her sunglasses.
Lando, sitting comfortably beside her in the passenger seat, let out a chuckle. "Yeah, get used to that."
She shot him a look. "Easy for you to say. You signed up for this."
"So did you," he pointed out with a smirk. "Technically."
Lottie huffed, leaning back against the leather seat. "I signed up to fix my PR. I didn’t sign up for... that." She nodded toward a group of girls holding up their phones, faces lighting up the moment they spotted them.
Lando followed her gaze, then smirked again. "Welcome to the world of the WAGs."
She turned to him, frowning. "The what?"
"WAGs," he repeated. "Wives and Girlfriends."
She snorted. "That’s a thing?"
Lando raised an eyebrow. "Oh, it’s a thing. The fans love them. Some people treat them like celebrities. Others act like they personally offended them just by existing. It’s all a bit... intense."
Lottie stared at him, processing that information. "So, what you’re saying is... there’s an entire part of your fanbase that’s obsessed with who you’re dating?"
"Yup."
"And some of them hate me just because I’m standing next to you?"
"Basically."
She scoffed. "That’s ridiculous."
"Welcome to Formula 1."
Lottie exhaled sharply, adjusting the sunglasses on her face. "Great. Can’t wait to be publicly analyzed and torn apart by strangers."
Lando grinned, nudging her playfully. "Just smile and wave, Little. Smile and wave."
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at her lips.
Outside, the fans were practically buzzing with excitement as the car rolled to a stop.
Lando turned to her just before reaching for the door handle. "Ready?"
Lottie took a deep breath. "Not even a little bit."
"Perfect," he said, his grin widening. "Let’s go."
And with that, they stepped out into the Miami heat, into the cameras, into the madness.
Fans were already gathering, some chanting Lando’s name, others snapping pictures as they caught sight of him and Lottie. The loud hum of the paddock, the smell of the fresh tires, the mechanical sounds—everything seemed heightened for Lottie. She could feel herself stiffening at all the attention.
Lando, noticing the subtle change in her posture, immediately slowed his pace, instinctively staying close to her. He didn’t want to make her feel isolated in this sea of excitement.
Instead of rushing off to greet the fans, Lando subtly guided her toward the entrance, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, a quiet gesture of reassurance. His touch was firm but gentle, keeping her close as he navigated them through the crowds.
As a few fans called out for pictures, Lottie was about to step back, not wanting to be the center of attention. But before she could, Lando leaned in slightly, giving her a reassuring glance, his hand still resting on her back. “We’ll do this together,” he said through his actions, offering her the chance to stick with him as he engaged with the fans for a moment.
When the fans asked for photos, Lando didn’t hesitate to take the lead, not stepping too far away from her, making sure to always keep her within arm’s reach. He made a few jokes with them, but his focus was still on Lottie, ensuring that she never felt left out or uncomfortable.
As they continued walking, Lottie noticed how little he was engaging with the crowd compared to his usual self. Normally, Lando would stop for autographs or selfies at every opportunity, but today, he kept moving, his attention always returning to her. His hand never left her back, guiding her through the noise of the paddock.
“Lando,” she said quietly, glancing up at him, “You don’t have to do this, you know. You can talk to the fans. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t look at her, but his thumb made small, soothing circles on the back of her shirt as they walked. “I’m not doing it because I have to,” he replied softly. “I want to. Besides, I’m not letting you get lost in the crowd.”
Lottie felt a knot she hadn’t realized was there slowly unravel. She didn’t say anything more, but her posture softened, and she stayed right beside him. She was beginning to realize just how thoughtful Lando was—how much care he was putting into making sure she felt at ease.
As they walked deeper into the paddock, Lando started introducing her to people from his team, pointing out familiar faces to help her feel more comfortable. His gestures were small but meaningful: a gentle nudge to the side, a soft, “This is Jane, she’s in charge of our PR, and that’s Tom, he handles our data,” always making sure she wasn’t left in the shadows.
Lottie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she watched him, taking in every small movement: the way he always made sure she was within his line of sight, the way he’d subtly check if she was okay whenever the crowd grew too loud. He never overdid it, never drew attention to it. It was just... him looking out for her, even when she didn’t ask for it.
They reached a quieter part of the paddock, away from the main traffic. Lottie took a breath, finally feeling like she could relax a little, and turned to him.
“Thanks,” she said quietly, her words almost lost in the noise of the paddock. She wasn’t sure if he heard her at first, but when he glanced at her, she could see the quiet acknowledgment in his eyes.
“No need to thank me,” he replied with a smile, though his eyes softened when he looked at her. “I’m just doing my job.”
Lottie chuckled softly, but there was a warmth in her expression now that hadn’t been there earlier. She wasn’t used to people looking out for her this way—so naturally, so without expecting anything in return.
But here was Lando, offering that kindness without hesitation, without ever drawing attention to it. She wasn’t sure what to make of it yet, but for the first time since stepping into the paddock, she felt like maybe she could actually enjoy this, after all.
The day had been a whirlwind. The noise, the constant movement, and the flashing cameras felt like they’d been part of their lives for hours. But as they finally found a quiet moment later in the evening, something was different between them. It wasn’t awkward—no, it wasn’t that. But there was a subtle shift in the air, something unspoken, like the calm before a storm, except there was no storm coming. It was just... different. Neither of them could pinpoint it, but there was a softness between them now that hadn’t been there before.
They chose to ignore it for the time being, pushing aside the strange tension in favor of the noise and chaos of the weekend. They weren’t sure how to navigate it, and so they didn’t.
That night, Lottie found herself sprawled out on her bed, still in her pajamas, replaying one of her past competitions. The footage was old, but it was comforting. Watching herself perform, even when she hadn’t been at her best, helped her focus, bringing a sense of peace to her mind after the chaos of the day. The low volume of the TV and the dim light created a calm atmosphere in the room, and she sunk deeper into the soft comfort of the bed.
But the peace didn’t last long. There was a knock at the door, followed by a familiar, playful voice.
“Room service,” Lando called, his voice making her smile despite herself. She had half-expected him to show up—he had been unusually thoughtful all day, checking in on her, introducing her to people in the paddock, and now it seemed he wasn’t going to let her end the day without at least a little more of his attention.
Lottie hesitated for just a moment, wondering what exactly he was up to, before pushing herself up from the bed and making her way to the door. When she opened it, she was greeted with a tower of takeout boxes, burgers, fries, and some of the most indulgent comfort food imaginable. Lando smiled at her, clearly proud of his delivery.
“I figured you were probably starving,” he said with a raised brow, playful as ever. “You didn’t seem all that keen on the paddock snacks today.”
Lottie couldn’t help but laugh. “You do know I’m not a child, right? You didn’t have to go all out like this.” Her eyes scanned the takeout boxes, each one more tempting than the last.
“Yeah, well, it’s not every day I get to spoil someone like this,” Lando teased, winking as he set the food down on the small table by the window. His movements were relaxed, natural, like he belonged here, in this space with her, despite the high-energy atmosphere of the paddock just hours before.
She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused. “Spoil me? I think you’re just trying to make sure I don’t get mad at you for dragging me into your chaotic world.”
Lando chuckled, collapsing onto the bed beside her with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Not true. I just thought we could have a quiet night for once. You know, just food, no cameras, no crazy crowds.”
Lottie glanced at him, and for a moment, their eyes lingered, the shift from earlier hanging between them. The way they could just be in the same space, without any of the external noise or expectations, was oddly comforting.
“You’re right,” she said softly, her voice quieter now. “It’s kind of nice to have a normal night for a change.”
Lando grinned, his expression carrying something more genuine than the usual playful exterior. “It’s not perfect, but it’s... better than nothing, right?”
They dug into the food, the tension that had been there before starting to fade. Lottie couldn’t help but let out a satisfied sigh as she bit into a burger.
“So, what’s it like?” she asked after a moment, glancing at him. “The whole paddock thing, I mean. The chaos, the pressure... Do you ever get used to it?”
Lando shrugged, chewing slowly before answering. “Not really. It’s a lot of pressure, yeah. But you just sort of... get into the rhythm of it. And it helps when you’re surrounded by people who’ve been doing it for years. They make it look easier than it is.”
Lottie nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "Must be a weird kind of pressure," she muttered, her gaze drifting to her fries. “I mean, I have my own pressures with competitions and everything, but this... this is next level.”
“Yeah, well, I guess that’s the difference between being part of the team and being the one everyone’s watching, huh?”
The conversation shifted into comfortable silence as they ate. There were no rushed words or forced small talk, just the simplicity of being together in the same space, enjoying the quiet.
Lottie shifted on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “I think you’re right, though. It’s kind of nice not to be in the spotlight for a change.”
Lando met her gaze, his smile softening. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “it is.”
Lando leaned back in his chair, tossing a fry into his mouth with a playful glint in his eyes. “So, I was thinking... if you ever make it to the Olympics, we should totally get matching tracksuits. You know, like a power couple thing.”
Lottie burst out laughing, rolling her eyes. “A matching tracksuit? You’d be the only person in the world who’d actually want to wear that with me.”
Lando grinned. “I’m serious! It’d be iconic. We could make it a thing for every major event—show up, match, and make the headlines.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we could make it work for your major events, but I’ll pass on the Olympics tracksuit idea, thanks.” She smirked, then her expression softened. “But honestly, I’m not sure what’s scarier: actually going or the pressure to not mess up once I’m there.”
Lando’s grin faded, and he looked at her more seriously. “It’s normal to feel that way. I mean, every race, every qualifying, I feel that weight too. But sometimes, the pressure is what drives you to be better. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I can’t sleep at night.”
Lottie tilted her head, her gaze steady on him. “I get it. But with the Olympics... it feels like this one shot. And if you mess it up, it’s not just one race—it’s everything. The years of work, the people who’ve supported you. And there’s me, wondering if I’m even good enough for it.”
Lando’s tone softened, his eyes locking with hers. “You are good enough. I don’t think anyone doubts that.”
Lottie gave a small, almost bitter laugh. “You’d be surprised. Sometimes it’s not even about how good you are. It’s the other stuff—the media, the expectations. It’s exhausting.”
“I get that,” Lando said quietly. “In F1, it’s all about the performance. But everyone’s watching, critiquing every little thing you do. It’s like you’re never allowed to just... be human.”
Lottie met his gaze, a slight frown on her face. “Yeah. You can’t just make a mistake, because that mistake will follow you around forever.”
For a moment, silence filled the room, but it was different this time. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just understanding. Lottie shifted uncomfortably before speaking again, her voice quieter.
“You know, I used to think I had to handle everything on my own. I mean, I have to, right? But... it’s weird, having someone else who gets it. Who doesn’t just brush it off like it’s no big deal.”
Lando met her gaze, his expression softer now. “I get it. It’s not easy, and yeah... I guess I’m here if you need someone to talk to about it.”
Lottie didn’t look away this time. “I know. I appreciate that, Lando. More than you think.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds, and for the first time in a long time, the weight of their respective pressures felt a little less heavy. For the first time in a while, they didn’t have to carry it alone.
Finally, Lottie broke the silence with a playful grin. “But seriously, no matching tracksuits. Ever.”
Lando couldn’t help but laugh, relieved to lighten the mood. “Alright, alright. No tracksuits. I’ll settle for just being your number-one fan instead.”
Lottie smirked. “That’s more like it.”
The morning light filtered softly through the hotel curtains, casting long golden streaks across the room. Lottie blinked awake, her body heavy with sleep, the exhaustion of the weekend settling deep in her bones. Instinctively, she reached for her phone, scrolling through the usual flood of notifications, skimming mindlessly—until one email stopped her cold.
British Olympic Committee - Selection Confirmation
Her heart stumbled.
With shaking fingers, she tapped it open, her breath hitching as she read the words that would change everything.
"Dear Miss Hayes, we are pleased to confirm your selection for the British Eventing Team for the Paris 2024 Olympic Games..."
A sharp inhale. Her vision blurred, the letters swimming as the weight of it all came crashing down on her.
She covered her mouth with her hand as the first tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. Her whole body trembled. Years of training, every fall, every broken bone, every grueling hour spent chasing a dream that had always felt just out of reach—until now. She was in. She was going to the Olympics.
A small, breathless laugh escaped her, equal parts disbelief and sheer, overwhelming joy. She wanted to scream, to call someone, to—
But no.
Not today.
Today wasn’t about her. Today was Lando’s race. And as much as she ached to tell him, to share this impossible, life-changing moment, she knew better. He had enough pressure on his shoulders without her dropping this on him hours before he got into the car.
So she wiped her tears, steadied her breath, and tucked the secret away for later.
Later, the McLaren garage buzzed with a nervous, electric energy, every person within it tuned into the same frequency of anticipation. Mechanics darted back and forth, engineers murmured into headsets, and the screens flickered with the ever-changing numbers of a race that was unfolding at breakneck speed.
Lottie didn’t have to fake anything.
Every time Lando made an overtake, she felt her pulse jump, her stomach twisting in that awful, addictive way that only live competition could bring. The cameras caught her reactions, but for once, she barely noticed. She was too caught up in the moment.
And then came the final lap.
Lando was leading.
The entire garage held its breath.
The roar that erupted when he crossed the line was deafening. The sheer force of celebration was enough to shake the walls as the McLaren crew erupted into cheers, throwing their arms around each other, jumping, screaming. Lottie felt it all at once—a rush of relief, excitement, pride so intense it made her dizzy.
She didn’t hesitate. She ran with them, pushing through the chaos toward parc fermé, the euphoria carrying her forward.
He celebrated, shouting into the sea of orange, hugging engineers, mechanics, anyone in reach. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. Lottie. Standing just beyond the McLaren team, watching him with the brightest, most genuine smile he’d ever seen on her face. She wasn’t faking it for the cameras, wasn’t playing along for the sake of their contract. She was just… happy. For him.
And suddenly, he had to go to her.
Lando pushed through the crowd, still buzzing with euphoria, and reached her just as she was laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. “You did it!” she shouted over the noise, breathless, laughing, not caring about anything else. “You actually fucking did it!”
Lando let out a breathless laugh, still shaking from the adrenaline. “Hell yeah, I did!”
She nodded, and then, almost without thinking, she blurted it out—because what better moment was there than this? "I made it."
Lando frowned for half a second, still catching his breath. "Made what?"
Her smile wobbled slightly, her hands gripping his forearms like she needed to steady herself. "I got the email this morning. I’m in. The Olympic team. I—Lando, I’m going to the Olympics."
His world, which had already been spinning from the win, somehow tilted even more. His hands moved on instinct, gripping her shoulders, grounding them both in the chaos. "What?"
“I got the email this morning.” Her voice wavered, but her smile didn’t falter. “I made the team, Lando. I’m going to Paris.”
For a split second, everything around them disappeared. The noise, the cameras, the flashing lights—it all faded into the background as he just looked at her.
And then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—Lando kissed her.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t passionate. Just a brief, fleeting press of lips, quick and instinctive, like an exclamation point to a moment too big for words.
But it was enough. Enough to make both of them freeze in the aftermath, their faces inches apart, wide-eyed and breathless. Enough for the world around them to catch it, cameras flashing, thousands of eyes capturing something neither of them had expected.
Lottie swallowed hard.
Lando blinked, as if realizing what he’d just done.
Oh.
The moment stretched between them, fragile and electric. Lottie could still feel the ghost of Lando’s lips on hers, barely there, but somehow lingering.
They just stared at each other, breathless, caught in something they didn’t have time to untangle—because before either of them could say a word, McLaren’s team swarmed in.
Lando was yanked away in a blur of orange, lost in a chaos of arms slung around his shoulders, cheers, shouts, hands thumping his back, shaking him, pulling him into the celebration. He was gone in an instant, absorbed by the frenzy of victory.
Lottie remained frozen in place, watching.
Her heart was still pounding, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the race, from the sheer overwhelming euphoria of the moment—or from that. From the fact that, for the first time since they’d agreed to this whole thing, something had happened that wasn’t scripted.
A kiss wasn’t in the contract.
It hadn’t been planned, hadn’t been necessary.
So why had he done it?
Why had she let him?
Lottie swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe as she stood there, the noise of the celebrations ringing in her ears. She tried to convince herself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just the adrenaline, the heat of the moment, a natural reaction to winning.
But a small, unwelcome thought curled in the back of her mind.
Have we just crossed a line?
After the podium, the celebrations carried on in the McLaren garage, thick with champagne, music, and the high of victory. Lando was in the center of it all, surrounded by his team, his friends, people who had worked for this just as much as he had. He was laughing, grinning so wide his face ached, letting the euphoria consume him.
But even through the haze of it all, he kept catching glimpses of her.
Lottie, standing at the edge of the room, drink in hand, smiling at something one of the engineers had said. But not fully present. Not quite there.
Something twisted uncomfortably in his stomach.
So he slipped away, weaving through the crowd until he reached her side.
“Hey.”
She turned, surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him to seek her out. “Hey, champ.”
Lando let out a breathless laugh, still high on everything, but suddenly feeling way too aware of himself. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, hesitating for a second before blurting out—
“I didn’t mean to kiss you.”
Lottie blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.
Lando exhaled sharply. “I mean—I didn’t plan to. It just... happened. I thought it would look good for the cameras, and I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I should’ve asked. I’m sorry if I—”
“It’s okay.”
Her voice was quiet but certain.
Lando studied her face, trying to gauge if she really meant that, or if she was just saying it to make things easier.
And for a moment, they just looked at each other.
Neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of unspoken questions, things neither of them dared to say.
Did it mean something to you?
Because I think it meant something to me.
Lottie cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. We’re fine.” She offered him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Lando nodded, pretending that was enough.
But as the party carried on around them, as the noise swallowed them up again, neither of them could shake the feeling that something had shifted. That maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something they weren’t ready for.
The night split them in two.
Lando, wrapped up in the whirlwind of celebration, surrounded by his team, other drivers, friends—anyone who wanted to drown in the euphoria of victory with him. The energy of the night was electric, pulsing through the city, through the people, through the drinks passed from hand to hand in the dim glow of club lights.
Lottie, on the other hand, chose something quieter.
“I think I’ll head back,” she told him when the chaos started to spill out of the McLaren garage, into the night. “I need to call my parents, tell them about—” She hesitated for just a second, then smiled. “About the Olympics.”
Lando blinked, like he’d almost forgotten that massive piece of news in the mess of everything else. “Right.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, of course. That makes sense.”
She could see the question forming in his mind before he even said it.
“Are we—” He stopped, shifted on his feet. “We’re good, right?”
Lottie tilted her head, watching him carefully. “Good?”
His jaw tensed, and she could tell he was choosing his words. “With everything. With us. I just—I don’t want things to be weird after—”
“They’re not,” she interrupted, soft but firm. She didn’t let him finish. “We’re fine.”
And maybe it was the way she said it so certainly, the way she met his eyes without hesitation, but Lando believed her.
Still, something inside him felt unsteady.
She leaned in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. “Go celebrate,” she murmured.
Lando barely had time to process it before the cameras around them clicked, a frenzy of flashes capturing the moment. A sweet, calculated moment. One that did exactly what it was supposed to—sent the message loud and clear: Charlotte Hayes and Lando Norris are stronger than ever.
Lottie pulled away, sending him one last small smile before stepping back, disappearing into the night, leaving Lando standing there, watching her go.
And then, he let himself get swept away.
The morning hit like a freight train.
Lottie wasn’t even fully awake when she reached for her phone, still hazy from sleep, her body aching from the long weekend. But the second she saw the notifications, her brain jolted awake.
Her screen was flooded.
Headlines. Twitter threads. Photos. Speculation.
Lando Norris partying the night away after victory—who’s the mystery woman?
A few hours after celebrating with his girlfriend, Lando Norris was spotted leaving a hotel that wasn’t his own.
Has Lando Norris already moved on from Charlotte Hayes?
Lottie sat up so fast she nearly got whiplash.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she clicked on the photos, one by one, each image sharper than the last.
Lando in the club, drink in hand, a dark-haired woman pressed close, his head tipped toward her ear.
Lando laughing, his hand resting on the small of her back.
Lando walking out of a hotel at sunrise, looking wrecked, his hoodie pulled low over his face.
The rage hit her fast.
Hot, violent, immediate.
It clawed up her throat, burned behind her ribs.
Because it wasn’t just about the rumors. It wasn’t just about what the press was saying.
It was the fact that he had done this.
After last night. After everything.
Lottie squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose, trying to breathe through the anger simmering under her skin.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew what kind of person Lando was. She knew what she had signed up for.
But this?
This was humiliating.
And Charlotte Hayes didn’t do humiliation.
Lottie didn’t think.
She moved on pure, unfiltered rage.
Barefoot, still in her sleep shorts and hoodie, she stormed down the hallway of the hotel, barely aware of the pounding of her own footsteps. The anger was a living, breathing thing inside her, tightening its grip with every step.
She didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.
Just shoved the door open with enough force to make it slam against the wall.
Lando was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, looking like absolute shit. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled like he had slept in it—if he had even slept at all. The dim light of the room cast shadows across his face, making the exhaustion in his eyes even more obvious.
The second he looked up and saw her, his eyes widened. “Lottie—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Her voice was sharp, slicing through the heavy morning air.
Lando winced, dragging a hand over his face. “Listen—”
“No. You listen.” She took a step closer, fury radiating off her in waves. “I wake up this morning to see the entire world debating whether or not you’ve cheated on me. Do you have any idea what this looks like?”
Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t do anything, Lottie. I swear. Yeah, I was drunk, and yeah, she was—close, but I didn’t—”
“I don’t care.” Lottie’s voice was deadly quiet now. “It doesn’t matter what actually happened. It matters what people think happened. And right now, the entire internet is convinced that you just made a fucking fool out of me.”
Lando ran a hand through his curls, frustration evident in every tense muscle of his body. “It’s not like I took her to my room! Those photos—Jesus, I was literally leaving my friends’ hotel. That’s it. That’s the whole fucking story.”
Lottie let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “And what, you think people are going to believe that? You think the fans, the media, the sponsors, are going to take the time to fact-check before they start writing the next big headline?” She shook her head, stepping even closer. “This isn’t about truth, Lando. It’s about perception. That’s all a PR relationship is, and you just made it look like I’m the pathetic girlfriend getting cheated on.”
Lando’s jaw clenched. “You’re not my girlfriend.”
She laughed. A sharp, bitter sound. “No, I’m not! And thank fuck for that, because at least I don’t have to actually deal with your bullshit!”
He stood up then, closing the space between them. “What do you want me to do, Lottie?” His voice was lower now, but the frustration was still there. “I can’t change it. I can’t go back and undo it.”
Her breath came fast, her heart pounding. “You want to fix it? Fine. Handle it.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “Clean up your own fucking mess.”
Lando swallowed hard, his hands flexing at his sides. “Lottie—”
“Don’t.”
She stepped back, shaking her head. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. If you have something to say, tell my team. I’ll be busy—I don’t have time to be dealing with your shit when I have the Olympics to focus on.”
His brows pulled together, his expression unreadable. “That’s it? You’re just gonna cut me off?”
“No, Lando.” Her voice was steady. “I’m just reminding you that this isn’t real. You do whatever the fuck you want—I’m done cleaning up after you.”
She turned before he could say another word, slamming the door behind her, leaving him standing there in the wreckage.
Weeks go by. The headlines cool down. His PR team works damage control, pushing a new narrative—"misunderstanding," "taken out of context," "no trouble in paradise." They make sure Lottie and Lando are seen together again, and soon, the internet forgets.
But Lottie doesn’t.
She’s too busy winning. Training harder than ever, pouring all of her focus into the Olympics. And if there’s something fierce in the way she throws herself into it, something angry—well, she doesn’t think too much about that.
Then, their PR teams drop a bomb on them.
"Vacation."
Together.
"To keep up appearances," their managers explain. "To make sure everyone knows things are fine."
Lottie is livid. She wants to refuse, wants to tell them all to go to hell—but she can’t. This is what she signed up for. And if she has to suffer through another week with Lando Norris, she’s going to do it her way.
So, she picks the location.
Her family's estate. A sprawling, old-money English countryside estate—complete with horses, etiquette-dinner expectations, and the poshest group of people Lando has ever encountered in his life.
If she has to deal with him, then he has to deal with this.
And that?
That’s where the real fun begins.
Lando has been thrown into hell. Or at least, that’s what it feels like.
The estate is massive, straight out of a period drama, with towering trees lining the driveway and an overwhelming sense of old money oozing from every brick. The kind of place where history isn’t just remembered—it’s lived in. The house itself is ridiculous—high ceilings, chandeliers, endless hallways leading to even more endless rooms. Every surface gleams, polished to perfection, and the whole place smells faintly of expensive wood polish and fresh flowers.
Lottie is clearly thriving.
She doesn’t even try to ease him into it. If anything, she seems delighted by his suffering.
“Oh, did I forget to mention?” she says sweetly their first morning there, leading him into the grand dining room for breakfast. “We have a dress code for meals.”
Lando looks down at his hoodie and sweatpants, then back up at her. “You’re joking.”
She isn’t.
He doesn’t change. Not for breakfast, not for dinner, not ever. He shows up every morning in his McLaren hoodie, every evening in his cargo shorts, and every time he catches Lottie’s mother glancing at his outfit, he just smiles and takes another bite of whatever very expensive meal they’re eating.
It’s a battle of wills. And Lando? He likes winning.
But even though he’s standing his ground on the clothing front, there’s one battle he’s losing—the absolute zoo of animals in this house.
Caesar, at least, is familiar. The big German Shepherd recognizes Lando immediately, tail wagging as he trots up to him like they’re old friends. Lando crouches to scratch behind his ears, muttering, “At least you don’t hate me.”
But then come the others.
Three other dogs.
One of them—a scruffy little terrier mix—steals his shoes every time he takes them off. Another, a massive black Labrador, insists on sitting directly on his feet whenever Lando is standing still. And the third, a tiny white ball of fluff, just stares at him. Silent. Judging.
Then there are the cats. So many cats. Lando has no idea how many there actually are—every time he turns a corner, there’s another one. On the stairs. On the windowsills. Watching him from the bookshelves like tiny, furry spies.
“I feel like I’m being monitored,” he tells Lottie one afternoon, eyeing a particularly fluffy orange tabby that hasn’t blinked in minutes.
Lottie just hums, flipping a page in her book. “You probably are.”
Then there are her brothers, the twins. They don’t hate him. They don’t even intimidate him. But they do make him uncomfortable.
Because for the first two days, they just watch him. Always there, just slightly in the background. Lando will be sitting in the lounge, and suddenly, he’ll realize they’re behind the couch. Not saying anything. Just observing.
Or he’ll walk into a room and they’ll already be there, speaking in low voices, only to stop immediately when he enters.
At one point, he catches them sitting across from each other in the drawing room, both drinking tea, both looking at him with the exact same neutral expression.
“You two are terrifying,” he says flatly.
One of them blinks. “Thank you.”
But then, on the third day, something changes.
They’ve just finished dinner, and Lando is mentally preparing himself for another round of polite-yet-unsettling observation from Lottie’s twin brothers when one of them—Oliver? Nate? No clue—leans forward, elbows on the table.
“Do you play FIFA?”
Lando pauses, thrown by the sudden normalcy of the question. “Uh. Yeah?”
The twins exchange a glance.
“Come with us.”
It sounds less like an invitation and more like a summoning, but Lando follows them anyway, intrigued. They lead him through the house, down a hallway, and into what can only be described as a shrine to sports and gaming. A massive flat-screen TV, shelves lined with games, beanbags strewn about, and a top-of-the-line gaming console already set up.
They settle in, and within minutes, they’re locked in battle.
It turns out the twins are good. But Lando is better.
By the time he scores his third goal in a row, he can practically hear their egos fracturing.
“Jesus,” one of them mutters, scowling at the screen.
“You’re a Formula 1 driver,” the other points out. “How the hell are you this good? Do you really have time to play games?”
Lando just smirks, lounging back into the couch. “Hand-eye coordination, mate.”
For the first time since he arrived, the tension eases. The twins stop analyzing him like some strange foreign specimen and start treating him like a competitor, someone worth their time.
They play for hours, their competitive streaks fueling each other, and by the time they finally call it quits, Lando almost forgets that, technically, he’s supposed to be suffering on this trip.
Almost.
The next afternoon, Lottie and her parents sit outside, having tea at a shaded table on the terrace. The estate stretches out before them—rolling fields, neatly kept gardens, and, at the far end of the property, a large, open field.
It’s there that the twins have dragged Lando, a football at their feet.
“He’s definitely better than them,” Lottie remarks, watching as Lando effortlessly weaves through her brothers, making them look ridiculous in the process.
Her father hums, sipping his tea. “They need to be humbled from time to time.”
Her mother sighs. “I am starting to like him.”
Lottie grins, eyes fixed on the game. She can hear them shouting at each other—frustrated, determined, cursing when Lando scores yet again.
And then, something unexpected happens.
Lando looks up from the field, his eyes searching. And when they find her—when he finds her—he grins. Wide, smug, bright with victory and mischief.
Lottie rolls her eyes, pretending not to care.
But she feels it.
That warmth creeping in, that quiet, dangerous thought—maybe this isn't fake at all.
And then, it starts subtly.
Lottie notices it in small gestures, little shifts in body language that would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t her.
Her mother, for example, stops looking at Lando like he’s a particularly loud guest overstaying his welcome. Instead, she starts noticing things.
The way he always greets her politely in the morning, even when he’s barely awake. The way he thanks the staff every time they serve a meal. The way he lets Caesar jump onto his lap, even though he’s wearing one of his expensive hoodies and will absolutely leave covered in dog hair.
But the real moment of change comes one evening when they’re all gathered in the sitting room. It’s been a long day—Lottie had spent the afternoon training, Lando had been dragged into yet another ridiculous scheme by her brothers, and now, finally, there’s a lull in the chaos.
Lottie’s mother is knitting, a quiet habit of hers that keeps her hands busy while she listens to the conversation around her.
And then—without a word—she sets down her knitting, stands up, and disappears into the hallway.
Lottie barely notices, until she returns a moment later with a folded blanket in her hands.
She walks straight over to where Lando is slumped in an armchair, clearly exhausted but still trying to follow the conversation. He blinks up at her, confused, as she unfolds the blanket and drapes it over his shoulders.
"There," she says, smoothing it down as if he’s one of her children. "You looked cold."
Lando just stares at her. Lottie stares at her.
Her mother doesn’t say anything else—just pats his shoulder lightly and goes back to her seat, picking up her knitting again like nothing happened.
Lottie’s brothers immediately start teasing him for it.
Lando, dazed, just pulls the blanket tighter around himself.
He’s in.
Her father takes longer.
Not because he’s particularly cold—Lottie’s father isn’t unkind, just reserved. Measured. He was never one for overly warm welcomes, always preferring to keep his distance until someone proved themselves worth the effort.
But he watches Lando.
Watches him joke with the twins, watches the way Caesar follows him around, watches how he doesn’t complain about any of it—the formality, the expectation, the centuries-old family traditions he clearly doesn’t understand but still respects.
And then, one evening, as they’re all gathered in the sitting room after dinner, he finally speaks directly to him.
"You’re a racing driver, but are you into cars?"
Lando, caught mid-sip of his drink, swallows quickly. "Uh—yeah."
Her father hums, thoughtful. "I rebuilt an old Aston Martin years ago. Did it myself. Took months."
Lottie stares.
Her father never talks about that.
Lando, however, lights up. "No way. What model?"
And just like that, they’re talking. Really talking—about engines, about restoration work, about classic cars versus modern builds. Lottie watches as her father, the same man who barely tolerated Lando’s existence a few days ago, nods along, asking questions, engaging in a way that he rarely does with people outside their world.
It’s… unexpected.
And then—
"You should stay for the hunting weekend," her father says casually, sipping his brandy.
Lando blinks. "The what now?"
Lottie groans, dragging a hand over her face. "Oh, God. Don’t encourage him."
Her father just chuckles. "It’s tradition."
And that? That’s acceptance.
Lottie sees all of it.
Sees her mother treating Lando with the same quiet care she gives her own children. Sees her father warming to him in his own quiet, begrudging way. Sees the twins, who were dead set on making his life miserable, inviting him to play, to join, to be part of it.
She watches as Lando stops acting like he’s just tolerating it, and starts enjoying it.
And worst of all?
She watches herself let it happen.
It starts with curiosity.
Lando had never paid much attention to horses before—never needed to. His world had always been fast cars, roaring engines, and sleek designs built for speed. The idea of an animal being an athlete in its own right was… foreign.
But then there’s Lottie.
And Lottie is magic on a horse.
He watches her every morning, perched on the edge of the fence as she takes Vermento through his paces, guiding him through intricate dressage routines, moving as if they share the same mind. He watches her during jumping sessions, the sound of hooves hitting the ground in rhythmic beats, her focus razor-sharp, her body a study in control and precision.
Some days, she disappears into the cross-country course—a winding, forested path with water jumps, fallen logs, and sharp turns that demand both trust and instinct.
That’s when Lando gets bored. And a bored Lando is a reckless Lando.
Which is how he ends up on a bike.
The twins had found it for him, laughing their asses off as they presented the ancient, half-rusted bicycle that had probably been sitting in one of the estate’s storage sheds for decades.
But Lando? Lando sees a challenge.
So the next morning, when Lottie heads toward the cross-country course, he grabs the bike and pedals after her.
She doesn’t notice at first, too focused on guiding Vermento over the jumps, but when she finally turns her head and sees him—legs pumping furiously, struggling to keep up—she nearly falls off her horse from laughing.
“What the hell are you doing?” she calls over her shoulder.
“Winning,” he shouts back, even though he’s absolutely not.
He lasts about ten minutes before his legs burn like hell and he nearly crashes into a bush. Lottie watches, still laughing, as he slows to a stop, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
Vermento trots back toward him, ears flicking curiously. Lottie, still grinning, leans forward in the saddle. “Not as easy as it looks, huh?”
Lando glares up at her. “Shut up.”
But the next morning, he does it again.
And the next.
And the next.
Then there are the photos.
It’s part of the reason they’re here, after all—damage control, reassurance for the fans. So they take pictures together, post casual stories of their “vacation” online.
A blurry shot of Caesar flopped on Lando’s lap, captioned: Officially Lando’s dog now. Sorry, Lottie.
A picture of Lottie sitting on the fence, sipping coffee, watching Lando struggle to clean Vermento’s hooves under the supervision of one of the grooms.
A short video of Lando trying—and failing—to keep up with her on the bike, her laughter in the background as she zooms past him on horseback.
They’re easy, effortless.
And the internet eats them up.
Fans flood the comments—he’s obsessed with her, they look so happy, look at the way he looks at her.
And Lando doesn’t read them.
Not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t need to.
Because he knows how he looks at her.
He knows that he’s spent hours watching her train, noticing things he shouldn’t—like the way her expression softens when she talks to Vermento, or the way her hair slips loose from its tie when she’s too focused to fix it, or the way she bites her lip when she’s planning her next move.
He knows that the way he feels when she smiles at him, really smiles, is different from how he’s ever felt before.
He knows.
And that?
That’s terrifying.
The house is empty.
Lottie doesn’t notice at first—too busy going through her post-training routine, stretching out muscles that burn from the morning’s work. She assumes the usual background noise of the estate will fill the space soon enough—her brothers causing chaos, her mother calling for dinner, her father reading in his study. But the house stays quiet.
No staff. No family.
Just her.
And Lando.
She finds him in the sitting room, sprawled out on one of the massive couches, flipping absently through a book he definitely isn’t reading. His McLaren hoodie looks ridiculous in the setting—old paintings, antique furniture, crystal chandeliers—but he doesn’t seem to care.
He glances up when she walks in.
“You realize we’re alone?” he asks.
Lottie arches an eyebrow. “What, scared?”
Lando scoffs. “Terrified.”
She smirks, crossing the room to sit with him, curling her legs up beneath her. For a moment, there’s silence—calm, easy. But then Lando shifts, sets the book down, and his expression changes.
It’s subtle—the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands curl slightly against his knees.
Lottie knows that look. He’s about to say something.
And then he does.
“I’m sorry.”
Lottie stills. “…For what?”
“For Miami.”
The weight of his words settles between them, heavier than she expects. Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s been holding this in for too long.
“I fucked up,” he continues. “I didn’t think. I—” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I was stupid, and I didn’t think about you. About how it would look, about the contract, about—everything.” His eyes flick up to hers, and something about the way he looks at her now makes her throat tighten. “And I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was pissed, but that’s not an excuse.”
Lottie watches him, heartbeat steady but heavy.
She swallows.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
Lando exhales, nodding.
And then—
“I was angry,” she admits, voice softer now. “But… it wasn’t just about you. I mean, it was, obviously, but—” She stops, pressing her lips together for a second before continuing. “It felt like him again.”
Lando doesn’t need to ask who.
He already knows.
“My ex—” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “He was always in the papers. Not for good reasons. And I was always in them with him, whether I wanted to be or not. The drinking, the fighting, the—” She cuts herself off, biting the inside of her cheek.
Lando stays silent, waiting.
Lottie glances at him, then away.
“I was stupid,” she mutters. “I thought I could make it work. I thought I could fix it. But it just kept getting worse, and worse, and worse, and suddenly I wasn’t just Charlotte Hayes, the equestrian—I was Charlotte Hayes, the girlfriend of the asshole footballer who can’t keep himself out of trouble.”
Lando’s expression hardens.
“I hated it,” she continues. “I hated him, by the end of it. Hated how he made me feel—like I was just an accessory, something he could drag into whatever shit he got himself into. I hated waking up and not knowing what headline would be waiting for me that day.”
She exhales.
“And then Miami happened.”
Lando rubs his hands together, gaze never leaving her.
“I get it now,” he murmurs. “Why you reacted the way you did.”
She nods. “Yeah.”
There’s another silence—longer, deeper.
And then—
“The kiss.”
Lottie’s breath catches.
Lando watches her closely.
“After the race,” he clarifies. “That was… real, right?”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Doesn’t know how to.
But then she remembers the way it felt—the rush of it, the warmth, the absolute lack of hesitation.
“Yes,” she says.
A beat.
Lando’s gaze flicks down—to her lips, to the slight shift of her hands against her lap—then back up.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I thought so.”
Lando doesn’t move back.
And neither does Lottie.
They're close—closer than they’ve ever been without an audience watching, without a script to follow. It should be strange, unsettling even, to have the space between them collapse like this. But it’s not.
It feels inevitable.
Lottie’s heart beats steadily beneath her ribs, not frantic or panicked but slow, deep—aware.
She doesn’t drop his gaze.
Lando swallows. “I think about it.”
Her fingers twitch against her lap. “Think about what?”
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop. “You. Us. The kiss. That stupid fucking contract.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I tell myself it’s fake. That it’s just job. That none of this should mean anything.”
Lottie listens, hands still, spine straight.
Lando lets out a breath.
“But it does.”
It’s quiet. Honest.
Her pulse trips.
He leans back slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, shaking his head as if he’s just said something completely ridiculous.
“I don’t even know when it stopped being fake,” he mutters, like he’s trying to figure it out himself. “Maybe it was Miami. Maybe it was before that. Maybe it was that fucking dog of yours sitting on me like he owns me.” He chuckles softly. “I don’t know. But I stopped pretending a while ago.”
Lottie feels like the air has been knocked out of her lungs.
Lando Norris—the boy who fought this arrangement like it was the worst possible punishment, the boy who complained and sulked and refused to even try in the beginning—is looking at her now like she’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.
And maybe she’s been fooling herself.
Maybe she’s been pretending, too—pretending that she doesn’t notice the way her chest gets warm when he looks at her, the way his voice settles in her stomach, the way her body always seems to find him, whether it’s a shoulder bump, a hand on his arm, a touch that lingers too long.
Her throat is dry.
“Lando—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I just—” He sighs, glancing up at her. “I just needed you to know.”
Lottie swallows, fingers tightening in the fabric of her leggings.
And then she hears herself say—
“I think about it, too.”
Lando goes completely still.
Her voice is quieter than his, softer, but just as steady. “I don’t know when it stopped being fake either. I just know that… it doesn’t feel fake now. It didn’t feel fake when I saw those photos of you and that woman, when all I felt was jealousy.”
He looks at her.
She looks at him.
And suddenly, the space between them feels laughable.
Lando moves first.
Or maybe she does.
It’s impossible to tell, because one second they’re sitting across from each other, and the next, his hand is cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek, her fingers grasping at the fabric of his hoodie, pulling—
And then his lips are on hers.
It’s not hesitant.
It’s not careful.
It’s certain.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes her forget where they are, the kind that makes her stomach tighten and her hands pull him closer, the kind that answers every unspoken question between them.
Lando breathes her in, deep and slow, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, to feel her, to lose himself in the way she tastes.
And Lottie lets him.
Lets herself.
Because this? This isn’t for anyone else.
It’s not for cameras, not for headlines, not for the PR team that bound them together in the first place.
This is real.
And neither of them want to stop.
The room feels different when they break apart. Not in a bad way.
Just—different.
Like something invisible has shifted. Like the air is thicker, charged with something unsaid but understood.
Lando stays close, forehead nearly brushing hers, breath warm against her skin. His hand is still on her jaw, his thumb ghosting over the curve of her cheek like he can’t quite bring himself to let go.
Lottie doesn’t move either. Because she doesn’t want to.
Her heart isn’t pounding, her breath isn’t shaky—there’s no frantic rush of adrenaline, no sudden panic. Just a slow, deep certainty settling in her bones.
Lando swallows, his eyes flickering over her face, searching for something.
Lottie already knows what he’s looking for.
And she gives it to him. She smiles.
Small, at first—barely there. But then it grows, stretching across her lips, warm and real.
And Lando—Lando laughs.
Not a nervous laugh. Not an awkward one. A relieved one.
A breathless, head-tilted-back, holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-we-just-did-that laugh.
Lottie shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing too.
It doesn’t work.
He leans back, resting his weight on his hands, running his tongue over his bottom lip like he’s still tasting her.
“You’re smiling,” he points out, smug.
“So are you,” she retorts.
Lando shrugs. “Well, yeah. You are a pretty great kisser.”
Lottie rolls her eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet—” He gestures vaguely between them. “You kissed me back.”
She huffs, shaking her head, but her face is warm, and she knows she’s not fooling anyone.
Lando watches her in silence for a moment, as if he’s still processing everything. Then, he tilts his head slightly.
“So what now?”
Lottie blinks.
The question should make her panic. It should make her overthink, replay every clause of their contract, think about the press, the consequences.
But it doesn’t. Because this—him—feels easy.
And when has anything in her life ever been easy?
Lottie exhales, tilting her head. “Well, I was planning on going riding before dinner.”
Lando lets out a scoff. “That’s not what I meant.”
She smirks. “I know.”
A beat of silence.
Then, Lottie drops her gaze to her lap, tracing the seam of her leggings with her fingers. When she speaks, her voice is softer but just as firm.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I know I don’t want to keep pretending.”
Lando watches her, and something in his expression shifts.
He nods, slowly, thoughtfully.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
That’s it.
No dramatic speeches. No complicated plans.
Just—okay.
And somehow, it’s exactly what she needs.
Lottie exhales, a small, satisfied sigh, and pushes herself up, stretching her arms over her head. Lando’s eyes follow the movement, dropping instinctively when her shirt lifts just slightly. And Lottie knows he’s thinking about the kiss again.
She grins, playful. “You coming?”
Lando blinks. “What?”
“To ride.”
“Oh.” Lando clears his throat, straightening. “For a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
Lottie raises an eyebrow. “Thought what?”
Lando presses his lips together, crossing his arms. “Thought you meant something else,” he finally admits, his tone casual, but his eyes—his eyes are something else.
Lottie blinks once.
Twice.
And then she laughs.
A real, genuine, completely entertained laugh. Lando watches her with mock indignation, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze.
“Come on, city boy,” Lottie says, patting his shoulder before heading for the door. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”
Lando groans, but he follows anyway, muttering something about how much he’s going to regret this.
But when she smiles over her shoulder at him and he feels the warmth still lingering in his chest—
He knows he won’t.
At first, nothing changes. Not really.
Lando still races every weekend, still chases milliseconds and podiums, still stands under bright lights answering the same questions over and over again. Lottie still spends long days in the saddle, pushing herself harder, training for the biggest moment of her career. They still show up where they’re supposed to, still play their roles, still exist under the constant hum of cameras flashing, fans speculating.
But something shifts. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.
Maybe it’s the way Lottie reaches for his hand without thinking, fingers slipping between his like it’s second nature. Maybe it’s the way Lando starts looking for her in the crowd, his eyes finding her before they find the checkered flag. Maybe it’s the way the obligations don’t feel like obligations anymore, the way their time together no longer feels like something arranged but something inevitable.
One night, after a race—after a victory—Lottie is driving them back to their hotel. Lando is slumped in the passenger seat, his body loose with exhaustion and alcohol, the adrenaline of the night finally fading. He’s still wearing his team polo, though it’s wrinkled now, untucked, the top buttons undone. There’s a stupid little grin on his face, one that hasn’t left since the champagne was sprayed.
Lottie glances at him briefly. “You good over there?”
Lando hums, his head lolling against the seat as he turns to look at her. His pupils are a little blown, his cheeks flushed. “Mhm,” he says. Then, after a beat, his voice a little quieter, a little sleepier: “I think I like you.”
Lottie’s hands tighten slightly around the wheel. She flicks her eyes toward him again, taking in the way he’s watching her—not searching for a reaction, not trying to gauge her expression. Just saying it, like it’s a passing thought that slipped past the filter in his brain.
She exhales a quiet laugh. “You sure it’s not the tequila talking?”
Lando’s grin widens, lazy and content. “Maybe. Maybe not.” His head tilts slightly. “But I do think I like you.”
Lottie rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now. “That’s nice, Lando.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road. “I think I like you too.”
Lando hums again, as if he’s just won another race, and lets his eyes slip shut.
Maybe it’s not about a single moment, not about some grand realization or dramatic confession. Maybe it’s about all the little things, the ones no one else sees.
Like the way Lando always waits for her after an event, even when he doesn’t have to, even when it would be easier to slip away unnoticed. Or the way Lottie starts spending more and more weekends at his races, standing in the back of the garage, her presence as steady as the roar of the engines.
Like the morning after a race when Lottie wakes up to find Lando cooking breakfast in her kitchen, hair still a mess from hours of travel, moving around like he’s been doing it forever.
“You’re in my kitchen,” she says, still half-asleep, leaning against the doorway.
Lando smirks, flipping a pancake. “And?”
“And I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s because I have a key,” he says simply, glancing at her over his shoulder. “You gave it to me, remember?”
She blinks, a memory flickering in the back of her mind—of tossing her spare key at him in a rush one day when she was late for an event, barely thinking about it. She hadn’t even realized he’d kept it.
Lando plates a pancake and sets it in front of her. “If you want it back, you’ll have to fight me for it.”
Lottie looks at him, at the way he’s standing there like he belongs, and she smiles.
“I think you can keep it.”
By the time the Olympics arrive, the lines between real and pretend are long gone. They don’t talk about it—not directly—but it’s there, in every shared look and every quiet moment. In the way Lando texts her good luck before every qualifier. In the way Lottie wears his hoodie on cold mornings at the stables.
What they have is no longer just a story for the media. It’s theirs.
Still, she doesn’t expect him to be there. Not really.
But when she rides into the arena for her final round, when she hears the crowd roar and the unmistakable, ridiculous sound of a vuvuzela echoing through the stadium, she looks up—and there he is.
Lando, standing at the front of the crowd, wearing a Union Jack bucket hat and sunglasses far too large for his face. He is surrounded by his childhood friends and a couple of other drivers she recognizes even from this distance. Russell is wearing a stupid shirt with Great Britain’s colours and her face all over it. She doesn’t want to ask who convinced Verstappen and Piastri—none of them british—to paint his face with the Union Jack. Still, they are all chanting for her.
There’s a banner the size of a small country with her face on it—two, actually. One reads "GO LOTTIE GO" in massive glitter letters. The other has a blown-up photo of her from her most awkward teenage competition, helmet askew, braces on full display. Classic Lando.
And just behind them, regal as ever, are her parents—elegant, composed, but unmistakably proud. Her mother has tears in her eyes. Her father’s clapping like a man possessed.
Lottie doesn’t have time to react. Because the bell rings, and the round begins. She breathes, just once, and lets instinct take over.
But for Lando, everything slows down.
The moment she takes the first jump, the world tilts. It’s like watching a memory unfold in real time—except it’s happening right now, and it’s everything.
He sees her laughing in the hotel corridor, towel around her neck, cheeks flushed from a workout. He sees her pressed against him in the rain after a paparazzi ambush, their hands linked tight. He remembers the smell of her shampoo, the scratch of her voice when she’s tired, the way she whispers his name like it’s a secret only they share.
He thinks about mornings in her kitchen, the stupid key he never gave back, the hoodie she stole and never returned. He thinks about how she cheers louder than anyone when he races, how she knows exactly when to squeeze his hand before a big day, how she never pretends to be anything she’s not.
And in that moment, Lando realizes he’s completely, utterly gone for her.
He is so, so in love that it's ridiculous. It’s not even a feeling anymore—it’s just a fact, steady and true, like gravity.
And when she clears the final jump, when the scoreboard flashes GOLD FOR GREAT BRITAIN, it snaps him back to reality.
He’s already moving. Vaulting the barrier without a second thought, weaving through the chaos. He barely hears the cheers, the announcers, the pounding in his own chest.
Lottie reins her horse, Vermento, to a slow trot, trying to breathe, trying to believe what just happened.
And then she sees him.
Lando, running toward the arena. The horse sees him too—ears flicking forward, recognizing him in an instant. To everyone’s amazement, the horse trots toward him, calm and curious. Lando lifts a hand instinctively, and without hesitation, reaches for the reins as if he's done it a hundred times.
He steadies the horse, eyes never leaving Lottie. She’s still catching her breath, still wide-eyed with adrenaline and disbelief. He lifts one hand, silently offering to help her down.
She doesn’t speak—doesn’t need to. She takes his hand, and he helps her dismount, his other hand still gently on the reins.
It’s a stupid little gesture. A small, quiet thing. But it says everything.
“You absolute maniac,” she breathes, barely standing still, laughing as she lands on solid ground. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes are bright, full of something bigger than pride. “You really thought I’d miss this?”
“You didn’t even tell me,” she says, half-laughing, half-crying.
“Wanted to surprise you. And, you know,”—he gestures toward the ridiculous crowd of friends behind him—“make a scene.”
“You definitely did that.”
Lando grins, but then his expression softens.
He leans in, voice low and steady. "You know, I used to think winning was the best feeling in the world."
Lottie raises an eyebrow, breath still catching.
"But then you started showing up. And suddenly... the best part was who I got to share it with." He pauses, smile tugging at his lips. "Even if you do keep stealing my hoodies."
She looks at him, really looks at him—at the mess of curls under the stupid hat, the stupid sunglasses pushed onto his forehead, the softness in his eyes.
“I know,” she whispers.
“I mean it, Lottie. I’m in this. For real. I want—God, I want all of it. The chaos and the quiet and the early mornings in your kitchen and even the horses that kind of scare me.”
Her laugh breaks on a sob.
“I want you,” he says simply.
And this time, she doesn’t hesitate.
She kisses him, right there in front of everyone—in front of the cameras, the crowd, her parents, the entire world.
It’s messy and joyful and a little breathless. And it feels, finally, like the start of something real.
Their friends erupt into cheers. Someone sets off a confetti cannon. Lottie’s dad starts filming, and her mum is openly weeping.
But all she can feel is Lando’s arms around her, grounding her, anchoring her to this exact moment.
So... I know I just stopped writing my Bucky fic. And now I'll take a little break for my Lando story. I need time to write again, so I'll try to take that break to write more and be more productive. Things happened in my personal life that now I have a little more time, and I'll try to dedicate that time to write as well as studying...
So yeah, the story will be on hiatus until I know what to do.
Summary: he's a reserved F1 driver seeking peace. She's the lively heart of a bustling café. When their worlds collide, Oscar's carefully constructed routine is challenged by Elaine's infectious energy, leading to a connection that has the potential to change everything.
Word count: 14k (i am sorry i am so sorry but it is worth it)
Warnings: slow burn, teasing, banter, mild language
A/N: I've loved writing this. I've put a little bit of myself into Elaine—the sense of humor, the passion for history… I hope you enjoy it as much as I did! Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you so much for your support, it makes me so happy! Kisses <3
have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find
masterlist
Oscar had discovered the café by accident. Or rather, he had discovered it thanks to a friend who had insisted endlessly that he had to try it.
He hadn’t regretted it.
It was a hidden refuge nestled among steep alleyways, far from the bustling port and the constant rush of Monaco. A small café with a vintage aesthetic, renovated just enough to be cozy without losing its old-world charm. Exposed brick walls, shelves full of mismatched cups, polished wooden tables marked by time. And, most importantly, peace.
From the first time he had visited, he had known the place belonged to him. It had become an unbreakable routine: every time he returned from a race, he would take the stairs down from his apartment—the café was right below—and sit at the same table by the window. He ordered the same thing, read, reviewed data, or simply watched people pass by.
And then, there was the cat.
A large, speckled feline with the air of an undisputed king of the place. It would appear out of nowhere, climbing onto his lap or table uninvited. At first, Oscar had tried to ignore it. It hadn’t worked. The cat had adopted him without asking permission, and he, resigned, had eventually accepted it.
Everything had been perfect.
Until the calm had been shattered.
First, the door swung open abruptly, making the bell jingle with an overly enthusiastic chime. Then, the sound of hurried paws against the wooden floor.
The cat bolted from his lap.
Oscar blinked, surprised by the sudden abandonment, and then he heard her.
"Bon matin, mes amis! You missed me, didn’t you?"
Her voice filled the café—clear and energetic—as if it belonged as much to the place as the brick walls.
Oscar didn’t need to look up to know that everyone in the café knew her. He heard the sound of her scarf sliding off her neck, the tapping of her boots as she crossed the room without hesitation. She greeted the customers one by one, as naturally as if she had done it all her life.
"Marcel, are you still losing at dominoes, or did they finally let you win?"
"Today, I’m winning, chérie, I swear!"
"Liar." She laughed, giving him a pat on the shoulder before moving on. "André, that beret is new. Very stylish."
"My daughter gave it to me, but don’t think I’m going to buy you breakfast just for the compliment."
"So stingy."
Oscar heard more laughter. It was obvious that everyone knew her, that they welcomed her with familiarity, as if she were part of the café’s furniture.
The cat—the same one that ignored everyone except him—was now in her arms, purring like a satisfied engine.
"Finally! Someone greets me with enthusiasm!" she exclaimed, rubbing her nose against the cat’s head before gently setting it down.
By this point, Oscar had already returned his focus to his book. Or at least, he was trying to.
"I’ll have a hot chocolate," she said when she reached the counter, leaning over it shamelessly.
The barista—her brother, Oscar deduced from the patience in his expression—sighed.
"Aren’t you tired of so much sugar?"
"I never get tired of the good stuff."
He scoffed but started preparing the drink.
Oscar turned the page. Hopefully, the café would regain its usual silence.
Then, he felt it.
The imperceptible shift in the air when someone was staring at him.
Instinctively, he knew what was coming.
Footsteps approached.
"I haven’t seen you here before."
Oscar closed his eyes for a second, holding back a sigh.
"Hmm."
"That’s all you’re going to say?"
"I’m busy."
She let out a small laugh.
"Of course, you are."
And with that, she plopped down in the chair across from him.
Oscar shut his book with a snap.
She smiled.
"Now you’re looking at me."
She didn’t say it as a question but as a fact, as if she knew exactly what to do to pull someone out of their bubble.
Oscar looked at her for the first time, assessing. She was young, cheerful, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She recognized him, sure, but there was no typical astonishment, no urge to mention it.
"Do you always insert yourself where you’re not wanted?" he asked, hoping she’d take the hint.
"Are you always this grumpy?" she shot back, unfazed.
Oscar felt a headache forming.
Something told him his peace had just ended.
He blinked, analyzing her tone, her expression. There was no mockery in her gaze, only amusement, as if finding him there was an entertaining discovery, but not particularly extraordinary.
"I recognize you, obviously," she said with a shrug. "But don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for a photo or an autograph. I’m sure your ego doesn’t need more inflating."
Oscar narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out whether that was an insult or just an observation.
He had no response.
She, on the other hand, laughed, as if his silence was the best part of the conversation. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with an irritatingly carefree attitude, then glanced down at the book still in his hands.
"Are you seriously reading this?"
Oscar looked at the cover. It was a dense historical biography, written with an almost obsessive level of detail.
"What’s wrong with it?" he asked, his tone dry.
She tilted her head, as if evaluating him.
"Nothing, I guess. If you like books that feel like punishments."
Oscar snapped the book shut, again, a little harder than necessary.
She laughed again.
"You don’t have a comeback for that, do you?"
Oscar clenched his jaw.
He hated her. No, he hated her boldness, her persistence, the way she pulled him out of his bubble without permission.
And he hated even more that he didn’t know how to shut her down.
"Stop bothering the customers."
Her brother’s voice came from behind the counter, exasperated, like he had seen this scene too many times before.
She turned her head, pouting exaggeratedly.
"I’m not bothering him. We’re just having a conversation, right?"
Oscar stared at her, unblinking.
"No."
She let out a delighted laugh.
"See? He adores me."
Her brother sighed and nodded toward the counter.
"Your hot chocolate is ready. Leave him alone."
"Tss, such a killjoy," she muttered, standing up with obvious reluctance.
The cat, as if perfectly in sync with her, jumped off the table and trotted after her, sticking close to her heels. She scratched its head fondly, as if she didn’t even notice how naturally the feline followed her.
Just before walking away completely, she turned to look at Oscar one last time.
"By the way," she said, tilting her head slightly. "My name’s Elaine."
She didn’t wait for a response.
She simply smiled, spun on her heel, and left, leaving behind a trail of lighthearted energy that didn’t fit at all with the café’s usual tranquility.
Oscar watched her go for a moment, his book still closed on the table, the echo of her laughter ringing in his ears.
He exhaled slowly.
His peace was definitely over.
And yet, Oscar couldn’t stop coming to the café.
The drinks were too good, the atmosphere was perfect, and most of the time, he could focus without anyone bothering him.
Except on the days when he had the dubious pleasure of running into Elaine.
She appeared without warning, like a storm no one had predicted.
And somehow, she always found a way to get under his skin.
She appeared without warning, like a storm no one had predicted in the forecast.
Sometimes, she simply stopped by to chat with the regulars, exchanging jokes with the old men playing dominoes or greeting lost tourists as if they were old friends. Other times, she slipped behind the counter to help her brother, though it was obvious she did it more to annoy him than out of any real necessity. She also played with the cat, which followed her with unwavering devotion, or settled at the table closest to Oscar’s, surrounded by a mess of books and scattered notes.
He had no idea what she was studying, but if he had to guess, he would have said something chaotic. Something that matched her boundless energy and her ability to talk passionately about just about anything. It wasn’t until much later that he found out she was studying History.
And, of course, there were days when it seemed like her sole mission in life was to get on his nerves.
She sat at his table without asking, drummed her fingers against the surface just to see how long it would take for him to look at her, made offhanded comments about how serious he was or how he needed to learn to socialize.
Oscar tried to ignore her. He really did.
But Elaine wasn’t someone who could be ignored.
One day, she simply sat across from him uninvited and asked, “Do you have friends?”
Oscar blinked, his eyes still on his laptop screen. “What?”
“I mean, besides your teammates and the people you work with. Because you’re always alone.”
He huffed, trying to ignore her. “That’s none of your business.”
“So, that’s a no.”
Elaine grinned, satisfied with her own conclusion, and rested her chin on her hand, watching him.
“Have you realized you have the charisma of a rock?”
Oscar closed his eyes for a second, holding back the response he actually wanted to give her.
“I’m busy.”
“Yeah, yeah, reviewing data, looking at numbers… how thrilling.” She yawned dramatically. “It must be so much fun being you.”
By the time he finally looked up, she was already laughing, standing up to return to her brother.
Oscar let out a heavy sigh and turned back to his screen, but just when he thought the torment was over, he felt an extra weight on his jacket.
The cat.
The little traitor had sprawled out on it, curling up comfortably.
Great.
And then, another day.
Oscar was analyzing replays of his last race on his laptop when a shadow fell over the screen.
“Do you like watching yourself drive?”
He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
“It’s not about liking it. I’m analyzing my performance.”
“Oh, of course. A deep analysis of ‘oh, look how fast I am’ and ‘oh, look how well I take that turn.’”
This time, he did look up, fixing her with a flat stare.
“Do you really have nothing better to do?”
Elaine smiled, clearly entertained. “Annoying you is more fun.”
And as if summoned, the cat appeared out of nowhere and flopped onto his laptop keyboard. The screen instantly went black as one of its paws landed squarely on the power button.
Elaine propped her chin on her hand. “Even he thinks you need a break.”
Oscar exhaled slowly.
This was becoming a damn habit.
Different day, same problem.
Oscar had spent the afternoon working, completely absorbed in his own bubble of concentration. But when he finally closed his laptop and reached for his jacket, he found a now-familiar obstacle: the cat, sleeping soundly on top of it.
He tried nudging it gently. Nothing. The stubborn little thing didn’t even stir.
From behind the counter, Elaine watched him with her arms crossed.
“You’re not going to win.”
“It’s a cat.”
“A cat with a lot of character.”
Oscar sighed, resigned, and dropped back into his chair. Ten minutes later, the cat was still snoring on his jacket, and he no longer felt in any rush to leave.
When Elaine returned with a steaming mug, she set it in front of him without a word.
Oscar glanced at her sideways. “I didn’t order another coffee.”
Elaine simply shrugged. “It’s my compensation for the hostage situation. Sir Reginald Fluffington III tends to take captives…”
At the absurd name, Oscar frowned. “Why ‘the third’?”
With complete nonchalance, Elaine gestured toward the framed photos behind the counter. They were black-and-white portraits of other cats, each with a small plaque beneath them: Sir Reginald Fluffington I and Sir Reginald Fluffington II.
“Line of succession,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “When one leaves, the next takes the throne.”
Oscar blinked. “Is this a café or a feline monarchy?”
Elaine shrugged. “House rules.”
Meanwhile, Sir Reginald Fluffington III kept snoring atop his jacket, as if it were his throne.
One evening, Elaine did something completely unexpected.
She sat down at his table—nothing new there—but instead of launching straight into her usual teasing, she rested her chin on her hand and asked,
“So, tell me about the car.”
Oscar barely looked up. “What?”
“The car. The one you drive. How does it actually work?”
That caught him off guard. Normally, if she mentioned Formula 1 at all, it was to make some sarcastic remark about how it was “just guys driving in circles really fast.” But now she was looking at him, genuinely curious, like she actually wanted to know.
He hesitated, wary of a potential joke at his expense, but when she didn’t say anything else, he found himself answering before he could stop himself.
“Well, it’s an open-wheel, single-seater with a hybrid turbocharged engine,” he started, setting his coffee aside. “It runs on a combination of internal combustion and electrical energy, and we have an ERS system that recovers energy under braking and redeploys it for extra power.”
Elaine nodded as if she understood, but then tilted her head. “And that energy recovery thing—how does that actually help you while driving?”
Oscar blinked. Most people didn’t ask that. They just nodded and moved on. But she was still looking at him, genuinely waiting for an answer.
So he gave her one.
Somewhere along the way, he found himself leaning forward, gesturing as he explained how ERS deployment could make the difference in overtakes, how managing tire degradation was crucial, how the aerodynamics of the car could dictate whether a driver fought for pole or got stuck in the midfield.
Elaine listened. Really listened.
She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t crack a joke. Just asked question after question, and every time she did, Oscar answered without thinking, because it wasn’t often that someone outside his world wanted to understand, to actually hear him talk about the thing he had dedicated his life to.
At some point, he realized he had been talking for nearly twenty minutes straight.
He sat back abruptly, fingers tightening around his cup.
Elaine didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease him for going on and on like he expected her to.
Instead, she simply smiled, stirring her hot chocolate absentmindedly.
“You really love it, don’t you?” she mused.
Oscar hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”
Elaine exhaled through her nose, a soft laugh under her breath. “It’s nice, hearing you actually talk.”
He should have rolled his eyes. Should have given some dry remark about how she talks more than enough for both of them.
But instead, he just hummed, taking another sip of his coffee.
For once, Elaine let the silence linger. And, for once, Oscar didn’t mind.
Elaine didn’t change after that conversation.
She still sat at his table without asking. Still poked at his patience with teasing remarks. Still found a way to make herself present in his otherwise quiet café routine.
But something shifted in Oscar.
Before, he had dismissed her as just another overly social, overly energetic person who didn’t know how to leave people alone. But now… he noticed things.
Like how she greeted every regular in the café by name, asking about their families or their work as if she had known them for years (which, considering her family owned the place, she probably had). Or how she always made sure to slide an extra plate of biscuits toward the old men playing dominos in the corner, even though her brother claimed they ate too much and never actually ordered anything.
How her fingers were constantly moving—tapping, fidgeting, stirring her drink absentmindedly as if her body didn’t know how to stay still.
How she always, always smelled faintly of cinnamon and coffee beans.
And, somehow, how he started looking forward to the moments when she would wander over to his table, even if it was just to make some smart remark about his eternally serious expression.
One day, she leaned against his table, watching as he scrolled through data on his laptop. “Do you ever smile, or would that compromise your entire personality?”
Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. “Depends on the day.”
Elaine squinted at him suspiciously. “Was that a joke?”
He merely shrugged, clicking through his data sheets.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but she was grinning.
Another day, he caught himself staring—not at her, but at the way she tucked her hair behind her ear while reading, the way her brows furrowed slightly when she was deep in thought.
He shook his head, taking a long sip of his coffee, as if the bitterness could pull him back into reality.
But reality had started to change.
The café didn’t feel the same anymore. It was no longer just a place to escape the noise of the world. It had a heartbeat now, a pulse that thumped along to the rhythm of Elaine’s laughter, to the lazy stretch of Sir Reginald Fluffington III as he curled up in the sun, to the quiet conversations and clinking of porcelain.
And Oscar found himself sinking into it, letting it wrap around him like a warmth he hadn’t realized he needed.
Elaine was still a menace. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so bad after all.
Oscar entered the café at his usual time, the familiar chime of the doorbell ringing through the quiet space. He had his routine down to a science—order his coffee, sit at his table, ignore whatever nonsense Elaine threw at him, and get some actual work done.
Except today, he was the one throwing things off course.
He walked straight up to her table, where she was lazily flipping through a book, and without preamble, said, “Why history?”
Elaine blinked up at him, looking uncharacteristically confused. “What?”
“Why do you study history?”
Her lips parted slightly, as if her brain needed a second to reboot. Then, slowly, her expression shifted into something downright suspicious. She squinted at him, tapping her fingers against the table.
“Okay. Who are you, and what have you done with Oscar Piastri?”
Behind the counter, her brother snorted, shaking his head as he wiped down some cups.
Oscar exhaled sharply, already regretting this. “You asked me about Formula 1 the other day. I figured—” He gestured vaguely. “Returning the favor.”
Elaine leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You want me to believe that you—Mr. ‘I’d Rather Sit in Silence Than Engage with Human Beings’—are voluntarily making conversation?”
Oscar’s eye twitched.
“I’m rescinding the question.”
“No, no,” she said quickly, straightening up with a wide grin. “I’m just shocked. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Sir Reginald Fluffington III chose that moment to make his grand entrance, leaping onto Elaine’s chair and then promptly squeezing himself between them like a self-appointed mediator. Elaine, as always, started scratching behind his ears without thinking.
Oscar tried not to acknowledge the cat but failed when a furry head nudged insistently against his arm. With a sigh, he gave in, resting a hand on its back.
From the counter, Elaine’s brother watched the exchange with a smirk. He stacked the last cup, shaking his head.
Huh. So that’s how it starts.
Elaine tilted her head, studying Oscar like he was some sort of rare specimen that had just done something completely out of character. Which, to be fair, he had.
“Alright,” she said finally, tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the table. “I’ll bite.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You were going to answer anyway.”
“True,” she admitted, flashing him a grin. “But I like pretending I have a choice.”
She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on one hand while the other continued idly scratching Sir Reginald Fluffington III behind the ears. The cat stretched lazily, his purring a soft vibration against the wooden surface of the table.
“History is just one big, messy story,” she began, her voice lighter now, as if she hadn’t just been caught off guard by the question. “And I like stories. But more than that, I like knowing why things happen. Why people make the choices they do, why entire civilizations rise and fall, why the world is the way it is.”
Oscar watched as her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her coffee cup, the light catching on the silver ring she always wore on her thumb. Her expression shifted as she spoke, as if she were seeing the past play out in real time, as if the weight of a thousand untold stories lived just behind her eyes.
She shrugged. “It’s like a puzzle, but all the pieces are scattered across centuries, and half of them are missing, and some historian a hundred years ago probably put the wrong ones together and convinced everyone they were right.”
Oscar found himself listening more intently than he expected, more than he ever did when people rambled about things he didn’t particularly care about.
Elaine smirked, noticing. “You’re taking this very seriously.”
“You’re actually answering seriously,” he pointed out.
“Because it’s important,” she said simply. “People always act like history is just a bunch of dates and names, but it’s not. It’s people. People being brilliant, and terrible, and reckless. And the best part?” Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “We never learn. We keep making the same mistakes over and over again. It’s both hilarious and deeply depressing.”
Oscar huffed out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.
Elaine’s grin widened. “There it is. A real reaction.”
He rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it.
Sir Reginald, sensing the moment, shifted just enough to nudge Oscar’s arm again. Without thinking, he started absentmindedly running his fingers through the cat’s fur, feeling the softness beneath his fingertips. The café smelled like roasted coffee beans and vanilla, the warm scent wrapping around them like a quiet invitation to stay just a little longer.
At some point, Elaine’s brother must have come over because there were two fresh drinks sitting in front of them—his usual coffee and what looked like hot chocolate for Elaine. Oscar hadn’t even noticed when they arrived, too caught up in the conversation, too distracted by the way Elaine’s voice lilted with enthusiasm when she spoke about something she loved.
Elaine, oblivious or simply choosing to ignore her brother’s knowing expression from behind the counter, continued. “Anyway, history is fun. And frustrating. And completely ridiculous at times. But mostly, it’s fascinating.”
Oscar considered that. Considered her, for that matter.
She had a way of making everything sound interesting, even when she was being insufferable.
And somehow, without him realizing it, she was starting to feel less like a nuisance.
And more like a habit.
That day, the café felt… different.
Oscar couldn’t quite put his finger on it at first. He sat at his usual table, opened his laptop, and took a sip of his coffee. Everything was the same—same warm lighting, same familiar hum of conversation, same Sir Reginald Fluffington III eyeing his jacket like prime real estate for a nap.
And yet…
He realized it after about fifteen minutes of actual focus. No one had interrupted him. No one had made a single offhand comment about his posture or his facial expressions or his apparent lack of joy in life. No one had sat down uninvited, poked at his patience, or asked if he had friends.
Elaine wasn’t there.
Oscar exhaled, shaking off the thought. Good. That meant he could get work done without—
"You're frowning."
Oscar glanced up. Elaine’s brother stood behind the counter, drying a cup with a knowing smirk.
"I'm not frowning."
"You are. You look about two seconds away from being deeply annoyed by something," he said, setting the cup down. "Let me guess. The coffee’s not good today?"
Oscar rolled his eyes and took another sip. Perfect as always.
“She’s in class. Probably annoying one of her professors instead.”
Oscar nodded, taking another drink to mask the way his jaw tightened. He told himself it wasn’t disappointment—he was just surprised. That’s all.
Her brother, however, had clearly caught something in his expression, because he grinned.
“I’ve got to say it, mate,” he mused, leaning against the counter. “For someone who complains about her so much, you sure seem bothered when she’s not around.”
Oscar’s eye twitched. “I’m not—”
“Fastidious,” he interrupted, eyes alight with amusement. “That’s the word you’re looking for, right? Bothered. Irritated. Peeved. Just… missing one specific source of those emotions.”
Oscar scowled, but it had no effect. Elaine’s brother just chuckled, shaking his head.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” he said, turning away. “Other than Elaine’s presence, of course.”
Oscar refused to dignify that with a response. Instead, he set his jaw, returned to his laptop, and pretended he wasn’t glancing toward the door every now and then.
Not because he wanted her to walk in. Obviously.
Just… if she did, he’d have a few words for her about being a menace. That was all.
Oscar was busy.
Too busy to think about insignificant things.
Training, meetings, simulator sessions—his schedule had been packed, every moment accounted for. He barely had time to breathe, let alone sit in a café waiting for some loud, insufferable presence to barge into his day.
And yet, the past couple of weeks had felt… off.
He hadn’t been at the café much, too caught up in work to indulge in his usual routine. On the rare occasions he did stop by, it was always a quick in-and-out, barely enough time to finish a coffee before he had to rush off. He didn’t even have the time to be annoyed by Elaine.
Not that he’d noticed her absence.
Not at all.
So when he caught sight of her at the local market on a rare free afternoon, it was almost too much—too jarring, too unexpected.
She was standing at one of the stalls, inspecting a bundle of fresh herbs with the same level of scrutiny he reserved for race telemetry. Her brows were furrowed, lips pursed in thought, and she hadn’t noticed him yet.
Which meant Oscar could—should—walk away.
Instead, his feet remained stubbornly in place.
It wasn’t just seeing her that got to him. It was the fact that, somehow, he’d felt her first. The way the market’s usual noise—vendors calling out deals, the chatter of locals—had blurred into the background the second he spotted her. The way a part of his brain had instantly clicked into place, like something missing had been restored.
That realization alone was enough to irritate him.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a step closer.
Elaine still hadn’t noticed him, too focused on haggling with the vendor.
"Come on, Monsieur Bernard," she cajoled, resting an elbow on the stall. "I’m practically family. Don’t you have a special discount for charming regulars?"
The older man behind the stall gave her an unimpressed look. "You tried this same trick last time."
"Yes, but I was less charming then."
Oscar let out a sharp exhale—not a laugh, definitely not—and that’s when she turned, eyes widening slightly in surprise.
For a moment, she just stared, as if confirming he was real. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a familiar smirk.
"Well, well, well," she drawled, turning fully to face him. "If it isn’t Mr. ‘I Have No Time for Social Interaction’ himself. Fancy meeting you here."
Oscar crossed his arms. "Fancy that."
She tilted her head, assessing him. "You look…" A pause, and then, teasingly, "…unmoored. Have you been lost without my constant interruptions?"
"Not remotely," he deadpanned.
Elaine gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Lies. You missed me."
Oscar gave her a flat look. "I was busy."
She waved a dismissive hand. "So was I. Exams."
That caught his attention. "Oh."
She raised an eyebrow. "That’s it? Just ‘oh’?"
"Did you pass?"
Elaine scoffed. "Of course I passed. I’m a genius."
Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
A beat passed, and then—
"So," Elaine said, leaning in slightly. "Are you going to admit it?"
"Admit what?"
"That you missed me."
He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he plucked the bundle of herbs straight out of her hand, examining them with faux interest.
"Hmm. Unremarkable. Much like your presence."
Elaine gaped at him. "You—you absolute—"
Behind the stall, Monsieur Bernard sighed, muttering something about young people before handing Elaine another bundle.
Oscar smirked. Maybe he had missed this. Just a little.
Without thinking about it, they started walking together.
It wasn’t intentional—at least, Oscar was fairly certain it wasn’t. He had no reason to follow Elaine anywhere. And yet, when she moved toward the next stall, he found himself falling into step beside her.
She didn’t comment on it, just gave him a brief, knowing glance before turning her attention to the produce in front of her.
“Tomatoes,” she muttered to herself, picking up a ripe one and turning it over in her hand. “Do I need tomatoes?”
Oscar arched an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what you’re buying?”
Elaine shrugged. “I improvise.”
He exhaled sharply, grabbing a small bag and tossing a few into it with actual purpose. Elaine mimicked his actions—except she kept adding more and more until Oscar gave her a flat look.
“You’re not feeding an army.”
“You don’t know that,” she said airily. “Maybe I’m part of a secret underground resistance.”
Oscar bit back a smirk, shaking his head as he handed his own bag to the vendor. Elaine did the same, and once they had their purchases, they moved on.
To another stall.
And another.
At some point, Elaine started following him—when he paused at a bakery stand, her interest was suddenly piqued.
“Buying bread?” she asked, peering at the selection.
He gave her a sideways glance. “What does it look like?”
“Huh.” She grabbed a small loaf for herself, then eyed the pastries. “You’re not getting anything sweet?”
“No.”
Elaine hummed. “Boring.”
Still, she grabbed two pain au chocolat instead of one.
When Oscar gave her a questioning look, she just waggled her eyebrows. “You never know.”
He didn’t respond, but later—when she wordlessly handed him the second pastry while they were walking—he took it.
It kept happening. A few more stalls, a few more purchases. Some things they needed, some they didn’t. They talked more than they probably should have, walked longer than they intended.
It wasn’t until Elaine tried shifting her bags to one arm—struggling slightly—that she finally paused and frowned.
“Hold on.” She glanced down. “Why do I have so much stuff?”
Oscar blinked at his own bags, as if only now realizing how full they were.
They stared at each other for a beat.
Elaine narrowed her eyes. “Did you just trick me into running errands with you?”
Oscar scoffed. “You tricked me.”
She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Lies! This is sabotage!”
Oscar just shook his head, exhaling through his nose as he adjusted the bags in his hands.
And they parted ways—or at least, they tried to.
Elaine turned left. Oscar turned left.
Neither of them noticed at first, too occupied with adjusting their bags. But as they kept walking, side by side, it became… noticeable.
Elaine slowed her pace slightly, giving him a sidelong glance.
Oscar did the same.
They walked a few more meters in silence.
Then Elaine stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, brows furrowing in suspicion. “Are you following me?”
Oscar, who had also stopped, gave her a blank stare. “You’re the one going my way.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Or you’re going mine.”
Oscar sighed, adjusting the weight of his bags. “I live nearby.”
Elaine huffed. “I live nearby.”
They eyed each other for a moment, a realization beginning to dawn.
Then, with an unspoken agreement, they resumed walking.
Turned a corner.
Kept going.
Another turn.
When they both reached the café’s entrance, Elaine halted once again.
“Wait.” Her voice was laced with dawning horror. “You live here?”
Oscar blinked. “You live above the café?”
Elaine opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “You’re kidding.”
He exhaled sharply, barely suppressing a smirk at her distress. “Why would I joke about this?”
Elaine let out something between a groan and a laugh, running a hand down her face. “You mean to tell me… we’ve been neighbors this whole time?”
Oscar simply shrugged. “Apparently.”
Elaine groaned again, then gave him a long look—one that was probably meant to be annoyed, but somehow, she just looked amused.
Oscar didn’t know why, but he felt it too—something light, something ridiculous.
And before he could stop himself, before he even knew what he was doing—
He smirked.
Just a little.
Elaine’s eyes widened, like she had just seen a unicorn.
Then, with unrestrained glee, she pointed at him.
“A-ha!”
Oscar blinked. “What?”
“You almost smiled!”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
Elaine practically vibrated with excitement. “This is it. This is a breakthrough. I knew you had a sense of humor somewhere in there.”
Oscar huffed, stepping past her toward the stairs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ohhh, but I do.” Elaine grinned, falling into step behind him as they both climbed toward their apartments. “I’ll get a full smile out of you someday. Just you wait.”
Oscar rolled his eyes.
But somehow… somehow, the thought didn’t sound so bad.
Either way, as they stepped onto the landing, an odd silence settled between them.
Elaine adjusted her grip on the paper bag in her arms, rocking back slightly on her heels. Oscar wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. He should just say goodbye, unlock his door, and go about his evening. But he hesitated.
Which was weird.
Even weirder was the fact that Elaine was hesitating, too.
She glanced at his bag, then up at him, eyes squinting slightly in thought.
“Tell me you’re planning to have a healthy and balanced dinner, and not just some bread and cheese.”
Oscar frowned. “It’s efficient.”
Elaine let out a sharp laugh, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
“You’re hopeless.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And?”
She sighed, then tilted her head toward her door. “Look, I accidentally bought enough food for an entire army, and you clearly need a proper meal. So… you in?”
Oscar hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. That was the problem. He wanted to.
His routine was simple, predictable. There was comfort in that. And yet, here was Elaine, throwing a wrench into everything—like she always did. But instead of annoying him, it felt… different this time.
It felt warm.
Elaine watched him, waiting. A little too smug, as if she already knew his answer.
“Okay,” he said. “Sure.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, like she hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly. Then she grinned, turning to unlock her door.
“Hope you like chaos.”
Oscar stepped inside without thinking twice. And for the first time in a long time, breaking his routine didn’t seem like such a bad thing.
Elaine’s apartment was exactly what Oscar had expected—lived-in, cluttered in a way that felt intentional, full of books stacked in odd places and little trinkets on the shelves. There were post-it notes stuck to the fridge, reminders scrawled in messy handwriting, and an open notebook on the small dining table with half-finished notes scribbled in the margins.
It was the complete opposite of his own place, which was neat, sparsely decorated, and painfully impersonal.
She kicked the door shut behind them, dumping her groceries onto the counter before stretching her arms overhead. “Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.”
Oscar set his own bag beside hers and leaned against the counter, watching as she started unpacking.
“You actually cook?” he asked, skeptical.
Elaine shot him a look over her shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just don’t seem like the type.”
She gasped, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Excuse me, but I’ll have you know I make an excellent—” She paused, staring at the items in front of her. Then, slowly, she deflated. “Okay, I may have gone overboard.”
Oscar peered over at the spread of vegetables, cheese, pasta, some kind of fresh herbs, and an absurd amount of tomatoes.
“You had a plan when you bought all this, right?”
Elaine waved a hand dismissively. “Cooking isn’t about rigid planning. It’s about intuition, improvisation, going with the flow—”
Oscar picked up a tomato and raised an eyebrow. “So, no plan.”
She snatched the tomato from his hand and placed it back down, scowling. “Fine, Mr. Meal Prep, what would you have bought?”
He shrugged. “Something simple. Something that makes sense together.”
Elaine scoffed. “Boring.”
“You say that, but you still invited me to eat whatever mess you come up with.”
“Because I am a generous and forgiving person.”
Oscar let out a breath of amusement, shaking his head.
Despite her apparent lack of a plan, Elaine moved around the kitchen with ease, pulling out a cutting board, a pan, and a few spices. Oscar found himself watching, noting the way she hummed under her breath, how she scrunched her nose slightly when she was thinking, how she talked through each step even though she didn’t need to.
“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help?” she asked without looking up.
Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “Help?”
“Yes, you know, participate in the process?” She pointed a knife at him. “Or do you only operate a steering wheel?”
He rolled his eyes but stepped closer, taking the knife from her. “Alright. Just don’t blame me if this goes wrong.”
“Oh, I fully intend to.”
She grinned as he started slicing, and for a while, they just… cooked.
It was strangely easy. They fell into a rhythm—Elaine throwing in too much of something, Oscar fixing it with something else, her laughing every time he muttered something under his breath about efficiency and proper ratios.
At some point, Sir Reginald Fluffington III appeared, hopping onto a chair and watching them like a tiny, judgmental supervisor. She then explained that when the café was closed, she took the cat upstairs with her, everyday.
Elaine, while talking and without thinking, reached down to scratch behind his ears. And Oscar, without thinking, did the same.
Neither of them acknowledged it.
By the time the food was ready, the apartment smelled warm and rich, and Oscar had to begrudgingly admit—it actually looked good.
Elaine beamed, sliding into her chair as she set down their plates. “See? Cooking with intuition.”
Oscar sat across from her, eyeing the dish. “This could still be a disaster.”
She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then grinned. “Nope. It’s amazing.”
Hesitant, Oscar finally tried his own. And—damn it. It was.
He kept his expression neutral, but Elaine saw right through him.
“You like it.”
“It’s edible.”
“You love it.”
Oscar sighed. “I tolerate it.”
Elaine laughed, kicking him lightly under the table.
And as they ate, talked, and bickered over who had done most of the work, Oscar realized something.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about the races ahead, the pressure, the expectations.
For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t in a rush to leave.
As the meal stretched on, the conversation drifted, weaving in and out of topics with an ease that Oscar wasn’t used to. Elaine had a way of making silence feel optional, of filling the space with whatever thought popped into her head—sometimes ridiculous, sometimes insightful, always entertaining.
She talked about the weirdest things: a documentary she’d watched about medieval bread laws, an argument she’d overheard on the bus about the best way to peel an orange, the time she accidentally joined a book club just for the free snacks and ended up stuck in it for six months.
Oscar, against all odds, found himself enjoying it.
It was so different from the world he was used to—where everything was structured, precise, driven by logic and efficiency. Elaine, on the other hand, lived in tangents, in spontaneous decisions, in a constant state of curiosity.
And somehow, he wasn’t annoyed by it.
If anything, he was listening. Actually listening.
At some point, Sir Reginald Fluffington III jumped onto the table, eyeing their plates with a level of entitlement only a cat could muster.
Elaine absentmindedly scratched his chin. “Don’t even think about it, Reg.”
The cat meowed, offended by the accusation.
Elaine smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
Oscar watched as she continued to pet him without really looking, fingers moving automatically through his fur. It was such a small, unconscious thing, but something about it made his chest feel… warm.
He cleared his throat, shaking the thought away.
Elaine, oblivious, leaned back in her chair, stretching. “Alright, I’ll admit it. You were actually useful in the kitchen.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”
“You should feel honored.”
“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”
She grinned. “Good. Because next time, I’m making dessert, and I expect you to assist.”
Next time.
Oscar didn’t know why those words stood out to him, why they lodged themselves in his brain like something solid and undeniable.
It wasn’t a question, wasn’t a suggestion.
It was just a fact.
As if this—whatever this was—wasn’t a one-time thing.
As Elaine stretched lazily in her chair, she watched Oscar stand and, to her utter shock, start gathering the plates. She blinked, then narrowed her eyes.
“Wait. Are you actually—”
“Helping,” he said flatly, carrying the dishes to the sink.
She let out a slow, exaggerated gasp. “Oh my God. You’re one of them.”
Oscar frowned. “One of what?”
“A man written by a woman.”
He gave her a blank stare. “What?”
“You know, like in books or movies. The kind of guy who—” She gestured at him, as if that explained everything. “Quiet but secretly sweet. Competent but unassuming. Willing to do the dishes without being asked. It’s rare.”
Oscar let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he turned on the tap. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
But he was smiling. And then, suddenly—he was laughing.
Not just a scoff, not a quiet huff of amusement, but actual, genuine laughter.
Elaine had never seen that before.
She went completely still, watching him as he stood there in her tiny kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands in soapy water, head tilted slightly downward as he chuckled to himself.
And for the first time since she met him, she didn’t have anything to say.
Because, somehow, watching Oscar Piastri laugh—really laugh—was enough to leave her speechless.
It happened gradually, in a way neither of them fully acknowledged at first. One day, Elaine casually mentioned she was watching a documentary that Oscar "absolutely had to see," and before he knew it, he was sitting on her couch with a bowl of popcorn, being force-fed historical facts he never asked for.
“You’re not even watching,” Elaine accused, nudging his arm when she noticed his eyes drifting to his phone.
“I am,” Oscar protested, but she shot him a look.
“Fine. Pop quiz. What year did this take place?”
“…The past.”
Elaine gasped, scandalized, and smacked his shoulder. “Disrespectful.”
The next time, it was Oscar’s turn. “If I had to watch your documentaries, you have to watch this.”
Elaine frowned at his laptop screen as a highlight reel from the 2011 Formula 1 season played. “Let me guess,” she said flatly. “Someone overtakes someone else. And then someone else overtakes that someone. And then—oh, look—another overtake.”
Oscar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have the attention span of a squirrel.”
“And you have the hobbies of a dad.”
He turned to her, unimpressed. “It’s literally my job.”
Elaine hummed, clearly unbothered, as she stuffed a handful of chips into her mouth. “Then I’m just keeping you humble.”
Outside of their self-imposed cultural exchange nights, they started seeing each other more in ways that felt unplanned, unintentional—except that it kept happening. Oscar would be heading to the store for something quick, only to find Elaine standing in the same aisle, studying a jar of pasta sauce like it held the secrets of the universe.
“Oh, great,” he deadpanned. “You again.”
Elaine smirked. “Missed me, didn’t you?”
“Not in the slightest.”
And yet, somehow, they always ended up walking back home together.
Then there were the times he went out for a run along the coast, only to spot a familiar figure cruising past on a bike, feet lazily pedaling as she enjoyed the sea breeze. She never failed to call out to him, sometimes ringing a ridiculous little bike bell just to be annoying.
“Move it, slowpoke!”
Oscar, ever the competitive one, picked up his pace. “Race me, then!”
“Against a literal athlete?” she scoffed. “Pass.”
Yet, moments later, she’d kick off, trying to pass him, laughing breathlessly when he shot her an unimpressed look. She never won—he made sure of that—but that never seemed to bother her.
Sometimes, they just walked together. No reason, no plan. Just two people who somehow kept ending up in the same place, at the same time, as if the universe was nudging them closer. It wasn’t something either of them talked about, but they both felt it—the gradual shift from tolerating each other to seeking each other out.
And Oscar, despite himself, started to wonder when exactly that had happened.
When Oscar pushed open the door to the café that morning, he wasn’t alone.
Lando followed beside him, stretching his arms over his head as they stepped inside. “Mate, I’m telling you, I need real coffee,” he groaned. “Not that lukewarm excuse they serve at some places here.”
Oscar huffed a quiet laugh. “You literally live in Monaco.”
“Yeah, but you know Monaco.” Lando shot him a look. “I trust your judgment.”
That was how, without much thought, Oscar had ended up bringing Lando here—his café.
It wasn’t his café, obviously. It just… happened to be the place he always went to. The place that had somehow worked itself into his routine. The place where—
Elaine.
She was behind the counter, laughing at something her brother was saying as she wiped down the espresso machine. She hadn’t seen them yet, but when she did, Oscar caught the flicker of surprise in her expression. It was brief—quickly replaced by her usual smirk—but he still noticed it.
And for some reason, that did something weird to his chest.
“Well, well,” she drawled, placing her hands on her hips. “Didn’t know you were the ‘bring a date to your favorite spot’ type, Piastri.”
Oscar sighed. “Don’t start.”
Lando, clearly intrigued, leaned on the counter with an easy grin. “Oh, I like you.”
Elaine grinned back. “Flatterer.”
Oscar shot him a look. “Lando.”
“What?” Lando glanced between them, clearly enjoying himself. “You’ve been hiding this place—and her—from me. I feel betrayed.”
Oscar groaned. “I am never bringing you anywhere again.”
Elaine just chuckled, tapping her fingers against the counter as she looked at Oscar. “Usual for you?”
He nodded, and she got to work, moving with the practiced ease of someone who knew her way around a coffee machine.
Lando watched for a moment before nudging Oscar. “So,” he said under his breath. “Who is she?”
Oscar frowned. “Elaine.”
“Yes, I got that,” Lando muttered. “But, like. Who is she?”
Oscar took a slow breath. “She works here.”
Lando raised a brow. “And you two just happen to know each other well enough that she openly mocks you the second we walk in?”
Oscar didn’t answer.
Lando’s grin widened. “You like her.”
“I don’t.”
“Mmhmm.”
Before Oscar could tell him to shut up, Sir Reginald Fluffington III leaped onto the counter, settling himself between them like a self-appointed judge of character.
Lando’s eyes lit up. “Oh, hell yeah, a cat!”
He reached out to pet him, only for Sir Reginald to give him a slow, unimpressed blink before immediately turning toward Oscar instead, rubbing his face against his arm.
Lando’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t even do anything.”
Elaine grinned. “Congratulations, you’ve been deemed unworthy.”
Oscar, meanwhile, absently scratched behind the cat’s ears, looking far too smug for Lando’s liking.
Lando squinted at him. “Alright, you know what? Maybe you do belong here.”
Elaine slid their drinks onto the counter. “Alright, boys, let’s see if this place lives up to your ridiculous standards.”
Lando took a sip, then paused, eyes widening slightly. “Damn. Okay, I see why you come here.”
Elaine leaned on the counter, looking pleased. “Told you I take it seriously.”
Lando shot a pointed look at Oscar. “You didn’t tell me she was a coffee genius.”
Oscar took his own cup, murmuring a quiet, “It’s why I come here.”
Elaine blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She recovered quickly, but Oscar saw it—that tiny pause, the brief flicker of something softer in her expression before she smirked again.
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “Guess that means I’ll be seeing more of you, Norris.”
Lando grinned. “If it means more coffee like this? Absolutely.”
Oscar just shook his head, already regretting the chaos he had unleashed. But beneath all of that, there was something else—a barely-there flicker of something unnamed, something strange, something he wasn’t quite ready to think about.
Because Lando had flirted with Elaine just to get a reaction. And Oscar had reacted.
And, somehow, what started with just Lando, turned into all of them.
At first, it was just the occasional visit—Lando tagging along whenever he felt like it, grinning at Elaine over the counter like he was in on some great secret. But then Max showed up one day, apparently intrigued after Lando wouldn’t shut up about the place. And when Max came, Charles wasn’t far behind. And then George, who they bumped into on the way and who figured, why not?
Before Oscar really processed how it happened, the café had become a regular spot for them.
Elaine handled it well, effortlessly juggling orders while throwing in her usual snark, though there was a glint of amusement in her eyes whenever she met Oscar’s gaze—like she knew exactly what had happened, exactly how this little invasion had come to be.
He ignored it.
Some days, it was just him and Lando. Others, it was half the grid, sprawled across tables, talking about races, cars, travel schedules—just a mess of conversations overlapping.
Elaine saw Oscar from a distance sometimes, laughing at something Max had said, or gesturing animatedly as he explained some technical nuance to Charles. It was… different, seeing him like that. More open, more relaxed.
It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t just Oscar, the guy who put up with her nonsense. He was Oscar Piastri, Formula 1 driver, future world champion if the world made any sense.
And yet, when he got up to grab another round of drinks, weaving his way to the counter, none of that seemed to matter.
Elaine smirked as he approached. “Back for more?”
“Apparently,” Oscar sighed, leaning on the counter.
“Is this your way of keeping me too busy to bother you?”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Across the room, Lando nudged Charles. “Look at that.”
Charles followed his gaze, watching as Oscar—Oscar, who barely tolerated human interaction—stood at the counter, casually talking to Elaine, something close to amusement flickering in his expression.
“Mon dieu,” Charles murmured. “He has a favorite barista.”
Lando grinned. “And he doesn’t even deny it.”
Max snorted. “Poor guy doesn’t even realize.”
Back at the counter, Oscar rolled his eyes as Elaine flicked a sugar packet at him. “For energy,” she said, looking innocent.
Oscar shook his head, taking the drinks without further comment. But as he turned back toward the table, he caught the way his friends were looking at him.
And for some reason, it made something twist in his chest.
And the it started as a joke. At least, Elaine thought it was a joke.
They had all been lounging at the café, their usual spot now, when Lando—because of course it was Lando—offhandedly mentioned something about bringing Elaine to a Grand Prix.
“You should come to Zandvoort,” he said, stirring his coffee.
Elaine, standing nearby, scoffed. “Oh, sure. Let me just hop on a plane with the entire Formula 1 circus. That sounds completely normal.”
Charles, ever the agent of chaos, grinned. “Why not? Oscar can take you.”
Oscar, who had been mid-sip, nearly choked. He shot Charles a look, but before he could protest, Max—who had been scrolling through his phone, unbothered—added, “Yeah, good race to start with. Orange everywhere. Chaos. You’d like it.”
Elaine rolled her eyes. “You guys just want to see me suffer, don’t you?”
Lando smirked. “A little.”
She snorted. “Very funny.”
The conversation moved on.
But apparently, Oscar hadn’t.
Because the next day, when Elaine opened her apartment door, she found him standing there, a familiar expression of mild exasperation on his face, a small envelope in his hand.
Elaine wasn’t a morning person.
It took her brain a few extra seconds to register things before she could properly function—something Oscar had learned through unfortunate trial and error at the café.
So, when she opened her door that morning, her hair still a mess from sleep, wearing a hoodie that looked two sizes too big for her, she needed a solid moment to process what was happening.
Oscar. Standing there. On her doorstep. Holding an envelope. Looking as impassive as ever, but with a certain stiffness in his posture that meant he wasn’t here for something casual.
She blinked, still groggy. “Uh. Morning?”
“Morning,” he said, then immediately shoved the envelope into her hands like he wanted to be done with it.
Elaine squinted down at it. The paper was thick, expensive, like the kind you got for serious events. The kind of envelope that felt important. And Oscar was just standing there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching her expectantly.
She glanced up at him. “You’re not serving me legal papers, are you?”
Oscar sighed. “Just open it.”
So she did.
At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. Plane tickets. A familiar three-letter airport code. And—
Her eyes landed on the brightly colored paddock passes, printed with the words Formula 1 Heineken Dutch Grand Prix 2025.
Elaine blinked. Then blinked again.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze back to Oscar, still not fully awake, still not fully grasping what was happening. “Did you—” Her mouth opened, then closed. She shook the envelope a little, as if that would change its contents. “Oscar. What the hell is this?”
“Tickets,” he said, like it was obvious.
“For Zandvoort.”
“Yep.”
She held them up, waving them slightly. “You actually did it?”
“You thought I wouldn’t?”
“Yes!” she said, exasperated. “You barely put effort into text messages. And yet you—” She stopped mid-sentence, rifling through the envelope, and then something else caught her eye.
Separate from the paddock passes were additional tickets. Printed reservations. Museum entries.
Elaine pulled them out, scanning the names. The Rijksmuseum. The Van Gogh Museum. Anne Frank House.
She looked back at Oscar, expression stunned.
He exhaled, shifting his weight slightly. “If you’re making me sit through an entire weekend of you mocking my job, I figured I should get something out of it.”
Elaine just… stared at him.
Then, slowly, a grin spread across her face.
“Did you just bribe me with museums?”
Oscar’s lips twitched, but he fought the smile. “Is it working?”
Elaine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied him—really studied him. The way he was standing there, a little too stiff, like he wasn’t sure if she was going to say yes. The way he had clearly thought about this, planned it out, even included things she would enjoy.
Her chest felt strangely warm.
“You know,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in, “I was going to take it easy on you in Zandvoort.”
Oscar stepped inside, glancing at her skeptically. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
Elaine’s grin turned mischievous as she shut the door behind him. “Oh, I definitely won’t now. You’re doomed, Piastri.”
Oscar had never walked so much in his life.
He was used to long training sessions, hours in the gym, and races that pushed his endurance to the limit—but this? This was a different kind of exhaustion. The kind that came from spending an entire day trailing after Elaine as she took him through what she called "a proper introduction to Amsterdam."
It had started with the museums. First the Rijksmuseum, where she dragged him from painting to painting, rattling off facts with a kind of enthusiasm that almost made him interested. Almost.
“I get that these are masterpieces,” he admitted at one point, hands shoved into his pockets as he stared at The Night Watch, “but you’d think someone would’ve told them to use better lighting.”
Elaine gasped. “Blasphemy.”
“I’m just saying. Look at it.” He gestured vaguely. “It’s so dark. Maybe that’s why everyone’s standing around—it’s taking them a while to figure out what they’re looking at.”
She groaned, rubbing her temples. “I am this close to abandoning you in this museum.”
But she didn’t. Instead, she spent another three hours leading him through hallways lined with art, maps, and relics. She talked. He listened. And, to his own quiet surprise, he actually retained some of it.
Then came the canal walk.
Elaine insisted it was the only way to properly take in the city. Oscar wasn’t convinced, but he followed her anyway, hands in his pockets as she strolled beside him, pointing out historical buildings, telling him stories about Amsterdam’s past.
For a while, he just listened.
And then, after a particularly dramatic tale about the city’s trading history, he smirked.
“You know,” he mused, “I think I finally understand why you like history so much.”
Elaine raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You like drama.”
She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “How dare you.”
Oscar chuckled, the sound low and warm, and bumped his shoulder against hers. “You do. All these betrayals, wars, political schemes—you eat it up.”
Elaine pouted. “I was going to say something profound about how history connects us to the past and helps us understand the present, but sure. Let’s go with ‘Elaine likes drama.’”
“Hey, I get it,” he said with a smirk. “It’s like racing. Strategy, risks, the occasional backstabbing—same thing, different century.”
She shot him a look. “Remind me never to let you explain history to children.”
Oscar grinned.
They continued walking, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows along the canals. The air smelled of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, mingling with the crispness of the water. A couple of cyclists zipped past, bells ringing, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician played something soft and familiar.
Elaine sighed, tucking her hands into her coat pockets. “Alright, I dragged you through museums all day. What do you want to do now?”
Oscar considered. Then—“Dinner.”
Elaine blinked. “That’s it? No ‘let’s find the nearest simulator’ or ‘let’s analyze tire degradation charts over drinks’?”
He rolled his eyes. “I do normal things too, you know.”
“Debatable,” she muttered.
He nudged her with his elbow. “Come on, historian. You picked everything today. I get to pick dinner.”
She gave him a mock-serious look. “Fine. But if you choose some sad hotel restaurant, I’m revoking your privileges.”
Oscar smirked. “Relax. I know a place.”
And so they walked. Through the streets of Amsterdam, through the easy conversation and quiet moments in between, through the slow, unspoken shift in the space between them.
Neither of them mentioned it.
Neither of them needed to.
Dinner had been good. Simple, but good.
Oscar had picked a restaurant close to the hotel, one that wasn’t too fancy but had just enough of a warm, cozy atmosphere that Elaine immediately launched into a monologue about how Dutch cafés were vastly superior to anywhere else in Europe.
Oscar had listened, half-distracted by his food, half-focused on her usual theatrics.
She talked about the charm of old Dutch architecture, the history behind certain dishes, and—somehow—ended up explaining how the country’s trade routes influenced the spread of different spices across Europe.
Oscar had tuned out a little by that point, but it wasn’t like he minded.
She liked to talk. He liked to listen.
It worked.
By the time they made it back to the hotel, Elaine was still going, her words slowing down only slightly as the day caught up with her.
“Did you know,” she began as they stepped out of the elevator, “that the Dutch—”
“Elaine,” Oscar said, dryly. “That’s the tenth time you’ve started a sentence like that today.”
She ignored him, pushing ahead as if he hadn’t spoken. “—had such a monopoly on certain trades that entire economies were built around their influence?”
Oscar hummed noncommittally as he swiped his keycard, opening his door.
It was supposed to be the end of the conversation. They both had separate rooms—he had made sure of that. The plan was simple: go to sleep, wake up, and start fresh the next day.
Instead, Elaine just… walked in after him.
He blinked. “What—?”
“Anyway,” she continued, dropping onto his bed like it was hers, “what was I saying?”
Oscar sighed, rubbing his temples. “Dutch monopoly. Trade. Some economic thing.”
Elaine snapped her fingers. “Right! So—”
And that was how he found himself standing in his own hotel room, watching her lie back against the pillows, one arm flung behind her head, completely at home in his space.
He considered kicking her out.
Then he considered how much energy that would take.
Then he considered that nothing short of physically dragging her out would probably work.
So, with a resigned sigh, he grabbed his toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom.
By the time he came back, freshly showered and in his usual sleepwear, Elaine had somehow fully settled in.
Not only was she still sprawled across his bed, but she had also stolen his hoodie at some point, pulling it on over her t-shirt like she belonged in it.
She was still talking—something about Dutch colonialism now—but her words were starting to slur slightly, her eyelids drooping as sleep crept in.
Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. “Elaine, you have your own room.”
“Mmhm,” she hummed, eyes half-closed.
“You should go.”
Silence.
Then: the softest sound of her breathing, slow and even.
Oscar let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair.
Right.
Well.
That settled that, then.
Shaking his head, he grabbed an extra blanket from the closet, draped it over her, and shut off the main light.
Then, instead of trying to wrestle for space, he took the armchair by the window, grabbed his phone, and settled in for the night.
It wasn’t the most comfortable setup. But somehow, he didn’t really mind.
That is, until Oscar woke up to the sound of someone shifting around. A second later, a hand lightly smacked his leg.
“What the hell are you doing?” Elaine’s voice was groggy, thick with sleep but still laced with amusement.
Oscar blinked, trying to reorient himself. The dim glow of the city lights seeped in through the curtains, casting the hotel room in soft shadows. His neck ached. His back felt horrible. His arm—folded awkwardly beneath him—was completely numb.
Right. The armchair.
Elaine smacked his leg again, gentler this time. “You look like a pretzel.”
Oscar let out a low grunt. “You’re in my bed.”
“And?” She propped herself up on one elbow, squinting at him through the darkness. “I would literally rather be arrested than sleep in one of those horrible hotel pull-out couches.”
“It’s not a pull-out couch.”
“Whatever, it looks uncomfortable.”
Oscar exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. He was too tired to argue.
Elaine, apparently, was not.
“I’m not gonna call the cops if you get in bed, you know,” she added, her voice teasing. “I could, just to be dramatic, but I won’t.”
Oscar dragged a hand down his face. “Generous.”
“I am,” she agreed. Then, after a moment, her voice softened—less playful, more… genuine. “Seriously, though. Stop being weird. Just get in.”
Oscar hesitated.
Then, because the dull ache in his spine was getting unbearable, he finally gave in.
Wordlessly, he pushed himself up from the chair, stretched his arms over his head, and shuffled toward the bed.
Elaine scooted over without needing to be asked, making space for him. The bed wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that they didn’t have to be in each other’s space.
Still, as he settled under the covers, he felt the warmth of her presence beside him, her steady breathing filling the silence.
Elaine let out a satisfied hum. “See? Way better than suffering in that stupid chair.”
Oscar didn’t answer, already too close to sleep to form a proper response.
Elaine chuckled under her breath. “Goodnight, roomie.”
Oscar barely had the energy to sigh. “Go to sleep, Elaine.”
For a moment, Oscar thought he would be able to sleep.
The bed was undeniably more comfortable than the chair, and exhaustion pulled at him in waves. But the problem—the real problem—was that he was suddenly too aware of Elaine.
He could feel the warmth of her body beside him, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing. Every time she shifted, the blankets moved, the mattress dipped, and his entire body went rigid with hyper-awareness.
It was ridiculous. She wasn’t even touching him. There was a good few inches of space between them, and yet, Oscar still felt like she was everywhere.
He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.
Maybe if he just stayed perfectly still—
Elaine shifted again, turning onto her side to face him. He could feel her gaze on him before she even spoke.
“Oscar,” she murmured.
He closed his eyes, feigning sleep.
“I know you’re awake.”
Damn it.
Oscar sighed, cracking one eye open. “What?”
“You’re so tense it’s making me nervous.”
“I’m fine.”
Elaine huffed. “You’re about as ‘fine’ as a cat stuck in a bathtub.”
Oscar pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to acknowledge how stiff his body felt, how tightly wound he was just from lying here.
Elaine, ever perceptive, saw straight through him.
“Okay,” she murmured, shifting again. “Hang on.”
He barely had time to process her movements before she reached out, resting a hand lightly on his arm.
Oscar froze.
Her touch was gentle, barely there, the pads of her fingers tracing slow, soothing lines against his skin.
“Relax,” she mumbled, voice already thick with sleep. “It’s just me.”
That’s the problem, Oscar wanted to say.
His pulse jumped, his entire body locking up. His instinct was to pull away, to escape the unfamiliarity of it—but before he could, Elaine’s touch changed.
She wasn’t teasing him this time.
Her fingertips glided over his forearm in slow, repetitive motions, tracing thoughtless patterns, featherlight and warm. The kind of touch that required no thought, no effort.
Oscar swallowed.
It was nice.
That was the worst part.
Slowly, hesitantly, he let himself breathe.
His shoulders loosened, his body sinking slightly into the mattress.
Elaine didn’t say anything else. She just kept drawing soft, absentminded shapes against his skin, like it was second nature.
Eventually, her movements slowed.
Then, they stilled entirely.
Her breathing evened out, deep and steady, as she finally drifted off.
Oscar exhaled, staring up at the ceiling again.
He was still wide awake.
The next day felt… different.
Not outwardly, not in any way that would be obvious to an outsider. Oscar and Elaine still bickered, still teased, still moved through the city with their usual dynamic—him rolling his eyes at her dramatic historical retellings, her making increasingly absurd claims just to get a reaction out of him.
But something had shifted.
Maybe it was the way Elaine’s hand brushed his when she passed him a museum ticket—fingers grazing against his palm just a second too long.
Maybe it was the way she stood closer than usual, their arms occasionally bumping as they walked.
Maybe it was the way she leaned into him—actually leaned into him—when she pointed out some obscure detail in a centuries-old painting, her shoulder pressing into his, her voice low near his ear.
Or maybe—maybe—it was the way they both noticed all of it.
Because for the first time, Oscar wasn’t just aware of Elaine’s presence—he was hyperaware. Of every glance, every touch, every moment that felt like it should be nothing but wasn’t.
Like now.
They were sitting on the steps of a canal bridge, finishing off the last of their coffees. The city moved around them—bikes whizzing past, boats drifting lazily through the water—but all Oscar could focus on was the fact that Elaine had kicked off her shoes, stretching her legs out beside his.
And that, at some point, her knee had come to rest against his.
It wasn’t intentional. Probably.
She didn’t seem to notice, at least not at first.
But then, a few minutes later, she shifted slightly, adjusting the way she sat—and didn’t move away.
Oscar didn’t either.
He should have. It would’ve been easy—just a small shift to the side, just an inch of space.
But neither of them moved.
The warmth of her knee against his felt… casual. Natural. Like it belonged there.
And Oscar should not be thinking about it this much.
Elaine turned to him, eyes bright. “Okay,” she said, leaning back on her hands. “What’s next on the itinerary, tour guide?”
Oscar forced his brain to catch up, to focus on something other than the warmth of her skin against his.
He cleared his throat. “There’s still the Anne Frank House,” he said, glancing at her. “Unless you’d rather find a café and keep giving me unsolicited history lessons.”
Elaine grinned. “Bold of you to assume I need another coffee for that.”
He snorted, shaking his head, but when he stood, he instinctively reached down to offer her a hand.
And when she took it—her fingers slipping easily into his, her grip warm and steady—Oscar realized two things.
One: he liked the way her hand fit in his.
And two: he was completely, utterly screwed.
And when night came, Elaine was doing it again.
Following him to his room like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if she belonged there.
Except tonight, she wasn’t talking.
The television played quietly in the background, some Dutch news channel filling the room with a low hum of voices neither of them paid attention to. Oscar moved around, going through his usual nighttime routine—checking his phone, answering a quick call from a McLaren team member, confirming a schedule for media duties on Thursday.
Elaine sat cross-legged on the bed, absentmindedly flipping through a travel guide she’d picked up earlier. She wasn’t reading it, though. Not really.
Oscar didn’t say anything about it.
He grabbed some clothes from his suitcase, disappearing into the bathroom for a quick shower. When he emerged, towel drying his hair, Elaine was still there.
Still silent.
Still watching.
Something about the way her eyes followed him felt… different.
He ignored it, tossing the towel aside as he started organizing a few things in his suitcase. He folded a shirt, straightened out a pair of socks. He was fully aware of how unnecessary it was—he didn’t need to be tidying up right now—but keeping his hands busy felt safer than acknowledging the weight of Elaine’s gaze.
She was looking at him like she was seeing something new.
Something she hadn’t noticed before.
Something she liked.
And that was dangerous.
Oscar cleared his throat, not looking at her. “So,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Are you just going to stay here again until you fall asleep mid-sentence?”
Elaine smirked, but it was softer than usual. “Tempting,” she admitted, stretching her legs out. “But I think I’ll actually leave before I make myself too comfortable this time.”
Oscar snorted. “Unlikely.”
But then she stood, padding toward the door in her socks.
For a second, he almost thought she’d just leave.
But she paused.
Turned back.
And before he could react, she reached out, running her fingers through his damp hair—just a quick, slow drag of her hand, like she was testing the texture.
Her touch sent something electric down his spine.
“You should do your hair like this more often,” she murmured, like it was just a passing comment.
But it wasn’t just a comment.
Not when her fingers lingered for a second too long. Not when her voice had that particular softness to it.
Not when Oscar was suddenly, acutely aware of how close she was.
His throat felt dry. “Yeah?”
Elaine’s lips twitched, her hand dropping back to her side. “Yeah.”
And then, just like that, she turned and slipped out of the room, leaving Oscar standing there, heart beating a little too fast, hair still wet, and very much aware that something had just shifted between them.
Elaine had seen bits of it on TV before, the sleek garages, the bustling pit lane, the media swarming around like bees. But experiencing it in person? That was something else entirely.
She had no idea where to go, who to talk to, or what to do with herself. She barely even recognized anyone—except for the handful of drivers who had started frequenting the café. Everyone else? Just a blur of branded team uniforms and important-looking people rushing past like they had somewhere critical to be.
And so, naturally, she stuck to Oscar like a lost puppy.
At first, she tried to play it cool—walking beside him at a respectable distance, pretending to know exactly where she was going. But then they entered the McLaren hospitality suite, where engineers, media personnel, and team executives moved with swift efficiency, talking strategy, making notes, exchanging glances that said we have five million things to do before the weekend even starts.
Elaine hesitated. Paused mid-step. And before she knew it, she was trailing behind Oscar, practically stepping on his heels.
Oscar, of course, noticed immediately.
He glanced back at her, amused. “What are you doing?”
Elaine huffed. “I don’t know where to go.”
“You have a paddock pass.”
“Yes, but what does that mean?” she said dramatically. “Do I just… exist? Lurk in corners? Am I supposed to talk to people? Do I get free food?”
Oscar smirked, handing his bag off to a team member before crossing his arms. “I mean, I assume you can talk to people, but you don’t have to.*”
“I don’t know anyone.”
“You know Lando.”
Elaine rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because you brought him to my café, not because I have a subscription to the ‘Who’s Who in F1’ club.” She looked around, frowning. “Where is he, anyway?”
Oscar checked his watch. “Media duties.”
“Ah. And you’re not doing that because?”
“Because I actually have things to do.”
“Rude.”
He smirked again, already turning towards the garage. Elaine made the mistake of hesitating, and suddenly he was ahead of her, navigating the chaos with practiced ease while she scrambled to keep up.
For the next twenty minutes, she followed him like a shadow—through the garage, past engineers, down the paddock lane. It didn’t go unnoticed. More than once, someone glanced at her, curious.
She felt ridiculous.
“I look like a stray dog,” she muttered under her breath.
Oscar snorted.
Elaine groaned, rubbing her temples. “Seriously, what am I supposed to do?”
Oscar finally stopped walking, turned to her, and let out a laugh. A real laugh. “You look so uncomfortable.”
“Because I am uncomfortable!” she whispered harshly. “I’m a history nerd at a motorsport event, Oscar! This is like throwing a fish into the desert!”
Oscar tilted his head. “That’s dramatic.”
Elaine narrowed her eyes. “You invited me. Fix it.”
He hummed, pretending to think. Then, with an infuriatingly casual shrug, he said, “Figure it out,” and kept walking.
Elaine groaned, dragging a hand down her face before jogging after him. Maybe being a stray dog wasn’t that bad.
She was learning.
By the time Friday’s practice sessions rolled around, she had figured out a few things:
Free food? Absolutely a thing. (Oscar had neglected to mention this, the menace.)
No one actually cared what she was doing as long as she wasn’t in the way.
Every time Oscar put his helmet on and got into the car, something in her stomach twisted—just a little.
That last part was not ideal.
She had spent the first free practice watching from the McLaren garage, trying not to look completely out of place as engineers muttered things about tire degradation and setup tweaks. Oscar had barely spared her a glance, too focused on whatever pre-session routine he had, and once he was in the car, she had expected him to be gone, mentally checked out.
Except—he had looked for her.
Just once. A brief flick of his eyes in her direction before the visor came down and he drove off.
And Elaine? She had no idea why her heart stuttered at that.
She spent the rest of the session in the garage, wearing a headset she barely understood, and when Oscar’s voice crackled through the radio—calm, measured, completely in his element—she felt something. Pride? Fascination? She wasn’t sure.
She distracted herself by making unnecessary notes in a small pocket journal she had brought, sketching out the circuit layout and writing down completely useless historical facts about the Netherlands. (Zandvoort was originally a fishing village. In 1955, the track had to be modified to reduce wind sensitivity.)
Oscar later found her curled up in the corner of the hospitality suite, scribbling away like an academic lost in a war zone.
He squinted at her notebook. “Are you taking—actual notes?”
Elaine didn’t look up. “Your tires suck.”
Oscar raised a brow. “Not my fault.”
“Isn’t it, though?” she teased.
He sighed, stealing a bite of whatever snack she had in front of her.
And just like that, the weekend blurred forward—brief exchanges, subtle touches, and something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.
By the time Saturday passed by, Elaine realized just how fast Oscar was.
She hadn’t fully understood how much until she watched qualifying from the McLaren pit wall. Seeing the cars live, watching him weave through corners with pinpoint precision—it was different from seeing it on a screen.
And then came that moment.
When Oscar set a lap quick enough to push into Q3, the McLaren garage erupted. Cheers, high-fives, engineers nodding in approval. Elaine, caught up in the energy, grinned and turned—just as Oscar walked in, removing his helmet, shaking out his damp hair.
Their eyes met.
Elaine barely registered that she had started moving until she was right there, standing closer than she had any reason to be.
His breath was still heavy from exertion, his racing suit clinging to his frame. There was sweat at his temple, and for some stupid reason, her gaze flickered to his lips before snapping back up.
Oscar smirked.
She immediately took a step back.
“Good job,” she muttered, arms crossing.
“Thanks.” His voice was lower, rougher.
Something flickered between them—charged, weighty. Elaine hated it. (She didn’t hate it at all.)
Before she could dig herself into a deeper hole, Lando appeared, clapping Oscar on the back and breaking the spell.
Elaine exhaled. Crisis averted.
That night, a group naturally formed at the hotel bar. It wasn’t planned—just a product of circumstance, of familiar faces gravitating toward one another after a long day.
Lando was there, of course, along with a few other drivers—Verstappen, Russell, Leclerc. A couple of engineers. A few partners who had tagged along for the weekend. It was casual, low-key, everyone nursing drinks and unwinding.
Elaine had somehow ended up next to Oscar, which wasn’t surprising. It was instinct at this point.
What was surprising was how everyone else seemed to notice.
It wasn’t like they were doing anything out of the ordinary. They weren’t even touching. But their dynamic was so them—full of quiet familiarity, an ease that stood out amidst the rest of the group.
Oscar would grab his drink, and without thinking, Elaine would shift his phone closer so he wouldn’t knock it over.
Elaine would huff about something Lando said, and Oscar would shoot her a subtle, knowing smirk, like he already knew the exact way she’d react before she even did.
At one point, Elaine reached for something on the table—a stray napkin, a drink menu, something unimportant—and Oscar, mid-conversation, simply handed it to her without missing a beat.
The others noticed.
They didn’t say anything. But glances were exchanged, smirks barely hidden behind glasses.
Russell leaned back, watching with an amused tilt of his head. Max, swirling his drink lazily, flicked his gaze between them before raising a brow at Lando. Charles, seated across from Oscar, let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head to himself.
Then, as if to cement whatever silent conclusion they had all reached, Elaine accidentally knocked her phone off the table.
With a sigh, she slipped off her stool to grab it before it slid further away. As she ducked under the table, Oscar—without even looking—simply reached out and covered the sharp edge of the table with his hand, shielding it.
Elaine, entirely unaware, grabbed her phone and straightened, sliding back into her seat. She had no idea she had just avoided smacking her temple against the corner of the table.
But the others had definitely seen. Lando, Max, George, Charles. God, even the waiter passing by.
Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. George took a slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming with silent amusement. Max pressed his lips together, barely suppressing a knowing smirk. Charles let out a quiet chuckle, exchanging a look with Lando.
And no one said anything.
No teasing remark, no pointed comment. They didn’t need to.
Oscar, still half-listening to a conversation on his other side, finally turned his head, sensing the shift in the air.
His gaze swept over the group, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”
Silence.
George took another sip of his drink, looking far too entertained. Lando just pressed his lips together, like he was physically holding back a laugh. Max and Charles shared a look, one that said no need to state the obvious.
Elaine, oblivious to the silent exchange happening around her, just frowned. "God, you’re all weird," she muttered, settling back into her seat.
Oscar, still confused but unbothered, just shook his head and turned back to his drink.
And yet, despite everything, the glances, the smirks, the knowing, didn’t fade.
Still, no one said anything.
No need.
It was only a matter of time.
Everything was a blur.
The moment Oscar crossed the finish line, the world erupted around him. The radio crackled with overlapping voices—his engineer shouting, Zak laughing, Lando’s excitement cutting through the chaos. The garage exploded on the broadcast screens, a wave of orange jumping and cheering, arms flung around shoulders. Champagne had already been cracked open before he had even stepped out of the car.
P2. A podium.
He should have been overwhelmed—the sheer scale of the moment, the deafening roar of the crowd, the weight of it pressing against his chest. But beneath the rush of adrenaline, something steadier, something quieter, was pulling at him.
Elaine.
Somewhere in that sea of orange, gripping the team radio headset like her own personal lifeline. Somewhere on the pit wall, tracking his every move. Watching him.
And for some inexplicable reason, that meant more than anything else.
The podium ceremony passed in a haze of flashing cameras and sticky-sweet champagne. His fireproofs clung to his skin, his pulse still thrummed from the race. Standing there on the second step, trophy in hand, he should have been drinking in the moment. He should have been lost in it.
But all he could think about was getting down. Getting to her.
The second he was free from the cameras, his feet carried him forward before his mind had even fully caught up. Through the paddock, past the endless congratulations, through the crowd of McLaren mechanics still celebrating.
And then—
There she was.
Standing just inside the garage, shifting on her feet, eyes flickering across the room like she was searching for something. Searching for him.
His legs carried him faster. The next thing he knew, his arms were around her, pulling her in, holding her tightly against him.
She let out a startled yelp, hands pressing against his chest. “Oh my god, you’re drenched.” Her voice was half-groan, half-laugh, warm against his shoulder. “Oscar, this is disgusting.”
He only held her tighter, grinning against her hair. “Don’t care.”
She made a dramatic noise of protest but didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled slightly in the damp fabric of his fireproofs, and slowly—almost reluctantly—she melted into him.
He could feel her breath, quick and light, against his collarbone. The warmth of her body pressed into his, grounding him in a way nothing else could. For a moment, he forgot about the crowd, the noise, the cameras. There was only her—her voice, her laugh, her heartbeat against his ribs.
Her hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers brushing against his skin, gentle and unhurried. “You were incredible,” she murmured, so quietly that he barely caught it over the noise.
His chest tightened.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, expression raw with something too big to name. The way she was looking at him—it made his pulse stutter, made everything else feel small.
Her gaze flickered downward, just for a second.
Then she leaned in, tilting her head, clearly aiming for his cheek—
Someone called his name. Without thinking, he turned.
Their lips brushed.
The world stilled.
Elaine barely had time to react.
Her breath hitched, eyes widening as the realization of what had just happened crashed over her. Their lips had touched. It had been brief, accidental, nothing more than a brush—but the warmth of it lingered, tingling, refusing to fade.
She pulled back an inch, blinking fast. “Oh—shit, I—”
She never got to finish.
Oscar’s hand moved before he could think, fingers sliding up to cup the back of her neck, his grip firm but careful, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he didn’t hold on. His thumb brushed against her skin, just below her ear, and Elaine’s breath hitched again—just for a second—before he closed the distance.
This time, it wasn’t an accident.
The moment their lips met again, the rest of the world melted away.
Elaine let out a soft, surprised noise against his mouth, but she didn’t hesitate. Her hands found his shoulders, then his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair as she pulled him closer—like he wasn’t already pressed against her, like there was still space left between them that needed to be closed.
Oscar responded in kind. His other arm tightened around her back, his grip firm, almost desperate, as if he could somehow hold onto the moment forever. She was warm against him, grounding in a way nothing else was, her lips soft and sure against his own. And when she sighed quietly into the kiss, something in his chest turned over, twisting in a way he didn’t quite understand.
Then—
The garage erupted.
The cheers hit all at once, loud and gleeful, laughter and whistles and the unmistakable sound of someone slapping the nearest hard surface in excitement.
Elaine barely had time to process it before—
“FUCKING FINALLY!” Lando’s voice, unmistakable, rang out over the noise, dripping with exasperated glee. Someone else whooped. Someone else actually clapped.
Elaine broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, face burning, eyes wide.
Oscar barely pulled away—just enough to look at her, to take in the stunned expression, the way her breath came uneven, the way her fingers were still tangled in his hair like she had no intention of letting go.
He huffed a laugh, breathless, forehead still so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of it.
Elaine swallowed. “So, uh… does this mean you like me?”
His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her just a little closer, even though there was no space left between them to begin with.
“Jesus, Elaine.”
She grinned, dazed but teasing, her voice lighter than air. “I mean, you could’ve just told me. Would’ve saved us months of slow-burning bullshit.”
Oscar groaned, dropping his head slightly, and she could feel the soft huff of his laugh against her skin.
Summary: forced into therapy after a not-so-fatal accident, Carlos expects to fix his fear, not fall for his psychologist, Silvia. As their professional line blurs, they ignite a forbidden romance, risking everything for a chance at a love that defies the high-stakes world of Formula 1.
Word count: 13k (at this point just burn me at the stake)
Warnings: emotional vulnerability, professional ethics, implied sexual and romantic tension
A/N: at this point I'm looking for a beta reader because my sister @smoooothoperator is sick of me. She doesn’t say it out loud, but I know it. If anyone wants to be my friend please???? I'm begging you????
have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find
masterlist
The impact isn’t the worst part. Not the crash, nor the jolt that runs down his spine when the car hits the barriers. Carlos has had accidents before. He has felt the raw force of speed turn into chaos in seconds. This is no different. It shouldn't be different.
And yet, as he removes the steering wheel with steady hands and exits the car, something settles in his chest, something heavy and suffocating. He removes his helmet, but the feeling doesn’t fade. Around him, the race continues; the roar of the engines fills the air, and he stands there, watching as the marshals clear his wrecked car from the track.
He can’t stop looking. Something inside him stirs, as if a dark thought is trying to make its way through, but Carlos suppresses it. He clenches his jaw, forces a long exhale, and walks toward the assistance vehicle. He isn’t hurt. Not a scratch. He should be fine.
But he isn’t.
In the following nights, the accident returns to him in sporadic bursts, fragmented images that wake him in the middle of the night. It's not exactly fear, but something inside him trembles when he remembers the moment he lost control. On the track, he’s supposed to be in charge, to decide every movement with surgical precision. But there, in those seconds when his car became a missile with no direction, he felt something he doesn’t want to admit: vulnerability.
The following races are strange. There’s something in the way he drives that has changed, and although no one directly mentions it, he knows they notice. He’s not slower, but he’s not the same. He becomes more methodical, more cautious in certain maneuvers. His braking is a little longer, his overtakes less aggressive. Sometimes, when he’s alone in his hotel room after a Grand Prix, he remembers the exact moment his car crashed, and for some reason, he feels the air catch in his throat.
It bothers him. It shouldn’t affect him like this. It’s not the first time he’s crashed a car, and he knows it won’t be the last. But this time, there’s something different. Maybe because it wasn’t his mistake. Maybe because, for the first time in his career, he wondered if it could’ve turned out worse. If, in another circumstance, he might not have walked away.
The interviews become an awkward formality. The press asks what’s wrong, why he seems more serious, more quiet. He responds with empty phrases, with that neutrality he’s perfected over the years. But inside Ferrari, within the team, the glances persist. His engineer remains patient. Some mechanics try to joke with him as usual, but there’s something in the air, a lingering discomfort. And then there’s Vasseur.
Vasseur notices it. He says nothing at first, but Carlos sees the way he watches him during meetings, the way his eyes harden every time they review the data and see those small changes in his driving style. He’s not alarmed yet, but he’s attentive. And Carlos knows he can’t afford that kind of attention.
Then comes the conversation.
“Talk to Dr. Silvia Costa. I worked with her years ago, and she’s very good at what she does,” Vasseur says, with his usual pragmatic tone, straightforward, no room for discussion.
Carlos frowns, crossing his arms. “I don’t need a therapist.”
“Oh?,” Vasseur doesn’t flinch. He leans back in his chair, fingers interlaced on the table. “Then tell me, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Carlos responds too quickly, and they both know it. Vasseur watches him in silence, giving him space to correct himself and Carlos looks away. “I’m just… adjusting. It’s normal after an accident.”
“What’s not normal is that you’re still ‘adjusting’ so long after,” Vasseur rests his elbows on the table. “Look, Carlos, I’m not here to waste your time. But I’ve been in this business for years, and I know what happens when a driver starts to doubt. It doesn’t fix itself.”
Carlos exhales slowly, annoyed. “I’m not doubting.”
“Yes, you are.” Vasseur’s tone is direct, but not cruel. “I’m not saying you’re slower, or that you’ve lost your talent. But you’re driving differently. More cautious. With more margin than you usually give yourself. And that margin, sooner or later, is going to cost you positions. Do you know who else is going to notice? The people who make decisions in this team.”
Carlos grits his teeth. He hated when Vasseur was right.
“I’m not saying you’re going to lose your seat,” Vasseur continues, “but if this keeps up, we’re going to have a problem. And I’d rather avoid it now than too late.”
Carlos taps his fingers on the table, resisting. The thought of sitting in a room and talking to a stranger about whatever it is he’s feeling repulses him. He’s not like that. He doesn’t work that way.
“Listen,” Vasseur says, calmer now. “Do it. One session. If after that you still think it’s a waste of time, I won’t insist. But I doubt that’ll be the case.”
Carlos takes his time to respond. But deep down, he knows Vasseur isn’t giving him a real choice. And the worst part is that he is right.
“Fine,” he finally concedes, his voice tinged with resignation. “One session.”
“Good.” Vasseur nods with a slight smile. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”
Carlos isn’t so sure.
Silvia Costa’s office isn’t what he expected. There’s no couch, no pristine white walls. Instead, there are shelves filled with books, a warm light, and a chair that feels far too comfortable for someone who doesn’t want to be there. Carlos feels out of place, with the sense that he should be anywhere else. Preferably inside a race car, at full speed, far from this room where the air is too calm.
Silvia smiles at him naturally as he enters, no trace of pity or judgment on her face. “Carlos, come in. You can sit wherever you feel most comfortable.”
He merely nods and sits in the armchair across from her, though comfortable is not the word he’d use. He crosses his arms and fixes his gaze on an indeterminate point on the table. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to talk about what happened.
“I guess you’re here because Vasseur insisted,” she says in a light tone, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Carlos lets out a brief, humorless laugh. “How’d you guess?”
“Because almost everyone comes in like that,” she replies calmly. There’s no pressure in her voice, no rush to make him speak. She just leaves the space there, available.
Carlos nods, not knowing what to say. Silvia doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t fill the uncomfortable silence with empty words. She just waits. And somehow, that’s more unsettling than any question.
He feels the urge to stand up and leave. To pretend this never happened. But something in the way Silvia looks at him, with that mix of understanding and patience, keeps him in his seat.
Carlos exhales slowly, feeling the weight of the silence between them. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s used to conversations having a clear purpose, to people wanting something from him: answers, statements, justifications. But Silvia just watches him, not judging, not expecting anything specific, and that throws him off.
“Tell me about the accident,” she says, finally. Her tone is neutral, with no trace of pity or morbid curiosity. As if she were asking about any other day in his life.
Carlos clenches his jaw. His first instinct is to respond with a dry “there’s nothing to tell,” but he knows that won’t work. He’s here now. It’s best to get it over with quickly.
“It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary,” he says, shrugging. “I lost the car in a corner, ended up against the barriers. End of story.”
“Did you get hurt?”
“No.” He forces himself to sound indifferent, but his answer comes out too blunt.
Silvia nods lightly, not questioning him.
“And what happened after?”
Carlos frowns.
“Nothing. I got out of the car. Walked to the assistance vehicle. Watched them remove my car, then went back to the paddock.”
“How did you feel?”
He presses his lips together, a subtle irritation flaring up in his chest.
“Fine.”
Silvia tilts her head slightly, as if analyzing his response.
“Really?”
Carlos exhales with frustration, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Look, I know where you’re going,” he says, not hiding his impatience. “But I’m not the first driver to crash into the barriers. It’s no big deal. It’s just part of the job.”
“I know.” Her voice remains calm, but not placating. “So why are you here?”
Carlos tenses.
“Because they’re making me.”
Silvia smiles faintly, without a hint of mockery.
“You already said that. But if everything was really fine, if it really wasn’t ‘no big deal,’ do you think Vasseur would’ve asked you to come here?”
Carlos feels the discomfort knot in his chest. He doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want to admit there’s something still chasing him when he closes his eyes at night, something he can’t shake when he’s in the car.
He looks away, uncomfortable.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, as his only concession.
Silvia doesn’t press. She just nods, as if that small crack in his defense is enough for today.
“That’s fine,” she says, her voice calm. “You don’t have to know right now.”
Carlos blinks. He expected her to insist, to try and get more out of him. But she doesn’t.
“We’ll leave it here for today,” she adds. “If you decide to come back, we can keep talking.”
Carlos doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either. He just stands up, feeling a slight pressure in his chest that wasn’t there when he arrived.
And as he walks away from the office, Silvia’s words echo in his mind.
“If everything was really fine… why are you here?”
The simulator shouldn’t feel this real.
Carlos knows that. It’s a machine, a set of data and algorithms designed to mimic reality—but without the weight of true speed, without the roar of the engine vibrating in his chest. And yet, when his hands close around the steering wheel and the virtual track unfolds before him, his body reacts as if he were really there. As if everything truly depended on every turn, every brake.
He settles into the seat, adjusting everything without thinking too much about it. The simulator's cockpit is dark, enclosed, only the screens and projected data in his peripheral vision. One of the engineers says something over the radio, but Carlos just nods, letting the voice blend into the background noise. His focus is on the track. On the stopwatch.
First stint.
The virtual tires are cold on the first lap, but that doesn’t worry him. The simulator is fine-tuned to the millimeter, and Carlos knows every detail of the circuit. He has memorized it in his skin, in his muscles. Every braking point, every apex. His body acts before his mind, automated by years of repetition.
He releases the brake into turn four, letting the car settle on the front-left tire before opening the throttle. Precise. Fast. As always.
But then he reaches that turn.
It’s not the same one from the accident. He knows that. The incline is different, the angle less aggressive. But something about the way the car moves as he enters, at the exact point where he should release the brake and trust the grip, triggers an instinctive reaction.
A slight hesitation on the wheel.
A millisecond of doubt.
Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but he feels it.
It’s not the first time he’s gone through this turn. It’s part of today’s test program. And yet, this time, something is different. An echo of the crash slipping through the cold data of the simulation, through the precise calculation of the steering angle and brake distribution.
Carlos frowns, his jaw tight. No. It doesn’t make sense.
He presses the throttle more firmly on the next lap, forcing himself to ignore the feeling.
But there it is again.
His foot moves just a fraction of a second earlier before braking, anticipating something that doesn’t exist. His body reacts as if it’s expecting the impact, as if, deep down in his subconscious, that turn means danger.
The simulator engineer’s voice comes through the radio.
“All good, Carlitos?”
The question sounds casual, but Carlos knows he noticed the difference. The telemetry doesn’t lie.
He presses his lips together, jaw clenched. Everything is fine. It’s just that his heart is beating a little faster than usual.
“Yeah. Small mistake. Let’s go again.”
He tries again. And again. And again.
Every time he reaches that turn, his foot hesitates just before braking. It shouldn’t happen. Not in a simulator. Not when there are no real consequences.
But his body doesn’t seem to have received the message.
And the worst part is that the more he tries, the stronger the feeling becomes. He can’t ignore it. It’s there, like interference in a signal that used to be clear. An empty space between instinct and execution.
When the session ends, he steps out of the cockpit, frowning, discomfort knotting in his chest. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like that his own instinct—the one he has refined for years to react in fractions of a second—is failing him.
He feels restless, his skin stretched too tight over his muscles.
He walks down the hallway aimlessly, not even stopping to talk to the team. He doesn’t want to review the telemetry. He doesn’t want to confirm it in cold, precise data.
Carlos enters the locker room and leans against the wall, letting the silence wrap around him.
When he looks at himself in the mirror, what he sees in his reflection isn’t fatigue or simple frustration. It’s something deeper. Something that won’t go away, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.
Before he can think too much about it, he pulls out his phone and dials a number he knows by heart.
It only rings once before the call is answered.
“Son,” his father says, with that unshakable calm he has always had. “How are you?”
Carlos wets his lips. His usual response—fine, all good—gets stuck in his throat.
“I had a session in the simulator,” he says instead.
There’s no rush in his father’s voice. No impatient “And? How was it?” Just silence, giving him space.
Carlos exhales.
“There was a turn that… I don’t know, it reminded me of that crash from months ago. It shouldn’t matter, but every time I got there, I braked early. A millisecond. But I felt it.”
On the other end of the line, his father sighs.
“That happens because you’re human, Carlos.”
He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to be human. He wants to be infallible.
“You crashed too,” he says, almost defiantly. “This didn’t happen to you.”
His father laughs, but not mockingly. It’s the kind of laugh that comes with understanding, with years of experience.
“And how do you know that?” he asks, calmly. “Because I didn’t say it in interviews? Because it didn’t show up in the telemetry?”
Carlos doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to think about that.
“The important thing isn’t whether you feel fear, son. The important thing is what you do with it.”
The knot in his chest tightens a little more.
“Did you go see the psychologist Vasseur recommended?”
He clenches his jaw. “I went once.”
“And?”
“Nothing. It was… weird. She didn’t push too hard.”
His father lets out a soft chuckle.
“Smart move. Now you’re the one who can’t stop thinking about going back.”
Carlos tilts his head back, lightly knocking it against the wall. He hates him a little for saying that. Because it’s true.
“Listen, Carlos,” his father continues, his voice patient. “If you have a tool at your disposal, use it. There’s no point in fighting alone if there’s someone who can help you understand what’s happening.”
Carlos runs a hand through his hair, his breathing slower now.
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.” His father doesn’t let him escape. “The question isn’t if you know. It’s if you’re going to do something about it.”
Silence.
Carlos closes his eyes for a moment. He hates himself a little for what he’s about to say next.
“…I’ll call her tomorrow.”
His father smiles on the other end of the line.
“Good decision.”
Carlos hangs up. He stays there for a moment, phone in hand, head resting against the wall.
Then, he lets out a brief, humorless laugh.
If only everything in life could be solved as easily as turning a steering wheel.
Carlos lowers his phone and places it on the locker room bench, next to his helmet and the gloves he still hasn’t put in his bag. He should feel better. The call with his father should have relieved some of that pressure in his chest, given him the certainty that what he’s going through is normal, that he’s not losing his mind. But it doesn’t.
The weight is still there, settled in his stomach like an anchor. It’s nothing. It shouldn’t be anything. But the more he tries to convince himself, the more obvious the one truth he’s been avoiding becomes.
No, he’s not okay.
And if he knows it now, if he’s already reached that conclusion—why wait?
He sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. Then he reaches out and picks up his phone again, unlocking the screen and finding his chat with Vasseur. It’s there, in their conversation from days ago. A number, accompanied by a brief message.
"For when you’re ready. Call her."
Carlos exhales sharply, as if he needs to brace himself. His thumb hesitates over the screen for just a second before tapping the number.
The tone rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
A click on the other end. And then, a voice, husky from interrupted sleep.
“Mmm… yes?”
Carlos blinks.
It’s not a receptionist. Not an answering machine.
It’s Silvia herself.
Shit.
He freezes for a second—long enough for Silvia to make a quiet sound, shifting, as if sitting up in bed.
“…Carlos?” she asks, still drowsy but not surprised.
Carlos blinks again, his brain stuttering to start.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, too fast. “I thought this was your office. I didn’t mean—”
Silvia chuckles softly, cutting off his apology. Her voice still carries the lazy notes of sleep.
“It’s okay,” she says, a smile almost audible in her tone. “No problem. Though I’ll admit, I didn’t expect you to call at this hour.”
Carlos pulls the phone away from his ear for a second and checks the screen.
00:37.
Fuck.
He closes his eyes briefly, cursing himself in silence. Of course, Vasseur wouldn’t give him a reception number. He gave him her personal one. And in his brilliant moment of clarity, he just called her in the middle of the night.
“Seriously, I’m sorry,” he says, running a hand down his face. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
Silvia laughs again, softer this time.
“Carlos.” Her voice is patient, free of any irritation. “Breathe.”
And the worst part is—he does. Without thinking, he exhales in a long sigh.
“Good,” Silvia says, still relaxed. “Now tell me, did you call by mistake, or did you actually want to talk to me?”
Carlos swallows. A reflex of pride, of discomfort, tells him to hang up now and pretend this never happened. But it’s too late for that.
And more importantly… he doesn’t want to hang up.
He clenches his jaw, hating what he’s about to admit.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
Silvia doesn’t tease him, doesn’t try to soften it with kind words. She simply gives him space to continue.
Carlos licks his lips, staring at the screen as if it might show him the right way to explain. He doesn’t know why this is so difficult. He’s done hundreds of interviews, talked to engineers about incredibly complex mechanical issues, spent hours breaking down every detail of his race performance. But saying out loud that something isn’t right? That gets stuck in his throat.
Silvia waits. She doesn’t rush him and somehow, that makes it easier to talk.
“Today in the simulator,” he starts, rubbing his thumb against his eyebrow, “there was a corner that… I don’t know. Something about it reminded me of the crash. It’s not the same, but the feeling was there. And I braked earlier than I should have.”
There’s a second of silence. Then, Silvia responds, as calm as ever.
“And that worried you?”
Carlos tilts his head back, staring at the locker room ceiling.
“What worries me is that I don’t know how to make it stop.”
It sounds more honest than he expected.
Silvia doesn’t tell him she understands. She doesn’t tell him it’s normal. She just responds with something that throws him off more than anything else.
“Then let’s talk about it.”
Carlos blinks. “Now?”
“You don’t have to do it right this second,” Silvia replies, “but if you’ve already taken the step of calling me, why wait?”
Carlos presses his lips together. Exactly.
Why wait?
Silvia lets him think. She doesn’t push. She lets him decide.
And Carlos, for the first time in a long time, chooses not to run.
“Okay.”
“Good.” Silvia sounds more awake now, and her voice carries something almost like satisfaction. “I’m guessing you’re not in Monaco right now. When you’re around, stop by my office, and I’ll make time for you. You’ve taken the first step already—don’t back out now.”
Carlos exhales.
“Yeah. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Perfect. Get some rest, Carlos.”
She hangs up before he can change his mind.
Carlos stays there, phone still in his hand, staring at the dark screen.
The pressure in his chest is still there, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel quite as suffocating.
The hallway felt longer than he remembered. Or maybe it was just that he was walking slower, carrying the weight of someone unsure if they really wanted to reach their destination.
Carlos adjusted the sleeves of his sweatshirt, feeling the slight tremor in his fingers. Not cold, not exactly fear, but something close to a restless unease he couldn’t shake.
He had barely slept. Another night spent tossing and turning, his mind trapped in a loop of thoughts that led nowhere. It had been like this for weeks—months, even—but it was getting harder to hide it. The exhaustion clung to him like an extra weight he couldn’t shrug off.
He sighed before pushing the door open and stepping into Silvia’s office.
The same room. The same scent of coffee and paper. The soft light filtering through the blinds. And Silvia, sitting behind her desk, wearing that same calm expression as always.
It should have felt familiar. After all, this wasn’t the first time he had walked into this office. But Carlos felt the same nervousness he had in their first session. Something about this space disarmed him, stripped him of his defenses before Silvia had even spoken a single word.
It was not a comfortable feeling.
He let himself drop into the chair with a heavy exhale, fixing his gaze on a random spot on Silvia’s desk.
"Alright. I’m not okay," he admitted, no pretense, no embellishment. "I can’t sleep properly, my foot shakes on the throttle in fast corners, and last night, I found myself watching a documentary about avocado farming at three in the morning."
Silvia glanced up from her notebook, raising an eyebrow.
"Avocados?"
"Don’t ask. It was just… hypnotic."
She gave a small, amused smile but didn’t say anything. She simply let him continue, and that unsettled Carlos more than if she had asked him something difficult. He cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the chair’s armrest, as if trying to organize his thoughts.
"I realized that if I keep going like this, I’ll end up with a farm in the middle of nowhere instead of on the starting grid. And as tempting as that sounds, I don’t think people would be too thrilled to see me milking cows instead of driving a Ferrari."
Silvia tilted her head slightly, studying him with that gaze of hers that made him feel too exposed. Too transparent.
"It’s not just the accident, is it?"
Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but Silvia spoke first.
"It’s the pressure of carrying your last name. The shadow of everything your father achieved. The obligation to live up to it. It’s what it means to drive for Ferrari, what it means to be Leclerc’s teammate, the uncertainty of not having a secured seat for next year. Nothing is guaranteed, and the accident was just the final drop that made all of this feel even heavier."
Carlos felt the air catch in his lungs. He froze, too still, as if any sudden movement would make Silvia’s words even more real.
He didn’t know what hit him harder—hearing out loud what he had never put into words or the fact that Silvia had broken him down so effortlessly.
Something inside him tensed. Was he really that obvious? That easy to read?
He looked at Silvia, caught between disbelief and something deeper, something he couldn’t immediately name.
"Wow," he muttered, half incredulous, half uneasy. "I don’t know if I should congratulate you or be worried that you can read me so easily."
Silvia rested her elbows on the desk, lacing her fingers together, her gaze unwavering.
"It’s not that you’re easy to read, Carlos. It’s that you’ve been trying to ignore it for too long."
A faint shiver ran down his spine. He ran a hand over his jaw, averting his eyes to the floor. He didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to acknowledge how much those words had hit the mark.
Because that would mean accepting that all this time, he had been running.
From his name. From Ferrari. From the toxic competitiveness. From the uncertain future.
From himself.
For the first time in months, it felt like someone was putting order to the chaos inside him.
And that scared him more than any high-speed corner.
Carlos let out a slow sigh, as if hoping to exhale some of the weight pressing down on him. It didn’t work.
He ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes before letting his arms drop onto his lap.
"Alright, let’s say you’re right…" His voice was lower, rougher, more tired than he would’ve liked. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
Silvia looked at him with patience, as if she had been expecting that question.
"For starters, stop pretending everything is fine."
Carlos let out a humorless chuckle.
"Great, I’ll squeeze that in between ‘improving quali times’ and ‘not losing my mind over Ferrari’s strategy calls.’"
Silvia allowed a small smile, but she didn’t let him deflect with sarcasm.
"Carlos… I know you think it’s all about driving faster, about just pushing through as if nothing’s wrong. But how much longer do you think you can keep this up?"
Carlos narrowed his eyes, feeling a sharp pang in his chest because, as much as he hated to admit it, that was the question he feared the most.
"I don’t know," he murmured, staring at the floor. "I don’t know how much longer I can last."
And there it was. It had slipped out before he could think twice. A truth he hadn’t even allowed himself to acknowledge.
Silvia didn’t respond right away. She gave him space, let him breathe.
The silence in the room felt heavy, but for the first time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded immediate answers—it was the kind that gave him permission to process.
Finally, Silvia took a deep breath and said, with that quiet certainty that always disarmed him:
"Then let’s start there."
Carlos met her eyes, with something that looked like surrender—but maybe, just maybe, it was the first step toward something different.
"Alright."
And this time, he meant it.
The weeks began to blur into a routine that, although intense, gradually stopped feeling like a burden for Carlos. Between endless simulations, training sessions that pushed his body to the limit, and races that demanded every ounce of his focus, there was always a spot in his schedule for his sessions with Silvia.
At first, he went out of obligation. It was what Vasseur expected of him. It was what, deep down, he knew he had to do, even if he hated to admit it. But over time, without realizing it, he started anticipating them in a different way. Not with reluctance, not with the feeling that he was walking into some kind of emotional interrogation, but with a strange curiosity.
Because Silvia had the patience of a saint. She never pressured him, but she never let him escape either. She knew exactly when to let silence do the talking and when to strike at just the right moment to make him see what he refused to acknowledge. As if she had a map of his mind that he hadn’t even been able to draw himself.
Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. His fear didn’t just come from the accident. It had been there long before. The fact that, despite all his achievements, his seat in Formula 1 never seemed fully secure.
And between sessions, travels, and races, something else found its way into his routine: humor. He discovered that Silvia shared the same dry sarcasm he did. That she had an almost unsettling ability to fire back at him with comebacks so quick they left him speechless. That somehow, in the midst of all those conversations about fears and anxieties, there was always a moment when they ended up laughing at something absurd.
Carlos hated to admit it, but he did. One afternoon, leaning back against the couch in his office, arms crossed with an expression of feigned indifference, he casually let it slip.
“Don’t get too excited, but therapy might be one of the best decisions I’ve made.”
Silvia merely raised an amused eyebrow. “Was that a compliment?”
Carlos tilted his head as if considering it. “I don’t know. Don’t get used to it.”
But deep down, they both knew the truth.
The weeks continued passing, marked by a whirlwind of flights, training sessions, and races that took him all over the world. However, between the adrenaline of the circuits and the constant pressure to prove himself, one thing remained constant: his messages with Silvia.
It wasn’t something he had planned, nor something he even stopped to analyze. At first, they were just reminders about their sessions, the occasional comment about his progress. But before he knew it, the texts became more natural, more frequent. A joke between races. A “Try not to crash” that always arrived before qualifying. A “You did well” after a podium finish—one that Carlos pretended not to care about but, for some reason, always made him smile.
And when he came home, exhausted after days of travel, Silvia was there. Not physically, but in that small corner of his routine that now belonged to her. In her office, with her notebook full of notes, with that gaze that seemed to see right through him, with the coffee that, at some point, she had started preparing exactly how he liked it.
“How do you know?” he asked one day, raising his cup with curiosity.
“Observing is part of my job,” Silvia replied simply, shrugging.
Carlos couldn’t help but smile. Because yes, Silvia observed him. More than he sometimes observed himself.
And the same happened in reverse. Because, without meaning to, Carlos started noticing things about her. Small details that lodged themselves in his mind without permission. That she always ordered her coffee from the same café. That at the end of the day, she had a habit of pulling her feet up on the couch while reviewing her notes. That when she was deep in thought, she absentmindedly twirled her pen between her fingers.
And that she liked jazz.
She had mentioned it once, offhandedly, while they talked about ways to unwind. Carlos hadn’t said anything at the time, but weeks later, when he stumbled upon an old vinyl in a tucked-away shop in Madrid, he bought it without thinking too much.
“For you,” he said, handing it to her.
Silvia looked at him in surprise, holding it in her hands as if it weighed more than it actually did.
“You bought this for me?”
Carlos shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t know. I saw it and thought of you.”
Not much else was said. But when he returned the following week, the vinyl was playing in her office. And Silvia, with a book in her hands and a steaming cup of coffee on the table, looked up at him with a small smile.
“Good taste, Sainz.”
Carlos just let out a quiet laugh.
It was strange, how the boundaries between them had begun to blur. How, without meaning to, Silvia had become more than just his psychologist. She had become someone with whom he could share comfortable silences, someone with whom he could laugh at life’s absurdities.
And, without realizing it, someone he wanted to impress.
On the other hand, Silvia had always been good at keeping her distance.
Over the years, she had learned to build invisible barriers between herself and her patients. Not out of coldness, but out of necessity. Getting too involved meant losing perspective, and losing perspective meant not being able to help them in the right way.
But with Carlos… with him, those barriers didn’t always seem so solid.
She hadn’t noticed it at first, but little by little, the space between them had become less rigid. Their sessions were no longer just a process of analysis and therapy; they had turned into conversations where humor surfaced naturally, where Carlos lowered his guard, and where she found herself, unintentionally, doing the same.
And it was in a moment like that when everything became a little more complicated.
Carlos had just made a sarcastic remark—one of those that usually made her roll her eyes, but that lately, had been drawing genuine laughter from her instead.
"It must be exhausting for you to be this perceptive all the time," he had said, a lopsided grin on his face.
Silvia played along, responding with a joke of her own.
"Oh, absolutely. Every morning I wake up thinking, ‘How lucky am I? Another day of understanding the human psyche better than everyone else.’"
Carlos let out a laugh. But when Silvia looked at him again, something in her chest tightened without warning.
Because he wasn’t just laughing with his mouth—he was laughing with his eyes.
Because, without realizing it, Silvia was looking too much.
And the worst part was that she didn’t want to look away.
Carlos had the kind of laugh that made everything seem easier, lighter. It was real, untouched by the pressure of cameras, free from any need to put on a front. And for a fleeting moment, for just a single second, Silvia allowed herself to simply look at him, as if there were no reason to hold back.
But then Carlos turned his head, and their eyes met.
It lasted only a second. A brief moment, seemingly insignificant.
But Silvia felt it.
Because the way he was looking at her wasn’t casual.
It lingered just a little longer. Held just a little more weight. As if, for that one moment, he was seeing her differently too. As if he had noticed something in her expression that she hadn’t been quick enough to hide.
Her chest tightened. The feeling was so strong that Silvia almost frowned, as if the weight inside her was something tangible she could shake off.
No. No. Not this.
She looked away quickly, pretending to focus on her notebook, though she knew there was no point in writing anything now.
"Right, back to the topic…" she said, trying to steer the conversation back on track, but her own voice sounded different.
Carlos didn’t respond immediately.
She felt him shift on the couch, probably leaning forward slightly. She didn’t look at him, but she could imagine the expression on his face. That mix of curiosity and something else she wasn’t sure she wanted to name.
But in the end, he said nothing.
And she forced herself to do the same.
Because nothing had happened. Nothing she couldn’t ignore. Nothing she couldn’t lock away in the same corner of her mind where she kept all the things she wasn’t supposed to feel.
And yet, when Carlos said goodbye and left through the door, when the office was left in complete silence, Silvia allowed herself to close her eyes and let out a sigh.
Because maybe—just maybe—she had just crossed a line from which there was no turning back.
Silvia finds out about the news like everyone else: with the headline flashing on her phone screen.
Carlos Sainz signs with Williams for 2025.
She knows it’s real even before opening the article. The weeks of rumors, speculation, and uncertainty are over. It’s official. And before she can stop it, a wave of relief and pride washes over her.
It shouldn’t feel personal. She shouldn’t feel this way. But she does.
Because she’s seen Carlos at his most vulnerable. She’s been in the room with him when the pressure made him doubt himself, when fear seeped into his voice in ways even he didn’t recognize. And now, here he is. With a secured future, with an opportunity he had been so afraid he wouldn’t get.
The first thing she does is smile. The second is buying a bottle of champagne.
It’s not a clinical or professional gesture, but she doesn’t think too much about it. She’s spent months watching Carlos carry the weight of uncertainty, and today, for the first time in a long while, she can picture him breathing a little more freely. She wants to celebrate that. She wants him to celebrate that.
Carlos, for his part, should feel lighter. The contract is signed, his future is secure, and for the first time in months, no one is asking him what he’s going to do next year. But when he steps into the office and sees the bottle of champagne on the table, something inside him cracks just a little.
Silvia is smiling. Not with the measured politeness of a professional, but with genuine happiness, with a sparkle in her eyes that leaves him disarmed. She’s happy for him. And that, for some reason, is what undoes him completely.
“Congratulations,” she says, a small smile on her lips as she raises a glass. “You did it.”
Carlos doesn’t respond right away. He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move past that. His eyes remain fixed on the unopened bottle, on the way the light reflects off the glass. His throat bobs with a dry swallow. Suddenly, the relief he should be feeling turns into something heavy, something difficult to process.
“Come on, sit down,” Silvia tries, her tone light, steering the conversation forward. “This calls for a celebration.”
Carlos lets out a short, rough laugh.
“Did you really buy champagne?” His voice holds a hint of disbelief, like he can’t decide whether to tease her or thank her.
“Of course,” Silvia replies with mock indignation. “It’s not every day you land a Formula 1 contract. And I wanted to see if you finally have good taste or if you’re still ordering white wine like a British tourist in Ibiza.”
Carlos shakes his head, a ghost of a smile forming. But it doesn’t last. Because then, he feels the sting in his eyes. And before he can stop it, Silvia sees it too.
The tears.
Not sobs, not ragged breaths. Just a silent trail, tracing a path from his eyes down to his jaw.
Silvia feels her body tense. For a second, just one, she hesitates. Because she knows what it means to take a step closer. She knows what she’s supposed to do, and what she shouldn’t do. But then she looks at him again, and the answer is clear.
She moves. Slowly. Wordlessly.
When she places a hand on his arm, Carlos doesn’t pull away. When the other slides to his back, he closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest gently against her shoulder. His breathing is uneven, caught between restraint and collapse, and Silvia holds him.
For a moment, nothing else exists. Not the office, not the contract, not the lines they aren’t supposed to cross. Just this. Just him.
And in the midst of it all, in the trembling of his chest, Carlos has a realization as clear as day: what he feels for Silvia isn’t going anywhere. It can’t. Because this is what they are. This is what they’re supposed to be. And yet, here he is, burying his face in her shoulder like nothing else in the world matters.
When Carlos finally pulls away, when he looks up and their eyes meet, they understand.
What this means.
What comes next.
And neither of them moves to step back.
Silvia is the first to speak. Her voice is low, careful.
“Carlos… what’s wrong?”
He blinks, like he’s suddenly remembering where they are, like he’s realizing that Silvia is still looking at him with that patient, disarming gaze of hers. He rubs a hand over his face, as if he can wipe away what just happened, as if he can rewind to before crossing that line.
But he can’t.
And lying to Silvia… that has never been an option.
Because she always knows. Sometimes even before he does. But telling her the truth makes no sense either. What for? To tell her that he cares for her? That seeing her this happy for him shatters him a little? That the news of his contract feels distant, insignificant, when she smiles at him like that? For him?
Carlos swallows and lowers his gaze. He can’t say it. He shouldn’t say it. But he can’t find a lie that holds either.
So he just murmurs,
“I don’t know.”
And Silvia, with that damn patience, with that effortless understanding that strips him bare, nods like she gets it anyway.
And in that silence, in everything they don’t say, Silvia understands it all.
She realizes that the champagne was a mistake.
She realizes that pushing her own limits was a mistake.
She realizes that seeing Carlos cry was a mistake.
Because now, that tightness in her chest, that warmth when she looks at him, has a name.
And the worst part is—Carlos has just realized it too.
Carlos lets out a short laugh, a fragile sound that barely settles in his chest. He runs a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes with an open palm before letting it drop to his thigh.
“Well… that was dramatic.”
His voice is still a little raw, but he tries to mask it with lightness.
Silvia blinks, caught off guard by how quickly he’s trying to pull himself together, and lets out a small laugh. It’s instinctive, soft—an attempt to bring them both back to the normality they so desperately need.
“A little, yeah,” she admits, offering a half-smile.
Carlos exhales and sinks into the chair, dropping his head back, staring at the ceiling for a second before sighing again.
“I haven’t even started working with Williams yet, and I’m already crying about it. I’m going to be a mess.”
Silvia leans back against the desk and, absentmindedly, nudges the champagne bottle slightly to the side. Now, it feels out of place—like a joke told at the wrong time.
“If you cry every time someone congratulates you, then yeah, that could be a problem,” she teases, trying to lift the mood. “Maybe I should’ve brought tissues instead of glasses.”
Carlos drops his head to the side, giving her that signature look of exasperation that comes so naturally to him.
“Or maybe just never celebrate anything with me ever again. Clearly, I don’t handle it well.”
“I’ll keep that in mind for future reference.”
He laughs. A real one this time. But when he looks up, when his eyes meet Silvia’s, the sound catches in his throat.
Because she’s smiling too—but there’s something else there. Something in the way she looks at him, in the almost imperceptible pause before she looks away. Something Carlos feels like a weight in his chest, like an invisible thread pulling him toward her.
Silvia realizes instantly that she’s held his gaze for too long. She blinks, clears her throat, and straightens slightly in her seat.
“Well,” she says, like she’s trying to put an end to whatever this moment was, “should we pretend you didn’t just get emotional and start the session?”
Carlos sits up, adjusting in his chair, clinging to the opportunity to regain control.
“Yes. Good idea. Let’s pretend I’m a functioning adult and not someone who falls apart over a job contract.”
“Exactly. And I’ll pretend this wasn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”
The silence that follows is devastating.
Carlos blinks. Once, twice. His breath catches, and it’s as if the air in the room has changed density. As if, all of a sudden, he doesn’t know where to place his hands, how to hold himself in this confined space.
Silvia feels it too. She sees it in the way Carlos looks at her, in the tension along his jaw, in the slight flare of his nostrils. And the worst part is, she can’t pretend she didn’t say it. She can’t take it back. She can’t make it so it never happened.
Because it did.
That thread between them, the one they had been stretching for months, has just snapped.
Silvia feels her own breath turn shallow, the skin at the nape of her neck tingling with the absolute awareness of what she has just done. The words still linger in the air, as if they haven’t quite settled, as if they’re waiting for one of them to deny them.
"I'm sorry," she says, too quickly. Too nervously.
Carlos doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know how. His mind is a whirlwind of tangled thoughts, none clear enough to hold on to. Just moments ago, he had been dealing with the weight of his new contract, the relief of securing his future, the vulnerability of having cried in front of her. And now, this.
Too much.
"I didn’t mean it like that," Silvia tries, running a hand over her forehead, as if she could erase the comment with a single gesture. "It was… I don’t know. Inappropriate."
Carlos swallows. He can’t look at her. Not yet. Not when his body is still reacting in ways he doesn’t understand, when his skin is still on high alert, when his heart is still racing for reasons that no longer have anything to do with Williams or his contract.
Silvia takes a breath and straightens her shoulders. She needs to pull herself together. She needs to put things back in their place.
"We can…" she starts, but the words die in her throat.
Carlos finally looks up, and when their eyes meet, there’s something there. Something big. Something impossible to ignore.
Silvia sees it. Carlos knows it.
But neither of them is ready to face it.
So she looks away, picks up the champagne bottle, and sets it aside.
"Do you want to start the session?" she asks, as if nothing happened.
Carlos nods once, slowly.
"Yeah," he says. His voice is lower than usual, as if he’s still wading through everything that just unfolded. "Yeah, let’s start."
And they do. They pretend everything is the same.
But they both know nothing is.
Silvia had been feeling the weight of this decision for days before she typed out the message.
Ever since that session, from the exact moment she crossed a line she never should have crossed, she knew this couldn’t continue. But knowing it and accepting it were two different things.
Because the thought of not seeing him anymore, of no longer being the person Carlos turned to in his most vulnerable moments, twisted her stomach in a way she didn’t want to analyze too deeply.
She had tried to lie to herself, to rationalize it. It was just an impulsive comment. Nothing more. But every time she thought back to the silence that followed, to the way Carlos had looked at her, to the way her own chest had tightened upon realizing what she had done...
No. She couldn’t keep ignoring it.
That’s why, when Carlos stood on the podium in Austin, when she saw him with that spark in his eyes, with the satisfaction of a job well done, she knew it was time. Because he was moving forward, rebuilding himself after months of uncertainty. And she couldn’t be the obstacle in his way.
Her hands trembled as she typed the message. She stared at the screen for too long, rereading every word, wondering if there was any way to say it without it hurting.
There wasn’t.
Pressing her lips together, she took a deep breath, and with a final pang in her chest, she hit send.
Then, she placed her phone face down on the table, rested her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands.
She had just done the right thing.
So why did it feel like she had just made an irreparable mistake?
Champagne still soaks his race suit as Carlos steps into the motorhome room and collapses onto the couch. His body is exhausted, but the adrenaline from the Austin GP is still coursing through his veins.
A second place. Another podium in his career. And for the first time in months, the feeling that things are finally falling into place.
He grabs his phone with the intention of texting Silvia. It’s a habit he doesn’t even think about—just a simple "Did you see that?" or "You owe me a session just to talk about how good I was today."
She always replies quickly, with a dry but knowing remark. "Not bad for someone who still brakes earlier than necessary." Or, "Don’t let it go to your head, Sainz."
But this time, when he unlocks the screen, something is waiting for him.
A long message.
Silvia Costa:
"Carlos, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. About our last session, about how I acted. About what I said. And I know we can’t keep ignoring it.
Please don’t misunderstand this. It has nothing to do with you or with whatever it is that you feel. But I am your psychologist, and I crossed a boundary I should not have crossed. I don’t want this to affect your career, my job, or what we’ve built over these past months. What we’re doing is not sustainable. It’s not professional. And the most honest, the fairest thing for both of us, is to end this here.
If you want to continue therapy, I’ll help you find another professional who follows my methods, someone I trust. I know you don’t like opening up to just anyone, and I know it has been a privilege that you trusted me enough to do so.
And I also know this won’t be easy. But it’s the right thing to do.
-Silvia."
Carlos reads the message once. Then again.
The tingling of celebration, the weight of the trophy in his hands, the euphoria of having driven a flawless race... it all vanishes.
All that remains is the sudden emptiness of what he’s just lost.
His first instinct is to deny it. His fingers are already moving, ready to type something, to call her, to tell her she’s overreacting, that this doesn’t have to mean what she thinks it does.
But then, the image hits him like a punch: Silvia, sitting in her apartment, phone in hand, hesitating, torn, realizing there is no other way out. That she has spent days thinking about this, that it has weighed on her just as much as it has on him.
And that’s when Carlos understands exactly what Silvia must have felt when she sent that message.
Because he feels it too—the crushing sense that he’s just lost something he can’t get back.
Carlos still has his phone in his hand when the door of the motorhome swings open.
"Carlos!"
Vasseur’s voice fills the room before he even has time to react. The team principal strides in, a wide grin on his face, enthusiasm radiating from every word.
"What a race, mate! Seriously, that was incredible."
Carlos looks up, blinking as if suddenly trying to remember where he is.
"Ah... thanks."
Vasseur drops into the seat across from him, still riding the high of watching both of his drivers deliver a spectacular result.
"Not just the race," he adds, pointing at him. "You look different. More solid, more confident. It shows in how you handle battles, how you keep a cool head."
Carlos tries to nod, tries to smile. But his mind is still trapped in the message. In Silvia. In what just happened.
And then, Vasseur says her name.
"You have to thank Dr. Costa for that, huh? I told you, didn’t I? Best decision you could’ve made."
Carlos feels the hit straight to his chest.
Silvia.
His throat tightens, his stomach churns. Suddenly, the room feels too small, the air too dense.
He doesn’t know what to do with his face, with his body. Should he nod? Should he lie? Should he laugh and say yes, that she’s been the key to everything? Because up until a few minutes ago, before he read that damn message, he would have said it without hesitation.
But now…
Now he doesn’t know what to say.
The only thing he does know is that he’s screwed.
Because out of all the people in the world, out of all the women he’s ever met, he had to fall for his psychologist.
The irony almost makes him laugh.
"Yeah," he manages to say, though his voice doesn’t sound quite like his own. "She’s been a huge help."
Vasseur nods, satisfied, oblivious to the storm raging inside Carlos.
"Well, keep this up, Sainz. This is the driver I want to see. This is the Carlos that wins races."
He claps him on the shoulder before getting up, still glowing with pride.
Carlos barely feels it.
All he can think about is the fact that, for the first time since he started working with Silvia, he’s going to have to do it without her.
The return to Monaco feels different this time.
It's not the first time Carlos has come home after an exhausting race, but he's never felt this restless before. There was always a rhythm to his post-Grand Prix routine—training, reviewing data, resting. And at some point during the week, a session with Silvia.
Now, that space is empty.
At first, he tries to ignore it. He convinces himself it's just a matter of time, of getting used to a new rhythm without her. He throws himself into training, into meetings with Ferrari, into preparations for his move to Williams. But no matter how hard he tries, there are moments when her absence slips into his day uninvited.
Like when he comes back to his apartment after a run and instinctively checks his phone for a message from Silvia. Or when, in the middle of a conversation with his engineer, he feels the urge to joke about what she would say to him at that moment.
Or when he sits on the couch after dinner, and without realizing it, his mind plays tricks on him—What is Silvia doing right now?
And that’s when he starts questioning everything.
Why does he feel this way?
Is it because Silvia was his psychologist and, for the first time in his life, he had someone who truly listened to him? Someone who didn’t just see him as a driver, as Carlos Sainz Sr.'s son, but as a human being with fears, doubts, vulnerabilities no one else knew?
Is that what he misses? The way she understood him, how she anticipated what he felt before he even realized it himself?
Or is it Silvia?
The woman, the person beyond her role.
Because if it were just about therapy, he would have found another psychologist by now. He would have moved on.
But he hasn’t.
Because no one else is her.
And then, amidst that tangle of thoughts, comes an even worse doubt.
What about Silvia?
Was it just work for her?
Was she simply good at what she did, and he made the mistake of confusing professionalism with something more?
Was everything he felt real, or was she just doing her job?
That thought sticks like a thorn in his mind.
And when he arrives in Mexico, about to race one of his last Grands Prix with Ferrari, he can’t stop wondering—If Silvia were here, if she were watching him, would she feel any of this? Or would she just see another driver, another patient?
He tries not to think too much. He focuses on the car, on the strategy, on doing his job. And for a while, it works.
Qualifying is solid, the start is clean, the race is intense. He has to fight for every lap, every corner, every strategic decision. And when he crosses the finish line in first place, when he hears his name chanted by thousands of Mexican fans, he should feel complete.
He should feel invincible.
But the moment he gets out of the car, as the initial euphoria settles into his exhausted body, his first instinct is to reach for his phone.
To text Silvia.
To say, “Did you see that?”
To read, “Took you long enough, Sainz.”
To hear her voice, even if just for a few seconds.
But he can’t.
Because Silvia is no longer on the other side of the line.
And so, as the press surrounds him, as the mechanics embrace him, as the Mexican crowd idolizes him like one of their own, Carlos feels something unexpected.
Loneliness.
It’s absurd, unfair, selfish. He’s surrounded by people who care about him, in one of the best moments of his career, and yet, as the red and green confetti explodes into the air and the crowd roars his name, all he can think about is what’s missing.
Who's missing.
How none of this feels the same without her.
Carlos holds on as long as he can.
He gets through the interviews, the photos, the congratulations. He endures the hugs from his mechanics, the cheers of the fans, the pats on the back from his father. He withstands the lights, the noise, the overwhelming energy of everyone around him.
But the moment he sees an opportunity, he slips away.
His team is still celebrating, the paddock is a chaos of people coming and going, journalists chasing statements, assistants rushing from one place to another. No one notices when he sneaks off, when he steps into a quieter hallway, when he opens the door to an empty room and closes it behind him.
His breathing is faster than normal. Not because of the race. Not because of the adrenaline.
Because of what he’s about to do.
Carlos holds his phone between his fingers, turning it absentmindedly in his hand as the echoes of the celebration still vibrate through the paddock. In the distance, he hears the laughter of the Ferrari crew, the sound of champagne bottles popping open again and again. The euphoria is still in the air, and yet, he feels completely detached from it all.
Winning in Mexico should have been one of the happiest moments of his career. He should be smiling, enjoying it, letting himself be carried away by the thrill of victory. But all he feels is a persistent emptiness.
And he knows exactly why.
He exhales slowly and unlocks his phone. His thumb scrolls through his contacts until it lands on the name he’s been trying not to search for these past few days.
Silvia Costa.
For a few seconds, he just stares at the screen, hesitating. For what? What does he expect her to say? But before his brain can convince him not to, his finger has already tapped the number.
The dial tone rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
When the line finally opens, Carlos feels something tighten in his chest.
“…Carlos.”
She doesn’t ask why he’s calling. She doesn’t sound surprised. Just tired.
Carlos swallows and runs a hand down his face.
“I won.”
Silence. Long. Heavy.
Then, a barely audible exhale.
“I know.”
Carlos clenches his jaw.
“It doesn’t feel the same without you.”
Silvia doesn’t answer right away. And in that silence, he understands everything.
It’s not that she has nothing to say. It’s that she doesn’t know how to say it.
“Carlos…” she murmurs finally, and he closes his eyes, because he already knows what’s coming.
“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have called you,” he interrupts, his voice low. “Don’t do that.”
Silvia lets out a shaky breath.
“Then what do you want me to do?”
Carlos runs a hand through his hair, feeling the dried champagne clinging to his skin.
“I don’t know. Just… tell me the truth.”
Silvia stays quiet.
Carlos wets his lips, inhaling deeply before voicing the question that has been eating away at him since he got her message.
“Is this real for you? Do you feel the same way I do, or are you just ridiculously good at your job and I’ve been fooling myself all along?”
Silvia closes her eyes on the other end of the line.
Carlos feels it. He doesn’t need to see her to know he just hit exactly where it hurts.
Silvia exhales shakily, and Carlos can hear the hesitation in her silence. He doesn’t push, even though everything inside him is screaming for her to just say something.
And then, finally—
“Carlos,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost resigned. “You have to understand that this isn’t just about what we feel.”
Carlos clenches his jaw.
“But it is,” he insists. “That’s the only thing that should matter.”
Silvia lets out a breath, and he can picture her running a hand through her hair, just like she does when she’s trying to find the right words.
“I wish it were that simple,” she murmurs. “I wish we could just… pretend like none of the rest matters. But it does. It has to.”
Carlos exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why?”
Silvia hesitates.
“Because if this goes wrong, Carlos, it’s not just about us. It’s about my career, my credibility. You know what world we live in. People talk, they assume things, they twist narratives.”
Carlos swallows, staring down at the floor.
“You think they’ll say you took advantage of me?” he asks, voice quieter now, like the thought physically pains him.
Silvia shakes her head, even though he can’t see her.
“No,” she whispers. “I think they’ll say you took the risk, and I let it happen. That I blurred the line. That I became unprofessional. And then, what? Who’s going to trust me after that? Every athlete I work with knows someone in this world. You know how connected everything is.”
Carlos stays quiet, because as much as he wants to fight her on this, he knows she’s right.
Silvia exhales, softer this time.
“And it’s not just that.” Her voice wavers slightly. “I spent so much time convincing myself that this wasn’t real, that it was just… proximity, circumstance. And maybe at first, I even believed that.” She pauses, like she’s bracing herself for what comes next. “But I don’t anymore.”
Carlos closes his eyes.
“Then why are we even having this conversation?”
Silvia lets out a small, breathless laugh, like she can’t believe he doesn’t see it.
“Because knowing that doesn’t make it easier.” Her voice cracks slightly, and Carlos’ chest tightens. “Because it scares the hell out of me.”
Carlos’ grip on the phone tightens.
“Silvia…”
“I don’t get to just feel things, Carlos. Not like you do. Not when it could cost me everything I’ve worked for.”
Carlos exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
For the first time since this conversation started, he understands.
Not just what she’s saying, but what it means.
She’s not pushing him away because she doesn’t want him. She’s pushing him away because she does. Because she feels it just as much as he does, and that feeling is a risk neither of them knows how to navigate.
Carlos leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I hear you,” he murmurs, and Silvia goes silent, like she wasn’t expecting that. “I don’t like it. I don’t agree with it. But I hear you.”
Silvia exhales, something unreadable in the sound.
Carlos waits a moment, then speaks again, softer now.
“But we don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”
Silvia stays quiet, and he takes that as permission to keep going.
“I know you’re scared of what this could mean for you, for your career, for everything you’ve built. And I’m not asking you to risk all of that overnight.” He swallows, steadying himself. “But I am asking you to try.”
Silvia lets out a shaky breath.
Carlos grips his phone a little tighter.
“We can take it slow,” he continues. “We don’t have to tell anyone. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Just… let yourself have this. Let us have this.”
Silvia swallows audibly.
“Carlos…”
He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then opens them again, looking straight ahead as if she were in front of him.
“No one else gets to decide what this is except us.” His voice is firmer now, like he’s trying to anchor her to something solid. “We don’t have to make a statement. We don’t have to be reckless. We don’t even have to put a name to it yet.”
Silvia presses her lips together, thinking. He can tell she’s torn, that her brain is still trying to find a reason to say no.
Carlos softens.
“But we get to choose what this is,” he murmurs. “Not them. Not the media. Not the paddock. Us.”
Silvia closes her eyes, and for the first time in weeks, she lets herself imagine it.
A version of this that isn’t terrifying. A version where she doesn’t feel like she’s about to lose something. A version where it’s just them, learning how to be together without the weight of the world pressing in.
It’s dangerous. It’s a risk.
But so is not trying.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bigger mistake.
She lets out a breath.
Slow. Quiet. Just them.
“…Okay.”
Carlos straightens slightly, his fingers tightening around the phone.
“Okay?”
Silvia swallows.
“Yes,” she says, firmer now. “But slow. And private.”
Carlos’ lips twitch into a small, almost relieved smile.
“As private as it gets when I’m in a garage full of mechanics who have nothing better to do than gossip.”
Silvia groans, and Carlos laughs, warmth spreading through his chest for the first time in weeks.
And then, before she can start overthinking it again, before she can try to convince herself that this is a mistake, Carlos speaks again, his voice quieter, softer—almost pleading.
“Just let yourself be loved, Silvia.”
Silvia lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
It won’t be perfect. It won’t be easy.
But it’s theirs.
And for now, that’s enough.
Carlos had never been this impatient to get home.
The moment his plane touched down in Monaco, his mind was already ahead of him—tracing the familiar drive back to his apartment, picturing Silvia walking through his door. It had only been a few days since their call, since she agreed to try, but those days had stretched unbearably long.
Carlos checks the time again.
Five minutes.
He exhales, running a hand down his face, forcing himself to calm the restless energy in his body. It’s ridiculous—he’s been in countless high-pressure situations, faced the scrutiny of the world, handled races where milliseconds determined everything. And yet, standing in his own home, waiting for Silvia to arrive, he feels nervous.
Excited, but nervous.
The apartment is ready. He made sure of that the moment he got back from the race. Everything is set exactly the way he wants it—soft candlelight flickering on the table and along the shelves, filling the air with warm hints of vanilla and sandalwood. The kind of scent that lingers, that wraps around you like something familiar, something safe.
The kind of scent he hopes she’ll associate with him.
His stomach twists slightly at the thought, at the weight of what tonight means.
Because this isn’t just dinner. It’s the beginning of something neither of them knows how to define yet.
And then, the doorbell rings.
Carlos inhales sharply, running his palms down his jeans before moving to the door. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t give himself time to overthink. He just opens it.
And then he forgets how to breathe.
Silvia stands there, clutching her purse a little tighter than necessary, her weight shifting from one foot to the other. Her hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the golden glow of the hallway lights. And God—she looks breathtaking. Not in the way that models on magazine covers do, but in the way that matters. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you, that leaves you completely disarmed.
Carlos’ lips part slightly, but for a moment, no words come out.
Then—
"Joder."
Silvia blinks, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice.
Carlos shakes his head, exhaling a soft laugh as his eyes sweep over her again.
"You are beautiful."
Silvia lets out a nervous breath, her lips twitching.
“Carlos.”
It’s a quiet chiding, but there’s no real complaint behind it.
Carlos leans against the doorframe, eyes still fixed on her like he’s trying to memorize this moment.
“No, really,” he insists. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”
Silvia raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms in a half-hearted defense.
“Like what?”
Carlos tilts his head, his gaze softer now.
“Like you actually tried to impress me.”
Silvia exhales a breathy laugh, glancing to the side as if embarrassed.
“Maybe I did.”
Carlos’ stomach flips. He grips the edge of the door tighter.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice lower now, steadier. “It’s working.”
Silvia meets his gaze again, and something unspoken settles between them. Something new. Something electric.
For a brief second, neither of them moves.
Then, Silvia clears her throat, shifting slightly on her feet.
“So… are you going to invite me in, or are we just going to stand here while you stare at me?”
Carlos grins, stepping aside with an easy shrug.
“Oh, I’m definitely going to keep staring,” he admits, voice full of warmth. “Just from a more comfortable position.”
Silvia rolls her eyes, but the smile that curves her lips is undeniable. She steps past him, and as she crosses the threshold, something shifts.
The moment she enters his home, she realizes—
It doesn’t feel unfamiliar.
It doesn’t feel like stepping into someone else’s life.
It feels like she’s been here before, like she’s walked through this door a hundred times, even though this is the first.
The scent of vanilla and sandalwood lingers in the air, the candlelight casting soft shadows along the walls, the space so unmistakably Carlos—but somehow, not foreign to her at all.
Carlos watches as she takes it all in, the way her shoulders slowly relax, the tension in her grip on her purse easing.
And just like that, the nerves that had been tightening in his chest finally fade.
Because she’s here.
And it fits.
She fits.
He closes the door behind her, and when Silvia turns to face him, there’s something in her eyes—something hesitant, but sure all at once.
Carlos lets out a slow breath, smiling.
This is theirs.
The scent of garlic and simmering spices fills the kitchen while soft jazz hums in the background, wrapping around them like something tangible, something intimate.
Carlos moves around the stove with ease, occasionally bumping into Silvia as they navigate the space together. It’s effortless, like they’ve been doing this for years instead of for the first time.
They talk about everything and nothing.
Silvia tells him how she learned to cook at eight years old, not out of passion but out of necessity—because, according to her parents, “no daughter of ours is going to be a disgrace to Italian cuisine.”
Carlos laughs, shaking his head. Eight? He tells her that, by that age, he could barely make a sandwich. He learned how to control a clutch before he learned how to properly run. He grew up with the smell of gasoline instead of home-cooked meals, with long weekends at the karting track instead of lazy mornings in the kitchen.
Silvia listens, slicing vegetables with steady hands, occasionally stealing glances at him. He tells her about Mónaco, about Madrid, about how circuits feel like home to him—strange, considering they are nothing more than strips of asphalt in different places.
Silvia teases him for his predictable answer.
Carlos smirks. “I’m a simple man, Costa.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s warmth behind it.
The conversation flows, easy and unfiltered. She talks about the places she loves—Florence, because it looks like a painting; the ocean, because it always calls her back.
Carlos listens. Really listens.
And then, somewhere between the soft sizzle of the pan and the quiet melody playing through the speakers, he turns to her.
"Do you dance?"
Silvia blinks, caught off guard.
"What?"
Carlos gestures toward the music, the smooth rhythm of a saxophone weaving through the air.
"Do you dance?" he repeats, voice softer this time.
Silvia hesitates, fingers still curled around the knife handle.
"Here?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
Carlos shrugs, stepping closer, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.
"Why not?"
Silvia exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head, but she doesn’t say no.
Carlos takes the knife from her hand, sets it down on the counter, and offers his own hand instead. A warm glow flickers in her eyes as she hesitates for just a second—then, slowly, she slips her fingers into his.
The music sways around them, rich and smooth, curling into the small spaces between their bodies. Carlos leads them away from the counter with an easy pull, guiding her into the center of the kitchen.
There’s no rush, no urgency.
Just slow, deliberate movement.
Silvia’s free hand settles lightly on his shoulder; his drifts to the small of her back, barely pressing, just resting. They step in time with the music, close but not desperate, fitting together as if they’ve always known how.
Carlos has danced before—at parties, at family gatherings, in the middle of celebrations with his team. But never like this. Never in a kitchen filled with candlelight, with a woman who looks at him like she belongs there.
Silvia’s hair brushes against his cheek as she tilts her head slightly, adjusting to the rhythm. Her forehead is just at the right height—the perfect height—for him to press a kiss there without thought, without hesitation.
So he does.
Soft.
Barely there.
Silvia stills, just for a second. A breath caught between them.
But she doesn’t pull away.
Carlos closes his eyes briefly, letting himself memorize this—the warmth of her against him, the way she feels right in his arms. There’s no desperation in the way they hold each other. No frantic need, no urgency.
Just stillness.
Calm.
Something that settles between them, steady and unshaken.
Silvia exhales, her fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulder.
Carlos keeps leading.
The jazz plays on.
And then—
A sharp sizzle.
A crackle.
A burning smell.
Silvia stiffens. Carlos’ eyes snap open.
The pan.
The food.
The goddamn stove.
“Shit.”
Silvia barely has time to react before Carlos spins away from her, lunging toward the kitchen counter. A thin column of smoke curls toward the ceiling, the once-promising meal now a charred, unrecognizable mess.
She presses a hand to her mouth, trying—and failing—not to laugh.
Carlos, gripping the handle of the pan, turns to her with an expression somewhere between devastation and disbelief.
“DO NOT LAUGH!” He looks back at the pan, the smell making him gag. And with a resigned look on his face, he turns again back to Silvia. “What do you think about ordering sushi?”
The months pass in quiet certainty.
Their relationship is private, but not a secret. They never make a grand announcement, never feel the need to define things for the world. They simply exist together, moving in and out of each other’s lives with an ease that feels both inevitable and right.
And the world—their world—accepts it without question.
The paddock, a place where rumors spread faster than race strategy updates, doesn’t treat it as a scandal. There are no whispers of controversy, no raised eyebrows. If anything, there’s an unspoken understanding, a silent approval from those who have seen the change in Carlos firsthand.
Because every time Silvia is there, he is different.
Lighter.
Happier.
His team notices it first. The way his shoulders aren’t weighed down by pressure the same way they used to be. The way he walks into the garage with a quiet kind of confidence, his mind clear, his focus sharper. The way he looks toward the paddock entrance before every session, waiting, searching—
And then, the moment he sees her, his entire face changes.
It becomes impossible to ignore.
The cameras catch it. The fans notice it.
Every race weekend she attends, Carlos carries an extra spark—something undeniable, something warm. His radio messages are lighter, his post-session interviews filled with effortless smiles. Even on the tougher weekends, when things don’t go his way, there’s a steadiness to him that wasn’t there before.
And the fans—oh, the fans—they adore Silvia.
Not just because she’s with him, but because she doesn’t just stand in his world—she belongs in it.
She walks through the paddock with quiet confidence, not needing to prove herself. She chats with the engineers, with the mechanics, with the media personnel who remember her from before. When fans recognize her and approach, she meets them with the same warmth she’s always had, taking pictures, sharing inside jokes.
Carlos is fiercely protective of her, but it turns out he doesn’t need to be.
Because the world has already decided: Silvia Costa is one of theirs now.
And then, of course, there’s Vasseur.
If anyone thought Fred Vasseur wouldn’t take full credit for their relationship, they were very wrong.
Every time Carlos or Silvia posts something—an innocuous photo from a race weekend, a picture of Carlos’ hand resting near Silvia’s on a dinner table, even just a candid shot from the paddock where they’re caught laughing together—
Vasseur is there.
In the comments.
Fred Vasseur: “You’re welcome.”
or—
Fred Vasseur: “I will be expecting my invitation.”
or, Carlos’ personal favorite—
Fred Vasseur: “All great love stories start with therapy. Shakespeare said that.”
(Silvia is pretty sure Shakespeare did not say that, but she lets it slide.)
Carlos never replies.
Silvia, on the other hand, always does.
Silvia Costa: “I am raising your rates, Fred.”
But for all the teasing, for all the public amusement, the best moments are the ones that belong only to them.
The quiet mornings in Monaco, where Carlos wakes up to find Silvia curled into his side, her hair spread across his pillow, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains. The lazy afternoons where they cook together, where Silvia tries (and fails) to get Carlos to tolerate more than the mildest amount of spice.
The race weekends where Carlos, exhausted but glowing from another podium, finds her waiting for him in the motorhome, her arms already open.
The stolen moments between flights, between commitments, between the noise of the world—where it’s just them.
Because the truth is, everything in Carlos’ life makes sense when she’s there.
Everything fits when Silvia is beside him.
And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s chasing something just out of reach.
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runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn
Words: 4.5k
Warnings: Lando & Lyra POV, basically their friendship, COVID, drama
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a/n: Sooooo... This part is like a transition for the next chapters, so you all ccan understand their history
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2013. 13 years old.
🩺
The classroom smelled exactly how a room full of teenagers that came from an hour of P.E. would smell: a nauseous mix of sweat, deodorant and perfume. My legs still felt heavy from the sprints our teacher had forced us to run, and my ponytail was messy with a few loose strands sticking to my face.
I dropped into my seat, barely paying attention to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as everyone settled in. But then, he sat down next to me.
Lando Norris.
It wasn’t the first time we had been paired together for projects, but it was the first time we had to sit next to each other in class. Usually, we only interacted casually, flirting as a joke, teasing each other for fun… But now, stuck side by side in the same desk, neither of us seemed to know how to act.
For once, he wasn’t saying anything.
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. His uniform jacket was hanging on the chair, his hair was still damp from sweating in the sun, and he was tapping his pencil against his notebook like he was already bored out of his mind.
The teacher started talking, explaining the exercise we had to complete before the end of the lesson. Something about reading comprehension, analyzing a passage, and answering a set of questions.
Easy enough.
I lowered my gaze to my worksheet, filling out the first answer quickly, but as I moved on to the next, something caught my attention.
Lando hadn’t written anything.
His pencil was clenched tightly in his hand, tapping erratically against the desk, but his eyes kept darting between the exercise and the textbook, his brows furrowed like he was trying to decode the words instead of just reading them.
For the first time, I actually noticed him.
The way his fingers traced over the sentences, the way he blinked hard, like the letters were shifting in front of him.
The way his jaw tightened just a little, frustration creeping into his expression.
I hesitated for a second, unsure if I should say anything, but then, before I could stop myself, I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice.
“Do you want to do it together?”
Lando’s head snapped toward me, startled. He blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for the first time ever, he didn’t have a sarcastic comeback waiting for me.
“I-” he hesitated, glancing down at his paper before looking back at me. His usual confidence faltered just slightly, replaced by something more uncertain. “It’s fine. I just-”he cut himself off, sighing loudly. “I’m just slow at this.”
I tilted my head, studying him for a moment before moving my notebook a little closer to the middle of the desk and shifting slightly to be closer to him.
“I’ll read them out loud” I offered. “And then we can figure out the answers together.”
Lando’s fingers twitched around his pencil, and for a second, I thought he was going to refuse.
But then, slowly, he nodded.
When we got to the questions, I didn’t rush. I wrote my answer slowly, leaving space in case he wanted to copy it down. But instead, he nudged my elbow.
“Wait” he muttered, pointing at one of the sentences I had underlined. “That part, why did you mark it?”
“Because it explains the main idea. That’s what the first question is asking for.” I said, tracing the sentence with my finger.
We worked through the questions together. I made sure not to rush him, giving him time to process the words, helping whenever he hesitated. At first, he was a little tense, like he was waiting for me to get frustrated, but when I didn’t, he started to relax.
And then, before I even realized it, the awkward silence between us shifted.
Instead of tension, there was something easier, lighter. I made a joke about the ridiculous scenario in one of the problems, and Lando actually laughed. He made some teasing comment about my handwriting being too good, and I rolled my eyes, nudging his arm with my elbow.
The teasing was different now. Less forced. Less of a game.
We were just talking.
And by the time we finished the last question, something between us had changed. Neither of us said it out loud, but I think we both knew.
This was the start of something.
2015. 15 years old.
🏎️
The roar of engines filled the air, a constant, loud hum that vibrated through my chest as I stood near the grid. My helmet hung loosely in my grip, fingers tightening around the edge as I tried to focus, to breathe.
It wasn’t my first race. Hell, I have done this before, I won before. But something about today felt different. Maybe it was the fact that this was Formula 4 Britain, the step that actually mattered. Maybe it was because I had more to prove, more eyes on me than ever before.
Or maybe, maybe, it was because of her.
I turned my head slightly, my eyes scanning the small group of people standing near the paddock. My friends and family were there, chatting, waiting for the race to start, but my focus locked onto Lyra.
She stood with her arms crossed, wearing my hoodie because she complained about being too cold. Her orange hair was up, loose strands falling against her face as she listened to whatever conversation was happening around her, but I could tell she was watching me.
Just like she always did since that class where she helped me.
I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders before she caught me staring, but it was too late.
Her gaze flickered to mine, and she immediately tilted her head, green eyes narrowing slightly in that way she always did when she knew something was up.
A second later, she was walking toward me.
"You're nervous" she said, standing next to me and looking at the car.
"Nah" I huffed, laughing and shaking my head.
“Lando…”
The way she said my name sent a shiver down my spine, but I ignored it, biting the inside of my cheek.
I wanted to act like I was fine, like I had everything under control, but the way she was looking at me made it impossible to lie.
"Fine. Maybe a little" I sighed.
"You always do this, you know?" she said, crossing her arms again, nudging me softly with her hip. "You overthink, you get in your head, and then-"
"I go out there and win?" I finished for her, lifting a brow and smirking.
“Exactly” she chuckled.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The noise of the track surrounded us, but somehow, standing there with her, everything felt quieter. She reached out to the sleeves of my race suit, helping me put them on, and zipping it up to my neck.
“You’ll be fine” she said with a smile.
“Yeah? You sound pretty sure.” I smiled, raising an eyebrow.
“Because you always are. You can have the worst start in the world, and somehow, you still find a way to win.” she sighed, shrugging her shoulders.
I smiled weakly and nodded. She’s right, it’s not the first time something like that happened to me.
“Do me a favor. Try not to crash, yeah? I don’t feel like visiting you in the hospital.” she smirked, taking a step back when the staff of my team asked her to move away.
“Noted!” I laughed, rolling my eyes.
I don’t remember every second of the race, it blurred together in flashes of speed, the sound of tires against asphalt, and the adrenaline rush of pushing the car to its limits. Every nerve in my body was on fire, every reflex sharp, every instinct screaming at me to go faster, to win.
And I did.
When I crossed the finish line, the feeling hit me all at once: victory, relief, pure euphoria.
And then, as soon as I pulled into the pit lane and climbed out of the car, the first thing I saw wasn’t my team, it wasn't the trophy waiting for me.
It was her.
Lyra Montgomery.
Standing just past the barriers, hands cupped around her mouth as she shouted something I couldn’t hear over the noise. Her eyes were bright, her smile wide, and for a moment, everything else faded.
The world was loud, but she was the only thing I could focus on.
I pulled off my helmet, my pulse still racing, and as I locked eyes with her, something in my chest tightened. It was different this time. The way she looked at me, the way I felt when I saw her standing there.
The crush I had tried so hard to ignore?
It was no longer an innocent crush.
It was way worse.
2016. 16 years old.
🩺
The streets were alive with movement, buzzing with the energy of a city that never seemed to sleep. Lights glowed from shop windows, casting a golden hue on the streets as we walked. Lando was beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie I wore many times, the hood pulled up just enough to cover his messy curls. Our friends were a few steps ahead, laughing about something I hadn’t caught, too lost in my own thoughts.
We spent the entire day exploring, getting lost in the streets, stopping at cafés that smelled like fresh pastries and coffee, taking stupid pictures in front of every tourist attraction we could find. It had been fun, the kind of carefree, weightless fun that made me forget about everything else.
But even through the laughter, the teasing and the stupid inside jokes, something had felt off.
And it had everything to do with the boy walking next to me.
Lando and I had always been close. Best friends. His family always invited me to have dinner every Friday, his sisters and I go shopping together from time to time. But lately, things have been… different. It wasn’t just me. I knew he felt it too. The way we’d catch each other staring a little too long, the way his teasing had changed and became less playful, but more intense. The way I could feel his eyes on me when I wasn’t looking.
It was confusing. And I hated being confused.
We made it back to the hotel just before curfew, sneaking past teachers who were definitely too tired to care that we had spent an extra hour outside. But none of us were ready to sleep. Not yet.
That’s how we ended up on the roof.
We sat in a circle, passing around snacks we bought, feeling the night air crisp against our skin. Someone played music from a speaker, low enough that it blended with the distant sounds of cars and late-night conversations from the streets below.
At some point, our friends started to disappear, one by one, slipping away to their rooms, exhausted from the day. Until it was just us.
Just me and Lando.
Alone.
I leaned back on my hands, staring at the sky, feeling the silence settle between us. Not awkward. Just… heavy.
“You’ve been weird lately” Lando said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Me? You’re the one who’s been acting weird.” I sighed, glaring at him.
He scoffed, shaking his head, but there was no real annoyance behind it. He was thinking. Hard. I know him.
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just sat there, running a hand through his hair before finally letting out a breath.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure” I whisper, nodding slowly.
He hesitated, like he wasn’t sure how to say it. And then:
“Do you ever think about us?”
I froze. My fingers curled against the material of my skirt, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs.
“Us?” I repeated, my voice quieter now.
“Yeah” he turned to face me, his blue eyes catching the glow of the city lights. “Because I do. And I don’t know what the hell it means, but I-” he exhaled, shaking his head. “I just wanted to know if you feel it too.”
I do.
I had been feeling it for months, but I had buried it, pushed it down so deep I had almost convinced myself it wasn’t real. Because if I admitted it, it would change everything.
I looked at him, at the way he was watching me, waiting. And before I could stop myself, before I could think it through…
I kissed him.
It was soft, hesitant. Just a brush of lips, but God, it was enough to send my heart into a complete freefall. Lando sucked in a sharp breath, and for a second, neither of us moved.
Then he kissed me back.
It wasn’t like I had imagined, not that I had imagined it, obviously. But it was gentle, careful in a way I hadn’t expected. Like he was afraid I would disappear if he wasn’t.
But then, reality crashed in.
I pulled away suddenly, breathless, my mind racing too fast to process anything other than pure panic.
“No” I whispered.
“What?”
“No, this-” I shook my head, hating the way my chest ached just saying the words. “We’re friends. We- This can’t happen again”
His brows furrowed, his expression shifting into something I couldn’t handle seeing. Confusion, pain…
“Lyra-”
“I have to go.”
I scrambled to my feet, avoiding his gaze, and without another word, I turned and walked away, leaving him sitting there alone on the rooftop.
And I knew, deep down, that nothing between us would ever be simple again.
2019. 19 years old.
🏎️
I don’t know why I had been trying to convince myself that I didn’t care. Maybe because pretending was easier. Maybe because admitting the truth, that watching Lyra with someone else felt like a knife between my ribs was too painful.
But all of that pretending went straight to hell the second I found out he was cheating on her.
I hadn’t meant to find out, actually.
It wasn’t like I was out there searching for proof that her relationship was a disaster waiting to happen.
It just happened.
One of my friends mentioned seeing him, pressed up against some girl at a bar across town. Then another one said they saw him before, doing the same thing with a different gorl. And suddenly, it wasn’t just one rumor. It was the kind of truth that spread through whispers until it became undeniable.
I spent hours pacing my apartment, thinking if I should tell her or not. Because I knew how it would sound coming from me, the best friend who never liked him in the first place. The guy who had every reason to want to see him gone.
But the second I saw her that night, laughing at something he had said, trusting him, I couldn’t keep it to myself.
Lyra didn’t believe me at first.
She had just stared at me, arms crossed, brows furrowed, anger written all over her face. And fuck, that hurt.
"You’re just saying this because you never liked him" she had snapped.
"Because he’s a dickhead” I had corrected, voice sharp. “And now I have proof.”
I had shown her the pictures, sent by Max, who had been at the bar, who had seen it happen in real time. And then, just like that, something cracked in her expression. Like she had been holding onto some fragile piece of hope, and I had just shattered it in my hands.
She didn’t say anything after that. Just turned and walked away.
And now, hours later, she was here.
Standing in my front door.
I opened the door to find her standing there, her eyes red-rimmed, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"Hey," I said, not knowing what else to say.
"I didn’t know where else to go."
That sentence alone was enough to send my heart into freefall.
I stepped aside, letting her in, watching as she walked past me and into my house like she had a hundred times before. She went straight to the couch, curling up in the corner, pulling her knees to her chest.
I sat down next to her, leaving just enough space between us to pretend like I wasn’t aching to pull her into me.
"So… what happened?" I asked carefully.
Lyra exhaled, shaking her head. Then after a few seconds of silence, she spoke.
"I confronted him."
"And?"
"He tried to lie” she let out a humorless laugh, wiping away an angry tear with the fist of her, actually mine, hoodie. “Then, when he realized I wasn’t buying his bullshit, he started apologizing. Saying it was a mistake. That it didn’t mean anything" she swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor. "Like that made it better."
I clenched my jaw, fingers twitching with the need to hit something.
"You deserve better than that" I said.
"Yeah, well. Clearly, I have terrible taste in guys." she scoffed.
I looked at her then, really looked at her, and the words burned on my tongue.
Not all guys. Not me. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.
But I didn’t say them.
Because it didn’t matter.
Because I already knew what she would say if I did.
Instead, I just leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly.
"You wanna stay here tonight?"
"Yeah. I think I do." she whispered. “I hate driving at night”
That should have made me feel better. It should have made me feel important, knowing I was the one she ran to when everything went to shit instead of going to one of her sister's houses, or even hiding in her parent's house.
But all it did was make me feel more miserable.
Because I will always be the shoulder she will need to cry, nothing more.
2020. 20 years old.
🩺
The world outside was quiet. Too quiet. The streets of London, usually buzzing with life, now felt like an empty shell of the city I had come to know. The pandemic had shut everything down, forcing people indoors, forcing us to adapt to a version of life that none of us were prepared for.
My parents and both my sisters were working all day in the hospital, and since I didn’t have any chance of having experience in hospitals, I couldn’t join them, not even live with them in case something happened.
And somehow, in the middle of all that uncertainty, I had ended up living with Lando.
It wasn’t planned. Nothing about it had been. When my student housing had abruptly closed, and flights or trains to go back home were impossible, Lando had offered without hesitation. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe, for him, it was.
But for me?
Living under the same roof as Lando, spending every second of every day together, was dangerous.
Because we had always been complicated since that night on the rooftop.
And now, we had nowhere to run.
At first, it was easy. Comfortable, even. We settled into a routine with late mornings, lazy breakfasts, him streaming for hours while I studied or read on the couch, nights spent watching movies, playing games together.
Then, at some point, things started to shift.
The space between us got smaller. The casual touches lasted longer. The teasing became something heavier, something that made my skin burn. The way he looked at me changed, or maybe I had just started noticing it more.
And then, one night, we stopped pretending.
It started with a conversation, one we had probably been avoiding for weeks.
We were sitting on the couch, a movie playing in the background, both pretending to watch but neither of us paying attention. My legs were stretched over his lap, his fingers tracing absentminded circles on my ankle. The air between us was charged, tense, thick with something unspoken.
"I think I’m losing my mind" I admitted, tilting my head back against the cushions.
Lando chuckled, shifting slightly.
"That makes two of us."
"No, seriously! It’s been, what? Nearly two months in lockdown? I swear, if I don’t find something to do, I’m going to-" I cut myself off, immediately regretting my choice of words when I saw the slow smirk spreading across his face.
"Something to do, huh?" his voice was teasing, but there was something else in his eyes. Something that made my stomach tighten.
I swallowed, suddenly aware of how close we were, of the way his fingers were still resting on my leg, of the way my heart was pounding wildly in my chest.
It wasn’t the first time we had ended up like this, locked in some invisible tug-of-war, stuck in a moment that felt like it could tip over the edge at any second. But usually, one of us would break it. Make a joke, create some distance, act like nothing has happened.
This time, neither of us moved.
"I’m just saying" I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "If you didn’t rush me to pack my things, I could have something to solve this thing"
"What kind of thing?" his smirk didn’t fade.
"You know exactly what I mean."
There was a pause, the kind that stretched too long, the kind that made it impossible to breathe.
Then, Lando shifted, turning to face me fully, his expression unreadable.
"So, what? You want to be quarantine fuck buddies now?"
I let out a laugh, but it came out too breathless, too shaky.
“Sure” I said before I could stop and think.
And I meant it, but at the same time, I didn’t.
Lando arched an eyebrow, his smirk turning into something more serious.
"No feelings" he said, looking into my eyes. “And no regrets”
"None" I lied.
His gaze flickered down to my lips for a fraction of a second before he met my eyes again.
"You sure about that?"
No.
But I nodded anyway.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t soft, or hesitant, like the first kiss we had years ago. It was hungry, like we had been waiting too long, like we were both starving for it.
I barely registered him pulling me onto his lap, my knees bracketing his hips, my hands tangling in his curls. His fingers pressed into my waist, holding me in place as his mouth moved against mine, deep and needy.
We weren’t thinking.
We weren’t worrying about what this would mean tomorrow, or the day after that.
Right now, there was only this.
His hands slipped under the hoodie and the second his fingers met my bare skin, I gasped.
"Fuck" he muttered against my lips. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
I didn’t.
I didn’t want to stop.
"Don’t” I whispered.
His response was immediate, his lips trailing down my neck, his hands gripping my hips tighter, pulling me closer.
And for the first time in years, I let myself not think about the consequences.
But I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.
Because the moment it was over, the moment I was lying there in his bed, reality hit me like a fucking freight train.
Because he didn’t feel the same way anymore. Right?
I had spent so much time convincing myself that my feelings for Lando were long gone, buried somewhere beneath years of friendship. But as I turned my head and watched him, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, his face relaxed in the dim light, I knew.
I was falling for him, again.
And this time, it was worse.
Because now, he didn’t feel the same.
Because now, I was just a distraction.
2021. 21 years old.
🩺
I wasn’t stupid.
I knew that what had happened between Lando and me during the lockdown wasn’t supposed to mean anything. That was the entire of being fuck buddies.
And yet, somehow, it had still left a mark on me.
Maybe it was because, after that first night, we kept falling into it, late at night when the house was too quiet, when we couldn’t keep pretending that there wasn’t something between us. Maybe it was because, even after lockdown ended, even after life started moving again, the tension between us never truly went away and we continued doing it.
But we never talked about it.
We just let it happen, hanging between us like an unfinished conversation.
Until, one day, it stopped completely.
The day that changed everything.
It was a random afternoon in August, just another day of scrolling through Instagram while I was lying on my couch, too exhausted after my hospital shift to do anything else. My feet were sore, my eyes heavy, but then I saw it.
The picture of Lando with her. Her hands hugging his neck and his hands on her lower back, his smile easy, relaxed, like nothing in the world was complicated for him. They were standing in the middle of a beach club.
And I realized something that shattered me.
I hadn’t even known he was gone.
For the first time since we met, he had gone on a trip without even telling me his plans.
I wasn’t there.
And she was.
I stared at the picture for too long, my heart squeezing painfully in my chest, something sharp and ugly clawing its way up my throat. Because this was the moment I finally understood.
I had been waiting for him.
And he had already moved on.
I locked my phone, tossed it onto the coffee table, and forced myself to breathe.
This was what I had wanted, right? For things to go back to normal? For us to forget about what happened during lockdown?
So why did it feel like something inside me had just broken?
I had to stop this. Now.
Whatever I thought I felt for Lando, whatever had been lingering between us, I had to let it go.
I refused to be that girl, the one who sat around waiting, the one who let herself get caught up in something that was never meant to be.
Lando had moved on.
And so would I.
I met Edward a few weeks later.
It was one of those chance encounters, the kind that only happened in movies.
He lived in the apartment next to mine, had just moved in a few months ago. He was older, confident in a way that felt different from the boys I had known before. He was easy to talk to, made me laugh, made me feel wanted in a way I hadn’t in a long time.
And most importantly: he wasn’t Lando.
So when he asked me out, I said yes.
And when one date turned into two, then five, then months of falling into something comfortable, I told myself it was enough.
Because this was what I needed.
Someone who chose me. Someone I can settle down with.
And if there was a tiny voice in the back of my mind, whispering that something was missing.
Summary: Oscar Piastri's disciplined world spins off-axis when he meets Elena Sainz. The catch? She's Carlos Sainz's sister. Their intense connection sparks a forbidden romance, pushing them into a reckless game of secrecy and desire. When the truth explodes, will their love survive the fallout?
Word count: 12k (i tried, i really tried to make it shorter...)
Warnings: explicit sexual content, strong language, alcohol
A/N: what. the fuck. was. today's race. do not talk to me about it, do not mention it. this year's season starts the 23rd of march in china. australia never happened.
masterlist
Oscar Piastri had learned to tune out the noise.
The Formula 1 paddock was controlled chaos, a symphony of roaring engines, overlapping conversations, and orders shouted through radios. But none of it fazed him. He moved through the garages and meetings with the same methodical calm he carried into every corner on track. His world was simple: improve, win, move forward.
And then she arrived.
Elena Sainz stepped into the paddock at the start of the 2024 season as if she had always belonged there—walking with quiet confidence, wearing a look he knew all too well. Because it was the same one Carlos gave him just before a race. He had seen her before, of course. There were photos of her on Sainz’s social media, Instagram stories of them cycling, on a yacht, at the family estate. But until that moment, he had never really paid attention.
The problem was, now he couldn’t stop.
The first time he saw her in her new role was at the pre-season press conference in Bahrain. She stood beside Carlos, wearing a striking red Ferrari dress, arms crossed, expression neutral as she listened to reporters fire off their questions. She didn’t force a smile, didn’t try to seem approachable. She was just there—assessing, calculating. Watching them all. Watching him.
Oscar kept his composure, as always. But when their eyes met, a sharp jolt of electricity ran down his spine.
Later, he made the comment without thinking too much about it.
"Since when do you have a personal assistant?"
Carlos, scrolling through something on his phone, didn’t even look up.
"She’s not my assistant."
"Oh, right, my bad." Oscar rolled his eyes with exaggerated dramatics. "What’s the correct term now? Trusted advisor?"
"Manager."
The voice wasn’t Carlos’.
Oscar turned just in time to see her approaching at a measured pace. Elena Sainz stopped beside them, offering him a half-smile that was anything but friendly.
"Elena Sainz, by the way." She extended her hand effortlessly. "But if you need to call me something else, I can give you a few suggestions."
It took Oscar a second to react before he shook her hand. Her skin was cold from the water bottle she held in the other, but her grip was firm. Confident. Irritatingly confident.
"How generous."
"They say it’s one of my best qualities." Elena tilted her head slightly, her expression composed but with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "That, and my ability to stay one step ahead."
Carlos clicked his tongue, clearly entertained.
"Give it a month, Piastri. Once you see how she works, you’ll be terrified."
"Oh, I already know." Oscar let go of Elena’s hand with practiced ease, as if he had felt absolutely nothing. As if his brain wasn’t still processing the intensity of her gaze. "I’m just surprised she didn’t put ‘master strategist’ on her business card."
Elena leaned against the table and shrugged.
"I figured ‘Carlos Sainz’s manager’ was enough to make it clear what I’m made of."
Oscar held her gaze a second longer than he should have.
Carlos cleared his throat.
"Alright, children. I’d rather not have my own manager fired on her first day."
Elena let out a quiet laugh before straightening up.
"Don’t worry, Carlos. I can handle it."
She met Oscar’s eyes once more before turning away, walking off with the same confidence she had arrived with.
Oscar exhaled through his nose and looked back at Carlos.
"I don’t like her."
Carlos smirked over the rim of his water bottle.
"Sure you don’t."
Oscar took a slow sip of his own drink, watching Elena’s figure on the other side of the room.
The problem was, he also couldn’t stop looking at her.
Oscar thought it would pass.
That the irritation Elena Sainz stirred in him would fade with time, like the foam on a beer after a toast. That her presence in the paddock would blend into the background, just another familiar face in a sea of them.
He was wrong.
Elena wasn’t like the other newcomers to Formula 1—the ones who arrived tentatively, trying to fit into the finely tuned machinery of a team. No. She was already fitted in. She already belonged.
The worst part was, she knew it.
Oscar saw it in the way she moved through the Ferrari garage, in how effortlessly she spoke to engineers, mechanics, and executives. In how Carlos barely had to glance at her for her to know exactly what he needed.
But most of all, he saw it in the way she looked at him.
It was a game. And he wasn’t sure when, exactly, it had started.
Maybe it was in Jeddah, when they crossed paths in a narrow hallway and she slipped past him with a barely audible whisper:
"Do you always walk that stiffly, or is it just when I’m around?"
Or in Melbourne, when he passed by the hospitality area and saw her leaning against a railing, sipping coffee with infuriating ease. When their eyes met, she raised an eyebrow and mused, just loud enough over the ambient noise:
"You don’t seem like a coffee person. I’d say hot chocolate. With marshmallows, maybe?"
Oscar frowned, not understanding why that threw him off so much.
Or perhaps it was in Japan, at one of those post-race parties where the noise and lights made everything feel a little more unreal. She was on the other side of the room, laughing at something someone had said, and then—without warning—she looked right at him. Champagne glass in hand, wearing that enigmatic half-smile that made him want to cut through the crowd just to see if, up close, she would smile at him the same way.
It was subtle. Insidious.
And Oscar was losing.
Because for every comment she made, he had a response ready on the tip of his tongue. Because every time she looked at him with that glint of mischief, he found himself searching for her in a room, waiting to see how long it would take for her to provoke him again.
Because, no matter how much he denied it, he loved the damn game.
Then came China.
It was no secret that Ferrari and McLaren were locked in a tight battle in the championship. Carlos, Leclerc, and Lando were fighting for points race after race, and Oscar, of course, was right in the middle of it all.
The weekend had been tense. During the press conference, Oscar tossed a casual remark at Carlos as they settled into their seats.
"Careful tomorrow, Sainz. I’d hate to see you in a wall just for the sake of tradition."
Carlos rolled his eyes, but it was the quiet laugh to his right that really caught his attention.
Elena stood with her arms crossed, expression neutral but with that glint in her eyes. As Oscar walked past her after the interviews, she glanced sideways at him.
Elena tilted her head, somewhere between amused and analytical.
"Interesting. I wonder if your confidence is real, or if you’re just used to faking it."
Oscar didn’t blink.
"I wonder the same about you."
Elena smiled, making no effort to deny anything.
"I suppose we’ll both find out."
Oscar held her gaze a moment longer before letting out a quiet laugh.
"I hope you won’t be disappointed by mine."
"I hope the same." She shrugged before turning on her heel. "Though, if I am… I’ll be sure to let you know."
And with that, she walked away.
Oscar exhaled, realizing too late that he had been holding his breath.
He was definitely losing.
This year, Miami had a different kind of energy.
Maybe it was the atmosphere—the sticky heat creeping under clothes, the constant mix of music and engines in the air. Maybe it was the tension in the championship, the ever-tightening battle, the sense that every race mattered more than the last.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was her.
Elena had been at every Grand Prix since the season started. But this weekend, for some reason, her presence felt heavier.
And then came Saturday night.
And the elevator.
The entire hotel was asleep.
Miami was a city of excess, of bright lights and incessant noise, but at that moment, inside the luxury skyscraper, everything was calm.
The only signs of life were a couple of employees walking silently down the hallways, and the two of them, waiting for the elevator in the lobby.
Oscar couldn't sleep. He had spent the last hour wandering around the hotel, without any particular destination, hoping that fatigue would hit him suddenly and send him to bed. It didn't work.
Elena, on the other hand, had just closed her laptop after losing track of time at the bar, going over a couple of public relations matters for Carlos. The glass of wine she’d been sipping on was still evident in the slight flush on her cheeks and the languid way she held her purse.
Neither of them said anything when they saw each other.
The tension from the past few weeks still hung in the air, like a storm that never quite broke. Oscar gave her a brief nod, and she did the same, but the silence between them felt heavier than usual.
The elevator was taking too long.
Oscar couldn’t help but glance sideways at Elena, noticing the subtle movement of her fingers on the strap of her purse. Impatient.
“Working late?” he finally asked, his voice low, just to fill the void.
She turned her head slightly, sizing him up before responding.
“Not everyone has the luxury of walking around the hotel when they can’t sleep.”
Oscar gave a wry smile.
“Yeah, well. Not everyone has the need to manage their brother’s public image every weekend.”
Elena squinted at him.
“It’s an easier job than you think.”
“Of course. Carlos never says anything out of line, never stirs controversy, never gets into trouble.”
“Exactly.”
Oscar let out a brief laugh through his nose, but the sound quickly died when the elevator finally arrived, its doors opening with a soft “ding.”
They stepped inside together.
The doors closed. The elevator shut with a soft click and began to move as normal.
Oscar leaned his back against the padded wall and let his head fall back, exhaling slowly. Elena did the same in front of him, though with more grace. She held her purse with both hands in front of her, as if she needed something to hold onto.
The silence was so thick that the faint hum of the elevator’s motor seemed deafening.
Oscar felt the weight of the day accumulating on his shoulders, in his breathing. He wasn’t sure why insomnia was worse tonight, why his body refused to rest. Or rather, he knew why, but he wasn’t in the mood to admit it. Not when the reason was standing right in front of him.
Suddenly, the elevator stopped abruptly.
There was no jolt, no harsh shake, just a sharp stop, accompanied by a momentary blackout in the control buttons.
Elena straightened immediately.
“What the hell...?”
Oscar looked at the panel, hoping the light for the floor they were heading to would turn back on. It didn’t.
He didn’t feel the elevator moving again either.
Elena pressed a button. Then another. Then several, more insistently.
Nothing.
She turned her head toward Oscar, and he could see the exact moment she realized the situation.
“No.” She shook her head, almost as if she could reverse it. “No way.”
Oscar blinked slowly.
“I think we’re stuck.”
Elena closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.
“No shit, Sherlock. How did you deduce that?”
He smiled because it came naturally, because there was something almost amusing about seeing her flustered.
“Calm down. It won’t be for long.”
Elena didn’t respond. She just pressed her lips together in a tense line and went back to pressing the buttons, as if the elevator would give in to her persistence.
The panel didn’t even beep.
She sighed and pressed the emergency button.
The speaker crackled with static before a sleepy voice responded:
“Yes?”
Elena leaned toward the microphone urgently.
“We’re stuck in the elevator.”
There was a pause. Then, a yawn.
“Oh. Okay.”
Elena frowned.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. It’s probably a temporary glitch. These things happen when the system resets in the early hours.”
Oscar and Elena exchanged a look.
“How long until it works again?” Oscar asked.
“Mmm… a few minutes. Half an hour at most.”
Elena threw her head back and closed her eyes, as if she needed all the patience in the world not to explode.
“Great.”
The intercom voice came through again.
“If it still doesn’t respond in a while, we’ll call maintenance. Don’t worry.”
There was a click, and then, just silence.
Oscar watched Elena cautiously, waiting for her reaction.
She looked back at him.
Then, she exhaled a long sigh before slowly sliding down the wall of the elevator until she was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed and her head resting against the padded panel.
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
“Giving up that easily?”
“No. I’m just adapting.”
Oscar watched her for a second longer, then shrugged and did the same.
It didn’t make sense to stay standing, after all.
The elevator was dim, lit only by the faint emergency light. It was late. Almost no one was awake in the hotel. There was no sound beyond the static hum of the machinery and their own breathing. The air was thick, charged with something neither of them knew how to handle.
Elena pulled out her phone, checking it out of habit, though she didn’t expect to find anything.
"No signal." Her voice was low, almost as if she didn’t want to break the silence between them.
"Perfect. Now you have no excuse to be watching nonsense on TikTok."
Elena narrowed her eyes, smiling faintly, but the mockery in his tone didn’t go unnoticed.
"And what are you going to do? Philosophize about life in the dark?"
Oscar looked at her, clearly amused. The sarcasm in her voice had vanished, replaced by something... closer. Something more intense.
"Maybe." He replied, still holding onto his attitude. But that spark of playfulness was there, a touch of complicity that was growing stronger, more palpable.
Elena didn’t say anything else. She remained silent for a few seconds, fiddling with her phone in her hands while the elevator stayed still.
Oscar watched how the soft light reflected on her face. Every small movement she made was a reminder of how close she was to him, of how their bodies seemed to be drawing closer without either of them planning it. It was hard not to notice how the proximity between them was increasing, how the electricity between their skins seemed to grow more intense with every passing second.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"You’ve never been very subtle, have you, Piastri?"
He smiled, but the smile wasn’t mocking. It was different, like he was recognizing her in some way.
"I don’t like wasting time."
Elena looked at him with something more than amusement in her eyes, as though she was evaluating every word, every reaction. Her legs shifted slowly, and without thinking, she let her knee brush against his. A soft touch, almost imperceptible, but close enough for both of them to feel it.
Oscar swallowed, his chest tightening with that rapid heartbeat he couldn’t ignore. The tension between them was almost tangible, a weight neither of them could shake off.
She leaned slightly towards him, not breaking eye contact, and their voices softened further, becoming more intimate, more personal.
"You know," she said quietly. "I wonder how much longer you’re going to keep denying it."
Oscar didn’t answer.
Because he knew exactly what she was talking about.
Because he couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel the raw energy between them, that insistent attraction that grew with every held glance, every accidental touch, every provocation disguised as indifference.
Because he knew she knew it too.
Elena raised an eyebrow, waiting. Challenging.
Oscar closed his eyes for a second.
He took a deep breath.
But when he opened them again, Elena was even closer.
He could see every detail of her face. He could count the centimeters between them. Every freckle that adorned her tan skin. He could hear her breath, feel her warm breath grazing his skin, the hint of wine lingering from the glass she must’ve had earlier at the hotel bar.
It was a trap. And he knew it.
But he didn’t move.
Because, damn it, he didn’t want to move.
Elena’s fingers grazed his forearm, just a touch, an experiment.
Oscar felt his skin light up instantly.
"This is a fucking terrible idea," he muttered.
"Yeah?" Elena tilted her head slightly, letting the tension pull them together like an invisible thread. "Then tell me you don’t want it."
Oscar didn’t answer.
Because he did want it.
He wanted it with an absurd intensity, with an urgency that had been consuming him from the moment he saw her in the paddock at the start of the season.
But he shouldn’t.
The elevator beeped and came to life with a jolt.
Oscar reacted immediately, like a spring releasing. He stood up quickly, not thinking. The muscles in his legs tensed, and his torso straightened abruptly. A rushed, almost desperate movement, as if escaping the situation was the only way out.
Elena stayed on the floor of the elevator, watching him with that half-mocking, half-challenging smile, not moving. The position she was in, her knees bent, her eyes fixed on him, gave her a sense of power and control that bordered on indecent. Every inch of her body seemed to dare him to give in.
Oscar tried to look away, but his eyes inevitably returned to her. He knew he should leave, that he shouldn’t give in to what he wanted, to what his body was asking for, but... Elena was there, so close, so willing, and he was about to lose it all.
With a sharp movement, he tried to step towards the exit, distancing himself from her, avoiding any contact. He shouldn’t look at her anymore, shouldn’t think about it anymore.
But the damage was done. His mind was filled with images of her, from the most innocent to the most lewd thing he could have ever imagined.
Oscar quickly turned, as if the mere act of looking at her one more second would lead him to ruin. He walked towards the elevator’s exit, his pace quickening, and once he crossed the threshold, he breathed deeply, as if trying to expel all the accumulated tension from his body.
Elena didn’t say anything. She made no move. She stayed there, on the floor of the elevator, watching him walk away with a barely visible smile on her lips.
Oscar took a few steps, stopping at the end of the hallway before turning back, looking at her again, feeling the magnetism drawing him toward her. His body was begging to return, begging for more. But he stood firm.
In the end, he didn’t turn back.
But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time.
By the time Oscar reached his room, he felt like he was about to throw up everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours. What had just happened? Had he just dreamed all that?
He collapsed onto the bed, his mind spinning while the darkness of the room enveloped him. Tomorrow he had a race, but in that moment, all he could think about was Elena. That damn kiss. What had just happened, and what he still didn’t understand.
The clock read three in the morning. His eyes were heavy, but he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in the bed, uncomfortable. The heat was still there, weighing on his chest, and the memory of her lewd smile wouldn’t leave him alone.
Suddenly, the sound of a knock on the door made him jump. Oscar frowned. Who the hell was knocking at this hour?
He sprang up and approached the door still drowsy, scratching his head, and opened it almost without thinking.
And there she was.
Elena.
Her slender, defined figure stood in the doorway, the hallway light partially illuminating her face, which held a serious expression but with that playful spark in her eyes.
"Am I interrupting?" she said, her tone both cheeky and innocent at the same time.
Oscar stood frozen for a moment, speechless. He couldn’t believe it.
"What are you doing here? How the hell do you know what room I’m in?" he asked, the exhaustion in his voice mixed with a clear sense of bewilderment.
"I speak five languages and I have charisma," she replied, leaning against the door.
Oscar should make a sarcastic comment, something sharp to break the tension, but he can't. Not when he still feels the ghost of her breath trapped between them in that elevator, the images he has tried to push deep into his mind now resurfacing at the worst possible moment.
Elena doesn't say anything. She just looks at him.
Oscar feels the weight of her gaze on every nerve ending.
"Tell me this isn't a bad idea," she whispers, though her tone says she already knows the answer.
Oscar could say many things.
He could remind her who she is. He could tell her that they hate each other, that they don't get along, that they're incompatible. He could remind her who her brother is.
But she steps closer.
And Oscar feels like he's drowning.
It's slow. It's unbearably slow. The ground seems to tilt beneath him as Elena moves a little closer, with the same determination she uses to negotiate contracts and manipulate press conferences. And Oscar, for the first time, has nothing to say.
Because he wants this.
He wants it so much it hurts.
"Tell me to stop," she whispers, but they're already too close, and the air between them is suffocating, electric, sharp like a summer storm.
Oscar says nothing.
And then, finally, he kisses her.
It's soft at first, as if they're still testing the boundaries of something too big to contain. But Elena responds with the same repressed intensity, her nails sliding down his neck, a small gasp smothered against his lips, and then everything crashes, like a snowball tumbling down a cliff.
No more doubts.
No more lines.
Just them.
The room is too small for everything they're feeling.
Oscar pulls her against him with more force than he should. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's nothing like it should be. But Elena doesn't want that either. Her hands search for him with the same silent desperation, the same urgency of someone who's been holding back for too long.
Her jacket falls to the floor in one swift motion.
Oscar's hands trace her back, outline the curve of her waist, and when their lips part for just a second, just enough to take a breath, they look at each other like they've just jumped into the void.
No one says anything.
Because there's nothing to say.
Elena grabs his shirt tightly, as if holding onto something. As if she can pretend this isn't tearing everything apart.
And Oscar... Oscar feels like he can finally breathe.
Because this isn't a mistake.
It can't be. It can’t feel this good.
When he kisses her again, Elena moans against his mouth and he feels something inside him break.
And there's no going back.
Clothes disappear somewhere between their broken kisses and the clumsy steps toward the bed. There are no pauses, no space for thought. Only the sound of their ragged breaths and the weight of the inevitable.
Elena is fire in his hands, in his mouth, in the way she touches him like she's discovering something that's always been there, something she's denied for too long. And Oscar... Oscar surrenders.
There's no rivalry, no fear, no one else in the world but her.
When their bodies finally meet, it's a perfect mess. A mix of need and awkwardness, muffled moans and nails marking skin. There are no doubts, no barriers. Just them, consuming each other in the darkness of a hotel room in Miami, not thinking about tomorrow.
Because right now, nothing else matters.
Dawn finds them tangled in the sheets, breaths still ragged, skin warm from what they've just done. Neither of them speaks. There is no room for words in the aftermath they've just unleashed.
Oscar feels the weight of the silence between them, but it's not uncomfortable. Not yet. Elena lies next to him, her face turned toward the ceiling, her hair messy on the pillow. She seems lost in her thoughts, but when Oscar moves his hand, barely grazing her arm, she doesn't pull away.
They shouldn't be here.
They shouldn't have crossed that line.
But they have. And the worst part is that instead of regretting it, Oscar only thinks about doing it again.
"Let's not talk about this, okay?" Elena says, finally breaking the silence.
Her voice is soft, measured, as if she’s testing the waters.
Oscar glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to say anything that will shatter this moment, make it more real than it already is.
"I don’t see what there is to say," he replies, because it’s the truth.
Elena lets out a low, almost ironic laugh and turns toward him, resting her head on her hand. Her eyes scan him with that intensity that drives him crazy, the kind that turns him into a damn fool every time he runs into her in the paddock.
"This doesn’t change anything," she says, with a certainty Oscar doesn’t know whether to envy or fear.
And maybe he should agree. Maybe he should nod, pretend that this was just a bad idea, a momentary mistake they can laugh off later.
But when Elena leans in and gently bites his lower lip before pulling away with a smile that’s pure poison, Oscar knows he’s screwed.
Because this changes everything.
The next morning, Oscar wakes up with the feeling that it was all a dream.
But the lingering warmth on his skin and the slight pressure of the mattress beside him tell him otherwise.
He blinks, trying to clear the fog of sleep, and the first thing he sees is Elena’s profile, sitting on the edge of the bed, adjusting the cuff of her blouse. Her hair is still tangled, her neck bearing traces of his mouth, and the sunlight of Miami filters its golden light through the curtains, making her look almost unreal.
She’s fucking beautiful.
And she’s also Carlos Sainz’ sister.
Oscar closes his eyes and curses under his breath.
He feels like he should say something, but his mind is still caught in the image of the night before. How Elena had surrendered to him with the same ferocity with which she looks at him in the paddock. How the tension that had been choking them both for months finally erupted into something neither of them could control.
And now, she’s there. Getting dressed. Preparing to leave.
As if nothing had happened.
As if they hadn’t spent the night devouring each other.
"So, not even a 'good morning' after everything we did last night?" he says, his voice still a little rough from sleep.
Elena doesn't even bother to turn around, though he notices the brief pause in her movements before she slips on her heels.
"Why drag out the inevitable?" she replies, shrugging.
Oscar lets out a low, incredulous laugh.
"The inevitable?"
"That we'll go on with our lives as if this never happened." She finally turns, resting a hand on her hip with that air of superiority that drives him crazy. "I know you can do it, Piastri. If you can keep a poker face after Lando closes you out on track, this shouldn't be a problem."
Oscar watches her closely, looking for any hint of doubt in her expression. He doesn't find any.
"Wow, what an elegant way to say it was a mistake."
Elena gives him a half-smile, as sharp as ever.
"I didn't say it was a mistake. I just said it’s not going to happen again."
Oscar narrows his eyes.
"So this is how we're going to play it?"
"This is how we're going to play it," she replies, with a certainty he knows is just a façade.
Oscar exhales and falls back onto the pillow, running a hand over his face.
"Well, I guess it was a pleasure doing business with you, Sainz."
Elena laughs softly, and that frustrates him more because it sounds genuinely amused, like this is just a simple game she has full control over.
"Take care, Piastri," she says finally, before turning and walking out of the room.
Oscar stares at the ceiling, feeling the echo of her perfume in the air.
Of course. Because this is perfectly normal.
Because he's definitely not about to lose his mind.
And because, evidently, this isn't over. Not by a long shot.
Oscar should have known that "it’s not going to happen again" was the biggest lie of the century.
Because it happens again.
And again.
And again.
In hidden rooms in the paddock, in hotels around the world, in deserted elevators and offices with the door slightly ajar. In any corner where there’s enough shadow for no one to see them, and just enough risk to make their hearts pound in their chests.
The first time he breaks his supposed resolution is at the next Grand Prix, in Ferrari’s hospitality entrance.
Elena is standing with her arms crossed, arguing with Carlos about something related to his race strategy. She’s wearing a fitted black dress with a blazer on top, and Oscar is trying to concentrate on his coffee when she gives him a fleeting glance, barely a second of eye contact that shouldn’t mean anything.
But his spine stiffens instantly.
And when she disappears down the back hall, he knows he’s going to follow her before he even thinks about it.
"I don’t even know why I bother pretending to be strong with you," he murmurs, closing the door behind him just a second before Elena pushes him against the wall and kisses him with a ferocity that leaves him breathless.
"Because you’re proud, Piastri." Her smile is lethal against his lips.
"And you’re a liar," he replies, sliding his hands under her blazer and pressing her against him.
"Yeah?"
"'It’s not going to happen again,'" he mocks, exaggerating her tone.
Elena laughs against his skin, right on the line of his jaw, before whispering in his ear:
"Well, sometimes I say things I don’t mean."
And Oscar, of course, is completely screwed.
After that, things escalate as fast as a Formula 1 car on a straight.
The hotel elevator in Monaco, where they barely manage to pull apart in time when the door opens into the lobby.
The engineers’ room in Canada, where he almost kisses her right next to the menu mural, and she laughs in his face when he stops at the last second.
The back corridor of the paddock in Spain, where he slides his hand across her backside when no one’s looking, and she spends the rest of the day with her skin burning.
"This is a really bad idea," Oscar says that same afternoon, just before he pushes her against the wall of his hotel room and kisses her like his life depends on it.
"A horrible idea," Elena agrees, between gasps.
"We can’t keep doing this."
"Never again."
"Last time."
"Last time," she repeats, her fingers tangled in his hair.
Obviously, they’re doomed.
The problem with saying "last time" is that they never follow through.
Oscar should be worried. Not just because this is getting out of control, but because it’s becoming more reckless with each time. At least in the beginning, they tried to keep it professional during the day and only let themselves go in the privacy of a hotel room at midnight. But now...
Now Elena holds his gaze a little too long in meetings. Now they cross paths in the paddock, and she brushes her fingers against his arm as she passes. Now he sees her sitting next to Carlos in Ferrari’s hospitality, and all he can think about is the way she moaned his name the night before.
It’s a miracle no one has discovered them.
"You’re playing with fire," Lando tells him in Silverstone, after catching Oscar looking toward Elena for the fifth time in half an hour.
Oscar feigns ignorance.
"Sorry?"
"I don’t know what’s going on there, but whatever it is, Carlos is going to kill you."
Oscar scoffs, but something inside him tightens.
Because that’s the other thing: the risk. Not just for his career, not just because if anyone at McLaren finds out, it could be a scandal, but because Carlos Sainz still sees him as a rival, and if he finds out that Oscar is tangled up with his sister, he’ll probably strangle him with his bare hands.
But it’s hard to care about that when she keeps sneaking into his hotel room at midnight.
When she keeps leaving marks on his skin that he has to hide before he puts on his racing suit.
When she smiles at him from across the paddock with that damn expression of "I know exactly what you’re thinking," and Oscar has to bite his tongue to keep from dragging her somewhere private.
It’s not just attraction. It’s something worse.
And the bomb finally explodes in Hungary.
The Hungarian GP should be the best day of his life.
He should be celebrating his first Formula 1 victory, savoring the champagne on the podium, feeling the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
But it’s all overshadowed by the controversy, by McLaren’s terrible strategy.
Oscar shouldn’t feel guilty for winning, but he does.
People are hugging him, patting him on the back, congratulating him like nothing happened. Lando is professional in front of the cameras, but in the garage, his expression is tense. He wanted that win. He deserved it. But the strategy benefited Oscar, and now it’s impossible to enjoy it.
He hasn’t seen Elena since he stepped off the podium.
Maybe he should be glad about that. After all, this is what they had agreed on: a game with no feelings, no strings attached, no complications.
When he arrives at the hotel, his room is completely dark.
Oscar closes the door behind him and stands in the middle of the room, not turning on the light, not moving.
He doesn't know what to do with himself.
He should be happy. Euphoric. Victorious. But all that’s in his chest is an indescribable weight, something that suffocates him, that tangles his thoughts until he doesn't know what to feel.
He clenches his fists. The adrenaline of the day still pulses in his veins, mixed with exhaustion and frustration. He shouldn't feel this way. Not after winning.
The door opens again.
He doesn’t even need to turn around to know it’s her.
Elena enters silently, not turning on the light, saying nothing. She just closes the door and walks over to the bed, sitting on the edge with the same ease with which she’s been invading his life from the start.
Oscar exhales a trembling sigh.
He doesn’t know what pushes him to move, but suddenly his legs give away and he falls to his knees in front of her, his head bowed, his arms powerless at his sides.
And then, he’s resting his forehead on her lap.
Elena doesn’t say anything.
She just runs a hand through his hair with a softness that disarms him.
Oscar squeezes his eyes shut. And he doesn’t know why, but he's crying.
Tears fall without permission, without control, without him being able to stop them.
He doesn’t sob, he doesn’t shake, he doesn’t make any noise. He just feels the heat on his cheeks, the pressure in his chest, his breath ragged.
Elena’s fingers continue in his hair, tracing slow lines, calming him without haste.
“You deserve this,” she whispers, so quietly it almost feels like a secret. “Don’t doubt for a second that this victory is yours. And no one else’s.”
Oscar closes his eyes.
He clings to those words.
To her.
Elena leans over him, her hand tangling in his hair with the same delicacy someone would use to pet a wounded animal.
Oscar feels her breath above his head, warm and steady.
“Look at me,” she says, but he can’t.
Not yet.
He stays there, with his forehead resting on her lap, his hands clenched on her pants, trying to contain something he doesn’t even understand.
“Oscar,” Elena repeats, softer this time, and runs her fingers down his neck. “You deserve this. No matter what anyone else says. No matter what anyone else thinks.”
Oscar squeezes his eyes shut tightly.
“They handed it to me,” he murmurs, his voice broken. “It’s not a real victory.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she cuts him off without hesitation, but her tone remains sweet, still Elena. “Of course it’s real. You were faster than everyone out there. You didn’t stop fighting. You didn’t stop proving you deserve every second of that podium.”
Oscar swallows hard.
“But Lando…”
“But Lando nothing,” she interrupts him. “You don’t owe anyone an apology. You don’t have to feel guilty for winning.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Oscar,” she insists, and this time she takes his face in her hands, forcing him to lift his head.
Their eyes meet in the dim light of the room.
“Don’t let anyone make you doubt what you are,” she says, and her voice is an anchor, it’s fire, it’s a reminder that she’s here, with him, holding him when he feels like everything else is falling apart. “Today, you won. And you did it.”
Oscar looks at her.
Something inside him breaks, but not in the way he’s felt broken all day.
It’s something else.
Something deeper. Something that scares him.
Because until now, it had been easy to convince himself that what he had with Elena was just physical. A game. Something neither of them would take too seriously.
But here she is, holding him, seeing him, telling him what he needs to hear at the exact moment he needs to hear it.
And Oscar knows he’s fucked.
Elena keeps holding his face, her touch firm and sure, as if with just her contact she could return the stability he feels crumbling inside him.
Oscar wants to speak. He wants to say something that will lighten the weight in his chest. But all he does is inhale, deeply and brokenly, clinging to the feeling of her hands on his skin.
“Breathe,” Elena tells him, with a sweetness that’s almost his undoing.
So, he does.
He forces himself to fill his lungs with air and let it out slowly, as if with every exhale, he could release the knot in his throat, the doubt, the resentment towards himself.
Elena slides her thumbs over his cheeks, with a tenderness that’s almost unfamiliar to him.
“That’s it,” she murmurs. “That’s better.”
Oscar closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, she’s still there, watching him with that intensity that always disarms him.
And it’s in that moment when he realizes.
How fucking easy it would be to fall in love with her.
Because if Elena can see him like this, completely undone, and still look at him like he’s the same confident and determined driver everyone thinks he is… what else is she seeing in him that he himself can’t even recognize?
The thought terrifies him. Terrifies him a lot.
So he does the only thing he knows how to do: he straightens up, pulls away, rebuilds the distance he’s been ignoring between them since this started.
Elena lets him do it, but her eyes follow him with a look of understanding that unsettles him.
The silence between them is thick, heavy with something Oscar can no longer ignore. He has pulled away, tried to regain his composure, but it’s useless. He can still feel her touch on his skin, still hear her voice in his head, still see those eyes piercing through him as if they had always known the exact point to strike to bring him down.
"This isn’t just physical, is it?" His own voice sounds foreign, low, and almost trembling. As if, by saying it out loud, he’s admitting to something far greater.
Elena doesn’t seem surprised. She doesn’t lower her gaze, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t back away. There’s no fear or uncertainty in her expression, only the same certainty that has driven him insane from the very start.
"It never was."
Oscar swallows hard, his chest rising and falling with something he can’t tell if it’s relief or terror. Or both at the same time.
"From the moment I saw you in the paddock," she continues, her voice calm, steady, "I knew I was going to fall for you. It was inevitable. And when you looked at me for the first time, I knew you were going to fall, too."
Oscar blinks, surprised by how easily she says it. As if it’s a simple truth, an undeniable fact. And maybe it was. Maybe this was never in his control.
Somehow, that makes him laugh. He drops his head, a rough, resigned chuckle escaping his lips, because of course Elena knew before he did. Of course she had already figured it out while he was busy pretending it wasn’t happening.
When he looks at her again, it’s with different eyes. With the eyes of someone who knows he’s lost, that there’s no turning back.
"You’re unbearable," he mutters, but there’s a smile on his face.
Elena smiles too. And Oscar knows, with terrifying certainty, that he’s screwed. Completely, irreversibly screwed.
Oscar still stands before her, in the dim light of the room. His hands, still clenched into fists, gradually relax. Elena remains seated at the edge of the bed, her posture at ease but her gaze intense, fixed on him, as if she already knows what he’s going to do before he does.
"So, what do we do now?" he asks, his voice low, as if speaking in a space that belongs only to the two of them.
Elena leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. The soft light of the room traces the curve of her face, her collarbone, the golden sheen of her skin still warm from the Hungarian summer. Oscar swallows.
"We could keep pretending nothing’s happening," she suggests, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Oscar scoffs, glancing down at his own hands before refocusing on her. "Great idea. That’s worked brilliantly so far."
Elena lets out a soft laugh, a low sound that skims over his skin. Then, with the same tranquility as always, she straightens up and rests her hands on the mattress, tilting her head in thought.
"We keep it a secret a little longer," she finally says. "We explore… this."
Oscar frowns, his pulse still erratic from everything they’ve just admitted.
"This?"
"Whatever is happening between us," she explains, her hand making a subtle gesture between them. "No pressure, no expectations. Just… letting it grow."
Oscar feels his breathing deepen slightly, as if his body is trying to absorb the calm in Elena’s voice. He doesn’t know what he expected her to say, but now that he hears it, he realizes this is the only thing that makes sense.
"Improvising?" he asks, his tone lighter, though something still lingers in his chest.
Elena nods slowly. "Improvising."
Oscar sinks back onto his knees, closer this time, his hands resting on the edge of the mattress, just inches from hers. The room seems to shrink, narrowing down to the proximity of their bodies, to the warm, settled tension between them.
He looks at her and, instead of doubt, all he sees in her is certainty. As if she has known from the start that this was the only possible outcome.
"We’re screwed, aren’t we?" he murmurs, almost smiling.
Elena tilts her head, her fingers barely brushing against Oscar’s on the bed. A small, fleeting contact, but one that electrifies the space between them.
"Up to our necks."
Oscar exhales slowly and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling as if he might find some kind of answer there. But there are no answers—only the undeniable reality that, for the first time, they are acknowledging what’s between them without pretending it doesn’t exist.
Elena shifts on the bed and pats the mattress beside her, a silent invitation. There’s no ulterior motive in the gesture, no expectation, and maybe that’s what makes Oscar surrender so easily. He lies down beside her, his head resting on the pillow, leaving a small space between them.
And for the first time since this began, there’s no urgency, no hands exploring skin, no breath-stealing kisses. They’re just there, sharing the same air, seeing each other without the barrier of immediate desire.
They talk.
At first, about absurd things. Silly habits, likes they’ve never admitted to each other. Elena sleeps with socks on, even in the summer, and Oscar looks at her in horror when she says it. He has a specific routine for putting on his gloves before getting in the car, and she laughs because her brother does the same.
Then come childhood stories, dreams they once had and those they still chase. Elena tells him she wanted to be an astronaut as a child but got too dizzy in space simulators. Oscar confesses he’s still not entirely used to fame, that sometimes he misses being anonymous.
As the night stretches on and the conversation slows, words tangling with sleepiness, Oscar turns on his side and watches her.
"Did you know this was going to happen?" he asks quietly.
Elena blinks slowly and smiles, with that air of confidence that undoes him.
"I knew the moment you saw me in the paddock."
Oscar scoffs, half amused, half resigned. "How convenient."
"Not my fault you’re so predictable."
Oscar laughs and covers his face with his hand for a moment before rolling onto his back again.
"I’m going to hate myself for saying this, but… I think I like that about you."
Elena glances at him out of the corner of her eye, her smile needing no words to be understood.
And just like that, without realizing it, they fall asleep.
The break doesn’t last long.
During the Belgian Grand Prix, everything appears to be the same: the same fleeting touches when no one is looking, the same encounters in empty hallways, the same tension whenever they’re too close. But now, there’s something more. Something in the way Oscar looks for her before getting into the car, in the way Elena lingers a second too long when fixing the collar of the shirt she so boldly ripped off his body just ten minutes ago. Something in the way their fingers brush when she hands him a bottle of water right after, in the way they look at each other when they think no one is watching.
And when Oscar crosses the finish line, knowing he’ll be on the podium again, his first instinct isn’t to celebrate—it’s to find her. Standing on the podium, adrenaline still rushing through his body and the trophy in his hand, his eyes scan the crowd until they lock onto Elena’s. And when she smiles at him, he feels like he could live in that moment forever.
That night at the hotel feels different again. Instead of immediately losing themselves in each other, they collapse onto the bed to watch the race replay. And when the camera shows Oscar on the podium, smiling with pure happiness, eyes bright and expression open, Elena can’t hold back. She lets out a laugh so loud it echoes through the room.
Oscar, confused, turns to her with a frown. “What’s so funny?”
Elena, trying to hold back her laughter, points at the screen. “Your lovesick puppy face.”
Oscar follows the direction of her finger, and then he sees it. Sees himself. And he can’t do anything but laugh, because it’s true. The camera caught the exact moment he found Elena in the crowd, and the expression on his face leaves no room for doubt.
“I do not have a lovesick puppy face,” he protests, but his own laughter betrays any attempt at indignation.
Elena turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “Oscar, darling. Let’s just pray no one else notices, because it would be hard to deny the accusations.”
And with that, they laugh until tears stream down their faces, until they’re breathless, until Oscar, with his head resting on Elena’s stomach, feels something dangerously close to the simplest, purest kind of happiness.
Because for the second time, they don’t need to hide in passion, in desire. For the second time, they enjoy each other’s company without sex getting in the way.
Just them.
Elena wakes up to the weight of an arm draped over her waist and the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the hotel window. She blinks, still caught between sleep and wakefulness, acutely aware of the warmth pressed against her back, of the slow, steady breath against her neck.
Oscar.
Recognition comes at the same time as reality—the grayish dawn light in Belgium, the distant hum of traffic, the calendar marking the end of a weekend that has changed everything.
And the certainty that in less than two hours, she’ll be on a plane back to Madrid.
She sighs, shifting slightly under Oscar’s arm. He grumbles in protest, tightening his hold on her, as if his subconscious understands what’s about to happen before he does.
“I have to go,” she whispers, though she doesn’t move.
Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. His breath is heavy against her shoulder, still half-asleep, and when he finally mumbles something, his voice is rough.
“Five more minutes.”
Elena smiles softly, but she knows she can’t give in.
“Carlos is waiting for me downstairs. If I take too long, he’s coming up to get me.”
Oscar sighs and, at last, loosens his arm. When she turns to face him, she finds his face buried in the pillow, brows furrowed, hair a complete mess. He looks like a grumpy little kid refusing to start the day.
“Don’t make that face,” she teases, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on her shoes.
Oscar lifts his head just enough to squint at her.
“What face?”
“That one. The ‘I’m going to be a martyr because the girl I like is leaving me in a hotel’ face.”
He clicks his tongue and flops back onto the pillow with dramatic flair.
“Slander.”
Elena lets out a quiet laugh as she ties her laces. Then, unhurriedly, she leans toward him, pressing a hand into the mattress as her lips brush his cheek.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Oscar doesn’t reply right away. He just looks at her. But there’s something in his expression—in the way he watches her, in how his hand grips the edge of the sheet like he’s about to say something else—that makes her hesitate.
Because for the first time since this started, they realize they’ve never gone this long without seeing each other.
And they don’t know what that will feel like.
Elena should stand up and leave. But she doesn’t.
Instead, she lets her gaze trace over his face, memorizing every detail. Oscar looks back at her just as intently, and then, without thinking too much, she leans in and kisses him.
It’s brief, but not rushed. There’s no desperation, no urgency—just the certainty that she wants him. That even if they go in opposite directions, even if weeks pass without seeing each other, what they have won’t fade with distance.
When they pull apart, Oscar watches her with a mix of surprise and something else—something she doesn’t want to analyze too closely right now.
“That was unfair,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep.
Elena smiles.
“You’ll survive.”
And before he can argue, she gets to her feet, grabs her bag, and walks out the door.
It clicks shut.
And Oscar is alone.
For a few seconds, he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, the warmth of Elena’s kiss still lingering on his lips.
It’s not the first time he’s watched her leave. They’ve had plenty of quiet goodbyes—in hotel hallways, in elevators, in hidden corners of the paddock where no one was looking. But this one feels different. Heavier.
He sighs, running a hand over his face before forcing himself to get up.
The room still smells like her. It’s a ridiculous thing to notice, but he does—when he moves, when he picks up his clothes from the floor, when he starts stuffing them into the open suitcase beside the bed. There’s something mechanical about the act of folding t-shirts and layering them over piles of laundry, of zipping up the suitcase with a sharp click, of mentally checking if he’s forgotten anything.
For some reason, it annoys him.
He’s supposed to be looking forward to the summer break. Four weeks with no races, no flights every other day, no endless motorhome meetings. It’s what he’s been waiting for.
But now that it’s here—now that the door has closed and Elena is gone—it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Oscar picks it up without thinking, expecting a message from his mother or the team. But no.
Elena: I hope you’ve at least gotten out of bed. Don’t blame me when you realize you’re running late for the airport.
He exhales a small laugh, leaning against the desk. Of course Elena is the first to text. She always seems one step ahead of him.
Oscar: Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me first thing in the morning?
It takes less than ten seconds for a reply.
Elena: I have an hour-long drive ahead of me. Consider this an act of charity.
Oscar shakes his head, barely noticing the way a smile tugs at his lips.
After a moment, his fingers slide over the screen again.
Oscar: Do you miss me already?
This time, the reply takes a little longer. As if Elena is actually thinking about it.
Finally, his screen lights up.
Elena: Keep dreaming.
Oscar sets the phone back down on the nightstand, still smiling faintly, but the feeling in his chest doesn’t fade.
Because, deep down, he already misses her.
He has barely stepped into the terminal when he spots his mother.
She’s standing there, arms crossed, a knowing little smirk on her face—like she knows something he doesn’t. Or worse: like she knows something he thinks he’s hidden well.
And then he sees it.
The phone in her hand. The screen lit up.
And a crystal-clear image of his own face on the Belgian Grand Prix podium, wearing the most obvious, irrefutable, damning expression he’s ever had in his life.
That damn photo.
Oscar stops dead in his tracks, the exhaustion from the flight hitting him all at once, mixed with pure, knee-jerk denial.
“No.”
His mother doesn’t even blink.
“Yes.”
“I don’t make that face.”
“Oh, darling…” she sighs, holding the screen closer to him, as if that was necessary. “You have exactly that face.”
Oscar grimaces, shifting his gaze to anything else—the people walking by, the luggage carts, the absurdly patterned airport carpet.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His mother raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, really?” She swipes across the screen and shows him another image, this time a video capturing the exact moment his face changes when he spots Elena in the crowd. “And what’s this, then?”
Oscar clenches his jaw, cursing internally at the cameraman who managed to capture that moment so precisely.
“I was…” He trails off, desperately searching for an excuse. But there isn’t one. Because he knows exactly why he had that expression. He knows exactly who he was looking at. And he knows that his mother knows, too.
She waits, patient, with that look that has been disarming him since childhood.
Oscar exhales, defeated.
“Can I at least get a coffee before the interrogation?”
His mother smirks, turning toward the exit.
“Oh, of course. But don’t think you’re getting away with this, darling. We have a lot to talk about.”
For Elena, summers at home have always had their own rhythm, a routine shaped by the heat, sports, and family. And she enjoys it. She needs it, even. After months of airports, race tracks, and frantic schedules, there’s something comforting about returning to familiar sounds—the echo of footsteps on stone floors, the rustling leaves stirred by the wind, the laughter of her sisters in the garden.
But this summer is different.
Because, for the first time, there’s something—someone—outside of this world occupying her mind more than it should.
She tells herself it’s absurd, that it’s not like they’re going years without seeing each other. It’s just a month. Four weeks. Thirty days.
And yet, every night, as the rest of the house sleeps, she feels the buzz of her phone under her pillow, and her heart skips a beat.
Oscar.
Oscar: What is Carlos Sainz’s favorite sister doing on a random Tuesday?
Elena: Trying not to get caught texting you. And you?
Oscar: Counting the days until I can see you roll your eyes at me in person again.
Elena bites her lip, hiding a smile in the darkness.
Elena: I’d love to say I don’t miss you at all.
Oscar: But you can’t.
No. She can’t.
And it’s ridiculous because she keeps herself busy. She wakes up early to go hiking with her father and Carlos. She plays football with her cousins in the garden. She joins Carlos and his friends on their cycling routes, challenging each other to climb the mountain passes faster, both acting more like kids than fully grown adults.
And in the middle of it all, she always finds a moment.
A stolen minute under the shade of a secluded tree to call him. A quick text while changing shoes. A picture of Carlos falling off his bike, his foot still clipped to the pedal, captioned: I miss you, but this makes up for it a little.
Oscar’s reply comes instantly.
Oscar: You’re lucky I like you this much.
Elena chuckles softly, leaning her head back against the tree trunk.
She knows this is dangerous. The more they get used to this, the harder it will be to go back to their respective lives, each on opposite ends of the globe.
But right now, she doesn’t care.
It’s the middle of the night, and she’s been asleep for a couple of hours when the vibration of her phone pulls her from sleep.
Elena blinks into the darkness of her room, disoriented, her heart beating slow and heavy in her chest. She reaches blindly toward her nightstand, fumbling until her fingers find the device.
The screen lights up the dim room.
Oscar.
It’s four in the morning in Madrid. Two in the afternoon in Melbourne.
She presses her lips together before swiping to accept the call, bringing the phone to her ear as she sinks into her pillow.
“Do you know what time it is?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper from sleep.
On the other end, Oscar lets out a quiet laugh.
“I knew you were awake.”
Elena closes her eyes and exhales slowly.
“I wasn’t. Until you decided to call me.”
“Well, if you answered, that means you don’t hate me that much,” he teases.
Elena doesn’t respond right away. She turns onto her side, hugging her pillow as she focuses on the sound of his voice.
“How are you?” she finally asks, calmer now.
“Tired,” Oscar admits. “It’s weird being back here.”
She understands. They’ve both returned to the normalcy of their own lives, but nothing feels normal. Miami, Silverstone, Budapest, Spa… all those weekends together feel like a world apart. And now, here they are, separated by thousands of miles, pretending everything is the same.
“What about you?” he asks.
Elena burrows a little deeper under the blankets, a small smile on her lips.
“I did a brutal cycling route with Carlos today. Nearly died by the time we reached the mountain pass, and Carlos laughed at me.”
Oscar chuckles.
“I find that hard to believe.”
"That I almost died or that I made it to the summit?"
"That you almost died," he replies casually. "You're stronger than Carlos, and you know it."
Elena feels the warmth spreading in her chest but ignores it.
"Tell him that. He called me a 'rookie.'"
"That’s just his wounded pride talking."
She smiles, letting herself get carried away by the familiarity of the conversation. They talk about everything and nothing. He tells her about his mother’s cooking and how his dog has decided to ignore him for being away so long. She tells him how her father spent the afternoon teaching Rebecca to drive on dirt roads, with Carlos and her yelling from the back seat.
The conversation flows easily, without awkward pauses. Every time silence threatens to settle in, one of them finds something else to say. But at some point, the conversation shifts. It becomes quieter.
"I miss you," Oscar says suddenly, with a sincerity that disarms her.
Elena doesn’t answer right away. Not because she doesn’t feel the same, but because she feels too much.
"I miss you too," she murmurs at last, her voice barely a whisper in the darkness.
"It’s strange, isn’t it?" he continues. "Not seeing you every day."
Elena exhales.
"Yeah."
Another silence. This time, neither of them fills it.
Until Oscar breaks it with an idea that shouldn’t sound as crazy as it does.
"What if we meet up?"
Elena blinks, suddenly wide awake.
"What?"
"Let’s run away. Just for a few days. Just us."
She stays still, her heart pounding faster.
"That’s insane."
"A little insanity wouldn’t hurt us," he reasons. His voice is calm, but there’s something in his tone that makes her picture him with that lopsided grin, eyes squinting slightly under the Melbourne afternoon sun. "Tell me you don’t want to."
Elena bites her lip. She can’t.
She doesn’t want to.
"I can give you five days. That’s all the time Carlos will let me go without hiring a private investigator," she finally says.
Oscar smiles on the other end of the line.
"Five days."
And the next morning, Elena drops the bomb at the breakfast table. If she wants to get away with it, she has to act naturally—with the confidence of someone who has nothing to hide.
So, as she sets her plate in the sink after breakfast, she announces casually, "I’m leaving for a few days."
She knows she has everyone’s attention in less than a second.
Carlos, sitting across the table, frowns with his mouth full of toast. Their mother, standing by the coffee machine, turns with interest.
"Where to?" Carlos asks, still chewing.
Elena leans against the counter, phone in hand.
"A friend’s house on the coast."
Carlos gives her a skeptical look.
"What friend?"
"Clara."
She’s the first name that comes to mind. Their mother nods, as if that makes it all perfectly logical, but Carlos keeps staring at her with the same doubtful expression.
"Since when are you and Clara such good friends?"
Elena rolls her eyes.
"Carlos, we went to school together for ten years."
"And you haven’t seen her in four."
"Exactly. We caught up recently, and she invited me to stay for a few days."
Carlos doesn’t look convinced.
"And you’re just leaving, out of nowhere."
"Why not? It’s the summer break, I don’t have to stay here the whole time."
Carlos crosses his arms.
"Hmm."
Their mother, on the other hand, just smiles.
"Well, darling, if you want to go, go."
Carlos looks at her like he can’t believe she’s accepting the explanation so easily.
"Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?"
"Carlos, please," their mother says, shaking her head in amusement. "It’s summer. Can’t your sister go to the beach for a few days without you interrogating her like she’s planning a heist?"
Elena smirks at Carlos before taking a sip of her coffee.
"Exactly. Thanks, Mom."
Carlos huffs but seems to give in.
"When are you leaving?"
"Early tomorrow morning."
"Uh-huh."
Carlos keeps watching her, narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to read between the lines. Elena ignores him, picking up her cup and heading for the door.
Her phone vibrates in her hand.
A message from Oscar.
"Mission accomplished?"
Elena smiles before replying.
"Obviously. Who do you think I am?"
—--------------------------------------
Elena doesn’t know exactly when she realizes that this—whatever it is they’re doing—is a disaster waiting to happen.
Maybe it’s when she opens her eyes that first morning in Croatia and finds Oscar already awake, his head resting in his palm, just watching her.
Or when, after spending the afternoon exploring the town, they step into a small market to buy groceries for dinner and end up arguing—far too seriously—about which kind of pasta is better.
Or maybe it’s when, without thinking too much about it, she tosses a towel at his face after her shower, and instead of complaining, he pulls it away slowly and grins like an idiot. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t something they’ll regret sooner or later.
But they don’t think about that. Or rather, they pretend not to.
The town is perfect. A hidden corner on the Croatian coast, with whitewashed stone houses, cobbled streets, and the sea glistening under the August sun. No one knows them here. No one watches them. Here, they can walk without looking over their shoulders, without worrying about cameras or curious eyes.
And so they do.
They walk along the shore, sandals in hand, letting the foam of the waves soak their ankles. They eat at a small restaurant where the owner treats them like locals. They spend the afternoon at a secluded cove, where Oscar splashes her unexpectedly, and Elena lunges at him without a second thought, sending them both crashing into the water, laughing.
They don’t talk much about what this means.
They don’t say out loud that they’re playing with fire.
They just exist.
For the first time since this all began, they are together without the pressure of the paddock, without the weight of the forbidden. They wake up tangled in white sheets, have slow breakfasts on the terrace, Oscar cooks while Elena sits on the counter, stealing bites of whatever he’s making.
It’s ridiculously domestic.
Ridiculously easy.
And that’s why, somewhere in the back of her mind, Elena knows it can’t last.
It’s their last evening together, and the sun is starting to set over the sea, painting the sky in shades of gold and orange. The heat of the day still lingers on the wooden terrace of the small house they’ve rented, where the sound of waves crashing against the rocks blends with the distant murmur of locals enjoying the evening.
Oscar absentmindedly turns the beer bottle in his hands, his gaze lost in the foam sliding down the glass. Across from him, Elena leans back in her chair, tracing the rim of her wine glass with a fingertip.
The silence between them is comfortable.
But Oscar knows he can’t leave it like this.
“I don’t want this to end when summer does.”
Elena lifts her gaze slowly, as if her thoughts were somewhere else. She blinks a couple of times before speaking.
“What do you mean?”
Oscar lets out a humorless chuckle, dropping his eyes to the table.
“I mean, I don’t want to go back to pretending this isn’t happening.”
Elena doesn’t answer right away. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, studying him with those eyes that always seem to know more than they say.
“I don’t know if we have a choice.”
Oscar looks up, holding her gaze.
“There’s always a choice.”
Elena sighs, running a hand through her hair before pushing her glass aside.
“Oscar…”
He shakes his head before she can continue.
“Don’t tell me it won’t work. That it’s complicated. That we have to think about Carlos, the paddock, everything else. Because I know. I’ve thought about it a million times. But what scares me more than what happens if we keep going… is what happens if we stop.”
Elena stays quiet.
For a moment, Oscar fears she won’t respond—that she’ll get up from the table, deflect with a sharp remark like she’s done so many times before.
But then, she speaks.
“If I’m being honest… I’m scared of that too.”
Oscar blinks. He wasn’t expecting her to admit it so easily.
“Yeah?”
Elena nods slowly.
“Since the season started, everything has been so intense. At first, it was just this ridiculous tension, this game. I loved getting under your skin.” She smiles a little, but there’s more nostalgia than teasing in it. “But then it became something else. Something I couldn’t control anymore.”
Oscar leans in slightly, never taking his eyes off her.
“When did you realize?”
Elena holds his gaze, and for the first time in a long time, she hesitates.
“I think… since the beginning.”
Something tightens in Oscar’s chest.
“Then why have we been avoiding it for so long?”
Elena lets out a quiet laugh, like the answer is too obvious.
“Because it was easier that way. If we ignored it, we didn’t have to face what it meant.”
Oscar watches her for a long moment. Then, with a tired smile, he says,
“Falling for you was too easy.”
Elena drops her gaze for a second before looking up again, her expression knocking the air out of his lungs.
“Falling for you was too easy, too.”
The world seems to stop.
Oscar feels a tingling in his skin, like his body is trying to process what he just heard.
“Elena…”
But she keeps going.
"I didn’t want to accept it," she says quietly. "Because I was scared. Because if this ends, I don’t know how we go back to being the same. I don’t know how I’ll look at you without it hurting."
Oscar takes her hand across the table. Their fingers fit together like they were made for it.
"I don’t want this to end."
Elena tightens her grip, not letting go.
"Me neither."
They stay like that for a moment, in silence, with the sun setting behind them and the sound of the ocean filling the empty spaces.
Until Elena breaks the calm.
"So… what do we do now?"
Oscar exhales slowly.
"We can’t keep hiding forever."
Elena nods.
"Carlos won’t accept it."
"Not right away, no."
"I don’t want him to find out from someone else."
Oscar lets out a dry laugh.
"Well, it’s not like we’ve been very subtle."
Elena rolls her eyes.
"That’s your fault."
Oscar raises an eyebrow.
"Excuse me?"
"You’re the one who looks at me like—" She stops herself, and Oscar grins.
"Like what?"
She meets his gaze, unyielding.
"Like you physically can’t not look at me."
Oscar leans in slightly, closing the space between them. His voice is a murmur.
"Like you matter too much."
Elena narrows her eyes.
"Too much?"
He shakes his head, a smile on his face.
"Meh, not enough."
And then, without thinking, without hesitating for a second longer, he kisses her.
The morning sun bathes the town in that golden warmth that only exists on vacation. The breeze smells of salt and freshly baked bread, and the cobblestones beneath their feet radiate the accumulated heat of previous days. Oscar and Elena walk aimlessly, slipping between market stalls, weaving through café terraces, blending into the crowd of people who live here without knowing that, for them, this is their last day of reprieve.
Tomorrow, everything goes back to normal. Tomorrow, they return to their lives. Tomorrow, the distance.
But today, today is still theirs.
Elena stops in front of a small flower stall, leaning over the tin buckets filled with sunflowers and lavender. The vendor, an elderly man with a white mustache, smiles when he sees her interest.
“For you, take one as a gift.” He plucks a sprig of lavender and offers it to her.
Elena smiles and accepts it with a small nod. Oscar watches her, saying nothing, caught in that quiet awe that sometimes overtakes him when he looks at her for too long.
He still doesn’t understand how he got here—how he ended up in a small Croatian coastal town, watching Elena pick flowers under the sun, holding her hand like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
She turns to him and tucks the lavender behind his ear with a teasing smile.
“There. Now you smell nice.”
Oscar rolls his eyes but doesn’t take it off.
They keep walking, unrushed, savoring the morning. They pass an ice cream shop, and Elena suddenly craves pistachio gelato. Oscar buys one for her, and as always, she offers him the first bite. It’s a simple, silly gesture, but it leaves a warmth in his chest.
They stroll to the town square, where a fountain with crystal-clear water sparkles, and children run around, laughing. They sit on the edge, sharing the ice cream, carrying the easy carelessness of people who believe the day will stretch on forever.
Oscar doesn’t know how long they’ve been there, only that, at some point, Elena rests her head on his shoulder, and he closes his eyes, letting himself drift.
And then, the peace shatters.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Oscar feels his entire body go rigid.
No.
No.
No way.
But yes.
Carlos Sainz stands at the other end of the square, frozen in place, his jaw slack, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. Beside him, his girlfriend Rebecca has a hand over her mouth, but from the way her shoulders shake, it’s clear she’s holding back laughter.
Oscar doesn’t dare move.
He knows Carlos has already connected the dots.
The pistachio ice cream drips slowly between his fingers, melting.
Elena, still resting her head on his shoulder, exhales deeply before murmuring,
“Well… the odds of this happening were pretty low.”
Oscar swallows hard.
Carlos blinks several times, as if trying to reboot his brain. Then he looks at Oscar. Then at Elena. Then at their intertwined hands. Then back at Oscar.
Oscar sees the exact moment reality slams into him.
Carlos blinks. Takes a deep breath. And explodes.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”
Elena, calm as ever, straightens her posture and stretches as if this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Carlos.”
“CARLOS?! JUST ‘CARLOS’?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!”
“Don’t shout.”
“I’M NOT SHOUTING!”
“Yes, you are.”
“I AM ABSOLUTELY SHOUTING!”
Oscar is too paralyzed to intervene. He feels like a deer caught in headlights.
Elena gets to her feet with an exasperated sigh, like she’s dealing with a tantrum-throwing child.
“What are you doing here, Carlos?”
“I SHOULD BE ASKING YOU THAT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? AND WHY THE HELL ARE YOU WITH HIM?” Carlos gestures wildly toward Oscar, like he’s some inanimate object instead of a person with a name.
Oscar opens his mouth to say something—anything—but no words come out.
“I’m on vacation. Just like you,” Elena replies, completely unfazed.
Carlos looks about ready to combust.
“With him?”
“Yes.”
Oscar wants to disappear.
Carlos points an accusing finger at him.
“YOU!”
Oscar instinctively straightens.
“Me?”
“YES, YOU! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SISTER?!”
Oscar opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“Uh…”
“‘UH’ WHAT?!”
Elena sighs.
“Carlos, seriously, can you drop the dramatics?”
“IT’S NOT DRAMATICS! IT’S A VERY SERIOUS QUESTION!”
Rebecca finally decides to step in, placing a gentle hand on Carlos’s arm.
“Babe, breathe.”
“I DON’T WANT TO BREATHE!”
“Well, you should.”
Carlos lets out an angry huff but at least shuts his mouth.
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runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn
Words: 3.7k
Warnings: Lando & Lyra POV, some angst, flashbacks
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a/n: IT'S RACE WEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Lyra used to be like the fire.
She used to be the kind of person who filled a room just by stepping into it, her laughter spilling out like it couldn't be contained, her mind always sharp, always quick. She used to roll her eyes at my stupid jokes but still laugh anyway, used to steal fries off my plate and then act offended when I tried to take hers in return. She was stubborn and confident.
It’s the first day of second year of high school, the classroom is loud with the sound of teenagers claiming seats and greeting old friends, and yet, she’s the only thing I can focus on.
She’s wearing the school uniform, but somehow, it looks different on her, like it belongs to her instead of the other way around. Her tie is loosened, her skirt slightly shorter than the others. Her red hair catches the sunlight streaming through the window, making it look like it was really on fire.
And she’s smirking.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” she announces, dramatically throwing her arms open while swaying her legs, sitting on the teacher table. “Welcome to another year of our slow and painful journey through high school. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure we all survive. Mostly.”
The classroom bursts into laughter, some rolling their eyes, others whistling, but she doesn’t seem to care about any of it. She just hops down from the desk like she’s done this a hundred times before, landing gracefully before making her way to her seat as she greets every single one of the students.
Who the hell is she?
“You’re staring” Max mutters beside me, making me jump from my seat.
“I am not” I lie, looking away, but it doesn’t last long.
I steal another glance, and just as I do, she turns her head and catches me.
Shit.
Instead of looking away like any normal person would, she grins slowly, like she’s caught me doing something forbidden. And then, to my absolute horror, she winks.
Winks!
And I’m done for.
I feel my ears burn, but I play it off, arching an eyebrow as if to say, Yeah? What about it?
She tilts her head, amused, like she’s evaluating me. Then, she leans toward the girl next to her and whispers something, and just like that, they both start giggling.
They’re talking about me?
“Yeah… Good luck,mate” Max laughs.
For the rest of the class, I pretend to pay attention to the teacher, but my focus keeps shifting. Every time she shifts in her seat, every time she twirls her pen between her fingers, every time she flicks her hair over her shoulder, I notice.
And when the bell finally rings, when I stand up and grab my bag, I didn’t expect her to suddenly appear in front of me, blocking my way.
“Well, well…” she smiles, crossing her arms, lips twitching like she’s holding back a laugh. “Mr. Staring Problem.”
I freeze.
And Max chokes on a laugh behind me.
“I wasn’t staring” I sad quickly.
“Oh, you were” she chuckles.
“I mean, you were on the teacher’s desk, it’s kinda hard to miss” I sighed, looking at her.
“Right, sure” she hums, like she doesn’t believe me at all. “And when I was on the ground?”
“Still hard to miss” I answer, smirking.
Her eyes flash with something, like she wasn’t expecting that response, but she likes it anyway. She leans in slightly, just enough that I catch the scent of vanilla.
“What’s your name, Staring-Problem Boy?”
“Lando” I said immediately. “And yours, Hard-To-Miss Girl?”
“Lyra” she smiles.
She takes a step back, walking backward toward the door, holding my gaze like she’s daring me to do something. Then, just as she reaches the hallway, she throws one last smirk over her shoulder.
“Try not to miss me too much, Staring Boy.”
And then she’s gone.
I exhale.
“Yeah, mate, you’re screwed” Max laughed, patting my back hard.
And as much as I want to argue, I already know he’s right.
Now, Lyra looks like a shadow of the girl I used to know.
The woman in my guest room is someone else. Someone that hesitates, that waits for permission.
And I know who made her like that.
Edward and her own parents.
People who have spent years molding her into the person they wanted her to be, a woman that has to be perfect in every sense of the word, and if she makes a wrong move, they will punish her.
I groan, rubbing my face with my hands, pacing from side to side of the living room. The silence of the apartment is suffocating, the only thing I could hear was the sound of my feet against the floor.
Then I hear it.
A muffled sound, barely audible at first, but unmistakable.
She’s crying.
A sharp stab of something I can’t name sets in my chest.
I squeeze my eyes shut, biting the dead skin of my thumb, groaning lowly.
I knew this call would hurt her. I knew it the moment she told me she was going to call him. And the worst part is that I couldn’t stop her.
I hate him.
I hate that even now, even after he is the reason she ran, she still lets him pull her back in, piece by piece, like he owns her.
I hate that I can’t stop it.
I hear her say his name. Softly. Like an apology. Or even how she says that she's sorry, like she’s the one to blame, like she’s the villain of the story.
And it takes every bit of control I have not to walk in there right now and rip the phone out of her hands.
Instead, I press my back against the hallway wall and exhale slowly, staring at the ceiling.
This shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t.
She’s not mine. She has never been mine.
But fuck, it hurts so bad hearing her cry.
I hear her inhale sharply, and then I hear the words I need time.
But the way she says it, it’s not for herself. It’s not because she needs time. It’s because she’s trying to calm him. Edward. Like she’s the one who needs to make amends. Like she’s the one who needs to apologize..
And then I heard it, the last thing I wanted to hear.
“I know” she whispers, and I don’t know what the hell he just said to her, but I know exactly what he’s doing.
He’s winning.
He always fucking wins.
Something heavy presses in my chest, anger burning through my veins before I even realize I’m moving.
Before I can stop myself, I push the door open and step inside.
Lyra sits on the edge of the bed, her back to me, her fingers gripping the phone so tightly that her knuckles are white. Her shoulders are fallen, her whole body tense, like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
I don’t say anything.
I don’t have to.
She senses me immediately.
Slowly, she turns, with red eyes and a pale face, lips parted in some unfinished thought that she never says out loud.
And I just look at her.
Because I already know that whatever he said, whatever he did, it worked.
She sniffles once, lets out a breath, and then mutters:
“What?”
I should keep my mouth shut. I should walk away. I should pretend like I didn’t just hear her voice break.
But I can’t.
I never can when it comes to her.
So instead, I say the words that have been burning a hole in my throat since the moment she picked up the damn phone.
“You don’t actually believe him, do you?”
“What?” she blinks, surprised.
“Edward” I take a step closer, walking fully in the room. “Whatever bullshit he just fed you with, you’re not actually buying it, are you?”
“He’s not feeding me anything, Lando.”
I let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through my curls, and through the corner of my eye I swear I saw her flinch.
“Oh, come on, Lyra!” I sighed, shaking my head “I heard you crying through the walls. You can’t tell me he didn’t say exactly what he needed to say to make you feel guilty.”
“That’s not what happened” she groaned, clenching her jaw.
“Then what happened?” I challenge her. “Tell me.”
She looks at me for a long moment, breathing deeply a few times. Then she shakes her head, like I’m not worth the argument.
“You wouldn’t understand”
That? That pisses me off.
“I wouldn’t understand?” I repeat, disbelief dripping from my voice as I mock her. “You think I don’t know exactly how he works? You think I haven’t seen this before?”
“You don’t know him-” she said, looking me straight in the eyes.
“And you do?” I scoff. “Because the way I see it, Lyra, you don’t know him at all. You just know the version of him that he’s been feeding you, the one that made you fall for him.”
She shakes her head again, exhaling sharply, frustration written all over her face.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do” I snap. “I know exactly what I’m talking about, because I’ve been watching you be under his control for years. And you let him do it, Lyra. You let him walk all over you, and you defend him like he’s worth it, like he hasn’t spent the last few years making sure you’re never sure of yourself.”
“That’s not true!” she fires back, voice rising now, eyes burning.
“Isn’t it?” I groan, clenching my fists at my sides. “Because if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t have run away.”
That makes her weak.
For a second.
For just one second, I see the uncertainty, the doubt, the part of her that knows I’m right.
But then she blinks, and it’s gone.
“Why I left is none of your business, Norris” she groaned.
“It makes it my business when you are in my fucking apartment” I exclaimed, pointing a finger at her. “It makes it my business when you crying in my fucking room after a phonecall with him! It makes it my business because I was the one that gave you the keys of my car and my apartment, and you used them!”
“Don’t be an asshole” she mutters looking away.
“Then stop lying to yourself.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head, the way she’s trying to push my words away, the way she’s trying to convince herself that I’m wrong.
“Why are we even talking about this?” she sighs.
“Because you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life” I say, tone sharp.
And then she snaps, again.
“And why the hell do you care?” she yells, throwing her hands up. “Why do you always do this, Lando? Why do you always act like you have a say in my life?”
“Because I fucking care about you, Lyra!”
Silence.
The words hang in the air between us, thick and suffocating.
Her breath is shaky now, and she looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to scream or cry.
“Well, you have a funny way of showing it.” she scoffed, bringing her hand to her face, wiping away the angry tears.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I frown.
“It means this is exactly why we stopped being friends.”
Oh, fuck.
“Because we could never talk without fighting” she says, looking at me with anger in her eyes. “Because every time I made a choice, you had something to say about it. Because you always think you know what’s best for me.”
“Lyra, that’s not-”
“Isn’t it?” she cuts me off, voice sharp. “Because this feels exactly like the last time, Lando. Like every time. We go in circles, we yell, we fight, and then we don’t talk for months.”
“I don’t want to fight, Lyra…”
“Then stop trying to control me”
I exhale through my nose, running a hand over my face. I should stop. I should walk away.
But then she says:
“You never let me make my own mistakes”
And something in me snaps, again.
“I didn’t let you make mistakes?” I repeat. “Or did I just try to stop you from ruining your own life?”
“Same thing”
I let out another humorless laugh, shaking my head.
“No, Lyra. It’s not”
“Well, either way, it’s not your problem anymore” she groans.
I stare at her.
And that’s when it hits me, like a slap on my cheek.
She still doesn’t see it.
She still doesn’t understand that this isn’t about Edward.
It’s about her.
It’s about the fact that I fucking love her.
But I can’t say that. I can’t tell her, not when she’s still looking at me like I’m the enemy.
So instead, I take a slow breath, shove my hands into my pockets, and say:
“Then go on. Call him back if you want. Run back to him. Marry him.” I meet her eyes, steady and sure, making sure she sees how she hurt me. “But don’t pretend like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
🩺
The door clicks shut behind Lando, and suddenly, the room feels too big.
Too quiet. Too empty.
I stood there for a moment, looking at the spot where Lando was standing in front of me, my hands still clenched into fists at my sides and my pulse still thrumming painfully against my skin. My head is spinning, my chest feels tight, and I can’t tell if it’s from the fight or from the fact that, for the first time since I ran out of that hotel, I feel like I might have made a mistake I can’t fix.
With a sharp inhale I sit on the bed, my hands resting on my lap. The sweatpants and hoodie smell like him, like clean laundry and something distinctly Lando. It’s ridiculous how much comfort I find in that scent, especially now, when my own mind refuses to let it be a safe place.
I close my eyes and let out a slow breath.
I should have stayed.
I should have walked down that aisle.
I should have done what was expected of me.
God, what have I done?
I can still hear his voice in my head, the way he sounded over the phone. And it makes me feel sick.
I did that to him.
I humiliated him, embarrassed him in front of his family, his colleagues, his friends. I left him at the altar, I ran from him, and for what? Because I got scared? Because I was overwhelmed?
I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter, trying to push the memories away, trying not to think about the fact that deep down-deep, deep down—I know it wasn’t just that.
It wasn’t just fear or stress or nerves.
It was something else.
Something I don’t want to admit.
Because if I admit it, then I have to admit that Lando is right.
And like a heavy punch, a memory comes to my mind, like a deja vu.
The storm outside rattles against the windows, the rain hitting the glass in frantic bursts, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside his apartment.
“You don’t get to tell me how to live my life, Lando,” I snap, my voice shaking with frustration, my arms crossed so tightly over my chest that my nails dig into my skin.
Lando stands a few feet away, his hands buried in his hair as he walks side to side of the room, his expression a mix of exhaustion.
“I’m not telling you how to live your life, Lyra. I’m telling you to open your fucking eyes!” he bites back, his voice rough. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk about him? Do you know what you sound like?”
“And what exactly do I sound like, Lando? Go on, tell me.” I scoff, rolling my eyes, trying to keep my breathing steady.
“You sound like someone who’s making excuses for a man who treats her like he owns her.”
He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know Edward the way I do. He doesn’t see the parts of him that aren’t sharp edges, that aren’t possessive hands on my waist, or the way his voice drops whenever I say something he doesn’t like. Lando sees the worst because he wants to.
And I can’t let him tear this apart.
“Edward loves me” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, to sound sure, to sound certain. “He worries about me, that’s all. He just wants to protect me.”
Lando lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“That’s not love, Lyra. That’s control.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell I don’t!” he snaps, his hands balling into fists. “You think I don’t notice the way he talks to you? The way he makes you feel like you have to answer to him every second of the day? Like you owe him something just for existing?”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Lando stepped closer, his voice lowering, but there was no softness in it anymore. “Tell me, when was the last time you made a decision without thinking about how he’d react? When was the last time you did something just for you, without worrying if Edward would approve?”
“This isn’t your business,” I snapped, my voice flat, emotionless. “It never was.”
Lando’s expression flickered just for a second, long enough for me to see the hurt before it disappeared behind frustration.
“Not my business?” he repeated, his jaw tightening. “You’re my best friend, Lyra. You think I can just stand here and watch you throw your life away for someone who doesn’t deserve you?”
“God, why do you care so much?” I snapped, throwing my arms in the air. “Why does it even matter to you what I do or who I’m with?”
Lando’s entire body went still, like I’d just said something that knocked the air out of him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
And then, for the first time in the fight, he looked away.
“Because you’re not the same anymore” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because he changed you, and you don’t even see it.”
“No” I said, shaking my head. “No, you changed. You stopped supporting me the second I got serious about someone who wasn’t you.”
Lando’s gaze snapped back to mine, his eyes widening slightly.
A muscle in his jaw ticked, his breath coming out uneven, but he didn’t argue. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable, his eyes dark with something I didn’t understand.
Then, he let out a slow, quiet breath and stepped back.
“Fine” he said, voice clipped, controlled. “If that’s what you really think, then I guess there’s nothing left to say.”
He was right. He was always right, but I never wanted to admit it.
The walls of Lando’s guest room felt smaller with each passing hour, pressing in on me like they wanted to force me to face what I had been trying so hard to ignore.
I had spent the last few hours staring at the wedding dress spread on the chair, my mind running in endless circles, replaying the phone call with Edward, the fight with Lando, the moment I had stepped back instead of walking down the aisle. Everything felt tangled, messy, like I had destroyed my entire life in a single day, and now I had no idea how to piece it back together.
But one thing was clear: I had hurt Lando. Again.
The thought sat heavy in my chest, and the longer I let it linger, the more unbearable it became. I had no idea what was going to happen when I left this apartment, when I stepped back into my real life and faced the consequences of what I had done. I didn’t know who would still be there waiting for me.
But I knew one thing.
Right now, Lando was the only person I had.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself off the bed and opened the door, stepping out into the hallway. The apartment was quiet, but I could hear the faint sound of the television in the living room. I hesitated for a moment, fingers twitching at my sides, before forcing myself to keep moving.
Lando was exactly where I expected him to be: sitting on the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, staring at the screen without really watching it. His jaw was tense, his expression blank, but the slight flicker in his gaze when he noticed me made my stomach twist with guilt.
“Lando…”
His lips pressed together, but he didn’t look away.
“I’m sorry” I said softly. “For earlier. For the fight.”
He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his curls.
“It’s okay…”
“No, it’s not” I murmured, shaking my head. “I keep doing this. I keep pushing you away when you’re the only person who-” I exhaled sharply, my voice wavering. “I don’t know how things are going to be when I go back home. I don’t know what’s waiting for me, who’s going to be there, what people will think of me.” I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “But right now, you’re the only person I have.”
Lando stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, something I couldn’t quite place. His fingers tapped against his knee, a nervous habit I’d seen a thousand times before, and then, finally, he exhaled and leaned back against the couch.
“You’re an idiot” he muttered, but there was no real anger behind the words.
“I know” I laughed sadly.
Silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
And then, finally, Lando nodded.
“You’re not alone, Lyra.” his voice was quieter now. “No matter what happens when you leave, you’re not alone. I won’t let you push me away ever again”
And somehow, despite everything, those words made it just a little easier to breathe
runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn
Words: 2.2k
Warnings: Lyra POV, Edward
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a/n: HI GUYS!!! So... I decided that i'm going to post a chapter every week. Maybe on Mondays (to start well the week) or Tuesdays (because that day is the ugly cousin of Mondays). I hope you enjoy this chapter, because exciting things are coming!!!!
If you want to be tagged don't forget to message me!
Every way of feedback is very welcomed
🩺
The room is dark, except for the faint light of the moon slipping through the curtains, casting shapes against the walls. The bed feels cold, too big. I turn onto my side, then onto my back, then onto my side again, but no matter how many times I shift, how many times I try to put myself into the comfort of sleep, it doesn’t come.
My body is exhausted, my mind is tired, but the weight in my chest won’t let me rest. Because every time I close my eyes, I see the small slit of the wedding dress, the panic in my mother’s eyes, the way my father’s grip had tightened on my arm when I hesitated. I hear the gasps from the crowd, the rush of footsteps, the chaos I left behind me.
I left.
I actually left.
The reality of it settles deeper into my bones. My heart beats a little too fast, my skin is too warm, and the walls of the room are closing in around me.
I can’t stay in bed.
With a sigh, I push back the covers and sit up, my movements slow and careful.. The apartment is silent, Lando is probably asleep in his room, not aware of the chaos that came to stay in my mind. My bare feet touch the cool wooden floor, sending a shiver up my spine as I stand, tugging the oversized sleeves of the hoodie over my hands as I make my way toward the door.
The living room is dimly lit by the city lights streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glow of Monaco’s streets stretching far below. It’s quiet, save for the distant hum of cars and occasional distant laughter of people that are still awake.
I rub my arms, glancing around before my eyes land on a soft blanket that lies over the couch. Without thinking, I grab it, pulling it around my shoulders as I walk toward the glass doors leading to the balcony.
I hear him before I see him.
The soft sound of the balcony door sliding open, the nearly silent steps as he walks toward me, the faint sigh as he settles into the chair beside mine.
Lando doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, his presence grounding, something I didn’t want to admit I missed.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The silence isn’t heavy, but it’s not comfortable. It’s just there, lingering between us, filled with unspoken things neither of us seems ready to say.
I don’t know why I started talking.
Maybe it’s because if I don’t, my thoughts will consume me. Maybe it’s because I need to hear the words out loud to make them real. Maybe it’s because I know Lando won’t stop me, won’t interrupt, won’t tell me I should have done things differently.
So I speak.
“I had everything planned,” I say, my voice quiet but steady, my eyes fixed on the city lights in front of me. “Edward and I, we had it all mapped out. The wedding was just the start.”
Lando doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me, waiting.
“We were going to move into this house… A beautiful one, just outside the city. Something classic, something that felt like a home. My father was going to help us get it, of course. It had a garden, a space where we could host dinners, parties. Everything I ever wanted.” I let out a breath, shaking my head. “And the hospital… The hospital would’ve gained a powerful investor. Edward’s father is one of the biggest contributors. That marriage wasn’t just about us. It was about the future. About legacy. About expectations.”
I pause, my fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket. Lando doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. He’s listening, the way he always did.
“And then there was the honeymoon. We were supposed to go to Santorini, rent a villa overlooking the cliffs. I was going to take time off work, actual time off, can you believe it?” I shake my head, my gaze dropping to my lap as I force a humorless laugh. “It was all so… perfect. Too perfect.”
“And now?” his voice is quiet, but there’s something heavy in it.
I don’t answer right away.
Instead, I press my lips together, staring down at my hands.
The engagement ring is gone. I don’t even remember taking it off. Where the hell is it? In the hotel room?
“Now, I’ve ruined everything” I whisper.
Lando doesn’t move, doesn’t react. But I know him well enough to recognize the way his jaw tightens just slightly, the way his fingers flex against the armrest of his chair.
I know what he’s thinking.
I’m not telling him everything.
And he’s right.
Because underneath the cheap excuse I gave him, there’s another thing buried deep inside my chest. One I can’t bring myself to say out loud and admit.
The first thing I notice when I wake up is how warm I feel.
The guest bed is soft beneath me, the blankets tucked around my body in a way that feels… safe. But I don’t remember coming back here. The last thing I recall is sitting on the balcony, staring at the city lights, wrapped in a blanket as the breeze brushed against my skin.
I must have fallen asleep.
And he must have carried me back here.
The realization sends a strange warmth through my chest, one I quickly shake off as I shift beneath the covers, stretching slightly. That’s when I noticed it: the suitcase near the door, my phone sitting on the nightstand and its charger plugged in it, a bottle of water and one of those protein bars that tastes like cardboard.
I frown, pushing myself up onto my elbows, the sheets pooling around my waist.
He went back to the hotel.
At some point during the night, while I was out on the balcony feeling sorry for myself, overthinking everything I did, Lando must have gone back to the mess I left behind, to the people that were probably still wondering where the hell I disappeared to, and brought my things back here.
I don’t know why that makes my throat feel tight and my stomach twist.
Why does he care?
I reach for my phone hesitantly, my fingertips ghosting over the screen before picking it up. The moment it lights up, my stomach drops.
Edward (26 missed calls)
Mother (10 missed calls)
Father (7 missed calls)
Olivia (2 missed calls)
A heavy sigh leaves my lips, my thumb hovering over the notifications before I swipe them away. I’m not ready for that yet.
Instead, I glance toward the door, debating whether or not I should get up, whether I should go find Lando and, what? Thank him? Apologize?
Before I can decide, there's a soft knock on the door, followed by his voice, muffled but unmistakable.
"You’re awake?"
I exhale, rubbing a hand over my face before answering.
"Yeah."
The door creaks open slightly, and then he’s there: messy hair, dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking way too casual for someone who probably spent the night driving around Monaco cleaning up the mess I left behind.
His gaze flickers to my phone in my hand before meeting my eyes.
"Figured you’d want your stuff" his voice is light, like this is normal, like he didn’t just walk into a war zone last night to do something he didn’t have to do.
“You went back” I said, holding my phone tightly.
“Yeah” he nodded, shrugging his shoulders. “I thought you might need it”
Something about the way he says it, the quiet care behind his voice, the way he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, makes my stomach twist.
Because that’s exactly how he used to be. What he used to do when we were younger. He always helped me clean up the mess.
“Thanks” I mumble, looking away.
An uncomfortable silence falls between us, filled only by the distant sound of cars outside.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asked, breaking the silence.
I could lie. I could say yes, that I slept peacefully, that I wasn’t awake half the night replaying everything in my head, feeling the weight of my choices pressing down on me. I could just say that he didn’t have to worry about me and that I could handle myself without his help.
But instead, I just sigh.
“You know I don’t sleep well under stress”
Lando doesn’t push. He just nods, his fingers tapping lazily against the doorframe, as if he’s debating saying something.
“I… I’m going to call Edward” I whisper, looking down at my phone.
I looked up at him and sigh, watching how he clenched his jaw.
“Okay.”
But the way he says it doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s good at all.
The phone feels heavier than it should, like it’s made of stone instead of plastic and glass.
My thumb hesitates over Edward’s name, hovering over the screen as if it might burn me. A part of me doesn’t want to press call. But another part, the part filled with guilt, with doubt, with fear, knows I can’t run forever.
So I take a shaky breath and press the button.
It only rings once before he answers.
“Lyra”
Just my name. A single, breathless word, but it knocks the air from my lungs. His voice is raw, strained, like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s been crying. My fingers tighten around the phone.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“You ran”
A cold shiver runs down my spine.
He exhales shakily, and I can hear how unsteady it is, like he’s barely holding himself together.
“I stood there, in front of everyone, and I watched you turn around and leave. You didn’t even hesitate. You didn’t look back.”
I close my eyes, guilt crashing over me like a tidal wave.
“I-I’m sorry” I said, but it sounds so small.
“Sorry?” he said laughing bitterly. “You humiliated me, Lyra. In front of everyone. My family. My friends. People I work with. Do you know what that felt like? Do you know how that made me look?”
I swallow hard, pressing my palm to my chest like I can stop the ache spreading there. Like I can keep my heart all in one piece.
“I didn’t mean-”
“To make a fool out of me?” he cuts in, his voice feeling as sharp as a knife. “Well, congratulations, Lyra. Because you did.”
“I just…I needed to leave” I whisper, my voice barely audible, feeling the tears running down my cheeks.
A long pause. Then, softer now, more wounded, he murmurs:
“We were supposed to get married.”
I shut my eyes tightly, like that might block out the weight of his words, and the pain it keeps growing on my chest.
“We had plans, Lyra. A life. A home. A future,” he continues, voice low, raw, bitter. “and you threw it away. Just like that.”
“I didn’t-”
“Why?” his voice is tense, like he’s barely holding himself together. “just tell me why.”
I part my lips, ready to finally tell him.
I should tell him. I should.
I should tell him about the door. About how I heard him, heard the way his voice lowered in that way that always meant he was being careful, about how another voice answered him. I should tell him that the moment I stood outside his room, frozen, something inside me had already shattered.
But I don’t.
Because suddenly, I don’t know what I heard anymore.
Had I imagined it? Had I twisted something innocent in my panic?
“I don’t know” I whisper.
That answer again.
“You don’t know?” his voice is still quiet, but there’s now a new emotion in it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the phone tighter.
“I needed to leave” I whisper.
Silence.
Then:
“With him?”
A cold chill runs through me.
“Edward, don’t-”
“Don’t, what?” he snaps, and just like that, the fragile, heartbroken act shatters. “Don’t point out the fact that you ran straight to him?”
I take a deep breath and wash away the tears from my cheeks.
“This isn’t about Lando.”
“Isn’t it?” his voice is lower now, almost mocking. “Tell me, Lyra. When did you decide? Huh? When did you decide to leave our wedding and run straight into his arms?”
“That’s not what happened” I whisper.
“No?” he scoffed, making me flinch and close my eyes tight. “Then tell me. What happened? Do you think I didn’t see him around the guests? That you were looking at him right before you ran away? What really happened, Lyra?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Because I don’t have an answer.
Because I don’t know anymore.
I left because of what I thought I heard. But Edward, this Edward, the one whose voice is thick with pain, the one who sounds like I ripped his heart out in front of an entire crowd, is making me question everything.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe I hurt him for no reason.
Maybe I ruined everything.
“I need time”
He doesn’t speak for a moment, and when he finally does, his voice is dangerously calm.
“With him?”
I don’t answer.
“Right” he sighs, but when he speaks again, his voice is more controlled. “I love you, Lyra.”
Summary: for ten years, they were rivals—pushing, challenging, never backing down. But one night, after a race that changed everything, the line between them finally shatters. Now, with nothing left to hide behind, they’re forced to face the truth. Because this was never just about racing—it was always about them.
Word count: 12k (patience, my friends, patience)
TW: car crash, strong language, sexual content
A/N: enjoy this because I’ve pulled out all my hair trying to write something, and this is what came out. I wanted to be consistent with my updates, but my peanut brain doesn’t seem to agree… I LOVE OSCAR WITH ALL MY HEART
other drivers content will be coming soon...
have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find
masterlist
Lena Bauer had learned to navigate a world that had always seemed determined to challenge her. For as long as she could remember, her life had revolved around a single purpose: winning. Not for recognition, not for glory, but because victory was the only language she understood. She grew up on the circuits, under the scorching sun of karting tracks, with grease-covered hands and her heart pounding in her throat every time she put on her helmet. She never knew how to be anything other than a racer. And she never wanted to be.
Oscar Piastri, on the other hand, was the kind of driver who made speed look effortless, who turned precision into an art form. Always methodical, always analytical. His talent wasn’t explosive but constant, like a sharpened blade that, over time, became a lethal sword. While Lena raced with fire in her eyes and fury in every maneuver, Oscar was all calculation and patience. He was the cold storm that swept through without ever raising its voice.
They met as children, on a karting podium where Lena, holding her trophy high with a fierce smile of satisfaction, turned to find him watching her. The second-place finish didn’t seem to bother him. There was no anger, no envy in his expression—only a silent acknowledgment: she had been better this time. Only this time.
From that moment on, their paths became intertwined with the inevitability of a storm and the certainty of an impending collision. They grew up together, chased each other through every category, overtook one another in championships that carried them across continents. And when they finally reached Formula 2, their rivalry became something heavier, sharper. There was no room for two drivers like them. Not when both were willing to risk everything to win.
That season, the incident happened. Silverstone. Final laps. They were fighting for victory in a battle anyone else would have called suicidal. But neither Lena nor Oscar were the kind to back down. She forced him to the limit, leaving barely ten millimeters between his car and the barrier. Ten millimeters that decided a race, a championship… and a wound that never quite healed.
Oscar was out. She won.
And when she stepped out of the car, she didn’t look for him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew what she would find: the icy fury of someone who never forgets.
Now, in Formula 1, the world celebrated her arrival. The first woman in decades on the grid. Red Bull’s great promise. The one person Oscar Piastri couldn’t simply ignore. And when they faced each other again at the pre-season press conference, he knew nothing had changed.
Lena smiled, tilting her head slightly, radiating that overwhelming confidence that challenged him without the need for words. Oscar held her gaze, impassive, but Lena saw what others couldn’t: the spark of defiance in his eyes, the shadow of Silverstone still lingering in his expression.
They weren’t done. Not even close.
The calendar marked the beginning of a new season. And with it, the restart of a war that had never truly ended.
Oscar had been through enough qualifying sessions to know that the real battle was never against the stopwatch, but against one’s own limits. But that Saturday, as he adjusted his gloves inside the cockpit and his engineer’s voice crackled through the radio, he knew his fight went beyond that.
His fight had a name. Lena Bauer.
The engines roared with the restrained aggression of caged predators as the cars rolled out onto the track. Bahrain was always treacherous in qualifying—the temperature dropped at night, the wind carried sand onto the asphalt, and finding the perfect balance between speed and control was a game of absolute precision. But Oscar wasn’t worried about that. His focus was on the Red Bull number 95.
From the first flying lap, he knew. She was there.
He didn’t need to check the times to understand it. He felt it in every corner, in every fraction of a second flashing on his lap delta. The way his McLaren glided over the asphalt with surgical precision, chasing a shadow that always seemed just out of reach.
Lena.
She had always been like this. Infuriating in her brilliance. Relentless in her determination. She never raced to be among the best, never to collect points or secure a decent result. She raced to win. And that, though he would never admit it out loud, was what drove him insane.
In Q2, as the sun fully set and the track reached its peak, the battle became a silent duel. Red Bull versus McLaren. Lena versus Oscar. Just like so many times before.
On his final attempt, he gave it everything. Every apex traced with a surgeon’s precision, every gear shift perfectly timed. The car danced on the asphalt, the engine roared in his ears, and for a few fleeting seconds, he thought it was enough. That this time, finally, he had been faster.
He let out a bitter laugh inside his helmet—a mix of disbelief and resignation. Lena wasn’t just fast. She was ruthless.
When he stepped out of the car and walked toward the media pen, he saw her.
Lena removed her helmet with that effortless ease that always got under his skin, golden strands of hair falling onto her forehead, a lopsided grin that spoke of victory without a single word. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and Oscar felt a rush of frustration and adrenaline pulse through his chest.
"Almost, Piastri."
Her voice carried that teasing lilt that had haunted him since karting—provocation wrapped in feigned lightness.
Oscar shook his head, running a hand over the back of his neck, suppressing the smirk threatening to surface.
"Keep an eye on your mirrors tomorrow, Bauer."
Lena arched an amused brow.
"For you? Doubt it."
She turned before he could reply, leaving him with the retort stuck in his throat and a certainty seared into his skin.
The race hadn’t even begun. The season had only just started.
But his war with Lena Bauer had been going on for years.
Sunday morning.
The Bahrain paddock had been awake since early, humming with the charged energy of the season’s first race day. The desert breeze carried the distant roar of engines in warm-up, the ceaseless chatter of engineers fine-tuning strategies, and the omnipresent presence of cameras, ready to capture every moment.
Lena Bauer walked with the natural confidence of someone who belonged in this world. Dressed in her Red Bull race suit, the sleeves tied around her waist, the team’s logo gleaming under the sun, she looked exactly like what she was—the pole sitter for the first race of the year.
Everyone greeted her as she passed. Mechanics, engineers, members of other teams. The other drivers, gathered near the interview area, welcomed her with grins and playful remarks. Charles Leclerc said something to her in French that made her laugh, Lando Norris held up a hand for a high-five that she returned without hesitation, and even Fernando Alonso gave her an approving glance.
But not everyone seemed thrilled about her presence.
Oscar Piastri watched her from across the group, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set tight. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t greet her.
And she, as always, noticed.
Lena loved it. The way he was the only one who didn’t smile, the only one who didn’t treat her with that easy camaraderie she shared with the others. The way he seemed incapable of ignoring her, no matter how hard he tried.
Before she could tempt him any further, someone approached with a microphone.
"Lena, no one expected you to take pole in your first-ever F1 qualifying. Did you?"
She smiled, tilting her head with an almost insolent ease.
"Yes."
The journalist hesitated, as if expecting a more modest answer—something more typical of a rookie in the category. But Lena saw no need to fake false humility. Why should she?
"So, did you have a perfect lap last night?"
"No," she replied naturally. "It was a good lap, but not perfect. I can find more pace."
The journalist's eyes widened in disbelief, and out of the corner of her eye, Lena caught Piastri's movement. He had heard her. And even though she couldn't see his expression, she could imagine the tension in his jaw, the irritated disbelief in his eyes.
She didn’t turn to look at him. Not yet.
"And how are you approaching today's race? You'll be starting from pole, but Red Bull and McLaren have been pretty evenly matched all weekend."
Lena tilted her head, letting the question hang in the air just a second longer than necessary. Then, she smiled with the same unwavering confidence.
"The good thing about starting from pole is that I don’t have to worry about what’s happening behind me. I just have to be the fastest. And I already am."
She felt Oscar's gaze on her profile like a sharp knife.
Oh, how she loved this.
The starting grid was a perfectly orchestrated chaos. Engineers and mechanics moved around the cars in their final preparations, photographers captured every expression on the drivers' faces, and the air buzzed with the anticipation of the first race of the season.
Lena was at the center of it all.
Standing next to her Red Bull, her helmet still tucked under her arm and sunglasses covering her eyes, she radiated absolute calm. While everyone around her talked, gave instructions, or checked data on screens, she remained still, unaffected by the noise. Only when Helmut Marko approached to say something in a low voice did she nod slightly—but even then, her expression barely changed.
A few meters away, Oscar Piastri watched her.
Unlike her, he wasn’t still. He rolled his gloves between his hands, rolled his shoulders, took a deep breath. Not because he was nervous, but because his body had felt ready for battle from the moment he stepped out of the car after qualifying.
He knew he shouldn’t be looking at her. He knew he should be focusing on his own race. But he couldn’t help it.
He saw her shake Christian Horner’s hand, smile at someone from the FIA, wave Lando off as he passed by. All of it with that infuriating ease, as if this wasn’t the first race of her life in Formula 1, but just another Sunday.
The contrast to his own energy was suffocating.
Oscar was tense, alert, his pulse already racing before even getting in the car. Lena, on the other hand, seemed immune to everything. As if the pressure didn’t affect her. As if starting from pole on her debut meant absolutely nothing.
And the worst part was that he knew it wasn’t empty arrogance. He knew she meant it.
By the time he realized he had been staring at her for too long, he quickly shifted his focus back to his McLaren, trying to regain his composure. But just then, Lena turned around.
She found him instantly.
With a lazy movement, she pulled off her sunglasses—just enough for him to catch the playful spark in her eyes.
"Nice view, isn’t it?" she said casually, tilting her head toward her own car. With her sunglasses in hand, she pointed to the number 95 engraved on the Red Bull’s carbon fiber. "I hope you dream about it tonight."
Oscar clenched his jaw.
"And I hope you enjoy the scenery while it lasts. In a few laps, the 81 is all you’ll be seeing."
Lena smiled, and it was worse than any verbal provocation.
"Oh, I will enjoy it."
And with that, she turned away, handed her sunglasses to an engineer, and put on her helmet with the ease of someone who had no doubt she would still be there when it was all over.
Oscar, for his part, couldn’t remember ever wanting the starting lights to go out this badly in his entire life.
The lights went out.
The force of his McLaren propelled him forward, reacting on instinct, every fiber of his body focused on the first corner. He knew that if he wanted to win, if he wanted to snatch victory from Lena Bauer, he had to do it now.
He saw her move quickly, shutting the inside line with relentless determination. But Oscar wasn’t a rookie. He knew she expected him to back off, to take the corner from the outside and settle for second place.
He didn’t.
He planted his foot on the throttle, keeping his car glued to hers until the very last millimeter before braking. He downshifted at the exact right moment, slid his car to the absolute limit, and emerged from the corner with his front wing just inches ahead of hers.
For a second, he thought Lena would squeeze him out, that she’d return the favor at the next turn. But she didn’t.
His engineer was shouting something over the radio, but Oscar barely heard it. All he saw in his mirrors was the Red Bull clinging to him, Lena refusing to give up even a fraction more than necessary.
The race was a war of attrition.
Lena was never too far. She kept the pressure on at all times, making him fight for every tenth of a second, every corner, every lap. When McLaren told him to manage his tires, he barely held back a disbelieving laugh.
Managing tires with Lena Bauer breathing down his diffuser was like asking a lion to share its prey.
But he did it.
Against all odds, against everything he feared, against the constant threat of her presence in his mirrors—he crossed the finish line first.
He won.
The victory cry he let out over the radio was pure relief.
When he returned to the pit lane, when he jumped out of the car and let himself be swept away by the adrenaline of the moment, he felt that all the effort, all the anger, all the desperate need to beat her had been worth it.
Until he saw her.
Lena was already out of her car, pulling off her gloves with an expression that was…
Happy.
No frustration. No anger. No trace of the bitter sting of defeat he knew so well.
She was smiling, radiant, as if finishing second had been exactly what she wanted. As if the fact that he had beaten her didn’t bother her in the slightest.
And that, more than anything else, infuriated him.
Because if it had been the other way around—if he had finished second—the poison of defeat would have eaten him alive. He would have replayed every tenth he lost, every mistake, every moment where the race slipped through his fingers. He would have obsessed over it until he could fix it.
But Lena Bauer didn’t.
Lena Bauer was celebrating.
Lena Bauer was laughing with her team, joking with Verstappen, flashing a dazzling smile at the cameras.
When she stepped onto the podium, when she shook his hand with exasperating ease, when she offered him a casual "Good job" with not a hint of resentment, Oscar felt victory crumble in his hands.
Because if she didn’t care about losing…
Then how the hell was he supposed to defeat her?
Melbourne, on a thursday night.
Oscar hated these kinds of events.
It wasn’t just the formality, the uncomfortable suits, or the forced smiles. It was the feeling of being trapped in a place where performance didn’t matter, where it didn’t matter how fast you were on track if you didn’t know how to play the other game—the one of image, politics, public relations.
And Lena Bauer knew exactly how to play it.
Since she had arrived, he had watched her move through the guests with an irritating ease. She greeted journalists by name, laughed with other drivers, answered questions with that mix of boldness and charisma that made her impossible to ignore. Meanwhile, Oscar stuck to the bare minimum—interviews, sponsor photos, the occasional neutral comment. But he couldn't help feeling like a shadow in comparison.
Of course, the press wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to put them together.
“Oscar! Lena!” A journalist called out. “Can we ask you a few questions together?”
It was inevitable. Ever since Lena had joined F1, their rivalry had been exploited to exhaustion. It wasn’t just that they had both been rookies at the time—it was the fact that they had competed against each other since they were kids, that they had clashed in every category they had raced in. The narrative wrote itself: two exceptionally talented drivers, destined to fight side by side for their entire careers.
People loved it. Oscar… not so much.
“Of course,” Lena replied without hesitation, smiling with exasperating ease.
Oscar had no choice. He stepped up beside her, adopting the neutral expression he usually wore in these situations.
“It’s been a few races since Lena made her F1 debut, and it seems like the story remains the same between you two—always fighting each other. What’s it like to meet again in the top category after so many years of competing together?”
“Fun,” Lena said with a grin.
Oscar let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Oh, absolutely thrilling.”
Lena shot him a quick glance before continuing.
“Actually, it is,” she insisted, turning back to the journalist. “We’ve always pushed each other to the limit. I expected nothing less from Oscar in F1.”
“Would you say your rivalry is the most intense on the grid right now?”
Oscar was about to give a diplomatic answer, but Lena beat him to it.
“Oh, without a doubt. Don’t you think so, Piastri?”
Oscar looked at her. She was still smiling, but there was a glint in her eyes he couldn’t quite decipher. Was she enjoying the moment, the attention, the story the media kept feeding? Or was she enjoying how much it annoyed him?
“If by intense you mean the most annoying, then yes,” he muttered, earning laughter from the journalists.
Lena placed a hand over her chest, feigning offense.
“How cruel. And here I thought we were almost friends.”
Oscar clenched his jaw.
The interview continued with the same dynamic—Lena allowing herself bold answers, comments that bordered on provocation, while Oscar remained more reserved, letting her take the spotlight. It wasn’t that it bothered him exactly. It was more that he found it frustrating how effortlessly she navigated this world, as if she had been born to be in the spotlight.
“And what about this weekend’s race?” another journalist asked. “Will it be another wheel-to-wheel battle between you two?”
“If Piastri can keep up, maybe,” Lena replied with absolute ease.
Oscar exhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his eyes on her.
“I’d be more worried about myself if I were you.”
“Oh, I do,” she said, her smile feigning innocence. “That’s why I enjoy it so much.”
Before Oscar could respond, he felt something on his arm.
Lena had linked her arm through his with the utmost ease, as if she had been doing it her whole life. Her hand rested lightly on his forearm, but the sensation of her touch hit Oscar like an unexpected blow.
It unsettled him how easily she invaded his personal space without warning. But what truly caught him off guard was his own reaction—because instead of pulling away, instead of tensing up like he usually did in these situations, Oscar felt his body lean, almost imperceptibly, toward her.
It wasn’t intentional. He wasn’t even aware of it until it happened. But when he realized, his first instinct was to tense, to regain his composure.
However, before he could, Lena shifted slightly toward him, and Oscar felt the light tug of her grip, the way her thumb brushed against the fabric of his sleeve. There was no ulterior motive in her gesture—at least, not one Oscar could identify with certainty. Just a bold confidence, a way of reminding him—with the simplest action—that she had no problem getting close, erasing the lines between them whenever she felt like it.
And the worst part was that it worked.
The journalists, of course, didn’t let the gesture go unnoticed.
“Well, it seems like your relationship isn’t just about rivalry,” one of them commented lightly. “Clearly, you’ve known each other for years.”
Lena shrugged, as if the question was unnecessary.
“Of course. Piastri and I have been fighting on track since we were kids.”
“And we still are,” Oscar added, dismissively.
The journalists nodded, satisfied with the response. From the outside, their relationship looked exactly as it was supposed to: two rivals with years of history, who understood the dynamic between them perfectly. Friends, perhaps. Or at least, competitors who respected each other and enjoyed the challenge.
That was what everyone saw.
But Oscar… Oscar felt something else.
The light weight of Lena’s hand on his arm. The brush of her thumb against the fabric of his sleeve. The way she leaned slightly toward him when she spoke, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
There was nothing strange about the gesture. It wasn’t flirting. It didn’t have some hidden intention.
And yet, something inside Oscar clicked.
It was sudden and unsettling, a strange sensation slipping into his chest before he could block it out. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly. It was more like recognition, a realization that Lena could cross certain boundaries with him without his body reacting with the automatic rejection he usually had toward anyone who got too close.
She did it without thinking, with exasperating ease. And the worst part was that he didn’t think about pulling away either.
There was no logical reason for it.
The cameras were still rolling, the journalists were still asking questions, the fans who would watch the interview later would interpret it as just another amusing moment between two lifelong rivals. No one would notice anything unusual.
No one except Oscar.
And that was what irritated him the most.
The atmosphere in Melbourne was different.
Oscar felt it in every corner of the paddock, in every fan chanting his name, in every Australian flag waving in the grandstands. He had imagined this moment countless times, but living it surpassed all expectations.
P3 in qualifying. It wasn’t pole, but it was a solid position. He was ready. He knew exactly what he had to do.
As he walked through the paddock corridors, his mind was focused on strategy, on the start, on every detail that could make the difference. And then, as he turned a corner, he saw her.
Lena was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, gaze distant. It looked like she was waiting for him, though with her, one could never be sure.
"Ready for the big day, huh, Piastri?" she said in her usual tone, one that hovered between provocation and amusement.
"Always," he replied without hesitation.
She nodded, sizing him up for a moment that felt longer than necessary. Then, unexpectedly, her expression shifted.
"You’re going to have a great race," she said, without a trace of irony. "This is your home. Make sure you take a good memory from here."
Oscar blinked, caught off guard.
It wasn’t the comment itself that surprised him, but the way she said it. Without that ever-present edge of defiance. Without the sharpness of their eternal rivalry.
She seemed… sincere.
Before he could find a response, Lena continued, her voice carrying a casualness that didn’t quite match what she had just said.
"And well, it’s a bit surreal, isn’t it?" she added. "We went from fighting in karts on forgotten tracks in the middle of nowhere to this. You, at your home race. P3. In front of thousands of people cheering for you."
She paused, as if unsure whether to continue. But then she gave the smallest of smiles, briefly lowering her gaze.
"I’m proud of you, Piastri."
The air grew heavier in Oscar’s lungs.
He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—her sincerity, the fact that it was coming from her, or the way his chest tightened slightly at her words.
Because it wasn’t just anyone saying it.
It was Lena.
And for some reason, that affected him more than he was willing to admit.
Oscar felt his throat close up for a fraction of a second.
Lena was already straightening up, ready to leave as if she hadn’t just knocked him off balance with those words. As if she hadn’t just said something that would stay in his head for who knew how long.
He couldn’t let it end just like that.
"Lena."
She stopped, turning her head slightly, one eyebrow raised in question.
Oscar swallowed. He wasn’t good at these things, but he couldn’t let her be the only one to speak.
"You’re going to have a great race too."
His voice was steadier than he expected, though inside, he was still trying to regain balance from the whirlwind Lena had just left behind.
She blinked, surprised. For a moment, Oscar thought she would mock him, throw a sarcastic remark to break the tension. But she didn’t.
Instead, Lena smiled. Barely—a flicker of a smile, quick and almost imperceptible, but genuine.
"I know," she replied, with the certainty of someone who had never doubted herself.
And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared down the hallway.
Oscar remained there a moment longer, the echo of her voice still ringing in his ears, an unfamiliar sensation settling in his chest.
It wasn’t exactly confusion. It wasn’t just surprise.
It was something deeper. Something more unsettling. Something he wasn’t sure he liked.
And the worst part was that no matter how much he tried to analyze it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shake it off when he pulled his visor down and lined up on the grid.
The lights went out, and Oscar reacted on instinct.
The McLaren catapulted toward the first corner, the roar of the engines around him creating a deafening symphony. He held firm in P3, protecting the inside as Verstappen and Leclerc fought ahead.
But there was no time to relax.
Lena was there.
Almost glued to his rear wing, waiting for the slightest mistake to strike.
Ten millimeters.
That was the space Oscar left her in every corner. Just enough not to crash—but no more than that. If she wanted the position, she was going to have to take it by force.
The pressure was relentless. Lap after lap, Lena attacked. She tested the outside at Turn 5, then the inside at Turn 9. She threw herself into every braking zone, making sure he felt her presence like an unyielding shadow.
On lap 23, McLaren called him into the pits. The stop was fast, flawless. He came out just ahead of Lena, who had stopped a lap earlier.
But she wasn’t done yet.
Turn 3.
Oscar saw the Red Bull in his mirrors before she even made the move.
Lena dived down the inside with surgical precision, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how far they could push.
He reacted instantly.
Defended aggressively, leaving precisely ten millimeters between their wheels. Ten millimeters between keeping the position and losing it. Ten millimeters between personal victory and defeat.
The crowd was on their feet.
Side by side, they accelerated toward Turn 4.
Oscar held the line. Barely.
Ten millimeters more, and she would have been the one emerging ahead.
Ten millimeters more, and it could have ended in disaster.
But it didn’t.
Oscar kept the position.
When he crossed the finish line in second place, the radio exploded with his team’s cheers.
"Well done, Oscar! P2 at home, incredible race!"
He let out a shaky breath, a laugh escaping his lips. It wasn’t a win, but it was a solid podium—a result any driver would dream of achieving at their home race.
As he climbed out of the car, the roar of the Australian crowd engulfed him. People chanted his name, a wave of applause that sent chills down his spine as he raised his arms in gratitude.
But then, before he could fully process it, he felt an impact against his side.
Lena.
She had walked up with a grin stretching from ear to ear and, without warning, threw her arms around him. A spontaneous, unrestrained gesture, with no trace of their usual hostility.
Oscar froze completely for a second.
He could feel the fabric of her race suit against his, her arm firmly wrapped around his back.
The cameras caught everything.
Photographers fired away, the images already circulating online, ready to send fans into a frenzy.
And the worst—or maybe the best—part was that Oscar didn’t react with his usual stiffness.
He didn’t pull away. He didn’t try to escape.
Almost without realizing it, he returned the embrace.
Ten millimeters.
That was what separated them on track.
But here, there wasn’t a single one.
A couple of hours later, Oscar settled into his airplane seat, resting his head against the window and staring into the darkness of the night sky. The muffled roar of the engines and the dim cabin lighting gave everything an unreal feel, as if he were suspended in a limbo between two worlds.
He should be exhausted. He should be enjoying the moment. P2 at his home race, the crowd chanting his name, champagne spilling over the podium.
And yet, the only thing occupying his mind was the feeling of Lena’s embrace.
It was absurd.
He had raced past her so many times on track—always on the edge, always brushing against each other with surgical precision. Always breaking each other down, searching for every tiny advantage, pushing to the limit.
But he had never felt her like this.
Close. Present.
No helmet. No barriers.
A few minutes earlier, as he boarded the private jet with Lando, he had barely exchanged any words with him. He knew his teammate was probably waiting for him to comment on the race, the podium, something. But Oscar had said nothing.
And Lando, being Lando, wasn’t about to let it go.
"Alright, are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to figure it out myself?"
Oscar blinked and turned his head, meeting his teammate’s curious expression. Lando was watching him from the seat next to him, one eyebrow raised.
"Nothing."
"Yeah, sure," Lando scoffed, crossing his arms. "I know you well enough to tell when something’s eating you up. You haven’t said a word in two hours, and you just finished on the podium at home."
Oscar sighed. Lando wasn’t going to drop it easily.
"I’m tired," he tried to dismiss.
Lando clicked his tongue, clearly not buying it.
"So it’s Lena."
Oscar felt a jolt of discomfort run down his spine.
"What?"
"Come on, mate." Lando turned fully in his seat, resting an arm on the backrest. "I saw it. We all saw it. Since when do you and Lena Bauer hug like you’re best friends?"
Oscar clenched his jaw.
"It was just… the moment. You know how she is."
Lando studied him, as if trying to unravel something beyond his words.
"Yeah, I do. But you didn’t react the way you usually do."
Oscar looked away, uneasy.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Lando smirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"Oh, I think you do."
Oscar didn’t respond. He just stared at his reflection in the window, barely visible against the darkness of the sky.
Lando was right. He knew.
But admitting it out loud was another thing entirely.
Because if he acknowledged what he felt—if he put it into words—then he would have to face it.
And Oscar wasn’t sure he was ready for that.
The problem with Lena Bauer was that she had always been there. Always by his side, always in his way. From karting to Formula 2, and now at the pinnacle of motorsport. Always ten millimeters from him.
Always too close.
And yet, never as much as now.
Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling in frustration.
"It’s nothing," he muttered at last, more to himself than to Lando.
His teammate didn’t even look up from his phone.
"Whatever you say."
The cabin fell into silence again. The hum of the engine, the flickering overhead lights, the gentle sway of the plane cutting through the night.
Oscar closed his eyes.
But in his mind, he didn’t see the race. Or the podium. Or the crowd chanting his name.
He only saw Lena.
Her smile.
The warmth of her embrace.
The sound of her laughter, echoing in his chest like an unfamiliar vibration.
The way she looked at him, seconds before letting go, that mischievous glint in her eyes—like she knew exactly what she was doing.
Like she knew what she was doing to him.
And maybe she did.
Maybe Lena Bauer had always known.
Oscar arrived at his Monaco apartment with the deep relief of someone who, after weeks of traveling, noise, and adrenaline, finally had a couple of days to himself.
He dropped his suitcase by the door, kicked off his shoes without much care, and exhaled slowly as he scanned the space. His apartment was exactly as he had left it—neat, quiet, welcoming.
Peace.
That was what he needed.
He had planned these days with precision: sleep in without worrying about schedules, cook something decent instead of relying on paddock catering or airport food, and maybe, if he felt like it, go for a walk along the harbor. But most of all, rest.
He collapsed onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling mindlessly. Messages from his team, social media notifications exploding with podium photos from Australia, a couple of texts from Lando sending him ridiculous memes. Nothing urgent.
He was about to put his phone down when a new notification popped up on the screen.
Lena Bauer.
He frowned.
It wasn’t like they never talked outside of race weekends—well, actually, they didn’t much—but if Lena was texting him directly, it had to be something important.
He swiped to open the message, and what he found made him blink a couple of times.
Lena: "pastri pls i need help, im movin and the fookin couch dosnt fit in the elevator. i swer i tried with max, charls, even russel but aparntly evryone decidid to disapear at the same time. so now im stuk and if i try to do this alone ill eithr break my spine or end up trapd under it n die. u dont want that on ur consiense do u?? pls be a decnt human bein n help me, ill buy u a bier or idk a whole pizza if thats wht it takes 😭🙏 also if u say no i will haunt u 4ever just so u kno."
He blinked again, trying to process the grammatical crime he had just read.
For a second, he considered ignoring it. After all, he had spent weeks traveling, racing, training. All he wanted was to sleep in his own bed, eat something decent, and not move a single muscle for the next forty-eight hours.
But then he pictured Lena, somehow attempting to haul a couch up the stairs, probably cursing in three different languages, and with a ninety percent chance of actually managing it out of sheer stubbornness.
He sighed.
Oscar: "Give me 15 minutes."
His phone vibrated almost instantly.
Lena: "thankiu ily"
Oscar let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. But as he put his shoes back on and grabbed his keys, he couldn’t ignore the strange warmth that settled in his chest at those three little letters.
No.
Lena Bauer definitely had no idea what she was doing to him.
Oscar arrived at Lena’s building with the address she had sent him in a message. He didn’t need to call her or let her know he was there; the commotion in the stairwell was already guiding him straight to his target.
There she was, locked in battle with a couch.
The piece of furniture was stuck on the first landing, wedged at an angle that defied all logic. Lena, sweating and with the sleeves of her T-shirt rolled up to her shoulders, was pushing with all her strength, muttering German curses under her breath. Every time she tried to turn it, the couch got even more stuck.
Oscar stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching in silence for a few seconds.
"Are you winning?" he finally asked, the calm tone of someone arriving at a crime scene after the disaster had already happened.
Lena let out a frustrated huff and rested a hand on her hip, momentarily conceding defeat.
"Too late. It’s already knocked me out."
Oscar stepped closer, analyzing the situation with a critical eye. He crouched down, measuring the space, and within seconds, he was already formulating a plan to get the couch out without demolishing the building in the process.
"You tried lifting it sideways, didn’t you?"
"Of course I did," Lena shot back, rolling her eyes. "Do you think I’m an idiot?"
Oscar didn’t respond to that. In his mind, the scene spoke for itself.
"Alright," he said simply. "Then we’re doing this another way."
He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, getting ready for the task.
"What’s the plan, genius?" Lena asked, leaning against the railing with her arms crossed.
"First, we’re going to rotate it. But instead of pushing, we tilt it upward and slide it at an angle."
Lena eyed him skeptically.
"That sounds exactly like what I already tried."
"Yeah, but I’m not going to let the couch win."
Just before getting to work, Oscar couldn’t resist.
He pulled out his phone, and with the ease of someone who already knew exactly what they were going to do, opened the camera and pointed it at Lena.
She, standing there with her arms crossed, brows furrowed, and the couch hopelessly wedged in the stairs, looked like a live-action meme.
"What are you doing?" she asked, somewhere between suspicion and exasperation, hearing the shutter click.
"Documenting the moment," Oscar replied with a smirk, not even glancing up from his phone as he typed a caption.
Lena immediately straightened, trying to snatch the phone from him.
"Don’t you dare."
But it was already too late.
Oscar turned the screen toward her with a triumphant look before posting the photo to his Instagram story. In the image, she was in all her glory—sweat on her forehead, absolute frustration on her face, and the couch putting up a fight.
The caption read:
"The pole position never resists her, but feng shui is a different story."
Lena let out an outraged groan.
"Delete that. Right now."
"It already has likes."
"How long has it even been!?"
"Twenty seconds."
Lena shot him a deadly glare, but Oscar, unfazed, slid his phone back into his pocket, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Alright. Now, let’s deal with the couch."
Lena muttered something in German that probably wasn’t a compliment but gave in.
They worked together, though "worked together" was a generous way to put it. Oscar directed the operation with methodical patience, while Lena tried to brute-force her way through at every opportunity.
"Stop, stop, stop," Oscar said, halting when she attempted to push with her shoulder. "If you do that, you’ll just jam it even more."
"Or I’ll shove it through once and for all," Lena countered, trying again.
Oscar let out an exasperated sigh.
"Lena, please."
She huffed but eventually relented and followed his instructions. With a bit of coordination—and a lot of corrections from Oscar—they finally managed to get the couch past the first flight of stairs.
Once they set it down on the next landing, Lena collapsed onto one of the cushions with a dramatic sigh.
"I am never moving again," she declared, staring at the ceiling. "I’ll die in this apartment."
Oscar leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk.
"Could’ve been worse."
Lena turned her head to look at him in disbelief.
"Worse? How? With the couch tumbling down the stairs and taking someone out with it?"
"For example."
Lena let out a breathless laugh.
"Give me five minutes, and we’ll keep going."
Oscar nodded, though deep down, he knew this was going to take longer than expected.
When they finally managed to squeeze the sofa through the apartment door, Oscar collapsed onto it with a heavy sigh, feeling the exhaustion take over his arms.
“I thought lifting weights at the gym had prepared me for anything,” he muttered, massaging his forearm.
Lena, leaning against the wall as she tried to catch her breath, let out a breathy laugh.
“Yeah, well, two-meter sofas have their own agenda.”
For a few moments, only their labored breathing filled the space, along with the distant hum of the city drifting in through the open balcony. Now that the sofa was in place, the frantic energy of the moment faded, leaving behind something else entirely.
Oscar ran a hand through his hair, feeling his shirt sticking to his skin.
“You said there was beer.”
Lena raised an eyebrow.
“Are you implying I don’t keep my promises, Piastri?”
Pushing off the doorframe, she disappeared into the kitchen. Oscar took the opportunity to glance around the apartment. It was practically empty, save for a few stacked boxes in the corner and the sofa they had just hauled up by sheer force.
There were no paintings on the walls, no decorations—just the space in its purest form. He didn’t know why, but it suited Lena. Practical. Functional. Nothing that wasn’t strictly necessary.
She returned with two beers in hand, tossing one at him without warning. Oscar caught it on reflex, shooting her a pointed look, but she only smirked before dropping onto the sofa beside him.
“Don’t look at me like that. If you’d dropped it, that would’ve been on you.”
Oscar shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress a small smile.
Silence settled between them again as their bottles popped open. They drank in sync, both gazing out at the balcony, where Monaco’s lights shimmered against the night sky.
It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.
It was that strange middle ground, where their usual dynamic wavered between familiarity and something Oscar hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“I didn’t think you’d move here,” he finally said, breaking the silence.
Lena turned the bottle in her hands.
“Neither did I, until I didn’t have much of a choice. Monaco is convenient. No taxes and all that.”
“Yeah, that’s why we all end up here.”
She shot him a lazy smile.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m still not sold on it. I prefer places with more soul.”
Oscar took another sip, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
“And where has more soul, in your opinion?”
Lena leaned her head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the answer was written somewhere in the empty room.
“Berlin. Maybe London. Maybe somewhere where no one knows who I am, where I can disappear for a while.”
Oscar nodded slowly, though he wasn’t sure he entirely understood. He had never felt the need to disappear.
“So why didn’t you go to one of those places?”
Lena turned to look at him, studying him for a moment before shrugging.
“I guess, in the end, I like having a little bit of chaos nearby.”
The way she said it, without thinking, made Oscar pause for a second longer than necessary.
Because she said it while looking at him.
He held her gaze for a beat longer, sensing something in her words that unsettled him, though he couldn’t quite place what it was.
Lena was the first to look away, refocusing on her bottle, drumming her fingers lightly against the glass.
“Anyway, thanks for the help.” Her tone was back to its usual lightness, as if the last few minutes of conversation hadn’t happened at all. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come. Probably left the sofa downstairs and used boxes as chairs.”
Oscar let out a quiet snort.
“That could’ve been a creative solution.”
“Nah. I want this place to at least somewhat resemble a home.”
He frowned slightly, something about the way she said “home” not quite sitting right with him. Like the word felt foreign to her.
“Isn’t it?”
Lena turned to him again, eyes sharp, as if seeing more than she let on. Then she smiled, but it was one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Not yet.”
Silence returned between them, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Oscar took another sip of his beer, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat as he tried not to overthink everything they had just said.
Outside, Monaco continued to glow like a movie set. Inside, Lena shifted on the couch, tucking one leg under the other as she turned toward him.
“By the way, how long are you staying before you have to travel again?”
Oscar blinked at the abrupt change of topic but decided to play along.
“A couple of days. Why?”
“Because now that you’ve helped me with the sofa, it’d be a waste not to take advantage of your handyman skills.”
Oscar eyed her suspiciously.
“Lena…”
She held up her hands in mock innocence.
“Nothing complicated. Just a few more things. A table. A couple of chairs. Maybe a bookshelf.”
“You want me to do your entire move?”
“No, I want you to help. Not the same thing.”
Oscar sighed, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from twitching slightly.
“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
Lena tapped his arm with her bottle, as if sealing a deal.
“We’ll see.”
The following days tested Oscar’s patience.
What initially seemed like a simple favor—helping with a few pieces of furniture—quickly spiraled into something much more chaotic. Lena had absolutely nothing organized. Her boxes were stacked haphazardly in the living room, some half-open, others sealed with an absurd amount of tape.
“Why do you have so many boxes when you basically live in a paddock all year?” Oscar asked the day she dragged him back to her apartment under the pretense of “just helping me move one thing.”
“I don’t know, most of them are books.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
“You read?”
Lena shot him an offended look.
"Why do you say that like it’s some kind of miracle?"
"I don’t know. Do you see how you write in your phone? I just never pictured you sitting still long enough to read."
"I have my quiet moments, Piastri. Few, but they exist."
He wasn’t entirely convinced of that—until he saw the stacks of novels, biographies, and even a few technical essays in Lena’s moving boxes. It was a chaotic mix of genres, ranging from thrillers to books on applied F1 mechanics.
"You actually read all of this?" he asked, pulling out a book on aerodynamics with pages filled with handwritten notes in the margins.
"Most of them. Some were gifts I never got around to reading."
Oscar shook his head in disbelief before opening another box. That was how they spent the afternoon—drifting from one conversation to another, moving furniture back and forth, and pausing every now and then when Oscar, with infinite patience, had to explain the correct way to use a power screwdriver.
"Give me that. You’re making me nervous," he muttered at one point, taking the tool from her hands before she could drill straight through the table they were working on.
"You’re such a control freak," she shot back, crossing her arms.
"I’m efficient."
By the end of the day, Lena’s apartment was still far from organized, but at least she had a table, chairs, and a bookshelf that wouldn’t collapse at any second.
They both collapsed onto the couch with a tired sigh.
"Tell me that’s the last of it," Oscar mumbled, eyes closed.
Lena elbowed him.
"Almost."
He groaned.
"I knew you were lying to me."
"Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad. Besides, I gave you beer and free food—what more do you want?"
Oscar cracked one eye open, amused.
"A written contract guaranteeing you won’t drag me into this again."
Lena stuck out her tongue.
And for some reason, Oscar realized he wouldn’t mind coming back.
The next few days in Monaco passed far too quickly. Before he could even process it, he was back to his usual routine—simulator sessions, meetings with engineers, workouts, flights to the next circuit.
But something had changed.
It was subtle, like background noise he couldn’t quite tune out. A recurring thought creeping in at the most unexpected moments—while reviewing telemetry data, while pulling on his gloves before heading out on track, while trying to fall asleep in yet another uncomfortable hotel bed.
Lena.
Not because he was analyzing her as a rival. Not because he was trying to figure out how to beat her on track.
Just because she was there.
Because every time he scrolled through Instagram, he stumbled upon clips of their interview together, the comments flooded with people loving their dynamic. Because every time he opened WhatsApp, their chat was never too far down the list. Because every time someone mentioned her name in a conversation, he felt something close to… anticipation.
And now, when he arrived at the paddock, he found himself looking for her without even realizing it.
The next Grand Prix was a brutal reminder of why he couldn’t afford distractions.
From the first practice sessions, it was clear that the margins were razor-thin. Red Bull had the edge, sure, but McLaren and Ferrari were right behind, waiting for any opportunity. And amid all the tension, there was Lena—with that infuriatingly relaxed attitude that somehow managed to get under his skin.
"Ready to lose again, Piastri?" she teased with a smirk when they crossed paths near the hospitality area before qualifying.
"I’m not losing today," he shot back, folding his arms.
"We’ll see about that."
And they did.
Qualifying was chaos. Session after session, the times tightened until there was barely any room for error. In the final moments of Q3, Lena put in a blistering lap, claiming provisional pole. Oscar was still on his flyer, pushing the limits of the track with every turn.
When he crossed the line and saw his time flash on the board, adrenaline surged through him.
P1.
On race day, the tension on the grid was almost tangible.
Oscar was on pole, Lena right beside him in P2. From inside his cockpit, he could see her through the visor of her helmet—leaning slightly forward, hands resting on the wheel, fingers barely perceptibly tightening around the grips.
He knew her too well. He could tell she was planning something.
He also knew she wouldn’t give him a single inch.
When the lights went out, the world shrank to the sound of his own heartbeat and the deafening roar of the engines.
His start was good. Hers was better.
They went wheel to wheel into the first corner, neither backing down, neither willing to be the first to yield.
The battle raged on for lap after lap. Every overtake was met with an immediate counterattack. Every attempt to pull away was thwarted by the other’s relentless defense.
And then—it happened.
It wasn’t a major mistake. It wasn’t a desperate move.
It was a matter of… ten millimeters.
Oscar tried to close the door in a high-speed corner, expecting Lena to back out. But Lena never backed out.
Their rear wheels touched.
And in the blink of an eye, both cars were out of control.
The world spun in a blur of radio static, gravel, and the sickening crunch of carbon fiber meeting the barriers.
The impact was brutal. Not in sheer force, but in the inevitability of it.
Their cars—now little more than shattered debris scattered across the runoff—were the culmination of something that had been brewing for years.
When Oscar tore off his steering wheel and sat up in his seat, the deafening roar of the crowd was muted by the blood pounding in his ears. His hands, still shaking with adrenaline, unfastened the harnesses with a sharp tug.
He jumped out of the car.
And there she was.
Lena had already climbed out of her Red Bull, brushing dust off her fireproof suit as if the crash hadn’t fazed her at all. But Oscar knew better. He saw the tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled into fists, the tight clench of her jaw as she swallowed down barely contained frustration.
They locked eyes in silence, their breathing still ragged, the echoes of the crash still hanging between them.
Around them, track marshals rushed in, ensuring they were both unharmed, stepping between them before either could do something they might regret.
There was no need for words.
What had just happened wasn’t a mistake.
It was the result of every on-track clash, every maneuver pushed to the limit, every time one had tried to prove they could beat the other.
It was the inevitable outcome of ten years of war.
When they were taken back to the paddock, the tension between them was so thick that even the FIA officials seemed to want to stay out of it. Their team principals were too busy analyzing replays of the crash, debating over the radio, searching for arguments to either defend or condemn what had happened.
So they were left in a room. Alone.
The silence was suffocating.
The only sound was their breathing—still ragged, still laced with fury.
Oscar ran his hands through his hair, exhaling sharply, trying to steady the storm of emotions tearing through him.
But when he looked up and saw her standing there, arms crossed, eyes burning, brows furrowed in pure defiance…
He knew.
This wasn’t about the race.
It had never been just about the track.
And then, the storm broke.
The door shut behind them with a sharp thud.
Silence.
Heavy, stifling, ready to shatter.
Lena ran a hand over her neck, clenching her jaw, her breath still unsteady. She didn’t know if it was from the crash, the anger, or the lethal combination of both.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, her voice rough.
Oscar, who had been standing with his hands on his hips, turned his head toward her like he’d been waiting for the first shot to be fired.
"What’s wrong with me?" He let out a dry, incredulous laugh—a sharp, cutting sound. "Are you fucking kidding me? You shoved me into the wall, Lena."
"Oh, fuck off. You left me with no space first."
"There was no more space to give you."
"There’s always space, Piastri, but of course, if you're the one who has to yield, suddenly it becomes fucking nonexistent."
Oscar took a step toward her.
"Oh, I’m sorry—should I applaud you? Should I fucking bow for your sacrifice? If you want to win, maybe try not launching yourself like a goddamn kamikaze."
"And maybe you should try driving like you don’t have a stick up your ass!"
The air crackled between them.
The crash, the scrape of tires, the sound of shattered carbon fiber—it didn’t matter.
What mattered was everything behind it.
Years and years of pushing each other to the edge. Of locking eyes and knowing neither of them would ever back down. Of a rivalry so deeply poisoned that they no longer knew whether they wanted to beat each other or destroy each other.
Oscar took another step.
Lena didn’t move an inch.
"You always do this," he muttered, voice lower now but no less intense.
"Do what?"
"Put me in this fucking situation."
Lena tilted her head, a razor-sharp smile curling her lips.
"Don’t play the victim. It’s not just me."
"Oh, no?"
"You know it’s not."
Oscar clenched his jaw. Lena saw the tic in his temple, the way his fists tightened and relaxed, like he was holding something back—something he had no fucking idea how to deal with.
"Admit it pisses you off," she murmured.
"What pisses me off?"
"That I have you so figured out I know what you're feeling before you do."
Oscar let out a tense, fractured laugh.
"You have no idea what I’m feeling."
Lena stepped closer.
A single damn millimeter.
"Of course I do."
A flicker in his jaw.
"No. You don’t."
"I know it’s not about the race."
Oscar swallowed.
"Shut up."
"I know it’s not about the fucking crash."
"Lena."
"I know you want to kiss me."
Oscar felt something drop in his stomach—an unfamiliar, furious vertigo.
"Shut up."
Lena laughed, but there was no amusement in it. Only a blade, only the undeniable certainty that she was right.
"Why? Because it pisses you off to hear it out loud?"
Oscar gritted his teeth.
"Because it’s bullshit."
"No, it’s not."
"Yes, it is."
"Oh, really? Then why—"
She leaned in just a fraction more, pushing him without even touching him.
"Why do you look at me like that every time we’re on track?"
"I don’t look at you in any way."
"Why do you pick fights over stupid shit, but never over what actually gets to you?"
"Because you’re unbearable."
Lena clicked her tongue.
"Liar."
Oscar felt something in his chest pull impossibly tight.
"Drop it."
But she didn’t.
"Why can't you stand it when others congratulate me? When someone else says I did well?"
Oscar didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because the answer was there, lodged in his throat, so obvious it almost made him sick.
Because the truth was spilling through the cracks of his denial, seeping into the fractures of his damned mind until everything fell into place.
It wasn’t competitiveness.
It wasn’t anger.
It wasn’t that she won.
It was that she was there, always, messing up his existence since they were kids.
It was that every time he saw her passing him, he felt something that made no sense.
It was that when she laughed, with that smile that was so unmistakably hers, his chest tightened.
It was that he had spent years convincing himself that all he wanted was to beat her, when what he really wanted was to touch her.
And she knew it.
Lena saw the shift in his face, in his dark, glinting eyes, in the way his breathing turned just a little deeper.
"See?" she whispered.
Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, his fists clenched, his pulse pounding at his temples.
"No," he said.
But it sounded like what it was—a lie.
Lena smiled, but it wasn’t mocking. It was something heavier, more dangerous. Something that sent Oscar’s pulse racing.
"Yes," she whispered. "You see it."
Oscar didn’t move, but he didn’t step back when she leaned in closer. Ten millimeters less.
"Shut up."
His voice came out rough, ragged, completely useless.
"Make me."
Oscar swallowed hard.
The air between them was thick, suffocating. No space. No escape.
They had spent years fighting. Years pushing each other to the limit. Years forcing themselves to believe that all they felt was anger, rivalry, fury.
But fury didn’t burn like this.
Fury didn’t make his hands tingle with the urge to grab her.
Fury didn’t leave him like this, with his jaw clenched and his thoughts in complete chaos because Lena was so close, because he could feel her breath, because he knew—he knew—this was inevitable.
"Say you don’t want this."
Lena’s voice was a challenge, a provocation that curled down his spine.
Oscar closed his eyes for a second.
If he said it, maybe they could pretend this never happened.
That none of this existed.
That they could keep waging their damn war on the track without the truth tearing them apart.
But when he opened his eyes, when he saw the way Lena was looking at him, something inside him just… gave in.
The last barrier shattered.
The final ten millimeters disappeared.
And Oscar kissed her.
The impact was brutal.
No hesitation, no second-guessing, no restraint. Just pure momentum, an inevitable collision that trapped them in a fierce, definitive moment.
Lena gasped against his mouth, startled but not resisting, because her fingers clenched in the fabric of his race suit, pulling him in, seeking more, seeking everything. Oscar didn’t think. He couldn’t. His body reacted before his mind could process it, before he could remember that just minutes ago, he had been shouting at her.
That they had been arguing, that they had been furious, that they had spent years hating each other.
But had they really?
His back hit the wall, and he barely had time to catch his breath before Lena kissed him again—deeper, hungrier, as if they had just crossed a line they would never be able to step back from.
"Son of a bitch…" she murmured against his lips, but she didn’t sound angry. She sounded defeated.
Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold on to something, to any rational thought that could pull him out of this whirlwind.
But everything was Lena.
Her breath, her scent mixed with the adrenaline of the race, the feel of her hands gripping his neck.
He wanted her with an intensity that terrified him.
His entire world narrowed down to this moment, to this kiss, to the small, shaky exhales slipping from her mouth when he deepened it.
Lena laughed, barely a whisper against his skin.
"I knew I was right."
Oscar clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around her waist on instinct.
"Don’t ruin it," he growled.
But she did anyway.
"I always knew you’d break one day," she whispered, with a shameless confidence that should have infuriated him.
But there was no anger left in him.
Only this.
This vertigo, this need.
This something that had been pushing him for years—something that, now he understood, had never been hatred.
Lena pulled back just a fraction, her gaze locked on his. The last traces of defiance were still in her expression, but something else had seeped through the cracks.
"And now what, Piastri?" she asked, her voice lower than usual.
Oscar ran his tongue over his lips, still trapped in the spiral of what had just happened.
He looked into her eyes, at her swollen lips, at the shadow of a smile threatening to return.
And then he knew.
"I have no fucking idea."
Lena laughed, and Oscar kissed her again.
The door creaked open.
Oscar and Lena pulled apart at the last second, his pulse still hammering in his ears. Lena recovered faster—she lifted her chin, ran her fingers along the collar of her race suit, and slipped into her usual mask of arrogant indifference, as if they hadn’t just been pressed against the wall, devouring each other with the urgency of people who had waited too long.
The FIA steward entered, oblivious, an iPad in hand and the frown of someone who had spent too much time analyzing replays.
"Alright, both of you need to give your statements on the on-track incident. Bauer, you first. Piastri, wait here."
Lena cast a quick glance at Oscar before moving.
A fleeting look, barely a couple of seconds. But enough.
He held her gaze, trying to read what wasn’t being said.
No regret. No hesitation. Just something sharp, expectant.
When Lena turned and walked out of the room, her scent still lingered in the air.
Oscar ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, as if that could restore control over something he had lost a long time ago.
Ten millimeters.
They had crossed them.
And there was no turning back.
Oscar was still pulling off his gloves when Andrea intercepted him in the hallway.
"Doctor. Now."
"I'm fine."
"Doctor. Now."
Stella’s look left no room for argument, so Oscar let out a frustrated sigh and nodded, peeling off the top half of his race suit as he followed.
But his mind wasn’t on the medical check-up.
She had slipped away.
Lena was already gone when he finished his statement, and no matter how much he searched for her among the crowd of mechanics, team principals, and paddock staff, she was nowhere to be found.
And the scene in that room—the heat of her breath, her lips mere millimeters from his, the echo of her voice tearing apart every excuse he had tried to hide behind—kept replaying in his head like a damn broken record.
"Piastri."
Oscar blinked, realizing he was already in the medical room. A doctor stood in front of him, pointing at the examination table.
"Sit down."
"Is Lena here?"
The doctor raised an eyebrow.
"Bauer? No, she already came through. She’s fine."
Oscar pressed his tongue against his palate, frustrated.
Where the hell had she gone?
He climbed onto the table without complaint and let them check his blood pressure and reflexes, but he barely paid attention. His mind was still trapped in that room, in the way Lena had looked at him before walking out.
Because now he knew.
She had been right.
And that pissed him off. It pissed him off so much.
But what pissed him off the most was that, despite everything—he wanted to see her again.
The flight back to Monaco was a blur.
He didn’t remember packing, leaving the circuit, or walking through the airport with the team. His body moved on autopilot, repeating mechanical gestures, nodding at the right moments when someone spoke to him. But his mind was elsewhere.
The corner. The impact. The fire in his chest when he saw Lena’s helmet move inside the car, when he saw her climb out unscathed.
The room in the paddock.
Her sharp voice. The way she had stepped closer. The way she had disarmed him effortlessly, ripping a truth from him that even he hadn’t realized.
By the time he landed in Nice, his jaw was so tense it ached.
He got into the waiting car without bothering to say anything. The radio played in the background, a mix of music and news, but he didn’t listen. His own silence was louder.
He got out at his building and took the elevator up with the same inertia that had carried him through the last few hours. When the doors opened, he walked to his apartment, disabled the alarm, and stepped into the dimly lit space.
The room was silent except for the faint murmur of the sea in the distance.
Oscar dropped his suitcase by the door and stood still in the middle of the living room.
The weight of everything crashed into him all at once.
He exhaled, running a hand down his face.
He knew sleep would be impossible.
He didn’t even think. He just pulled out his phone, opened their chat, and sent his location.
He hit send before he could second-guess himself.
Seen.
Nothing else.
No message. No reaction.
Just the damn double blue check marks, glowing on the screen like a reminder of how much of an idiot he was.
Oscar clenched his jaw and tossed the phone onto the table. He sank onto the couch, head tipped back, staring at the ceiling.
It had been a bad idea.
No, it had been a fucking terrible idea.
What the hell was he thinking?
He shut his eyes. The crash. The fight. The kiss.
Everything they had held back for years had exploded in that room. But now, after the frenzy of the race, after the adrenaline and the rage, all that was left was the emptiness.
The hum in his chest wouldn’t quiet.
And then the doorbell ringed.
Oscar opened his eyes.
He froze.
Didn’t move at first, as if his brain needed a few extra seconds to process it.
Doorbell. Again.
This time, he got up. Walked to the door, feeling his own pulse in his fingertips.
He opened it.
Lena.
Standing in the doorway, that same unreadable glint in her eyes.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
She stepped inside, and he shut the door behind her.
And then, everything unraveled.
The moment the door clicked shut, the silence between them became unbearable.
Lena didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. She reached for him first, hands gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him down into a kiss that was anything but soft. It was raw, demanding—filled with every word they hadn’t said, every feeling they had swallowed for years. Oscar barely had time to react before instinct took over. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, as if the space between them was something offensive, something that needed to be erased.
She tasted like adrenaline and defiance, like the echoes of their fight still lingered between their teeth. He could feel her pulse hammering against his fingertips, mirroring his own. Every inch of his body was wound tight, coiled with tension that had nothing to do with the race and everything to do with her.
Lena backed him into the living room, their steps clumsy, uncoordinated in a way that betrayed just how frayed their control was. They hit the edge of the couch, and Oscar barely managed to turn them, pressing her back against the armrest as his weight settled over her. She didn’t protest. If anything, she arched into him, fingers threading through his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp.
A shiver ran down his spine at the sensation, sharp and electric. It made him want more.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his breathing ragged. Her lips were swollen, parted, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. There was something wild in her eyes, something reckless and unguarded, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Lena smirked, tilting her head just slightly. “Are you going to overthink this, Piastri?”
Oscar exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh escaping him. “Shut up.”
She did. But only because his mouth was on hers again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over the familiar lines of her body with a newfound urgency. The couch wasn’t enough. The room wasn’t enough. He needed more. Needed all of her.
Without breaking contact, he lifted her, ignoring the way she gasped in surprise before her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. He carried her through the dimly lit apartment, only stopping when her back hit the bedroom door. The impact made it rattle, but neither of them cared.
He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop.”
Lena’s fingers traced the edge of his jaw, her touch softer now, more deliberate. Her voice was quieter when she answered. “I won’t.”
That was all he needed.
The door gave way behind them, and they stumbled inside.
And then, everything really unraveled.
Clothes hit the floor in a messy, frantic rhythm. Hands moved with the kind of desperation that only years of restraint could create. Oscar traced the curve of her spine with his fingertips, committing every detail to memory. Lena’s breath hitched when his lips found the sensitive skin of her collarbone, her fingers tightening around his shoulders.
The night stretched on, filled with whispered names and stolen breaths. Every touch, every movement was a conversation in itself, a language they had long denied speaking. And when they finally collapsed together, bodies tangled in the sheets, neither of them spoke for a long time.
Because for once, there was nothing left to say.
The room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic sound of their breathing and the distant murmur of the sea drifting through the open window. A soft breeze ghosted over their damp skin, cooling the lingering heat between them.
Oscar lay on his side, his fingers tracing idle patterns along Lena’s bare waist. He watched as goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch, fascinated by the way her body reacted to him even now. She didn’t move, only observed him in silence, her dark eyes half-lidded, unreadable in the dim light.
He followed the curve of her ribs, the dip of her stomach, moving slowly, deliberately. There was something intoxicating about it—about this rare, quiet moment where neither of them had to fight or prove anything. Here, in the sanctuary of tangled sheets and shared breaths, they were just themselves.
Lena exhaled softly, shifting slightly under his touch. ““How long?” she finally asked, her voice quiet but firm.
Oscar knew exactly what she was asking. He exhaled slowly, his fingers stilling against her skin.
“Always.”
Lena’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Oscar turned on his side to face her fully, his eyes scanning hers for any sign of hesitation.
“Since the first race. Since before I even knew what this was,” he admitted, voice rough. “I thought it was competition. I thought it was rivalry. I told myself that wanting to beat you was all there was. But it was more than that. It was always more.”
She held his gaze, unreadable for a moment, then let out a quiet breath. “I hated you for so long,” she murmured. “Or at least, I wanted to.”
His lips twitched slightly, but there was no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that?”
She huffed a short laugh, shaking her head. “I told myself it was just about winning. About proving I was better. But then, when you weren’t there, when you moved up first, it felt… wrong. Like something was missing.”
Oscar’s fingers curled around her wrist, thumb brushing against her pulse. “I felt it too.”
Lena swallowed, then shifted closer, their foreheads nearly touching. “I don’t know what to do with this,” she admitted. “I’ve spent so long pushing it down, convincing myself it didn’t matter.”
Oscar’s grip tightened slightly. “Then don’t push it down anymore.”
A beat of silence.
“And if it ruins everything?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Oscar inhaled sharply, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Then at least it was real.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, as if letting the words settle. When she opened them again, something in her expression had shifted. Resolved. Certain.
“No more running,” she said.
His fingers tangled with hers beneath the sheets. “No more running.”
And this time, when she kissed him, it was slow. Certain. Like something inevitable finally falling into place.
A few moments passed before Lena broke the silence again, a smirk playing at her lips. “I have to say, for all that tension, you weren’t half bad.”
Oscar scoffed, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist. “Not half bad? That’s all I get?”
She let out a soft laugh, tilting her head. “I don’t know… I might need another round of evidence before I make my final judgment.”
Oscar groaned, burying his face in her neck, his laugh muffled against her skin. “You’re impossible.”
“You like that about me,” she teased.
He lifted his head, meeting her gaze with something softer now, amusement and something deeper mixing together. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I do.”
She sighed, stretching out beneath him. “God, I can’t believe it took us this long.”
Oscar leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her shoulder. “Guess we were too busy trying to destroy each other.”
“Healthy,” she deadpanned.
He chuckled. “Extremely.”
Another pause, comfortable now, before Lena turned her head to look at him again. “So… what now?”
Oscar traced a lazy circle on her hip. “I guess we figure it out.”
She snorted. “That sounds dangerously close to a plan.”
“I can be responsible sometimes.”
Lena raised an eyebrow. “You literally just sent me your location instead of saying actual words.”
Oscar sighed dramatically. “Fine. Not my best moment.”
She grinned. “But it worked.”
He smirked. “Yeah. It did.”
And as the night stretched on, tangled together in the quiet of the room, the weight of ten years finally felt lighter.
runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn
Words: 2k
Warnings: Lyra POV, anxiety
Masterlist
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a/n: Are you guys excited to read what comes next? I was going to post yesterday but I was busy with work🥹
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Every way of feedback is very welcomed
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The moment my heels hit the pavement outside the hotel, I didn't stop.
I didn’t look back.
I didn’t think.
The only thing I can hear is the pounding of my own heartbeat, loud and insistent, drowning out the panicked voices calling after me. My dress is heavy, the fabric moving slowly behind me as I lift it with shaking fingers, my breath ragged as I run away from everything, away from the altar.
My hands shake as I reach for the pocket of my dress, fingers closing around the cool metal of the keys Lando gave me.
For a split second, I hesitate.
And then I grip them tighter and press the button, the familiar sound of a car unlocking cutting through the silence.
Lando’s car.
The McLaren sits there, waiting. It feels surreal, slipping into the driver’s seat in a wedding dress. The scent of him lingers in the leather, something familiar and grounding, and I take a shaky breath as I push the key into the ignition after taking off the heels and throwing them to the seat next to me.
For a brief second, I just sit there.
I grip the steering wheel, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts. My wedding dress feels suffocating, too tight against my chest, the fabric pooling around me like it’s trying to trap me here.
I shouldn’t be here. I should be walking down the aisle, saying my vows, smiling for the cameras, doing what everyone expects of me.
Instead, I shove the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life, smooth and powerful beneath my hands.
And then, I’m gone.
People stare in shock as I speed past, because how could they not? A woman in a white silk wedding dress, hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, driving a McLaren like she’s being chased by the devil himself.
And maybe I am chased. By expectations, by guilt, by the weight of a future that feels overwhelming and suffocating.
The second I pull up in front of Lando’s building, I stop the car into park and shut off the engine, my hands still trembling as I press my forehead against the steering wheel.
Breathe, Lyra.
I exhale slowly, my chest tight as I finally force myself to move, stepping out of the car and slamming the door behind me, locking it with the key.
The lobby is quiet when I step inside, the only sound is the soft hum of the elevator as it takes me up to his floor. My pulse is still racing by the time I push open the door to his apartment.
It’s dark, but not unwelcoming.
The air smells like him: clean, familiar, with the faintest hint of something musky, like expensive cologne and memories I tried too hard to forget.
I breathe shakily, walking further inside, my dress whispering against the floor as I move. I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t need to. I’ve been here enough times to know where everything is, even after all this time.
The silence is loud.
I left behind hundreds of people, an entire wedding, a future that was already set in stone, and now there’s just this.
Just me.
Alone, in Lando’s apartment, standing in the middle of his living room in a wedding dress that no longer feels like it belongs to me.
My stomach twists, the weight of everything finally pressing down on me.
I need something. Anything.
Without thinking, I make my way to the kitchen.
The fridge hums softly as I pull it open, the cool air hitting my skin. My fingers wrap around the first thing I see: a half-empty container of sausages, the ones Lando always keeps in stock because he eats them like candy.
I set them on the counter, grabbing a can of Monster. The first sip is too cold, shocking against my throat, but it helps.
I exhale, pressing my free hand against the counter, trying to steady myself.
I don’t know how much time passes as I stand there, but it feels like an eternity.
And for the first time all day, I finally let myself breathe.
The door opens just as Meredith Grey starts narrating about how life is unpredictable, how sometimes the choices we make define us in ways we never expect.
I don’t look.
I already know who it is.
Lando walks in, the door clicking shut behind him, his footsteps slow and deliberate. I can feel his eyes on me as I sit curled up on his couch, still in my wedding dress, a half-empty can of Monster Mango-Loco in one hand and the TV remote in the other.
Grey’s Anatomy plays on the screen in front of me, the blue light flickering across the room, the sound of heart monitors beeping in the background. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I take a sip of the soda and look at him for a few seconds before looking back at the screen.
Lando doesn’t say anything right away. He just stands there, watching me like he’s waiting for something, for me to break down, for me to cry, for me to do something that makes sense after what I just did.
But I don’t.
I just press the can to my lips again and let out a breath inside the can, staring at the screen like it holds all the answers.
Finally, he speaks.
"Are you okay?"
That simple, stupid question.
A question that makes me laugh.
Not the kind of laugh that’s pretty or controlled, but the kind that comes out uncontrollably, the kind that shakes my shoulders and makes my chest tighten. The kind that isn’t really laughter at all, but something dangerously close to hysteria.
Lando doesn’t move. He just watches me, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.
And when I finally manage to breathe again, I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye and turn my head to look at him.
“I think I just did something worthy of a Grey’s Anatomy episode” I said, feeling how my own voice breaks as I speak, betraying me.
His brows raise, but there’s something else in his expression. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t smile. He just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m about to fall apart.
“Lyra” his voice is quieter now, more careful. “Why did you do it?”
I stare at the TV for a second longer, watching as Meredith Grey pulls off her surgical mask, looking devastated over whatever impossible situation she’s dealing with that probably is not as complicated as mine.
Then, finally, I glance at Lando.
Why did I run?
I should have an answer, right? I should be able to say something that makes sense. Because brides that run away from their own weddings have their reasons.
“Because…” I start, but my voice feels weak. I lick my lips, taking a breath through my nose before trying again. “Because I couldn’t do it.”
Lando doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head, waiting for me to go on while he leans on the table of the living room.
I shake my head, my curls brushing against my shoulders as I let out a dry, humorless laugh.
“I don’t know, Lando. I was standing there, holding my dad’s arm, walking toward Edward, and everything in me just… Just froze” I gesture vaguely, hugging my legs tighter against my chest. “It was like my body literally couldn’t take another step.”
Lando doesn’t interrupt.
He just lets me talk. Like always.
So I do.
“I kept seeing these stupid signs, you know?” I continue, my laugh turning breathless. “A rose from my bouquet broke. A pigeon literally shit right in front of me. My dad stepped on my dress. It was like the universe was screaming at me to stop.”
I shake my head again, pressing my fingers to my temples, pressing my perfect painted nails in my skin, to feel something.
“And then I saw you.”
Lando’s posture changes slightly, his shoulders tensing, but he doesn’t speak.
“I don’t know why I was looking for you,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “but I was. And when I finally found you, you just… You nodded, like you were telling me to go.”
“I wasn’t telling you to run.” he sighed, running his fingers through his curls.
“I know.” I look down at my lap, at the white fabric of my wedding dress. “But I still did.”
He stays quiet for a long moment, like trying to understand everything and trying to figure out everything.
And then he asks:
“Do you regret it?”
I think about it.
I really think about it.
“That’s the thing” I whisper. “I do, but I can’t go back. I don’t want to go back, because if I do I will have to face my family, his family and him”
“Well… Shit” he sighed.
“Yeah” I nodded. “Shit”
The wedding dress lies across the bed like a ghost of the life I almost stepped into. It looks almost untouched, almost perfect. Like I never ran out of that hotel, like I never bolted before saying “I do”
But I did.
My eyes can’t stop looking at the piece of material my own father broke, and even if it was only a few centimeters, for me it looked like more.
I stand in the doorway of Lando’s guest room, barefoot, wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants that I borrowed from his closet minutes ago. The fabric hangs loosely on me, warm and soft, smelling faintly like his detergent, like something familiar. My fingers toy with the hem of the shirt as I stare at the dress, my stomach twisting with guilt.
I should call Edward.
I need to call Edward.
But I don’t have my phone. It’s probably still somewhere in that hotel suite, buzzing with missed calls, texts, voicemails from my mother, my sisters, Edward himself.
The thought makes my chest tighten, my breath catching in my throat.
I should’ve thought this through. I should’ve had a plan.
Instead, I just ran.
A quiet sigh escapes my lips as I force my feet to move, stepping out of the doorway walking across the corridor to the living room. The TV is still on, playing the next episode of Grey’s Anatomy, but Lando isn’t watching.
He’s sitting on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, scrolling through his phone. When he hears me approach, he glances up, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable.
I hesitate for a second before finally speaking.
“Can I use your phone?” I asked, looking away from him.
“Who are you calling?” he sighed.
“Edward”
He exhales through his nose, something tense flickering across his face, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he just leans forward, pressing a few buttons before handing me the phone.
I stare at it in my hands, my fingers gripping the cool edges of the device.
Just call him.
My thumb hovers over the screen, unmoving.
I try to type his number from memory, but suddenly, my mind blanks. I know the numbers, I do, but somehow now those numbers don’t come to my mind.
I close my eyes, inhale deeply.
Lando shifts slightly, waiting. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t press, but I can feel his eyes on me, patient, quiet, curious.
I open my eyes again, staring at the blank screen.
And then, before I can stop myself, I lock the phone and hand it back to him.
Lando doesn’t take it right away, his gaze flicking from my face to the phone, then back again, shocked.
“I don’t even know what I would say” I sighed, shaking my head, forcing a laugh.
He doesn’t push, just leans back against the couch. For a few seconds he studies me with his eyes, and then he smiles nodding.
“You don’t have to say anything tonight” he sighed, patting the empty space of the couch. “The guests room is yours, as always”
Summary: Oscar Piastri wasn't looking for love when he met Amélie in a Monaco nightclub. But their undeniable chemistry sparks a passionate connection that quickly becomes something more. As their secret relationship deepens, her surname, Vasseur, becomes the real problem.
A/N: I DID IT. Another day, another one-shot. I love Oscar with all my heart. I swear I’ve done everything to make this as little angsty and as least sad as possible. I hope you enjoy it <3
My previous one-shot, Step by step, has received so much love. I adore you all, and thank you for the reblogs, for the comments and the likes!
have in mind that English is not my first nor my second language, excuse any mistakes that you might find
Monaco at night had a different glow. It wasn’t just the shimmer of lights reflecting on the sea or the lingering echo of engines that still seemed to vibrate in the air. It was the luxury, the exclusivity—the feeling that anything could happen in a city that never truly slept.
Oscar Piastri wasn’t the kind of guy who frequented nightclubs. Not because he didn’t like having fun, but because the idea of being surrounded by strangers, with deafening music and alcohol flowing freely, wasn’t exactly his scene. But a couple of friends had come to visit him at his new apartment in Monaco, and after a few beers and plenty of teasing about how boring he was, they had managed to drag him there.
The club was a chaos of strobe lights and moving bodies. The music, a heavy, immersive beat, pulsed through the floor and into his chest. Oscar stayed in a corner, a drink in his hand, pretending to enjoy himself while his friends disappeared into the crowd.
That was when he saw her.
She moved with an almost insolent confidence, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even realizing it. She was dressed in black, her loose hair falling in soft waves, her smirk suggesting she already knew something the rest didn’t. Oscar wasn’t the type to stare at just anyone, but there was something about her that kept his gaze locked.
When their eyes met, she didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled, amused, as if she could read exactly what was going through his mind.
And then she walked over.
"You don’t look like someone who enjoys places like this," she said, leaning in just enough for her voice to be heard over the music.
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
"And what kind of person do I look like?"
"Someone who’s already calculating how much longer they need to stay before they can leave without looking like a buzzkill."
Oscar let out a laugh.
"And what about you? Are you the life of the party?"
She shrugged, her expression shameless.
"Could be."
Oscar couldn’t help but smile. There was something about her attitude, the way she didn’t give him a break, that had him completely hooked.
"Are you always this quick with words?"
"Are you always this easy to throw off?" she shot back.
He laughed again, more at ease than he expected to be. He wasn’t usually like this with strangers. He didn’t usually let himself go this fast. But with her, it felt inevitable.
They stayed like that, challenging each other with words and smiles, until conversation was no longer enough. He wasn’t sure who made the first move—if it was her or him. Maybe, in the end, it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the exact moment their lips met in the middle of the dance floor, with the music pounding around them and the world shrinking to that single instant.
Oscar didn’t know her name. He didn’t know who she was or where she was from. All he knew was that the night had just become a lot more interesting.
The kiss tasted like gin and danger. The kind that arrived without warning, set skin on fire, and became impossible to ignore.
Oscar wasn’t thinking too much when he had her this close. He wasn’t thinking about the loud club, his friends, or anything other than the way she smiled against his lips, as if this were a game she already knew she was going to win.
His hand instinctively slid to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the way her body fit against his like they’d done this before, like it was meant to happen. She didn’t pull away—on the contrary, her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, just to tease him.
"Do you always kiss strangers like this?" she whispered when they pulled apart just a fraction.
Oscar smiled, still holding her.
"No. Do you?"
"Neither do I." She leaned in again, barely grazing his lips with hers, tempting him. "But today seems like a good day to start."
Oscar chuckled lowly, unable to resist the effect she had on him. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t what he usually did. But something about her made him want to play along, to fall helplessly into the pull of her presence.
The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. She took advantage of it, letting her hands trace the edges of his shirt while looking at him with that wicked amusement.
"Do you dance, driver?"
Oscar frowned, half amused, half confused.
"How do you know I’m a driver?"
She tilted her head, pretending to think.
"The way you move. Besides, this is Monaco. Everyone’s a driver here."
"That sounds like a very well-crafted lie."
"Could be." She leaned in again, her lips brushing against the curve of his jaw. "Does that bother you?"
No. It didn’t. Not when he had her this close, the dance floor spinning around them, and the feeling that this was all a mistake—but the kind worth making.
Oscar took her hand and spun her effortlessly, making her laugh. They danced without a plan, without thinking too much about the rest of the world. Her body felt light against his, her laughter vibrating against his skin every time they pushed the limits a little further.
Until, in a moment of clarity, Oscar leaned in and whispered in her ear,
"You haven’t told me your name."
She stopped, looking at him with a spark in her eyes.
"Do you really need it?"
Yes. Probably. But the way she said it, the way she smiled afterward, made him hesitate.
Because maybe, just for tonight, he didn’t need it at all.
Oscar watched her, waiting for an answer. She only smiled, stretching the silence just enough to keep him on edge.
"Amélie," she finally said, savoring each syllable of her own name.
Oscar nodded, repeating it in his mind, making sure not to forget it. Amélie. It suited her.
"Nice name."
"I know."
Oscar laughed. God, she was unbearable. Unbearable and utterly fascinating in equal measure.
They kept dancing, though the music no longer mattered. What mattered were their hands gliding over each other’s skin, the whispers in their ears, the way their lips brushed together, turning into something more. The attraction between them was like an electric current, a dangerous game neither of them seemed willing to lose.
Amélie leaned in, her lips just a breath away.
"Let’s get out of here."
Oscar didn’t think twice.
The Mediterranean breeze was warm as they walked through the streets of Monaco, away from the noise of the club, adrenaline still coursing through their veins.
"Your place or mine?" Amélie asked, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket.
Oscar hesitated for a second. His friends would be crashing at his apartment, and the idea of going back with her only to find a couple of drunk idiots passed out on the couch wasn’t exactly appealing. His mind also flashed to the countless unopened boxes, unpacked suitcases, and unassembled furniture piled up in his new place.
"Yours."
"Good choice." She smiled but didn’t say anything else. She simply started walking, knowing he would follow.
Her apartment was in an elegant building near the port, with massive windows and a breathtaking view of the illuminated city.
"Nice place."
"It’s not bad." She shrugged off her jacket with a swift motion, letting it fall onto a chair. Then she turned to face him, that same defiant look in her eyes. "Do you want something to drink or…?"
Oscar didn’t let her finish.
The tension that had been simmering between them all night exploded the moment their lips met again. It was different from the kiss at the club—more urgent, more desperate. Like every second they had spent holding back had only been a prelude to the real moment of the night.
Amélie smiled against his mouth and, in one swift move, pushed him back until his spine hit the wall.
"Are you always this easy?" she murmured, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.
Oscar let out a low chuckle.
"Are you always this bossy?"
"When necessary."
"I like it."
This time, he took control.
They stumbled through the apartment, kissing and laughing, too caught up in each other to care about bumping into furniture. Clothes disappeared along the way, leaving a trail neither of them bothered to follow.
The way Amélie moved was hypnotic, as if she was in charge without even trying. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her breath warm against his lips.
"If at any point you want to stop—"
Oscar cut her off before she could finish, kissing her again, deeper, more desperate. Amélie grinned against his lips before pulling him further into the apartment.
There was no rush, yet no hesitation either. They moved with an absurd level of synchronicity for two strangers, as if every touch had been rehearsed a hundred times before.
When the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed, he took the opportunity to flip their dynamic, pinning her beneath him with ease.
"So, you like competing off-track too?" she teased, fingers tracing down his back.
Oscar lowered his head to her neck, pressing slow kisses against her skin.
"Always."
Amélie exhaled softly, letting the heat of the moment consume everything.
That night was one to remember.
Because, even though neither of them knew it yet, it was a night that would change everything.
Oscar woke up to sunlight filtering through the curtains.
He blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. It took him a second to remember where he was—the spacious bedroom, the messy sheets, the lingering scent of perfume and warm skin in the air.
And then, the body beside him.
Amélie was lying on her stomach, her hair a tangled mess on the pillow, the sheet barely covering her back. Her breathing was soft, completely oblivious to his wakefulness.
Oscar rested his head on the pillow and watched her for a moment. He remembered every detail of the night before—the taste of gin on her lips, the way she laughed against his skin, how they had lost themselves in each other without holding back. It had been wild and sweet at the same time, like they were on the edge of devouring each other yet somehow knew exactly how to touch.
Definitely, one of those nights you don’t forget.
But now came the tricky part—the mornings.
It was never exactly awkward, but it was never simple either. There was something about waking up in an unfamiliar bed, with the faint haze of a night too good to regret, that always brought the inevitable question: Now what?
As if sensing his gaze, Amélie shifted slightly and murmured something unintelligible before cracking her eyes open.
"Mmm… you’re still here," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
"Did you expect me to sneak out in the middle of the night?"
"I didn’t take you for a coward," she said, a lazy smile tugging at her lips.
Oscar chuckled. He propped himself up on his elbow, taking her in properly for the first time without the dim club lights or the haze of lust clouding his perception. He noticed new details—the way her skin caught the morning light, the faint scar on her collarbone, the relaxed yet mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Do you always analyze people this much when you wake up next to them?" Amélie asked, meeting his gaze.
"Do you always have a comeback ready?"
"I warned you last night."
Oscar smirked, shaking his head. He couldn’t help it. There was something about her that intrigued him. It wasn’t just that she was stunning or that the sex had been incredible. It was the way she carried herself, the confidence, the effortless way she set the pace without him even noticing.
She stretched lazily before sitting up, letting the sheet slide down to her waist.
"I’m making coffee," she announced, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed.
"Does that mean you're inviting me to stay?"
Amélie turned around, giving him a defiant look.
"It means that if you touch the coffee machine before it's done, I'll throw you out of my apartment shirtless."
Oscar let out a laugh and fell back onto the bed, arms resting behind his head.
"You're trouble."
"And you walked right into it with your eyes wide open, driver."
With a satisfied smile, Amélie disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Oscar with the certainty that this night wouldn’t be something he could forget so easily.
He lay there for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling with a small smile. He couldn’t remember the last time a night had been like this. Not just incredible in the physical sense—because it had been, no question—but fun.
There was something about Amélie that kept him hooked, and that worried him a little. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t like any other girl he’d been with before.
He sighed, running a hand down his face before getting up.
Gathering his clothes scattered around the room, he pulled his pants halfway up as he walked out toward the kitchen.
The apartment was modern and spacious, with a spectacular view of Monaco from the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the distance, Amélie’s silhouette moved effortlessly between the coffee machine and the shelves, wearing his shirt—barely buttoned.
Oscar leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms.
"Nice shirt."
Amélie didn’t even turn around.
"Nice coffee machine," she shot back. "Which you still can’t touch."
He chuckled, stepping closer until his hip brushed against hers at the counter.
"And what if I need caffeine to function?"
She turned her head just enough to give him a look filled with teasing amusement.
"You're an F1 driver, not an office worker with a coffee addiction."
"We all have our weaknesses."
Amélie smirked, as if considering his words for a moment, before focusing back on her coffee.
The coffee machine bubbled softly as the rich aroma filled the kitchen. Amélie, arms crossed and feigning exasperation, watched Oscar stir the scrambled eggs he had insisted on cooking—with infuriating ease.
"Seriously, you don’t have to cook," she repeated for the third time.
"And yet, here I am."
"This isn’t your house."
"No, but it’s not a restaurant either, so if I want a decent meal, I’d rather make it myself."
Amélie huffed, leaning against the counter with her coffee cup in hand.
"Are you implying that I can’t cook?"
Oscar shot her an amused look.
"I haven’t seen any evidence that you can."
"You're incredibly arrogant for someone cooking with my pan in my kitchen."
"I call it survival," he said with a shrug.
Their dynamic was captivating. Amélie fired off comebacks at lightning speed, but Oscar kept up, responding with dry, precise remarks. There was no tension, no awkward pauses. It felt as if they had known each other for years, as if this was a routine between them.
As the eggs finished cooking, Oscar glanced toward the living room. From the kitchen, he had the perfect angle to see the main wall, and that’s when he noticed it.
Above the TV, hung proudly, was a massive painting.
It wasn’t a photograph, but a stunningly detailed painting of Monza’s circuit, featuring the faces of Michael Schumacher and Rubens Barrichello, dressed in their iconic Ferrari red suits, holding their trophies with beaming smiles.
Oscar raised an eyebrow.
"Is that Monza?"
Amélie, mid-sip of coffee, glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Mhm."
Oscar set down the spatula and turned fully toward the painting.
"It’s incredible."
"It is."
"Did you buy it?"
"No."
Oscar narrowed his eyes, noting how she didn’t elaborate.
"Are you a Formula 1 fan?"
"Mmm… not actively."
"You have a giant painting of Schumacher and Barrichello in your living room, Amélie. I find that hard to believe."
She sighed, as if she had been expecting this conversation.
"It was my father’s. He gave it to me when I bought this apartment."
Oscar tilted his head.
"Is your father a fan?"
"Let’s just say he’s very involved in motorsport."
A small alarm went off in Oscar’s head. Something wasn’t quite adding up, but before he could ask more, Amélie set her cup down and crossed her arms.
"And yes, I know who you are."
He tensed slightly.
"Oh."
"I didn’t sleep with you because you’re famous."
Oscar let out a quiet laugh, surprised by her bluntness.
"I didn’t think you did."
"Good. Because I didn’t."
They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Amélie’s expression was calm, but with that ever-present challenge in her eyes that made her impossible to ignore. Oscar felt there was more to this, something she wasn’t saying.
But for now, he let it go.
"The eggs are ready," he said, serving them onto two plates.
Amélie gave him a small smile and took hers.
"You’re a decent driver. Let’s see if you’re a decent cook too."
Oscar shook his head, chuckling as they sat down to eat.
Breakfast carried the same strangely effortless energy as the rest of the morning. Oscar couldn’t recall the last time he’d shared a moment like this with someone he’d just met. Maybe never.
They talked about everything and nothing. Amélie teased him about how meticulous he was with the scrambled eggs. Oscar told her the coffee was so strong it could wake the dead. She told him that if he couldn’t handle it, he probably wasn’t man enough to be in her kitchen.
Oscar could only laugh.
And then, it was time to leave.
"I’d stay longer," he said, leaning against the counter, "but I left my friends at a club, and I still don’t know if they’re alive or if one of them ended up in a ditch."
Amélie chuckled.
"I’d say there’s an 80% chance they’re sleeping on your couch and a 20% chance they’re in jail."
"That’s exactly why I need to check."
She set her cup in the sink and nodded.
"Alright."
But neither of them moved.
Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up.
"Want to exchange numbers?"
Amélie raised an eyebrow, as if she hadn’t expected that, but didn’t hesitate for long before taking her own phone and typing her contact into his.
"Call me if your friends are dead. I can help you hide the bodies."
"I’ll keep that in mind," Oscar joked, saving her number.
And then, the real problem arose: how to say goodbye?
A simple “bye”? Too cold.
A hug? He wasn’t sure if that was right.
A kiss? Maybe too intimate for what they really were—two strangers who had just spent the night together.
But when their eyes met, the decision made itself.
Oscar leaned in slightly, and Amélie didn’t step back. Their lips barely brushed—a short kiss, nothing like the intensity of the night before, but charged with something else. Something harder to define.
When they pulled away, Amélie smiled, that mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Don’t let it get to your head, Piastri."
Oscar laughed, shaking his head as he stepped toward the door.
"See you around, Amélie."
"See you."
And with that, he left.
Though, as he walked out of the building, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before he saw her again.
Oscar entered his apartment in Monaco, his body exhausted and his mind scattered. The weekend's race was still buzzing in his head, memories of the paddock and strategy meetings blending with the roar of the engines. He knew he should take a shower, eat something decent, and, most of all, sleep.
But the moment he crossed the threshold, he thought of her.
It had been weeks since he last saw her. Neither of them had written, not even a casual message, as if the night they spent together had been nothing more than a fleeting moment, not something strong enough to leave a mark.
Oscar dropped onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. He had no reason to text her. No excuse. But before he could think too much about it, his fingers were already moving over the screen.
🟠 Oscar: "If you want to see me, come over. I'm exhausted."
The possibility that she wouldn’t reply crossed his mind. It was late. And if he hadn’t bothered to reach out before, why would she now?
But against all odds, his phone vibrated instantly.
🔴 Amélie: "What kind of invitation is that? Doesn't sound very tempting."
Oscar let out a quiet laugh.
🟠 Oscar: "It's the best I can offer in this state."
This time, Amélie took longer to reply. He pictured her with her phone in hand, debating whether to accept or keep playing along a little longer.
🔴 Amélie: "Alright. But I’m bringing dinner."
🟠 Oscar: "No objections here."
🔴 Amélie: "You should have some. I might bring something terrible just to see your face when you try it."
🟠 Oscar: "If you poison me, you’ll pay for it."
🔴 Amélie: "I love a man who takes risks."
Oscar shook his head, and as he wrote his address in the chat, he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips.
Whatever this was, he liked it.
The doorbell rang about forty minutes later.
Dressed in sweatpants and an old T-shirt, Oscar made his way to the door unhurriedly. When he opened it, Amélie stood there, a paper bag in hand and a half-smile on her lips.
“Don’t ask what’s for dinner,” she said before he could say a word.
Oscar arched an eyebrow as he stepped aside to let her in.
“That sounds concerning.”
“Come on, trust me.”
She took off her jacket and tossed it over the couch with a familiarity they probably shouldn’t have yet. Oscar didn’t comment on it, but his gaze flickered to the jacket for a second before he shut the door behind her.
“I hope you’re not expecting anything gourmet,” she warned, pulling containers from the bag.
Oscar leaned against the counter, watching her.
“Honestly, as long as I don’t have to cook, I’ll take anything.”
Amélie pulled out two boxes of pasta from an Italian restaurant.
“Not much effort, huh?”
She shot him a sharp look.
“You wound me. This is from one of the best places in Monaco.”
Oscar opened one of the boxes, and the second the aroma hit him, he had to admit—it looked amazing.
“Alright, point for you.”
They sat on the couch, legs crossed casually, no rush. They ate in a comfortable atmosphere, filled with sarcastic remarks and glances that lingered just a little too long.
“So,” Amélie said at some point, twirling her fork in her pasta, “how does it feel to be home after the races?”
Oscar shrugged.
“Quiet. Maybe too quiet.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Does that mean you missed the chaos?”
Oscar watched her for a second before replying, amusement in his voice.
“I think it means I missed the person who brings it.”
Amélie smiled but didn’t reply right away. Still, in her eyes, Oscar saw something—a flicker of recognition, of acceptance.
This game between them was far from over.
Amélie held Oscar’s gaze for a few seconds before flashing a lazy smile.
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an accusation,” she said, taking another bite of pasta.
“A bit of both.”
She let out a low chuckle.
“I’ll take it as a compliment.”
They kept eating, their conversation flowing as easily as their playful jabs. There were no awkward silences, no need to fill the gaps with unnecessary words. It was strange. Strange because Oscar wasn’t usually this comfortable with someone he barely knew.
But Amélie wasn’t just anyone.
And that’s what kept him hooked.
When they finished eating, she set her takeout container on the coffee table and leaned back on the couch with the ease of someone who had no intention of leaving anytime soon.
“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to text me,” she said suddenly.
Oscar glanced at her while finishing his last bite.
“Oh yeah?”
“No. You seemed like the type of driver who disappears after one night.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“That’s what you think of me?”
Amélie tilted her head slightly.
“I don’t know. I’m still deciding.”
Oscar licked his lips, amused.
“And how’s my evaluation going so far?”
She pretended to think about it for a moment before answering.
“A solid seven out of ten.”
Oscar let out a laugh.
“Just a seven?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What would get me a ten?”
Amélie turned her head to look at him, and Oscar caught the subtle glint of challenge in her eyes.
“You’ll have to figure that out.”
The air between them shifted, almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t an invitation, but it wasn’t a rejection either. Amélie kept him right on the edge of what was safe and what wasn’t, and Oscar wasn’t sure which one tempted him more.
He studied her in silence for a moment.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked finally.
Amélie smiled.
“Only if you have decent wine.”
Oscar stood up, shaking his head.
“Picky.”
“Always.”
He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine he had stashed away. He wasn’t exactly a wine connoisseur, but he hoped it was good enough for his guest. When he returned to the living room with two glasses, Amélie had already changed positions on the couch, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her.
“I’ll give you an extra point if it’s good,” she remarked as Oscar poured her a glass.
“Then you’d better lie if it’s not.”
She laughed softly before taking a sip.
Oscar watched her as she did, surprised by how much he enjoyed having her in his space.
“Approved,” she finally said, handing him back the glass with an amused look.
“Great. So am I at an eight now?”
Amélie tilted her head.
“That depends on how the night ends.”
Oscar leaned back against the couch, smirking.
“Interesting.”
And somehow, they both knew the night was far from over.
Eventually, the wine was forgotten on the table.
He wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. One joke led to another, a smile turned into a fleeting touch, and now Amélie was straddling him, her legs tangled with his, her lips caught in a kiss that had no intention of ending anytime soon.
Oscar’s hand slid down her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath the fabric of her shirt. Amélie let out a laugh against his mouth before pulling back slightly, her eyes gleaming with amusement.
“For someone who was so tired, you have an impressive amount of energy,” she teased, not bothering to hide the playful lilt in her voice.
Oscar chuckled, his fingers still tracing lazy circles on her waist.
“Must be the high-quality dinner you brought,” he shot back with equal sarcasm.
Amélie arched an eyebrow.
“Then I should feed you more often.”
“Good idea. But, to be fair, it’s not just the food.”
“Oh, no?”
Oscar tilted his head, his lips grazing the skin of her neck.
“Let’s just say the company helps, too.”
Amélie smiled, sliding a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
“You’re more charming than you let on, Piastri.”
“And you’re more dangerous than you look.”
She let out a soft laugh before kissing him again, her fingers tangling in his hair. And for the second time in his life, Oscar let himself be swept away by Amélie without a second thought.
Somehow, between laughter, sharp comebacks, and hands growing bolder by the second, they ended up in Oscar’s bedroom. It was a whirlwind of discarded clothes, breathless whispers, and a crackling electricity that filled every inch of space. Amélie was a storm—unpredictable, defiant, impossible to ignore. And Oscar surrendered to her without hesitation, without caring that they barely knew each other, without worrying about what it meant.
Because in that moment, the only thing that mattered was her.
The first thing Oscar noticed upon waking was the faint morning light filtering through the curtains. The second was the warmth beside him—the shape of Amélie beneath the sheets.
For a moment, he simply lay there, watching her in the dim light. Her breathing was slow and steady, her hair a tangled mess against the pillow. She looked peaceful, nothing like the woman who challenged him with every word when she was awake.
Oscar smiled to himself before stretching slightly, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in his muscles.
"Do you always stare at people when they’re sleeping?" Amélie’s voice, husky from sleep, pulled him from his thoughts.
Oscar blinked, a little surprised to find her awake.
"Only when they try to kill me with their sense of humor," he replied, smirking.
Amélie cracked one eye open, amusement flickering in her gaze.
"Don't blame me if you can’t handle it."
Oscar let out a low laugh, shaking his head.
"I might need some intensive training."
"I doubt it. You handled yourself pretty well last night."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Pretty well?"
Amélie shrugged, feigning indifference, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away.
"I don’t know... I might need a second evaluation to be sure."
Oscar studied her for a second before rolling over, pinning her beneath him once again.
"That can be arranged."
And before she could say anything else, he kissed her, swallowing the breathless laugh that slipped from her lips.
They weren’t exactly sure how they made it work, but every time Oscar returned to Monaco, somehow, they ended up together.
It wasn’t planned. They didn’t text ahead of time or make promises to see each other again. It just happened—Oscar would come home after a race weekend, drop his bag, sink into the couch, and before he could think too much about it, he was already typing out a message to Amélie.
And she always answered.
Some nights, she was the one who showed up at his door with takeout, her hair tied up, a playful smirk on her lips, as if the last thing she wanted to do was admit she’d been waiting for that message too. Other times, he was the one crossing the city, ringing her doorbell with some vague excuse about ordering too much food and not wanting to eat alone.
Either way, the outcome was always the same.
An accidental touch on the couch that turned into something more. Oscar’s hands finding their way to her waist, tangling in her hair as he kissed her with the same intensity as the first time. Amélie murmuring something teasing against his lips before pushing him onto the mattress, or him pulling her into his arms, refusing to let her get too far. The feeling that every night with her was an inevitable spiral, a pull neither of them could resist.
It was easy. Natural. As if it couldn’t be any other way.
But there was something—something Oscar couldn’t quite figure out.
Every time he mentioned the idea of going out, Amélie’s answer was always the same.
"Go out? For what?"
Sometimes, she said it with a smirk. Other times, just a simple shrug, as if the thought of walking through Monaco together or going to a restaurant was unnecessary. And in the end, they always stayed in, watching a movie neither of them really paid attention to.
Oscar swore it didn’t bother him. It really didn’t. They didn’t need to go out to enjoy each other’s company. They didn’t need formal dates or candlelit dinners to keep doing whatever this was.
And yet, there was something about the way Amélie avoided it that didn’t quite sit right with him.
He didn’t push. He didn’t ask.
At least, not yet.
Until one day, in a surge of something he couldn’t quite name, he decided to push back.
"Why don’t you ever want to go out with me?"
It was blunt, direct. They were in her living room, a movie playing in the background, a half-eaten pizza between them. Amélie, her legs draped over his lap, looked up, caught off guard by the question.
"Where’s that coming from?"
Oscar held her gaze.
"From the fact that every time I suggest it, you dodge it."
She picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite, far too calm.
"Because I don’t like going out."
"That’s not it." He shook his head. "It’s going out with me that you don’t want."
Amélie chewed in silence, eyes locked on his. For a second, Oscar thought she’d throw back a sarcastic remark, a joke to deflect the conversation. But instead, she just sighed and set the pizza down.
"I don’t want you to take this the wrong way," she finally said. "I like what we have. I like you. But I’d rather keep it… like this."
"Like this?"
"Private."
Oscar frowned.
"Private or secret?"
She didn’t answer immediately.
And that was enough for Oscar to understand the difference.
"I’m not saying we have to make our… whatever this is, public—nothing like that," he said, trying to keep his tone steady. "I just want to understand why the idea of going to a damn restaurant with me bothers you so much."
Amélie crossed her arms, her expression hardening.
"It doesn’t bother me. I just don’t see the need. We’re fine like this, aren’t we?"
"Are we?" Oscar let out a dry laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Because, honestly, it doesn’t feel like it."
She clicked her tongue, as if the conversation was testing her patience.
"Oscar—"
"No, seriously. I like being with you. I don’t know what this is, and I don’t care about putting a label on it, but… I feel like I only exist within these walls. Like I’m a secret you’d rather keep hidden."
The atmosphere in the room shifted in an instant.
Amélie parted her lips, as if to respond, but said nothing.
Oscar let out a slow breath, rubbing his face with his hands.
"Look, I don’t want to be the guy who makes a big deal out of this. We’re not together, I have no right to demand anything from you, but—"
"Exactly." Her voice was sharper than usual. "You have no right to demand anything from me."
Oscar blinked, taken aback.
"It’s not a demand, Amélie. It’s a conversation."
She shook her head, exasperated.
"There always has to be a problem, doesn’t there? We can’t just enjoy what we have without overanalyzing it."
Oscar felt something inside him tighten even more.
"I’m not questioning what we have. I’m questioning why we have to keep it hidden."
"Because it’s easier that way."
The answer came instantly. But the way she said it… Oscar saw something in her eyes. Something she was trying to hide.
"Easier for who?" he asked quietly.
Amélie clenched her jaw, looking away.
And there it was. The confirmation he didn’t want.
Oscar felt a weight in his chest, an uncomfortable knot in his throat.
He stood up from the couch.
"Okay," he said, his tone colder than he expected.
Amélie frowned.
"Okay what?"
"Okay, if that’s what you want, I won’t push."
She got to her feet too, watching him closely.
"I’m not saying you matter less to me just because I don’t want to be seen with you in public."
"No, but it sure feels like it."
Anger flickered in her eyes for a split second, but she said nothing.
Oscar grabbed his keys from the table.
"I’m gonna go."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah."
Amélie looked at him, a mix of confusion and wounded pride in her expression.
"I thought you weren’t the kind of guy who walks away in the middle of an argument."
Oscar turned to the door.
"I also didn’t think you were the kind of person who was afraid to be seen with me."
He didn’t wait for a response.
He walked out, closing the door behind him.
And even though he tried to shake it off, tried to convince himself he had no right to feel this way, the truth was that the idea of being just a secret to her burned more than he was willing to admit.
The days turned into weeks.
Oscar fell back into his routine, throwing himself into the world of F1 with an almost obsessive intensity. More hours in the simulator, more technical meetings, more training until exhaustion. Anything to keep his mind off her. But no matter how hard he tried, Amélie always found a way to creep back in.
He saw her in the most absurd moments. In the reflection of a window when he least expected it. In a woman’s laughter at a restaurant that sounded too much like hers. In the damn jasmine scent that had once lingered on his pillow. And he hated it. Hated it because she was the one who walked away. Because she was the one who put up walls between them. And yet, he was the one paying the price.
He swore he wouldn’t reach out. Told himself he had his pride. But every time he landed in Monaco after a race, the battle started all over again. He turned off his phone before temptation could win. Repeated to himself that she wasn’t worth it, that if she wanted him out of her life, he wasn’t going to beg to be let back in.
But, fuck, it was getting harder.
Amélie, for her part, stood by her decision. But with every passing day, it became more difficult.
Meetings with investors and networking events became her escape. She made sure her schedule was packed, leaving no room for solitude—no chance for her mind to wander where it shouldn’t. But the problem was that even in a crowded room, her thoughts always found their way back to Oscar.
Every time she saw a headline about him, every time his name came up in a passing conversation with her father, her chest tightened. She wasn’t searching for him, but the world insisted on reminding her.
And the worst part? At night, when she closed her eyes, guilt consumed her.
She had fallen for him more than she ever wanted to admit. More than she should have. And by the time she realized it, it was too late. Because she knew that if she had stayed with him, she would have dragged him into a scandal, into a shadow he’d never escape.
But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
She let him go to protect him.
So why did it feel like she was doing the wrong thing?
And then, the invitation came.
Monza. Ferrari’s home turf. The race that electrified the entire country.
Her father’s voice had been calm, expectant, as if he already knew what her answer would be before she even said it. "It’s been years since you’ve been to a race," he had remarked casually. "Come. Enjoy yourself for once."
She knew exactly what it meant. It wasn’t just an invitation; it was a reminder of where she came from, of the legacy she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried.
And more than anything, she knew Oscar would be there.
He would see her. He would learn the truth—who she really was, who she had been all along. And maybe, just maybe, he would hate her for it.
But what did it matter anymore?
They weren’t together. They never had been.
She told herself that as she accepted the invitation, as she packed her bags, as she prepared to step into a world she had spent so long keeping separate from him.
For once, she wouldn’t think about consequences. She would let herself breathe. Even if it meant standing face to face with the one person she had tried so hard to forget.
The roar of the engines filled the air, vibrating through her chest as Amélie stepped into the paddock. Monza was alive, electric with anticipation, and the sea of red surrounding her was almost suffocating.
She had been here as a kid, too many times to count, but this time was different. This time, she wasn’t just the daughter of a powerful man in motorsport. She wasn’t just another face in the Ferrari hospitality suite.
This time, Oscar was here.
And at some point, he would see her.
She exhaled slowly, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her nose, letting her expression settle into something unreadable. She had no reason to be nervous. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for her father, for Ferrari, for the world that had shaped her long before Oscar Piastri had stumbled into her life.
And yet, as she moved through the paddock, as she exchanged polite greetings and forced smiles, she felt the weight of it pressing against her chest.
Would he be angry? Confused? Would he even care?
She told herself it didn’t matter.
But then, she saw him.
Oscar was walking towards the McLaren garage, deep in conversation with an engineer, his expression serious—focused. But as if he could sense her presence, as if something in the air had shifted, he suddenly glanced up.
Their eyes met.
For a second, everything around them faded. The noise, the people, the flashing cameras—it all disappeared.
Oscar’s face didn’t betray much. There was no immediate reaction, no flash of surprise or recognition. But there was something in the way he held her gaze, something unreadable and sharp, that sent a shiver down her spine.
Then, just as quickly as it happened, he looked away.
And continued walking.
Amélie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
So that was it.
Oscar didn’t understand why seeing her there had shaken him so much.
It wasn’t like she had no right to be in Monza. After all, she had once mentioned that her father was a big F1 fan. Maybe she had simply come to enjoy the weekend, like any other fan with the right connections to wander through the paddock without restrictions.
That had to be all.
And yet, something inside him twisted with discomfort.
He had spent weeks suppressing any impulse to look for her, forcing himself to bury her deep in his mind. But now, with just a single glance, she was back—settled in his head as if she had never left.
He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she affected him.
So he did the only thing he could. He forced himself to look away, to keep walking as if nothing had happened.
But while his body moved forward, his mind stayed behind.
Because seeing her there, in a place so intimately tied to his world, made everything he had tried to forget resurface with even greater force.
The last time they had been together, she had looked at him with sadness before pulling away. Now, however, she seemed calm, indifferent, as if nothing between them had meant enough to leave a mark.
And for some reason, that infuriated him more than anything else.
The day of qualifying unfolded like any other. Oscar was focused on his team, on preparations, on lap times, on making sure his weekend in Monza was solid.
Or at least, that was what he was trying to do.
But every time he moved through the paddock, his eyes searched for her.
Not on purpose. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
And then, he saw her.
She was in the Ferrari garage, surrounded by mechanics in red overalls, laughing with them as if she were part of the family. One of the engineers handed her a water bottle with the same casualness as if he were passing it to a driver. Another whispered something in her ear, and Amélie rolled her eyes with a smile, giving him a light shove on the arm.
That wasn’t the attitude of a mere spectator.
But what truly made something tighten inside Oscar was when he saw Charles Leclerc approaching her.
The Monegasque driver greeted her with the familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time—an embrace that lasted too long, a kiss on each cheek. He spoke to her calmly, comfortably, with that ease that wasn’t shared with just anyone. Amélie responded just as naturally, with that half-smile Oscar knew all too well.
The same one she had once given him.
And suddenly, something twisted in his stomach with rage.
He didn’t know what hit him first.
How did she know Leclerc? Why had she never talked about him? She knew about Formula 1, she knew who Oscar was—why had she never mentioned she knew Charles? Especially when, in front of the Ferrari garage, they spoke like lifelong friends.
Or maybe it was something more.
Oscar’s mind began to spiral, to descend into the worst possible explanations.
Had Amélie done to Charles what she had done to him? Seduced him, lured him into her bed, had her fun, and then tossed him aside like nothing?
Maybe to Amélie, it had all been just a game.
Maybe he had never been more than a fleeting adventure, just another amusement in her world of luxury, connections, and opportunities he hadn’t even realized she had.
Maybe, while he burned inside trying to understand what had happened between them, she had already forgotten him completely.
Oscar could feel the anger building in his chest like a bomb about to explode. His jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists, and no matter how hard he tried to focus on something else, his gaze kept drifting back to the Ferrari garage.
Back to her.
He didn’t know what infuriated him more.
The thought gnawed at him. Was there something between her and Charles? Had there ever been? Had he just been a passing distraction?
"Alright, mate, what the hell is wrong with you?"
Lando appeared beside him, arms crossed, his expression somewhere between concern and exasperation.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Lando scoffed. "Come on, Oscar. You’re standing there looking like you’re about to murder someone. I’ve seen that face before, and honestly, I’d rather you not make a scene right before qualifying."
Oscar let out a sharp breath, running a hand over the back of his neck.
"It’s just…" He pressed his lips together, struggling to find the right words. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to say it out loud because that would make it real. But Lando was watching him with that look—the one that said I’m not leaving until you tell me—and Oscar knew there was no way out.
"It’s complicated."
Lando snorted.
"When is it not with you?"
Oscar shot him a murderous glare but continued anyway.
"I met someone. In Monaco. We… saw each other a few times. Okay, not a few, a lot. But we ended it. Or she did. Doesn’t matter. The point is, she’s here. In the Ferrari garage."
Lando blinked, processing the information.
"Okay… Wait. Are you telling me all this rage is over a girl?"
"She’s not just ‘a girl,’" Oscar growled before realizing he had just given himself away.
Lando raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes gleamed with the excitement of someone who had just stumbled upon something juicy and wasn’t about to let it go.
"Alright, alright. She’s not just a girl. She’s her. And what’s the problem with her?"
Oscar shook his head.
"It doesn’t make sense for her to be here. I mean, she told me her dad was an F1 fan, but this… This is something else. She moves around that garage like she lives there. Like she knows everyone."
Lando tilted his head, studying him. His gaze flickered toward the Ferrari garage, and suddenly, something in his expression shifted.
"Hold on a second… Are you telling me that the girl you were seeing is Amélie Vasseur?"
The surname hit Oscar like a sledgehammer.
Vasseur.
Ferrari’s team principal.
A hollow feeling settled in his stomach, quickly followed by a wave of fury that made his teeth clench so hard his jaw ached.
Everything clicked into place.
That’s why she was so comfortable in the garage. That’s why everyone treated her like family. That’s why Charles Leclerc knew her as if they had grown up together.
She had played him.
She had never told him the truth. Never even given him a hint of who she really was. And while he had spent weeks agonizing over what had happened between them, wondering if it had meant anything, she had simply moved on with her life like it was nothing.
His blood boiled.
If he had been angry before, now he saw nothing but red.
Lando was silent for a second before bursting into laughter.
"Wait, wait…" He leaned slightly toward Oscar, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. "Are you telling me you didn’t know who she was? Seriously?"
Oscar shot him a murderous glare, but that only made Lando laugh harder.
"Mate!" Lando exclaimed, still chuckling. "How the hell did you not recognize Vasseur’s daughter?"
"Because I’ve never seen her before. And she never told me" Oscar growled, feeling the anger rise in his throat like fire.
"But it was right in front of you! The French accent, the ‘I’m going to destroy you but with elegance’ sense of humor, the way she never shuts up—" Lando shook his head, grinning. "Damn, now that I think about it, it’s so obvious."
Oscar, however, wasn’t amused.
He was furious.
Not because she was Vasseur’s daughter. Not because she had been surrounded by the world of F1 her entire life.
But because she had never told him. Because she had kept everything from him. Because she had walked away without even giving him a damn chance to understand.
Because he, like an idiot, had thought that what they had mattered.
And now he realized that, to her, it had probably just been a game.
Qualifying had been one of the best of his career.
Second place, right behind Lando. An incredible result for McLaren, a statement in Monza—Ferrari’s territory. But while the mechanics celebrated in the garage, while his team congratulated him, while the cameras captured his serious expression during the post-qualifying press conference, Oscar could only think about her.
About the last name she had never told him. About the laughter she had shared with Ferrari’s mechanics. About the way Charles Leclerc looked at her with the kind of familiarity that only came from having someone in your life for a very long time.
The anger still boiled inside him, pulsing with every breath, with every damn image his mind replayed.
He went straight to the hotel after the interviews, not lingering with the team, not responding to the congratulations with the enthusiasm expected of him. Locked in his room, he paced back and forth, replaying every moment, every conversation, every fucking lie disguised as omission.
Why?
Why had she never told him? Why had she let him make a fool of himself, thinking she was just another girl, when in reality, she belonged to this world even more than he did? Was it a game to her? Had she laughed at him once he was gone?
Every time he tried to sleep, his mind dragged him back into the same spiral. He tossed and turned, shifting positions over and over until finally, when the clock hit 3:00 AM, he made a decision.
He had had enough.
If he couldn’t sleep, she wouldn’t either.
Throwing on whatever clothes he could find, he grabbed his jacket and left the hotel without a second thought. Anger, frustration, and the need to confront her pushed him forward, stronger than reason. He walked through the rain, not caring that the water seeped into his clothes, not caring that his breathing was uneven from the fury coursing through him.
He knew where the Ferrari team was staying.
And when he arrived, soaked to the bone, he asked for Amélie Vasseur’s room at reception and went up without hesitation.
He didn’t even think before raising his fist and knocking.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
There was movement on the other side.
Then, the door opened, and there she was.
Amélie blinked, still groggy, her hair a mess, wrapped in a sweatshirt far too big for her. It took a second for her to process what she was seeing—Oscar Piastri, drenched, his chest rising and falling with restrained fury, his eyes burning with something far more than just anger.
“Oscar?” Her voice was hoarse from sleep, but mostly, from sheer surprise.
He stared at her, silent for a moment, as if he needed to remind himself why he was there.
Then, with his jaw clenched, with the storm still raging inside his chest, he said,
“Tell me the truth.”
Amélie felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She knew exactly what he meant.
She sighed, casting a quick glance down the hallway before stepping aside to let him in. Oscar crossed the threshold without hesitation, dripping onto the floor with every step, shoulders tense, eyes locked onto her as if she were an enemy, not someone he had once spent entire nights with.
“Let me explain,” she started, closing the door behind her.
“Explain what?” Oscar let out a dry, humorless laugh. “How you played me this whole time? How you laughed at me while I thought—” He stopped abruptly, like saying it out loud would hurt even more.
Amélie felt the pang in her chest, but she kept her composure.
“I never laughed at you.”
“Oh, come on.” Oscar scoffed, running a hand through his wet hair. “Do you have any idea how fucking stupid I feel right now? The entire goddamn paddock knew except me. Lando knew, the engineers knew—Jesus, Amélie.”
Amélie clenched her jaw.
“Oscar—”
“And meanwhile, I was here wondering why you never wanted to be seen with me in public, why you always seemed like you were hiding something.” His words were sharp, cutting, like he wanted to hurt her just as much as he felt she had hurt him. “Was it fun? Did you enjoy watching me, completely clueless about who I was actually sleeping with?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Amélie snapped, her voice louder than she had intended.
Oscar fell silent for a second, taken aback by her reaction.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
“I didn’t do it to laugh at you. I didn’t do it to play with you. I did it for you, Oscar.”
He let out a bitter laugh.
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“Explain to me how lying to my face for months was for me, because, honestly, I’d love to understand.”
Amélie felt her own anger rise.
“Because if people found out about us, if it got out that we were together, the first thing they would do is question you.” She pointed at him, her voice firm. “They’d say you were with your rival’s daughter, that Ferrari was favoring you, that your seat at McLaren was in jeopardy. You don’t need that kind of shit on your shoulders.”
Oscar clenched his jaw.
“And who decided that was your problem?”
“It became my problem the moment this turned into something more. The moment it stopped being just a fling,” she shot back, her gaze burning into his. “Do you think it was easy? Do you think I wanted to walk away from you?”
“I don’t know what you wanted, Amélie. You never said anything, you never explained anything.”
Silence fell between them like a heavy wall.
For a moment, Amélie saw something in Oscar’s eyes beyond the anger.
Something that hurt even more than his words.
Disappointment.
The silence between them was thick, heavy with everything left unsaid.
Oscar was breathing heavily, water still dripping from his hair, his clothes clinging to his skin. He didn’t care. Not when anger burned in his chest, when confusion suffocated him.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rougher than he intended. “Did you have something with Charles?”
Amélie blinked, surprised by the question, but her expression remained unchanged. There was no trace of guilt or nervousness. Only exhaustion.
“No,” she said firmly. “Never. Ew”
Oscar let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. She took a step toward him, but Oscar remained rigid. “Charles and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s like a brother to me. Nothing more.”
Oscar stared at her, searching her face for any sign of a lie, anything that would reveal she was hiding the truth. But all he found was sincerity.
And yet, it wasn’t enough to ease the knot in his stomach.
“Then explain it to me,” he murmured, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly. “Explain why you did what you did. Why you never told me who you were. Why it felt like you were trying to hide me.”
Amélie pressed her lips together, looking away for a moment. When she met his gaze again, there was something vulnerable in her expression.
“Because I never thought this would go this far,” she confessed. “I never thought I’d fall in love with you.”
Oscar felt the air ripped from his lungs.
Amélie swallowed hard and continued. “At first… I thought it was something fleeting. Something fun. But then I realized that every time I saw you, I wanted to see you more. That when you left, I missed you more than I should have. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”
Oscar closed his eyes for a moment, trying to process her words.
“I was scared,” she whispered.
He watched her, his chest rising and falling with every restrained breath. “Scared of what?”
Amélie exhaled in frustration, running a hand through her hair. “That if people found out, they would use it against you. That my last name would harm you. That this would stop being ours and turn into a scandal.”
Oscar let out a bitter laugh. “So you chose to push me away? You made me feel like I meant nothing to you?”
Amélie clenched her fists, her gaze burning. “Oscar, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before! I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do—you can’t expect me to have all the answers to my life.”
“You could’ve told me. We could’ve figured it out. We could’ve found a way to make this work. Together.”
The pain in his voice hit her harder than any shout could.
For a moment, she said nothing. She just looked at him, eyes glistening, chest rising and falling as if her words weighed too much.
Finally, in a voice so soft it sounded like admitting it would break her, she whispered:
“I think I love you.”
Oscar felt his world shift beneath his feet.
Amélie swallowed. “And that terrified me.”
The silence returned, but this time, it wasn’t the same.
It was broken. Uncertain.
One that only Oscar could decide if he wanted to fill with something else.
He let out a long, heavy sigh, as if trying to release all the anger, frustration, and pain built up inside him. But something still remained stuck in his chest.
“Amélie…” His voice was no longer sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. It was caught somewhere in between—that thin line between anger and understanding.
She didn’t look away. She faced him, vulnerable but steady, as if ready to take whatever response, whatever emotional blow he had to give.
Oscar ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Do you know what hurted me the most?”
Amélie didn’t answer, but the tension in her shoulders was telling.
“It’s not that you’re Vasseur’s daughter.” He shook his head. “It’s not that you were in the paddock, in Ferrari, with Charles, with all those people who always knew who you were and I didn’t.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, as if confessing something he never wanted to say out loud.
“It’s that you made me feel like I didn’t matter.”
Amélie’s eyes shone with an emotion she couldn’t hide.
“Oscar…”
“You made me doubt everything,” he went on, his voice rough. “Whether what we had meant anything or if I was just a distraction. Whether everything I felt was real or if I was the only one feeling it.”
Amélie closed her eyes for a second, as if his words cut through her. When she opened them again, her expression was softer, more open.
“It wasn’t just a distraction.”
Oscar let out a dry laugh.
“It wasn’t,” she insisted, stepping closer. This time, Oscar didn’t move away. “It never was.”
He looked at her, searching for something in her eyes. Something that told him he could believe her. Something that said all the anger in his chest could finally start to fade.
Amélie let out a nervous laugh, but there was no mockery in it. Only uncertainty.
“I’m not good at this,” she murmured, running a hand through her tangled hair. “At… feeling things so quickly. At not being in control.”
Oscar tilted his head slightly, watching her more intently.
She sighed. “I always thought it was better to keep my distance. Not get too attached. But then you came along.”
Oscar felt his heart pound harder.
“I didn’t expect to feel this,” she continued, a small, resigned smile forming on her lips. “And when I realized I was already too deep, I got scared.”
Oscar’s anger didn’t disappear all at once, but something inside him started to loosen.
Because he understood.
God, he understood her more than he wanted to admit.
Amélie looked at him with a silent plea, as if waiting for him to tell her that it wasn’t too late.
Oscar lowered his head for a second, exhaling slowly. Then, without a word, he reached out and took her wrist, his touch barely there.
Amélie trembled at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.
Their eyes met again, and this time, the anger between them had softened.
“And now?” Oscar asked quietly.
Amélie swallowed. “Now…”
She took another step closer, until only inches separated them.
“Now I don’t want to keep running.”
Oscar’s heart skipped a beat.
She wetted her lips, and with almost fearful softness, slid her hand over his.
Oscar looked at the gesture—the warmth of her skin against his, the way their fingers fit together like they had done this a million times before.
And without thinking too much, he intertwined his fingers with hers.
Amélie let out a breath, as if she hadn’t realized how much she needed that touch until now.
Oscar lifted his gaze and met hers.
There was no fear anymore.
Only them.
And with the slightest movement, Amélie leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a kiss so slow, so sincere, it seemed to erase everything else.
Because in the end, love always won.
The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if they both needed to make sure it was real. There was no urgency, no desperation—only a mutual need to find each other again, beyond the anger, beyond the doubts.
Neither of them moved. Amélie still had her fingers intertwined with Oscar’s, her forehead nearly touching his, breathing the same air.
It was Oscar who broke the silence first, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Well… that was intense.”
Amélie let out a breathy laugh. “The kiss or the fight?”
Oscar tilted his head, thoughtful. “Both. Though if I had to choose, I think I’d rather keep the kiss.”
She smiled, playing with his fingers. “Good, because the other thing was exhausting.”
Oscar let out a low chuckle. “Tell me about it. I literally walked through the rain like some dramatic movie idiot.”
Amélie burst into laughter. “You did.”
Oscar sighed dramatically. “If this were a romantic cliché, someone was definitely watching us from a window with sad music playing in the background.”
“Let me guess,” Amélie said with a teasing smile. “In the movie of your life, who would play you?”
Oscar pretended to think. “Mmm… obviously someone handsome. Ryan Gosling, maybe.”
Amélie raised an amused eyebrow. “Gosling? That’s ambitious of you.”
“Excuse me?” Oscar looked at her, feigning offense. “Are you saying I don’t have Gosling-level attractiveness?”
Amélie shrugged. “I’m not saying you’re not handsome, but…” She rested a hand on her chin, analyzing him. “I see you more as… a Tom Holland with a boyish face.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes. “I feel both flattered and offended at the same time.”
She smiled and, in a spontaneous gesture, ran her fingers through his damp hair. “But seriously, you didn’t have to come all the way here soaking wet. You could’ve just texted me and avoided looking like a stray puppy outside my hotel door.”
Oscar looked at her in mock indignation. “How disrespectful. This was a romantic gesture, obviously, not a tantrum.”
Amélie laughed, but soon her smile softened. “Do you really want to try?”
Oscar sighed, looking at her directly, all traces of humor gone. “Of course I do. But I don’t want you to disappear again. I don’t want to be a secret. I don’t want you looking at me like you’re about to run.”
Amélie lowered her gaze for a second, biting her lip, before meeting his eyes again.
“Okay,” she finally said, with a small smile.
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “‘Okay’? That’s it?”
Amélie huffed in amusement. “Okay, let’s try. I won’t run, I won’t hide, I won’t play mysterious—well, maybe a little, because it suits me—but I promise not to run from you.”
Oscar studied her with a half-smile, as if making sure she was serious.
“So that means I can take you to dinner in public without you throwing a smoke bomb in the middle of the restaurant?”
Amélie rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”
Oscar grinned. “Perfect. But I warn you, if this gets too romantic, I’m going to assume we’re in a cheesy rom-com and start calling you ‘my love’ out loud just to annoy you.”
Amélie playfully shoved his chest. “If you do that, I’ll be forced to pretend I don’t know you.”
Oscar leaned in slightly, his smile turning mischievous. “And if I kiss you in public? Will you pretend not to know me then too?”
Amélie looked at him, her eyes shining with that same ever-present challenge. “Depends on how good the kiss is.”
Oscar let out a laugh, and without wasting another second, kissed her again.
Because if there was one thing they knew for sure, this game between them was far from over.
Amélie pulled away, a peculiar light shining in her gaze, a foolish smile stretching across her lips. “This is going to cost us a fortune. McLaren and Ferrari are going to have to spend a ridiculous amount on PR to manage this scandal and the press.”
The Monza sun filtered timidly through the curtains, but neither of them had any intention of moving.
Oscar had no idea what time it was, and honestly, he didn’t care. The only thing he knew for sure was that Amélie’s bed was much more comfortable than his and that the warmth of her body against his made any other thought irrelevant.
Amélie stirred slightly beside him, her breathing still steady. She half-opened her eyes just enough to look at him and smile—that lazy, satisfied smile that made Oscar feel a small tug in his chest.
“What time is it?” she murmured.
Oscar, still with his face buried in the pillow, huffed.
“No idea. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, so don’t worry.”
Amélie let out a soft laugh and stretched before snuggling against his chest again.
“We can stay like this a little longer.”
Oscar slid a hand down her back, pulling her even closer.
“Sounds like a perfect plan.”
And so they stayed. Letting laziness wrap around them, the distant sounds of the hotel waking up nothing more than a faint murmur. For the first time in months, they weren’t in a hurry.
Until someone knocked on the door.
Both of them froze.
“Were you expecting someone?” Oscar whispered.
Amélie frowned. “No…”
Another knock, this time more insistent.
And then, a voice unmistakably cut through the silence.
“Amélie, open the door.”
Oscar felt his soul leave his body.
Amélie went completely still. Then, without moving a single muscle, she slowly turned her head toward Oscar.
They looked at each other as if they had just seen a ghost.
Frederic. Freaking. Vasseur.
Still in bed, all Oscar could murmur was:
“Oh, shit.”
Amélie covered her face with her hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Oscar darted into the bathroom with the reflexes of a driver avoiding a crash. He shut the door behind him, pressing his back against it, taking a deep breath as if that would make him invisible.
From the other side, he heard the hotel room door open, followed by the unmistakable voice of Frederic Vasseur.
“Amélie,” her father greeted, his tone casual—the same tone he used right before ruining someone’s day. “Bon matin.”
“Dad,” Amélie replied, trying to sound natural, but with a slight hint of panic. “What are you doing here so early?”
“I was passing by and thought, ‘I’ll check in on my daughter, have breakfast with her, make sure she’s not getting into trouble…’”
Amélie watched him cautiously. If she was lucky, this would be a short visit.
But then, her father stilled.
His gaze drifted toward the window.
More specifically, to Oscar’s clothes—a pair of pants, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt with the McLaren logo—strategically draped over a chair to dry.
Amélie followed his gaze.
Shit.
Very slowly, Vasseur turned his attention back to his daughter.
She tried to think fast. “It’s—”
“Don’t.” Vasseur raised a hand to stop her, his face the very picture of paternal disappointment. “Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”
He turned, crossing his arms. “Amélie,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Who’s hiding in the bathroom?”
Silence.
Amélie looked at the bathroom door.
Then at her father.
She tried to smile.
“…No one.”
Vasseur closed his eyes, exhaled through his nose, and then, without hesitation, walked straight toward the bathroom door.
“Oh, I’m not assuming anything,” Vasseur said, clearly amused. “I’m just analyzing the evidence. Let’s see: wet McLaren clothes. A nervous daughter. A locked bathroom door. Where there’s smoke, there’s a fire.”
Oscar felt the doorknob move.
He held his breath.
Then, three firm knocks.
“Knock, knock,” Vasseur said, clearly enjoying himself way too much.
Oscar closed his eyes. “Shit.”
“Oh! He speaks.” Vasseur’s voice sounded even more entertained. “What a surprise! I wonder who it could be.”
Oscar felt like he was living a nightmare.
He sighed and rested his forehead against the door. “I’m in my underwear, and I’m coming out, okay?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Vasseur replied, in the tone of someone having the time of his life. “Whenever you’re ready, champ.”
Oscar slowly turned the doorknob and stepped out like a prisoner about to receive his sentence.
Vasseur looked him up and down with a lazy smirk, crossing his arms.
“Piastri,” he greeted, as if they were old friends.
Oscar tried to maintain his dignity. “Mr. Vasseur.”
“Tell me, son,” the Ferrari team principal said, tilting his head. “How desperate does one have to be to show up here in the middle of the night, soaking wet?”
Oscar felt Amélie stifling her laughter beside him.
"I…"
"I mean, your hotel must not serve a good breakfast. Did you come here just for croissants, or did my daughter offer a more interesting menu?"
Amélie burst out laughing and immediately regretted it when Oscar shot her a glare.
"Sorry."
"What was your plan if I caught you?"
Oscar blinked. "Hide in the bathroom?"
Vasseur looked at him with absolute disappointment. "Terrible strategy. Verstappen, at least, would have jumped out the window."
Amélie let out another laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.
Oscar sighed. "Sir, with all due respect, is this going to last much longer?"
Vasseur grinned. "Oh, absolutely. I'm enjoying this way too much."
Oscar closed his eyes for a moment. "Great."
Vasseur patted him on the shoulder. "Relax, Piastri. This could have been worse."
Oscar looked at him skeptically.
"Oh yeah? How?"
Vasseur’s grin widened.
"My daughter could be fucking Lando Norris. At least you're the good half of McLaren."
Amélie burst into loud laughter.
Oscar just dropped his head into his hands, accepting his fate.
The sun was slowly setting over Monza, painting the sky in golden hues as the tifosi roared, celebrating the victory they had longed for. Charles Leclerc stood at the top of the podium, drenched in champagne, carrying the love of Ferrari on his shoulders while the Italian anthem echoed with an almost sacred intensity. Beside him, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri completed the scene, their smiles shaped by the effort of the race, by the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins.
But Amélie wasn’t looking at Charles. She wasn’t even truly paying attention to the podium as a whole. Her eyes were fixed on Oscar.
From where she stood, surrounded by mechanics, engineers, and Ferrari executives, wrapped in her father’s embrace, she felt something strange in her chest. It wasn’t just happiness, nor was it simply pride. It was something deeper. Something far more terrifying.
Because she had never thought she would care so much about someone outside of this world of engines and strategy, beyond her surname, beyond the pressure of Formula 1.
And yet, here she was.
Oscar was searching for her in the crowd.
She swallowed hard as their eyes finally met.
Words weren’t necessary.
They understood each other in an instant, as if they had already had this conversation a thousand times before.
And in that gaze—laden with everything they had been through, the arguments, the fears, the secrets, the doubts—they made a silent promise.
They wouldn’t run anymore.
Amélie felt her heart pounding too fast, as if she were running her own race.
Without realizing it, she clung a little tighter to her father’s arm.
Vasseur, who had been watching in silence, let out an amused huff.
"Looks like someone has extra reasons to celebrate today."
Amélie turned sharply, frowning.
“Dad, please…”
“No, no. Don’t look at me like that,” he replied, raising his hands in feigned innocence. “I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you this focused on a podium before.”
She rolled her eyes, but the small smile that slipped through betrayed her.
“Whatever.”
Vasseur chuckled, giving her a pat on the back.
"You know, if Piastri has already survived breakfast with me, maybe he’s not entirely useless after all."
She shot him a glare, but he only shrugged, clearly entertained.
"I say this for his own good, you know? I wouldn’t want him to get run over by everything that comes with being with you."
Amélie narrowed her eyes.
"And what exactly does that mean?"
Vasseur smirked.
"It means I come with the package."
She scoffed, but a laugh escaped her before she could stop it.
Her gaze returned to the podium.
Oscar was still there, trophy in one hand, champagne glass in the other, but his eyes were searching for her again.
The noise, the crowd, the madness of Formula 1—it all faded into the background.
They had found each other.
And for the first time, Amélie had no desire to run.
@smoooothoperator
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runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn
Words: 3.3k
Warnings: Lando POV, anxiety, unrequired love
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The hotel is stunning.
Grand yet intimate, with towering arched windows that let in the golden afternoon light, illuminating the soft gold tones of the decorations. The courtyard is meticulously arranged, white roses cascading from centerpieces, lining the long aisle that stretches toward a floral arch at the altar.
Everything is harmonious, perfectly selected, elegant without being too much. It looks expensive but simple, luxurious but romantic.
It looks exactly like something Lyra would have dreamed of.
I walk through the space slowly, dragging my fingers along the backs of the white velvet chairs, feeling the soft fabric under my fingertips as I force myself to take it all in.
Every single detail, every single flower arrangement, it’s all familiar.
Because I’ve heard about it before. Because I remember the night she described it to me in perfect detail, years ago, before either of us had even thought about marriage as something real, when it was still just an idea, a fantasy.
We were fifteen.
We had been lying in her backyard after one of her sisters’ weddings, the cool grass beneath us, the scent of summer in the air and a plate full of sweets we stole from the kids table.
"I want my weddig to be perfect."
I had turned my head to look at her, rolling my eyes in that way I always did when she got carried away.
"It's just a wedding, Lyra." I sighed.
She had gasped, appalled, before shoving me so hard that the air left my lungs for a second.
"It is not just a wedding, Lando!” she exclaimed, blushing deeply. “Weddings are special, and mine is going to be exactly how I want it. Roses everywhere, like an actual fairytale, but not red ones. White or maybe light pink. No, white is better... And I don’t want it in some boring church. I want it outside, maybe by the sea, where you can hear the waves in the background while I walk down the aisle. And my dress has to be simple but elegant, nothing too over the top, but something that makes me feel like I belong in a storybook..."
I let her talk, like I always did, letting her fill the silence with her plans and her dreams because I liked the way her voice sounded when she got excited, because I liked the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about things she loved.
Now, standing here, staring at the reality of that childhood dream, I feel something twist in my chest, something that makes it almost impossible to breathe.
Because this is it, this is what she always wanted.
And none of it, not a single part of it, has anything to do with me.
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down my face, willing the ache in my chest to disappear, but it doesn't. It just sits there, heavy and suffocating, like a weight pressing down on me.
I don’t know why I came. Maybe because I needed to see it for myself, needed to face the reality of it, needed to let it hurt so badly that I would finally get it through my head that this isn’t a nightmare I’m going to wake up from. This isn’t something I can change. This is her life. Her choice.
And I was never a part of it.
Maybe I always thought I would be. Maybe I was stupid enough to believe that at some point, eventually, I was going to tell her. That there would be a right time, a perfect moment where I could finally say the words I had been swallowing since I was twelve years old, the words that had been buried under years of friendship and missed chances.
But that moment never came.
She never looked at me the way I looked at her. And I had never had the courage to say anything before it was too late.
I glance up toward the hotel, where I know she must be right now.
I wonder what she’s doing. Is she nervous? Excited? I wonder if she’s looking at herself in the mirror and feeling like the happiest version of herself.
And then I wonder if she’s thought about me at all.
If, even for a second, I crossed her mind today.
I have to go inside. I have to find her, talk to her, say something, anything. I have to tell her how I feel, even if it doesn’t matter anymore. Even if it never mattered in the first place.
But what good would it do?
She made her choice.
And it wasn’t me.
I spent years imagining what she would look like on her wedding day.
It wasn’t intentional. But sometimes, the idea of it came into my mind when I least expected it. During long flights home, during late nights alone, during the silence between races when my mind wasn’t occupied enough to keep her away.
I thought of her in white, of the way her orange hair might be styled, the way her smile would look softer, gentle, full of something I never got to have.
And yet, nothing I had ever imagined compared to the reality of seeing her there.
Frozen in front of the door to his room, quiet as a statue,with her fingers clenched so tightly on the dress that her knuckles were white.
For a moment, I can’t move.
I don’t think she even realizes I’m standing there. Her breathing is shallow, her shoulders too stiff, as if she’s waiting for something.
I shouldn’t be here. I know that.
I should turn around, walk away before she notices me, before I make this harder than it already is. But then, just as I will myself to leave, her hand lifts slightly, as if she’s going to push the door open.
But she doesn’t. She hesitates.
And that hesitation makes something crack open in my chest.
I don’t think about it. I just take a step forward.
“Lyra?”
The word barely leaves my lips before she flinches, turning sharply to face me.
For the first time in over a year, I see her. Really see her.
And she is so damn beautiful it almost brings me to my knees.
The dress, the makeup, the way her hair falls down on her back, it’s all exactly how I imagined it, and yet it feels so painfully wrong, because she’s not wearing it for me.
Her wide eyes search mine, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t her looking at me like I’m the last person she expected to see, like she doesn’t know how to breathe now that I’m here.
Like maybe, just maybe, she missed me too.
She swallows hard, her lips parting slightly before she finally says my name.
“Lando.”
God, I missed the way she says it.
It’s the same voice, the same familiar tone, and yet something about it sounds different.
I blink, my throat tightening as I exhale, trying to ground myself in this moment.
“You-” I start, but the words die in my throat as my gaze flickers past her, to the closed door she had been staring at.
Something heavy settles in my stomach.
I don’t ask. I don’t let myself ask.
But I don’t need to.
“I-” she mumbles, her voice barely audible as a whisper.
I can see it in her face, in the way she won’t meet my eyes for longer than a second, in the way she’s gripping her dress like she’s afraid she might fall apart if she lets go.
“Are you okay?” I asked softly, trying to ease the anxiety she might be feeling.
She should say yes. She should laugh, roll her eyes, tell me I have no right to ask her that after all this time. But she doesn’t.
She just stands there, silent, and for the first time since I’ve known her, Lyra Montgomery doesn’t have an answer.
Her fingers tremble around the bouquet, her shoulders rising and falling too quickly, and something in me breaks.
I was supposed to come here and tell her how I feel, that was the plan: to find her before the wedding, to say everything I had been too much of a coward to say for the past ten years. That I loved her. That I had always loved her. That I should have said something sooner, that maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything, but I needed her to know.
But now, looking at her, really looking at her, I know I can’t.
Because this isn’t about me. It never was.
She’s standing here in her wedding dress, minutes away from marrying someone else, and she looks terrified.
Something is wrong.
And I don’t know what it is.
But I can do one thing. I can be there for her, just this once.
“Do you want to get out of here for a bit?” I sighed, trying to organize my own thoughts and feelings, walking closer to her.
She blinks, caught off guard.
“What?”
“Not far” I add quickly, tilting my head toward the end of the hallway. “Just… somewhere quiet.”
Somewhere away from that door. Somewhere away from whatever is making her grip her dress like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
She hesitates.
And then, slowly, she nods.
I don’t say anything else. I just start walking, knowing she’ll follow.
And she does.
We step outside through one of the hotel’s side entrances, the cool air biting at my skin. The garden is empty, the wedding setup untouched, waiting for the guests to arrive.
I lean against the low stone wall near a fountain, watching her as she stands a few steps away.
I missed her.
I missed her so much it physically hurts.
“I missed you” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
She stiffens, inhaling sharply.
I can see the war on her face, the way she bites the inside of her cheek, the way her grip on her dress tightens just slightly.
“Lando…”
“Did you miss me?” I ask. My voice is steady, but there’s something raw underneath it.
She exhales sharply, looking away, shaking her head like she doesn’t know how to answer.
“This is ridiculous. You show up after what, a year? And now you want to talk?”
I flinch. But I deserve that.
“I didn’t come here to fight, Lyra.”
“Then why did you come?” she challenges, crossing her arms.
I hesitate. Because I can’t tell her the truth.
I can’t tell her that I came here to confess, that I wanted to be selfish just for once in my life.
So instead, I say the only thing I can.
“Do you really want to get married?”
She stills.
And that’s when I know.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t snap at me, doesn’t tell me I’m an idiot for even asking.
She just looks at me, and in that moment, I know that no matter how much she loves him, no matter how much she tries to convince herself otherwise, she’s not sure.
Not really.
“I should go. I have to get ready” she said, forcing a smile.
I swallow hard, glancing away before I do something stupid.
I don’t say anything else. Before she turns around to leave, I just reach into my pocket, pulling out a set of keys.
“What-”
I stand in frint of her and grab her free hand, placing the keys and pressing them on her palm. I let my fingers linger on her skin just for a second, noticing how sweaty her palms are, how nervous she is.
“They’re for my car,” I say, taking a step back. “and my apartment.”
“What?” her breath catches, looking at the keys.
“If you need to get away” I continue. “If you need… a way out.”
She stares at the keys like they might burn her. She should throw them back at me. She should walk away. But she doesn’t.
She takes them. She puts them inside of the pocket of her dress.
And when she finally leaves, she doesn’t look back.
I sit in the last row with my hands clasped together, elbows resting on my knees, my foot tapping against the stone floor in a nervous rhythm I can’t seem to stop. I am away from the carefully arranged guests, away from the family, the friends, the people who have every right to be here. Because I don’t belong.
I never have.
And maybe that’s why I don’t hear her approach.
The sharp click, click, click of her heels against the stone floor doesn’t register until it’s too late.
Until she’s right there.
I didn't move at first. I don’t even look up. I know who it is before she speaks, before the familiar scent of her overpowering perfume invades my senses.
Elena Montgomery.
Lyra’s mother.
“Lando Norris” she purrs, voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp. “I must admit it, I was hoping you would show up.”
Slowly, I look up, meeting the icy blue eyes of the woman who has hated me since the moment I met her daughter. She stands beside my chair, dressed in an elegant blue gown, diamonds at her throat, and a manicured hand resting delicately on her hip.
She doesn’t sit. She just wants to look down at me.
And I say nothing.
Because I know her game. And I won’t fucking play it.
“Tell me, does it hurt?” she asks, tilting her head, studying me like I’m something pathetic.
I clench my jaw, but don’t answer.
But she keeps talking, making my blood boil in my veins.
“Watching her marry someone else” she pauses, lets the words sink in, then continues. “You came all this way, sat yourself in the back like a loyal little dog, but you’ll never have her.”
I exhale slowly, turning my gaze back to the altar, to the empty aisle.
Elena follows my gaze, and when she speaks again, her voice is even softer, almost sweet, but tainted with poison as always.
“You know, I sent you the invitation.”
That makes me look at her.
“What?” I mumble.
“Oh, Lyra didn’t know that, of course. But I made sure you got it” she leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “I wanted you to see it happen, Lando. I wanted you to sit here and watch as she becomes Edward’s wife.”
The words land deep in my chest, stabbing me with a precision only a woman like her is capable of.
And she knows it. That’s why she’s smiling.
Because this is a game to her. A victory. A final, calculated move to remind me that I was never good enough.
She straightens, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her dress, and then placing her hand on my shoulder, her nails pressing into the material of the shirt.
“You were always a foolish little boy, clinging to something that was never yours to begin with” she sighs.. “But I suppose I should thank you. Your presence here today makes this even more satisfying-”
“Are you done?” I interrupted her.
She frowned and groaned, taking away her hand from my shoulder and putting a fake smile on her lips. I don’t even blink as Elena scoffs and takes a step back, as if I’m no longer worth her time.
And as she walks away, I sit there, completely still, eyes locked on the path Lyra is supposed to take.
The moment the string quartet starts playing, the air shifts.
The delicate melody washes over the crowd like a wave, and again, everything feels scripted, like we’re part of a performance where every move has been choreographed, where everyone knows their place, their role
And her role, the perfect bride, walking toward the perfect groom, in the perfect wedding, begins now.
I exhale slowly, keeping my face neutral as every pair of eyes turns toward the entrance.
And then, she appears.
Lyra.
She walks slowly, arm hooked with her father’s, bouquet gripped tightly in her hands. Too tightly. The knuckles of her fingers are pale against the delicate flowers.
No one else sees it.
No one else notices the way her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths. No one else sees the way she blinks a little too often, or the way her fingers tremble against the silk of her dress.
But I do.
I see her.
And I know she’s not okay.
I can feel it, no matter how much time has passed, no matter how many miles stretched between us.
I watch her carefully, my pulse thrumming against my ribs, my stomach twisted into something sharp and uneasy.
And then I realize, she’s searching for something.
No.
She’s searching for someone.
For a second, my breath catches in my throat..
Her green eyes move over the crowd, barely lingering on the guests, skipping past familiar faces. She looks toward the altar, where Edward is standing, waiting, his expression unreadable.
But then her gaze moves past him.
And she finds me.
It’s only a fraction of a second, but it’s enough.
Enough for me to see the raw, desperate emotion in her eyes.
She looks at me like she needs me. Like she’s begging me to say something, to do something.
And I can’t.
I can’t tell her what to do. I can’t make this choice for her.
So I do the only thing I can.
I nod.
Just slightly. Just enough to tell her that it’s okay. That she can do this. That if she wants to walk down that aisle, if she wants to say yes, I won’t stop her.
But the second I do it, something changes.
Her breath stutters.
And then she takes a step back.
My stomach drops.
I see the exact moment the panic overtakes her, the exact second she realizes she can’t do it.
Her father turns to her, confused, whispering something under his breath, but she doesn’t respond.
And then, suddenly she moves. She runs.
She lifts the hem of her dress and turns around, running away from her father, the veil slipping from her hair as she disappears down the path, away from the altar, away from Edward, away from the life everyone expected her to walk into.
And for a moment, there’s nothing but silence.
And then, chaos erupts.
A woman screams. Lyra’s mother is on her feet, hands pressed to her mouth in absolute horror. People stand, murmur, panic.
And me?
I laugh.
Quietly, at first. Just a breathy laugh. But then it grows, making my stomach hurt and my cheeks turn red full of tears as I feel the lack of air because of the attack of laughter.
Because this is so Lyra.
Of course she would wait until the very last second to make a decision.
I don’t even glance at Edward. I don’t care what his expression is, if he’s chasing after her or if he’s frozen in place, humiliated in front of Monaco’s elite.
Because all I care about is that she got away.
I slip out of the crowd before anyone can notice, disappearing through a side entrance and onto the street.
I don’t need to guess where she went.
I knew the second I put those keys in her hand and she put them in the pocket of her dress.
The taxi ride to my apartment is quiet, my fingers tapping against my knee, my pulse still racing from the adrenaline of watching her run away.
And then, when I open the door of my apartment with the in case keys, the scent of her perfume is the first thing that hits me.
She's here.
Sitting on my couch, still in her wedding dress, barefoot, knees pulled up to her chest as she drinks a can of Coca-Cola while watching the screen of the television in my living room.
Her shoulders rise and fall with each uneven breath, and when she hears me, her head snaps up.
Summary: After a devastating crash, Oscar Piastri’s road back to F1 is anything but smooth. Stuck with Mandy, his stubborn physiotherapist, he’s forced to face pain, fear, and emotions he never expected. Racing was always his dream—but now, she’s part of it too.
Word count: 12k (wtf)
TW: graphic depictions of injuries, medical procedures, strong language, emotional distress and trauma, disability, sex (not explicit)
A/N: god, I love oscar (even tho i make him suffer like a bitch in this one...) again, i promise it has a good ending, just bear with me
masterlist
Oscar Piastri was living the best moment of his career.
McLaren had made an incredible leap in performance, and though he wasn’t the main title contender, he was constantly fighting for podiums and key points. The season was a dream come true—strategies were working, his confidence in the car was absolute, and the team supported him every step of the way. There was nothing better than feeling that rush of adrenaline when lowering the visor, hearing the countdown on the radio before the start. Everything in his life revolved around Formula 1, and at that moment, nothing seemed capable of stopping him.
It was a race weekend at Spa-Francorchamps. The track, legendary and imposing, always demanded the absolute maximum. Rain had been a constant threat, and the race had started under mixed conditions, with the asphalt in that tricky in-between state—neither fully wet nor fully dry—that tested a driver’s instincts to the limit. Oscar felt in control, managing the tires with surgical precision, confident in every move.
Until he wasn’t.
The crash happened in an instant, a blink that changed everything. An unexpected touch, the car losing control, the barrier approaching at impossible speed.
The impact shook him like a rag doll. The crunch of twisted metal, the deafening crack of carbon shattering, the sheer violence of hitting the barriers—all of it collapsed into a single second of absolute terror.
And then, silence.
He didn’t lose consciousness. He wished he had.
The world slowed down, as if time itself refused to move forward. The pain didn’t come immediately, as if his body hadn’t yet figured out how to process what had just happened. But when it did, it was a burning wave that consumed him entirely.
His leg.
He tried to move, but he couldn’t. Something was wrong—very wrong. With difficulty, he turned his head and saw it. His right leg… bent at an impossible angle. His stomach lurched. He felt bile rising in his throat but could barely breathe. The blood darkened the bright orange of his suit, sticky, hot. His mind screamed, but his body didn’t respond.
“Oscar! Oscar, say something!” His engineer’s voice came through the radio, sharp and desperate.
He tried to answer. Tried to tell them he was there, that it hurt like hell, that he couldn’t move… but his throat made no sound. He could only gasp, feeling the pain expand, the panic grow with every beat of his heart.
“Oscar, respond! Can you hear me?” this time, he heard Zak’s voice.
Every second of silence only made the desperation on the radio worse. He knew they were all watching from the pit wall, that the cameras were on him, that the entire world was waiting for a sign.
But he couldn’t give them one.
Fear hit him harder than the impact against the barriers. His career, his life, everything he knew… was it over?
A violent spasm of pain made him clench his teeth so hard he thought they would break. His vision blurred. He heard noises around him—the screech of the safety cars, the hurried footsteps of the marshals running toward him, the sharp ringing in his ears.
“Oscar! We’re on our way! Don’t move!”
The emergency team arrived in seconds, though to him, it felt like an eternity. Firm hands touched his helmet.
“Oscar, breathe. We’re here.”
Breathe.
He tried, but the air came in ragged, shaky gasps. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like he was hyperventilating, but he couldn’t control it. Everything around him was a whirlwind of noise, flashing lights, faces he couldn’t focus on.
They pulled him from the car with the utmost care, but every movement sent unbearable pain through him. A strangled cry escaped his throat, and the voices around him became even more urgent.
Then the helicopter.
He felt it before he saw it. The pounding of the rotors in the air, the deafening roar that made his skull vibrate. He shut his eyes tightly. His body was shaking—he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain, the adrenaline, or pure terror.
Someone placed a mask over his face.
“Oscar, count to ten for me.”
One.
He thought of his wrecked car.
Two.
Of the leg he might never use again.
Three.
Of everything that was at stake.
Four.
Of the fear—the real fear—that maybe, just maybe, he would never be a driver again.
Five.
Darkness.
The days blurred into one another, indistinguishable, trapped in an endless cycle of pain and emptiness.
Surgeries followed one after another. Some days passed without intervention; on others, he woke up to the news that another operation had been scheduled—another attempt to save what was left of his leg.
It was absurd.
He didn’t need anyone to tell him how severe the injury was. He had known from the moment he saw the way his leg had been left in the car, from the instant he felt the indescribable pain as they pulled him out, from the way the doctors spoke in urgent terms, as if every second mattered.
Each surgery was a battle he had never asked to fight.
They administered anesthesia, his body sank into unconsciousness, and when he woke up… everything was still the same.
The same pain, the same feeling of being trapped in a body that no longer responded as it once had.
The same damn certainty that maybe, no matter how many operations they performed, he would never be the same again.
Sometimes, he woke up from the anesthesia feeling confused, disoriented, his mouth dry and his stomach churning. They tried to make him eat, but everything tasted like nothing. The food remained untouched on the tray as he simply turned his head away, unable to even attempt it.
The pain was a constant, a searing presence that settled deep in his bones and refused to let him breathe. The painkillers barely helped, and when they did, they left him in a lethargic state where reality and dreams blurred together in an unpleasant haze.
The only certainty was the passing of the days, marked by the doctors’ visits, by the sound of his own pulse in his ears, by the way night fell without him feeling like he had moved forward in any way.
Nothing.
That was the word that defined his existence now.
Nothing to think about, nothing to do, nothing to look forward to.
Only pain. Only uncertainty. Only the echo of a future that, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure still belonged to him.
The hospital clock marked time with cruel precision, each second dragging by like a silent sentence. Light filtered through the window at different times of the day, casting shadows on the white walls, but he never looked away from it.
Looking at anything else meant facing reality.
And he wasn’t ready for that.
His world had shrunk to that sterile room, to the machines beeping around him, to the soft murmurs of doctors coming and going, to the sound of doors opening when someone came to visit.
He didn’t respond. He didn’t look.
He didn’t have the strength to.
His mother had tried to talk to him at first. So had Lando. His childhood friends, the McLaren mechanics, Zak Brown… they all came in with the same worried expressions, with the same look of someone who wanted to say something but didn’t dare to.
He never looked at them.
He couldn’t do it without feeling a raw, burning anger in his chest. He couldn’t listen to them without the frustration building up like a knot in his throat. He couldn’t bear the weight of their concern, their pity.
Because if he did, it meant this was real.
It meant his career was in danger.
That his life was no longer his own.
That he was trapped in a bed, unable to move his own leg without feeling such unbearable pain that sometimes he wished they would put him to sleep and not wake him up until it was all over.
He clenched his jaw every time sharp, stabbing pain shot through his body, every time his leg—or what was left of it—reminded him of his own fragility. The doctors spoke of progress, of successful surgeries, of rehabilitation plans, but it all felt distant, irrelevant.
He knew that at some point, he would have to face it. That eventually, someone would force him to move, to try, to do something other than just lie there, feeling himself wither away.
But not today.
Today, he only stared out the window, lost in thoughts that ate away at him from the inside.
He replayed every second of the accident, like a broken film looping in his mind over and over again.
Could he have avoided it? Could he have turned sooner? Braked differently?
His brain tortured him with every possibility, every alternative, every little thing he could have done to not end up here.
To not be… this.
To not feel like a useless, broken piece of flesh.
And then she arrived.
The first time he saw her, Oscar barely lifted his gaze.
He heard her voice before he saw her—clear, firm, with not a hint of hesitation.
"Oscar, I’m Amanda, your physiotherapist. From now on, we’ll be working together."
He didn’t respond. He had no intention of doing so.
But then she stepped closer, placed a few papers on the table next to his bed, and waited. Not with endless patience, not with the forced sweetness he had noticed in other visitors. She simply waited.
And when he didn’t react, she continued.
"I know you probably hate me. Everyone does at first."
That, at least, made him look at her.
She wasn’t what he expected.
She wasn’t the image of an older therapist, hardened by years of experience. She wasn’t someone who radiated the wisdom of decades in the profession. She was young. Incredibly young to be standing there, to be the one McLaren had hired to fix him.
But she didn’t seem uncertain. Not even for a second.
She didn’t smile, didn’t try to soften her words. She simply looked at him with an impenetrable professionalism.
Oscar didn’t know what he had expected from the person who was supposed to give him his life back, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this.
It wasn’t someone who introduced herself with that much confidence, who spoke with that much honesty.
It wasn’t someone who, with complete calmness, made it clear that the worst was still ahead.
The sessions started the next day.
And within hours, she became the embodiment of his worst nightmare.
The pain was unbearable.
Oscar thought he knew physical suffering. He had felt it after minor accidents, after grueling races, after brutal training sessions. But this… this was different.
This had no purpose. No satisfying end. It wasn’t the consequence of something great, but of something that had taken everything from him.
“Move it.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I. Can’t.”
“Oscar.”
He hated the way she said his name. As if she had absolute certainty that he would succeed. As if she knew more about him than he did himself.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tried, unsuccessfully, to move his leg. A single centimeter felt like a monumental task, and every time he tried, the pain blurred his vision.
She didn’t flinch.
She didn’t offer empty words of comfort. She didn’t try to minimize his suffering.
She just waited.
Waited for him to try again.
And when he did—when he managed even the slightest progress—she nodded ever so slightly, as if she had expected nothing less.
She never praised him. Never told him he was doing a good job.
As if, to her, getting better wasn’t an option, but an inevitable fact.
Oscar hated that. He hated the certainty with which she believed in his recovery, because he didn’t believe in it himself.
But more than anything, he hated how, despite it all, every morning when he woke up, she was still there.
Always there.
Always with that same determined look.
Always with that same certainty.
Oscar didn’t know what was worse—the pain or the feeling that, somehow, she had no intention of letting him fall, when all he wanted was to let go.
When Oscar left the hospital, he didn’t feel relief.
He had expected that being back to his home in England, near the McLaren headquarters,would make everything easier. That the air wouldn’t smell of antiseptic, that his days wouldn’t be dictated by visiting hours and surgeries, that he could find some peace in the familiarity of his home.
But reality was different.
Being home meant facing life outside the hospital, and that terrified him.
His mother was there with him, helping with everything he needed. She never complained, never made him feel like a burden, but that only made things worse.
This place had once been his sanctuary. Now, every corner felt like a reminder of what he had lost.
Especially the garage.
He had turned that space into his personal gym back when he would spend hours training relentlessly. Now, that same space had been transformed into his rehabilitation room. The weights and machines were covered in dust, replaced by support bars, resistance bands, and a therapy table.
And Amanda—Mandy, as his mother insisted on calling her—was there every day.
She entered with the same energy she had at the hospital, unfazed by his silence or his bad mood. She greeted his mother with a smile before dragging Oscar’s chair to the garage, waiting for him to start the session.
And he did, because he had no choice.
The exercises were unbearable.
The pain burned.
Every time he tried to move, his leg felt like someone was driving a red-hot iron through it.
And Mandy showed no mercy.
“Up,” she ordered, arms crossed. “One more time.”
Oscar gritted his teeth and glared at her.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Mandy, for fuck’s sake…”
“Oscar, for fuck’s sake.”
He let out a sarcastic laugh, incredulous.
She didn’t budge. She never did.
At night, when he dragged himself back to bed, exhausted and aching, he swore he hated her.
But no matter what he did or said, the next morning, she was always there.
Waiting.
But without a doubt, what he hated most about rehab were the days when Mandy helped him lie down on the therapy table, his right leg lifted, pink scars in plain sight.
Oscar hated these moments.
Not because they were the most painful—he reserved that for the rehab sessions where Mandy made him sweat until his muscles trembled—but because they left him completely exposed.
The massage sessions were necessary. He knew that. His leg had been through too many surgeries, too many stitches, too many hours of immobility. The skin was tight over the scars, the muscles stiff, and every movement reminded him that he wasn’t the same as before. Mandy said they needed to work on elasticity, circulation, pain relief. He listened to her say it in that neutral, almost dispassionate voice, as if she were talking about any other patient.
But that didn’t change the fact that it hurt like hell.
At first, he tried to endure it in silence. He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, and held on. But the longer the session went on, the more unbearable it became. Mandy wasn’t exactly gentle, and even though she used oils and her hands were firm and skilled, she didn’t hold back when she needed to press on the tension points.
So, without thinking too much about it, Oscar started talking.
“You know Eau Rouge has a 17% incline?” he blurted out, his jaw tight.
Mandy didn’t stop but responded calmly. “Doesn’t surprise me. Spa is a brutal circuit.”
Oscar winced as her fingers ran over an especially sensitive scar.
“Technically, the corner isn’t just Eau Rouge. It’s part of Raidillon, but people say it wrong.”
“Mmm. Fascinating.” The lack of emotion in her voice told him she didn’t care at all.
But that didn’t stop him.
“Did you know Formula 1 had its first season in 1950? And that the world championship only had seven races?”
“Oscar.”
“Did you know Niki Lauda won the title in ‘84 without taking a single pole position all season?”
“Oscar.”
“Did you know—”
“Oscar.” This time, Mandy stopped, pressing his leg a little harder than necessary. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re trying to distract yourself, aren’t you?”
He frowned but couldn’t deny it.
Mandy smirked and went back to work, massaging his leg with precision.
“It’s fine. Keep going. Surprise me.”
Oscar eyed her warily. “You don’t mind me talking?”
“I’d rather you talk than start yelling at me. Besides, I’m learning a lot. Like, what was that Spa incline again?”
“Seventeen.”
“Uh-huh. Good to know.”
The irony in her voice made him click his tongue, but for some reason, his initial frustration faded a little.
The conversation continued in a disjointed rhythm. Sometimes, Oscar complained about the pain; other times, he got distracted enough to forget why he was even talking so much. When Mandy pressed on an especially tight spot, he let out a grunt and muttered,
“I hate you.”
She didn’t even blink.
“You’re not the first to tell me that.”
That response, so unexpected and casual, made a laugh slip past his lips. Almost immediately, Oscar regretted it. He didn’t want to laugh with her. He didn’t want to like her.
But the truth was that, for the first time in a long while, the session hadn’t been just pain and frustration. And deep down, that terrified him.
The months passed, and though Oscar hated to admit it, he was starting to see results.
They weren’t huge, not yet. He wasn’t running, not even walking, but every day, there was something new. A little more mobility, a little less pain, a small victory that Mandy celebrated as if he’d just won a Grand Prix.
And the worst part was… he appreciated it.
The anger was gone. He no longer spent his days hating his leg or cursing his luck. Now, all that remained was frustration. The unbearable, slow, agonizing frustration of not being able to do what his body had been programmed to do for as long as he could remember.
But Mandy was there. Always.
And somehow, she had become the most constant thing in his life.
“Well, Piastri, today we’ve got a new set of exercises.” Mandy flipped through her notebook with a nonchalant air. “And by ‘new set,’ I mean you’re going to suffer.”
Oscar let his head fall back against the wheelchair and groaned.
“Why do you enjoy torturing me?”
“Why do you enjoy complaining?”
“Because you give me reasons.”
Mandy laughed and patted his good leg. “Come on, up.”
The sessions were exhausting. But Oscar had learned to tolerate them, partly because Mandy had stopped worrying about keeping up a strictly professional façade. Now she messed with him, made jokes at his expense, gave him ridiculous nicknames.
“That’s it, champ. You’re an inspiration.”
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously. Netflix probably wants to make a documentary about you. The Rebirth of Oscar Piastri.”
“Mandy.”
“One man, one mission. To reclaim his leg. But first, he must survive his physiotherapist.”
He scowled at her, but the amused glint in his eyes gave him away.
That was the other part of the equation: Mandy knew when to push him and when to let him breathe. There were days when, instead of doing the scheduled exercises, she simply pushed his wheelchair to the park behind his house.
She was sitting on a bench beside Oscar’s chair, the cool breeze on his face, and he took a deep breath.
"You know I want to come back, right?"
Mandy stared ahead, arms crossed over her chest, enjoying the warming sun.
"I know."
"You know I will come back."
She took a moment to respond.
"I know you want it with everything you have."
"That’s not the same."
Mandy turned to him, her expression serious.
"Oscar, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But I won’t lie to you. I don’t know how this is going to end. No one does."
It was the conversation he dreaded most. But it was also the one he needed the most.
"And if I can’t?" he asked quietly.
Mandy was silent for a moment. Then she sighed and nudged him lightly.
"Then you’d find another way to be happy."
Oscar glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
"Easy for you to say."
"No, it’s not. But it’s the truth."
They fell into silence.
Oscar thought about everything that had changed in the past few months. About the person he had been before the accident and the person he was now. He thought about Mandy, her laughter, her persistence, how she had become one of the few people he could truly be honest with.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to consider that maybe he wasn’t so alone in all of this.
The moment came without warning.
One day, after months of grueling exercises, of falls, of frustration, of pain, Oscar stood up.
It wasn’t heroic or cinematic. His legs trembled, his breathing was ragged, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest. But he did it.
With a crutch in one hand and his heart pounding in his ears, he took his first step without completely relying on someone else.
When he looked up, Mandy was watching him with a smile that held no trace of mockery.
"You’re a damn beast, Piastri."
He let out a shaky laugh, dropping his head forward as he tried to catch his breath.
But the victory was short-lived.
Because as soon as the news reached McLaren, so did the calls.
"How long do you think it’ll take for him to get back in a car?"
"What does his physiotherapist say?"
"Next season is already on the horizon. The sponsors are asking."
Oscar had lost count of how many times he had heard the word "normal" in the past few days, but every time he did, his stomach twisted.
He convinced himself that all of this was helping. Pressure had always been his fuel. If he worked harder, if he gave everything, if he pushed his body to the limit, maybe he could come back faster.
Maybe he could be himself again.
But what he refused to acknowledge was that, when left alone with his thoughts, the idea of coming back terrified him.
It wasn’t just the physical recovery. It was the uncertainty, the insecurity of not knowing if his body would hold up. If he would hold up.
And that was when the invitation arrived: an event at McLaren’s headquarters, with sponsors, staff, executives… Oscar had the sinking feeling they had invited him to reassure people. To put him on display, to let everyone see. "Look at him, he’s fine. He’s still alive. He has both legs."
The last rehab session before the event started like any other.
Mandy had set up a series of stability and mobility exercises. Nothing new. Nothing he hadn’t done before.
But at some point, everything started to fall apart.
The attack came without warning.
Oscar was standing, one hand gripping the crutch, the other pressed against the wall for balance. He had done this before, hundreds of times over the past months. One step, then another. Control the breath. Keep the posture.
But this time, something felt different.
First, a slight dizziness, a sharp pang of weakness in his injured leg. Then, his heart started pounding too hard, too fast. His skin felt hot and cold at the same time, a cold sweat running down his back.
He tried to take a deep breath, but the air wouldn’t fill his lungs.
No. Not now.
He couldn't breathe.
Panic hit him like a clenched fist to the chest. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, his hands trembled, his muscles tensed as if his entire body were in high alert.
Oscar staggered, and Mandy saw it before he could even get a word out.
"Oscar." Her tone changed in an instant. Firm, but concerned.
He tried to lift his gaze, but the room tilted around him. Everything was moving too fast and too slow at the same time.
"Oscar, sit down."
He didn’t know if she helped him or if his legs gave out on their own, but in the next instant, he was sitting on the bench against the wall, his head in his hands.
Everything was spinning.
He couldn’t breathe.
Each gasp of air got stuck in his throat.
“No… I can’t…”
His voice sounded strange, broken, like it didn’t belong to him.
Mandy knelt in front of him, hands on his shoulders, trying to ground him.
"Oscar, look at me."
He tried, but his vision was blurred, his chest so tight it felt like he was suffocating.
“Breathe with me, okay?” she said, taking his hand without hesitation. Her fingers were warm and steady around his. “Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale.”
Oscar trembled, his whole body shaking with chills, with the unbearable tension making him feel like he was about to fall apart at any moment.
“No… I can’t…”
“Yes, you can.” Mandy didn’t budge an inch. Her voice, though calm, held a note of urgency. “Listen to me, Oscar. You’re safe. You’re here with me. You’re not alone.”
You’re not alone.
Those words shattered him.
Oscar squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears came anyway, burning as they slid down his cheeks.
Months.
Months of holding everything in.
All the pain, all the frustration, all the anger, all the fear.
Months of pretending he was fine. Of smiling at the doctors, of enduring the pressure, of telling himself he had to be strong, that he had to keep going, that he had no other choice.
But there, in that moment, with Mandy holding onto him, with his ragged breathing and trembling body, everything broke.
Oscar gripped her with both hands, without even thinking, burying his face in her shoulder.
And he cried.
He cried like he hadn’t since the accident.
His body shook with every sob, every uneven breath. Mandy didn’t say anything, didn’t try to stop him or brush it off. She just wrapped both arms around his back and let him fall apart.
“I’m here,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck in an instinctive gesture of comfort. “I’m here, Oscar.”
He could only nod against her shoulder, because words wouldn’t come.
Everything he had buried crashed over him like an unstoppable wave.
The fear of never being the same.
The pressure of the entire world waiting for his return.
The terrifying possibility that, even if he came back, maybe he’d never be enough.
He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Only that, eventually, his breathing evened out, his grip on Mandy loosened a little, his head no longer felt like it was about to explode.
And she was still there.
She didn’t tell him to be strong.
She didn’t say everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.
She just stayed with him.
When he finally pulled away, his eyes were still wet, but the storm inside him had quieted, at least a little.
Mandy handed him a tissue without a word.
Oscar took it, wiping his face with a tired, embarrassed laugh.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got a list of clients who’ve cried in your arms.”
Mandy smiled, but her eyes still held concern.
“No, but you’re officially my most dramatic case.”
He let out a shaky chuckle.
She sighed, studying him with a sharp, assessing gaze.
“You don’t have to go tomorrow.”
Oscar looked down, twisting the tissue between his fingers.
“Yes, I do.”
Mandy didn’t argue.
She just placed a hand on his injured knee, steady as always.
“Then we do it your way. Not theirs.”
He didn’t answer right away.
But this time, when he looked at her, he felt like he could breathe.
The morning of the event arrived too fast.
Oscar looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, adjusting the collar of his shirt with trembling hands. He had spent months preparing for this moment. To prove to the world—and to himself—that he was ready, that he could come back.
But now, with the weight of expectations pressing on his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt felt too tight against his chest, like an invisible noose.
A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Ready to dazzle the media?" Mandy peeked her head in with a half-smile.
Oscar exhaled sharply, letting his shoulders drop.
"If by ‘dazzle’ you mean not falling flat on my face in front of everyone, then yeah, I guess I’m ready."
Mandy stepped inside, crossing her arms as she looked him over.
"That’s not going to happen. You’ve worked too hard for this." She moved closer, automatically straightening his tie. "Besides, I’ll be there."
Oscar blinked.
"What?"
"I’m going with you."
He frowned, confused.
"Mandy, you don’t have to—"
"I’m not here because I have to," she cut him off, her tone firm, the one she used when she wasn’t taking no for an answer. "I’m here because I want to be."
Oscar didn’t know what to say.
There was something different in the way she looked at him now, something softer, warmer. It wasn’t just the professional watching over her patient. It was Mandy, his Mandy, the person who had seen him at his worst and never once backed away.
So instead of arguing, he just nodded.
"Thank you."
And this time, he didn’t just mean for the event.
The McLaren conference center was packed. Journalists, executives, sponsors—everyone was waiting for Oscar Piastri’s return.
Camera flashes flickered through the air, and voices blended into a constant hum. For a second, Oscar felt dizzy, the grip on his crutch making his knuckles turn white. Then, he felt a hand on his back.
Mandy.
"Breathe," she murmured next to him, so quietly only he could hear.
He did.
Every step he took was deliberate, measured, the cane clicking against the floor. He knew every eye in the room was on him, assessing him.
But he wasn’t alone.
Mandy walked beside him—his shadow, his anchor. Not in an obvious or overprotective way, but just enough for him to feel steady.
They approached the small stage where Zak Brown and Andrea Stella were waiting. The McLaren executives smiled at him, and though their words were encouraging, Oscar could feel the pressure behind every question.
"When will we see you back in the car?"
"How are you feeling physically?"
"Are you ready to compete again?"
Each question was a reminder of everything expected of him.
He smiled. Answered calmly.
"I’m working really hard on my recovery. I’m focused on coming back as soon as possible, but I want to do it right."
It was the right answer. The answer everyone wanted to hear.
But deep down, his chest tightened again.
The press conference went on, and while Oscar kept his composure, Mandy knew him well enough to notice the stiffness in his posture, the subtle clench of his jaw every time someone mentioned his return to normal.
When it was all over—when the cameras were lowered and the executives drifted into side conversations—Mandy stepped closer, leaning in just enough so no one else could hear.
"How do you feel?"
Oscar didn’t answer right away.
He looked around at all the faces expecting something from him. Then, he glanced down at his crutch—the constant reminder that he wasn’t where he wanted to be yet.
But when he lifted his gaze again, the first thing he saw was Mandy.
She wasn’t looking at him with pity, but with confidence.
And something in his chest, something that had been too tight all day, loosened just a little.
"Good," he finally said, with a half-smile. "A lot better because you’re here."
Mandy smirked.
"Of course I am."
And though Oscar knew he still had a long road ahead, for the first time in a while, he felt like he didn’t have to walk it alone.
The afternoon of the event passed in a blur.
After the press conference, Oscar endured the conversations with executives, the unwavering smile on his face, the pats on the back, and the promises of a bright future. He handled every question with the patience of a saint, but when he finally stepped outside, with Mandy beside him, he felt like he could breathe again.
They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, neither in a rush to leave.
"Alright," Mandy said, crossing her arms. "On a scale of one to ten, how unbearable was that?"
Oscar huffed.
"A fourteen."
She laughed—that soft sound that always did something to his chest—and shook her head.
"You survived."
"So did you," he replied with a slight shrug. "You had to sit through all of it with me."
"I always do," she said, looking at him with an expression he couldn’t quite decipher.
Oscar felt a tingling at the back of his neck. Not discomfort, but… awareness.
Suddenly, he was more aware of her than ever before. Of her presence, the way the breeze lifted a strand of her hair, the ease with which they talked, as if there was no longer any barrier between them.
Oscar cleared his throat and looked away.
"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly.
Mandy raised an eyebrow.
“Are you asking me out to dinner, Piastri?”
“No,” he replied immediately. “I mean, yes. But… as a thank you, you know? For being here.”
Mandy looked at him with amusement.
“A thank you, sure.”
He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
Dinner started with the same relaxed energy as always.
Mandy didn’t sit across from him but beside him, in the corner of a small Italian restaurant that smelled of basil, garlic, and freshly baked bread. It was a cozy place, unpretentious, the kind of spot where people talked loudly and steaming plates of homemade food kept arriving at the tables.
“You do realize this is technically a date?” Mandy commented lightly, flipping through the menu without looking at him.
Oscar scoffed, taking a sip of his water.
“No, it’s not. It’s a thank-you dinner.”
“So you’re thanking me with food?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t that sound exactly like what someone does on a date?”
Oscar slowly turned his head to her, narrowing his eyes.
“Do you want it to be a date?”
Mandy shrugged, but the amused smile on her lips threw him off.
“That depends. Are you paying?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes, it’s a date.”
Oscar huffed but couldn’t stop the smile that twitched at his lips. Mandy had this way of turning any conversation into something light, of pushing him just a little outside his comfort zone without him realizing it until he was already laughing.
When the food arrived, Oscar leaned over his plate of pasta with the hunger of someone who had spent too much energy pretending to be fine all day. Mandy, on the other hand, picked up her pizza with a calmness that could only be described as irritating.
“You know,” she said, chewing thoughtfully, “if you were as fast on track as you are when you eat, you’d be unstoppable.”
Oscar froze, fork halfway to his mouth, staring at her in disbelief.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re always complaining about recovery being too slow, but at this speed, you should be running marathons.”
Oscar set his fork down with an exaggerated thud on the table and turned to her, feigning outrage.
“Are you challenging me, Mandy?”
“I’m just saying what I see, Piastri.”
“Fine.” Oscar picked up his glass and took a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “Then I say your pizza choice is terrible.”
Mandy placed a hand over her chest as if she had just been stabbed.
“What?”
“Pineapple, seriously?”
“Oh, please, we’re not starting this debate.”
“There is no debate,” Oscar said with a shrug. “Just facts. And the fact is, you’ve committed a crime against Italian cuisine.”
Mandy shook her head, laughing.
“You know what’s worse? I’m helping rehabilitate someone with a child’s palate.”
Oscar rolled his eyes.
“Says the one eating pineapple pizza.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Of course, it is.”
“No, it’s not. But that’s okay, Piastri. Not everyone can have good taste.”
Oscar shot her a look of disbelief before shaking his head, a reluctant smile breaking through.
It was strange. Unexpected. But it felt good.
Easy.
For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the weight of recovery on his shoulders. He didn’t feel the pressure to become the driver everyone expected him to be again. He was just there, with Mandy, eating at a small restaurant, joking about nonsense.
And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to enjoy it.
The weeks passed, and their dynamic only continued to evolve.
Mandy was no longer just his physiotherapist.
She was the person who showed up at his door with extra coffee when she saw he’d had a rough night.
She was the one who sat on the floor with him when he got frustrated in sessions, saying nothing, just staying there until he was ready to talk.
She was the one who called him an idiot with the sweetest smile when he tried to push himself harder than he should.
She was the one who made him laugh when he thought he couldn’t anymore.
And without realizing it, Oscar started looking forward to seeing her more than he wanted to admit.
He started noticing the way her eyes lit up when she talked about something she was passionate about. He started remembering little details about her without meaning to—how she liked her coffee, how she scrunched her nose when she was focused, how she had a particular way of tilting her head when she was about to give him advice.
And worst of all… he started realizing she was looking at him differently too.
There was something in the way she watched him now, a softness in her gestures, a tenderness in the way she touched his arm to support him, in the way she whispered, “You’re doing amazing” after every small progress.
One night, after a particularly exhausting session, Oscar collapsed onto his couch while Mandy packed up her things.
“I hate you,” he muttered without conviction.
Mandy smiled, not even looking at him.
“I know.”
There was a moment of silence before Oscar spoke again.
“Would you stay a little longer?”
Mandy turned to him, surprised.
"What?"
"You don't have to. But… I don’t want to be alone tonight."
She looked at him for a moment, evaluating him. Then, without a word, she set her bag on the floor and dropped onto the couch beside him.
Oscar didn’t know what that meant.
But he didn’t feel the need to ask.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was something else, something deeper, as if a silent understanding had settled in that brief moment.
Mandy didn’t ask why Oscar didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t need to. She didn’t tell him everything would be okay because she knew that wouldn’t help. Instead, she just stayed.
Oscar turned his head toward her, noticing how relaxed she looked on his couch, as if she somehow belonged there. It was strange how Mandy, who had once been just his physiotherapist, had now become a part of his life in more ways than he could fully grasp.
"Do you want to watch something?" she asked suddenly, pulling out her phone.
"If it’s another video of cats trying to jump and failing, I’ve already seen them all."
Mandy scoffed.
"Don’t underestimate my ability to find quality content."
Oscar let his head fall back against the couch and closed his eyes for a moment.
"Prove it."
Mandy wasted no time playing a video. It was a compilation of funny falls—people slipping on ice, dogs miscalculating their jumps, kids getting scared by their own reflection.
And against his will, Oscar ended up laughing.
At first, just a small smile. Then, a quiet chuckle. Until finally, he let out a real laugh—the kind that rumbled in his chest and left him breathless.
Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye, smirking.
"Well, looks like you do have a soul after all."
Oscar wiped away a tear from laughing, his eyes still shining.
"And what about you? Are you going to admit you have a heart?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Who says I don’t?"
"You hide it well."
Mandy smiled but didn’t reply. She simply leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms over her chest.
The silence returned, but this time, it felt different.
Oscar felt the urge to speak, to say something important, something he had been trying to understand for weeks. But instead, he just exhaled slowly and said,
"Thanks for staying."
Mandy didn’t look at him, but her voice was soft when she replied,
"Always."
After a while on the couch, Mandy stretched her arms and stood up.
"Alright, I think it’s time I eat something. And you too."
Oscar groaned from his spot.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don’t care. You’re eating."
Oscar shot her a look of feigned exasperation as Mandy walked toward the kitchen like she owned the place. He had seen her move around his space so many times over the past few months that it didn’t even feel strange anymore.
"You do know this is my house, right?" he said, dragging himself off the couch with the help of his crutch.
"I know," Mandy replied without turning around, rummaging through the pantry. "But someone has to make sure you don’t starve to death."
Oscar huffed but didn’t argue further. He followed with unsteady steps, still slow, but more confident than he had been weeks ago.
"What are we making?"
"Something simple. I don’t want you collapsing halfway through the recipe."
Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned against the counter as Mandy pulled out ingredients. They ended up cooking together, at their own pace. Mandy did most of the work, but she let Oscar help where he could—stirring the sauce, chopping a few things with effort.
It was a ridiculously domestic scene.
After everything they had been through, after months of rehab and pain, cooking together in his house felt like a line he hadn’t expected to cross.
When they finished, they sat at the table with steaming plates of pasta in front of them. The dim kitchen light cast an unexpected intimacy over the moment. Oscar watched as Mandy took the first bite and nodded approvingly.
"Not bad, Piastri. Maybe you’ve got a future in cooking if this F1 thing doesn’t work out."
Oscar smiled, tired but genuinely warm.
"Maybe I’ll open a restaurant. ‘The Cripple’s Pasta.’"
Mandy burst out laughing, and he was surprised by how much he liked the sound.
After a while, Mandy set down her fork and looked at him.
"How do you feel?"
Oscar lowered his gaze to his plate, idly stirring the leftover pasta with his fork.
"Tired. Sore."
Mandy said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
He lifted his eyes.
"But… good."
She tilted her head slightly, intrigued.
"Good, huh?"
Oscar swallowed.
"Yeah. Because I’m here. With you."
There was a moment of silence. Mandy looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Something soft, something that made his throat tighten.
"You’re an idiot," she said finally, but there was more fondness than anything else in her tone.
Oscar smiled.
"I know."
Mandy sighed and stood to clear the dishes, but Oscar stopped her, his hand gently wrapping around her wrist.
She froze, surprised by the gesture.
Oscar wasn’t sure what he was doing either—only that he didn’t want this moment to end just yet.
"Mandy…"
She waited, her gaze locked on his.
He could feel her pulse beneath his fingers.
He could feel the line between them blurring more and more.
Mandy didn’t move. She didn’t pull her hand away, didn’t make any gesture to tell him to let go of her wrist. She just looked at him, expectant, as if she knew he had something to say but wouldn’t pressure him to say it.
Oscar swallowed. His mouth was dry.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Mandy smiled, but there was something in her expression—something softer, more intimate.
“You won’t find out,” she said quietly.
Oscar stared at her. Something tightened in his chest.
That was when he realized how close they were.
How close they had been for months.
Only now, for the first time, he truly felt it.
The warmth of her skin, the way his breathing matched hers. The way his thumb, without thinking, traced the lightest touch against the skin of her wrist.
Mandy noticed.
And she didn’t pull away.
“Mandy…” he whispered.
He didn’t know what he was going to say next. He wasn’t sure of anything in that moment, except that he wanted to stay there. That he wanted her to stay there.
Mandy exhaled softly. Her fingers moved against his in the slightest motion—a touch so faint it barely registered, yet enough to make something inside Oscar go taut.
“Let’s watch a movie,” she said suddenly, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Oscar blinked, disoriented.
“What?”
Mandy gently pulled her hand away and started gathering the dishes, as if nothing had happened.
“A movie. You need it. And I don’t want to see you overthinking anything else tonight.”
Oscar watched her move around the kitchen, trying to process what had just happened.
But, for some reason, he didn’t feel disappointed.
Because Mandy hadn’t run.
Because he didn’t want to force anything.
Because this—whatever this was—made sense.
So he let out a soft laugh, shook his head, and got up to follow her to the couch.
The movie played on the screen, but neither of them was really watching.
Oscar tried to focus, tried to follow the plot, but his mind was elsewhere. On the way Mandy sat beside him, on how their bodies seemed to drift closer without either of them making a deliberate move.
Under the shared blanket, their legs brushed every now and then, and each fleeting touch sent a shiver down his spine. The first time, Oscar thought it had been accidental. The second, he wondered if he’d imagined it. But by the third, the fourth, the fifth—he wasn’t so sure anymore.
He took a deep breath, trying to ignore it.
And then he felt her hand.
Just a touch, the lightest brush of fingers, but it was enough to make the air between them feel heavier, charged. Mandy didn’t move away, and neither did he. Somehow, their hands remained still under the blanket, their pinkies barely touching, neither of them daring to be the first to move.
But Oscar felt every heartbeat like a drum, each passing second unbearably slow.
The tension was almost tangible.
Mandy swallowed.
“This movie is kind of boring, isn’t it?” she murmured.
Oscar let out a quiet laugh.
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been paying attention.”
Mandy turned her head to look at him, and Oscar felt the exact moment the air shifted between them.
She felt it too.
Her gaze flickered down to his lips for the briefest second, barely noticeable.
But Oscar noticed.
And that was all he needed.
His hand slid under the blanket until his fingers intertwined with hers, and Mandy didn’t pull away. On the contrary, her grip tightened slightly, her thumb tracing a small circle against his skin—a gesture so intimate and silent that Oscar instinctively leaned toward her.
Their faces were only inches apart.
He could feel her breath, her perfume, the warmth of her skin so close to his.
The moment stretched.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Oscar wouldn’t be able to say who closed the final distance. Maybe him, maybe her. Maybe it had simply been inevitable.
But when their lips finally met, when the kiss sealed with the sweetness of something held back for too long, Oscar knew there was no turning back.
The kiss started soft, hesitant, as if neither of them wanted to break the fragile bubble they had enclosed themselves in. Mandy was the first to react, tilting her head just slightly, parting her lips, giving Oscar the answer he hadn’t dared to ask for out loud.
And then, there was no more hesitation.
Oscar cradled the back of her neck with one hand, pulling her closer, losing himself in the warmth of her mouth. Mandy moved without doubt, her fingers tracing his cheek, his jaw, before tangling into his hair.
It was everything he had wanted, everything he had ignored for weeks.
The brush of their lips deepened, grew more intense. Oscar felt his chest expand with a sensation he didn’t quite recognize, something intoxicating that left him insatiable. She was fire and calm all at once—a refuge and a storm.
Mandy pulled back for a moment, breathless, her nose brushing against his.
“Oscar…”
There was no doubt in her voice, but there was something else—something that felt like a warning. As if she were giving him the chance to stop.
Oscar met her gaze, darkened by something he could feel echoing in his own body.
He didn’t want to stop.
So instead of answering with words, he kissed her again.
Mandy smiled against his lips before matching his urgency, her fingers tracing a slow, torturous path over the fabric of his shirt. Oscar shivered when she pressed her palm against his chest, feeling him beneath her fingertips, sliding her hand lower toward his abdomen with a boldness that made his pulse race.
The blanket slipped from their bodies as Mandy shifted onto his lap—carefully, with a near-imperceptible gentleness, as if she knew exactly how far she could push his limits without causing him pain.
Oscar buried his face in her neck, breathing in her scent, whispering her name against her skin. Mandy let out a shuddering sigh, and he felt satisfaction ripple through him.
For the first time in months, Oscar didn’t think about his injury.
He didn’t think about his rehabilitation, the pressure, the fear.
He only thought about her. About the way her body fit against his as if it had always been meant to be there.
And how, for the first time in a long time, he wanted more.
The atmosphere had shifted. Desire still burned between them, the electricity was undeniable, but amidst the urgency, the hungry kisses, the clumsy touches, there was something else. Something much deeper, much more intimate.
Oscar barely registered how they got here, how their clothes started to disappear. He only knew that at some point, Mandy slipped off the couch, kneeling in front of him with effortless ease, helping him remove his pants with the same delicacy she always treated him with.
And then, everything stopped.
Oscar felt the cold air against his skin, against the scarred skin of his leg. He tensed, the instinct to hide, to pull away, flaring inside him like a reflex. He felt ridiculous for thinking about it—Mandy had seen his scars countless times, had touched them, had studied them.
But Mandy didn’t look away.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t make any expression of pity.
Instead, she placed her hands on his leg with a tenderness that completely disarmed him.
Her lips, warm and soft, traced over every scar, every mark that told a story of pain and struggle. She didn’t skip any, didn’t avoid a single one. She took her time, as if she wanted to memorize each line, each ridge, each imperfection.
Oscar didn’t know when his throat started to burn, when the pressure in his chest became unbearable. He only knew that before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek.
He didn’t understand why.
It was affection, it was tenderness, it was sorrow. It was everything at once.
Mandy lifted her gaze, and their eyes met. She didn’t say anything, but her look spoke volumes. Of acceptance, of devotion, of a love without cracks.
Without moving her hand from his leg, she reached up to his face, brushing the tear away with her thumb, unhurried.
Oscar leaned toward her and kissed her.
It was a slow kiss, deep, filled with everything they couldn’t put into words.
When they pulled apart, Mandy rested her forehead against his, closing her eyes for a moment.
“You’re incredible,” she whispered. And Oscar didn’t know if she meant his body, his recovery, his strength—or just him.
But it didn’t matter.
Because, for the first time since the accident, Oscar Piastri didn’t feel ashamed of what he was.
The night continued with an unexpected tenderness. There was no rush, no urgency. It was just the two of them, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and whispers, tangled in kisses and caresses that seemed endless.
Oscar had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed—and yet, so safe. Mandy touched him as if every part of him deserved to be cherished, as if his scars were testaments to his strength, not reminders of what he had lost.
When they finally rested, their bodies intertwined beneath the blanket, Oscar felt something new settle in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with passion or desire, but with peace.
Mandy traced lazy circles on his arm, her breathing slow, steady.
“What are you thinking about?” she murmured, her voice still drowsy.
Oscar took a moment to answer.
“That I don’t know how we got here.”
Mandy let out a soft laugh.
“If you need me to explain it in more detail…”
He rolled his eyes, laughing against her hair.
“That’s not what I meant.”
He fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words.
“When I first met you, I hated you.”
“I know,” Mandy replied with amusement.
“No.” Oscar propped himself up on one elbow to look at her better. “I mean it. I thought I’d never be able to stand you. You were too stubborn, too optimistic.”
“Guilty.”
“But then…” Oscar exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Then you became the only thing keeping me sane.”
Mandy looked at him in the dim light, her expression softening.
“Oscar…”
“No.” He cut her off, feeling that if he didn’t say it now, he never would. “I just want you to know. That without you, I…”
He stopped, swallowing hard. Mandy reached up and placed a hand on his cheek, making him hold her gaze.
“I know,” she whispered.
And Oscar knew, with a certainty that scared him a little, that she really did.
That Mandy understood him better than anyone.
That if there was a way to truly heal, it was with her by his side.
Oscar remained silent after that, his mind caught in a whirlwind of thoughts. Mandy was resting against his chest, her breathing steady, but he couldn’t fully relax.
“Mandy…” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper in the dark.
“Mhm?”
“Is this okay?”
She lifted her head slightly to look at him.
“What do you mean?”
Oscar hesitated.
“Us. What just happened. The fact that you… you’re my physiotherapist. Or at least, you were. And that we’re crossing a line.”
Mandy watched him in silence for a moment before sighing with a small smile.
“Are you worried I’ll get you in trouble?”
“No, I’m worried you’ll get fired,” he answered honestly. “That this isn’t allowed in your contract or that—”
Mandy interrupted him with a soft touch to his cheek.
“Oscar, my contract ended weeks ago.”
He blinked, surprised.
“What?”
“McLaren only asked me to get you to take your first step. That was my goal as your physiotherapist,” she explained calmly. “After that, your physical trainer was supposed to take over.”
Oscar was speechless.
“So…?”
“So I stayed because I wanted to. Because I wanted to keep helping you. Because this was never just a job for me.”
Oscar felt something inside him crumble. All the doubts, all the insecurities, the nagging thought that maybe she was only there because she had to be… vanished in an instant.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Mandy smiled, that infuriatingly calm smile of hers.
“Because I know you. If you had known, you would’ve pushed me away. You would’ve said you were fine just so I wouldn’t feel like I had to stay.”
Oscar couldn’t deny it. Because it was true.
“So…” he said slowly, intertwining his fingers with hers. “This whole time…”
“This whole time, I’ve been here because I wanted to be.”
Oscar swallowed.
“And now what?”
Mandy rested her head on his chest again, tracing light circles on his arm.
“Now, you sleep. And tomorrow… we’ll see.”
But Oscar knew that, no matter what happened, she was already a part of his life.
And he didn’t want that to change.
The air in the garage feels heavy. No one talks much. The team of engineers and mechanics works around him with meticulous precision, preparing him for the private test. It’s just a test—no media, no spectators. But for Oscar, it’s much more than that. It’s his ultimate test.
Mandy stands to the side, arms crossed, watching him closely. She’s not supposed to be here—officially, her job ended months ago—but that hasn’t stopped her. And Oscar hasn’t tried to stop her, either.
When he finally sits in the car, when he feels the pressure of the molded seat against his back, when the cockpit surrounds him, when the steering wheel is in his hands and the tires are ready to hit the track… it happens.
The memory strikes like thunder.
A flash of light. The impact. The raw, metallic sound. The pain.
He can’t breathe.
He’s not here, in this garage. He’s back on that day, in that moment. He’s trapped in the wreckage of the car, the smell of fuel filling his nose, his leg crushed under the destroyed chassis.
He feels the same sharp pain in his leg. Almost two months without feeling it, and suddenly, it’s as if the injury is fresh. As if it just happened.
Someone says his name, but he doesn’t hear them. His breathing quickens. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. His eyes lock onto the halo, the carbon fiber, the chassis that isn’t broken, the helmet protecting him. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.
But it’s not.
Sweat beads on his forehead. A ringing starts in his ears. He wants to move, wants to get out, but his muscles won’t respond.
A hand touches his arm.
Oscar blinks, as if snapping back to reality.
Mandy is there. She’s reaching for him from.above the car, her hand firm on his forearm. Her eyes, dark and steady, find his.
“Oscar.”
Her voice is low, calm, but not condescending. She doesn’t treat him like he’s fragile, like he’s going to break.
“I’m here,” she says, and those two words cut straight through him.
He doesn’t respond. He can’t. His breathing is still uneven, his heart still racing.
Mandy watches him for another second before moving her hand to his. Her fingers slide over his, carefully loosening his grip on the wheel.
“Look at me.”
Oscar lifts his gaze.
“You’re here. Not there. You’re in 2025, in this garage, in this car. And you’re okay. That was a year ago. You are okay”
He swallows hard. His jaw is clenched, his mind still filled with ghostly images.
“I don’t have to do this.”
It’s the first time he’s said it out loud.
Mandy nods.
“No, you don’t have to. But you want to. And that’s different.”
The team is still waiting. The mechanics pretend not to look, but Oscar feels their eyes. He knows they expect him to start the engine, to go out on track, to do what he does best.
But it’s not that simple. Not when fear is eating him alive.
Mandy squeezes his hand once more.
“You can step out right now, and no one will say a thing. It’s okay. But if you want to try, just try. Don’t think about anything else.”
Oscar closes his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Tries to find the ground beneath him, even though he’s in the car.
When he opens them, he sees her. She’s holding his hand, but she’s not keeping him there. She’s just there.
And that’s enough.
Oscar nods, slowly.
His fingers wrap around the steering wheel again, but this time, with control. Mandy releases his hand and steps back.
The mechanics get ready. The engineers check the data.
The garage fills with the roar of the engine as he starts it.
The fear is still there, like a weight in his chest. But now, there’s something else, too.
Oscar focuses on that.
And he drives.
The roar of the car echoes in his chest, a familiar vibration running down his spine and seeping into his blood. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and for a moment, doubt whispers in his mind.
What if he's not the same? What if he never will be?
But then he presses the throttle.
The tires bite into the asphalt, and suddenly, the world makes sense again. The wind slams against his helmet, the colors of the circuit blur around him, and adrenaline surges through his veins like an unstoppable force. The first corner comes faster than expected, but his body reacts before his mind does—steady hands, precise turn, clean acceleration on exit.
It’s like breathing. Like remembering who he is.
Every lap is an affirmation. Every brake, every change of direction, every fraction of a second shaved off the clock.
He is where he belongs. He is home.
When he finally returns to the pits, the echo of the engine still thrumming in his chest, Oscar allows himself to close his eyes for a moment.
He feels no fear. No doubt.
Only relief.
Lando is the first to reach him, landing a hard smack on his helmet before ruffling his hair once he takes it off.
"Seriously? After almost a year out, and you set a faster lap than me on your first run?"
Oscar smiles, taking a deep breath.
"I try."
Lando scoffs, but there's pride in his expression.
Zak, Stella, and the rest of the team surround him in seconds, congratulating him. Even a few drivers from the grid have come to see him, asking McLaren for permission just to be there. George pats his back, Alex and Charles can’t help but pull him into a hug. Even Colapinto is there, planting a loud, wet kiss on his cheek.
But there’s one person Oscar searches for among them all.
Mandy stands at the back of the garage, not intruding, but with a small smile on her lips. Her dark eyes scan him up and down, as if making sure he’s truly okay.
And he is.
Later, as the sun begins to set, the two of them sit on the empty grandstands of the circuit. The roar of the engine is gone, but the day’s echoes still vibrate in the air. Mandy rests her elbows on her knees, gaze lost on the track.
"I saw you at Turn Five," she says suddenly. "There was a moment when you hesitated."
Oscar lowers his head, smirking.
"Yeah. But it passed quickly."
She nods. A long silence stretches between them, but it’s not uncomfortable.
Until Mandy sighs and says, "McLaren offered me a contract."
Oscar blinks, turning to her.
"What?"
"As the team's physiotherapist. They were impressed with my work with you and thought I could be useful."
Oscar stays silent, waiting for her to continue. Something in her tone tells him there’s more.
"I turned it down."
He frowns.
"Why?"
Mandy wets her lips, as if searching for the right words.
"I didn’t want my work to mix with… this. With you."
Oscar feels something warm in his chest. He can’t quite name it—gratitude, relief, something else—but it’s strong.
"So… you turned down McLaren?" he repeats slowly. "The team that treated you so well, gave you access to the best facilities, let you work with the most prized gem of their lineup?"
Mandy blinks.
"You?"
"Obviously."
Mandy laughs, shaking her head.
"You’re insufferable."
"And you clearly made a terrible decision."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. Because tell me, which team signed you now?"
Mandy stretches with satisfaction before answering.
"Ferrari."
Oscar frowns, his brain processing the information.
"Ferrari?"
"Ferrari."
"Maranello’s Ferrari?"
"Unless there’s another one."
Oscar blinks.
"So now you’re going to be one of those people who speak Italian all the time and say ‘Forza Ferrari’ every five minutes?"
Mandy smiles, almost wickedly.
"Forza Ferrari."
Oscar looks at her with feigned disappointment.
"Mandy, for God’s sake, you haven’t even started yet and you’re already lost."
She laughs, giving him a gentle shove on the shoulder.
"Come on, it can’t surprise you that much. After all, someone has to be in the paddock to make sure you don’t do anything stupid."
Oscar watches her with a half-smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
"Oh, I see how it is. You didn’t stay because you like red—you just can’t live without me."
"Definitely not for the red. It’s hard to match."
"You’re not denying you can’t live without me."
Mandy rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her lips.
"I’m going to request to be assigned to Charles just to spite you."
Oscar places a hand on his heart, feigning a stab wound.
"Betrayal!"
Mandy bursts out laughing, and before she can reply, Oscar turns to her with a sly grin.
"You know what? It doesn’t matter. Everyone in the paddock knows you love me more."
Mandy raises an eyebrow, amused.
"Oh, really?"
"Of course. And if they don’t know yet, they will as soon as they see us together."
Before Mandy can throw back another sarcastic remark, Oscar leans in and kisses her. It’s warm, with the night breeze around them and the thrill of the day still running through his veins.
When they pull apart, Mandy exhales softly.
"You know what? Maybe red does suit me after all."
Oscar smiles, resting his forehead against hers.
"Forza Ferrari, I guess."
And Mandy laughs, kissing him again.
Throughout the season, Oscar and Mandy’s relationship had become an open secret in the paddock. Not because they had been careless—on the contrary, they had done everything possible to keep it private—but in a world where every gesture was scrutinized, some things were hard to hide.
Photographers had never caught them together outside the circuits, and in the paddock, they always maintained a professional distance. Mandy was disciplined about it, ensuring she never gave him special treatment in front of others, making sure no one could accuse her of favoritism at Ferrari for being with a McLaren driver. But inside the garages, in the hallways, in the small interactions away from the cameras, something was building between them—something any keen observer could notice.
Those closest to them—Lando, Zak, the McLaren team, Ferrari—knew. Lando had thoroughly enjoyed teasing them in private, dropping hints whenever he could, like when he caught Oscar glancing sideways at Mandy on the grid or when she walked past the McLaren mechanics and Oscar pretended to be engrossed in telemetry.
Their dynamic was simple: Mandy didn’t treat Oscar like a driver but as himself. She didn’t care about his lap times, his points, or championship statistics. She cared about whether he was sleeping well, whether the pain in his leg returned after grueling races, whether his mind was calm before he put on his helmet.
For Oscar, that was invaluable. In a world revolving around competition, having someone who saw him beyond the driver was a breath of fresh air.
Sometimes, when race weekends became too intense, they found themselves in the quieter corners of the paddock—a back hallway, the furthest spot in the Ferrari or McLaren hospitality, anywhere they could share a few minutes without cameras surrounding them. Mandy always had a sarcastic comment ready, and Oscar would respond with his dry humor, their back-and-forth banter momentarily making them forget the pressure.
And on tough days, when things didn’t go well on track, she was there. Not with empty words, not with forced motivational speeches, but with a hand on his back when no one was looking, with a quick message after a disappointing race: “I’m waiting at the hotel with ice cream. Don’t argue.”
That’s how it had been all season—care, attention, and a love woven in the margins of F1, in moments beyond the reach of headlines.
On the other hand, Oscar’s comeback season was exceeding expectations. He had returned stronger, more consistent, racking up podiums nearly every weekend. But the long-awaited first victory since the accident still eluded him. Despite it all, he didn’t feel frustrated. He knew it was only a matter of time.
But now, they were in Spa-Francorchamps. And with that came the second anniversary of the day everything changed.
Before practice sessions, interviews, and the inevitable noise of a Grand Prix weekend began, Oscar made a decision. He wanted to go to the crash site. To the exact corner where his life took an irreversible turn.
The rain was relentless as he set off. It was nearly nightfall, and the paddock was slowly emptying. People were retreating to their hotels, seeking rest before the intense day ahead. Mandy, however, stayed.
“You can still go back to the hotel. It’s cold, it’s raining, and I don’t want you to get sick because of one of my whims,” Oscar murmured, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the wet ground.
“And miss a dramatic moment of personal development like this? Not a chance. I’m about to witness a canon event,” Mandy teased, giving him a light shoulder bump.
Oscar let out a quiet chuckle, but his steps slowed as they neared the corner. It was strange how, after two years, his body still reacted to the sight of it. The memory of the impact, the pain, the fear—it all returned with chilling clarity.
He stopped a few meters from the exact spot, a tingling sensation running through his bad leg. Almost unconsciously, he tapped his thigh as if trying to shake off the feeling. Mandy glanced at him from the corner of her eye before intertwining her fingers with his, squeezing firmly.
“What are you feeling?” she asked softly.
Oscar swallowed hard.
“I don’t know. It’s weird. Like I can still feel it. Like I can see everything again.”
Mandy nodded, waiting to see if he needed to say more. But he just stood there, eyes locked on the track, the sound of rain filling the silence.
Finally, Mandy spoke, her tone light yet sincere.
“You know… in a way, we should be grateful to this corner.”
Oscar turned his head, frowning.
“What?”
“Well,” she shrugged, “if you hadn’t crashed here, McLaren wouldn’t have hired me, we wouldn’t have spent so much time together, and we wouldn’t have fallen madly in love with each other. So technically, if you think about it, Eau Rouge is the real matchmaker in this story.”
Oscar let out a genuine, warm laugh that cut through the cold night air.
“That is, without a doubt, the most twisted and optimistic way to look at it.”
“Better than being stuck in a pit of trauma and existential despair? Absolutely.”
Oscar shook his head, but the smile didn’t fade. He turned to look at Mandy, watching how the rain made her skin glisten under the dim glow of distant floodlights. He had no words to describe how much he loved her in that moment.
So he didn’t use any.
He simply leaned in and kissed her, with the rain falling around them, with memories losing their sharp edges little by little. Because Mandy was right. Eau Rouge had changed his life. But not just because of the accident. Somehow, it had also led him to her.
On Sunday, Oscar rounded the final straight for the penultimate time, each lap bringing him closer to something he had dreamed of but never imagined quite like this. The rain had eased, the track still damp but stable under his tires, and the McLaren was responding with surgical precision. From the first corner, he had dominated. He knew this day was his. No one could touch him.
His engineer’s voice came over the radio, filled with barely contained excitement.
“Last lap, Oscar. Last lap.”
Oscar took a deep breath. The roar of the engine, the vibration of the steering wheel beneath his hands, the feeling of the car as an extension of himself. It was him, fully. No doubts, no fear. Just speed, precision, victory drawing closer with every meter.
In Ferrari’s garage, the atmosphere was electric. With Leclerc securing second place, mechanics had their arms raised, team members were jumping, and in the middle of it all—Mandy. Her nails dug into Alex’s jacket, Charles’s girlfriend, both of them on the verge of losing their voices from screaming so much. Her faith in Oscar was absolute. She knew how this was going to end—she had known since the first lap.
When Oscar crossed the finish line, something inside him shattered and rebuilt itself at the same time. The radio exploded with the team’s cheers, his engineer repeating his name over and over, but he could barely hear it. Laughter escaped him uncontrollably, mixed with tears and a relief so deep it made him feel breathless.
He had won. He had won in Spa.
His hands trembled on the steering wheel as he slowed down for the cool-down lap. He looked around—the grandstands on their feet, flags waving under a gray sky that threatened more rain. It was poetic, perfect, as if the circuit itself was giving something back to him.
“Yes, Oscar! Yes, yes, yes!” Zak Brown shouted over the radio, and in the background, he could hear the McLaren garage erupting like they had won a championship.
Oscar let go of the wheel for a second, running his hands over his face, still in disbelief. He had dreamed of this moment, visualized it a thousand times, but now that it was real, it was overwhelming.
When he finally parked the car in parc fermé, his body moved before his mind could catch up. He unbuckled his harness clumsily, climbed out of the car, and jumped into the sea of McLaren mechanics. He let them hug him, shake him, pat his back—but his eyes scanned the crowd, searching.
Mandy.
And there she was.
In her red Ferrari polo, still wearing the team’s headset around her neck, eyes shining and lips trembling with a smile.
He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate.
He pushed through the McLaren crew, dodged the drivers climbing out of their own cars to congratulate him, and reached her where she stood with the Ferrari team. It didn’t matter who was watching, it didn’t matter if there were cameras, the press, or social media.
He grabbed her by the Ferrari polo, stretched over the barrier, and kissed her.
With the raw emotion of someone who had fought against the worst version of himself—and won.
With the certainty that, in the end, she had always been there.
As the world roared around them, Oscar leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathless, both of them smiling like idiots.
"You know," Mandy whispered, her fingers still curled around the collar of his suit, "if you wanted to kiss me that badly, you could've just asked."
Oscar huffed a laugh, his hands firm on her waist. "Figured winning was a more dramatic way to earn it."
Mandy tilted her head, pretending to think. "Mm… I don’t know. Might need a few more wins before I’m fully convinced."
His smile widened. "Challenge accepted."
She kissed him again, softer this time. "Good. Now go collect your damn trophy, Piastri."
@smoooothoperator
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Summary: they always knew their love wasn’t enough to keep them on the same path. Over the years, they find and lose each other in an endless cycle of nostalgia, love, and goodbyes. There’s no resentment, only the pain of knowing that even the purest love may never be enough. But among the people, they were always each other's.
A/N: some might say that I'm not capable of writing beautiful things, but the truth is, I LOVE angst. I cried while writing this—I hope you give it the love it deserves and appreciate it a lot. Like and reblog!! Lots of kisses <3 I PROMISE IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING
masterlist
The first memory she had of Carlos Sainz wasn’t particularly grand. It wasn’t of a rising Formula 1 driver, nor of a young man carrying the weight of a last name that already resonated in motorsport. It was, simply, of a guy who had walked into a café in Madrid with messy hair and exhaustion in his eyes, ordering a black coffee with the deep voice of someone who hadn’t slept enough.
She didn’t know him personally, but she knew his name. She had seen him on TV, in sports articles, in interviews where he smiled with the same expression he had now—a little distracted, as if his mind were somewhere else. On another track, in another country, in another time.
It was a mutual friend who introduced them, almost as an afterthought. A simple, “Oh, by the way, this is my friend,” as if he weren’t about to change the course of their lives.
Carlos shook her hand and smiled.
“Nice to meet you.”
It wasn’t a spectacular moment. There was no spark of electricity, no instant certainty that they were destined for something more. But when they sat at the table and he looked at her with a hint of curiosity, she knew she was in trouble.
The conversation started effortlessly, with the ease of two people who, though they came from different worlds, shared the same language in humor and irony.
“So… you’re the one who wants to be world champion?” she teased, resting her chin on her hand.
Carlos set his coffee down on the table and held her gaze with a smile that didn’t hide his pride.
“I don’t want to. I’m going to be.”
He didn’t say it with arrogance, but with the certainty of someone who had spent his life preparing for it. There was no doubt in his voice, not a hint of false modesty. And in that instant, she understood that this was not a man who knew how to love halfway. That if he gave his life to something, he did so completely.
“And what if you don’t?”
Carlos looked at her as if the question didn’t make sense.
“That’s not an option.”
There was nothing more to say on the matter.
Outside, Madrid carried on at its usual pace, but inside the café, time seemed to slow down. They talked about everything and nothing, losing track of time until Carlos checked his phone and frowned.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“No,” he replied, but slid his phone back into his pocket with a hint of discomfort.
She understood the signal. She smiled, leaning back in her chair.
“Do you have a flight?”
Carlos let out a low chuckle, scratching the back of his neck.
“Tomorrow.”
“And today?”
“Today I have training. Then the simulator. And after that, probably a call with the team.”
“Ah.”
There was no reproach in her voice. Just the acknowledgment of a truth she didn’t yet know would weigh so much.
Carlos noticed her expression and tilted his head with an amused smile.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who says ‘nothing’ when clearly thinking about something.”
She let out a sigh, playing with the napkin between her fingers.
“I was just thinking that if this were a date, it’d be pretty depressing to know I have to share you with a race car.”
Carlos raised an eyebrow, feigning indignation.
“Hey, it’s a very beautiful car.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And fast.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And it’s my job.”
She smiled, unsurprised.
“I know.”
He studied her for a moment, as if weighing the meaning of her words. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and looked at her intently.
“And if this were a date?”
She tilted her head, amused.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
Carlos held her gaze for another moment before letting out a short laugh and shaking his head.
“If this were a date,” he said, picking up his coffee, “I’d probably do something stupid like try to impress you.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I’d tell you something exaggerated about my job, like that my heart rate never goes above 80 beats per minute while driving at over 300 kilometers per hour.”
“That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s completely true.”
She set the napkin down on the table, crossing her arms.
“And how would I know you’re not saying the same thing to everyone?”
Carlos rested an arm on the table and leaned slightly toward her.
“Because if this were a date, I would’ve already asked you to have dinner with me tonight.”
She felt a flutter in her stomach, but didn’t let it show.
“And if it weren’t a date?”
Carlos held her gaze for another second before smiling, resigned.
“Then we stick with coffee.”
And it was. For weeks, months. They saw each other whenever flights and schedules allowed. They shared late nights in airports, brief calls between meetings, messages sent across time zones.
She nodded, smiling too.
"Then coffee it is."
They didn’t rush to put a label on it because they both knew the truth from the start: she wasn’t competing against another person.
She was competing against the one love Carlos would never sacrifice.
And the worst part was that he never made her feel like she had to.
The problem with Carlos Sainz was that loving him felt like the easiest thing in the world.
She hadn’t looked for it, hadn’t planned it. It just happened. A quick call that stretched into the early hours. A message between flights that made her smile before she even realized it. A conversation that started with “Have you eaten?” and ended with her staring at him through a screen, feeling both closer and further away at the same time.
They weren’t together in the traditional sense of the word. No promises, no unrealistic expectations. No grand declarations, no ultimatums. Just him and her, finding each other in whatever gaps the calendar allowed, in every city where their paths happened to cross.
Sometimes, that meant a quiet dinner in a tucked-away corner of Barcelona. Other times, it was a fleeting visit to his hotel room after a race, where she would find him exhausted, the marks from his helmet still pressed into his skin—but his eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Come here,” he’d say, reaching for her.
And she would.
She’d sit next to him on the bed, the TV humming softly in the background, while he talked about tires and strategies, blind corners and missed opportunities.
Sometimes, he would fall asleep mid-sentence, his head resting against her shoulder.
She never woke him.
The first time she realized she had crossed an invisible line was at Silverstone.
It wasn’t because of a fight. It wasn’t because of a misunderstanding. It was because of how she felt when Carlos crossed the finish line, arms raised, his team’s cheers echoing through the radio.
She was in the stands, lost in the sea of people celebrating his victory, and yet, in the middle of all that euphoria, she felt something unexpected: emptiness.
Because when he stood on that podium, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the anthem playing, the flag waving above him—she knew she wasn’t there.
Not because she didn’t want to be.
But because, in that moment, he didn’t need her to be.
And it didn’t hurt. It didn’t make her feel small. It only reminded her of what she had always known: in Carlos’ life, she wasn’t the main character.
She was a pause.
A beautiful, warm, fleeting pause. But a pause, nonetheless.
And that day, as she watched him celebrate with his team, arms wrapped around his people, she understood that she couldn’t compete with something that had been his whole life long before she ever came along.
So she didn’t try.
She simply loved him.
She loved him the way you love something ephemeral, the way you love a summer sunset you know won’t last.
She loved him without asking for more than what he could give.
And Carlos never promised more than he knew he could offer.
That was the cruelest part of it all.
He never lied to her.
He never misled her.
He never asked her to stay.
But he never let her go, either.
With time, she learned to read the signs.
The way his voice sounded when he was exhausted. The way his gaze shifted when something frustrated him. How his laughter changed depending on whether he was truly happy or just covering the weight of a loss.
She also learned to recognize when he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—reach out to her.
Not because he didn’t care. Not because he didn’t miss her. But because sometimes, his world was too loud, too demanding, and there simply wasn’t room for anything else.
She never complained.
Never asked why his replies sometimes took hours. Never mentioned that, during the busiest weeks of the season, the calls became fewer, the messages shorter. Never admitted that there were nights she fell asleep with her phone in her hand, rereading their last conversation, wishing it had lasted a little longer.
And Carlos, somehow, knew.
Because when he finally had a moment to breathe, he sought her out.
Not with apologies, not with excuses.
Just with his voice, with that quiet laughter through the phone, with an “I miss you” whispered between sighs, as if the words slipped out before he could stop them.
She always answered with the same softness.
But one day, without knowing exactly when it had started happening, she stopped feeling like that was enough.
The first and only time she thought about leaving was in Abu Dhabi.
The end of the season always carried a mix of exhaustion and celebration. Carlos had finished the race with a solid performance, and though he hadn’t made the podium, his team was satisfied.
At the closing party, he was surrounded by his people, a glass of champagne in hand, his smile easy, relaxed. She watched from a quiet corner, the same tenderness in her gaze, the same admiration.
But something inside her felt different.
It wasn’t jealousy.
It wasn’t anger.
Carlos would have celebrated just the same. He would have laughed just the same. He would have woken up the next day with the same determination as always, ready for the next season, ready to keep chasing the dream that had been his long before she came into his life.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to ask:
What’s in all of this for me?
She didn’t have an answer.
But she did have a ticket back home.
And that night, while he kept celebrating with his team, she decided she wouldn’t wait until the end of the party to use it.
When Carlos saw the message on his phone, his smile faded.
I love you. I’ve always loved you. But in this story, the protagonist has always been F1. And I’m just someone passing through.
There was no reproach.
She hadn’t asked him to stop her.
Just a truth that, deep down, he had always known.
The noise of the party continued—the toasts, the laughter, the camera flashes—but to him, it all became a distant echo.
For a second, he convinced himself that she was still there, somewhere in the room, with her quiet smile and patient gaze, waiting for the moment he would realize he had neglected her once again.
But no.
She was gone.
Not in anger. Not with accusations. Just with the certainty that he couldn’t give her more than he already had.
And the cruelest part of all was that she was right.
She always had been.
Carlos doesn’t remember leaving the party. He doesn’t remember crossing the hotel lobby or the way his footsteps echoed in the hallways when he reached his room’s door.
He finds it just as he left it: closed. Untouched. As if she had never been there.
But when he turns the handle, what he sees tells him otherwise.
There’s a coffee cup on the table, still bearing the imprint of her lipstick on the rim. Her jacket is draped over the chair, as if she had hesitated for a moment before deciding not to take it.
And on the bed, perfectly folded, is the sweater he had lent her the last time they saw each other.
Carlos stares at it for too long.
He doesn’t touch it.
He doesn’t move.
Because in that moment, he finally understands.
She never wanted him to choose between her and Formula 1. She never asked him to.
But the problem was that even if she had, Carlos wouldn’t have been able to give her the answer she deserved.
It had always been her who adjusted to his life.
It had always been her who found the gaps between races, between commitments, between flights and hotels.
It had always been her who waited for him.
It had always been her.
And now, for the first time, she had stopped waiting.
For the first time, she had decided she didn’t want to be just the space between his priorities.
Carlos sits on the edge of the bed.
He closes his eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, he feels what it’s like to lose something without ever meaning to let it go.
The airport was almost empty at that hour of the night.
Cold lights illuminated the polished floor, reflecting the silhouettes of the few passengers dragging their suitcases with tired steps.
Carlos found her by the boarding gate, sitting with her back straight, hands clasped in her lap.
For a moment, he just watched her.
He wanted to memorize her like this, before she saw him. The serene profile of her face, her hair falling over one shoulder, the way her lips pressed together softly, as if holding back a thought she wouldn’t say out loud.
He didn’t realize how much time had passed until she lifted her head and saw him.
And then, she smiled.
Sweet. Calm. As if his presence didn’t surprise her at all.
As if she had known he would come.
“You came,” was all she said.
Carlos exhaled, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he walked toward her.
“Of course I did.”
He didn’t ask why she hadn’t told him she was leaving.
He didn’t ask why their last conversation had been a message instead of a goodbye in person.
Because deep down, he knew.
If she had told him earlier, he would have tried to convince her to stay.
And she had never wanted to force him into that.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the runway through the window.
The murmur of flight announcements filled the space between them, blending with the muffled voice of a child playing with a toy plane a few seats away.
“I didn’t want it to end like this,” he said at some point, without looking at her.
She turned her face toward him but didn’t answer right away.
Not because she didn’t have something to say, but because she was choosing her words carefully.
“It was never about how it would end,” she finally replied. “It was about everything it meant while it lasted.”
Carlos clenched his jaw.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair how calm she sounded, how at peace she was, while he felt like something inside him was slowly breaking.
Because he loved her.
He loved her with a certainty he had rarely felt in his life.
But love wasn’t enough.
Not when she had always been the one who waited.
Not when he had never put her first.
Not when, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, his world would always revolve around one thing: Formula 1.
She smiled at him, as if she could hear his thoughts.
"I know you, Carlos. I don’t want you to promise me something you can’t keep."
He closed his eyes.
Because that was the hardest part of all this.
That even if he loved her with everything he was capable of, he couldn’t promise her that he would change.
He couldn’t give her a different story.
And she knew that.
That was why she was leaving.
That was why, this time, she wasn’t going to wait for him.
Carlos didn’t know when he started crying.
It wasn’t when he saw her pick up her bag. It wasn’t when he heard the final boarding call for her flight.
It was when he truly understood that there was nothing he could say to make her stay.
He wouldn’t lose her because he didn’t love her.
He would lose her because he had never known how to make room for her in his life.
And that truth, so brutal and definitive, shattered him.
She watched him break.
And yet, she didn’t walk away.
Instead, she came back to him. Without hesitation. Without thinking. She hugged him as if it hurt to let him go, as if she loved him with every part of herself but knew that love wasn’t enough to stay.
"I can’t do this," he murmured against her shoulder, his voice broken in a way he had never let anyone hear before. "I can’t…"
She shut her eyes tightly, feeling his tears soak through the fabric of her coat, but she didn’t let go.
"Carlos…" she whispered, and the way she said his name—filled with both sweetness and sorrow—made him tremble.
He held onto her tighter, desperately, as if some part of him still believed that if he held her long enough, she wouldn’t leave.
But she couldn’t stay.
Not when he had never asked her to.
"Tell me what I have to do," Carlos's voice broke into a plea he never thought would leave his lips. "Tell me how to fix this."
She let go just enough to take his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.
And the image of her tears sliding down her cheeks burned into his mind like a wound that would never heal.
"You don’t have to fix anything," she said, her voice softer and more broken than he had ever heard it. "I never asked you to change for me."
"But I want to," he insisted, and his voice cracked at the end, because now he understood, now he saw everything clearly, and goddamn it, why did it have to be now? Why so late? "I want to, for you."
She shook her head, with a tenderness that tore him in two.
"You can’t. You don’t know how."
And she was right.
Because she never wanted him to give up anything.
And he didn’t know how to love in a way that wasn’t defined by Formula 1.
Carlos swallowed hard, feeling the anguish burn in his throat.
"I need you."
She smiled—a sad, beautiful smile that shattered what little was left of him.
"No," she whispered. "You want me. That’s different."
Carlos closed his eyes as if that could contain the pain, as if not seeing her could make it hurt a little less.
It didn’t work.
Because when he opened them again, she was still there.
Beautiful. Steady. Determined to leave him.
And yet, with trembling hands, she wiped the tears from his face with her thumbs.
"You don’t know how much this hurts me," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
"Of course I do," she replied, and a single tear rolled silently down her cheek. "Because it hurts me too."
He shook his head, as if he couldn’t accept that this was the end. As if there was still something he could do to stop her.
"How do I go on without you?"
She let her hands drop to her sides, as if she no longer had the strength to hold him.
"You will. You always have."
And that was what finally destroyed him.
Because he knew she was right.
Life would go on. The engines wouldn’t stop. The next flight would be waiting for him, and then another, and another, and another…
But she wouldn’t be there.
And when she took a step back, Carlos felt every part of him screaming for him to stop her. To do something, anything.
But he didn’t.
Because he no longer had the right to ask her to stay.
"I don’t want you to go," he whispered, his voice raw and broken.
She closed her eyes.
Because she knew.
Because if she had heard those words before, if he had said them at any other moment, maybe everything would be different.
But he didn’t.
And now, it was too late.
"I know," she whispered against his hair. "I don’t want to go either."
Carlos swallowed hard.
She looked into his eyes one last time.
And with the same tenderness she had always spoken to him, with the same sweetness with which she had loved him, she said:
"I’m glad I loved you."
Carlos felt his throat close up.
But he didn’t say anything.
He didn’t try to stop her.
He didn’t reach for her when she turned and walked toward the gate.
He just stood there, watching her leave.
Watching as, for the first time, she took a path that didn’t include him.
And when the last image he had of her was her silhouette fading beyond the gate, Carlos knew that no matter how much he had loved her, he had always been too late.
The first reunion
Airports had never meant anything to Carlos.
They were nothing more than transit points, impersonal spaces where life moved too fast to leave a trace. Arrivals, departures, goodbyes, reunions… everything happened in a rush, leaving no time to process anything.
But that wasn’t true.
Because there was one airport that had marked him forever.
And now, so many years later, in another airport, he sees her.
Just a few meters away.
His heart lurches in his chest, strong enough to make him stop in his tracks.
She hasn’t changed. Or maybe she has, but not in the ways that matter.
She still has that natural elegance, that quiet air of someone who doesn’t need to draw attention to fill a space. Her hair is a little longer, her movements a little more measured. Life has passed.
But not enough to erase what they once were.
She looks up.
And sees him.
Carlos doesn’t know if one, two, or five seconds pass before a smile curves her lips.
It’s a warm smile, but soft. No surprise, no hesitation, as if finding him here were the most natural thing in the world.
"Hello, Carlos."
God.
Her voice.
He hadn’t expected hearing her voice after so long would do this to him.
Carlos feels a tightness in his chest. It’s not sadness. It’s not regret.
It’s just… affection.
A deep, unwavering affection that time hasn’t managed to wear down.
He smiles too. He couldn’t not.
"Hello."
She lowers her gaze for a second, as if processing something, before looking at him again.
"I wasn’t expecting to see you here."
"Me neither."
And yet, here they are.
They are no longer the same people. Life went on, the choices they made led them down different paths, but…
But they haven’t forgotten.
And maybe that’s enough.
There are no promises, no expectations. Just two people who once meant everything to each other, meeting again in the one place where they had always said goodbye.
"Do you have time for a coffee?" she asks, with the same sweetness with which she once offered him her love.
Carlos nods, feeling that, even though he’s no longer part of her life, he still likes the idea of sharing a little time with her.
Because love doesn’t disappear.
It just changes shape.
And this time, instead of hurting, it feels like a beautiful memory that still breathes.
The coffee between them is a clumsy attempt at normalcy, a shared routine that feels foreign after so much time. Sitting across from each other at a small table, they play with their cups in their hands.
"You still take it the same way," he murmurs, breaking the silence.
She nods with a tense smile. She doesn’t dare tell him she’s spent years waiting to hear his voice this close.
"So do you."
Carlos lets out a soft laugh, but neither of them finds the conversation funny. Another silence settles between them, heavier this time, more suffocating.
"How did we end up in the same airport, on the same day, at the same time?" she asks, her tone light, almost amused.
"I don’t know." He plays with the handle of his cup. "Probably the universe deciding we haven’t had enough."
She smiles, but it’s a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
"It always did have a twisted sense of humor."
"I couldn’t agree more."
They remain silent for a few seconds, but this time, she is the one who breaks it.
"Do you still not know how to pack properly?"
Carlos bursts into genuine laughter, remembering all the times his suitcase looked like it had been packed by someone with their eyes closed.
"I’ve gotten a little better, but I still don’t know how to fold shirts properly."
"I always found it incredible that you could drive a car at 300 km/h but couldn’t fold a T-shirt without it looking like crumpled paper."
"Everyone has their talents."
She smiles, lowering her gaze to her coffee, stirring it unnecessarily.
"And you?" he asks, resting his arms on the table. "Do you still carry a library in your suitcase?"
"Of course," she laughs softly. "You never know when you’ll need to kill time."
Carlos nods, vividly remembering all the times she pulled out a book in the middle of the chaos of a paddock, as if the world around her didn’t exist.
"What are you reading now?"
"Something on Stoic philosophy," she replies. "I bought it out of curiosity, but I think I’m getting more out of it than I expected."
"Sounds deep."
"It is. It’s basically about accepting what you can’t control."
Carlos sets his cup down on the table, watching her intently.
"That sounds pretty convenient."
She shrugs, offering a half-smile.
"I guess at some point, we all need to learn how to do that."
Silence creeps between them again. They don’t ask because they fear the answers. They don’t talk about the important things because they know it will hurt.
He doesn’t ask if she’s been happy without him.
She doesn’t ask if he still thinks of her before falling asleep.
He doesn’t ask if she ever loved someone else.
She doesn’t ask if, at any point, he wanted to find her.
Instead, they keep talking about trivial things, as if they were strangers. As if they didn’t know how the other kisses, how their laughter sounds intertwined in a dark room.
"Well..." she checks the time. "My flight leaves soon."
Carlos nods but doesn’t move.
"Yeah, of course."
She stands, and he follows, walking together toward the boarding gate. They stop a few steps apart, looking at each other.
"I’m glad I saw you," she says, and it’s the first truth they dare to admit.
"Me too."
She hesitates for a moment before smiling at him, as if the goodbye doesn’t hurt.
"See you around."
Carlos holds her gaze, watches her walk away, and feels like he’s losing her all over again.
The second reunion
Carlos wasn’t expecting to see her.
Not here, not tonight.
But fate, with its twisted sense of humor, has brought her to the same wedding he’s attending.
When he sees her, something inside him stops.
It’s a mutual old friend who’s getting married—someone with whom they once shared memories of another time, back when they were still a couple, when life seemed a little less complicated. Carlos wonders if she knew he would be here, if she saw his name on the guest list and decided to come anyway.
Or if, just like him, she simply went along with the invitation, without thinking too much about what she might find.
She hasn’t changed.
Or maybe she has, but not in the ways that matter.
The dress she wears falls elegantly over her figure, and her smile is still the kind that lights up a room without effort. She’s talking to someone, a glass of wine in hand, tilting her head with interest—the same way she used to listen to him when he told her stories that didn’t really matter.
He wonders if she still bites the inside of her cheek when she’s nervous.
If she still falls asleep on planes before takeoff.
If she ever thinks of him when she hears about Ferrari.
She notices him after.
Their eyes meet across the crowd, and it’s as if time contracts. As if all the times they’ve avoided each other, all the efforts to stay apart, are erased in this single moment.
And yet, they don’t move closer.
Not yet.
But the entire night revolves around them in ways neither wants to admit.
Mutual friends glance at them with nostalgia—some with knowing smiles, others with a hint of sadness in their voices when they remember what they once were.
"Do you remember them? How good they were together…"
"They were perfect."
"Such a shame it didn’t work out."
She smiles politely. Carlos merely takes a sip from his glass.
They don’t say anything.
Because what could they say?
That yes, they were happy, but they were also not enough.
That love is not always enough when time and priorities are working against you.
The night goes on.
And stolen glances become inevitable.
Carlos looks for her in the crowd, only to find her already watching him.
She finds him when he’s at the bar, when he laughs at someone’s joke, when his expression softens for a fleeting moment.
They both look away, but never for too long.
Then comes the accidental brush of their hands when they cross paths on the dance floor.
She’s spinning with someone else, and he’s passing through the crowd.
It’s just a second, a fleeting touch of her skin against his.
But they both feel it.
Like an echo of everything they once were.
A moment that lingers longer than it should, though neither says it out loud.
And the respect.
That silent respect, that invisible space they’ve learned to keep—as if getting too close might wake something that has only ever been asleep, never truly gone.
Carlos watches her as she dances with others, laughing, her hair falling down her back, the golden light reflecting off her skin.
She watches him when he stops to talk to old friends, when his laughter rings through the warm night air.
They have never been strangers.
But they can’t be what they were either.
And that truth weighs as heavily as the music filling the room.
The music changes.
From the lively, upbeat songs that have dominated the dance floor, the DJ slows things down with a soft melody—one of those that invite bodies to draw closer, to sway gently, as if time might pause just for a little while.
Carlos looks at her.
"Dance with me," his voice is low, barely audible over the wedding’s hum.
She looks at him, surprised.
For a moment, Carlos thinks she’s going to refuse. That she’ll smile kindly and say no, that it’s better not to tempt fate.
But then she nods.
"Okay."
And she lets him take her hand.
They move through the crowd with the same ease with which they once sought each other out in any room. But there’s a chasm between them, one that time and choices have carved with ruthless precision.
They dance.
They move with a familiarity neither dares to acknowledge. Hands on waist and shoulder, fingers brushing with painful tenderness. They’re not pressed together—not like before—but the space between them is filled with what they were and what they still feel.
It’s the perfect balance between nostalgia and restraint.
Between the love still burning in their eyes and the certainty that they can do nothing about it.
They dance in silence.
No words. Just slow movements, the careful touch of their bodies, the feeling that this is the last time they’ll be like this—in each other’s arms, pretending for a few minutes that life didn’t get in the way.
Carlos takes a deep breath.
He wants to say something, anything.
But what can he say when she already knows everything?
When she has always known?
She is the one who breaks the silence.
"You still dance the same," she murmurs, a sad smile on her lips.
Carlos lowers his gaze to hers, to her eyes that are still the same as always.
"And you still fit here just the same," he answers quietly.
She looks away for a second, but she doesn’t pull back.
Around them, their friends watch in silence. There’s no need for words to see the obvious—the way they look at each other, the gentleness in their movements, the way neither seems willing to let go. There is no tension, no resentment, only love wrapped in the careful restraint of what can no longer be.
"It was always them," someone whispers, with a hint of melancholy.
"It still is. They just… can’t be anymore."
"Look at them. If you didn’t know their story, you’d think they were still together."
"No, if you knew their story, you’d understand why it’s so heartbreaking to see them like this."
The murmurs reach their ears, but neither of them says anything. They simply keep moving, letting the music be the only one to speak.
Because, in the end, what else is there left to say?
As the song ends, their hands slip away slowly, as if letting go of each other is the hardest thing in the world.
And maybe it is.
The Third Reunion
She has a few days free from traveling and decides to seek peace where she once found it: a small coastal town in northern Spain. She walks through the same plazas as years ago, the same streets, the same ports. The restaurant is the same, but everything seems smaller now.
The last time she was here, it was with Carlos, and it was warm. It was summer, and he had made her promise not to work or think about the future—only about the days they had together. Now it’s winter, and the sea breeze drifting through the empty streets carries a feeling of emptiness, of something that once was and is now gone.
The restaurant remains a forgotten corner, with its dim lighting and the same wooden chairs that creak when you sit. She orders a glass of wine and lets herself be enveloped by nostalgia, by memories that shouldn’t hurt this much.
And then, she sees him.
Carlos is standing at the door, still wearing his coat, looking at her as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. As if time has played a cruel trick on them again.
“It can’t be…” he says, with a disbelieving laugh.
She blinks, shakes her head, and laughs too. There’s no other possible reaction. The coincidence is absurd, cruel, inevitable.
Carlos shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the rack before sitting across from her, without asking for permission. As if this place, this moment, still belonged to them and no one else.
“How long has it been since you were here?” he asks, resting his elbows on the table.
“Since the last time. With you.”
Carlos nods, and the silence between them is dense, heavy. They order their food without thinking, as if they were still the same as before. She still asks for the sauce on the side. He still orders the same glass of wine. Small habits that haven’t changed, even though everything else has.
“How have you been?” she finally asks.
Carlos looks at her, and in his expression, there are a thousand answers he will never say out loud.
“Good. Racing. Traveling. The same as always.”
“The same as always,” she repeats with a broken smile. “I figured.”
She doesn’t say it with resentment, only with a certainty that aches. Because she always knew Formula 1 was his life. She was only a stop along the way.
Carlos places his glass down and looks away.
“And you?”
She takes a moment to answer.
“Trying to live.”
Carlos looks back at her. It’s a simple response, but there’s something else beneath it. Something he doesn’t want to analyze too much.
“Are you happy?”
She holds his gaze, as if daring him to hear the truth.
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Are you?”
Carlos wets his lips, hesitates.
“I don’t know.”
She gives him a sad smile.
“How ironic.”
Carlos wants to say something more, but instead, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through it until he finds something. He sets it down on the table.
“Do you remember this?”
She frowns and picks it up. It’s a photo. The last one they took here, years ago. They’re sitting together at a table—the same table where they’re sitting now. She has her head resting on his shoulder, and Carlos is looking at her instead of the camera.
The love is evident.
She runs her finger over the screen delicately, as if doing so could bring her back to that moment.
“I never realized you looked at me like that.”
“I always looked at you like that.”
She lifts her gaze. Carlos doesn’t look away. It’s a punch to the chest.
“Why are you showing me this, Carlos?” she asks softly.
Carlos lowers his head, exhaling.
“Because sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision.”
She tenses. She sets the phone down carefully and pushes it away.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“No. It’s not. The truth is, you did what you had to do. What we always knew you would do.”
Carlos clenches his jaw.
“And what if I was wrong?”
She sighs and leans back in her chair.
“You weren’t. I never would have asked you to choose. And you never would have.”
Carlos feels like he’s been punched in the chest.
“I loved you.”
She smiles sadly.
“I loved you too.”
“Then why are we here and not together?”
She leans toward him, resting her elbows on the table, and says with devastating calm:
“Because love isn’t enough when there’s always something more important.”
Carlos says nothing.
She shakes her head with a soft, trembling laugh.
“How am I supposed to forget you, Carlos? How am I supposed to move on when every turn I take, you’re there?”
Carlos closes his eyes for a moment.
“I can’t change the past.”
“No. And I can’t change how I feel.”
Carlos swallows hard.
“You were never my second choice.”
“Then why wasn’t I the first?”
Silence.
She smiles bitterly, running a hand through her hair.
“Tell me something. If you could go back, would you do anything differently?”
Carlos looks at her. The answer is in his eyes, in the way his fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
She nods before he can say anything.
“I thought so.”
And that’s when Carlos understands. This is the end.
Not because they don’t love each other. Not because they don’t want to be together.
But because he never would have chosen differently.
She stands up, leaving money for the bill on the table.
“Fate is cruel, isn’t it?” she whispers, with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Carlos watches as she walks away. It’s like that day at the airport, but worse.
Because now, he knows he has lost her for good.
For the first time in years, he feels like the world is collapsing around him.
The Atlantic air is sharp, cutting.
She walks without looking back. But Carlos follows her. Because he can’t let it end like this. Not again.
The night is dark, and the waves crash against the rocks with fury. The wind hits them with the same intensity as the feelings they have repressed. There’s no one else in the street. Only them.
“Are you going to keep running from me forever?” His voice reaches her before she can walk any further.
She stops dead in her tracks. She doesn’t turn around.
“Running?” she lets out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Don’t make me laugh, Carlos. If anyone has run away here, it’s always been you.”
He clenches his fists, walking until he’s standing right in front of her. The sea roars behind him, the wind pushes them, but the distance between them remains the worst storm of all.
“I didn’t run.”
She lifts her gaze, and her expression is filled with a sorrow that hurts more than any shout ever could.
“No. You just left me behind.”
Carlos feels like a dagger has been driven into his chest.
“You knew…”
“Of course I knew!” she bursts out, raising her voice for the first time all night. “I always knew. From the very first day, from the first time you said you loved me. From the moment you looked at me, and I believed we could find a way.”
Carlos takes a deep breath, the wind whipping against his face.
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
She laughs again, without joy. Her eyes shine with a mix of fury and unbearable sadness.
“That’s the worst part, you know? That you didn’t want to. That you never meant to. But you did it anyway. And you keep doing it!”
Carlos takes a step forward, but she steps back.
“Do you want to know why I’m here?” she asks, her voice trembling. “Because I tried to move on. I tried. But here I am, standing in front of you, and I still feel the same. I still love you the same way, I still look at you as if you’re the only thing in this world.”
Carlos closes his eyes tightly, as if doing so could keep out the pain of hearing her words.
“Don’t say this…”
“Why not?” she whispers. “Because it hurts you?”
Carlos clenches his jaw.
“You have no idea how much it hurts.”
She looks at him, the wind tangling her hair, the waves roaring behind her.
“Oh, don’t I? Do you have any idea what it feels like to always be the one left behind? The one who watches you go, who’s left with memories that are too heavy to carry?”
Carlos feels something inside him shatter.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth. It always has been!”
“I loved you!” he yells, desperation burning his throat. “God, how I loved you. Do you know how many times I tried to forget you?” His voice breaks on the last word. “How many times I wanted to hate you? But I can’t. I can’t, because I love you with every fiber of my being, and that’s the cruelest thing of all.”
She laughs, a hollow sound.
“Fuck, it’s so fucking unfair.”
Carlos swallows hard.
“It is.”
She lifts her gaze, her eyes burning.
“You know what’s worse? That all this time, I’ve tried to convince myself I was wrong. That maybe I didn’t love you that much. But every time I see you, I know I was lying to myself.”
Carlos holds her gaze.
“I never stopped loving you.”
She smiles, and it’s a sad smile.
“I know.”
A silence falls between them, heavy, suffocating.
She wipes her tears away with the palm of her hand.
“But loving me was never enough for you.”
Carlos feels something inside him tear apart.
She takes a step back.
“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep seeing you and pretending I don’t still love you.”
Carlos looks at her, desperation in his eyes.
“Please…”
She shakes her head.
“Tell me how to move on. Tell me, Carlos.”
Carlos clenches his fists.
She laughs again, her laughter broken by sobs.
“You can’t, can you? Because you haven’t done it either.”
Carlos feels his throat close up.
She looks at him for a long moment, memorizing every detail.
“I loved you with everything I had. And I’d do it all over again. But I can’t keep choosing you if you never chose me.”
Carlos feels a knot in his stomach.
She walks away, her footsteps echoing against the wet stone of the promenade.
Carlos watches her go. And once again, he doesn’t stop her.
The Last Reunion
There is no noise in his head when he crosses the finish line for the last time.
No shouts, no euphoria, no deafening roar of the engine drilling into his ears.
Just calm.
The kind of calm he never imagined feeling in a moment like this—the kind of serenity one finds when, after years of fighting against the current, they stop rowing and simply let themselves drift.
He expected nostalgia. He expected emptiness. He expected fear. But he feels none of those things.
He feels peace.
The peace of someone who has given every last piece of himself to something and, for the first time, doesn’t feel like he’s leaving anything behind. He has given it all, with no regrets and no reservations.
He removes his helmet with steady hands, no hesitation. He hears his name chanted from the grandstands, feels the pats on his back from his team, the embrace of his engineer, the flashes of cameras capturing the end of an era.
But inside, everything is silent.
Carlos Sainz is no longer a Formula 1 driver, and the world keeps turning.
That night, while the echoes of celebration still hum through the streets, he is alone in his hotel room, staring at the open suitcase on his bed. For years, his entire life has fit into a single piece of luggage—race suits, boots, headsets, caps with the logos of Ferrari, Red Bull, McLaren, Renault, Williams. The stickers on his passport are the only proof that, for more than a decade, he never truly belonged anywhere.
Until now.
Carlos has never been one to hesitate, but still, when he books the flight, his fingers tremble slightly over the screen.
He doesn’t know what he expects to find on the other side.
He doesn’t know if she will want to see him, if she still feels the same, if she still thinks of him when a song plays on the radio or when she watches a race on a quiet Sunday.
He doesn’t know anything.
Carlos stands in front of her door, his heart pounding in his throat, and one unshakable certainty in his chest: he can’t spend the rest of his life without trying.
When she opens the door and sees him, her expression freezes.
And then, slowly, it crumbles.
Carlos doesn’t speak at first. He just looks at her. Just feels her.
Years have passed.
Years of trying with other people, of unintentionally searching for each other in different eyes, of accepting that what they had would never be repeated with anyone else.
Years of remembering.
But now they’re here. In the same time, in the same place.
And Carlos has never wanted anything more than this.
“Hi,” he says, with a tired smile.
She blinks, as if unsure whether to laugh or cry.
“Carlos…”
His name is a whisper. A plea.
He takes a deep breath.
“I didn’t come to ask for your forgiveness.”
She looks at him, saying nothing.
Carlos swallows, his voice softer than ever.
“I didn’t come to make promises either.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, as if the weight of everything unspoken is crushing her.
Carlos steps forward.
“I just want to tell you the truth.”
She trembles.
“Carlos…”
He shakes his head.
“Let me say it.”
Their eyes meet, and it’s like being back in that airport, at that wedding, in that small town where they unknowingly broke each other.
“If you ever thought you weren’t enough for me,” his voice cracks, “that I didn’t choose you, that you were always second place…”
He pauses, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“You were so, so wrong.”
Her eyes shine with tears.
Carlos smiles sadly.
“You were always the only one that mattered.”
She exhales a shaky breath, as if the air has been stolen from her lungs.
Carlos takes one last step—without touching her, without forcing anything.
“But I chose you too late.”
His words land like a blow, an open wound.
She looks away, unable to hold his gaze any longer.
Carlos runs a hand through his hair, letting out a bitter laugh.
“God… I spent so much time running from this. Believing I had all the time in the world. That loving you was enough, even if I always left you waiting.”
She looks at him.
And in a low, wounded voice, she says:
“But it never was.”
Carlos nods, his eyes glassy.
“It never was.”
Silence engulfs them. Everything they are, everything they were, hanging between them.
Until she, lips trembling, asks:
“What are you doing here, Carlos?”
He closes his eyes for a moment, as if gathering every last ounce of courage he has left.
“I left Formula 1.”
Her brows furrow, surprised.
“Why?”
Carlos takes a deep breath.
“Because I don’t want my life to keep racing past without you in it.”
She loses her breath.
Carlos continues.
“Because after all this time, after every goodbye and every reunion… I still love you.”
Her lips tremble harder.
“Carlos…”
He gives her a small, sad smile, holding her gaze.
“And this time, I’m not letting you go.”
The silence that follows is dense, heavy, filled with promises and fears and years of restrained love.
She doesn't answer right away.
Because this is real. This is everything.
When she finally speaks, her voice is a broken whisper.
"I don't know if I can go through this again."
Carlos nods. "I know."
"I don't know if I can trust that this time you'll stay."
"I know."
She blinks, a single tear falling.
Carlos steps closer, his eyes burning with contained emotion.
"But I want to find out with you."
She looks at him, searching his face for something that will tell her this is just a fantasy.
But all she finds is truth.
Truth and love.
A love untouched. A love that never ceased to exist.
She closes her eyes and lets out a sob.
Carlos smiles softly.
"For the first time in my life, I don’t know what comes next."
She watches him, her heart pounding.
Carlos takes a breath, and with more sincerity than ever, he murmurs:
"But if you let me… I want to find out by your side."
She laughs through her tears.
And this time, when Carlos takes another step closer… she doesn’t pull away.
She stays.
The way she was always meant to.
@smoooothoperator
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Summary: A canceled flight, a midnight rain, and two strangers crossing paths in Paris. As they wander beneath the city lights, sharing laughter, stolen glances, and unspoken truths, the night becomes a world of its own. But when morning comes, reality awaits—leaving only the question of whether fate will bring them together again.
Word count: 6.1k
Warnings: alcohol, implied sex (not explicit), abandonment
A/N: Soooo, this would be my first one-shot! I'm really happy with how it turned out—I had never written one before because I feel more comfortable with longer stories. But I absolutely loved it! I hope you enjoy it and give it lots of love! <3
The sound of loudspeaker announcements echoed against the high ceiling of Charles de Gaulle Airport, blending with the murmur of hundreds of passengers who, like him, were stranded there without a clear destination.
"All flights have been canceled until further notice. We kindly ask passengers to contact their airlines for more information."
Charles Leclerc let out a heavy sigh, resting his hands on his hips as he stared at the large departure board, where each line turned red one by one. Canceled. Canceled. Canceled.
Fantastic.
He was in Paris for a Ferrari event and was supposed to fly to Monaco that same night. But the storm sweeping across half the continent had brought air traffic to a standstill, leaving him with only two options: remain trapped in a crowded, frustrated airport or venture into the city and find a hotel.
His assistant had already tried to book him a room somewhere, but the nearby hotels were overwhelmed.
"What if I try leaving the airport?" Charles asked, sliding a finger across his phone screen as he scrolled through transportation options. He heard his assistant sigh through his earpiece.
"Traffic is awful," his assistant replied. "There are barely any taxis available, and the trains are experiencing delays too."
Charles sighed. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night in an airport chair, only to wake up with a stiff neck the next day.
"I'll try anyway. I'll let you know if I find something."
With that, he ended the call, grabbed his handbag, and wove his way through the throng of frustrated passengers.
The rain was falling in thick sheets when Charles finally stepped outside. A long line of people was waiting for taxis, but by some stroke of luck, he managed to flag one down before anyone else could.
Just as he was about to get in, the taxi driver rolled down the window.
"Sir, with this weather, there are very few taxis. I have to ask you to share if possible."
Charles frowned, about to refuse. But then he noticed a woman standing nearby, hugging herself to keep warm. Her dark coat was drenched from the rain, and though she wasn’t looking in his direction, it was obvious she was trying—unsuccessfully—to get a taxi.
For some reason, without overthinking it, Charles approached her.
"Excuse me, would you mind sharing a taxi? It’s just me—there’s room for both of us."
"Oh! Thank you, really. I was starting to think I'd shrivel up like a raisin in this rain."
Charles was caught off guard by how casually she spoke to him—the way she smiled at him so effortlessly. When she slid into the car, she gave her head a small shake, sending droplets of rain scattering from her hair.
"Thanks," she said again, not looking directly at him as she shut the door.
Charles gave a small nod, sneaking a glance at her as the taxi pulled away.
Minutes passed, and the taxi crawled through the rain-slicked streets of Paris. Droplets trickled down the windows in twisted streams, distorting the city lights outside. The driver, an older man wrapped in a thick coat, muttered in French about the traffic and the terrible weather, though neither passenger paid much attention. Now and then, the windshield lit up with the glow of a red traffic light or the headlights of another car passing too close. But inside the taxi, the quiet remained.
Charles leaned an elbow against the window, tapping his fingers absently against his knee. He stole another glance at his companion. Her profile was softly illuminated by the streetlights, and there was something about her expression—the way she watched the rain outside with a faint smile—that intrigued him. She didn’t seem annoyed by the delay or the storm, but rather… curious.
The taxi stopped at a red light, and for a moment, everything was still except for the relentless drumming of the rain. Charles took a slow breath and turned his head slightly as if about to say something—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to break the fragile bubble that surrounded them.
Finally, she was the first to speak, her voice soft but tinged with amusement.
"Did you expect your night to end like this?"
Charles let out a short laugh, still watching the fogged-up glass.
"Definitely not. But I should probably be used to last-minute changes by now."
She nodded, crossing her legs with an air of calm, as if the delay and uncertainty didn’t bother her in the slightest.
"Airports have a funny way of reminding us that, in the end, we’re not in control of much at all."
Charles turned to look at her more closely. There was something about her tone, the way she said it, that made him wonder how many canceled flights, how many changes of direction she had experienced in her life.
Another silence stretched between them as the taxi moved slowly down the avenue. Through the rain-streaked window, the Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance—a hazy reminder of the city they were stranded in.
"Where are you headed?" Charles finally asked.
She blinked, as if she had almost forgotten her own destination.
"I don’t know," she admitted with a small shrug. "My flight was canceled too, so I was going to find a hotel, but it looks like I’m out of luck."
"Yeah, same here," Charles replied, letting out another quiet laugh. "I didn’t plan on spending the night in the airport, but right now, I don’t have a better plan."
The taxi turned onto a narrower street, where the lamplights cast long shadows over the wet cobblestones. Outside, the city carried on, indifferent to their uncertainty.
She rested her forehead against the window for a few seconds before speaking again.
"Paris is different when it rains. Less perfect. More real."
Charles raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the comment.
"I never thought of it that way."
She turned her head then, meeting his gaze for the first time, her eyes catching the reflected glow of the streetlights.
"Maybe it’s because we always see it in postcards, with clear skies and golden lights. But like this… with the rain and the cold, it feels more honest."
Charles didn’t respond right away. There was something about her words that resonated with him, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. He watched the city through the window, allowing himself to see what she saw.
The taxi slowed again, and after a few moments of silence, she leaned slightly toward him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face.
"What if, instead of looking for a hotel, we take a walk?" she suggested, her tone more contemplative than impulsive.
Charles looked at her in surprise, then glanced at the rain pouring outside.
"Walk?" he repeated, as if needing to process it.
She smiled, a playful glint in her eyes.
"It’s not every day you get to see Paris with empty streets and no rush. Just for a while. No maps, no plans."
Charles exhaled lightly before nodding.
"I suppose there’s nothing better to do."
She chuckled softly, handed the driver a bill, thanking him in carefully practiced French, and without another word, opened the taxi door and stepped out. Charles followed her, letting the door close behind them.
The rain greeted them with a fresh chill, and the city stretched before them, waiting to be explored.
Charles reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny umbrella, opening it swiftly. It wasn’t big enough to fully cover them both, so they had to huddle closer under the dark fabric. At first, they tried to keep a respectful distance, but the wind and the angle of the rain inevitably made their shoulders brush.
“I didn’t think we’d have to share an umbrella,” she remarked with a playful smile.
“Me neither,” Charles admitted, adjusting the umbrella’s position to shield her better. “But I guess it’s better than nothing.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, amused by his attempt to keep them dry as the rain persisted. With each step, the rain-soaked city felt more intimate, more theirs, as Paris continued revealing its secrets beneath the storm.
After a few minutes of aimless wandering, they stumbled upon a small bar, its warm lights glowing invitingly, the soft sound of a saxophone drifting through the slightly open door. They exchanged a glance before stepping inside, shaking the moisture from their clothes.
The interior was cozy, with wooden tables and a small stage where a jazz band played live. They settled into a quiet corner, ordering two glasses of red wine. The warmth of the place contrasted with the cold outside, and conversation began to flow more easily as the music wrapped around them.
“I definitely didn’t expect my night to end like this,” Charles mused, staring into his glass before looking at her with a faint smile.
She swirled the wine in her hand, thoughtful.
“Sometimes, the best nights are the ones we don’t plan.”
The wine softened the edges of time. The band kept playing, the saxophone weaving notes through the air, slipping between them effortlessly. Their conversation moved with the same natural ease, as if they had forgotten what time it was.
Charles watched her from across the table, his elbow propped up, fingers idly turning his glass. He was completely captivated. There was something about the way she spoke, how she tilted her head when listening, how she filled silences without fearing them.
“So, you don’t like planning too much,” he observed, a half-smile playing on his lips.
She shrugged.
“Let’s just say I make plans, but I don’t mind changing them if something better comes along.”
Charles raised an eyebrow.
“And how do you decide what’s ‘something better’?”
“Sorry.” She smiled, feigning an apology. “That’s a secret.”
Charles chuckled, shaking his head as he brought his glass to his lips.
“You’re hard to read.”
She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand.
“Does that bother you?”
“It intrigues me,” he admitted, feeling the warmth of the wine mix with something deeper inside him. “I’m used to figuring people out pretty quickly.”
“Why?”
“Because in my world, reactions are everything. If you can predict what someone will do, you have the upper hand.”
She studied him in silence for a moment.
“That must be exhausting.”
Charles tilted his head.
“What?”
“Always analyzing everything.”
He let out a short breath, glancing down at his glass.
“I don’t know if I can turn it off.”
“Maybe tonight, you could try.”
She held his gaze with a subtle challenge, and Charles felt something inside him tighten, like a spring coiling. He let out a low laugh, not looking away.
“And what do you suggest?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she raised her glass and clinked it gently against his.
“To welcomed chaos,” she toasted.
Charles mirrored her, still watching her closely.
“To welcomed chaos.”
They drank together, the warm wine sliding down their throats. The music shifted, deeper, more intimate. Charles set his glass down and leaned back against the seat, studying her in the dim, flickering light.
“If you don’t like planning too much…” he said after a moment, “what’s the most impulsive thing you’ve ever done?”
She narrowed her eyes, thinking.
“Probably this.”
Charles let out a surprised chuckle.
“Going out to explore Paris with me?”
“Mhm.” She held his gaze with a playful glint. “And you?”
Charles tapped his fingers against the table.
“Maybe this too.”
“Wow.” She bit her lip, thoughtful. “I guess that makes us partners in crime.”
Charles rested his elbow on the table, leaning in slightly.
“Partners in crime for what?”
“For the idea that tomorrow, we could go back to our lives as if tonight never happened.”
The words lingered between them. Charles felt the weight of them, and for the first time in a long while, he realized he didn’t want something to simply disappear with the morning.
The alcohol made everything feel more real, more tangible. Or maybe it wasn’t the alcohol. Maybe it was her.
Charles nodded, a vague sense creeping in that whatever was happening between them wasn’t something that could easily be replicated. Paris, the rain, the spontaneity of the night—it all felt like it was stitched together with fragile thread, as if by dawn, the magic would unravel, and the city would return them to their separate realities.
But for now, they still had Paris.
Outside the bar, the rain was still falling, a steady whisper against the rooftops.
Charles opened his small umbrella, instinctively tilting it toward her, making sure she was covered more than him. She hesitated for just a second before stepping closer and, in a subtle motion, hooked her arm through his to stay as close as possible.
Charles felt the warmth of her body against his, the soft brush of her coat against his arm. He didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t stop a small smile from forming.
“Better this way,” she murmured.
“No doubt,” he replied, his voice lower than necessary, as if the rain had wrapped them in their own little world.
They walked without rush, the cobblestones glistening under the streetlights. They had no real destination, but Paris had a way of leading people to unexpected places.
“You never asked my name,” she noted after a while.
Charles glanced at her.
“You didn’t ask mine either.”
“No.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but rather charged with something else… something Charles chose not to define.
“Do you prefer it this way?” he asked.
“Sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone without knowing who they are.”
He nodded, as if he understood exactly what she meant. And he did. For years, he had been “Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver.” Never just “Charles.”
“And what do you do when you’re not walking around Paris with strangers?” he asked, his tone lighter.
She let out a soft laugh.
“I travel a lot. Too much, I’d say.”
“For work?”
“Mhm.”
Charles didn’t press, but he watched her with curiosity.
“Do you like it?”
She hesitated before answering.
“Yes. Sometimes it’s exhausting, but… I don’t know how to do anything else.”
Charles understood that better than he should.
“Then it must be something you love.”
“It is. And you? Do you love what you do?”
Charles let out a quiet chuckle.
“I can’t imagine my life without it.”
She tilted her head, studying him.
“Then you’re one of the lucky ones.”
Charles wanted to ask her more, but before he could, they reached the edge of the Seine.
Before them, the Eiffel Tower loomed through the misty rain, its lights shimmering over the river.
“I guess it was inevitable we’d end up here,” she murmured, a half-smile playing on her lips.
Charles didn’t look at the tower, or the Seine, or the city. He looked at her.
“I guess so.”
She noticed his gaze and held it, unwavering.
The rain kept falling around them, but Charles barely felt it.
He didn’t know how long they stood there before she finally looked away, her eyes drifting to the water.
“You know, I like playing the piano when it rains.”
The confession slipped out, and Charles latched onto it like a puzzle piece.
“You play?”
“Mhm.”
“Professionally?”
“Too many details.”
“Right.”
She shot him a playful smile.
“And you? Do you have something you can’t stop doing?”
Charles smiled, because the answer was obvious.
But he didn’t say it.
Instead, he looked at the Eiffel Tower, the rain sketching shadows over the city lights, and thought that for the first time in a long while, his world didn’t revolve around a racetrack.
Not tonight.
“I suppose that’ll remain another mystery,” he said, still watching her.
She just laughed, letting the silence say the rest.
The air grew cooler as the night went on. The rain had left a damp sheen on the streets, and Charles’ umbrella remained their shared refuge as they wandered aimlessly.
"If you could play anywhere in the world, where would it be?" Charles asked, watching her with genuine curiosity.
She took her time to answer, as if she had never stopped to think about it before.
"At home," she finally said with a slight smile. "Not in a grand theater, not on a stage in front of thousands. Just at home, on a night like this, with the rain in the background."
Charles nodded slowly, as if he understood exactly what she meant.
"And you?" she asked then, turning toward him. "If you could do what you love anywhere, without anyone watching… where would it be?"
The question caught him off guard. He hadn't expected her to turn it back on him, let alone with such precision.
Charles remained silent for a moment, his gaze drifting past her to the city lights reflecting on the water.
"In Monaco," he said at last, his voice softer now. "In an old car, just for fun. No timers, no pressure, nothing at stake."
A quiet chuckle left her lips, the sound warm against the cool air.
"So, you're a driver."
Charles grinned, turning back to her with a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"I never said that."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him, amused.
"You didn’t have to."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain had softened to a mist, the city humming around them. Charles wondered if she had pieced together who he was, or if she was simply playing along. Either way, it didn’t matter.
Tonight, he wasn’t Charles Leclerc, the Formula 1 driver.
Tonight, he was just a man walking through Paris in the rain, standing beside someone who made the world feel a little quieter.
They kept walking until they reached a small overlook with a view of the city. The lights shimmered over the water, reflecting in golden and bluish hues.
"This place is beautiful," Charles said quietly.
"Paris always is," she replied.
She leaned against the railing, letting the night breeze tousle her hair. Charles glanced at her from the corner of his eye, noticing how the city suited her, like a stage built just for her. There was something about her that pulled him in, in a way he didn’t quite understand.
"Do you ever get scared?" he asked suddenly.
She turned her head toward him, caught off guard by the question.
"Of course," she said after a moment. "Who doesn’t?"
"You seem like someone who never allows herself to doubt."
She let out a soft laugh.
"Doubt and fear aren’t the same thing."
Charles frowned slightly, intrigued.
"Explain."
She turned, resting her back against the railing, meeting his gaze directly.
"Fear is inevitable. It’s a reflex, something you feel before you even have a choice. Doubt, on the other hand, is a decision."
Charles looked at her in silence, letting her words settle in his mind.
"So, you never doubt?"
"I doubt all the time. But only about things I know I can control."
Charles smiled, finding something unexpectedly familiar in her answer.
"You’re different from what I imagined when I saw you drenched at the airport."
She raised an eyebrow.
"And what did you imagine?"
"Someone more... distant. More unreachable."
She tilted her head, amused.
"Maybe I am."
Charles shook his head, his smile curving with a hint of mischief.
"No, you’re not."
A brief silence settled between them. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather left room for something else. Something unspoken lingering in the air between them.
The rain had stopped completely. Charles closed the umbrella and rested it against the railing, but she didn’t step away. She remained close, arms crossed over her chest, her expression caught between caution and the desire to keep exploring this conversation.
"It’s late," she murmured finally.
"It is," Charles agreed, yet neither of them moved.
The reflection of the city lights in her eyes gave them a special glow, and in that moment, Charles knew he wanted to keep listening to her. He wanted to keep deciphering what lay behind her gaze, behind her calculated words, behind the way she observed the world as if she saw stories in every corner.
"Should we head back?" she asked, still not moving.
Charles held her gaze for a long second.
"Or we could keep walking."
She let out a soft laugh but didn’t answer right away.
And Charles waited, unhurried.
For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t in a hurry at all.
She looked at him with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something Charles couldn’t quite decipher. The night breeze carried the distant echo of a street song, the sound of a guitar and a raspy voice singing in French.
"Let’s keep walking," she said at last.
And Charles smiled.
They walked without a clear destination, simply letting the city guide them. Their conversation slowed, becoming more intimate, as if they no longer felt the need to fill every pause with words. They talked about their travels, about the places they had always wanted to visit. Charles mentioned Monaco and his love for the sea. She spoke of Vienna and the magic of visiting the Musikverein, though she didn’t reveal she had once stood on that stage as a performer.
They passed through cobbled streets, by cafés that were closed for the night, through plazas where lamplights cast long shadows. Eventually, they found themselves by the Seine again. Charles stopped and rested his hands on the railing.
"You know what’s the strangest thing about tonight?" he asked.
She leaned beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"Tell me."
"That I know this wouldn’t have happened at any other point in my life."
She turned her head toward him, intrigued.
"Why do you say that?"
Charles looked at the water, considering how to put it into words.
"Because I always have a plan, a schedule, somewhere to be. I don’t miss flights. I don’t allow myself to miss them."
"And yet, here you are."
Charles met her gaze, finding an unspoken challenge in her expression.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Here I am."
The streetlights cast golden reflections in her hair. Charles felt his heart beat a little faster when she held his gaze without looking away, as if measuring the distance between them.
And then, without another word, she stepped closer.
He met her without hesitation.
The kiss was slow at first, almost exploratory, as if neither wanted to break the magic that had led them here. But when their lips parted just slightly, hovering between continuing or stopping, Charles made the decision for both of them and kissed her again.
This time, there was no hesitation.
It felt like the inevitable conclusion to a night that had never been a coincidence. Like a story already written, waiting to be lived.
When they pulled apart, she let out a soft, amused laugh, resting her forehead against his shoulder for a moment.
"You really shouldn’t miss flights," she murmured.
Charles smiled, his fingers intertwining with hers in an almost unconscious gesture.
"Maybe I should miss them more often."
The city kept glowing around them, indifferent to the story that had unfolded between them in a single night. It didn’t matter if, by daylight, they would return to being strangers with separate lives.
Because tonight, Paris belonged to them.
The rain was falling again over Paris when they entered the hotel room. The dim glow of the streetlights filtered through the curtains, painting golden shadows on the walls. They didn’t speak much as they crossed the threshold, but words weren’t necessary. Charles set the umbrella aside, shaking the water from his jacket, while she took a few steps forward, gazing out the window as if trying to etch the image of the rain-soaked city into her memory—still alive in the early morning hours.
The air between them was thick, charged with something that went beyond desire. It wasn’t just the pull of a fleeting night; it was the feeling of having stumbled upon something ephemeral and yet impossible to ignore. Charles approached her slowly, resting a hand on the window frame beside her. He said nothing—just looked at her, as if making sure she was really there, that the rain hadn’t blurred her into a fleeting illusion.
She was the one to close the distance, turning just enough to meet his gaze, lifting a hand to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips, as if committing him to memory through touch. Charles closed his eyes for a brief moment, leaning into her caress, and then, whatever lingering doubt had remained between them dissolved completely.
The first kiss inside the room was different from the one they had shared under the rain. Slower, more deliberate. As if they both knew they were standing at the edge of something irreversible. Charles held her by the waist, guiding her gently, letting the softness of his lips speak for him. She let herself be drawn in, threading her fingers through his damp hair, feeling the way their bodies recognized each other in the dim light.
Their wet clothes fell away naturally, unhurriedly. Their skin met in the warm darkness of the room, exploring with the reverence of two strangers who, for one night, had decided to forget everything that existed outside those four walls. There were no questions, no promises. Only the silent language of fingers tracing invisible paths over bare skin, of breathless sighs, of heartbeats finding rhythm in the intimacy of a Parisian night.
When dawn began to timidly peek through the windows, Charles felt the weight of exhaustion settle over his body—but there was something else, something light and indescribable, lingering between exhilaration and peace. He drifted off with the certainty that she would still be there when he woke up, that when he opened his eyes, he would find her beside him, her head resting on his pillow, her lips still curled in a sleepy smile.
But when the golden sunlight finally filled the room, Charles woke up alone.
There was no trace of her. The space beside him in bed was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. No note, no lingering perfume to mark her presence. As if she had never been there at all.
For a moment, he lay in silence, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the absence. Then, he exhaled slowly, letting his head sink back into the pillow, closing his eyes.
Life went on.
Paris had been a dream. And she, its most unforgettable mystery.
Charles returned to his routine of constant travel, to circuits repeating in an endless cycle. The adrenaline of Formula 1 filled his days, and on the surface, everything seemed the same.
But when it rained…
When it rained, something in him stopped.
The sound of raindrops against the windows of his hotel in any city in the world immediately transported him back to that night in Paris. To her laughter under the umbrella. To the way her hand had slid into his without thinking too much about it. To the warmth of her lips in the early morning hours.
They didn’t speak. They never exchanged names or numbers.
And yet, she had never stopped being there.
On the other side of Europe, in a different city every week, she lived a similar story. Her days were marked by rehearsals, by packed auditoriums, by the perfection of every note played on her piano. The life of a solo concert pianist allowed no respite.
But when it rained…
When it rained, her hands hovered over the keys a second longer than usual.
Thinking about the only time she had felt that a night needed no music other than the sound of the city and the voice of a stranger.
Zandvoort – Dutch Grand Prix
It was just another night in Zandvoort, after a day of practice sessions. Charles was leaving the paddock, his mind still occupied with strategies and lap times. The hotel wasn’t far, so he decided to walk instead of waiting for the team car.
That’s when he saw her.
Or rather, he saw her image on a poster, in the middle of one of the city’s avenues.
Not her name. Not a grand advertisement.
Just her face, in a black-and-white photograph, with a piano slightly blurred in the background.
The name of the concert hall and the time.
That was all he needed.
By the time Charles arrived at the theater in the center of Amsterdam, the rain had already begun to fall. He shook the water from his hair before entering and bought a ticket at the entrance without even asking how full the venue was. He just needed to see her, to make sure he hadn’t imagined everything.
The concert had already started when he found his seat.
The stage was elegant yet simple. A black grand piano occupied the center, illuminated by a single beam of light. And there she was.
Charles held his breath.
There was no doubt. It was her.
The pianist’s fingers glided over the keys with hypnotic mastery. She played with her eyes closed, completely immersed in the melody, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.
And yet, when the piece ended, she opened her eyes and looked at the audience.
And she saw him.
There, among hundreds of strangers, was the guy from Paris. Soaked from the rain, his heart pounding in his chest.
The seconds stretched into eternity.
And then, she smiled.
A small smile, almost imperceptible.
But enough.
Charles remained in his seat even as the rest of the audience began to rise and leave the theater. He rubbed his face, trying to gather his thoughts. What was he supposed to do now?
When he finally stood up, he searched for her. She wasn’t on stage. She wasn’t in the hall. He rushed toward the theater exit, weaving through the lobby in the hope of spotting her in the crowd. But there was no trace of her.
He discreetly asked a staff member, but the response was simple and disappointing: She left right away, she had another engagement tonight.
Charles exhaled, frustrated. He hadn’t thought about what would happen next, but part of him had assumed he would see her, that they would talk. But no, the mysterious pianist was already gone.
He stepped out of the theater and into the rain, light but persistent. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he buried his hands in his pockets and walked back to his hotel in silence. Tomorrow, he had to focus on the race, on the championship.
But for the first time in a long while, Formula 1 wasn’t the only thing on his mind.
She had wanted to go out after the concert, to breathe in the Amsterdam night air and lose herself in the city. But Marie, her assistant, had other plans for her.
"The gala is in twenty minutes. You need to be there, you know that."
"Marie…" she tried to protest.
"No excuses. The sponsors expect to see you. And we can’t afford for you to seem distracted."
She sighed, with no choice but to comply.
An hour later, with a glass of wine in hand and a rehearsed smile on her face, she listened to conversations about contracts, upcoming tours, and collaborations. But her mind was elsewhere. In the concert hall. In the eyes of the stranger who had shared that night in Paris with her.
She hadn’t recognized him at first. But something about him felt familiar.
Now that she had a moment to think, she tried to recall more details—his way of looking at her, the slight tilt of his head as he listened to her play, as if he were deciphering something.
And then, in the middle of a dull conversation about classical music and funding, she heard his name.
"I think I saw Charles Leclerc at the concert tonight."
Her attention sharpened instantly on the two people speaking nearby.
"The driver?" someone else asked.
"Yes, he was in the audience. I saw him when the hall was filling up. Pretty discreet, but it was him."
Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt so dumb. Of course!
Charles Leclerc, the driver.
Now everything made sense.
She felt the sudden urge to leave, to find him. But it was too late.
She forced herself to stay at the gala long enough that no one would notice her impatience, and as soon as she could, she excused herself and returned to her hotel. There, she looked up the Formula 1 calendar and bought a last-minute ticket.
Charles moved almost on autopilot through the paddock, greeting engineers, signing the occasional cap, adjusting his race suit as he walked to his garage. The constant hum of Formula 1 surrounded him—conversations, tools, roaring engines in the distance—but his mind was still trapped in the night before. In the theater. In the music. In the fleeting image of her on stage.
The fine rain had returned, a mere veil of moisture hanging in the air. He ran a hand over his neck, trying to shake off the strange feeling that had lingered since he left the concert hall.
And then he saw her.
At first, it was just a shadow in the crowd. A movement amidst the chaos of the paddock, a silhouette that didn’t quite belong in this world of fireproof suits and sponsor logos.
Then, the details.
Her hair styled elegantly, just like that night in Paris. The sunglasses that hid her expression, but not the faint curve of her lips, barely noticeable.
Time slowed.
Charles stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding. Something warm spread through him, a wave of surprise and recognition that nearly stole his breath.
It was her.
It was really her.
She stopped too.
For a moment, neither of them moved. They didn’t speak. They just looked at each other, caught in that precise moment when coincidence stopped being coincidence.
The air between them crackled with electricity, with all the words left unsaid, with all the unanswered questions.
She lowered her sunglasses slowly, letting her eyes meet his completely.
And Charles felt the ground vanish beneath his feet.
"I couldn’t leave you wondering," she murmured, her voice soft but firm, with that mischievous tone he had heard that night in Paris, under the rain.
Something clicked inside him, like the perfect note at the end of a melody.
He exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh.
"You came to see the race."
"Or maybe I just wanted to check if you were real."
He tilted his head, studying her.
"And?" he asked, his voice lower, more intimate.
She smiled, her gaze full of secrets he had yet to decipher.
"I’m still not entirely convinced."
Charles laughed—a genuine, liberating sound.
The world around them kept moving—mechanics rushing, engines roaring, teammates watching them with evident curiosity—but for Charles, all of it faded into the background.
Because she was there.
Because against all logic, against all odds, fate had brought them back to the same place once again.
And deep down, he knew it.
Their story wasn’t over yet.
Charles still couldn’t believe she was standing there. A part of him feared she was just an illusion, that at any moment she would disappear into the paddock crowd, just like she had that night in Paris.
Yet, she kept smiling with that enigmatic calm, as if this were nothing more than a coincidence and not some invisible force pulling them back together.
Charles wetted his lips, feeling the urgent need to make sure that this time, she wouldn’t slip away before he could reach her.
"Stay," he said, without thinking too much. His voice was lower, more personal. "After the race. Don’t leave without saying goodbye… like in Paris."
She blinked, surprised by his request. Then, she tilted her head slightly, wearing that same mischievous expression he remembered.
"I don’t usually repeat the same trick twice."
Charles let out a brief, almost relieved laugh.
"I’m glad to hear that."
She turned her head a little, letting the humid breeze ruffle a few loose strands of her hair. Looking up, she watched the cloudy sky and the fine drizzle falling over them.
"It’s raining again," she murmured. "Seems like fate has a peculiar sense of humor."
Charles studied her, his smile softening.
"Or maybe the rain is a sign."
She looked at him then, her eyes meeting his with silent intensity.
The sounds of the paddock still buzzed around them, the race loomed on the horizon, but for a moment, it was just the two of them, standing under the drizzle, in a world where coincidences no longer felt like coincidences.
"Then, I’ll see you after the race, pianist." Charles' voice dropped a note, testing the nickname with satisfaction.
She let out a small laugh, stepping back before turning gracefully.
runnaway bride, forbidden love, destinated lovers, love triangle, second chance, road trip, slow burn
Words: 3.2k
Warnings: anxiety
Masterlist
prologue | next part
a/n: This is the first chapter! What do you think? Where wil she go?
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Every way of feedback is very welcomed
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I can’t breathe.
The corset of my wedding dress isn’t even fully laced yet, but the room already feels suffocating. Too many voices, too many hands fixing my hair, adjusting the fabric, touching up my makeup.
I stare at my reflection in the floor-length mirror, trying to recognize myself beneath the layers of silk and makeup, only recognizing the green of my eyes.
“You need to sit still, Lyra” my mother says with her tone sharp, as always. “The last thing we need is for you to start sweating before the ceremony.”
“She looks a little pale” my oldest sister, Vivian, walks in, arms crossed as she studies me like I’m one of her patients. “Are you sure you’re not going to pass out?”
“She’s a trauma surgeon, Viv” Olivia, my other sister, scoffs. “She’s seen worse things than her own wedding dress.”
“She’s also been up since five in the morning,” Vivian points. “and barely ate anything at breakfast.”
“I wasn’t hungry” I sigh, but no one hears me. Or if they do, they don’t care.
The room is buzzing with tension, but no one except me seems to feel it. To them, today is just another grand occasion in the Montgomery family legacy. Another perfect event.
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” my mother asked, placing a firm hand on my shoulder.
The question sends a shiver down my spine, making me look at her through the reflection of the mirror like she was insulting me.
“No!” I answered quickly.
Too quickly.
She studied me for a second that felt like an eternity. Her eyes scanned my face and then my dress, and then they stopped in the big stone of my middle finger.
“Good. Because this wedding is exactly what it should be” she nodded.
I try to smile, try to tell myself she’s right.
Edward is everything I could have hoped for. He’s kind, intelligent, the kind of man who makes sense for me. The kind of man my family loves, the kind of man who fits into my world.
So why does it feel like my chest is caving in?
Take a deep breath. Another. It doesn’t help.
“I just need a minute alone” I say suddenly, pushing myself up from the chair, making the woman that was fixing my hair take a step back.
“Lyra, we don’t have time-” my mother starts, but I’m already stepping away.
“Just a minute” I insist, forcing a smile. “I’ll be fine.”
Before they can argue, I slip out of the room, closing the door behind me.
The hallway is empty, silent, a stark contrast to the chaos inside. The air is cooler here, no hands pulling at me, no voices telling me where to stand, what to do, who to be, what to wear.
I exhale, pressing my palms against the wall, trying to steady my breath. My heart is racing, my fingers trembling. This isn’t nerves.
It’s something else.
I lift my gaze and start walking, my bare feet silent against the polished marble floor. My dress trails behind me, the silk whispering with every step behind me.
The corridors of the hotel are long, adorned with some pottery and paintings on the walls. I trace my fingers along the walls as I walk, grounding myself, trying to find some version of me that doesn’t feel so… lost.
And then, almost without thinking, my feet take me toward Edward’s room.
I stop just outside the door.
It’s slightly open, just enough that I could push it open if I wanted to.
I should.
I should step inside, wrap my arms around him, let him kiss my forehead and tell me that everything is going to be fine. That this pressure in my chest is normal, that I want this just as much as he does.
But I don’t move.
I hesitate.
And then, I hear something.
A sound. A voice. Then another.
My fingers twitch at my sides, my breath hitching in my throat. I should push the door open. I should step inside. I should.
But I don’t.
My heart pounds so loudly I can barely think. My hand lifts slightly, nearly touching the door to push it open, but I can’t bring myself to touch it.
I can’t move.
The world feels too still, too fragile, like the wrong step might make everything collapse.
“Lyra?”
The voice comes from behind me, low, uncertain, and too familiar.
I turn sharply, my dress catching on the floor, and suddenly, he’s there.
Him.
For a second, neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
His expression shifts through a thousand emotions in an instant, confusion, disbelief, something else I can’t name. His blue eyes widen, scanning me from head to toe, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.
The wedding dress.
His lips part slightly, but no words come out. He just stands there, frozen, like if he moves, I might disappear.
My chest tightens.
I haven’t seen him in months. Maybe a year. Or was it more than a year? Time slipped through our fingers like sand, and now here we are, two people who used to be everything to each other, standing in a hallway like strangers.
“Lando” I said, swallowing hard when I noticed how long it has been since the last time I said his name.
He blinks, his throat working as he exhales and tries to find the correct words to say.
“You-” he stops, his eyes flickering to the closed door behind me, then back to my face.
I don’t know what he sees in my expression, but whatever it is, it makes him take a step closer.
“I-” I start to say something, anything, but my voice comes out weak. My pulse is erratic, my hands cold.
He notices. Of course he does. He always notices.
“Are you okay?” his voice is softer now, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he speaks too loudly.
I should say yes. I should nod and smile and pretend everything is fine. Because it should be.
But the words don’t come.
The weight in my chest is heavier now, suffocating. And Lando… Lando is here. Looking at me like I’m someone he hasn’t stopped thinking about.
Like he still knows me.
I shake my head, just slightly, my hands gripping the fabric of my dress.
And he takes another step forward.
Closer.
Like he’s about to catch me if I fall.
Lando’s eyes search mine, his expression unreadable. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me, like he’s trying to figure me out, trying to see through me the way he always used to.
“Do you want to get out of here for a bit?” he asks, voice low.
“What?”
“Not far” he adds quickly, tilting his head toward the end of the hallway. “Just… somewhere quiet.”
Somewhere away from this door, this pressure pressing down on my chest like a weight I can’t shake off.
I hesitate for half a second.
And then, I nod.
Lando doesn’t say anything else. He just starts walking, like he knows I’ll follow.
And I do.
We step outside through one of the side entrances of the hotel, into the cool afternoon air. The garden is empty, no guests yet, no noise, just the distant hum of preparations happening elsewhere.
I exhale slowly.
Lando leans against the low stone wall near a fountain, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. He’s not dressed for the wedding, not really. His shirt is slightly wrinkled, his tie missing. He looks… the same, and yet not.
Older.
Different.
I don’t know when the last time we had a real conversation was, one without fighting or screaming at the other.
He watches me, studying every shift in my expression.
“I missed you.”
The words hit me harder than I expect them to, making me blink and catch in a deep breath.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to control my feelings.
“Lando…”
“Did you miss me?” he asks. His voice is steady, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it.
I inhale sharply.
Yes. Yes, I missed you.
I missed his voice, his stupid jokes, the way he could always tell when something was wrong, even before I could.
But instead of answering, I just shake my head, laughing under my breath, still feeling the stab of how much he hurt me in the past.
“This is ridiculous. You show up after what, a year? Two? And now you want to talk?”
He flinches slightly, but recovers quickly, crossing his arms on his chest.
“I didn’t come here to fight, Lyra.”
“Then why did you come?” I ask, crossing my arms.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. He runs his hand over his curly hair, a hair that he never took care of and now is amazingly curled.
“Do you really want to marry him?”
The question knocks the air from my lungs.
I open my mouth, then close it.
I should be offended. I should snap at him, tell him he has no right to ask me that.
But I don’t.
Because for some reason, I can’t find the words to say yes.
The question hangs between us, heavy and suffocating.
Do you really want to marry him?
I should say yes. I should laugh, roll my eyes, tell him that of course I do. That I love Edward, that I’ve been waiting for this day, that everything is exactly as it should be. I should slap him and insult him.
But I don’t.
Instead, I force a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
“I should go. I have to get ready.”
Lando’s expression flickers with something close to frustration, but not quite. He exhales through his nose, looking away for a moment, like he’s debating saying something else.
Then, just as I turn to leave, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys.
“What-”
He takes my hand, pressing them into my palm. His fingers linger against mine for just a second longer than necessary before he steps back.
“They’re for my car” he says. “And my apartment.”
“What?” I frowned, looking at the keys he just gave me.
“If you need to get away” he continues, voice quieter now. “If you need… a way out.”
I feel my pulse hammering in my ears. Somehow that made my heart beat faster. He’s giving me a way out, a helping hand.
“Lando-”
“Just take them” his blue eyes meet mine, steady and sure. “You don’t have to use them. But if you ever want to…” He trails off, running a hand through his curls. “You know where to go. You know where is my apartment”
My fingers curl around the metal, the weight of the keys grounding me.
I should give them back. I should shove them into his chest and tell him this is ridiculous, that I don’t need them, that I’m not running away from my own wedding.
But I don’t.
Instead of throwing them to him, I put them in the pocket of my dress.
And when I finally walk away, I don’t look back.
But I know he’s still standing there, watching me go.
As I stared at my reflection, my fingers curled tightly around the cold metal in my pocket.
The weight of the keys pressed into my palm. It’s small, insignificant objects, yet they feel heavier than the bouquet waiting on the vanity beside me.
I shouldn’t be holding them. I shouldn’t even be thinking about them.
And yet, I can’t seem to let them go.
My wedding dress is perfect. A masterpiece of silk and lace, tailored to fit me like a second skin. The veil drapes down my back like something out of a dream. The makeup artists and hairstylists had worked meticulously, transforming me into the perfect bride.
But as I look at myself, I feel like I’m watching a stranger.
My heart slams against my ribs, hard enough that I can almost hear it over the silence of the room, making me think that in any moment it can break free out of my chest.
I’m just nervous. That’s all.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
That’s what I have to believe.
I force my fingers to unclench, slowly, carefully pulling my hand out of my pocket. I don’t look down, not wanting to see the imprint of the keys pressed into my skin.
Instead, I reach for the bouquet, holding it like a lifeline. The scent of roses and lilies fills my nose, too strong, too sweet, making my stomach churn.
There’s another knock at the door, firm and controlled.
I swallow hard, turning around to face the door.
When the door opens, my father steps inside.
He looks at me the way he always does: calm, composed, intimidating. His gaze moves over me, his sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable before he finally nods.
“Lyra” his voice is steady, calm as always.
“Dad.”
“You look beautiful”he said, taking a step closer, with his presence filling the room.
“Thank you” my voice feels too small compared to his
“This wedding… it’s a big moment. Not just for you, but for all of us.”
All of us.
I shift my grip on the bouquet, fingers tightening as I let the words sink deep into me.
“You and Edward,” he continues, “you’re going to do great things together. Two brilliant minds, two powerful families… This is more than just a marriage, Lyra. It’s a legacy.”
A legacy.
My chest tightens.
“You understand that, don’t you?” his voice is gentle, but there’s an edge to it: a quiet expectation.
“Of course” I nodded, feeling my throat dry.
He studies me for a long moment, his sharp gaze unwavering.
“Then why do you look like you can’t breathe?”
My stomach clenches, making me flinch.
“I-” I shake my head. “I’m just… nervous. You know, pre-wedding jitters.” I force a weak laugh, but it sounds wrong, fake.
He doesn’t smile, something that makes me panic even more.
“You’ve never been the type to get nervous, Lyra.”
“It’s a big day.”
“It is.” he nods slowly. “But you know what’s bigger? Everything that comes after.”
His words settle over me like a weight.
I try to steady my breathing, but my fingers tremble against the silk of my dress.
“Do you love him?”
“What?”
His eyes are unreadable, like he was studying me or judging me, like if I was one of those patients that refuses to say where it hurts or to even ask for help.
“Edward. Do you love him?”
“Yes.” The answer is automatic, immediate. Too fast.
“Good.”
I grip the bouquet tighter, feeling how I am crushing the flowers against my chest.
“Do you think mom had doubts before she married you?”
He exhales sharply, like the question surprises him. Then, after a pause, he nods slowly, drawing a small smile on his lips.
“Of course she did. It’s natural.”
“And you?”
“No.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling the guilt eating me alive.
“When you make the right choice,” he continues, his voice firm, “there’s no room for doubt.”
His words hit like a hammer to my chest.
Right choice.
What if I’m making the wrong one?
He glances at his watch, then nods toward the door.
“It’s time.”
The words make my stomach drop.
I inhale sharply, willing my feet to move.
But they don’t.
For a terrifying moment, I just stand there, frozen.
The dress is too tight. The room is too small. The bouquet is too heavy. My breath is too shallow.
My father is waiting. Everyone is waiting.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to step forward.
He extends his hand toward me. And I hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, before placing mine in his.
His grip is firm. Grounding.
But as he leads me toward the door, my heart slams against my ribs.
The hallway stretches out before me, too long, too bright, too final.
The keys in my pocket are there, I can still feel their weight, like a ghost of a choice I haven’t made yet.
And as the door of the elevator opens, I can't stop to ask myself…
What if I don’t walk down that aisle?
I walk in silence, with my father’s arm steady beneath my hand, his grip firm but not comforting. Each step feels too deliberate, like my body is moving on its own, but my mind is somewhere else.
The air outside is thick with the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass. The sun filters through the trees, casting golden light across the backyard of the hotel, where rows of white chairs stretch toward the altar. Guests are seated, their voices hushed in anticipation.
Everything looks perfect. Too perfect.
A breeze rolls through, moving my veil. A few petals from my bouquet tremble, and then one snaps off entirely, drifting to the ground.
My heart clenches.
I tighten my grip on the bouquet, holding it closer to my chest.
It’s nothing. Just a flower.
We step onto the pathway leading to the aisle, and I feel the tug before I hear the rip.
My father steps too close, the sharp heel of his polished shoe catching the edge of my train.
The delicate lace snaps, the sound slicing through the quiet like a whip.
I freeze.
“It’s fine,” he says looking down at the dress, brushing it off like it’s nothing. “No one will notice.”
But I notice.
I swallow hard and start walking again, but my chest feels tighter.
The sun flickers against something above me, and I glance up.
A pigeon, perched on the arch of roses.
And then:
Plop.
Right onto the stone path.
In front of my feet.
I stare.
It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. But my stomach twists violently, nausea rising in my throat.
Something is wrong.
“Well, it's a signal of good luck” my father said, laughing softly.
I take a sharp breath, trying to shake the unease creeping under my skin. But every step feels heavier, like the air is thickening around me.
I hear my father clear his throat, his voice lowering as we near the entrance of the aisle.
“Are you ready?”
I don’t know what to say.
I should say yes. I should smile.
But all I can do is grip the bouquet so tightly that the stems creak under the pressure.
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out.
And before I can find them the music starts and the doors open.
Every single person turns to look at me.
Rows and rows of familiar faces, all smiling, all expectant. My mother, my sisters, Edward’s family, friends, colleagues… everyone is here.
But I only look for one person.
I scan the crowd, my pulse pounding in my ears, searching.
And then I see him.
Lando.
Standing near the back, half-hidden by the crowd, but still there.
His eyes meet mine.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile.
He just looks at me, watching, waiting.
And then be nods.
It’s small. Barely noticeable. But it hits me like a punch to the chest.
A silent confirmation.
Something inside me snaps.
My breath catches. My feet stop.
And for the first time since this morning, I do something I wasn’t supposed to do.
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